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The new English lit teacher transferred during Dante’s senior year.
Being the tall, smartly dressed and sharp-tongued man that he was, he garnered popularity rather quickly among the students of the small private school Dante had found himself enrolled in. It was nearly impossible to ignore Vergil; his entire presence practically demanded attention. What were once painfully tedious lectures were suddenly the most engrossing forty-five minutes, and every girl couldn’t raise their hand fast enough when he posed a question to the class. Dante thought the whole thing to be a little silly, if not entirely pathetic because to him, Vergil was just his older brother.
Though, he did wonder why the man would ever take a job like this. He had never expressed interest in teaching before, at least not in the years he spent under the same roof with Dante. Maybe it was when he began having less than appropriate thoughts about his brother— ten years his junior and desperate for big brother’s attention— that the idea grew on him. Or perhaps it was when he kissed Dante and realized he was royally fucked because he knew he could never give up the taste of his baby brother’s lips.
(Though, Dante supposed, those reasons are probably what drove him away in the first place).
He remembered the day Vergil showed up at their family home’s doorstep, surprising their mother and Dante after three years of little to no contact. At twenty-seven with two degrees under his belt, Vergil looked just as self-satisfied as he always had, and every bit an accomplished academic. He announced he would be taking a job at Dante’s academy, where he had previously studied himself, all while avoiding his younger brother’s eyes.
Dante would have none of that. He pulled Vergil in for a hug, practically forcing him into the embrace with the newfound strength he had begun to grow into. He was just as warm as Dante remembered him to be, despite stiffening under his touch immediately. Quite a different reaction to the way he last writhed under Dante’s touch just a handful of years prior.
“We really missed you,” said Dante, lips right next to his brother’s ear thanks to a generous growth spurt, “I really missed you.”
There was a flash of something across Vergil’s face, gone before one could even realize it was there. Not fear, because his big brother was not scared of anything. Not anger, not regret, even as his hormone-addled mistake stared him in the face. Dante couldn’t quite put his finger on whatever fleeting emotion plagued his brother for a split second before they were both turning back to their mother, warmed by her excited chatting.
Dante was asked to show Vergil to the guest room— his old room, left just as spotless and organized as he had it before he up and fucked off to who knows where— as if the layout of the entire household had somehow changed while he was away. Both he and Vergil shared a little laugh at that, dispelling the tension between them slightly. Dante rolled with it, setting one of Vergil’s bags down by his bed before plopping down onto it with a sigh.
“Just letting you know, I’m probably failing all of my classes,” he said, stretching his arms out as he did so, “especially maths.”
He was met with a little huff, the kind he recognized to be an elder sibling’s when dealing with their younger sibling. Something he hadn’t heard in so long, never realizing just how much he missed something as trivial as that until Vergil was smiling at him. “I see some things haven’t changed.” A fwump followed by a quiet click, and his suitcase was laid open on the bed right next to Dante’s head. “Have you at least stayed with your fencing lessons?”
“As if anyone else could hand my ass to me like you. Mom says I’m not being challenged enough.”
“It was challenging enough to get you to listen during sparring.”
Dante grinned. “Could you blame me? I was distracted.”
Vergil said nothing, looking away to focus on emptying his suitcase of his clothes. Folding and refolding them, much too methodical and neat. He was thinking much too hard about not thinking about their relationship. Whereas Dante was given three years to really ponder over his older brother, eventually coming to the conclusion that they were simply meant to be together despite how much it fucking hurt the first time Vergil laid his hands on him. Only twelve while big brother was twenty-two and much to pent up, much too in love with the way Dante gasped and cried and begged him to stop.
Then Vergil sighed, quiet and resigned. “Dante, I—”
“Verge, it’s okay,” Dante said, interrupting as politely as he knew how, “We don’t have to talk about anything. Really.” Dante sat up, tilting his head to the side to give a lopsided smile. “I’m just glad to have you back.”
The tension practically melted off of Vergil’s shoulders. He loosened considerably— which was not much because Vergil simply did not relax like normal people did— as the corners of his lips turned upward for a moment. Another thing Dante found himself yearning to see again, the little smiles his big brother would save for him and him only .
Little things like that were what Dante secretly held over the other students who were tripping over themselves for even a glance in their direction. Having Vergil at arm’s length again was wonderful , especially more so at school, where they were forced to see each other every day and pretend like there was nothing simmering beneath the surface of their brief greetings before and after class. Dante pretended not to notice the lingering stares and hesitant touches, playing the innocent little brother oblivious to his elder’s intentions. As if he really had put every secret rendezvous behind him, had simply wiped away every scalding touch and muffled moan.
