Chapter Text
"Sons of Sparda. Your presence is not welcome here," a voice booms overhead, echoing through the barren plains around them as though through a magical PA system, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. A neat parlor trick they have seen approximately twenty times in the last week since they began their exploration and, were Dante being honest about it, rampage through hell. This particular area of hell has proven especially fruitful in their pursuits of underworld extermination—he is leading Vergil one-hundred and fifteen to ninety-eight, due mostly to the nest of spiders he'd encountered while Vergil was chasing down a particularly rabid fury. Though his twin had protested that each individual baby spider hardly counted as a challenge, Dante had been insistent that they were still kills on his count.
And so he is not surprised when Vergil draws the Yamato and dashes into the distance before waiting for Dante to even throw back a clever quip at whatever demon has come knocking at their door this time. Competition drives him—it is the mutual language they have chosen for their reunion, the one thing they are able to understand without hard feelings or past mistakes muddying the waters between them. Streaks of blue light arc through the air in his wake, an aurora of power to light up the dim underworld sky. The shock-wave of energy that breaks against Dante's skin when his twin transforms makes goosebumps rise on his flesh and his hair stand on end. Power, raw and unfiltered, enhanced by his frustration at his losing their little game.
Vergil is at his most entertaining when he is at his most raw, and his display makes Dante's lip curl with delight to reveal a row of shining, pointed teeth. Here, lost in the depths of hell, they have begun exhibiting more traits of their demonic heritage, rising from the surface and incorporating naturally with their human forms. Fangs and claws seem to be permanent, with wings and tail a useful, though impractical, option should they need it. The line between human and devil inside of him is blurry here, and where fear may have greeted that twenty years ago, instead he feels only peace. Equilibrium. He could grow used to the intoxicating allure of letting his demon side off the leash, if he isn't careful.
He leans across that blurred line now, feels the power ripple under his skin as his wings unfurl on his back. With a powerful downward beat he lifts himself into the air so that he can watch his brother's fight from a better vantage point.
His demonic opponent is generic, fantasy story fare: bipedal, tall as a house, curving horns atop its head and a flaming sword clutched in one clawed fist. They have seen its like more and more frequently as they encroach closer on the lands of the demon king, and Dante has come to know them well. They are the sort of demon that craves power of their own, that has gotten it into their thick head that they will fill the void left by the lack of proper leadership in the underworld, though none of them have the skill or the strength to be king.
Vergil, on the other hand, exudes that strength in waves. He is a streak of light, quicksilver spilling over the hellish landscape below in calculated and precise movements. The Yamato sings through the air, folded steel rending demonic flesh and spilling red-hot blood to the ground below, where it sizzles and pops as it burns the earth. The beast does not stand a chance against his might.
"Beautiful." The word bubbles to his lips unhindered, and though he is shocked with himself for giving it a voice, he knows that it is true. Beautiful is exactly how he would describe his brother now, so in control as he is with the tide of the fight. Each movement of his body and his blade is planned and controlled, each flourish exacting in its precision.
Although Vergil draws out the battle for their mutual entertainment, there is only so much the demon can do before it is overcome by his strength and his boredom. With a flick of his wrist he thrusts the Yamato into the beast's throat; with a twist he's beheaded it, blood spraying in a lava bright arc through the air. Where it touches the ground and his flesh it sizzles, but he is unfazed, immune to the discomfort in the afterglow of his victory. Dante reverts to his fully human form and drops back to the ground as Vergil returns to the clearing.
He drops the head at Dante's feet, lips quirked in a triumphant smirk, and his tail lashes back and forth in the dirt behind him. It is reminiscent of the stray cat that he's chased off of the front steps of the Devil May Cry in the past, presenting a kill to show his hunting prowess.
"For you, brother," Vergil says through clenched teeth, voice reverberating in an echo that strikes a chord deep in Dante's soul and rips an amused and appreciative growl out of his throat. A meaningful gesture in this new language they've begun to speak, a display of power and might meant both to provoke and impress.
"Still only counts as one." Vergil hisses and his eyes narrow and it is the only warning that Dante receives before he is sprinting at him, weapon drawn and fangs bared. The air around them stills as they collide, metal against metal; behind them their wings stretch in shimmering arcs, reformed in the blink of an eye to take their fight airborne. It becomes a dance, as it always does between them, and Dante ducks and weaves between the summoned swords that fly at him, curling through the air in elaborate arcs simply because he can.
"Got you." Vergil's voice is a high-pitched growl laced with morbid delight. They reconnect once more when Vergil charges him, a streak of bright blue as he blurs through space and time, and although Dante could dodge it, he's not inclined to do so, and the Yamato cracks his ribs and pierces his left lung. He curls a hand around the blade until he slices open his fingers and palm to the bone, and blood runs hot and sticky down his back and chest and wrist. When he takes a breath it comes out wet and rattling, his lung deflated by the wound, but despite the discomfort he pulls Vergil close, forcing the blade deeper to bring his brother into his orbit.
