maxwellredgrave

[maxwellredgrave]

ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄʀʏ (ᴀᴜ)

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴠᴇʀɢɪʟɪᴀ/ᴊᴏʟɪɴᴇ

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

ꜰɪᴄ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴄᴋ ʀᴏꜱᴇ

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ: ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ

FOR @laenyraslovechild

𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓃𝑒𝒸𝓀, so gentle she had to question her sanity for a brief second before another drop of cool ice hit her head. It caressed her forehead, an unwanted chilly touch. Her body tensed as the weather took a turn for the worst, and she regretted not dressing warmer earlier in the day. The abrupt change in temperature was nothing short of hasty, and the clouds darkened above like a sped-up video. The forecast had claimed sunny skies all day, but along with the sun went the pleasant atmosphere of the evening.

She had dressed ideally for the temperature of the library, and tugged her cardigan a little closer to her chest. It was as grey as the sky, with a bluish tint. The weather didn't dampen her spirits as much as the mundane walk home from work. It could be so tedious she was practically on auto-pilot, a piece of tired machinery until she got home to collapse onto her sofa in front of the tv with a microwaved meal. Usually she ate more healthily, but not when she was covering her Uncle's shifts after her own while he had his regular hospital visits. The fact they had only been a common occurrence in these last couple of months filled her with a deep unease, like an itch on her bones. It indicated something worse was occurring.

She pressed into the button on the machine at the crossing, a yawn escaping her lips. Although she had made an effort to dress cutely and do her hair, the makeup was doing a lousy job of hiding the bags under her eyes. Exhaustion had been taking its toll on her, especially in the last week. Her uncle had been in the hospital for seven whole nights, and was being forced to take it easy by both hospital instruction and her own protective instincts now that he was home. It meant she had been taking day shifts and night shifts, and that sleep was but a distant dream—unattainable.

When Joline did manage to get home with plenty of time to spare, when her uncle was able to take on a shift of his own, sleep didn't come easy then, either. She was usually kept awake with paranoia and fears about her uncle's health; the vivid images of him dying, of something unspeakable happening to him in that shop, kept coming back to her in horrid intrusive flashes.

Finally, the machine activated with incessant beeping sounds, and Joline moved to walk across the road, no longer captured by the fantasies within her head. A scream tore from someone's lips nearby, and a crash of metal scraped her eardrums. She was unable to hold back her yawn, her body sluggish and her mind clouded, as she glanced over to the commotion, almost dazed from her current state. If she had taken a second to think about it, she hadn't slept in days. Endless shifts, endless fear and worry—her brain going through possiblity after possibility about what life had in store for she and her uncle.

Footsteps. Thunder. A screech, a demonic sort of growl. Finally, her eyes beheld the scene before her. A hulking beast with skin as grey as stone, and by the looks of it with the hide of an elephant. Frozen beneath its gaze, Joline's jaw fell agape, her heart roaring in sync with the storm above.

For a moment, all she could think about was her uncle. He was the sick one, and yet...

She swallowed the lump growing in size within her throat.

She would be the one to die first.

Paralysed from fear and already partially resigned to her fate, Joline squeezed her eyes shut. Her body was unable to move no much she willed it, no matter how many times she screamed the command internally. The exhaustion that halted her muscles weighed heavily on her body. She heard the rip and tearing of flesh before she felt it. Adrenaline cold and swollen in her veins, the pain was secondary. For a moment the word was muted. Her head soared despite her shut eyes, like the ground beneath her was truly spinning. Then the loud screams and growls and rumbles of thunder struck again, sharp as a blade in her ears. The pain of the claw ripping her skin to shreds burst to life, and Joline let out a scream.

From pain, from terror, from both—she didn't know. It didn't really matter anymore. Her head whooshed again, and her body began to slump.

Footsteps. Loud. Fast. They became the only thing she could focus on, a deafening thud of boots. Strong arms wrapped around her, catching her in place before she fell. Joline could feel raw muscle hard as stone pressed into her body through the cardigan, and her mouth fell agape when she saw the face of the woman above, holding her with a strange gentleness contrasting to the firm arms and rough grimace tearing her delicate facial features. There was something sharp that cut through in the way the woman snarled at the hulking grey beast. Her eyes were tinted a smokey grey from eyeshadow, her lips blood red yet mercifully not smeared by the beads of sweat that somehow were nonexistent on her face despite the effort and energy it must have taken to reach Joline before she fell.

