Icy rain water shivers down the back of Dante's coat and plasters his hair to his face. His fingers are starting to go numb, but that's fine; his grip on the sword doesn't loosen.
Vergil is just as wet and just as determined not to show it. Water slides down Yamato's blade as Dante watches; the drips catch the light from the halogen street lamps, refract it until it's almost something beautiful. Hyperfocus, Dante thinks, because he'd never be so hypnotized by raindrops otherwise. They're frozen, waiting for the other to make the first move.
"Back down." Vergil's voice is low and even, betraying no strain.
"Not a chance." In contrast, Dante's voice wavers, hovers just on the edge of a growl.
"This is a battle you can't win," Vergil says, and then: "...Brother."
It almost sounds like an insult when he says it like that. Dante bares his teeth in what might've passed for a grin under different circumstances. "Hey, that's what you said to me about fifth grade algebra too, remember?"
Vergil almost smiles. "And as I recall, you had to repeat a grade."
Dante shrugs, or at least tries to. His muscles have gone tight with cold. "Passed it eventually. Doesn't matter that it was hard. Aced my next test, too."
"In the middle of every difficulty lies opportunity, you mean to say?"
Dante tosses his head, flicking water out of his eyes, and raises his sword into a more offensive en garde position. "Fuck that philosophy shit. Try, 'no matter what, I'm gonna kick your ass'."
"As you say." There's a tightening across his shoulders, and Dante only has time to think This is it.
When their blades finally meet, it's with a silvery crash, like lightning.