“Of course you would be the one to find me, Dante.” A sigh.
Resignation or or regret, already anticipating a reaction that had not came. His hand gripped Yamato’s sheath, ever ready.
“And” a pause while he exaimed Dante, “Just what do you intend to do?”
Somehow, without even attempting to do so, Vergil had managed to strike his buffoon of a brother completely speechless for once, a miracle in and of itself. He watched as Dante had to take a moment to even consider what he had said. He wanted to reach out, to touch Dante, even for just a moment, to confirm that the man in front of him was in fact his beloved twin, was even real.
Could it be that his mind had finally broken, finally fallen apart to such an extent that it was now filling itself with false memories and faculties, flooding his senses with make-believe. Was he still sane, or at least as sane as he could be, given both everything that had happened and everything else in between. Every moment of loss, win, loss, win, pain, pain pain, as if he had a choice what to discard and what not to.
It didn’t matter that he could have protected Dante, it didn’t matter than he had hurt Dante and had broken his little brother into such a state, all that mattered is that Dante had survived and was still alive, fighting for whatever type of nonsensical things he believed in that gave him the strength, no the power to fight back, regardless of anything else.
That Dante still doubted him after all this time was of no major concern or surprise to Vergil, but it perhaps was only necessary of his brother, a factor in nothing else but the sheer and utter reason Dante had kept fighting, had stayed alive. For but a brief second, Vergil contemplated asking the truth, the real heart of the matter, but soon decided against it.
And yet, even in the murkiest depths, in the twilight of his mind, the question that Dante posed rattled around his head. Did he mean it? Certainly, there must have been at least a shred inside him that did, perhaps even more if he were to take the old adage of looking deep inside to find whatever might dwell in the darkness, but did he mean it?
It was easy for Dante to take the words, easier than he would have expected or even learned to anticipate, Dante, like always, adapted and adjusted his techniques and strategies to leave Vergil blindsided and unprepared, open to any form of attack.
Not that he expected an attack, per se, but it was always easier to defend against something if you had the slightest inkling it would happen, and of course, it would happen, they were their Father's children after all, as much as Dante tried to cling to the human aspects they had inherited from Mother dearest, while she lay dying in the shaded groves of far-flung memories.
Just what would she have said if she could see them now? Scrapping at each other over a small pittance or a morsel, a gem to which in wrong hands was nought a paperweight with a lonesome shine, and yet had caused a rift to grow and fester between them when there should have been a field of far-flung flowers.
And still, Dante was beautiful, looking at him with eyes he could drown in just as easily as gouge out and eat, lips that he longed to capture or perhaps tear off and show the world. Either way what bliss, whether it be a curse or a blessing. It could be enough, if only he let it.
He, not Dante. Because Dante was sure of himself, and though Vergil could read him, he could also tell when Dante didn't want, even if right now he was having issues in recalling the ways he yearned to wax lyrical and poetical about just how he would prove himself.
And somehow, Dante forgave him, even after all his myriad of sins, and there were many he could list and fewer he could name that Dante was completely unaware of. Dante seemed to almost compound into himself, as though not expecting Vergil's words.
Dante forgave him.
Dante was willing to accept him as his brother once more, on the same breath which only moments before he had been willing to curse him with and drive the beating heart of his new weapon into his own chest, and possibly complete the torment Mundus had tried and failed to push into his body.
He loved Dante, there was very little he could do to prove it, and less still that Dante would believe if he said it, bound as he was by the legality and tribulations of the human world that used and abused him so. A strategy of star crossed lovers, born to the same parents, and still weep about it, even what seemed hundreds of years later, (even if it was only twenty or so years) and mop up the blood that had not yet been spilt between them.
Dante forgave him.
Dante's hand gave succor back to the warmth he craved, and it started him from the mass of convalescence thoughts, bringing with it all the weight of his long year's, reminding him that, once again, the safety, security and power he had craved and sort after all this time had rested in his other half, his perfect half, even broken by cheap alcohol and substances even cheaper.
Did it matter if Dante didn't mean the words he offered almost like a confession, or perhaps a communion to a higher power neither of them truly believed in, or perhaps Dante had changed in that. It mattered not, of course.
Dante forgave him.
And still, the mantra followed the shallow fishbowl of his conscious thoughts, chasing all others from the cool waters and taking up a permanent residence, lighting themselves up like the cheap and tacky sign Dante illuminated the entrance to his shop with.
Perhaps there were no more false heavens, no more false promises and words of redemption to guide him home to those distant shores he so craved, deep in the arms of his beloved twin.
But it didn't matter, because Dante forgave him.
"Do you doubt me so far, Dante, as to question if I truly mean my words?" The words came out gruffer than he had intended, chalk it down to emotion or perhaps rising impatience, or any number of what-ifs and could have been.
Fine. There were worse things than death out there, and not being able to touch Dante or see his face again was a pain he knew, but the warmth that flooded him gave heat back to the praise he had whispered for Dante each night in that endless hell that he had endured, until Dante had became a beacon to guide him home.
And just like a beacon, Dante now invited him in to the heat, into the light once more.
Dante forgave him.