To Joline's blurred vision and racing heart, the woman appeared to be something of an angel, with the sun reflecting a golden halo off of pure white hair. Icy blue eyes looked like a beautiful and refreshing ocean of water, and Joline reached out, almost wanting to touch the pale white flesh belonging to her mystery saviour.

Maybe she was her guardian angel, swooping in because it wasn't her time. Or maybe, she was going to carry her off to the heavens.

Joline smiled, delirious from the blood loss. The black blobs danced in her vision with such purpose and passion. And then they took over.

When colour splashed into Joline's vision again, it was an unfamiliar palette. She stared at a wooden ceiling, a fan spinning almost lazily in the corner of her vision, half absorbed by the blurriness that usually accompanied waking up. She tried to push herself up but it was a meaningless effort. Her fingers had no grip despite feeling the leather beneath them. The weakness that had a fierce grip on her body was like cold lead, keeping her weighted down. She was a little dizzy, and the need to move soon subsided due to that.

Joline had a strange taste sitting on her tongue. A sour kind, like seeped into the softness of her tongue. She didn't like it too much, but the flavour—whatever it was—had been absorbed by her tongue. She coughed a little bit at the sudden strong taste, finally managing to half-sit up with the aid of a pair of hands working their way behind her and adjusting the pillow cushions.

The pain unfelt from earlier was now non-existent. It should have hit by now. She vaguely recalled that it had before she passed out, but it was a distant thought, and the pain had been fleeting. The adrenaline was a past experience in her body. Its cold goopy feeling that seemingly lingered within the veins had long been replaced with warmth. Perhaps in part due to the blanket sat atop her knees. She pushed it gently off of her, her head tilting back to meet those same icy blue eyes from before. A cold ocean, expanding out for miles, but Joline couldn't see what hid behind them—and wouldn't, even if she was to get lost within them. There was something tense about the woman. Joline could immediately tell she was closed off. Distant. Her white hair cascaded down her shoulders, looking fluffy in a way that made Joline wish she could run her hands through the cloud-like waves.

"W-Where...?" Joline swallowed over the taste in her throat. The stranger reacted to this, lifting up a glass of water to Joline's lips to help her drink.

"Apologies. Vital stars are meant for demons, and have a stronger reaction on humans. Unfortunately, I had to take the risk of using a small-impacting one on you, or else you would have passed from your wounds." The woman's voice was cool and smooth, if not completely monotone. There was something oddly chilling about it that had the opposite effect on Joline. She relaxed her shoulders at the pleasant tingle that shot down her spine.

Focusing on those words, Joline pushed up her shirt, fingers softly dancing across her skin. The claw marks were nothing but faint traces of scars across her torso.

"How—"

"It makes no matter." The strange woman with the beautiful white hair rose to her feet, exposing long legs hid behind dark leggings. "You are healed."

Joline's brain was fried. For more than one reason. Her situation and... she wasn't used to being around women so insanely gorgeous. She wanted to talk with her more, to gain more information about her situation, and to hopefully get her number, when a surprising voice cut through the room from the stairs in the corner. It belonged to that of a teenager, and more white hair flashed into her vision as he dashed over to meet them.

"Mom," he repeated, eyes landing on the taller woman before curiously moving down to Joline. His green eyes practically shone with the way the sun glinted atop them.

Joline finally sat up, heart falling into her stomach.

The teenager raised an eyebrow. "Do I know you?" He inquired, his eyes squinting with an inquisitiveness Joline recognised well. It sparked like warmth in her chest, and a fond smile melted onto her lips.

"...Nero?" She whispered, breathless.

He paused, head gently tilted like a confused puppy. Then, it hit him, and his jaw slightly dropped. "Joline?!"

"Wait, wait." That sharp gaze shifted to Nero. "You know her?"

Nero grinned at the other woman. "That's my old babysitter!"

The older woman visibly recoiled. Almost as if slapped, like the words were a cruel reminder. Joline could tell why.

"This is your mother," she stated, the fact rattling around her brain before the realisation fully landed, almost like a ball in one of those dumb arcade games she used to watch Nero play. "Your birth mother."

The woman folded her arms, her dark jacket sleeves creasing gently with a satisfying crinkle of the fabric. She opened her mouth, but she wasn't given the opportunity to speak. Nero moved past her, flinging his arms around Joline and squeezing tight. Vergilia stiffened once more, distrust echoing across her features.

But Joline didn't concentrate on that, instead opting to shut her eyes and sink into Nero's desperate hug...

