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They are walking through the ruins of a fallen temple. The air trembles, paper-thin, with the weight of the demon world nearby. They might as well already be there, from the corruption that seeps through every crumbling stone and rotting plant. The moon shines, blood red.
The place hasn’t been inhabited in decades. There’s a tower nearby, brimming with power, raised ten hours ago by Vergil’s schemes. He is waiting at the top.
Dante can’t help a pang of fondness at the thought.
Nero looks at Dante. They're both panting, sweating, splattered with demonic fluids – the demonic equivalent of blood, or at least that's what Dante had to swear to Nero when the kid started to really freak out about the smell.
"So," Nero says after they've just finished shredding some big ugly frog-lobster thing to ribbons. "Are you and Vergil going out yet, or what?"
Dante briefly chokes on his own saliva. Nero rolls his eyes and crosses his human arms, the very picture of blasé youth.
Ah, his brat of a nephew. How Dante loves him, when he's not being far too insightful for Dante's tastes.
"What – I don't…" Oh, what the hell, Dante just doesn't have it in him to play respectability. "We're not going out," he concludes.
Nero throws him an indefinable glance, his stance stern and resolute. Dante never went to school, but he can't help feeling like the truant student whose kind but firm teacher decided to help him pass this year whether he wanted it or not.
"Why not?"
"Why n- are you serious? He's my brother!"
A wraith attempts to take advantage of Dante's distraction to stab him. The demon hunter distractedly slashes it, pins it on a nearby wall and watches it go poof.
"Bullshit!” Nero retorts. “You're not the kind of guy that lets himself be stopped by that kind of stuff."
"Thanks for the show of faith, Nero, but I actually do."
Nero throws him a skeptical glance while they double-team a gang of flying frost monsters, blood and screams spraying through the unnatural atmosphere. It's actually a pretty good idea to speak about feelings in a fighting situation: Dante can bleed out any tension with good, healthy violence.
"Okay, I did. But for at least days," Dante amends. "Listen, I don't know where you're going with this. We actually have a tower to destr–"
"You have a tower," Nero retorts, repeatedly punching some ashen thing in the face – ah – the faces. "It's Vergil's birthday present to you."
Dante grins at Nero. "Well, yeah, but I get to enjoy it with my favorite nephew!"
Nero blushes and inflicts him an embarrassed but affectionate swipe of his demon arms. Dante goes down and rolls on his side to avoid being stabbed by some caped skeleton being. He's never paid too much attention to demon species. As far as he's concerned, there are only two types of devils: the ones that speak too much and the ones that don't.
"You're dumb," Nero says roughly.
"I love you, too." Dante chuckles, one-handedly tearing off a centaur's head.
"I – yeah, I care for you, too." Nero needs a few seconds to realize Dante's stratagem. He throws him a furious glance. "You're trying to distract me! Answer my question! Why aren't you going out with Vergil yet?"
"Why should I?”
“Because you love each other!” Nero shouts angrily, German suplexing a giant lizard into oblivion.
“What the hell?”
“It’s obvious!”
“No, it’s not! Vergil never said anything!” Dante shouts back, using a metal demon as a makeshift scythe.
“It is! Even I noticed it! You keep looking at each other and smiling and looking happy and – it’s obvious, okay?”
“He never said anything!” Dante protests. Vergil is just happy and Nero has a downright dirty mind.
“Well, you didn’t say anything to him either, and you love him!”
The L-word stops Dante straight in his tracks, and he groans when he gets sliced a few times for his trouble. Okay, maybe there are bad sides to discussing feelings during combat.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he decides.
Nero shoots him the most judgmental glance. Brat.
“You’re lucky that it’s your birthday today, because I’m going to grill you about this tomorrow. What did you get Vergil for his birthday?”
“I found a relic from Sparda! He’s totally gonna freak out when he sees it,” Dante says proudly.
It hadn’t been easy to find, either. Dante had sold the ring about two decades ago to some shady lady; it’d been a pain to find her trail after that long – her blood trail, actually. Oops. Young Dante had been kinda careless with demonic artifacts.
“Vergil likes Sparda-related artifacts?” Nero likes tidbits about Vergil, collects them with badly-hidden fascination. He tries very hard to look cool and indifferent in front of Vergil, though. Dante’s nephew is a cutie, even when, like right now, he’s destroying the tower’s door by pummeling it with fire bats.