Which was fine— if Vergil wanted to bury whatever metaphorical hatchet they shared, Dante could play along. It would be fun to see just how long he could hold out before something inside him snapped.
That same night (and every night after that), he made sure to keep his door open just a crack. It wouldn’t be the first time Vergil would sneak into his room uninvited, drawn in by the faint glow of his night light streaming through his door.
A month after Vergil’s reappearance, the fencing club was reinstated at the academy. Open to all students, regardless of former training or not. Funny, because Dante knew his brother to have the thinnest patience; watching him train newbies was going to be a treat.
Until Vergil turned to him during dinner and said, “By the way, since you’re a senior, I’ve decided to make you a coach,” before taking a sip from his wine.
Their mother clapped her hands together, practically beaming at her youngest son. “Isn’t that wonderful! You would make a perfect coach.”
Dante idly pushed his food about on his plate. “Would I?”
“You’ve been attending lessons since you were six,” said Vergil, “I’d say you have more than enough experience needed to coach the younger students.”
Experience, sure, but being in charge of freshmen who only signed up to get a peek at the new English Lit teacher in those tight uniform pants? Dante preferred to have the view to himself, thank you. “I haven’t kept up since you left, though.”
“Nothing a bit of practice won’t fix.” His mother offered. Vergil nodded.
Which is how he found himself tugging on a too-white uniform jacket over his head in the boys’ locker room alongside a gaggle of overeager students. To be fair, Dante did enjoy fencing, but a large part of it was because Vergil was there to coach and motivate him. Once he left, he took Dante’s drive to continue, among other things, with him.
It was odd, being back in uniform after three years, but familiar all the same. He would even go so far as to say comforting, handling the foil in his gloved hand with ease as he gave a few practice jabs once he was back in the gym. The blade sat light in his hand, shining under the glare of the gymnasium lights.
Vergil was already decked out in his own gear, truly a sight for Dante’s sore eyes. The uniform left little to the imagination, and Dante drank every part of him up like water on a blistering day. His body had changed, just as his own, and yet it was as if Dante was fourteen again, flubbing his thrusts just to hear Vergil reprimand him, scolding him for being so distracted. “Shall we work on your attentiveness next, brother mine?” He would say, peering down from where he had pinned his brother to the ground for the third time that session. Dante’s heart would beat against his ribcage, threatening to break out the moment Vergil’s hands descended on his body, simultaneously too much and not enough—
“...Seems as if everyone has finished changing into uniform.” Vergil’s voice brought him out of his head, pulling him back into reality. A large group of students gathered just a few feet away from them, listening intently to his brother speak. “Well, let us get started. I get the feeling many of you are beginners, but not to worry— my younger brother, Dante, will be your coach alongside myself.”
Over thirty pairs of eyes shifted to stare at Dante. He waved, knowing the smile on his face was as ingenuine as his being here.
“Both he and I have trained since we were children. I was even his coach for quite some time,” Vergil continued, “He will coach beginners, while I will mostly keep to those who have more experience.”
He went on to explain the basics: there are three weapons in modern fencing, each with their own set of prissy rules that needed strict following. The most popular was the foil, which is what Vergil had chosen to focus on for the majority of his training, while Dante had preferred the sabre, though there was the slightly heavier épée that left the entire body open to attacks. Helmets were vital and were not to come off during matches, lest you want to lose an eye or a nose— Dante came awfully close to losing his right eye when he was about eight, isn’t that right, brother? Moving on, for the sake of training simultaneously as a group, we will focus on the foil technique, which we will demonstrate in just a moment.
Dante blinked, having tuned his older brother out until the mention of a match. Everyone was instructed to stand back.
“En garde,” called Dante, the words almost foreign after lack of use.
Vergil’s expression remained unreadable as he slid his helmet over his face, Dante following suit. They took up their positions, feet apart and blades drawn, and Dante felt a shiver of excitement bolt down his spine when his brother asked, “Êtes-vous prêts?”
Oh, how he had waited for a chance like this again. With a grin, he answered, “Allez.”