[maxwellredgrave]

ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄʀʏ

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ꜰɪᴄ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ

Dante shrugged off his coat, lazily and on autopilot hanging it back up. It had been a long day. It wasn’t that the job was hard, but there had been more demons to slaughter than Dante had expected. All he wanted was to clean the blood out of his hair in a nice long shower, and then to fall asleep until next week.

He was tugging off his gloves and contemplating within whether or not he would have enough water for a long shower. He couldn’t remember the precise date he’d last paid the bills on. It didn’t matter much if the electricity went out, though. He was going to sleep soon anyway.

Dante dumped the leather glove on his desk, damaged and bloodied, and started to undo the weapons wrapped around him. He had already set Rebellion to the side, but he had quite a few guns on him. This is when the door handle rattled, and Dante turned around with mild curiosity, expecting to see Morrison or maybe even Lady expecting a payment. Who he actually saw sent his heart sinking down deep like a stone in water.

“Dante?” She asked, pulling lightly at her pink raincoat. It had been pouring down all day, but by the looks of it Patty had made the trip regardless, and was suffering from the effects of the cold.

He was next to her in seconds, unwrapping the coat around her and taking it out of her hands. He hung it up next to his—his heart slightly tearing when he was reminded of the size difference between them, and how Patty was still so young and facing the world without him—and then he put his arm around Patty’s shoulders and guided her towards the heater.

He could feel Patty shiver in his half-embrace, and Dante made a mental note to search for his documents to make sure his electricity bill was paid up. If it went out now, he would never forgive himself. Patty’s long hair was soaked by the edges despite the raincoat. It seemed a little ill-fitting in size, making Dante wonder if Patty and her mother were struggling with the cost of living. He started to calculate exactly how much he could aside for them, to make sure Patty lived the best life he could give her.

Without him actually being there.

He knew that wasn’t much. It was nothing extravagant. But he wanted to help in anyway he could, to give Patty the best life. Mostly, he did that through distance: keeping the demons away from her.

It hurt him so much in this moment to see Patty. She smiled weakly up and him, sitting down next to the heater and half-hugging it with her body. The way he looked at her… despite the difference in eye colour, she looked just like Eva. Every time Dante saw her she looked more and more like his mother. The cruel irony of the world giving him a child to care for that looked just like his deceased mother was something he didn’t want to think about. He loved Patty. It didn’t matter that sometimes when he looked at her his heart shattered.

“…Why are you here, Patty?” Dante asked, adjusting to sit down next to her. He hoped the blood in his hair wasn’t disturbing her, and to her credit her gaze didn’t even linger on it.

Patty sighed heavily, averting her gaze. She sounded tired. “I missed you.”

Inside, Dante’s heart split in two. Patty was…like a daughter to him. Hearing her say that was breaking parts of him he thought were already long broken.

Dante reached out to push some stray locks of hair behind her ear. “Sweetheart, it’s pouring down. Didn’t you check the forecast?”

“…It didn’t matter.”

Dante tilted his head, inquisitively. “Why not?” He asked, trying to find Patty’s eyes, but she was determined not to look at him.

She shuffled, wrapping her arms around herself in a futile attempt to summon more warmth. Quietly, she whispered, “It’s June 15th.”

Dante paused, wondering why the hell that even mattered. He thought that maybe it was her birthday, but then remembered sending her out that card last month with an entire job’s paycheque tucked into the envelope. Then it hit him.

“It’s Father’s Day.”

Dante didn’t have the date circled or memorised. He never did. There were times the truth was unavoidable, but most days Father’s Day was irrelevant and unknown to him. He didn’t have a dad. It didn’t matter to him.

…But it did to Patty.

Dante knew the implications of Patty’s words. Why she came here specifically. He hadn’t realised Patty returned his feelings of father and daughter, and this newfound knowledge brought a kind of warmth to his heart he hadn’t felt since Patty left.

Dante rose to his feet. “I have to give your mother a call. Let her know where you went.”He’d wager that, considering Patty was here alone, she’d made the journey without telling anyone. At least his little girl was in one piece. He didn’t want to picture her travelling alone to reach him. She didn’t exactly live too close by.

A couple hours passed. Dante called up the electric company to check his power would last. He made Patty hot chocolate and then he took a shower. When he came back downstairs in fresh clothes, Patty was wearing an old outfit she’d left behind here, warm and dry. She had a towel next to her which she had used to try her rain-dampened hair. She was snacking on Dante’s leftover pizza and drinking the remainder of her hot chocolate when he walked towards her and sat next to her on the sofa.

