Posted this on AFF first because I wanted to see if people would like it, but that was a dumb move because people never tell you shit on that site so. So if you read it there first, note that no stealing happened.

No warnings for the first few chapters, but if you plan to read on you'll eventually find these to be applicable: Every type of abuse there is, repeated murder, mindfuck, mild gore, quasi-incest—any rainbows and unicorns you may see here exist only to be brutally murdered. Enjoy, sick fucks.

He'd only had three drinks. So why the hell was Vergil standing at his door?

"…Fuck," he said. Then, in compensation for the lack of vocabulary, "holy shit."

Vergil made a vague expression of disdain.

And it was all completely Vergil; his face, his scorn, the blood on his clothes. It was the monster in full and Dante thought that today was perhaps the best day of his life. Or maybe he was hallucinating. Wouldn't be the first time he'd imagined this, though usually he'd be dead by now. Wouldn't be his brother without the attempted murder after all.

But Vergil continued standing there and Dante watched him with unblinking eyes, afraid that the illusion wouldn't last.

Was it Christmas or something? …Fuck. Fuck, it was. It was Christmas and Vergil was standing in his doorway, gift wrapped in ribbons of blood—and there was something surreal about the euphoria that choked up his throat, maybe the way it made him want to bawl his fucking eyes out. Fuck. Santa really had it down this year.

"…How," he managed. His tongue felt extra dry. Maybe it was all the drinking.

"A bearded man in liquid red," Vergil replied, and, shit, was that a joke? It was definitely the drinking.

Dante laughed anyway, but found that it wasn't a good idea when his voice started to crack. "You killed him?"

"No," Vergil said, then invited himself through the doorway, "you did."

Mundus.

Mundus was dead, Vergil escaped. Even if Dante remembered killing him too, but apparently bodily explosions didn't mean a whole lot to stubborn fucks. Seemed like one of his asshole qualities finally paid off for him—or, something. Something that made sense, preferably, though that was becoming harder and harder to come by.

"I'm drunk," he rationalized. Absinthe wasn't something to take lightly, he knew that now. Okay. He finished having his epiphany, so why hadn't Vergil disappeared yet? "Joke's over, man. Go poof or something."

Vergil was close now, and Dante didn't realize he'd been teetering backwards until his chair nearly lost balance. "Is that what you want?"

No.

Fuck, no, not at all. This whole thing might be complete bullshit but he—

—Mundus was alive, wasn't he, and he probably thought it'd be funny to screw with his head. If that asshole thought he was some sort of lonely orphan who would do anything to get his family back, well—yeah, pretty much, that was why Trish worked so well. There was a thing called 'too good to be true' though, and a Vergil who wasn't here to kill him? Really pushing the limit here—

But he'd still get on his knees and beg for the illusion to stay. Dying sounded okay right now. Yeah, he'd regret it when he was sober, but—but if he died then he wouldn't get a chance to be sober, so fuck that rationality.

"I'm going to cry," he announced, just in case he did. He also grabbed his half finished bottle, just in case Vergil started flickering because he wasn't drunk enough to maintain the fantasy.

Vergil was rounding the table now, in a real body that was really there—and yeah, he could have hallucinated him putting the chair back down on all its legs, but definitely not the embrace that followed. There was a limit to how amazing a dream could be.

"I'm not here to kill you, Dante." He could feel Vergil's breath on top of his hair. "Merry Christmas."

That was the saddest reason to feel merry he'd ever heard of.

Maybe that was why he erupted in laughter, though if he didn't stop soon he predicted it would turn into sobs. He was going to die, he knew it. Some time in the next ten seconds he was going to hear about how foolish he was for believing in miracles then receive a sword through the chest, and fuck, that would suck. But if he sat back and got killed without pretending—just for ten seconds—that the embrace was real?

That would suck the most, so Dante hugged back for all he was worth.

And he was worth a lot.

"Merry Christmas," he laughed into the crook of Vergil's bloodied arm, "shit." Or maybe he was crying now, but he'd called it.

A grown man crying, in the arms of a murderer, and waiting to die?

Best day of his life.