Fencing was a tricky thing. Their father had drilled the rules into his mind as a child, and after he croaked, Vergil stepped in and continued just as mercilessly. It was an unusual sport compared to the average basketball or baseball games Dante had grown up missing out on, but he wouldn’t trade any of the matches and sparring sessions he shared with Vergil for anything.
The muscle memory kicked in as Vergil grew closer, feinting a few thrusts to get a rile out of Dante. A younger version of himself would have growled and pounced forward, but he was not the child Vergil had debauched all those years ago. No, he would let him come to him, staying on the defensive with well-timed parries.
It would seem big brother was surprised with his newfound self-control, but not as gullible. Retreating, he urged Dante towards him, knowing this match would be quite uneventful if both of them stayed on their respective sides of the tumbling mats laid out on the gymnasium floor. Close contact was a must, after all, seeing as the only valid target area was the torso , damned foil rulebook.
But Dante rather liked close contact, didn’t he, and he knew Vergil was probably as frustrated as he was after a month of terse conversation, skirting around the elephant in the room. Dante lunged, kicking off with his back foot to propel himself towards the older man only to be met with a parry. Their blades clashed, practically singing at the contact.
The audience was forgotten. No one else was in Dante’s line of sight except for Vergil, who’s eyebrows had drawn together somewhere in the midst of their duel but still controlled his breathing underneath his mask. Dante feinted, thrusted, then feinted again, prompting Vergil to parry. There was his opening, the tip of his blade going straight towards his chest—
Successful parry, followed by riposte. The tip of Vergil’s blade touched Dante’s stomach. The bastard.
Dante shifted to defense. Vergil wasn’t going easy on him, but when had he ever? Cruel during training, crueler under the sheets. Forcing Dante into a world he shouldn’t have known anything about with sickly sweet caresses and pretty words much too early. Leaving when Dante was past the point of sexual depravity, warping him into this wanton version of himself who would drop to his knees at just the slightest nod from his big brother.
He retreated, shuffling towards his end of the mat after each successful parry. Vergil was getting a rise out of this, of that Dante was absolutely sure. Of course he was, when they had an audience to witness his skill with a blade and his younger brother. It felt possessive: Vergil returning after so long to dominate something that was already his, was always his. Dante let out a laugh as he lunged, executing a successful flick. The tip of his blade touched the back of Vergil’s shoulder, a difficult maneuver that he had seldom been able to do as a child. It put the two of them in close proximity, Dante’s harsh breathing right next to Vergil’s ear.
“You little liar,” His brother muttered, “You’ve been practicing.”
They returned to their starting positions. En garde. Êtes-vous prêts? Allez!
Just as Vergil was showing off his claim over younger brother, Dante felt a surge of ugly pride take over as he landed two more touches to his chest. They moved fluidly— perhaps due to years of practicing with each other, or chalk it up to the fact that in Dante’s mind, they were simply a perfect match— and not one of the students could take their eyes away.
Dante shifted to defense. Drew Vergil towards him with parries, counter-attacking when appropriate. Attempted another flick, barely grazing the tip of his shoulder before Vergil stepped back. They were breathing a bit hard now, but the last thing either of them wanted to do was stop. In fact, Dante wanted more. Students and club be damned, this was their match.
Priority shifted to Vergil when he parried, though that hardly stopped Dante, who continued with thrust after thrust. Hard, rough, and fast; the complete opposite to how his brother liked him. He liked him compliant, melting under his touch despite every nerve in Dante’s body screaming at him to stop, to get away, no more, Verge, why are you doing this?
In a move that went against every rule in the fencing rulebook, Dante lunged, knocked Vergil off of his feet and pinned him with his blade against his throat. He stared his brother down through the holes in his mask, mimicking the position they often found themselves in when they were younger— but now, their positions were switched. He wondered if Vergil would beg as sweetly as he himself did as a child. The image nearly made him moan right there.
There were several gasps. Vergil simply moved Dante’s blade away with the back of his gloved hand, as if ending up on his back were a minor inconvenience. Just another annoyance from his mischievous little brother.
“Thank you, Dante,” he said as he stood up, “for demonstrating what not to do during a match.”
Despite his light-hearted tone, Dante knew he had ruffled his feathers quite a bit. He could see it in his brother’s face once his mask was removed, the glances that followed all throughout that afternoon’s practice. The whole thing was rather funny, if he were honest. All it took to get big brother upset was to get him on his back.
The rest of practice went smoothly. The newbies hardly gave him any trouble, and Dante was beginning to think he wouldn’t be half bad as a coach. If it meant he could torment Vergil a bit more, then he’d take this chance gratefully.