“He loves them. Let me warn you: today, you’re going to see your father have facial expressions.”
Nero snickers. The gates are nothing more than splintered ruins now; the young demon hunter steps aside and bows dramatically.
“After you, sir.”
“You’ll get a tip,” Dante informs him, passing him by with a condescending pat on his shoulder.
“Wow, awesome. All my money problems are fixed now.”
“You can name your first child after me as thanks.”
They keep bantering as they go through a variety of traps and trials, unleashing violence and sarcasm on the world – living it up the Sparda way. Nero regularly checks the time, but they’re still on schedule when they kick down the spike-leaden door to the top. Dante rushes first, feeling the world blur around him as he welcomes the giddiness of Triggering; he feels Vergil’s presence before his human consciousness cares to acknowledge it, and goes straight for his throat.
Vergil parries him with a clang of steel and a burst of power. In no time, they’re struggling viciously, tearing flesh and exchanging blows with a fluidity of mind and desire that makes Dante’s blood boil in the best way. He loves it, the ease with which they work and fight together – fit together. Two pieces of a dangerous puzzle.
He doesn’t need Vergil. Need is for boring or annoying stuff – air, water, money, clients and money-lenders. Vergil is nothing like that. Vergil is Dante’s heart beating wildly in his chest, bursting with excitement. Vergil is sharp banter steeped in old memories that only they can remember, now. Vergil is recklessness and quarrels and the exhilarating feeling that nothing can stop them once they’re together.
Dante doesn’t need Vergil, lived most of his life without him, but damn is he glad that his brother is here now.
They stop fighting at the same time, satisfied, and exchange a grin. Vergil chuckles and sheathes his katana, taking a step back. Nero has been gone for a while now, joining the presences of Trish and a few humans nearby – probably in some antechamber or whatever. Vergil probably anticipated they’d fight as soon as they saw each other and, yup, better not keep the mortals close to that kind of stuff.
“So. How was the tower?” Vergil asks.
“Good interior design and enthusiastic locals, family-friendly and well-located. I’m extremely satisfied, send my regards to the manager.”
Something amused and warm softens Vergil’s smile. Dante remembers Nero’s words: you keep looking at each other and smiling… Well, that doesn’t mean anything but that they’re happy, and to be entirely fair –
Dante just doesn’t want to be the first to confess. They’re twin brothers, so about everything is a competition. Confessing now would be a loss, if Vergil’s even interested in him that way, which Dante can’t be absolutely certain of. Their souls echo with each other in supernatural unison, they fight like one – but that doesn’t mean that they perfectly understand each other. That requires great empathy and years spent together, two things they’re missing. Well, Dante knew Vergil pretty well when they were eight, but his brother has kinda changed since that time.
No matter. What they have is enough.
“Hey, Vergil, you know what?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Happy birthday to me!” Dante shouts happily.
Vergil smirks.
“You, brother, are wrong. It’s actually my birthday.”
Dante staggers dramatically, overacting shock. “It is? Damn, I forgot to bring a present.”
“By ‘forgot,’ do you mean you were too broke to buy something?”
“You’re so mean. No wonder you chose to jump in Hell.”
Vergil raises an unimpressed eyebrow, crossing his arms.
“You’re so sensitive. No wonder your business is called Devil Will Cry.”
“Devil May Cry, asshole.” Dante can’t help his fond smile.
In the beginning, their conversations were tense mine fields where each of them played a dance of avoidance. With time and familiarity, though, ease weaved itself back in their words. There’s a lot of pain between them – and they love to poke at it, ruthless in their jokes as in everything. They’d probably tear the face off anybody else for half the barbs they’re throwing at each other, but the fact that Vergil has as much fun as Dante when they’re bantering like this, the fact that he can take it and throw worse at him –
Dante loves it. Loves him. Whatever.
“Do you want to join the others, Dante?”
“Wait. First, I’ve actually got a present for you. Smaller than a tower, but I hope you’ll like it anyway.”
Vergil makes a noise of interest, which is probably the max amount of emotion that Dante can expect before reveal. His brother is sadly immune to his dramatics, unless they’re being used on someone else.