“Happy Father’s Day, Dante,” Patty said, sounding a bit unsure of herself. Her tone was almost a bit grim. Or sad. “I didn’t bring you anything. I didn’t know I was coming.”

He nodded. He understood that. In fact, if this dangerous little trip had been planned he would have been more upset, because Patty knew better than that.

“I can order dinner,” Dante said, pushing through the awkwardness. It was late, but some places would still be open.

“Pizza?” Patty asked.

Dante threw her a well-practised forced smirk. “Whatever you want, kiddo.”

He couldn’t properly explain why his cheeks felt weird with the expression. He didn’t smile often these days. He had with Lucia, but…she was gone now.

“Dante?” Patty asked, reaching for his arm as he moved to stand up to order the food.

He sat back down next to her, waiting for her to speak. Her blue eyes shone with sadness.

“Do you not want me anymore?”

Dante was taken aback. He flinched—violently—and his calm mask fell for one of pure shock and disbelief.

“Of course I do,” he insisted, moving Patty’s hand so it rested in his instead of it loosely holding his wrist.

“You haven’t called. You didn’t show up at my birthday. I never see you anymore.” Patty’s voice was small. Dante could understand why. He was familiar with the pain of not having a father. Of having him disappear at the age of eight.

Dante sighed softly. He wanted to hold himself back. To keep his distance. Just like he always did. But his daughter was hurting.

He reached out and smoothed out Patty’s hair. “Sweet girl,” he said. “Of course I want you in my life. It’s just…it’s complicated—“

“—Cause of the demons?”

Dante nodded. “Cause of the demons.”

A heavy silence overtook them. Dante’s gaze softened into something regretful, sad, as he looked at his daughter.

In another world…there was a Dante who got to raise her.

“But,” Patty whispered. It was barely audible, sounding like a low exhale. “I’ll always be your Patty, right?”

Dante paused. Then, he ruffled her hair playfully as Patty let out a louder protest. “Always.”

[maxwellredgrave]

Devil May Cry Timeline and Character ages

It took me a while to find articles and character dialogues that mentioned any kind of passage of time but I was able to complete a definite timeline. Contrary to what others say, the changes of game order in the official timeline for dmc5 fixed contradictions. Thanks to Patty’s birthday and the “Before the Nightmare” novel, now we have concrete ages for the Devil May Cry cast:

Dmc3 Manga- Dante/Vergil are 18 years old. Stated to be 10 yrs since Eva’s death. Vergil meets Arkham. Vergil visits Fortuna city either shortly before or after meeting Arkham & Nero is conceived.

Dmc3 - Dante and Vergil are 19 yrs old. Nero is between being months old to a year old.

Dmc1 - Dante is 28 yrs old (stated to be 20 yrs since Eva’s death). Nero is about 10 years old.

Dmc Anime- Shortly before dmc2, Patty is 7 years old.

Dmc2 - Takes place 4 years after dmc1. Dante is now 32. Nero is 14.

Dmc4 - Occurs 5 yrs after dmc2 as stated by Lucia in Before the Nightmare novel. Patty is 12 years old. Nero is 19 yrs old, Dante is 37. It matches developers’ statements of Nero being as old as Dante was in Dmc3 and Itsuno mentioning Dante was “almost” 40.

Dmc5- Occurs 6 yrs after dmc4 as mentioned by Nico in Before the Nightmare, Patty is now 18 years old. Dante & Vergil are 43 yrs old, Nero is 25.

Extra: Kyrie is stated to be one year older than Nero in dmc4’s novel. Lady in the other hand is one year younger than Dante and Vergil (gurl you looking good). No age for Trish since its unknown when Mundus created her but she is mentioned to be “very young”.

Edit because I don’t know how to count. Its 4 years between dmc1 and dmc2, not 5. Thanks for pointing it out, that’s why you don’t make posts while half asleep folks!

[maxwellredgrave]

ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄʀʏ (+ᴀɴɢᴇʟᴏ)

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʟᴏꜱꜱ, ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ + ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ʜᴀʀᴍ

ꜰɪᴄ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

For context, this is about my friend’s OC Angelo (younger twin of Nero, raised by Dante).

Their account: @/VampiricFreak on Twitter.

Based on this tweet: https://x.com/k4tsang3l/status/1921603051518886296?s=46&t=mrhFbMK7Cq3RXCkCe4v7qg

“Ange, c’mon, we have to go.”