It was when everyone had gone home for the day that his brother finally spoke to him since their match. Dante had just finished putting the gymnasium mats back into the storage supply closet when Vergil’s voice startled him. “Would it kill you to control yourself, Dante?”
When he turned around, his brother was at the entrance of the supply closet, arms folded across his chest. Dante only grinned, leaning back against the shelves lined with various sports equipment. “Are you talking about our match? I think I remember you pinning me like that when we used to spar, though. And not just during lessons.”
Vergil bristled. “That was a long time ago.”
“You’re right. Three years... where does the time go?”
“You said we weren’t going to talk about the past.” said Vergil, and if Dante didn’t know better, he’d think his brother was pleading. Please don’t bring up how I used to ravish you right under our mother’s nose, baby brother, please!
Dante wasn’t in the forgiving mood, however. Not after the adrenaline rush from knocking Vergil onto his back in front of the others. “Why shouldn’t we? I don’t regret any part of it. Do you?”
Vergil’s tense jaw was answer enough. Dante scoffed, pushing himself off of the shelves to brush past him. The simple contact was near electrifying. “Fine, we don’t have to talk,” said the boy, pausing to give a saccharine smile, “But my bedroom door is always unlocked for you, Verge. Night and day.”
He received no answer, no witty comeback, no sarcastic quip. Dante packed up his uniform and foil and headed home ahead of his brother.
That night, Dante laid awake, his door open just a bit as usual. The house was old, prone to creaking and the occasional settling, but the footsteps he heard approaching were too meticulous to be the typical groaning he heard night after night. Dante rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.
The footsteps stopped just outside his door. Moments passed, long enough for Dante to wonder if he really were imagining it, until they eventually retreated. He tried not to sigh too loudly. At least Vergil seemed closer to breaking than he thought.
Two weeks after their match, Vergil challenged him again after practice.
“No funny business,” he requested, a frigid look in his eyes. Dante acquiesced, of course. Whatever made big brother happy.
En garde. Êtes-vous prêts? Fucking allez, baby. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Part of him wondered why they even bothered with the training get up and helmets. It was all so stuffy, tugged at parts awkwardly and hid Vergil’s elegant face away. If he was worried Dante would land a hit on his face, it was for nothing— he’d rather gouge his own eyes out first then come near Vergil’s face with a blade.
Dante thrusted, Vergil parried. Priority switched between them as quickly as a traffic light. His brother’s movements were controlled and precise, planned right down to the sweep of his feet as he retreated before attempting and landing a flick on Dante’s left shoulder. Payback for last time, he supposed with a grin.
This match was different. Vergil must have been holding back last time, because the several thrusts he landed against Dante’s chest almost hurt. He was aggravated, and what better way to take out his pent up anger than to pretend-stab his younger brother? He was probably the reason he was so irritated to begin with, as if it were Dante’s fault Vergil wasn’t getting his dick wet.
They were tied at 8 points, panting and sweating beneath the heat of their helmets. Yet neither let up, thrusting and sparring and flicking away like they had when they were younger. It was almost nostalgic, warping Dante back to a time when nothing else mattered but the foil in his hand and his big brother’s voice leading him through practice. A time before blistering hot hands on his undeveloped body, hushing his pretty crying with unrelenting touches.
He was getting too caught up in the past: Vergil managed to get the upper hand and, mimicking the stunt he pulled two weeks ago, knocked Dante onto his back. His foil’s tip grazed his Adam’s apple.
Dante pulled his helmet off with a huff, “What happened to ‘no funny business?’”
Vergil echoed his movements, tugging the helmet off and undoing a few strands of perfect hair. “I never said the rule applied to me, as well.” He grinned, and suddenly Dante was twelve again, staring up at his big brother after he had swept him off his feet because he wasn’t paying enough attention. Vergil’s grin was full of teeth that always looked a little too sharp to Dante.
“I believe I’m up one,” he’d say, sweeping his eyes down his body, “To the victor goes the spoils, no?”
But his brother didn’t say that, and didn’t drag his eyes over Dante’s body. Instead, he stepped away with a little shake of his head, as if snapping himself out of a trance. Or a memory.
“I believe we’re even, now,” said Vergil instead. Dante watched him disappear round the corner towards the locker rooms before flopping onto his back again.
That night, caught somewhere in between sleep and dreams, he dreamt he heard the handle to his bedroom door jiggle.