“Come on, at least say ‘I wonder what it is!’ Gimme me enthusiasm!”
“This is my maximal excitement.” So show me hangs in the air, unsaid. Dante hesitates on dragging it further, but he is too hyped to make himself suffer. With a flourish, he summons the ring from wherever he keeps his devil arms – he’s never looked too much into it – and offers it up to Vergil.
“That was one of Sparda’s devil arms. Found it for you.”
Vergil’s gaze goes first to the ring, then to Dante, then to the ring again, then to his face again. He looks stunned, utterly taken aback, and slightly vulnerable, too, and the demon which is half of Dante wants to reach out and take advantage of this weakness.
Dante kicks down his instincts and grins.
“See something you like?”
“Is it a joke?”
Dante needs a moment to understand his brother's meaning, the fact that Vergil thinks he's pulling his leg about the ring's origins. He feels offended for a second, and then he realizes that Vergil is technically right: it would have made for an awesome joke. Still.
“It's not, you cynic. I found it in a stash of Sparda memorabilia a few decades back – some old succubus lady that kept an altar to him in memory of his old human-subjugating ways. It was pretty much only trash, except this ring.”
Dante's not sure that Vergil's listening to him, given the way his eyes are boring into the ring, but an uncooperative listener has never been reason enough to shut him up.
“I have zero idea what it does,” he concludes blithely.
Vergil's eyes snap back to his face.
“You're... offering this to me.”
“Huh, yeah, that's precisely the point.”
“You're a fool.”
Vergil's voice is soft enough that Dante doesn't even feel offended at the lack of thanks. Vergil steps forward toward him, and his hands cup Dante's with a gentleness that is so uncharacteristic of them both that Dante doesn't even think of pulling away.
Warm skin touches his, smooth despite the battles – polished, just like his, by their demonic regeneration. Vergil's hands don't feel like his, though. They feel like a brand of fire, like Dante's blood burning and his breath trembling in his lungs. They feel like sudden hunger in his mind, in his guts, curling like a wild beast that he cannot let strike.
He grins.
“Does that mean you like it?”
His voice sounds too rough for his liking, but Vergil doesn't seem to notice. His fingers slide down Dante's palm to close on the ring and then he's pulling away, examining the artifact under the twisted light of the tower and finally putting it on his finger.
Dante can feel the burst of power as the ring synchronizes with his wearer. Strangely insectoid armor materializes around Vergil's fists and arms, ornate runes curling around its chitinous articulation. Dante whistles, momentarily distracted from his undesirable arousal, and then has to parry Vergil’s following punches. He expected the strength; he didn’t expect the magic that burns his flesh to a crisp before it regenerates.
Vergil’s grinning.
Well, of course they have to fight, again.
***
“Finally!” Lady welcomes them when they step into the room.
“You were taking your sweet time, so we figured you wouldn’t mind us starting without you,” Trish warns them from the grotesque altar where she’s lying sexily and eating pizza.
“We deserved it,” Dante admits with a laugh.
“You did!” Patty exclaims reproachfully.
Patty’s here? Just the thought of her blabbering happily while Vergil flies her to the top of the tower is a hell of a mental image. She looks perfectly at ease in the eldritch scenery, though, sitting on a bone chair as she daintily snacks on peanuts. What was probably some wizardly observatory has been reconverted to a party room: there’s a big tablecloth on the table – from the embroidery work, Patty probably stole it from her home – with fancy flower vases and silverware – again, Patty – but also bowls of snacks, pizza, a small refrigerating unit from which Dante can already smell sundaes, cakes, soda and alcohol drinks. It looks downright party-esque. Dante’s birthdays until then have stopped at drinking with Lady and frantically escaping Patty’s attempts at organizing a “real party” for him.
“Happy birthday to the Sparda men!” Nico exclaims happily, stopping for a second in her attempt at pulling a cogwheel-looking thing from some contraption on the wall.
The cry seems to redirect Patty from Reproach Mode to The Party Must Be Happy mode and she instantly enthuses the same, and then Lady, Trish and Nero are joining in and oof, Dante’s instincts are screaming for a flight-or-fight response at being subjected to all this non-ironic affection. His only comfort is feeling Vergil’s shared distress at his side.