The younger of the twins groaned, his long locks of silver hair falling over his eyes as he ducked his head, unwilling to meet Nero’s gaze.

Nero didn’t push it. They were sitting at their mother’s grave, and even though they hadn’t known the woman, the impact of her absence was felt heavily throughout the family. Not more so than in this moment. His twin looked broken, a trembling figure hunched over in the graveyard.

Adjusting his position, Nero got onto his knees next to Angelo, stretching out his arm across his shoulders. Angelo stiffened at the sudden touch, but he didn’t shrug Nero off.

On a day where other people were off celebrating their mothers, Angelo and Nero had come here. To this grim place. Or at least, Nero had thought it would be grim. The sun was actually rather beautiful like this. Rising above them, the sun was casting a dozen brilliant hues across the sky, streaking in shades of orange and purple and the faintest pink. It clearly hadn’t read the room, or the aura of a distressed Angelo.

Nero felt content to just sit there next to his brother, gently stroking his fingers across the fabric on Angelo’s shoulder. It was an older shirt. Black. A little torn, a little baggy. It seemed to be from before Angelo had taken a blade to his chest, the attire more figure-hiding than anything else. Still, for whatever reason, Angelo was wearing it today. Nostalgia, perhaps? Emotional significance?

Nero had wanted to get back to Kyrie and the kids. To celebrate his beloved girlfriend, an honorary mother to the orphans they looked after. But Nero thought Kyrie would understand his absence. Angelo wasn’t doing a great job of hiding his gentle sobs. They shook his body ever so slightly, causing Nero to pat the boy’s arm lightly—in a gesture he hoped was comforting.

They had lost their mother, almost just like Vergil and Dante had. Except they got to know Eva for a few years. Nero couldn’t even paint an image of Eliza in his mind that wasn’t fuzzy and fleeting, a distorted figure he could barely make out—regardless of how Vergil tried to describe her. Maybe it was a mental block. Maybe it was grief. The same grief Angelo was experiencing now. But Nero couldn’t even begin to imagine how his brother felt. He had become long disconnected with the idea of a maternal figure.

With Angelo’s body now half-slumped into him, Nero realised how heavy Angelo was. He wasn’t putting any real effort into supporting his own body weight, relying on Nero for that now that his brother had wrapped him up in a half-embrace. Unconsciously, Nero held him a little tighter, readjusting his arms. Angelo could feel the slight squeeze against his shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes to fight against more tears that wanted to spill from his eyes. He hadn’t authorised any of this. It had just happened. Angelo had been overwhelmed by his emotions once again.

He and Nero had that in common. Except while Angelo had a tendency to sob out his problems, Nero gave into fits of blind rage and punched his way through them.

Although Angelo didn’t want to say it, he was grateful for Nero’s presence next to him, and the hand that rubbed soothing lines into his arm. He knew Nero had wanted to spend the morning with the kids, making Kyrie breakfast in bed. But Nero didn’t budge from the spot they were kneeling in, and didn’t show any signs of moving any time soon.

Angelo dropped his head onto Nero’s shoulder, staring at the name etched into their mother’s tombstone. The silence was peaceful. Painful, but somewhat a comfort. When he and Nero had first arrived, they’d made light chatter. But for the first time in a long time, Angelo could feel safe to just shut his eyes in the embrace of someone who wasn’t Kat, allowing his emotions to tear him to shreds, thoughts of what could have been drifting away with the wind…

[maxwellredgrave]

ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄʀʏ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴠᴇʀɢɪʟ/ᴀᴋɪʀᴀ

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴜʙɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇɴᴛ

ꜰɪᴄ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝙊𝙆𝙀 𝙏𝙊 𝘼 pounding headache. The vibrations shot through his skull like an arrow through a target, his eyes crinkling with the will to shut again as he forced himself into a sitting position, his palms flat against the cold metal slab he was laying down on. The cool material sent a gentle shiver up his skin, not quite unpleasant when it reminded him he was alive and could still feel things. He was sure he was dead after the carnival. His brain tried to flash back to that moment, but it was empty. Slow. Lagging like an old computer, in desperate need of an update.

Sweat clung to his chest, his face, his neck, his legs. He felt the lukewarm liquid drip slowly down his muscles, and he forced himself to swallow despite the thirst clawing at the back of his throat. He kicked his legs off of the metal slab. The movement sent another wave of cool wind across his body. He was cold, shivering under the weight of the sweat.

