Chapter Text
All chitchat about Dante not having a working survival instinct is, pardon his French, bullshit. It's not a petty prob to get up in the arms about because he gets it a lot. Dante, you can't fight a legendary evil in your fisticuffs, that's just suicidal. Dante, you can't trust the keys of your office, your only livelihood, to a girl you got acquainted with only a handful of hours ago when she put several gleeful bullets between your eyes and branded you as a monster that should've never been born. Dante, you can't keep leaving shameful relics from your past lying around for your big-eyed flatmate to find, he will start asking questions one day. He can and he will, watch him.
Alright, well, perhaps that didn't help his case any. Okay, if you inspect his actions and take them at face value, then sure, you will have a flawless string of him throwing himself at every ditch and dagger he comes across, trying to get himself killed via manifold means and with various degrees of proactivity, urgency and success, in your hands, but then you also fail to consider the other shit he gets up to. No, he does get up to shit, he does do things, it's never only been sitting in a chair and waiting for the pulp to rot off from his bones for him, despite the appearances to the contrary. That's truer now than ever thanks to his beloved prodigal brother and bother deciding that being mourned isn't quite what it's cracked up to be. Vergil is a thing to do, naturally, but he isn't focusing on the sex or the many, many other types of activities their concubinage brings about here. (He kinda focuses on the sex. 'Cause, he's a con artist, and also, it'd be hard not to. Have you seen Vergil? It's also kinda the point, but he's getting there.)
Self-preservation. Man, Dante's so beyond that, he even takes measures to ensure his shared existence with others will be preserved. That's the crux of the matter, the unwelcome pain in his balls, the area where he's the most misunderstood. There must've been other instances when he's displayed a modicum of an aspiration to live, somewhere, maybe, the crudest makings of it, but he's not really interested in those at the moment. The bits and bobs he's interested in are often related to Vergil somehow, anyway; funny how that happens.
He's interested in Vergil's secrets, certainly. He's got two Pandora's boxes there. Entry-level cram for them, but maybe it needs to be said. One: Vergil keeps secrets. Water is wet and can't give you a high unless you're drowning in it. Mallet Island is, in fact, an isle. Demons that consist of a mean pair of scissors and a bodiless mask floating up in the air will die if you shoot them in the face. Duh. Vergil has always kept secrets, from the day he was born and was cursed with an eternal competitor to the one when he returned from death, instantly fought his way back to Hell and refused to explain a damn thing about his methods or rationales for doing so to the only-somewhat-unwilling accomplice he'd dragged down under with him, and he will proceed to keep keeping them, for a lack of a better phrasing, until something (someone) pumps him full of lead again, after which there's nothing left that could endanger them and he's finally happy and sated forevermore. Two: Dante would like to know what he's hiding, very much so. All there is to know about him. The tiny insignificant minutiae, his dislikes, the age when he lost his final baby tooth, what he thinks about when he stands on the roof and notices the spring's first garbage flower blooming from a crack in the asphalt concrete. The major spoilers. Why did he. When. How. Did he, has he ever. Dante's always wanted it all and all for himself, guarding every morsel from the prying eyes of mothers and strangers alike.
He's interested, but here's where the survival instinct enters the fray: he limits his curiosity. Safer subjects, safe degrees. Demanding answers frequently enough on paper, he backtracks like the escapist he is if the seemingly bland theme turns out to be one of those that make Vergil go quiet and grim, polite. Oh, he doesn't dig wearing scarves anymore and doesn't feel inclined to provide reasons? Cool beans, Dante will let him stomp around in subfreezing temperatures without one. He hates caviar? Then they won't eat it, not as though it's a huge hardship to stop buying expensive crap. All good. No amount of closure is worth sensing the glass-thick screen of distance coalescing in the spaces they're separated by, not if it healed some of his personal trauma, not if it squared an account. Vergil has had so many belongings taken from him that Dante cannot, will not compromise his freedom by conducting too many inquiries when it's in no way needed, about topics he can't claim to carry any specific torches for. They can talk about plenty of things, it's not as bad as he makes it sound like. Just, not the things they can't bring themselves to talk about.
Like, things such as his – and theirs, but Vergil's in particular – more powerful devil trigger. SDT, as Nico would have it. She called it that once over the phone and he almost got offended on behalf of the one sole sexual partner he's had, verifiably disease free and all. "It's your ultimate developmental stage, yeah? The most demonic phase. What's more demonic, and metal, than sin?" she clarified before he could expose himself to ridicule. The naming stuck.
Vergil's mysterious Sin Devil Trigger. Specifically, the inception and exact functions of it; there's a great taboo for you, mm-hm. How did he acquire it in the first place, how did he acquire the regular flavor of it without a twin spearing him on a blade. When did that happen. What the fuck happened to the regular flavor, why hasn't Dante seen it after Temen-ni-gru spat them out. Why do the two of them look so different and always have, even when they used to be indistinguishable as humans. How come does he not only get proverbial tail from his loving adoring pricktease but also gets some from a literal rear-end appendage, a physical, physically affectionate tail. Which configuration does Vergil regards as his true form, the man or the beast in blue plates. SDT, silence, doubt and taciturnity.
It's need-to-know information and Dante doesn't strictly speaking need to know in order for them to lie together in peace. On the other hand, not everything about DTs is off-limits, on the other hand it's only right that he has his own needs too. Plenty to talk about those. Namely –
"Hey, d'you ever think --"
"Normally, you would be the first to claim I never do. This does not bode well," Vergil drawls against his neck. His free hand changes courses, reaches his navel in three breaths, stretches out on his pelvis to immobilize him under its weight. It'd be mighty distracting under different circumstances, but in the current, the touch barely even registers.