“Okay, enough birthday wishes and more food,” Nero cuts in.
Bless Dante’s nephew. They join the others, or rather Dante joins in while his twin sits in the background, content to just party vicariously. Vergil’s not good with crowds, “crowds” meaning any group of more than three people.
It’s surprisingly fun. Dante’s never really been into parties that didn’t involve a few good fights and, to be fair, it’s the only kind of party he’d willingly go to – but seeing his friends and family being all together is… nice. Patty is chatting Trish’s head off and the demoness seems to enjoy it, her outfit shifting and shimmering over her flawless skin as they seemingly discuss fashion. Nero is trying to steal from Lady’s hoarded pile of chips and discovering she’s got eyes on the back of her head as she argues with Nico over the merits of stealing unknown demon artifacts from unknown demon towers.
Dante’s never doubted he had good friends and knew fun people, but actually seeing them all together in something explicitly organized for him – for him, by Vergil of all people...
He hopes he doesn’t look too sappy. His reputation would never recover. To prevent it, he shows Nero how to efficiently steal from Lady – the trick is to move naturally, at a certain pace that her instincts identify as non-suspicious, and to avoid any smiles – then flee before she tries to take another bite.
She catches on anyway, and he spends an entertaining time avoiding bullets until Trish has to parry a missile to the head and declares a ceasefire.
“I don’t have a present for you,” Lady declares as they eat chicken wings to catch their breath.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll go drinking to celebrate as usual.”
She glances at him. There’s something she’s not telling him, but he’s ready to let her take her time with it.
“To think that your estranged brother would do something as big as raising a demonic tower for your birthday...”
“Huh, yeah, that came from a private joke. I said that each time we met, he’d raised a demonic construct for the occasion, so I was waiting for something special for our birthday. I wasn’t disappointed.”
She smiles, relaxing slightly.
“I see. So it’s just for fun.”
“Yeah. No taking over the world. Listen, now that you know him, you figure him as a demon king? He’d have to talk to people. Urizen wanted it, yeah, but Urizen was a dumbass that focused only on blood, power, and putting more eyes on his body. Normal Vergil is perfectly aware that leadership would require fostering a social life, and he’s not about that foolishness.”
“Sure fooled me with the Temen-ni-Gru.”
“Temen-ni-Gru was just about getting power and fuck consequences. He didn’t want any crown, just dad’s toys.”
She tenses at that. Dante winces internally. For him, the Temen-ni-Gru’s always been about Vergil, not Arkham or civilians’ deaths. Intellectually, he knows it’s what he should focus on. Emotionally, he knew and focused on his brother at the time, not on thousands of randos.
“You know,” she says finally, “I still think he’s an asshole.”
“Fair.”
“His only good point is that he doesn’t remember my old name. Just like his less-asshole of a brother.”
“True, true.”
After their return from Hell, Lady’d cornered Vergil and asked if he remembered her birth name, just in case she needed to threaten to break his kneecaps. Apparently, Arkham had used it publicly at least once – Dante didn’t remember, either. When confronted by her mix of relief and offense, Vergil had wryly suggested “Arkalinna Ann.”
Lady hadn’t known Vergil could make jokes. She’d been so stunned she’d instantly lost some of her resentment toward him. The rest would pass with time.
“Hey, Dante,” Lady says, and something in her tone alerts Dante. Here: she’s decided to spill it.
“Yeah?”
“Can’t help but notice that Vergil’s wearing a ring.”
There is a strange intent in Lady’s voice, like she’s suspecting some kind of dark secret.
“Oh, that? Yeah, I gave it to him.”
She goes utterly still. Dante looks curiously at her. Near them, Trish, Nero, Nico, Patty and a reluctant Vergil have launched in the most one-sided tournament of arm-wrestling ever known to mankind.
With some effort, Lady manages to unfreeze and spends a few seconds looking for words.
“That… You’re… I mean. Why?”
Is she still that persuaded Vergil can betray them at the drop of a hat? Dante curbs a pang of annoyance. True, his twins’ antecedents don’t really make him a prime candidate for kitten-rearing and charity-raising, but he’s not the kind to fake happiness or affection.