When his eyes unblurred, he could see he was in some kind of basement, the floor made entirely from thick, cool concrete. He knew that cause when his bare toe gently grazed the floor, another shiver hit him, not as pleasant as the first one. It turned his stomach, and he reached for his boots which were unlaced and sitting next to the metal slab, all neat and in line, like everything else in this basement. In his own experience, basements were messy. Chaotic. A disaster of storage space. This was not that. It was meticulously clean in a way that made him wary.

His muscles were weak and the blood rushed to his head when he attempted to lean down to tie the laces on his boots, so he gave up the endeavour, allowing himself to simply slip them onto his feet. He would have questioned where his socks had gone, but he had other issues, as he learned when he finally looked at his clothing.

His favourite black jeans were ripped now, and stained with what he assumed was mostly his own blood as opposed to the blood of his enemies. That last fight at the carnival had not been in his favour, despite the fact it should have been a piece of cake. He had pushed himself beyond his own limits and paid the price for it, here, alone in this basement. The stains would likely come out, and all things considered the jeans didn’t actually look bad ripped at the knees like this. It was his shirt that had him more worried than anything else.

It was baggy and white, hanging low over his jeans. Adjusting his belt, he moved to tuck the white shirt in on one side, attempting to put his own spin on the shirt that obviously wasn’t his. His leather jacket was gone, too. Which meant so was everything in the pockets, such as the keys to his own flat. That made him feel a little queasy, but still he had more pressing priorities. He felt around his waist, hands tapping at his belt only to find it weaponless.

The colour flashed back into his skin. He woke up more quickly, his senses mostly back now. He crouched down to tie the laces of his boots—so as to avoid tripping over them when he searched the basement—and then he peered around the basement, prepared to throw everything askew and to utterly wreck the place in order to find it, but he didn’t need to look far.

On a wooden table behind the slab, he saw his blade sit carefully by the edge. He could recall the way the handle had cracked under the pressure of the last fight. His heart nearly broke at the thought, and he approached the table slowly, lifting up the blade to examine the hilt. It was a dagger, on the smaller side but it held such significance to him. To his confusion, he could not see the cracks. Well, he could see where they had been, but they had been filled.

The handle was encrusted in places with solid gold, filling in the gaps where it had been broken. Its intricate pattern was woven in careful lines, almost resembling the web of a spider through the red handle, with torn leather acting as a grip. Beneath it had been the designs originally carved into the handle, but it had been faded and damaged from use long before it fell into his hands, and he had wrapped it in the crimson leather for ease of grip when using it in a fight.

The leather had been ripped, and between that he could see where the gold had been infused with the blade. There was such beauty in its craft, in the way it had been fixed. It carried a weightless grace. That alone was all he needed for reality to come crashing down upon him.

The demon he was fighting in the carnival was made of hundreds of tentacles, and would have been no real threat under normal circumstances, but he was weakened from several fights and a tough couple of weeks, and when it had grabbed a hold of him, he had been unable to resist aside from grabbing his dagger and attempting to pry off the solid tentacles which almost shattered the blade every time he bashed the hilt against the demon. It was his best shot: the blade had not been sharpened in a long while. Carrying the blade was symbolic, a presence that acted more as a comfort and as a reminder of familiarity—of home—than anything else. It wasn’t practical. But it had been his only shot, at the time.

The wave of relief to find it restored made him dizzy. Faint. Woozy. It could have been that and the blood loss. It was evident now that Vergil had cleaned and dressed the wound, bandaging his battered and sliced torso. He had taken too many injuries. He imagined he had a significant lack of blood within his body at this current moment. The fact he was so well wrapped up that the blood hadn’t soaked through Vergil’s large white shirt—which, now that he thought about it, did have faint traces of that intoxicating scent, which was maddening now that he knew what had been diverting his focus—suggested a certain care in the way he was wrapped.

Reaching up, Akira tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He shoved the dagger back into its sheath on his belt, and he moved to leave. The sudden rush of movement shot dizziness through his brain again. A sickness welled in his stomach, recoiling. He hadn’t gotten far in his urgent escape. Both palms slammed flat onto the metal slab, the shake of the metal sheets reverberating across the room, and stirring in his ears. He felt faint again, and his brain was fixated on a single pin-point thought in his head: stay conscious.

