To the stars and back (1)
A fic so messed up I was unable to sum up.
The rating of this work is Explicit.
Warnings and tags will be updated if necessary.
I was chatting with some of my pals (aka the person tagged) online when I came up with this an inspiration on this fic and whatsoever. The next night I dreamt that I was forced to write General Audiences fics for a whole long night, and, waking with no memory of any sort about what I was writing then, I decided it was enough.
I will complete this, I really will... hopefully.
Again, I don't know what I was writing, and I think there will be a few more chapters...
I'll continue once I have free time, but I reckon that'll take a month or two even, seeing as a ton of workload is coming up...
A fairly lit-up night it was, and Dante was there, sitting on a random roadside bench. Or maybe not that a random one after all, considering that the bench was under a host tree of mistletoe, and the fact that it was Christmas Eve. A bit weird, sure, because you don’t normally get benches under trees that weren’t splattered with bird shit, so perhaps he just...well, perhaps he simply got lucky.
Sure, luck says a lot. For instance, if he wasn’t one favoured by Fortuna herself, it was unlikely that he could be doing what... well, what he was doing now, and the now to be as in right now. He could feel his hands against Vergil’s thigh, going underneath all the cotton and linen to touch bare skin, to have the literal flesh again flesh. Here they were close enough to feel each other’s warmth. He didn’t know how Vergil would put that, but for him, he drank thirstily from the source of warmth under his fingers and palm. Then there were the subtle flicks of his dainty fingers (well, Vergil had once said it was) over Vergil’s cock, and the flinch of the latter aroused him. Just a slight bit. He wasn’t much of a wanker, and wasn’t particularly planning on being one. No, not at all. Wankers were frequently frowned at and tutted at. For what Dante knew about himself he was no fan of being frowned upon, and nor did he intend to make Vergil one among those receiving those frowns. That just wasn’t it; then again, public hand jobs weren’t much of a great idea to do. It was the mere pleasure he’d get, the pleasure of the thought that he was capable of (yes, it wasn’t completed, but hey, at least there was a high probability of it) making Vergil come in the public, without anyone but them two knowing, that aroused him even more. He felt lightheaded and giddy under the thought, but now was not the time. Again, seeing as this was something that never could have a suitable time, Dante continued nonetheless.
He proceeded on to soothing those tiny wrinkles on the balls under his hands. He could feel Vergil’s continued weak shudders. Feeling the precum on his hands, he fervently pumped his hands, back and forth and under the small folds, enough for Vergil to scream silently with pleasure and hide himself further underneath the collars of his own coat, but not too obvious that no one nearby could spot the difference; indeed, he looked indifferent as ever, yet deep down he was desperate to prove that he was not only a match for his companion but superior even despite the age gap. The stars shone on the horizon where it belonged, and come splashed onto his hands, icy as expected, just as the night was.
Why’d the stars shine every single night whenever there was a lack of clouds, Dante had no idea-- in fact, he could remember how he’d first met Vergil under those very stars, them looming over his sins, atoned or not. But then it felt so much like a dream, with Vergil denying that they’d never met how Dante thought it, that he himself had started to doubt it, too.
That night alone was sweet, and time sweetened it even more. Dante often lost his ways, thus he retraced his ways, yet with a wrong turn somewhere in midst of the woven web of a pathway he ended up in a tiny, damp dark lane, surrounded with walls or whatever-it-was.
And there Vergil was, standing in the middle of the crossed pathways, taking a view of the celestial bodies atop them, perhaps other bodies aside those stellar lights that were reflected once again in his pupils. Dante doubted he could find any a thing. About roughly what felt like an eternity Dante gazed, too at the stars, then back to Vergil, which, judging by his position, could reveal only what was about the looks of a fair-looking side view of an eye, and the softer-looking brow that arched atop it, with what was left under the dark coloured locks of his. Still it was stunning, and somewhere underneath he could feel the burn in him, the chill from the northerly winds blowing churning under his skin, in his veins.
He had known well from his fellow neighbours, that who else lived in this very city, under the heavy fortress. They’d warned him of the outrageous--well, thoughts-- that some of which radiated, lest he falls into the lures of any of them he’d have to leave, into the dark woods or such, and let nature take its course. He hadn’t anticipated love to hit him hard with some random stargazer. Yet said stargazer felt familiar to him, almost like how he’d feel towards a long lost kin, one that shared blood with him. No, that was not to happen, lest an irresistible force pushed him upon raising his hand for a friendly “hi”, which he offered to Vergil.
That pretty much summed up their first meeting, of the reunion of those halves of a soul, of Dante and Vergil. Ever. Dante disliked recalling those thoughts, for it showed how he was lesser to the latter, what he thought might’ve been what Vergil considered child’s play. Yet the companion felt better than ever, better than any single day he had back then, date or not. He jotted down the route he took, until he returned to his home, and in pajamas under thin sheets and air-conditioners he rethought and rethought, about the way he took and even spared a thought or two towards his own word choice.
No, Dante, you’re not to compare it with a date--
--Was it better or was it worse? Suppose it was better, what could possibly be better than a date, with Vergil? Remarkable, every single one of us here knew you couldn’t turn him down. So why bother? Date isn’t that holy a word, isn’t it?
“Dante, the winter’s long, there is no need to rush it--”
Dante snapped back to reality, “Ah. Sorry. You were saying?”
Then there was a long sigh replacing the reply, and he heard nothing else from the Vergil sitting besides him on the clean bench.
Well, he’d have to take it as a never mind.
No, nobody prefers breaking up in winter. Not Dante, at least. It was freezing cold, and to have your other accompany you under your sheet was a temptation too hard to resist, but to comply and come up with a pact or whatever of the sort, anything but breaking up and those heartbreaking --uh, screeches of love-- that could be heard from streets apart. With those few subconscious cuddles, the warm kisses with coffee or chocolate milk underlying, the competition over blankets and the pillow fights, only to apt for soft nestling under those comfy sheets, it simply wasn’t the right time to, say, voice out for a new round of being single. It didn’t need advocates of any kind.
Now nothing were to stop Dante. Under those thick sheets and far-apart houses he was certain that no one heard anything from them, and, if some trespasser were to overhear, they wouldn’t give a fuck about it. It was, after all, Christmas eve. Many others who weren’t single get laid too. Oh, maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be assuming that everyone screwed with everyone. Let it be then, nobody could hear his thoughts anyways.
“Yuletide,” Vergil spoke with a tinge of anticipation, “Not much shall be left for the year now; it shall be the previous a couple days later.”
“Yes. No. Maybe,” Dante groaned deliriously from denied rest, “Who gives a fuck about Christmas?”
What if Vergil said he does ?
Come on, it ’ s midnight, stop thinking about fuck and cocks--
What happened to the pact you two came up with moments ago?
Dante groaned once more, covering his own face with his hands, clean of the come on his hands a few ten minutes ago. He could almost smell it, laced somewhere under all that scent the handwash had offered--
--And he turned to face Vergil.
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