Chapter Text
Vergil says they can't bang.
Well. His exact words went Dante, I will not have sex with you because he's freaky like that, formal. Could've been even more stuck up about it and relied on euphemisms or old-people terms without shocking anyone, like have intimate relations, or fornicate, knock boots. Copulate, mayhaps. I shall not have sexual intercourse with you. With thou? In truth, Dante's not sure how he'd reacted if he'd actually been uncharacteristically vulgar and used some trendy age-appropriate expressions; sex, in his stupid, sultry, maddening voice, is bad already, he hears it every time he closes his eyes now. Jacked off to it a few times. That day. Several dozen times the next few days. He's got a problem but it's less of a problem than the real issue here.
Fact remains, I will not have sex with you is what Vergil said. Semantics and spank fodders aside, there's a message buried there, and Dante has a dawning suspicion it doesn't take a genius to decode it. That was a week ago. He's had a long while to mull over the turns of phrase, they haven't been exchanging many words of any type since then. It's what a pair of characters in movies and crappy TV series tend to do after one of them has been rejected by the other, isn't it? Sulking, bawling, pushing needles into voodoo dolls, keeping a distance, digesting the brush-off. Rejection. It's a mindfuck to reckon it's what happened there, yet it did happen, just like in those cliched soapy dramas he's been consuming while avoiding his twin in order to spare them further embarrassment.
Scene: it's their birthday, the party has died down, the guests have gone home, Mom's asleep and Dante's a little drunk, a little tipsy from the champagne he's been sipping to liquor up his courage. His slight intemperance isn't noticeable in itself, only stands out if you start to wonder why he isn't drunk off his ass on a special occasion and surrounded by an extravagant spread of refreshments, all his favorites beckoning him to Bacchus. But he's got to be relatively sober for this; and so he is, knocks back his last remaining dito di vino, leaves the empty glass in the middle of the closest gift table and goes out hunting. He ends up confronting Vergil downstairs, in the smaller kitchen where he's nursing a glass of water on the rocks and looking exhausted at the perfunctory mingling he's been forced to do, the eternal introvert to Dante's irritating extrovert. He perks up when he sees him enter the space, smiles with his relaxed open shoulder line, so handsome in his suit and the tie he's finally allowed himself to loosen that it's painful in the literal sense. The shutters fall in front of his eyes only when Dante, after years of pining and jerking himself raw to this very moment and what will surely follow, blushing profusely but fighting it, speaks up. "I want you to fuck me," he says, and it's not quite a confession, not really a plea, might be a foregone conclusion but someone has to voice it. Dante does, putting all his soul into it, by a miracle not stuttering. Vergil – Vergil, dispassionate, locked up behind a thousand invisible bolted doors and a flat tone, dismisses him promptly. I will not, he says, verbatim. No. As a result, Dante spends the night he's always expected to be the defining moment in his storyline awake indeed but brotherless, snuggled up inside a borrowed shirt and marveling at how the familiar scent is suddenly unable to comfort him. Abruptly, without a warming, inexplicably, now that he's been turned down. Rejected.
It does not go according to plan, uh-huh. As far as plans go, Dante has been entertaining the idea of broaching the topic exactly like that for longer than he can remember. During the lonely hours in the dead of the night, he goes through it all and concludes that it might have been wiser to devise a smoother approach: he may have been too blunt for his brother's tastes? Should've still gone for the roses, sappy as it would've been and as much as Vergil abhors shallow gestures? Picked a more romantic and/or modest opening line? Difficult to be suave with someone who's adept at social interaction with outsiders but turns odd and stunted when it's not a duty, when it matters. Shouldn't even matter how Dante does it, just that he does, did, for crying out loud; he wanted it to be natural, not something he's orchestrated with strict wholesale formulas in mind, reading his declarations from a piece of notebook paper. Wanted to be himself because it's who Vergil likes. He panics a bit at some point, it's a cold feeling, he's sweating, has no idea how to rectify things when it's not crystal clear where he went wrong. Vergil likes him, he reiterates, like likes him, has a crush, just like him, always had, is in love, hungers for, lusts after, there's no doubt. The pull is there, reciprocal, almost tangible when they're alone, Vergil's attentiveness manifests as a possessive spiritual caress on his neck when he chats up a random girl on the other side of the room, and it's killing him that they're being denied an outlet.