“Listen, I know him, okay? At the very least, I can feel some stuff in him, so trust me when I say he can be trusted now. He’s not going to stab me in my sleep –”
“That’s not the question, Dante! He’s your brother,” she hisses low. “We can accept this because we’re your friends, but the others?”
Dante stares at her.
“I feel like we may have a misunderstanding here,” he ventures, cautiously.
By the time he and Lady realize that she mistook his father’s ring for an engagement ring, they’re both blushing furiously and trying to drown the moment in cheap beer. Dante doesn’t get embarrassed easily, but this? This is a moment he’ll try to forget.
“You really thought I’d give my brother an engagement ring?” He tries to protest in as low a voice as possible.
“You’re in love!” Damn it, are they so obvious? Well, Lady is his best friend, after all, but still. “And he’s wearing it on his ring finger!”
“Yeah? Well, it’s called the ‘ring finger’ for a reason.”
“The reason is that it’s where you put your wedding ring, you moron!”
Dante tries very, very hard not to ogle at the suddenly very obvious ring on his brother’s hand.
“Ah,” he answers lamely.
“Does he knows? He has to know. He reads too much not to know.”
“I’ve no idea, but I doubt he’s been reading A bride’s manifesto.”
“Everybody but you knows what a ring finger is, dumbass. What are the odds that he put it on his ring finger on accident?”
“Actually quite high,” Dante argues desperately.
What if Vergil thought he was confessing? No, impossible. It’s Sparda’s ring. Their dad’s. Okay, they’d be an incestuous couple, but topping it with extra incestuous undertones would be going an extra mile that Vergil’d probably frown at. That, and the both of them are iconoclasts extraordinaire – there’s a reason Dante crashed mass to assassinate that old priest guy that ruled Nero’s city: the son of god dropping by for good old mayhem was too fun to pass up. If Vergil had welcomed a wedding offer with anything other than a shocked glare –
No. Impossible.
Fuck.
Not to mention, if Vergil thinks that Dante’s proposed (which was impossible), then he might believe that Dante has confessed first.
Which is intolerable. He's going to have to confront Vergil about it, sooner than later.
Waiting for that –
“You don’t hit a man with that level of misunderstanding for his birthday. You owe me pizza for this,” he informs Lady.
She snorts.
“Me, owing you? Let’s say I’ll drop nine dollars from your tab.”
The woman is ruthless.
***
When dawn breaks, Vergil suggests they stay for the night. The tower has amenities, working ones at that, and it’s devoted to its master’s will: they’ll be safe in here. Lady passes half-politely and escorts Patty home. Trish asks if Vergil’d mind lending her the tower from time to time, and he does earn a lot of brownie points when he indifferently agrees. Nico accepts – though she bitches quite a lot when Nero makes her promise she won’t try to dismantle, steal or explore anything without him.
Nero stays, of course. He waits until everybody else has left for the night before he awkwardly shoves two packages in their hands, muttering something about how they better like it, and then outright flees to his chambers.
Vergil smiles with quiet fondness, watching him leave, and opens his present. It’s a collection of Shelley’s poems, beautifully bound in leather and gold. It must have cost a pretty penny, especially for Nero, who’s got his girl and the orphans to support.
Dante whistles.
“Pretty.”
“Beautiful,” Vergil says softly.
“Must have cost a lot.”
“Nero’s too kind.” There is depth in these words, that tone, something that Dante hasn’t yet learned to decipher. “I’ll… thank him. What did you get?”
Nero’s present for Dante is a set of tableware: plates, glasses, forks, knives and spoons, four of each. It’s simple, clean and new, as opposed to the single glass, bent fork and splintered plate that Dante typically uses for his fancy dinners alone. And it’s almost three sets, the current number of Sparda running around.
His nephew. Thinking about him all too often makes fondness warm Dante’s cynical, cynical heart. Luckily, Vergil’s here to keep him sharp.
“Dishes? Brother, you’re that close to a charity project. Should I’ve offered some warm clothes and pasta for the winter?”
“I’m not that broke, asshole.”
“You’re just lazy.”
“Well, yeah, that’s one of my greatest qualities.”
Vergil shoots him a glance that is to “less than impressed” what “berserker rage” is to “slightly peeved.”
“Qualities. The only reason demons didn’t attack you as much as me is because they feared the grime.”
