Work Text:
“So,” Dante says, kicking his feet back onto the wooden table, rattling tea cups and earning himself a rather pointed glare from V. “What made you come back here, anyway?”
Here, of course, being the little hut in the middle of fuck off nowhere where V’s made his permenant residence. It’s not that the hut is bad—far from it, Dante’s become rather attached since they started coming here again after so many years. It’s more that the location’s probably as bad as it can get for a human: smack dab in the middle of vampire country, dozens of miles from the closest city, and buried deep in the middle of a dark wood with a propensity for waylaying random hikers. When they were teenagers, two dhampir kids with heads full of plans of revenge and way too much time to kill, it had been perfect, but now, with V human and, as much as he’ll never admit it, vulnerable, Dante finds he kind of hates it.
V won’t hear it, though, of course. They’ve had that conversation half a dozen times since Dante stumbled on him out here a few months ago, but his suggestion that V come closer to town with him has fallen on deaf ears. The bastard doesn’t really even explain himself, of course—says he has no intentions of moving and leaves it at that, when he doesn’t just ignore Dante’s question entirely.
So he’s trying a new approach, because of all the times they’ve talked about it, Dante’s never tried to figure out what brought him here in the first place. Just not his style, really—never been the kind of guy to ask “why” about a thing, has always cared more about the outcome. Call him desperate—that pack of ghouls that nearly ripped him apart about three miles from V’s place have him a little on edge—but if figuring out why V chose this spot helps him convince him to move, then so be it.
The look V levels at him says he’s on to Dante’s change in tactics, but there’s something else there, a soft sort of fondness that sneaks into the creases around his eyes and lips, that settles warm and fluttery behind Dante’s ribs. He looks away, focuses instead on the amber-colored tea V had poured for him when he’d first arrived an hour ago. V’s quiet laugh means he’s seen through him on that, too, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“It was convenient,” V says, choosing to focus on Dante’s original question. “Besides, I knew if there was any way to get your attention, it was coming here.”
“Lots of different ways to get my attention,” Dante responds, sipping at the tea to give himself something to do with his hands. It’s gone cold, but he’s not a tea drinker anyway, so it’s no worse than it was hot. V always brews his tea way too strong and bitter for Dante’s tastes, but he knows that voicing a complaint would probably just make it even more bitter out of spite, so whatever. “They don’t all involve marching head first into vampire territory, either. Ever heard of a letter?”
V rolls his eyes. “And would you have believed me, had I written? We’ve already discussed this, Dante.”
And there it is, the most damning evidence that V really is what remains of his twin—the way he says Dante’s name, like he’s scolding him, an older brother put off by the ridiculous tendencies of his younger sibling. It sets every nerve in Dante’s body on edge, snaps his spine straight to attention on reflex. Dante has to resist the temptation to hiss at him back; chooses, instead, to drop his feet off the table and lean forward, propping his chin in his hand.
“So why stay, then? You wanted my attention and now you’ve got it,” Dante says to the spilt puddle of tea in front of him. He trails his fingertip through it while he talks, relishes the way it makes V click his tongue in disapproval. Five years and a near death experience and he still knows how to wiggle his way under V’s skin—it’s nice knowing that hasn’t changed, at least, even though everything else between them seems to have taken on a new form.
“It is… familiar. There is comfort in that..”
“Since when are you the sentimental type?”
V shrugs, climbing to his feet. He leans on his cane more today than he has in the past. He’s tired, most likely, from Dante’s feeding earlier. Thinking about that makes his stomach curl. V might encourage it—demand it, more like—but that doesn’t mean Dante’s happy with it, and his palms itch with the desire to reach out and take V’s arm, insist he stop and rest.
Dante doesn’t feel like getting stabbed in the chest by the sharp, blade-like point of the cane for his troubles, knows V would hate it more than his own momentary weakness if Dante acknowledged it like that, so instead he folds his hands in his lap and tries to make it less obvious that he’s watching V’s every move, ready to jump in if he’s needed. They linger in silence, then, while V gathers up the small ceramic cups and tea pot, pouring Dante’s unfinished tea into a flowerpot full of some kind of prickly herbs with a huff of disapproval.
For all his concern about V’s wellbeing out here, Dante’s got to admit that there’s something… relaxing, he guesses, about returning to this place after so many years. It feels like home, more so than anywhere he’s ever stayed before or after. When they’d come here in their teenage years, it’d been pretty bare; neither of them were much for interior decorating, concerned more with having a place they could be alone, without the watchful eye and ear of the rest of the clan to observe them.