It's a long night alright, but in all the wrong ways. Come dawn, Dante makes the operative decision not to get up, claiming to be hung over if anyone notices and asks, but nobody does.
That's how it went, a week ago. End of tragic flashback. In a nutshell, the first twenty-four were the worst, then he got a tad better. I will not have sex with you, Vergil had said, and Dante listened, steadily regained his ability take pleasure in hearing him say whatever. Sex with you; he took care of his own self and took himself in hand while repeating the sentence back and forth between his ears, turned it upside down, deconstructed the letters, until nothing but the voice remained. Then it was pretty nice. Post-nut clarity told and tells him he's probably been making a mountain out of a puny anthill. Relationships are difficult, he's read that from magazines – according to pop culture, some people just play hard to get and demand dedication and perseverance from their partner, like, it's a courtship ritual, a trial run. Vergil's definitely like that. Stubborn, too, but their saving grace is that Dante's not that shabby at being bullheaded either.
Yeah. While he is pushy as hell and is widely known to be as obnoxious as he is charming, he'd never keep throwing himself at anyone if he had any cause to believe they were unwilling to give him the time of day. Sure, his thick ram skull is capable of breaking through all kinds of brick walls, but people aren't concrete and mortar; occasionally, they have valid reasons for shooting others down. He should know, humble bragging or not, he does it from Monday to Sunday and January to December himself. You're so sweet, but I'd like to stay just friends, hope you understand. No, sorry, not interested. Nah, I'm too busy, got to prioritize sports over dating. I'm too young to put my roots down like that, y'know? You're just not my type. It's not you, it's me. I'm not gay, bro. I'm not single. Not now. Not again. Among his fair share of suitors, he's even had a handful of rabid-dog cases, those who won't take no for an answer till he really labors his point. Nasty stuff. Not going to be That Person himself.
He'd let the matter lie, no question, if his sibling didn't act the same way he imagines a wicked Catholic priest, unsecure in his faith and capacity to resist that which tempts him, would speak of the devil. Does him no favors to compare himself to good ol' Nick, he's at most a succubus and only a little evil, yet it's kinda accurate under the circumstances. Eventually, Vergil will get tired of his self-denial and lets himself untie his allegorical ascot in private: they'll be bumping uglies and laughing at their early misunderstanding and hiccups in no time, guaranteed.
Exactly. What's a small delay when he's been practicing patience for his whole adolescence, Dante reasons. Once he's spent seven days licking his wounds and his palm, he assumes his ordinary routines. Got to find out where they're at, test the waters. Over the years, he's picked up this habit of being a selective klutz, constantly bending down or leaning on countertops in certain conditions. His brother has never failed to take note of him doing it so far, as if they've tacitly agreed on making their coexistence a quiet game of teasing one another to death and admitting nothing. A mating call for those with emotional impediments, basically. What do you know, lo and behold: Vergil's gaze seeks Dante out readily when he, oops, drops the phone he's been fiddling with to hide how he keeps side-eyeing him every five seconds instead of following the slideshow or the dude presenting it. The cell, incidentally, lands on a hideous designer carpet and is thus fine, not that scratching the screen wouldn't be worth it. Nothing but affection and freedom costs anything when Mommy has more money than god thanks to Daddy's insanely affluent estate, though Dante would probably have to go through her Financial Advisor, the scummy old worm, due to breaking so many of the damn things. Wish he could be trusted with a credit card like Some. The meeting continues around them as he hauls his butt back onto his seat, but the impression of the stare stays, warms him up. Still got it.
