Work Text:
Dante welcomed the softness that crept into his mind, the warmth that bled from his middle, the stinging wrong that felt so right.
He didn't want to think about the mess he'd have made. Vergil would kill him twice over, if he walks away from this alive.
(He doesn't. By some small mercy of the universe, he's gone before Vergil picks up on the sharp tang of his blood permeating the air. Gone before he could witness the urgency of cold, desperate hands wrenching the Devil Sword out of his abdomen, before a shrill voice rises in volume, a steady beg of Please, Not now, I just got you back, You can't leave-)
Red bubbled up past his lips, dripping down tan skin and catching on rough white stubble. It was horrible in the best way.
He was okay with this, he thinks. He'd done it a hundred times over, right? What more was the finality of his decision?
("Dante! Do not play me for a fool!" Vergil hissed at his twins lax form, voice trembling with something that carried years of bone-deep aching. The raw fear in his expression betrayed every ounce of anger in his voice, every harsh -gentle- touch he bestowed upon the cooling form before him.
"Get up. You are gaining nothing by doing this. You need to-")
Pain. Stabbing, burning, white-hot pain. Dante moaned lowly, hands gripping the handle of his Sword. He used what little strength he had to push it deeper, the girth of the blade tearing through skin, muscle, organs. The tip of the weapon pierced the wooden floorboards he lay slumped against, effectively pinning him like one of those little bugs people studied. Had Dante been lucid enough, he'd have chuckled at the comparison, because it was ironic, wasn't it? Sparda himself was buggy. And, by extension, so was he and Vergil. Maybe it was fitting.
The thick slits on his forearms bled sluggishly, trying as they might to stitch themself together. It was gross, to see through each layer of skin. Even grosser to see the texture of fat and bone underneath.
And yet he couldn't get enough of it.
(Vergil swung Yamato in a desperate arc, cutting through space in wide, blue strokes. He couldn't deal with this alone, loathe as he was to admit. Nero. He needed Nero.
He dragged Dante -not his body, Vergil wouldn't let himself call it that- through the portal with as much tender care as he could offer. The coldness of Dantes skin on his made him wonder how he could ever have strove to see his twin weak and useless by his feet.
Help. Help. Yamato sang mournfully, a quick whisper of itsokayitsokayitsokay and helphelphelphelphelp echoing in his head.)
Dantes thoughts were indiscernible. Every sentence weaved into the next, every word merged with another, every letter flicked with accents that shouldn't be there.
It felt blazingly, intimately familiar to when he got knocked into that month-long coma by Urizen. And Dante would be lying if he said it was unpleasant.
The calm that washed over him in short waves was palpable, drowning out the incessant screaming of the wound in his middle that he forced not to heal. And he was more than thankful for it, because he never really did favour the feeling of sharp instruments piercing his lung or ripping through his stomach. It hurt. Made him want to call for his mother and cry at her for a hug and a gentle kiss that magically healed every wound attained.
He wanted his mother. He really, really wanted his mother.
(Vergil couldn't feel his twins presence. It wasn't giving weak pulsations, it just wasn't there.
It wasn't concealing itself for safety, becoming a smaller flame. Wasn't subdued due to injuries that would've killed a regular human three times over like it often was when they traversed Hells expanse.
It wasn't there.
No matter how far he reached, how his demon crooned, purred, chittered, waited for a response.
He could feel Neros presence. Wild and frantic and loud as he dropped to his knees beside the still body -corpse- of his uncle, hands shaking uselessly over the gash that wouldn't go away. Tears dripped down his face in angry streaks, walking the path of his jawline before falling and mingling with the gore beneath him. Murmuring sour sentences of You bastard, you can't leave and Why the fuck would you do that, old man?
Gonegonegonegonegone. Vergils own eyes were watery as he cradled Dantes head and pushed matted hair out of the way of his face.
Alone. Alone. Vergil spent all of his life without his twin, and just as he got him back, he was stripped of respite once more.
He wasn't sure how much more loss he could take.)
Seven minutes stretched into something infinite, a delicate thread suspended between what was and what would be.