"Who's got who, hm?" He rasps, blood bubbling up into his throat and mouth as he speaks. With his free hand he grabs Vergil's waist, pressing him close even as the Yamato rips through him, spilling his life in an ever increasing river down his chest. When Vergil glares at him he laughs, then coughs, spitting blood across his brother's face. Disgust curls his lip upward and he breaks free with a fist to Dante's stomach that sends him crashing back to earth, face first in the dirt.
It is delightfully easy to get a rise out of his brother, easier even than when they were children. All it takes is Dante breaking his expectations, moving in a way he hasn't planned for or catching him off guard with his words, and Vergil's walls begin to crack and splits, emotion spilling out through those fragile gaps. Rage, frustration, embarrassment—they are emotions he has come to revel in prying out of his stoic twin, and he is becoming an expert at painting them across his brother's face.
He pushes himself to his knees and spits a mouth full of blood into the dirt. Wounds from the Yamato always take longer to heal, yet even now he can fill his lung re-inflating, the air rushing back into his chest as the perfect, surgical incision through his breast slowly closes. He catches his breath while Vergil lands before him, wiping Dante's blood off on his sleeve before sheathing the Yamato.
"I'm ahead," he says as he takes a seat across from his brother, legs crossed and the Yamato securely placed in his lap. He is always prepared for a fight, ever watchful of their surroundings, making up for Dante's lack of awareness with all of the severity of an older brother who has been forced to babysit his sibling for the evening.
Dante does not mock him for this, although he should. Brotherly obligations have never mattered to him before—why should they now? But he is thankful for the watchful eye, and so he allows Vergil to begrudgingly assume that it is Dante's laziness that keeps him so distracted, when in reality it is Vergil.
Vergil, at his side, fighting against and with him. Vergil, who's barely spoken a word since they embarked on this aimless journey through the underworld, who's very existence steals the breath from Dante's lungs every time he looks at him. Although he would never say it, he's afraid to look away, afraid that if he breaks his focus on his brother he will disappear.
"Stop staring at me," Vergil says, and Dante just grins and makes a show of licking the blood from his lips. The wound in his chest has closed and his breathing has returned to normal, and so he allows himself to revert to his fully human form, as Vergil has done. With his back freed of the cumbersome wings, he drops to the ground, folding his arms behind his head as a cushion.
"I’m getting bored.” One week has passed since they severed the roots of the Qliphoth tree, and now that they are directionless, boredom is beginning to set in for Dante. There are only so many times he can duel Vergil before the novelty begins to wear off, and their aimless wandering is making him restless.
Across from him, Vergil hums thoughtfully, and Dante twists his neck to the side so that he can keep an eye on his brother even though he is lying on his back. His twin sits with his arms crossed and his eyes closed, as if he is meditating; Dante is filled with the childish impulse to drape himself across his brother’s shoulders to break his concentration. That would require standing up, however, which is a thing he is not inclined to do yet, so instead he fumbles around on the ground for a rock that he can toss at him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Vergil says before he can succeed in his mission, and he sheepishly grins at the single opened eye that is now watching him.
“I’m bored,” he reiterates and the look Vergil levels at him in response would make a smarter man shut up and drop it; lucky for the both of them, Dante has never been a smart man in matters where his brother is concerned. With a flourish Dante gets to his feet, relocating to his brother’s side—he drops against him and presses his back to Vergil’s, their mutually accepted sleeping position for when they have no more secure option available to them. If Vergil won’t entertain him, then he’ll go for the old standby of sleeping his boredom away. Before he can begin to doze off, however, Vergil shifts and sighs, a sign that he’s going to force himself to talk to Dante, and so the younger twin waits patiently for his brother to spit it out.
“I have a suggestion.” Dante raises an eyebrow at that, tilting his head back so it’s resting on his twin’s shoulder and he’s able to see the side of his face, upside down though it may be.
“Hit me.”
“How does petty revenge sound,” he asks, and even at this angle Dante can see the curl of his lip and the wicked gleam in his eye. Petty revenge is the most Vergil way to pass the time that Dante could think up, but given their current location and, from what he's gathered, proximity to the demon king's domain, he gets the feeling that this petty revenge is going to be right up his alley.
"You know I like making a scene," Dante says and Vergil laughs, a quiet huff of breath that Dante has come to recognize as honest amusement, and he shrugs his shoulder to indicate that Dante should stop leaning on him. Freed from the weight of his brother, he stands, pointing with the Yamato in the direction of his earlier fight with the demon.
"Mundus' domain begins roughly where we currently stand. It stretches through most of the underworld and contains the lands of those who have sworn fealty to him." He sweeps his arm in a broad stroke while he speaks, as if he is mapping out the layout into the air, but Dante does not pay attention to that. Instead he watches his brother's face, listens to his heartbeat and his breathing, and thinks: this is important to him. Vergil's heart-rate has increased, his breathing more shallow and faster, and although he shows no visible sign of his anxiety, it's clear to Dante that this explanation is torn from a particularly unpleasant part of Vergil's memory here.
