It was cold. It was dark. It was raining.
And he was out for a walk.
Anyone else would have called him crazy. Not that most didn't already think it of him. It only made him grin. Wind whipped his hair viciously against pale cheeks, and he only tossed his head a bit to clear clumped bangs from obscuring cerulean vision. He must have been quite the sight to behold, really - unearthly platinum hair, soaked through-and-through, plastered thickly to his face and the nape of his neck; denim cut tight in all the right places, spattered with years worth of grease and oil, wrapped about his waist and down; hands shoved deeply into the pockets of a well-worn fighter jacket, which was, of course, all but completely unzipped despite the cold…just because he could. Hell, like he cared if they stared at him or not. None of his concern, was it now?
A slow chuckle worked its way past pale lips as his left leg discovered an uncharted lake that seemed to have formed overnight in the middle of the street, pants splashed darkly halfway up one shin. Oh, but was he ever soaked to the bone, water running down his cheeks and dripping from his hair…and loving every minute of it.
As if on cue, the heavens opened up above him, sheets of icy-cold gray assaulting his senses, making it all but impossible to see more than an arm's length in front of him. Slowly, he turned his gaze skyward, pausing in his gait just outside the door of one of the many family-run shops inhabiting the neighborhood, seeming contemplative for a moment.
Days like this made him miss his brother.
But then he shrugged, turned sharply on his heel, and swung the door behind him wide open.
"God damn, Sparda, you want it to flood? Get your scrawny ass in here and close the door!"
He scoffed, none to quietly, at the would-be greeting. "Chill, Tony."
The shopkeep only sighed and shook his head, coming out from behind what had to be the place's storeroom to stand behind the register, dirtied fingers almost gangly curled in a tattered and stained old towel that, at some point in time, used to be white. A half-frown took his lips as he met his customer's gaze evenly and without hesitation, deep blue meeting an inhumanly icy-teal as he shifted his shoulders some in a weary shrug. "What?"
He really wouldn't have been staring so much if the damnable redhead hadn't decided to spike his hair as of late. Spiked five inches high, that is. He quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"What're you here for, man? You already out?" Tony grinned.
The other met that grin wolfishly. "Wouldn't be here otherwise and you know it, Redgrave. You've got what I want, don't you?"
"You kidding? You're my top customer, Sparda. Hell, you're one of the few not scared shitless to come in here. Not to mention one of the few to ever be a repeat customer, heh." The shopkeep turned, rustling about on a ledge behind the counter despite his idle chit-chat. "You think I'm about to start screwing up your order now?"
"Good…" his voice was little more than a low purr. "I'd hate to get you on my bad side."
Pause.
For one long second in time, there was an almost desperate silence; Tony, with his back turned to his customer, the other leaned, weight settled decidedly on one elbow, on the countertop.
And then both burst out into gales of laughter.
"D-damn, Sparda." He shook his head, still chuckling, at a loss for breath. "How many years I've known you, and you're still pulling that stunt on me?"
"You're still the one falling for it."
"Yeah, yeah." Tony returned to the counter now, five heavy cardboard cases spilling out from his crossed arms with a loud thunk, a dull rattle, milling quietly for a moment before they settled. "Five, right? 45 mil?"
"Same as it ever is," he nodded, running one forefinger down the corner of a tanned cube closest him as his grin spread like wildfire, mirth burning brightly in his eyes as that of a child who had just awakened and remembered it was Christmas morning. A slow whistle left him. "Mhmm, that's the good stuff."
Tony smirked a bit, passing one hand through his hair to resettle the disorderly spines, as they'd started to droop across his forehead. "Thought you'd like that. Consider it a gift, y'know…trick or treat, and all that mess."
The other's grin only seemed more boyish, almost immature, at that, though he once again declined to voice what was on his mind, eyes working over the packages thoughtfully until he reached to pick one up.
The redhead looked a bit expectant. "Not gonna try 'em out, then?"
Steely eyes widened some in hearing such an offer, his words just as playful as his host's. "Well, if I'd tarnish the hardwood and whatnot…"
"Aw, hell, this place's had worse," he waved a hand dismissively.
Cl-click. The sound of unlocking machinery echoed in the otherwise empty store, even before the last word had finished rolling off of Tony's tongue. Two cartridges fell delicately to the counter below, their better halves placed side-by-side soon thereafter – one black, one white.
"You and your damned guns," the redhead clicked his tongue behind his teeth good-naturedly. "Someone's gonna start thinking strange things about you again one of these days, Sparda."
But he was ever-so-pleasantly distracted, trained fingers already pulling open a package to cast an appreciative gaze over the shimmering shells contained therein. Something seemed to occur to him after a moment, somehow; "For the love of God, Tony, I'm not my old man. You can quit calling me that any day now."
"How many years, now?" Tony repeated, shifting his weight onto one foot as his arms fell akimbo. "The hell's wrong with it?"
"The name's Dante," he gestured blankly with the ebony armament, slamming the freshly-reloaded cartridge into place with, perhaps, a tad too much zeal. "Get it straight." Clasping the gun in the crook of one rain-soaked elbow, he carefully extracted a handful of shells and let them spill into the other still-empty cartridge, silently relishing the muted tick of each slug as it rolled into place.
Sapphire circled in exasperation. "Whatever, Sparda."
The smell of sulphur and gunpowder hung heavy in the air, splintered wood flying over the shopkeep's shoulder with a deafening crack. Unruly platinum had barely resettled about his customer's shoulders, his elbow on the counter once again –when had he moved? – gun aimed just a few hairs to the side of Tony's head. The redhead hadn't even flinched, and, though a ghost of a smirk had already started to show, he seemed to have the common sense to remain smartly silent.
"Dante," he repeated, a devilish smirk playing across his lips. "My name is Dante."