The pattern continues when they happen to have breakfast the same time and he messes up with the pepper mill he's been asked to pass over; outside the bathroom on third floor, he's accidentally chosen to have a shower there just when Vergil was having one, funny, the shampoo bottle falls by accident as well and his hips shake of their own volition; the gym, he does his squats with religious zeal and trips trips trips while skipping on a rope and while Vergil's fencing, certainly focusing on his sword practice, which he could not take, like, to some swanky health club downtown or the second, larger, exercise room on the property if he so desired; dining hall, Eva's too busy to attend family dinner again, but they hang out afterwards and Dante's pose on his divan may be somewhat indecent. Vergil doesn't tell him to close his legs. Vergil's face is blank, his full red mouth rattles on about silver Latin grammar or arithmetics or the intricacies of Kantian idealism or some other rubbish Dante's homework is supposed to be about, his hooded eyes rest on his form as if they've already seen it gloriously naked from tip to toe, writhing underneath him to make him stop ogling and get moving. Pisses Dante off that they're so happy to treat him like a lover when the rest of him isn't, but he's forgiving because it's hot and gets him stiff.
Confirmed: he can monopolize Vergil's attention as usual, no damage done. He'll take the next step as soon as figures out what it is.
--
Time heals and normalcy speeds it up. After the initial rejection stops stinging, more or less, Dante corners his brother again. On his turf this round, might make it easier on him. Vergil hears him knocking and lets him in his room in spite of wearing a sour frown from the get-go. Prissy is tolerable, disgust would be another matter. His austere hovel of ascetism hasn't had a makeover since the latest visit: still in the limbo between tidy and cluttered, stacks of books everywhere, a potent smell of ink and a welcoming musky undertone, plain premium-quality furniture, no decorations whatsoever if the fancy katanas and associated gear don't count. Dante gives himself license to sit on his bed, doesn't give a damn about it not being made. Some things never change.
Vergil folds himself in his armchair and watches him cross his knees, does the same with his own fingertips like it's a reflex. The dark bags above his cheeks aren't necessarily an indication of anything; Dante worries on the best of times, dreads the day when he will have run himself down for the sake of creating a Perfect Life he isn't going to live out or outlive. His narcissism prefers to attribute them to their recent row or more hedonistic sleepless nights, all the same.
A full sixty-second period, wide as an ocean, unfurls itself at their feet. Is it as awkward for his twin as it is for him? He doesn't know what to do with uncomfortable, things are never uncomfortable with Vergil. Naturally, he's scared of wrecking it, his safe haven, them, their easy accord. It'll happen if they do nothing too, though, not only if they botch up a romance. Repressed attraction is likely to make them resent each other in the long run and it's a risk Dante cannot afford.
"Why? Who says we can't?" he breaks the ice. Doesn't require any priming when they're both aware of what this is about. Observe – Vergil turns towards the window and pretends to be fascinated by the oppressive grey clouds on the horizon, every inch the prick he is. Instantly clued in and on the same page? He hasn't been able to forget either.
"Everyone. I do," he replies at length. See? But Dante's not satisfied.
"Everyone? And? Why would we care? I want you to sleep with me, 'everyone' never enters the equation."
"I would not be so sure. You are completely inexperienced; how can you tell what you want?"
Interesting. Vergil's been more alert than he gave him credit for. Now, Dante's not an expert on normal blood relations by any means, but he's fairly confident in claiming sexual status is a strange thing to know about your younger sibling. The heat that rushes from his trunk to his head nearly has him shivering, he masks it by leaning forward, grinning without joy. He'll deal with the information when he's back in his bunk and be thorough; as of this moment, it doesn't seem to be working in his favor. Why else would the jerk give it away. Highly suspect.
He has to try and make him open up and explain himself, trap or no trap. "Dude, you're arguing against your own case there. The fact you can tell I'm still carrying my V card shows you're invested in getting a piece of me yourself. I'm offering, so why can't you?"
"Dante, please. We are related. That is enough of an answer for you already. I should not have to tell you this is foolish and absurd and not something I want to deal with, right now or ever."
