[Vergil expects a comment from Nero to come at some point soon after he takes the lead, but his son appears to have fallen silent back there. Vergil is half-tempted to look over his shoulder back at him, but he resists the urge and keeps his eyes forward. Forward and focused on where he needs to go so he doesn't contemplate how sore he still feels or that he's breathing much harder than he ought to be at this pace.]
[Vergil can only mask so much even without scrutiny. The vertigo, he can hide well enough in motion with controlled steps, but just how much he feels he's exerting himself right now? Vergil can only do so much to keep his breathing even before that sensation of not getting enough air has him trying to take a deeper breath. Vergil pushes himself though. He's pushed through worse than this. Much worse.]
[That does not stop the pit of dread in his stomach though—which seems to be determined to remain somewhat cramping and uncomfortable—at the prospect of walking the entire way home. If he's already feeling this wiped, he is going to be laid out by the entire walk. And more or less proving Nero's point that he's not fine. He clenches his jaw, but he does not yet yield. Even with as much as he just wants to sit down and stop moving, Vergil cannot bring himself to do it.]
[He coughs again, this time the fit longer and stronger. Before, he could have written it off in the absence of any other symptoms as just having swallowed wrong or something similar. This fit, however, clearly tickles in the back of his throat and he has to stop walking. Vergil doubles over where he stands. The motion is dizzying, but the coughing has more of his attention at the moment to be concerned about that.]
[That and well, now that he has stopped walking, he can feel how distinctly exhausted he is from that alone.]
That damned Fox... [he growls between coughs.]
[Because he cannot think of any reason why he feels like this. He doesn't get ill. He's never been unable to push through fatigue and exhaustion. He barely knows what it is to be sore. And yet...]
no subject
[Vergil can only mask so much even without scrutiny. The vertigo, he can hide well enough in motion with controlled steps, but just how much he feels he's exerting himself right now? Vergil can only do so much to keep his breathing even before that sensation of not getting enough air has him trying to take a deeper breath. Vergil pushes himself though. He's pushed through worse than this. Much worse.]
[That does not stop the pit of dread in his stomach though—which seems to be determined to remain somewhat cramping and uncomfortable—at the prospect of walking the entire way home. If he's already feeling this wiped, he is going to be laid out by the entire walk. And more or less proving Nero's point that he's not fine. He clenches his jaw, but he does not yet yield. Even with as much as he just wants to sit down and stop moving, Vergil cannot bring himself to do it.]
[He coughs again, this time the fit longer and stronger. Before, he could have written it off in the absence of any other symptoms as just having swallowed wrong or something similar. This fit, however, clearly tickles in the back of his throat and he has to stop walking. Vergil doubles over where he stands. The motion is dizzying, but the coughing has more of his attention at the moment to be concerned about that.]
[That and well, now that he has stopped walking, he can feel how distinctly exhausted he is from that alone.]
That damned Fox... [he growls between coughs.]
[Because he cannot think of any reason why he feels like this. He doesn't get ill. He's never been unable to push through fatigue and exhaustion. He barely knows what it is to be sore. And yet...]