"So what, are you suggesting we go in there and wreck some havoc? Destroy the place while he's out of commission?" Vergil's arm drops back to his side and he turns to face Dante once more; when he grins, it is with too many teeth to be anything but purely demonic, powerful and feral in its raw cruelty.
"Exactly."
Dante leaps to his feet and wraps an arm around Vergil's shoulder, pulling him against his side, and the stutter of his breathing at the sudden contact does nothing to deter him. It's a move meant to center his brother, to drag the humanity out of him until he is balanced once more, and it works: the quivering in his arms and the rolling waves of power and anxiety decreases to a steady hum.
"Got nothing better to do," Dante says, releasing his brother from his grip when it becomes obvious that he's toeing the line between "tolerant" and "furious" with the contact. This is exactly the kind of plan he can get behind. He continues: "Besides, I think we owe that bastard one."
"Indeed.” A pause, then: “We should probably make a plan.” Dante laughs in response, clapping a hand on his brother's back.
"Do I look like a man who makes plans? Let's just run in there and hit stuff until it breaks," he suggests, much to Vergil's obvious exasperation, although he's not entirely joking—the idea of wanton destruction excites him, and the demon inside of him howls with delight at the prospect of coming out to mindlessly destroy.
"You know this place better than me. Got anything particular in mind that we should go for first?" Dante asks as he walks up the sloping hill before them to give himself a better view of the surrounding area. Although Vergil claims they are entering Mundus' domain, very little looks different from the rest of the underworld so far. Tall, bone-white trees stretch to the sky above, lesser versions of the Qliphoth they have destroyed, their roots and branches reaching out like gnarled limbs to grab at them as they pass. Between these trees, knee-high grass blows in the hot wind, the deathly pale leaves faintly glowing with whatever phosphorescent demonic energy thrives at their core. It is the same landscape they have seen for days now, and Dante is growing sick of the sight and the smell of them—sour and reeking of rotting flesh.
The horizon proves more promising, however; he thinks he can make out the shapes of some kind of structures, though even his demonic eyesight has its limits. He gestures to them when Vergil finally decides to join him at the crest of the hill.
"What's that?" Vergil's eyes narrow as he tries to see the structures for himself, his brow creased in thought.
"I'm not sure," Vergil admits; before Dante can press him for details there's a cold ripple of energy at his side and his brother has partially transformed, wings and tail curving off of his back in a fluorescent blue arc. He shoots into the air at break-neck speed, stopping once he's reached a satisfactory height for his scouting efforts before beginning a quick loop of the immediate area.
Dante waits for him below, watching his twin weave through the air in beautiful, glowing arcs. One week has been enough to make this effortless for them, although he supposes Vergil has had more than one week. The reality that his brother has spent more of his life in hell than out of it hits him then, latches onto his heart and digs in like sharp claws through his chest. Dante vows then to ensure his brother makes it back, one way or another. He deserves to live a more normal life for once.
He is snapped out of his moment of reflection by the rush of air as Vergil lands several feet away from him. His wings dissolve into glittering blue shards of light as he paces back to Dante's side, brow creased in worry and thought, although this tells Dante little of what he found: it appears to be his permanent expression.
"So what's the plan?" Vergil shakes his head. Sharp teeth pull at his bottom lip, a nervous motion that tips Dante off more to the inner turmoil in his brother than anything else. Dante presses a hand to his arm, worried now that something is wrong, and Vergil shrugs him off with a huff.
"I do remember this place," Vergil says finally, looking to Dante with an expression that speaks of measured control—he's masking his emotions, hiding them to prevent Dante from knowing what he's thinking. Which is a sure sign that something is wrong, though he'll be damned if he can figure out a way to make Vergil admit that. He misses how effortless their communication used to be as children, the way they would finish each other's thoughts as if they were psychically connected. Perhaps they can reach that point again, in time, but for now he's stuck trying to force the information out of his twin verbally.
"So tell me about it," Dante says to another annoyed huff from his sibling.
"There's nothing to tell," he hisses, frustrated with Dante's prying; he's worked up enough by whatever it is that that emotion, at least, slips through the cracks in his composure. He adds: "But it would make a good starting place."
So it's somewhere important, Dante thinks, biting his tongue to keep his comments to himself. Refusing to share information is how one of them is going to end up dead down here, but he has time to figure out a way to pry the details out of his stubborn twin. The building is far enough away that it will take them a day or two to walk there, since flying is out of the question—they will be too noticeable like that, radiating power the way they both do. Remaining in their half human forms will allow them some measure of discretion, at least.
Vergil begins walking without hesitation or confirmation that Dante is following him, having come to this conclusion as well, and he takes after him when he realizes that he doesn't intend to stop.
He's really going to have his work cut out for him keeping them both alive down here.