"I know you want me," he pleads, practically hearing the figurative milk spill all over the floor. Crap, another bodge job. But the train just keeps chugging. "I can see you, you're not subtle! You're not troubled if it's wrong and I don't think it is, ergo it's no problemo – but then, you're making us miserable just because of, what, the popular opinion? Because something in you thinks I'm not good enough for you? Because you're afraid?"
"We are done talking about this. Get out," Vergil says in a sedate and flawlessly polite timbre, not budging an inch when Dante marches past him, probably not when he slams the door shut either.
They are not done.
--
Dante would back off for real, but. There is always a but because Vergil isn't immune to the fever that's settled in his bone marrow. They argued, Dante draws attention to himself and Vergil keeps guard: they're stuck in square one. Things are alright there. The potential for more is suffocating him.
Bottom line. If Vergil didn't check him out and keep his regard on his person even when facing a different direction – it's sticky like gum but in a nice way, reassuring, flattering, addictive – , he would call it quits, stat. Believe that's where his limits lie and honor them without suspicion, make no attempts to dig deeper. Watch from afar, let the shadow a great name grow and fall over him and forget he once knew the man behind it. Resolve to buy himself a blow-up doll, lube and a vibrator, draw a grumpy face on the plastic with a marker and rely on his imagination for all eternity, die a pure maiden (with alcoholism). The end, no more drama, happily ever after.
But.
"Aren't you curious?" he says, interrupting the steady stream of music flowing out of his violin. Tension blows up between the sofas they're lying and sitting on, guess who's doing which, yet he resumes swinging his foot in a carefree tempo and keeps his pitch light. Oui, he tries to put Vergil into a difficult position, oui, it's very much intentional. Bet he can't refute it due to swearing to himself he won't outright lie to him; not Dante's fault, he never asked for that. (He always gets what he doesn't ask for and is denied what he cries for. Such is his lot.)
Vergil's reply is Sahara-dry and professionally ambivalent. "The opposite. I know full well what would happen if I suddenly took a leave of my senses and agreed. It is not a pleasant outcome. As hard as it must be for you to get the drift of thinking about something else than yourself and your base desires, I am acting on behalf of your best interests as much as mine, if not more."
This feels like concession of sorts, distantly. Never mind the unvoiced you would do well to be grateful. Bitch.
Dante takes a deep breath, resumes playing. Making yourself vulnerable isn't a nice experience, but he'll try and be brave for a minute; his brother may find it attractive. He talks over the agadio as if he's pressing some strings inside himself as well, coaxes out a ballad. It's not eloquent, but there's more honesty in the notations than he's by and large okay with. "I've been waiting for you for years, long as I can remember. 'Course, we're the same age, but I could predict you'd be weird about me being immature, 'not old enough to know what sex is' or whatever, so I didn't actively pursue you earlier. If that's what you're worried about, we're very much legal now, it's official – you wouldn't be doing anything skeevy like diddling a minor or taking advantage of me. Please reconsider? I'll make it worth your while, promise."
"Incest is not legal and there is nothing weird about not engaging in it," Vergil scoffs. Would be more convincing if he raised his skull from the book, which he's not reading, on his thighs every once in a while and met Dante like a man.
"Only to prevent women from giving birth to mutant kids with two heads and no kidneys. I don't have a fancy law degree and can still tell there's no offence here, 's a victimless crime. Come on, inbreeding isn't a valid concern for us unless there's something you aren't telling me about your junk."
Technically, there are many things Vergil isn't telling him about his reproductive organs or isn't letting him see. This is not to say that the shape they take isn't obvious enough to a nosy observer. He doesn't shuffle when he realizes what Dante's thinking of, kissing his dick through his slacks, unbuttoning them with his teeth and pressing his lips on his skin, must be visible on his face, but it's a near thing. Getting too intense, sorry. Peeling his peepers away now, for now.
