A/N: This story is a part of a series. First published part is my story 'To you, years from now', which is basically purely self-indulgent, time travel, incest and smut, featuring Female!Dante/Vergil. So if you're into that, feel free to read it. This story takes place befooore that though, set sometime pre Temen-ni-gru, although don't ask me for a proper timeline, I don't know. We are here for the drama, not accuracy. Also, this is quite narrative heavy. Enjoy!
Dante is not drunk yet, but she is well on her way and could be called pleasantly buzzed. For once in her life it's even on some good shit.
Wherever it was that Vergil had managed to get the red from - and she doesn't want to ask, for it was surely illegal and she doesn't care too much either way - it was some kind of the actually classy, fancy stuff, not the cheap-ass lighter fluid, piss tasting crap that Dante usually chugged by the dozen.
No, this stuff had some sort of pompous Italian writing on it, all looping scripts in stylish typefaces, tastefully laid out on the label, for all that she had not cared to actually read it, so long as it actually tasted nice.
And it did. Even Dante, for all her limited knowledge when it came to this stuff, knew that a good wine should be paired with good food.
But since Vergil had categorically refused to indulge her whining (reasonable request) to get some pizza to go with it and there were no decent restaurants still open at this time of the night, they had decided to hell with it and enjoy it anyway.
"So, I never asked, but what's the occasion anyway?" she asks idly, tilting her head towards her brother who sits straight backed on the couch, reading some sort of book.
Dante swerves the glass in her hand and admires the pretty patterns it makes on the desk when the light hits it just right. The red hue of the wine is reminiscent of fresh blood, but the smell is much more pleasing to her senses.
"I simply felt like it." he responds pensively, shifting his gaze to look in her direction. "Must there be a reason other than wanting to indulge in life's simple pleasures?"
Dante thinks it over. Shrugs. Raises the glass to her lips and tilts it to take a sip. The taste is rich and full, the tannins in the wine mild enough that even her relatively unrefined palate can appreciate the lingering sweetness of the berries and the hint of spice. "Guess not."
The silence permeates the room once again, broken only by the occasional rustle when Vergil turns the pages. There's sounds coming from the outside too, for the city never sleeps, but they are easily ignored until they eventually fade into an indistinct background noise, all blurred together.
Bored of watching the swirling liquid she turns her gaze towards Vergil, studying his countenance.
His gaze is focused, eyes skimming over the pages slowly, savoring the words as if they're the finest he's ever seen. There's a type of longing that reflects in his gaze as he studies the texts with his undivided attention.
She used to feel jealous when she would see him like this, so very immersed into whatever he was doing that he would be hard pressed to give his attention to her.
And she had wanted his attention, wanted it so badly, wanted that piercing gaze on her at all times, to know that he was as taken by her as she was by him.
And he was.. just not all the time.
Her beautiful, perfect brother. The prodigious child. She thinks all this without an ounce of irony and no trace of bitterness. One shouldn't get emotional over facts, after all. Solid and real like the ground beneath her feet, like the moon in the sky; those constants will still exist long after she's turned to dust.
As a child, this lack of attention had felt like the greatest tragedy of them all. Her mind would conjure up some improbable scenarios in which she would vanish from his memory the second he looked away.
An irrational fear, a child's fear. How very selfish of her to think that she should occupy his mind at any given time, all the time. How foolish.
Now, it feels like it's been a lifetime since they were those little kids, living together in their own personal fairytale, where each day promised a new exciting adventure and the sun always shone down upon them.
It's been a long time since she was that little girl, crying out for her brother's attention and asking to hold his hand for comfort after she fell and scraped her knee.
And Vergil too is no longer that boy who gave her sincere smiles and indulged her whims if she asked him nicely enough.
But for now, she is content with having his attentiveness be directed elsewhere while she simply observes him in turn.
Not for the first time she wonders why he had decided to seek her out in the first place.
When she had first seen him, and had recognized him in the alley, she had felt blindsided, of course. Elated. Ecstatic, or as close to that as she was capable of feeling the emotion, to know that he was alive.
Their reunion had been short lived, and Dante had not held any hopes that she would see him again any time soon.
Life had a way of tripping her up when she got too happy. Something about balancing the scales, surely, even if she had no idea what it should weigh against her happiness. Should the price be paid in blood?
Who knew.
And so she had meticulously started to prepare herself for the gut punch that would surely follow their meeting.