“Seriously? You’re going to criticize my house, after you’ve lived willingly in the Temen-Ni-Gru and the Qliphoth?”
“They were demonic constructs. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m a man broken by the loss of his family,” Dante explains gravely.
“I’d cry about your sad, sad existence, but I’m one of the devils that never cry.”
“You’re the reason I’m the devil that cries,” Dante says accusingly. “Every day, I think about the awful things that my only brother has to say about my shop and I cry bitter tears over my comfort boxes of pizza.“
“‘Comfort boxes of pizza’?”
“Like comfort dogs, but much less of a pain to take care of.”
Vergil snorts in amusement. He’s cute when he laughs. Dante feels the urge to kiss the lines of laughter on his face, to smooth them out with his fingertips.
“You’re spouting nonsense. You’re getting tired. Good night, brother.”
“Huh, wait.” Fuck, no way to delay further. “Uh, Lady was talking to me about – she was wondering if you knew the meaning of the ring finger...”
Vergil blinks.
“The ring finger? It is said to be a finger particularly suitable to conduct magic energy.”
Okay. Yeah. Good. Lady was wrong, Dante was right, and there’s no worry to be had about him accidentally being the first to confess or whatever.
So why does he feel so disappointed?
Because it’d rid him of a big hassle, that’s why.
“Why are you asking?” Vergil continues.
“Huh. She misunderstood something.”
Dante searches for a quick change of topic, but Vergil cuts him off smoothly.
“Ah, yes. People also believed that a vein ran directly from the heart to the ring finger, which they called vena amoris. That is, partly, the reason why wedding rings are so often worn here.”
Dante gapes at his twin. “You knew? Then why didn’t we –”
“It seemed like a fun idea and I wanted to know if you’d notice.”
Vergil’s gaze meets his and holds it. He looks incredibly calm, when Dante feels anything but.
“It seems you did, and felt the need to ask about it. That’s… actually quite touching.” Then the asshole dares smirks.
Dante grins in spite of himself.
“When did you get so good at feelings? Last time we’d met, you wouldn’t have recognized a woman in love if she’d asked for a kiss and a quickie.”
“Being V and motivation. You lost.”
“Lost?”
“You confessed first.”
“What? No!” Dante protests, outraged.
“You showed interest. That’s the same as confessing.”
“Not at all! You’re just rewriting the rules!”
“That we never wrote. And we’re both obstinate, so really, asking related questions is the closest thing either of us is ever going to do. Thus it’s our equivalent of a confession. Thus I’ve won.”
“You’re the one that flirted in Latin and clarified meaning. That’s much more of a confession.”
“You broached the topic first.”
“You made the topic explicit first! I’ve won.”
They’d have to fight to settle this, but it’s night, the others are sleeping, and Dante is carrying dishes that he doesn’t want to break. So he chooses a softer duel: he steps forward, grabs Vergil’s lapel, pulls him towards himself.
Vergil’s lips are soft, warm, deceptively human. Dante bites, and then blood and fangs caress his tongue as Vergil grabs him back, captures him into a kiss much deeper and greedier.
When they come up for air, Dante feels light-headed, drunk with need. He looks at the tableware he’s still holding and struggles for words or reason.
“I – I really gotta put this down before I break it.”
“There’s room on my nightstand.”
Smooth. “I bet you say that to all your twins,” Dante grins.
Vergil kisses him briefly on the corner of his mouth, on the curve of his cheek; it’s tender and demanding and Dante could die happy right now, except his life is going to get even better in, what, a few minutes? So no way. He’s immortal now. He’s got his brother, a nephew, friends, and he just got confessed to (which means he won). He’s not quitting.
“You’re saying nonsense again, brother. Let’s cure this.”
“You gonna be my doctor of love?” Dante purrs in his most outré sexy voice, wriggling his eyebrow and grinning when Vergil groans from pain.
“Your awful jokes are the true reason I jumped into Hell.”
“And my wonderful self is the reason you climbed back. Come on, handsome, you had a nightstand to show me.”
Vergil taps him lightly behind the head. His hand lingers on Dante’s nape, fingers playing with his hair.
He pulls, and Dante follows.
***
The morning after, Nero decks them because they keep arguing about the definitions of “confession” and “first.”