[FIC] Smile
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Smile;
It makes everyone wonder what you’re up to.
- Anonymous
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His face was smeared with blood and his lips twisted into a cruel, cruel smile.
Dante stood over his brother, pinned to the floor through the gut by his sword- the place was painted red, his own and Vergil’s (one and the same), splattered generously over the floor and dragged across their skin. It smelled of blood and sweat, and the only sound was Vergil’s harsh, ragged breaths, echoing faintly in the silence.
They were never very good at talking about things.
“You know I love your parties,” he said, nonchalant, staring calmly into his brother's eyes. "You gonna give me an invite or what?”
Vergil stared up at him, blood dripping out of his mouth- calm and expressionless as ever- he might have even thought him dead, but that was impossible, because none of them could ever just keel over and die, could they? They always had to survive, live through goddamn everything, bullets through the chest and stabs to the gut- Maybe one day you'll cough and sputter and fucking stay dead, he thought (but didn't say it couldn't say it, because oh god if he killed Vergil, he would- he would-- ).
“I just want a time and a place, y’know?” Dante sighed dramatically, leaning heavily against the hilt of the sword- his voice just loud enough to cover the sickening sound of tearing flesh when he drove the metal deeper (past the skin past the muscle into the cold, cold stone), the gurgling of blood and saliva in his brother’s throat. “I’ll bring my own beer. Hell, I’ll bring my own women, not like you know any yourself- consider it a fucking favor, man. One brother to another, and all that.”
(-- die. He would die. Fucking kill himself. Bullet to his own head. Without a doubt. But it was fine, see, it was perfectly okay, because he couldn’t die, anyway- Fuck, if Vergil died, he would- he would-- )
And Vergil smiled. Godfucking smiled with a sword through his gut, what (the fucking masochist). And hell if the bastard said anything, he never says anything, Dante scowled to himself. Like talking to a fucking wall. He never listens, never talks, just sits there and bleeds- and smiles. Smiles like he fucking knows everything, smiles like this is nothing more than brothers sharing memories over mid-afternoon tea, smiles like everything’s going to be okay.
( -- he didn’t know what he’d do. )
Nothing’s going to be okay. Nothing ever is.
“Just like the old days, eh, big bro?” he said, bitter and angry and maybe just starting to lose his patience (just a little). Dante watched blood spill out of his brother’s lips and drip down his chin, the growing stain against his jacket (funny, how red stained so nicely with the blue)- his grip tightened, knuckles white around the grip of the sword- Say something. “You never told me anything- but brothers gotta talk sometime, you know.”
Vergil’s lips moved- it was amazing he could even try to talk, and all Dante could hear was a whisper of a voice that he could barely make out. He could see the look in those eyes falter for a second, something flickering across that face (what was that- pain?). Dante could see the flesh knitting itself back together around the steel- so maybe Vergil couldn’t speak, not just yet, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to (fuck, I hope he--) care. He shook his head slowly, twisting the blade, watching his brother cringe from the corner of his eyes (fucking hurts, doesn’t it, asshole, so scream- godfucking scream like you actually feel it and fucking say something for once).
“So Verge.”
(Don’t you fucking smile like it doesn’t hurt, you’re not a fucking monster- you’re not a demon. You’re alive. You’re human.)
“What’ve you been up to, lately?”
(You tell me nothing- you never fucking told me anything. You’d always just sit there in the chair, and you’d just fucking smile, you would always just smile and say-- )
“It’s…” A cough, a sputter. “…It’s a secret.”
Dante blinked- faltered, for just a second (it was just a whisper of a voice, hoarse and barely there), stared unblinkingly at his brother. And Vergil looked back up at him, his gaze even and unbroken, blood crusted brown around his lips and he was still. Fucking. Smiling.
Dante (-- You know what? Fuck this shit-- ) couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t fucking think, just pushed the sword and it slipped through the concrete like it was nothing at all. He saw the look of pain flicker just momentarily across Vergil’s eyes and felt a smirk across his own face- before he knew it he had let go of the sword. And he was looking his brother in the eye (-- Fuck you, fuck this, fuck everything, how dare you even-- ) when he stepped on the crosshilt, leaning casually on the bent knee.
“Not. Fucking. Good enough,” he snarled, and he pushed his full weight onto the blade, pushed the hilt right down to his brother’s chest, through the stone through the concrete through his own fucking flesh and blood (and this time there was nothing to hide the sound of it, loud and almost sickeningly wet). He watched, unblinking, as Vergil cringed and gasped and choked on his own blood, then stopped moving, altogether.
Dante stared coldly down at his brother, a self-satisfied smile on his lips, his eyes full of hatred and the taste of bittersweet victory (and maybe just a hint of--). Vergil wasn’t (he had better not be-- ) dead, he knew, and he’d be awake again soon enough, pulling the sword out of his chest, and if Dante was still here they’d be fighting again before a minute passed- but that was it. He wouldn’t be here. There was no fucking point, because Vergil was up to something, he knew it, but he’d never tell him anything, the selfish bastard (but Dante always tried, always tried anyway).
Dante swore he could still see a hint of that fucking smile (it reminded him of things that were easier to forget, easier to push aside and pretend they never happened than remember and face the cold, brutal reality of what-they-were, what-they-are, what-they-could-have-been and the gaping chasm inbetween).
“Tch,” he muttered under his breath (don’t you even fucking dare smile like that, like everything’s okay, like you aren’t human, like you don’t give a shit- you do, you do, you are, fuck it, Vergil, you-- ), and pulled the sword out from the concrete, from the cold not-so-dead flesh. It smelled like rotting meat and copper, and as Dante leaned back against a nearby wall, his arms folded across his chest, all he wanted to do was to leave him there to die.
He (couldn’t leave even if he tried to) stayed.
(-- don’t you smile like nothing happened, like it was only yesterday- Everything happened, everything, and don’t you fucking forget it. )
Vergil would survive. Dante knew he would- he could see it now, the bloody mess, pulling himself upright with grace and ease as though nothing happened. Wouldn’t think anything of it, maybe be a little ticked off that he’d fucking lost to his dear little brother, but he wouldn’t falter, wouldn’t even pause to consider sharing his little secret. Selfish and secretive as ever- but Dante (why won’t you ever tell me) would fucking find out anyway, whatever it took. Right now Vergil could crawl off into a hole somewhere and drown in his own vomit, for all he cared. Enough was enough. He’d tried, but Vergil was just too stuck up his own ass to want any help or whatever, so why should he even fucking care?
It wasn't until he saw Vergil's fingers twitch against the concrete that he turned away, trying not to glare from the corners of his eyes
(… But that smile. That fucking smile.)