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It was no secret that one of Dante’s favorite things to do was tickle Vergil.
To the younger, there was nothing quite so satisfying as seeing big, bad, bitchy Vergil jump nearly clean out of his skin with a light touch or spasm, gasp and writhe with a heavier touch. Because Dante did nothing by halves, either, it was a common enough occurrence that Vergil was starting to feel it was some kinda of paraphilia, a queer fetish his younger brother seemed to indulge in only with him.
From a light finger flitting up his bare arch as he tried to read, to more concerted efforts in the form of firm grasps and squeezes along his hips and ribs, Vergil had experienced it all from his brother, and Dante never seemed to tire of it. He wasn’t satisfied if he was met with angry snarls and threats, and he wasn’t satisfied if he was met with affection, with playfulness.
Perhaps it was a childish thing to get upset about, but here Vergil was, stewing about it.
Opportunity had a funny habit of falling into his lap, however.
One evening, as Vergil was already in bed, sitting up and reading, as was his custom, Dante came in and, as was his custom, started to get undressed as loudly as possible.
Vergil cocked an eyebrow, watching him as he pulled off his boots, shrugged out of his coat.
“Feeling amorous this evening, I see,” he sighed, flipping a page.
Dante grinned, wolfishly.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You have a way of telegraphing this kind of thing,” Vergil snapped his book shut, setting it aside. He assumed that Dante would soon be upon him. He put on a show of being frustrated with his brother, but it was just that: a show. Vergil couldn’t help but appear disinterested, when in fact, he was beloved unto Dante and Dante unto him.
Vergil reached for the lamp at the side of the bed, going to dim it, when he paused, hearing a unique sound.
“Aw, fuck.”
Vergil looked at his brother, sat at the edge of the bed. He must have grabbed the hem of his Henley shirt, pulling it up over his head. It was an awkward, but common happening. Surely it must have happened to everyone at some point or another in their lives, and Vergil knew it had happened to him; his shirt had gotten caught over his head, his arms stuck.
“Balls – “
Vergil tilted his head, this way and that, taking in his brother’s predicament.
“Give me a hand, will ya?” Dante asked, muffled by his shirt.
Vergil didn’t need to be told twice, moving towards his brother, throwing a leg over his lap. Dante stopped his squirming and seemed to take in the more amorous over-tones of his brother’s position. Vergil ground their crotches together, just ever so slightly, and the younger man groaned.
“Oh yeah?” He murmured, giving a small shudder when Vergil ran his hands down Dante’s chest, coming to his taut stomach, feeling the abs rippling under his fingers.
“Mhm,” Vergil hummed, eyeing the skin before him with a unique hunger. “You look particularly good like this, little brother.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Vergil affirmed, pushing Dante to lay back on the bed. Dante didn’t fight and Vergil could almost imagine the grin on his face as he did so, no doubt expecting this to turn explicit. “I think I prefer you like this.”
“Yeah?” Dante’s voice sounded all the more soaked with anticipation. Vergil smirked, biting his bottom lips as he set his hands on his brother’s sides.
The reaction, once Vergil started to move, was immediate, and it was only by virtue of his strong legs and thighs that kept him from getting bucked off. Long fingers better suited to playing piano or the violin scrabbled up and down Dante’s ribs, tweaking each bone as he made pass after pass. Dante shrieked, before twisting and writhing, laughing beneath his brother.
Dante’s laugh was infectious, loud and boyish, and despite how damaged his own heart and soul was, it made Vergil feel good to hear. It reminded him so much of when they were children ..
And, perhaps that was the root of it? Why Dante liked to tickle Vergil as much as he did? It was a call back to when they were children, playing in front of the fireplace while Mother and Father read in the late evening, free and careless as any child, demon or otherwise.
Dante had babbled something that sounded like “uncle” and Vergil took pity on him. He sagged against the bed, catching his breath in deep gasps and trailing, weak laughs. Vergil reached up and pulled the shirt down, freeing his brother’s arms from the confines. The shirt bunched around his neck and pecs, but Dante’s face was flushed and his cornflower blue eyes were still wrinkled at the corners.
“What was that for, huh?” He asked, his now free hands coming to rest on Vergil’s hips, and perhaps not so subtly, grab a handful of ass. Vergil didn’t mind.
“Consider it payback,” Vergil replied, rather than delve into the way that hearing Dante laugh made him feel. How it made him feel good and how it made him remember Mother and Father and happier days. He went to climb off of Dante, but he was caught with a thick arm around his middle, tugging him back to the other side of the mattress, his little brother seemingly dead-set on rough-housing now that he had been wound up.
And you know?
Vergil didn’t quite mind so much.