As much as Dante fancied Vergil, his lectures were positively boring as shit.
He blamed the subject matter. Growing up, his older brother had a penchant for holing himself up in the study and reading the day away until Dante would drag him out. Books, he figured, were Vergil’s escape.
(Until he went along and discovered how sweet an unwilling younger brother’s body could be, but Dante won’t dredge that up.)
And now he went and turned a hobby into a career, droning on and on about the complexities of William Blake for the fortieth time that week. From his spot in the back of the classroom, Dante hid a yawn behind his hand; he thought he saw a copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience on the kitchen table that morning. He should have seen their poetry unit coming from a mile away.
Lucky for Dante, every other student in the room was scrambling for the chance to answer even a single question posed by his brother. He was content to slump back into his seat and watch the clouds pass by, jotting the occasional sentence down in a notebook full of doodles until the last bell of the day rang.
“O Rose thou art sick,” recited Vergil, pacing the front of the classroom with slow steps, “The invisible worm, that flies in the night in the howling storm: has found out thy bed of crimson joy: and his dark secret love does life destroy.”
He shut the book in his hand, setting it on his desk. Dante let his eyes drag up his figure lazily— he chose a rather good vest and cravat combo today. Deep navy and midnight black. Two colors that drew out the iciness of his eyes and hair. Now if only he would get rid of the stuffy button up underneath the vest… his pants, too, while he was at it. “Though it’s on the shorter side, this poem happens to be one of my favorites of Blake’s. Such strong symbolism from just a handful of words. What can we glean from the worm and the rose?”
Vergil seemed to be in a good mood, Dante realized. It couldn’t simply be because they were going over his favorite poem.
Several hands shot up, and while Vergil’s eyes lingered on a few, they eventually settled on Dante’s form in the back of the classroom. “Mr. Sparda. We haven’t heard from you in a while. What do you make of this ‘dark secret love’?”
Dickhead. Dante ignored the few students who turned to look at him. He recognized the few from the fencing club giving him sympathetic looks. “It’s poisoning the rose. The worm, that is. The rose is symbolic of love, while the worm represents decay.”
“Interesting. And what of this ‘bed of crimson joy’?”
“Well, if we’re talking about love, wouldn’t that be an actual bed? That’s where love usually happens, isn’t it?” His response garnered a few stifled chuckles, though Vergil, predictably, remained unflappable. “Or an actual bed of flowers, since it’s a rose. Either way, the worm is making it rot.”
His teacher leaned back against his desk, crossing one ankle over the other. “Very good. Going back to my original question— ‘a dark secret love.’ What is Blake suggesting with his allegory of the worm and the rose?”
Dante wondered if he planned to cover this poem or if he simply lacked self-awareness. He was staring his own worm right in the face, as irresistibly handsome as he was. Dante didn’t particularly care to be likened to a rose, but he supposed he had been, in this case. A rosebud torn open from the inside out, forced to bloom much too soon because big brother just adored his tears too much.
The rose feigned deep thought, sitting forward to rest his cheek in his palm. “That flies in the night in the howling storm,” he quoted, “That just supports the ‘bed of crimson joy’ being an actual bed. The worm sneaks in at night to corrupt the rose, making it sick. But it isn’t necessarily an actual sickness: it’s sex. Or, I guess you could say pleasure from sex.” Dante held his gaze with his brother as he added, “Something to be ashamed of.”
“And should the rose feel ashamed?” asked Vergil.
“No,” replied Dante, “because the rose isn’t sick. It’s just in love.”
The worm, for the first time since he returned, looked impressed with the rose. He even allowed himself a smile, one of the secret ones that he had only ever allowed Dante to see. It was gone before anyone could commit it to memory, replaced quickly with a curt little nod and a clearing of his throat. “Very insightful, Dante. It wouldn’t hurt to have you speak up more often during discussion.”
As if any other stupid poem is really worth my time, Dante wanted to say. Instead, he turned back to his notebook with a huff of laughter, his idle doodles morphing into rose petals and worms until the final bell went off. Finally free of this poetic torture.
Vergil, of course, wouldn’t let him go that easily. Never had to begin with. “I’d like a word with you,” was all he said as students began shuffling out of their seats to gather their things. Dante frowned, packing up slower than his peers until they filed out, leaving the two of them alone.
He approached his desk with his hands in his pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder. “I’m guessing I got the poem’s meaning wrong.”