Now, it reminds him of his mother—warm and welcoming, smelling of wood smoke and sweet tea and the herbs that grow beneath the front window. V has woven magic into the very foundation of the house, carving intricate runes into the woodwork that make Dante’s skin prickle when he passes over them, an elaborate defensive system to secure the perimeter. The single room is dimly lit, the only source of light being the glow from the fireplace and the dimming sunset filtering through the single window. It gives everything a soft, dreamy quality—Dante could drift off sitting here at the kitchen table, has drifted off more than once already since he started coming here.
He’d hate to lose it, if he’s being honest, even though it’s not the ideal place for V to stay.
“You should at least let me set up wards further out,” Dante says finally, tipping back his chair and crossing his arms behind his head, watching V fuss over the row of herbs that grow in the windowsill. He’s pulling dead leaves and flower buds off with his bare hands, tossing the dried bits into a basket he keeps beneath the window. From what Dante’s gathered, he’ll find some use for them in the infusions, creams, and spells he sends Dante in to town with later—a small opportunity to make a living of his own, selling his wares to the midwives and merchants who are more accepting of his eclectic skill set. It’s something Dante remembers their mother doing, too, although it’s not a skill he’s ever shown an interest in himself.
“Do what you wish,” V says, voice distant, dismissive. Clearly he no longer wishes to discuss this topic. Dante drops the front two legs of the chair back to the wooden floor with a dull thud, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. V’s shutting him out—a bad habit that’s never really gone away, it seems, even if so much else has changed.
“C’mere,” Dante says, and when V doesn’t so much as turn around, Dante huffs and gets to his feet, crossing the small room to stand behind him. Looping his arms around V’s waist, he pulls him back against his chest, ignores the grumble of complaint, and presses his lips to the curve of his shoulder. “Hate it when you ignore me, y’know.”
“You’re being childish.”
“I’m just worried.”
“Don’t be,” V snaps, stiffening in Dante’s arms. “I don’t want or need your pity.”
“It’s not pity, you asshole,” Dante says, nuzzling against V’s shoulder even as they bicker—it’s so normal for them, twenty-some odd years of fighting that comes as easy as breathing. “Is it really so unthinkable that I wouldn’t want to lose you again?”
“I can take care of myself.”
Dante growls in frustration, hugging V tighter to his chest in equal parts affection and irritation. “Why do you have to be so stubborn all the goddamn time, huh?”
V twists in his arms, turning to face Dante now, brow raised and lips quirked into a small smirk. He cups Dante’s cheeks, hands smelling of dirt and herbs and the lingering aroma of tea. The smell is comforting. It’ll cling to Dante’s clothes when he leaves, a faint and slowly fading reminder of this place and the time they’ve spent here. He not-so-secretly cherishes it.
“You are the one who refuses to let this topic rest,” V says, leaning up to nip at Dante’s chin, the brush of dull teeth and soft lips sending a shiver down Dante’s spine.
“Only because—” Dante starts, and then V is kissing him, smothering his protests with tongue and teeth while clutching tightly at his face, digging blunt nails into his cheeks. It startles Dante into silence, and then into acquiescence, as he opens his mouth to the demanding press of V’s tongue and relents to the commanding kiss.
When they separate, Dante sighs and drops his forehead against V’s, winding his arms tightly around the other man’s shoulders. “Unfair.”
“It is hardly my fault you’re so easy to derail,” V says, thumbs brushing over Dante’s cheekbones and along the sandpaper scratchiness of his jaw. “Enough of this.”
Dante opens his mouth to argue—a force of habit, ingrained into the very fiber of his being in matters where his brother is concerned—before he thinks better of it and snaps his mouth shut. V’s expression leaves little room for debate, stern as it is, and so Dante concedes that perhaps it is a conversation for another day. He’s not admitting defeat, of course, but even he’s beginning to learn when an argument between them has moved past the point of productive.
“Fine,” Dante concedes, bowing his head to kiss the bright red bite mark that is slowly healing in the crease of V’s neck. “Only cause you asked so nicely.”
V rolls his eyes as he pulls from Dante’s arms, gathering up his cane where he’s placed it against the wall near the window. As he passes Dante he thumps it lightly against his back, across his shoulders, and Dante stands straight, spinning to face V as he walks to the door.
“Come make yourself useful.”
V slips outside and Dante hesitates, watching him disappear into the twilight, gauging the way that he walks—is he well? Should Dante stop him, force him to rest?—before following him into the cool night air. Autumn has settled upon the forest, turning the leaves orange and yellow and making the fading daylight filter warm and bright through the branches. He breathes deep, savoring the scent of dried leaves and warm earth. Another reason he is loathe to leave this place, should he ever convince V to move somewhere safer, is just how peaceful this little pocket around the house is, despite the danger of the nearby territory.
Small wonder he’s doing such a piss poor job convincing V to leave when he’s so fond of it himself. Maybe he should switch tactics, focus more on clearing out the area, reinforcing those wards V talked about. As Dante trails after V, he shakes his head, smiling at the other man’s back. He’d be furious if he knew how much Dante worried, but that’s what brothers were for, wasn’t it? V would never worry about himself—it's always been up to Dante to do that for him.