Maybe a job would get in the way and drive them apart again. Maybe a different tragedy would strike. Or maybe he would simply disappear again, vanish like an ethereal mist and leave her wondering whether her mind had conjured up the encounter as some sort of sick coping mechanism.
Maybe, maybe. Dante is so sick of the word.
There's a quiet weariness that's been settling in her bones, an exhaustion that keeps getting bigger every time she has to get out of the bed to face another day. Some days all she wants to do is lay down on the ground and stay there until her bones turn into mulch, until the aching agony in her chest goes away and becomes nothing more than a distant memory.
Why does she bother anyway? Who is it for exactly?
(A small part of her brain points out that her downward spiraling is always prone to get worse when she gets to drinking and she is certainly self-aware enough to realize that she is almost definitely horribly depressed.
She ignores it the same way she does everything else she doesn't want to deal with.
If you don't acknowledge that a problem is a problem, then is it still a problem?
She thinks that Schrödinger had a thing or two to say about that. Whatever.
It.
Is.
Fine.
And even if it isn't, it's not like the realization will ever stop her from drinking anyway.)
And then, Vergil came back. Again, and again, and again. Never staying too long and always prone to disappearing off to somewhere without a warning, dealing with things that Dante's own experience immediately flagged as 'strange' and potentially 'dangerous', but he still came back. And continued to do so.
And that's.. that's something, she decides, unsure as to whether voicing any particular emotion is wise or whether it will crash and burn around her as all the things she touches tend to do.
Dante slowly shakes her head from side to side.
The wine is so good it's made her rather maudlin, how strange. Usually this stage only comes after she has put away a great number of bottles of her usual junk.
What's that thing she used to hear someone say? You get what you pay for?
Cute.
She snorts quietly and rolls her eyes. It's unbecoming of her to be so philosophical. Vergil's presence must be rubbing off on her. And speaking of him, she once again turns to gaze at her brother.
He's different now. Older, obviously, but the memory she had retained of him for so long was still the one of a young boy. His expressions don't come as easily as they once did, but then, neither do hers. Not the genuine ones at least.
He's cold too. Whatever things he had gone through during the time they were separated has taught him to lock his emotions away beyond a marble wall. Where there was once warmth of a spring flowing through his veins, they now seemingly only hold ice.
(Quietly and only to herself, Dante wonders if he would bleed liquid nitrogen if cut. A silly thought from a silly girl. She will never voice it.)
Above all, he's beautiful.
His face is artfully carved with high cheekbones, well defined nose and finely shaped lips. He stands taller than her now, shoulders broader and back straight. His hair remains swept back in the style he's preferred since childhood and a part of her feels quietly relieved about that. As if these things have any significance apart from serving as a reminder of sorts.
His eyes are bright like they rarely are now, still captivated upon lines of poetry. The fine shadows below his eyes are noticeable and speak of a lack of a proper rest, but Dante isn't one to be pointing fingers about that. If anything, the slight pigmentation accentuates them. A blue so pale, they appear more like polished silver, and once again, cold, so cold.
There is something fundamentally broken in him, in a way that there never was when he was a child. Dante knows, because she recognizes the same division in herself.
But where her way of coping has developed to mean - throw yourself into dangerous situations head first, ask questions later or maybe never and ignore any and all sense of self preservation..
..Vergil's way of dealing with things seems to be based on using brutal efficiency, interspersed with a casual sort of cruelty that he had never displayed as a child.
His behavior doesn't shock her as much as she thinks it should have, even if she's having a difficulty trying to reconcile this version of him and the one she remembers from so long ago.
In the end it all comes down to a simple thing. She is selfishly glad to have him here with her and she knows that she would do a lot to help keep it that way.
For now, however, that is not something she needs to consider.
She drinks.
A/N:
If I ever get around the rest of this, there will be smut. Be warned.
Originally, this was meant to be just 2 chapters, but now I just don't knowww anymore. I wanted the second one to be pure smut, but then Dante's state of mind got in the way, and this version of her is like horribly depressed (and unfortunately for her, very self aware of it) and it kinda neeeeds more delving into before we get to the sex and gaahhh writing hard.
I will up the rating, if I write more for it.
Also, if you ever see this, thanks to Roxasth3nobody for the review on my other story of this series. Idk when I'll get around to the rest of it, but I will try haha
See you in like 3 years, maybe.