“Do you doubt your own intelligence that much?” said Vergil, a mirthless smile on his lips. “You were brilliant, Dante. Always have been.”
“Then why—”
“I’m moving out by the end of this week.”
Ah. Seems the worm returned to its rose’s bed only to find it unsatisfactory.
Dante knew Vergil would not want to stay at their family home forever, of course. A successful academic as himself would much rather prefer his own space by now, free from an overbearing mother and pestering little brother. Maybe he just couldn’t stand being in the same house as Dante anymore. Had the hunger grown too strong? Was little brother’s incessant teasing beginning to grow too frustrating?
Or, perhaps…
“Am I not good enough for you?” asked Dante.
“We simply cannot live under the same roof. Not anymore.” Vergil answered coolly. He wasn’t even looking at his brother, instead occupied with packing his bag. Seems as if those footsteps he heard outside his bedroom door at night weren’t just in his dreams.
“I just don’t get it,” Dante said, ignoring him, “I’m practically inviting you to fuck me every goddamn night and you’re moving out instead. Am I too old now? Did you prefer me when I was smaller, when I couldn’t fight back?”
“Enough, Dante.”
“It’s the resistance that gets you off, right? Now that I want you, you don’t want me.” He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. Honestly, he should have known his brother better. Playing into the desperate little minx act was achieving the opposite of what he wanted. Letting his backpack slide off of his shoulder, Dante leaned forward over Vergil’s desk, dropping his voice low. “Well, I can pretend to hate it. Beg you to stop, like I did back then. Would that do it for you?”
Vergil’s expression darkened. The grip he had on his bag was tight, almost knuckle white. Still, he said nothing. So Dante rounded the desk to plant himself on top of it, pushing knocking several things to the ground with a clatter. His brother did not budge, holding stubbornly onto the leather satchel in his hands like his life depended on it.
“How do you want me, Verge?” Dante spread his legs just slightly. “Am I the student who needs to be disciplined?” Tipped his head to the side, baring his neck. “Or the baby brother to take your frustrations out on?” The door was unlocked. Anyone could walk in. “Promise I’ll be quiet. Won’t tell a soul.” He’d take this secret to the grave and never let anyone know how good his big brother felt.
Vergil threw his bag down.
“You’re insufferable,” he said between gritted teeth. Then he was pressing his lips against Dante’s.
When Vergil first kissed Dante, once upon a time ago, he wasn’t prepared. Nothing could have prepared him for what his brother forced onto him. Now, at seventeen years old, Dante still found himself reeling from the ache behind his lips, the overwhelming longing packed within every touch to his body. Vergil kissed like he knew it was wrong, wanting your brother in such a way. Wound a hand through Dante’s hair and pulled him closer still, cupping his cheek almost tenderly with the other.
Dante miscalculated. Had tried to feint and was met with a parry, followed up with a riposte.
The hand pulling his hair hurt. The one against his cheek burned. The lips biting and licking into his mouth were invasive and violating. Dante felt as if the very air around them was suffocating him, squeezing the life out of his lungs and heart.
Oh, how he’d missed this. Missed feeling trapped, caged, cornered into giving in. It was familiar. Like waking up from a daze and jumping back into a nightmare.
Vergil was grabbing at one of his thighs, bringing it forward to wrap around his hip. Dante shook off the initial shock quickly, wrapping his arms around his brother’s neck while trapping his waist with both legs. No getting away now, not when the godforsaken worm had finally grown a pair and had come back to poison the rose anew.
He felt drunk. Dizzy from Vergil’s feverish kissing, as if he were a man who had gone years without a bite of food. Dante laughed half deliriously between nips at his bottom lip; they had been starving themselves of each other. Fucking idiots, he thought, the both of them.
“I ought to ruin you right here,” came Vergil’s voice, words murmured against his cheek almost sweetly as if to plant a kiss there, “Leave you as I did when we were younger. For all the crying you did, you wound up quite the slut, haven't you?”
“Make up your mind,” Dante laughed again, a rapturous sound coming from his chest, “Do you prefer a slut or a fighter?”
“Foolish little brother.” The man leaned his weight onto the other, hands sliding down to grip the back of Dante’s thighs roughly, his tight hold drawing a gasp out. “There’s no version of you I don’t want.”
Dante wanted to giggle, hearing something so honeyed from his fucked up big brother. Theirs was a sick little love story, wasn’t it?
