...and he was dante's guide through hell. (trick or treat. yaoi. second in the trilogy.)
Vergil just flipped a page. "Too early in the day, isn't it?" He pushed his reading glasses up his nose.
Dante grinned, punching at the air. "Never too early to see some action." Forgetting to lounge casually against the doorjamb, he straddled his brother's deskchair. "So, you coming with me?"
"To get into trouble?" Dante would have sworn Vergil was smiling, somewhere underneath his impassive calm. He still hadn't looked up from the book in his lap, his knees drawn up to his chest. "Don't tell me you're dressing up?"
He tried scooting his chair closer to the bed to get in Vergil's face, but the legs got tangled in the throw rug. "Shit. I'm going to be a devil." Dante dug his fists into the pockets of his jeans, as if it were the primary motivation of all devils to look disinterested and Cool.
"You are a devil," Vergil said, levelly.
"I know that--"
Vergil silenced him with the artful lift of an eyebrow. He turned another page; Dante craned his neck to read the title between his brother's knees, failed. "Surely you could think of some other reason to wear those new pants you found."
Dante shrugged irritably, no mean feat with his hands still jammed in his pockets. "Made sense to me." His answer was more sullen than slighted; he was damn proud of those pants. "Well, what else wears red leather like that?"
"...Or tries to." Now Vergil really was smiling, his eyes stilled on the page, obviously not actually reading. "No devil I know wears clothes a size too big."
Nothing new, of course. The chair clattered out from underneath him, and Vergil had plenty of time to bookmark his page and flip off his reading glasses before Dante reached him. "Careful--" Vergil snapped, but that was as far as he got when the swift hot weight that was his brother pinned him to the bed.
It wasn't Dante's fault he was growing more slowly. Three and a half minutes age difference between them apparently meant that Vergil was filling out faster, his shoulders already broad enough to stretch the seams on his work shirts. (At least they could still swap shoes. It was Dante's one hope that since they both wore elevens, some day he'd be as tall and impressive as his twin.)
"Thought you liked borrowing my clothes," Vergil said mildly, from the depths of the mattress.
Dante, triumphant, was never very vocal, glaring down at his twin with satisfaction as if he'd proved his point. But he frowned a little, because this time Vergil was right-- he did borrow his clothes an awful lot. Vergil's shirts always seemed to smell good. Dante couldn't figure that one out. Surely their mom used the same detergent for all the laundry?
Thus failing to find a suitable retort, he swore, and tried to make himself heavier, to effectively crush Vergil into the bed.
He felt Vergil's answering laugh in the tightened muscles of his legs, a low shiver starting at his thighs and echoing outward. "You just came in here to pick a fight." Vergil didn't sound quite annoyed. "I was reading, you know. Don't you have homework?"
Dante hunkered down until they were nose to nose. "Earth to Vergil," he said, agitated. "It's /Friday/. And when it gets dark we're going to go out--"
"--and prowl the streets for candy," Vergil finished, something like a question in his tone.
Dante smirked. "Yeah." He wiggled down, knowing just the spots on Vergil's sides where he was ticklish, and untucking the other's shirt before he could complain. "Trick or treat," he smiled slowly against Vergil's belly, waiting for the squirm, for the surge of power that would free Vergil from his grip and end them both in a wrestling pile on the floor.
It came just half a moment late, an explosion of motion and Vergil's skin quivering beneath Dante's restless fingers. "Oh, fuck off," Vergil managed, though the sound of it got lost somewhere in Dante's hair as he shifted his weight.
Dante laughed, trying to fight his way free.
He couldn't say at what point his struggle became purely rhetorical.
Maybe Vergil's hand were too warm. Maybe his legs had grown too long, harder to wiggle his way out from underneath. At any rate, he realized he was losing. And liking it.
Sometimes Dante had gotten himself off in front of the mirror, to see what he looked like. Pulling his hair back out of his eyes, trying to look sexy, and always winding up too greedy to wait, he hadn't yet managed to come with his eyes open.
He'd never wondered before what Vergil might look like.
Would Vergil look the same?
His hands were already at his brother's waist, as they tumbled, trying to lift him off by the beltloops. No small distance, to find the buckle, to seek the heat beneath it. Not too difficult, at all, to just slip his fingers those few inches. Would Vergil--
Their mother's voice, halfway up the stairs. They both started, Dante's fingers frozen guiltily on Vergil's belt, Vergil's mouth still half-open for words he never got to say. Though Dante felt a flare of heat across his own cheeks, he thought with awe that Vergil didn't look the least bit ashamed.
"Yeah, mom?" Vergil called, his mouth so close to Dante's ear that Dante winced.
There was a beat of silence, neither boy moved. The late October wind beat against the window, the old glass shuddering in its frame with a sound like distant bells.
"Dinner's ready, guys." Already her voice was receding, wafting down the hall with the smell of chili. "Don't keep me waiting."
Dante laughed, or tried to.
Vergil was unperturbed, as always, though he hadn't let Dante up off the bed. "Hmm." His breath tickled Dante's neck, his eyes watching Dante, unblinking. "Seems like we got trick, rather than treat."
Dante might have protested the lousy humor, but he was too busy imaginging himself through his brother's eyes, wondering what he was seeing.
It wasn't until later-- after the piles of their loot were spread over Vergil's desk and their mother had given them the "respect neighborhood property" spiel, twice-- that Dante wondered just what Vergil had meant, at that moment, by "treat."
But by the time it crossed his mind, it was too late to ask.
"are you then," i answered, unable to restrain
my tongue, "that virgil from whose lips spring
rich words in such a bountiful fountain?
...you are my master, my author,
for only through careful imitation
of your noble style am i granted any honor.