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Dante stirred from his nap, removing the magazine he’d lain over his face to block the late afternoon rays of sun slanting in through the window. The phone had been quiet all day, not a single job coming in. A few months ago, he would have succumbed to his darkest thoughts in solitary silence, but now …
His gaze fell upon his twin, who had taken up a seat on the couch with one of his books while Dante was sleeping. Even after all this time, he felt the need to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t lost in one of his hopeless dreams: Illuminated by the golden glow of the antique lamp he had bought after months of Dante telling him to make himself at home, Vergil looked like a divine vision. Everything about him was perfect—the immaculately sculpted arms that he bared only in the privacy of their home, where he shed his cold and commanding facade along with his coat; his primly crossed legs, as devastating as they were shapely; even the resting scowl of his reading face … Dante was in love with it all, and though by some miracle he got to see it every day, he remained in perpetual awe of his once lost other half’s presence.
If he had one complaint about his current situation, it was that his brother refused to voice his needs. He never asked for anything, no matter how small. In all the time he’d been living in the shop, he hadn’t made even one simple request. Rather than fight for his share of the blanket in bed like when they were kids, Vergil would shiver in silence until Dante woke and guiltily covered him up. Dante would have happily cut out his heart and handed it over if that was what Vergil wanted, but the stubborn man wouldn’t express a single wish. Frustrating though it was, Dante couldn’t really blame him; Vergil hadn’t had anyone to ask for anything in a long, long time—but to make matters worse, he acted as if he were a burden that didn’t deserve anyone’s consideration. He may have been rehabilitated, but it seemed his self-assigned penance was far from complete.
Fortunately, as the twins continued to spend time together, they had begun to relearn the silent language of their childhood. Some of their best conversations since reuniting had been held without a sound; words could be hard for the duo who had gone most of their lives without talking about their feelings, but a touch and a look came as naturally as breathing these days.
Swinging his legs down from the desktop, Dante stood and stretched, keeping an eye on Vergil, who pretended not to notice him until he turned toward the kitchen—at which point Dante caught a familiar expression in his periphery: brows raised just a fraction, lips ever so slightly pursed, and a question in his eyes—that unique blend of pleading and embarrassment … Vergil wanted something, and he was at war with himself over whether or not to say it.
Dante paused for a moment, just in case Hell had frozen over in the last few seconds, but the request didn’t come. That was fine; taking into account the time of day and current activity, this was an easy one to decode. Hyper vigilance had its perks, it turned out: By keeping a constant eye on his brother out of fear he would disappear again, Dante had learned every move of his daily routine.
In the kitchen, he filled the electric kettle (another of the little Vergilian touches scattered around the place that reassured him that this was, in fact, reality) and set it to boil before digging a mug and one of the assorted boxes of tea bags (black, of course—herbals were for night) out of the cabinet. One day when he had the money, Dante swore to himself, he was going to buy Vergil some of the fancy stuff like their mother used to make, not the cheap supermarket variety he had been settling for.
Two bags in the big mug, pour, give it a stir, three and a half minutes on the timer … While he waited, Dante poured the glass of water he had originally set out for and propped himself against the counter, sipping and thinking. Vergil could and would read literally anywhere—even in Nico’s van, where the woman’s reckless driving constantly threatened to throw her unlucky passengers out of their seats—and yet, he had established his usual spot just a few feet away from Dante. Much like when they were little, Vergil had a tendency to occupy the same space as his brother while pretending to ignore his presence. Despite all they’d been through some things never changed.
Although … there was one thing, aside from Vergil’s unwarranted humility, that Dante wouldn’t mind changing. But it wasn’t worth the risk. He could never have imagined that one day they would be sharing such casual intimacy—those gentle touches and meaningful looks, (literally) sleeping together … Like Hell was he going to throw that all away on the off chance his feelings were reciprocated.
When the timer went off, he tossed his melancholy alongside the discarded tea bags and topped the mug off with a splash of milk. There were plenty of safer ways to show his love, he thought as he carefully carried the tea to the small end table holding Vergil’s reading lamp. Best to stick with those.
The look of surprise and bashful gratitude Dante received when he set down the mug could have sustained him for years. Yes, this was enough. To see his brother alive and well, to prove to him every day, through these small acts, that he was loved in spite of all he had done … What more could he need?
As Dante began to walk away, resignedly content with his lot, Vergil shot out a hand and grabbed him by the wrist. Dante stopped short, turning back to find an expression he couldn’t read. He thought he had catalogued every one of Vergil’s faces, but this was something he’d never seen before—and it was intense. He didn’t know what it meant; all he knew was his heart was beating harder with every second they spent staring at each other, frozen on the edge of some undefinable moment.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, Dante opened his mouth to toss out a quip but was suddenly jerked down to eye level with his twin. As he braced himself with his free hand on the back of the couch, Vergil smashed their lips together. He seemed as shocked as Dante was by the kiss; though he’d initiated it, Vergil appeared to be at a loss as to how he should proceed. Once Dante was capable of coherent thought, it occurred to him that he was probably only the second person his brother had ever kissed. Maybe even the first—he’d never asked about how things had gone down in Fortuna, because that knowledge would have eaten him up inside.
Dante rested a knee on the couch, signaling that he wasn’t going anywhere. Vergil set aside his book and cradled Dante’s jaw with a trembling hand; did he think he didn’t deserve this either? Slowly, gently, Dante coaxed his mouth open, each caress of his tongue a declaration of just how worthy Vergil was of his affection. It took a bit of convincing, but he finally got the message and began to respond.
Dante had never kissed anyone like this. For the first time in his life, the act had meaning. It wasn’t just a cursory prelude to getting some action. He wasn’t going to wake up in the morning unsatisfied and regretful. This was the start of something brand new, uncharted territory, and it was a little overwhelming if he was being honest.
When they parted, sharing a few shaky breaths, neither had a clue what to do next. After an awkward moment or two, Dante began to straighten up but realized Vergil still had a death grip on his wrist. A lopsided grin and a pointed look got him to let go, after which he buried himself back in his book as a faint pink suffused his cheeks. A very deliberate sip of tea indicated that Dante had been dismissed, but he knew better than to fall for that act. They didn’t have to talk about it, but he wasn’t going to let Vergil withdraw just because he didn’t know how to handle this new situation.
In the face of a big change, Dante decided to rely on an old tactic: Instead of walking away, he took a seat and slowly began to lean toward Vergil. He could see the recognition in his twin’s eyes before they gave a long-suffering roll and he lifted his arm and uncrossed his legs, clearing the way for Dante to rest his head in his lap—just as he’d done all those years ago, whenever he found Vergil sulking under the guise of reading after they had been scolded for some mischief or other. His twin would never seek out reassurance for himself, but if he thought he was the one doing the comforting …
Now that he had his old favorite pillow back, Dante settled in for another nap, and felt Vergil’s arm come to rest on his shoulder as he resumed his reading. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it told Dante all he needed to know: This was right. This was how they were meant to be. Finally, he thought, closing his eyes, Vergil had told him what he wanted—and he couldn’t have been happier.