“I missed you,” the words spilled out of Dante’s mouth before he could stop them, “I missed you so much. ”
“And I you, Dante.” Vergil pressed his forehead against his, shutting his eyes for a moment. Dante revelled in the quiet intimacy of it, letting his hands come up to cup his face. He was finally getting the closure he so craved for three goddamn years from his cowardly big brother.
Until the moment had to fucking end and Vergil pulled away completely, sighing to himself. “I shouldn’t have done this. It won’t change anything.”
Their brief rose-tinted reality was shattered in an instant. Dante scrambled to pick up the pieces. “Moving out won’t change anything, either. Are you really going to keep running from this?”
“I’m not running from anything, Dante,” snapped Vergil, “This isn’t healthy. This isn’t—”
Dante would have none of that. “Like it or not, Verge, you fucked me up. I was twelve,” ignoring the way Vergil flinched as his voice trembled, he continued on, “And pretending it didn’t happen is actually a million times worse than anything else you can do to me.”
Vergil was looking at him oddly, lips drawn tight. He looked as if he felt bad about everything he did, but Dante knew better, even as he said, “I’m sorry. For everything I did.”
The wobble in his voice turned into a full-blown laugh. “Sorry! If you’re so sorry, then finish what you started, brother. I’m this way because of you.”
“No,” said Vergil, pinching the bridge of his nose, “This is why I left in the first place. We can’t be in the same room together, let alone the same household. This is for your own good.”
“Since when have you cared what’s good for me?” Dante murmured. The adrenaline from their kiss had boiled over into anger, running through his veins and prompting him to kick off from the desk. “You think leaving was the right thing to do? You abandoned me. I didn’t know if I did something wrong, something to make you leave and— I didn’t know if you were ever coming back. I kept my door open at night because you drilled it into my head. I never let anyone else touch me because I hoped I was still yours. I waited for you to come back for three years, and you suddenly wanna play the righteous older brother? Fuck’s sake.
“Moving down the fucking block won’t change anything. I know you,” He said, slamming his hands against the chalkboard to cage Vergil in, “And I know how to make you happy.”
That growth spurt during sophomore year landed Dante right at Vergil’s height, giving him the chance to glare straight at him. Funny, he pictured this exact position playing out a bit differently in his head over the past three years. For one, Vergil wasn’t scowling at him in those daydreams, and he certainly didn’t shove him away in disgust.
He stormed out of the classroom, leaving Dante alone with the clouds outside of the window. The boy felt his knees tremble, but miraculously, managed to stay standing. The buzz had melted into his bones, making him sway and bump into the desk.
A worm through and through, Vergil turned out to be: he would rather turn away from the mess he created and find a new flower bed to corrupt than face what he had done to his own brother. Whatever he had gone off to do during those three years had left him blind. How dare he burst back into his life and act as if Dante were the one at fault, the sick and depraved little brother lusting after his elder? As if he hadn’t tried forgetting what Vergil’s hands felt like, how deplorable and nauseating it felt to be filled and held down and maneuvered like some doll —
No. Vergil threw a feint, purposefully drawing out this outburst. But he wasn’t expecting a parry.
Êtes-vous prêts, frère?
Unlike Dante, Vergil preferred to sleep with his door closed. Always had, even when they were younger. It was never locked, however. Something Dante was grateful for as he silently padded his way from his own bedroom to Vergil’s, blanketed under the cover of darkness.
Dinner that evening had been terse and awkward. Their mother hadn’t noticed, just as she had failed to notice the million other things that had been happening under her roof for the past decade, and talked enough for the three of them. Were their father there, Dante couldn’t help but hope he would have taken notice of something being wrong. Maybe he would have realized something sinister was happening between his boys and stopped it.
Or maybe, if he hadn’t gone and bit the dust, Vergil wouldn’t have thought to touch him in the first place.
But wishful thinking like that got him didn’t matter anymore. Dante pushed those thoughts far from his mind as he opened the door to Vergil’s bedroom, quickly shutting and locking it before taking in the sight before him.
His room had not changed since the day he left, and now that his brother had returned, it felt warm again. Lived-in. Dust no longer covered the furniture, volumes of poetry lined the bookcases and right there, in the middle of the room, lay Vergil in crisp sheets and fluffy pillows. He was truly, deeply sleeping, because he hadn’t stirred since the moment Dante slipped into his room. Tuckered out from their eventful day, no doubt.
