AN: I chose February 17th as Dante and Vergil's birthday for two reasons: 1) I always imagine them being born in winter, and 2) that was the day DMC3 was released.
"How many times have I cried for you?"
It was hollow, the voice that spoke. A hollow tone for a hollow man. His eyes were closed, hands clasped over his stomach as he sat on the ground, legs outstretched and leaning against a slab of stone. His white hair was unkempt and a five o'clock shadow grazed his chin. He slowly opened his eyes and their blue depths reflected the same hollowness of his voice.
"February 17th," he snorted. "If there is a worst day of the year, than this is it," he muttered. "Birthdays suck, don't they?"
No one answered. Not that he was expecting them too. He was just talking to air, to a nothingness he pretended took the shape of his brother.
"I think my favorite birthday was our seventh. Mommy was happy. You were even happy. I got a model race car and you got a new copy of Aeneid. Seriously dude, just because you were named after him doesn't mean you need to like the piece of crap he was famous for."
He glanced down at his fingers, a small, somber smile tugging at his lips.
"I hated our eighth birthday. I guess it started good. Mommy woke us up at nine, made us pancakes with whip cream. She gave us more presents too: the amulets, a new coat each, and our swords." His small smile faded as the words died in his throat. A crow cawed in the distance as his silence prevailed. "But shit, then it happened." He closed his eyes again, hands fisting the red material of his coat. Memories bombarded his mind, hitting him like bullets.
"Mommy!"
"AHHH!"
His eyes flew open.
His voice was shaky when he spoke next. "I don't remember much after that. It's a blur of black and red. I just remember waking up a few days later in some strange home where a cranky old lady yelled at me for sleeping in and calling me Tony.
"I always wondered what happened to you," he continued. "I know I got taken to an orphanage, never got adopted, and turned into a functioning alcoholic with a pension for pizza and strawberry sundaes. You though? One day you're a smiling eight year old and the next you're masquerading as a mummy and want me deader than dead."
A nostalgic smile tugged at his lips. "Those were the days. Old mad dog, Nell, Grue. Shit, those were fun. But no. Can't let those be. You had to show your ugly mug and put an end to them." He placed a hand to his forehead as his smile slipped away again and his eyelids fluttered shut. "Strawbloody sundae," he murmured.
"And then fuck," he said next, his voice deep and hard. "You showed up, toting Yamato around again, wanting to shove it through my gut some more." He chuckled. "That sounded like a euphemism for sex, didn't it? Well, the only thing better than sex is fighting."
He could hear the wind sighing.
"We were never quite normal, not that that needs saying. Twins aren't normal though, are they? Two people who are exactly the same, no differences genetically. Not cool." He sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "Twins are fucking weird. They always know where the other is, how they feel, shit like that. It ain't right. 'Specially when you got demonic blood in yah."
He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I know you hated it when I wasn't all proper grammar and shit. I'm doing my best, for you and all."
He shivered. A chill was starting to set in his bones. "I think I'm gonna have to go. Can't wait for summer though."
A memory of a humid night atop a tower of ancient evil flashed through his mind.
"Or not."
Sighing, the man stood, brushing the mud off his coat, picking at the grass sticking to the red leather. "Okay, I'm really looking forward to spring. How about you?" He paused, blinking. "Winter, eh? Yeah, you always had an icicle up your ass."
The man turned, looking down at the slab of stone. Barely legible letters were carved into it. Vergil.
"Rest in peace, asshole."