Eventually, the dizzy spell passed. But it was already too late. His heart jumped when he heard the sound of footsteps against the wooden stairs over in the dimly lit corner where the tall staircase stood. The wood was a far cry from elegant. It was perfect in shape and freshly sanded down, with the wisps of wood still lingering on the wooden boards. They jumped with the movement. Akira clenched his fists. He could feel his nails biting into his skin. Good. His strength was coming back.

He kept his eyes on the stairs, ignoring the wave of ensuing panic sending a crash of pain through his skull, like the loud stroke of the strings to an untuned electrical guitar, the volume turned too high. He took in another deep breath.

“Finally,” he drilled out. “You’re awake.”

Fear thudded through his heart. He felt pain in his chest from the sudden and overwhelming sensations.

A part of him wanted to cry out insults and threats. Another wanted to demand what he wanted with him. A stronger part was focused on fighting through the pain and his light head.

“I was beginning to fear you were dead.”

Akira narrowed his eyes into a tight glare, fury roaring behind them despite his obvious disadvantages.

He wanted to retort with something along the lines of him liking that image, but he bit his tongue and stayed silent. Vergil wouldn’t have gone through all the effort of keeping him alive, of stitching up his gaping wounds and making sure he didn’t bleed out, if he wanted him dead. Maybe he wanted something from him. He didn’t know what that could possibly be, though.

“The painkillers I gave you must be out of your system by now…” he murmured, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and retrieving a strip of medication. Ibuprofen. Store-bought. Still in the packet, untampered with. But, again, that didn’t really matter. He wasn’t going to kill him.

As he approached Akira, the redhead flinched away on instinct. The battle of fight or flight when faced with the dilemma of predator and prey warred within him, but Vergil did not stop in his advance until he was close enough to shove the packet of medication into his hands. Akira closed his hand around it, and he opened up two pills to pop into his mouth. Vergil walked around him, opening up a nearby mini fridge Akira hadn’t noticed—but which he assumed was providing the low humming sound vibrating through the floor—and pulling out a bottle of water.

Again, Akira was relieved when he heard the lid pop, and he greedily threw the medication into his mouth, preying for a fast activation and release from the grip of pain. He was rewarded with a low, vaguely mocking chuckle. He was forced to swallow a sour lump in his throat, willing himself still not to speak. He also commanded his shoulders to stop shaking from the pain, from the blood loss, but they barely listened to his own orders.

Vergil remained eerily silent. Akira found balance to be a difficult skill the longer he retained efforts at this activity. All his frustrations boiled over into a, “Let me go.” It was a low growl, but he was only met with a hum.

Akira was relieved at the lengthy distance Vergil had put between them. Whether he planned to kill him or not, he didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him. Akira swallowed another lump in his throat, and resisted the urge to throw up the medication he had swallowed moments ago.

Footsteps met his ears. But he couldn’t tell where Vergil was anymore. His voice seemed to come from everywhere all at once, and bouncing around the basement until it hit his ears.

“I used a modified version of Kintsugi,” his low voice said. “Is it all right? The item holds evident significant importance to you.”

Akira winced. How did he know that? He liked to show off a bit, but the idea that his enemies were actually keeping watch of him threw him off a little bit. Especially when it was enough so to discern such deeply significant knowledge, meant for him alone.

“It was your cousin’s, yes?” He jumped. When had Vergil gotten right behind him? He felt his hot breath against his ear, caressing it gently, smoothing across his earlobe. He fought to suppress a shudder.

“Let. Go.” This time, anger soared through his voice. He went to reach for the blade again, but the hand by his waist had grasped his wrist, keeping it—and subsequently the blade—in place.

“I thought you stronger than that. You have almost held your own against me, and yet such a pitiful creature was going to take your life? It shames not only yourself...” He leaned in closer. He was a centimetre away. “It shames me, as well.”

With the other hand, Vergil traced his way down Akira’s side, until he was playing with the hem of his trousers. The surprised shiver wasn’t something Akira could hide from him, not when he was this close, not when he was touching him. He felt the humiliation heat on his cheeks. At least he didn’t have to look him in the eye. Akira soon found out the reasoning for the touches, as Vergil moved to gently stroke the fabric of his shirt where it was tucked into Akira’s trousers on the right side.

He was commenting on his style. How he had already made the shirt his.

Akira ignored the way he could feel the fingers against his abs. The shirt wasn’t that thick. With the possessive edge to the touches, he couldn’t help but wonder what Vergil was thinking seeing Akira in his old shirt. He swallowed again. He certainly felt a lot more lucid now than he did before. When Vergil tried to push his limits, his thumb lifting up the edge of Akira’s jeans precisely where the shirt was tucked, the latter of the two tugged away, pulling free from the grip on the right side of his body, and Vergil willingly releasing his hold on the left.