Predictably, Vergil fails to answer. The song runs out of notes and starts from the beginning again. Partita, partita.
"It doesn't have to be serious," Dante, having no qualms about bare-faced ingenuity and lying through his teeth, points out. "Or recurring, for that matter. It'd do you good to loosen up a little, run a normal-teen simulation for an hour. Have a one-night stand with me and dump me if you're feeling too guilty or if I don't live up to your expectations."
Vergil, prone to the same theatrics than the rest of the bloodline, raises a brow to convey his disbelief. Redundant, it was radiating from him miles away well before that. "Really? You, the clingiest child in recorded history, claim you could set your feelings aside long enough for you to get off and then take them from the nightstand when you leave without spilling them all over yourself and your partner?"
The milk metaphor appears to have some contagious properties. Clearly reading each other's thoughts here.
"That's unfair. I'm down with you boning me any way you wanna, don't have to have hold my hand through it or baby me. It's you who's conflating simple screwing with emotions and commitments and shit."
"No, Dante, you want a relationship."
His protests, no he doesn't no it's not a swearword don't say it like that, die inside his gullet before he can spit them out. Vergil's a shark, can sense a weak spot by smell alone. It's too late.
Indeed it is. "What," he begins slowly, and Dante can tell by the first word that what comes out next will hurt, "in your opinion, awaits us? If we did lie together, how would it go afterwards? You will get your first kiss – my apologies if I get too presumptuous –, establish an unbreakable, foolproof connection to another human being and start making plans for the future, yes? Will you take me out on a date? Get me gifts, be my Valentine, list me as your sweetheart in your yearbook?"
He keeps going, his voice assuming a sleek, crueler edge. He's very methodical, Dante thinks. You don't have to hiss or howl if your calmness can cut the air like a knife. "And so the years go by. We move out, perhaps, get ourselves a place of our own. Graduate from university and school for trophy wives, find acceptance? At social functions, will you first introduce yourself to my business associates as my boyfriend or my brother? Which title comes second on your calling card? Do you think I will get on one knee for you one day, make you my husband and ask Mother to be our bridesmaid, puffing up with pride when I can call you mine in polite society? Will we grow old together and adopt children who will also learn to love each other like a mother and a father? Share a casket when it's all said and done?"
Dante bites back several different expletives. Counts to ten and then twenty. Grits his molars. Does his best impression of Vergil's patented jaw clench. Breathes, ultimately.
"If your mission is to kill my interest in you, it ain't working. Guess what: I'm already aware you're a proper asshole. Part of the charm an' all."
"You want a relationship," the Vergil-shaped broken record accuses him. "You need to stop wasting time in general, but if you cannot manage, stop insulting my intelligence by going on about a casual fling that you could not handle."
"Yeah, and you're the type to play the field and be promiscuous? Bullshit, your pot is as black as my kettle. Just giving you options at any rate, somebody's got to make an effort to get us out of here. We're in this together."
"We? There is no we and you are deluding yourself if you believe there could be."
Dante's not surprised at how vicious his cynicism sounds. It strikes him, it smarts awhile, big deal. Admittedly, the recoil is somewhat stronger than anticipated and seems to linger too long.
"Vergil, listen. I won't browbeat you into anything, but I mean what I say, it's important to me. I really do want to be with you."
"It will pass," Vergil says coldly. Still doesn't look him in the eye or kisser or crotch. Coward.
It's not often that Dante's offended. Jibes, lectures, they won't stick, he's unruffled. Twins communicate in insults and a porcupine is allowed some prickliness at stuff it's not used to yet. Today, Vergil's implication crosses every line and Is Not Cool, what the hell. Like, he's insinuating it's a whim – that it's fleeting – that he has a brain wiring problem, an erotic target location error – has jealousy. It's not that he wants to be Vergil or have his "successful" life, he wants Vergil and wants to be in his life, share it. The difference is fundamental. He says as much.
Or does something similar, kind of. "Fuck you. Slander me all you like, there's nothing you can do to drive me away as long as you have the hots for me."