"No, oh, that's not --"
The more occupied set of fingers curls up. "Am I boring you? Usually, you have lost either your ability or will to talk by now. I must not be doing my job properly, my apologies."
One of the more tragic fortunes in Dante's life – his best half is both a cryptic cagey wretch and too smug for his own good. As he clenches and does his best to press his arms still against his sides, Vergil continues jerking him off in careful strokes, unconcerned about the runny mess he's staining his palm and the bedsheet with. Up, up, up, he moves his wrist steadily, and Dante's transfixed watching what's visible of him, the hands on his dick and stomach, much as he longs for his expression, the pleased flush he gets from feeling how close to release he's brough him. Up, up, up, a ring just a bit too slack, a relaxed shaft brushing the back of his thigh, the tugging rhythm in his blood telling him to obey, no, to thrust into the fist for well-earned relief, but he's prevented, and Vergil's so, so satisfied with himself because he can tell, all these impulses, every little desire that's pulling-pulsing-pumping him apart. They've been at it for, sixty minutes. More or less. More, please.
"I," Dante chokes, deep with bass notes, sweating, swollen throat still coated and sticky with his warm taste, "am talkative, by nature. Sue me. Or yourself for choosing me, doesn't matter."
Vergil laughs. It's more motion than sound; his voice thrums when their skin slides against itself, when he slips a knee between Dante's leg to support him and palms him with two fins, when he stops right there with one hand pinching the base of Dante's erection and the other on the tip of the cock, rubs a thumb against the glans in slow, slow circles, with punishing force.
"Shit," Dante gasps. He loves loves loves his freakish body heat. The way it drapes over his frame and swallows it. Hot. He's dying to get off. Vergil bites his shoulder, lightly. Crushes his hot mouth on a dip in muscle, replies with his lips to the pelt, hot tongue.
"Well then, obtain the floor, I shan't keep you from it."
Bastard. He resumes a brutally efficient pace, driving Dante to the uppermost height of the peak and kicking him off with a single perfectly timed push down, down, down the length. Light-headed, Dante falls off the ledge and jizzes on him without the slightest hint of remorse. They're both panting; it's going to some rest for his heartbeat to quit making his entire carton vibrate. Guh.
In the interim, Vergil foists an arm between his pits, snuggles up to his nape and plays with his hair. Quaintly energetic of him: he's usually out for the count for a long while after coming, in relative terms. He could fly to his feet in the fraction of a second if a threat came knocking on his door, but there aren't many creatures capable of evoking that reaction in him, none he isn't being rather lovey-dovey with in the room or neighborhood at large, that's to say. When Dante coughs up a line at last, his thoughts snap back to him loudly enough to clear their roof from birds, probably.
"So. Do you ever think -–"
"I repeat: according to you, no, I never do."
"No, you twerp," Dante corrects him. "My beef with you is that you overthink everything in your quest to make the worst possible informed choices you can, no use fabricating the truth, hombre. Why don't you let me speak and only then shoot me down? At least pretend to consider it?"
Grudgingly, he rolls to his side of the mattress. He doesn't protest when his bangs are swept back for him, though, which is sort of odd-cute. Forehead, very hot. "I can tell the answer is going to be 'no' already, but have it your way."
"Gee, great, thanks." Dante forgets what he was supposed to say and takes his time re-remembering. Power structures, or what passes for them at first glance, are weird; for a spell, it might seem like the elder sib is walking all over runt, but then Vergil takes his paw out of his pants and reminds them he isn't unaffected by the relationship either. Post-nut slovenliness doesn't mean he's more outspoken about the stuff he'd prefer to be buried in an unmarked grave with, granted. It may, however, mean he's more open to… suggestions.
"Like, don't take this the wrong way. I'm not bored, you know I'm not bored, we've been intimate four times this week and it's barely Tuesday. Still, we're an adventurous bunch, yea? What if we tried something new? The longest extra limb is an old hat, but should we take the rest of your fancy scaley body for a test ride?"
Vergil tenses up.
"Foolishness. It will not fit," he barks, as curt, rude and dismissive of the idea as expected. Dante ignores his words in favor of paying attention to the subtler language he's trying to communicate with. Raised chin and heckles. Pinched nose. It's pretty obvious based on his folding and unfolding digits alone.
"Vergil, are you embarrassed?"
Stranger than fiction. Brother dear, the proud narcissist who spares no effort in highlighting their novel height difference, self-conscious about his size, of all things. Excuse Dante if he's grinning like an idiot.
"Verge. You yourself have struck me with a sword more often than I care to count," he notes gently. Patronizing tone, but the alternatives are cooing at him or petting him on the head and dick, lousy deals. Impertinent or nay, Dante's serious about the proposal, for it is a proposal and a proposal only, neither coercive nor non-negotiable in its details. He's being open. He's been thinking about it, real big think, for ages now.
"Yes?" Vergil says. He's not trying to pawn the defensiveness off as something else. Hm. At any rate, absurd that is has to be spelled out for him, of all people.
"I'm not afraid of a peen. You couldn't hurt me with yours if you tried. I heal."
"Do you?" Vergil asks. He won't elaborate, in truth even gets up, dresses and spends the night walking Yamato in the empty alleys behind the building when probed further. Dante sleeps bound up in his scent, congratulating himself for discovering yet another source of drama they can be in dispute about without breaking anything of actual value. Survival is sometimes messy that way.