They settle in to tending the garden, Dante with his thoughts and V with his work, quiet and companionable. V sits when he becomes tired, and Dante pretends not to notice, following his quietly uttered instructions carefully. He plucks weeds and fusses over flowers, pulling dead leaves and flower buds from clusters of herbs with more care than it probably warrants, tossing them to the side. It’s odd to think about V doing this, spending the years when they were apart with such a mundane task as gardening, but he supposes it’s also fitting, in a way. Vergil had always had a knack for their mother’s arts, even if he had never pursued them before.
“Most of these plants were cultivated from cuttings I gathered near the manor,” V says quietly, voice distant while he watches Dante work. Dante spares him a glance over his shoulder, humming in acknowledgement to his words. V is in one of his contemplative moods, it seems—better to let him talk without interrupting, for once.
V continues with a quiet sigh: “Her gardens survived the fire to grow rampant. They are thriving and wild now, overtaking most of the grounds with no one to tend them.”
Dante laughs. “She’d hate that.”
“Would she?” V asks, the barest hint of humor adding warmth to his voice that makes an equal heat bloom beneath Dante’s ribs. He’s always loved listening to his brother talk like this, voice low and secretive, as if there is no one else here to hear him. “I think she would have loved it. It is only fitting that her gardens should reclaim the land over time.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Dante says, and then adds, quietly, “I’ve never gone back. Didn’t want to see it like that.”
V hums, tapping the edge of his cane idly before him.
“It seemed like a good starting point, at the time.”
Dante isn’t sure what he means by that—a starting point to what? This new life? He contemplates asking V, probing for more details, but he finds himself unable to find the words, and then the moment has passed, replaced instead with further instructions for caring for the garden before him.
When the sun has finally set, Dante stands, offering V a hand up. He doesn’t take it, of course, choosing, instead, to push himself to his feet with his cane. Dante rests his hand on the small of his back anyway, and when V doesn’t shrug him off, he takes that as a sign that the other man is more tired than he’ll openly admit.
The house is warm and welcoming when they return inside, and Dante wastes no time in stripping them both of their coats, much to V’s grumble of annoyance and “I can do it myself, Dante.” Dante just shakes his head, pushing him back until he’s sitting on the side of the bed with a hand on his chest and a mischievous smile.
“Sure you can,” Dante says, trailing his fingertips down V’s chest, grinning in delight at the shudder that ripples across V’s skin in response, before he takes a knee in front of him. He grabs V’s ankle—gets kicked in the wrist, once, on reflex, because V’s about as cooperative as a pissy house cat—and then sets about unlacing his knee-high boots. “But it’s more fun this way. Let little brother take care of you.”
V huffs in annoyance in response, but he presses his hands flat on the bed and leans back to watch Dante unlace and remove his boots with no further complaint. Dante takes his time, untying them further down than is really necessary and sliding them slowly off his feet before placing them at the end of the bed, neatly side by side. When he glances up at V, his expression has gone soft, warm fondness smoothing out the ever present crease in his brow.
“You like to be spoiled.”
V scoffs. “There is simply no point in arguing with you about it.”
With V’s boots removed, Dante stands, then kicks off his own rather unceremoniously, leaving them where they fall in the middle of the hut. V’s scowl tells him he’s going to reprimand him for it, so Dante leans over him and takes his place on the bed, dragging V down and into his arms.
“Scold me tomorrow, I’m tired,” Dante says, pressing his face in the warm tangle of V’s silvery hair. He’s not tired, really, because he is a dhampir, and he doesn’t really get tired in the traditional sense, but V clearly is. If dragging him into bed is the only way to get him to rest, well, Dante will just have to deal with that “inconvenience.”
“You are obnoxious,” V whispers into the crease of Dante’s arm around him. It is not long before he becomes lax in Dante’s grip, sleep stealing over him and loosening the tension that seems ever present along his shoulders and down his spine. Dante is content simply to hold him, chin resting against the top of his head and arms loose around his torso.
It pleases him to be able to keep watch over V like this, when he’s afforded the time to do so. Eases some of the worry that eats at his insides, gnawing at his stomach and reminding him of the years he went without knowing what had become of his brother. They are both far too stubborn for their own good, and so the topic of leaving will no doubt remain an eternal debate between them, and that, too, is comforting in its own way. At least it’s something predictable.
He pushes the thought from his mind. With V asleep in his arms, Dante feels peace, comforted by the slow and steady breathing of his brother and the scents of home that permeate the air around him. Perhaps remaining here is worth it, in the end. Dante’s not sure he’d trade this moment for anything in the world.