Vergil stands up. "Do not test me. In reality, none of what I described will occur and you will grow up, having learned to separate your sick fantasies from facts. For your sake, I hope it's sooner than later."
Happy to see him leave, happy to watch him go. Goddamn it, Vergil.
--
It's cute that he thinks Dante can be scared straight. (It's not, it's anything but cute.)
If Vergil's assuming he can shame him into submission, sucks to be him: god as his witness, Dante can and will get his rocks off to the humiliation of getting turned down again, has no trouble getting erect when there's a loop of suggestive language tirelessly rewinding itself inside his head. Sex, incest, get off, sick fantasies, love, Vergilian profanities; it's not right to call something this depraved childish, yet it's the most appropriate designation his limited range of vocal expression can find. Try as they might, snobby schools can't make a Shakespeare of every shmuck caged up inside their walls. So, Dante's acting childish, but at least revenge is sweet.
It's less depressing to lie alone in his bed if he's on his belly and has a blanket keeping him warm. He's hard indeed, easily, got his face buried into his pillow even when he's positive no one will hear him and even when he'd like nothing more than his brother to be aware of him, he always wants him to be aware of him but in particular now, when he's touching himself to the thought of what they could have if he hadn't been declined. What they should have; in a perfect sick world, there is a weight next to him on the mattress and a heavy pair of eyes on his back as he coats his skin with the lotion he ought to be buying in bulk these days. A hand, not his own but of similar make, slipping underneath the hem of his nightshirt, traveling the path to his shoulder blades, using the knots of his spine as stepping stones, measuring the difference between his broad muscles and those the owner of the rough gentle fingers wears himself, diving to the other side. The hand that now brushes its way through his happy trail, makes his abs tense one by one, is not his when it reaches his bust and decides to grope the dense fatty tissue. The palm cups a pec and squeezes him tight while trapping a nipple between two digits, not because it's done it more times than he can count and it's a routine for him by now but because it knows, inherently, that he's sensitive. The one thing in the unjust clusterfuck that's also known as reality Dante truly believes in is that Vergil would know how to treat him right. Wouldn't guess, wouldn't have to ask, would have no need for being shown even if it'd please him to watch – and it would please him, it'd drive him mad to see what Dante's doing to himself because of him and the only reason why he's currently not walking behind his door and whipping out his cock in front of him is the fact he respects him and his boundaries in spite of them doing him in –, he'd be better at this than he is himself regardless of all the practice he's had, he'd make his body do things he's never thought it'd be capable of just by the virtue of being him, tailored to be his match in this, too. Dante wants the hand, either one, both, to be his so bad, wants to be his badly.
It will pass. It's never going away. It was there the first time he woke up in a wet bunk and it'll be there as long as it gets his dick aching and his chest throbbing in a way that's as thrilling as it's tormenting. Blinded by hormones and longing as he is, he recognizes the route he's taking, commits to the choice; sick love or sick with love, it's incurable anyway, because Vergil's the only one ever to care about him. How could he have not winded up here and how could he leave?
Climbing nearer his climax, close, close, he repeats Vergil's line about kneeling, get on one knee for you, again and again and again, fast, makes it dirty, until the syllables have lost their meaning and rearrange themselves. Then it's Vergil asking him to kneel before him, commanding, begging, stating the encouragement like a truth. Proud to have him there, proud of him being so good for him, pulling his hair panting in pleasure kneading his breast being mean with his touches praising him and his mouth letting him know how much he loves him by coming in his throat with a filthy groan. Mine.
Dante gasps, pressure in his stomach swelling up. Two seconds before coming, he bucks into his fist powerfully enough to shake the bedframe and to develop a crick in his lower back and nearly drowns out his insecurities. Soggy silk gets cold quickly.
--
Dante, just like his elder sib, is his father's, may the scumbag rest in piss, son. Vergil forgets this when he convinces himself he isn't obstinate enough to keep trying or pussies out when the going gets tough.