“You owe me better than that.” The words were so arrogant it made Akira want to scream. “Sometimes you’re so like my brother. Careless and idiotic. You have pushed yourself beyond what you are capable of. Admit defeat. Grow stronger.”

Akira held his tongue. Being compared to Dante in terms of brashness and not knowing when to quit was incredibly offensive—especially since it was Akira giving Dante that lecture more often than not—but he tried not to let it get to him. He liked to think he had more care for his own life than Dante showed for his, but Dante wasn’t the one waking up half-dead in an enemy’s basement.

“Or is it merely about showing off for you?” Vergil hissed. The venom now slicing through his tone made Akira suppress a flinch. Under Vergil’s watchful gaze, he didn’t want to flinch. “Do you like showing off for my brother?”

“Fuck you,” Akira spat with fury, his features contorting into a revealing face of rage. “Your brother? That’s disgusting. I don’t know where the hell that came from, but put it back there and leave it. I love him, but never like that.”

What was his problem, anyway?

Vergil seemed to have some new obsession with Akira getting stronger. He had apparently been hooked on their first few fights, where Akira had almost won a number of times before Vergil had established clearly which of the two was more powerful. After the disappointment that cut through his face like a blade, Akira knew then and there that Vergil had spared him in order for them to fight once more. He couldn’t allow for that last time to be a fluke—even though it had felt like a definitive victory to Akira, who thought he was for sure a goner in that time.

Vergil wanted to fight him at full strength.

“Your fixation on my martial prowess is fucking weird.” Akira let his words ooze with spite. He wanted this to hurt. The gratefulness he had felt at the restoration of his dagger was long lost to the typical irritation and competitiveness to their arguments. “You should have just let me die.”

Vergil unsheathed Yamato.

Fuck.

The click of the blade exiting its sheath had been enough to prompt Akira into action. He grasped Vergil’s wrist in a grip that left nail imprints in the half-demon’s pale skin. He dove forwards, putting distance between them and allowing time for his fingers to grope for his dagger, pressing down against his sides the same way Vergil had before, but without the heavy presence of hot breath on his neck acting as tedious distraction.

Vergil chuckled, spinning the blade in his hands in a manner which Akira did not wish to call playful. It was not something he wanted to equate with Vergil. It was too humanising. It was already hard enough most times to remember Vergil was an enemy. Their shared history included more than their fair share of team-ups when a larger threat loomed, and then there was the fact that this was Dante’s twin brother. Appearance aside, there was the way Dante talked about him with such precise control over his tone and emotions, trying not to betray the fondness he truly felt for his brother that nagged at Akira.

But Vergil was dangerous. Akira had been training beyond the point of exhaustion to keep up with the elder twin, and that over-exertion was finally catching up to him. His muscles felt heavy and his body swayed with a lack of control over his own movements. It was a certain kind of sluggishness that caused delay in his acts. Despite the rigorous training regime, Akira knew the truth as if it were set deep within his bones. He couldn’t beat Vergil in a fight like this.

Vergil had the strength advantage. Home ground advantage. He was not injured, and had more than just a dagger to defend himself with. With another rush of dizzying waves crashing into him like harsh sea against cliff rock, Akira felt himself stumble a little as he attempted to keep balance.

Vergil paused for a mere moment, eyes roaming over his opponent for a few seconds as if he feared Akira would be unable to steady himself, and then he pulled his blade along the air, slicing a neat line in front of him with delicate precision. The stroke of the blade left a ring of metal to swoosh by Akira’s ear. It repeated itself, and Akira gazed onward at the portal before his very eyes. The purple hues were captivating to his eyes, and his body was tempted to approach despite the fight or flight instinct telling him to both stand ground with his dagger and ignore the sight, and to run for the stairs not far behind him.

“Go to Dante,” Vergil said simply. “We will fight when the time is right. I want you at full strength, for the victory to truly be mine.”

Akira wanted to roll his eyes. A cold shiver crawled down his neck as he suppressed it, and he took one wary step towards the portal the Yamato had just cut open.

Vergil stepped away from it, allowing Akira the space he needed to finally feel safe enough to approach it. With a sly edge to his tone and a sharp glint of mischief in his eyes, Vergil uttered his parting words, “Best not keep Dante waiting, Akira. We will see each other again soon.”