Dante vaguely recalls reading about what happens in those seven minutes. How brain activity doesn't stop when the heart does, and continues on for a little while after, like its own little encore to life. Specific parts light with activity where both memory and emotion were concerned-- the things that made you who you were.
It hadn't intrigued him much then, but he wished he'd paid more attention now. He'd like to know what was happening, aside from dying.
Each breath he takes feels easier, eventually. Even if the rattling and bubbling of blood in his lungs had made it seem impossible, with the way it crawled up his oesophagus and flooded his mouth with a nauseating iron twang.
He dismissed the death rattle as the edges of his vision began to blur and his awareness dulls. It was euphoric. He wanted to stay like this forever.
Warmth makes itself known. Not by the blood staining his body, but from somewhere deeper, more closely tied to his instincts and sense of self alone. He feels like he's on cloud nine, or has had one too many drinks.
And, surely, that must be the case, because he can hear the soft drawl of Evas voice in his ear and the sharp, barking chirp of Sparda. Can hear Grues raspy laughter and the flustered stuttering of Jessica.
His vision clears by this point, but it doesn't reveal the shabby little office he'd called home for the last 30 or so years. It reveals instead a soft billow of golden hair, the faint outline of a Python magnum, a set of strong and scaly chiropteran wings.
A few more flashes, and they become more defined. A brief memory of standing on a chair as Eva made cookies as he bickered with Vergil about who would get the first one.
Of Sparda curling around him and Vergil in a makeshift pillow-nest, purring loudly to soothe scared nestlings as thunder roared outside.
Of being in Bobby's cellar with Grue, talking about everything and nothing as they worked through their drinks.
Of sitting in Nells workshop, pestering the old lady with news she'd never need to know while she sorted his most recent disaster with the modified guns she lended him.
Of his nephews sour little face as he teased him about swordsmanship and poor handling. The flustered swipe of his nose when Dante eventually praised him for something or other.
Of sitting with Lady and Trish on a cold winters night, atmosphere light and shockingly happy as they spoke over drinks and pizza. They had all wrapped themselves in whatever blankets they could find.
Of bickering with Morrison about the latest job offer, because he was being an arse and didn't want to work because the pay was shit. But Morrison had always clapped back with something or other about his bills never being paid, which usually won out in the end.
It morphs, one vision into the next, but it doesn't feel like the hallucinations Dante had grown used to having. It feels.. real, almost. Comforting. Like he was supposed to be here, that he was safe, that everything was okay, that he wasn't committing suicide on the floor of his shop with his innards cut indefinitely and spilling out as he slumped to the side--
A benign tug on his psyche. Friendly, leading, almost, encouraging Dante to come along. And suddenly, his problems felt so, so small.
He went with. Because that touch was the kindest thing he'd experienced in a long, long time. And Dante had learned it was never worth passing up a soft opportunity.
He went, and never looked back.
(Nobody knew what to do.
Morrison lost his best worker and -dare he say- favourite client and friend. The sorrowful way he took his hat off and held it to his chest with a shaky murmur spoke volumes.
Lady lost her best friend and drinking partner. She had screamed, when she first heard-- immediately accused Vergil of foul play because she was still weary of the fool. The anger eventually gave way to tears, tears, and even more tears.
She drank alone that night.
Nero faired no better. He'd just gotten his family back and now what? He loses it again? He loses the uncle that'd taken him under his wing silently immediately after the Saviour incident, mentored him, loved him in the loud yet quiet way he'd never experienced before?
He broke a lot of things before he went home and collapsed into Kyries arms.
Vergil had lost his sibling. His twin. His little brother. The one he had sworn to protect shortly after they reconciled.
He didn't know what to do. He was lost. Dante was the one guiding him through reconnecting with the human world, society, his son. And now he wasn't here, because Vergil couldn't protect him from his own mind.
Weak, his mind supplied. For all the power he seeked it was worthless in the face of loss and grief on this level.
Eva would've been so disappointed in him. She had always said they were to be there for eachother.
Dante was. Vergil wasn't.
And that was something Vergil would never forgive himself for.)