And how lovely his big brother slept. The usual creases and lines on his face softened away, revealing beneath a youthful and almost princely face. He was picturesque in every sense of the word, refusing to awaken even when the boy climbed onto the bed to straddle him.
He dipped down to press a kiss to Vergil’s lips.
Which was enough to finally rouse him from his sleep. Dante was quick to pin his wrists down, pressing his weight down onto his body to keep him from moving. With sleep heavy eyes, he mumbled, “Dante? What are…”
“O Rose thou art sick,” whispered Dante, tracing a finger down his cheekbone, “Pretend this is a dream, brother. Isn’t that what you used to tell me?”
Vergil’s horror shouldn’t have looked as delicious as it did.
He struggled, because of course he did. Unaccustomed to being the one on his back, after all, but Dante was nothing if not a patient teacher. While big brother was away, Dante had grown into himself rather nicely, his novel strength coming in handy as Vergil attempted to kick and push him off. It was cathartic, seeing him so desperate to scramble away. Almost as if Dante were looking down at himself, touching his own chest and slipping a hand beneath the waistband of his own sleepwear. A facsimile of his childhood self right at his fingertips.
Anger burned in Vergil’s eyes, hips twitching despite himself as Dante stroked and rubbed and teased the spots he hadn’t touched in so long. He bared his teeth in a snarl around the cloth of his own shirt, shoved into his mouth moments before unceremoniously to muffle the strained noises that squeezed out of his throat with every caress. Dante felt drunk and he hadn’t even pressed inside of him yet, but the mere power he finally had over the man was intoxicating. No wonder Vergil kept coming back to his bedroom every night as a child. He was hooked on something so much more taboo than any substance.
No lube, because big brother hadn’t bothered all those years ago. Dante learned how to draw pleasure from pain from the best, and he would pass his findings onto his new, unwilling student. What was that saying— the student has become the teacher? Well, in this case, the teacher had involuntarily become the student, hadn’t he.
He was kind enough to at least wet his fingers before pressing in. Vergil jolted away, but there was nowhere to go. Dante had him pinned right where he wanted him, forced him to retreat with thrusts that had him groaning. Confusing and conflating pain and pleasure. This ought to feel good, so why didn’t it? Dante couldn’t help but laugh as Vergil’s eyebrows knit together; a question he asked himself once upon a time ago. He withdrew his fingers, replacing them quickly with the blunt head of his cock.
This rose’s bed of crimson fucking joy was enrapturing. Sweltering heat surrounded him, knocked the air out of his lungs and his brother howled. Dante gave a moment for him to adjust—
Vergil hadn’t been so kind when he first laid his hands on him, but just as he loved to say, that was in the past! The present was different. The present was agonizingly good , absolutely fantastic as Dante pulled back and rammed back in. It was tight, hot, and Vergil sounded so heavenly, God above, why hadn’t Dante thought of doing this the very night he returned home?
“Stop,” begged Vergil, “Stop this, Dante, stop.”
Vergil was speaking, but Dante could only hear his own childhood voice. Suddenly, he wasn’t himself: he was Vergil, looking down onto a twelve-year old Dante, splitting him open with strong hands and a stronger will to ruin .
“Yes,” he breathed, “yes, I begged the same way.”
“Please, stop,” cried Dante, tears leaking out of his eyes onto his cheeks. Vergil thumbed them away, cradling his baby brother’s face in his hands. “It hurts, it hurts— why are you doing this, brother?”
He didn’t know why. He just loved him. He wanted to devour him whole. His cute little brother, a little rose bud on the cusp of blooming. No one else deserved him. No one else could love him the same way, with their entire being, but Vergil could. He always would, would die and kill and resurrect himself a million times for Dante. And if he couldn’t have his brother for himself, then he’d ruin him for anyone else. Over and over and over and over.
Vergil’s hands slid to wrap around his throat, so small in his hands. Dante’s perfect, spoiled life right between his fingers. He squeezed.
“Brother— stop!” the child rasped, clawing at his hands. He only squeezed harder. Harder, harder, until Dante’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head and his pretty pink mouth went slack. Vergil kissed him anyway, even when his hands slid away and onto the bed. Finally pliant, like putty in his hands.
Ah. So this is what Vergil felt, all those years ago.
“And his dark secret love…” Dante kissed Vergil’s cheeks, eyelids, and nose. They were all cold, cold, cold. “Finish it, won’t you, Verge?”