A/N - Slash. You know the drill: don't like, don't read. Or so it goes.

This started life as a drabble when I was bored until it turned into something that I knew I could work with. Haven't worked out the chronology, so you decide for yourself, whatever tickles your fancy ;)

Disclaimer - Do not own shite, let alone Devil may cry...

When the clock strikes 12, he will be 35 years, 10 months and 3 days old.

35 years of the doldrums of whatever anyone would care to name it; life, Dante supposes. Or maybe, routine, would be a more apt word.

But it doesn't really matter.

Gun smokes and sparks from metals clashing, or red splutters from hacked wounds, a coppery smell, and then the night becoming quite cool on his skin as his pulse slows down at the end of it all. Job done.

That's routine. It comprises of death piling up so full into the inky dark sky and the fat moon grinning down on him so sinisterly like it knows something he doesn't. The thick odor of demon waste dissipates eventually into dawn creeping up from somewhere unseen, underneath.

But it doesn't really matter. Because Dante doesn't seem to notice the smell, not anymore anyway.

There comes a day when Dante gets quite ill, bed-ridden even, and god or whoever's up there knows this devil hunter 'round the block doesn't go down easily. An immunity of sorts to worldly afflictions and a mordant take on things mean that he's, well, immune, impervious. So it doesn't come as a surprise that there have been brushes with death; except for that's not exactly correct because he can't really die, so he can't be extending his hand out to the grim reaper anytime soon. An almost impenetrable body wearing the insignia of 35 years and its deceptive ability to be in two, three or four places at once and in a blink let him take to the clouds in a flurry of air rush render him almost invincible. Operative word, Almost.

It's the almost that enunciates possibilities.

It could be that he wants to be corroded, like letting acid eat him up: since his shell is petulant and won't let go, he can at least rot from the inside out

There were white powdery substances and capsules and little rolls of banknotes; women and men, skin and skin, their hands incessantly hot and eager; suffocating smoke that left an after-taste, a distinct tangy green fragrance pervading the room; alcohol calling out sleep; and music – there was always music.

But all of that got old pretty quickly, like how the after-taste would eventually leave his mouth time and time again. Enzo said hedonism was thinly veiled self-effacement (it was more like, You're gonna fucking kill yourself this time, fucking dumbshit!) - really, Dante finds himself smirking, no caustic words for once.

From time to time he would wake up, still in fever, and sees a shape above him. And he would like to think that he reaches out to this fuzzy but strangely familiar shape and feels it all over with his febrile hands in a manner that is far from being considered polite. He can smell the scent and indistinctly feel its touch somewhere on his skin. It drags on his closed lids, down over his cheekbones, stopping at his mouth. Fingers, Dante fumbles to arrive at the conclusion that they are indeed fingers, faint and, at the same time, chilling fingers on his face. Dante's hands remember.

'I thought you might like some company.'

The shape might have said.

35 years, he mumbles unintelligibly, aren't you busy being dead?

'How many times have you killed me?'

He opens his eyes and finds himself staring at his apartment ceiling. Many times over.

Fucking ghost, and he would have cursed out loud, too, if it weren't so painful to vocalize. Bodies are such an inconvenience.

And so is a family ghost that doesn't know when it's time to move on.

'That wounds me, little brother. Not when you're so indisposed.'

Insanity is perhaps merely an invitation to another dimension. He could get an early bird ticket.

At once, a solid body enfolds around Dante's back and across his chest, squeezing so tight at intervals that sometimes it feels terribly suffocating, 'It has crossed your mind.'

I have nearly 36 years under my belt, what hasn't?

'Absolutely every single thing in this world that is not me.'

And Virgil's right, too; he was right in their early formative years, alongside Dante, in the budding adolescence with its overflowing promises of youth and kisses and bucking hips; in the sated sleep on Sunday mornings, clammy skin on clammy skin, peace on his face; in tragedy and wretchedness, in his hand extending until it's nearly dislocated and still catching nothing, in later years of ideas and deadly endeavors.

35 years of Virgil, for Virgil, is Virgil.

'But now I'm gone. Don't you ever miss me?'

I do, oh god I do.

His otherworldly brother murmurs close into his ear, 'This time I will catch hold of your hand, Dante. Won't you come with me?'

With sharp inhalation he turns his face around and examines another face that is so alike his own and yet so utterly dissimilar. The face smiles, and its pair of lips graze his lips, breathing sleep into his mouth. Their lips lock, they move in tandem, mesh, and Dante lets his fate be sealed. Before he falls into deep, deep, undisturbed sleep, he makes sure his hands mold and knead hard the shape that is now above him, squeezing, scrutinizing the last details before he signs away.

'It's me, Dante. It was always going to be me', Virgil smiles into the kiss.

Like a shot, Dante plummets downwards amidst thick blackness. Enjoying the free-fall, he's not the slightest bit concerned. Why? This is not a dream.

And it doesn't really matter if he doesn't ever wake up again.

He holds out his hand and somebody takes it.

'I've got you this time. I've got you good.'

A/N - I had fun writing this. It might not make a lot of sense but I had fun.