Work Text:
It’s another day, another argument, or another thing for Vergil to get heated up about with Dante at the center of it all, and this time, his alleged crime is handing out Vergil’s number to a girl in his class.
Which Dante is certain that it shouldn’t constitute as a crime at all. Hey, he’s not close-minded. He tries to see things from each side of the story, and in the end what he concludes is that he would kill to have pretty girls throwing themselves at him, a privilege that Vergil seems to possess disproportionately to Dante’s outgoing self. Mystery begets attraction, apparently. But Dante had forgotten that his brother was impervious to all sorts of earthly delights.
Vergil gave him the silent treatment throughout fourth and fifth period, and he was as impenetrable through fencing. And nonresponsive still, when Dante asked him what he wanted for dinner, as their parents were out on a date. No answer, so obviously Dante goes to his safe haven, the last remaining fortress of all-day breakfast left in the city. When he opens the door for his brother, he suppresses the urge to say “ladies first”. Vergil offers the establishment a disparaging appraisal before he enters.
Despite his hesitation, Vergil picks out a booth at first glance. Dante slides into the booth with him, muscle memory from when they were still kids, but Vergil blanches.
“Even here you can’t indulge me the privilege of personal space,” he hisses, though Dante masochistically relishes hearing Vergil speak after more than five hours of silence.
“Don’t be like that, man,” Dante says, and tries to pat Vergil on the shoulder. He throws it off. “I’ll treat you to something, how about that?”
“With whose money?”
“I have money!” Vergil shoots him a truth-potion look. “Hey, I really do. Trish lent me a tenner.”
“I don’t care. I’m not hungry.”
Dante rolls his eyes. “Come on. Mom and Dad are out. We don’t have any groceries left. We can’t go home on an empty stomach.”
“I should rephrase. I don’t want anything from this restaurant.”
“Not even a milkshake? A banana sundae?” Dante waves the laminated sheet in front of his brother’s face. “I know you got a secret sweet tooth.”
“Dante, those are things you like. And they are desserts.”
"There's breakfast foods too. Waffles, pancakes—"
But Vergil's already taken out a random book to flip it to a random page. Dante knows it’s a farce, because there’s no way Vergil knew what book from the almost-dozen stored in his backpack and opened it to the exact page he needed to arrive at, all within the span of two seconds.
“Fine,” Dante scowls. “I’ll just get something for myself.”
His eyes run their cursory laps across the menu. Obviously he’s getting a milkshake—he always has a couple pounds saved in his pocket for that–but Vergil was very unfortunately right. He’s feeling peckish enough to devour a whole pantry. That demon digestive system in him acts more like a pit of hellfire than a stomach.
Which is why Dante knows his brother must be starving. But a secretive glance from his periphery shows no such weakness. When Vergil’s got his eyes in a book, it’s hard to glean anything else but sheer focus.
A waitress in a fairly outdated uniform comes to attend to them.
“Are you ready to order?”
“Hey, yeah, can I get uhh a breakfast combo and a strawberry milkshake? Load up on the whipped cream on both of those, please and thank you,” Dante says, polishing off his best smile for the lady, even if she might be in her 60s. Every woman deserves a little buttering up.
“And for you, sweetheart?” She looks at Vergil.
Dante’s eye twitches when a pause festers for too long.
“Nothing for him,” he eventually says, holding an even better smile now that he’s got to smile for two. She just raises an eyebrow and walks away.
“Didn’t have to be such a jerk to her…” Dante says under his breath. Vergil doesn’t respond.
Dante sighs. Alone again, as he might as well always be when Vergil’s in a hissy fit. He pulls out his phone—1%, that’s a bust, he pockets it. He taps a finger on the table, then when it’s not enough, his foot as a supplementary drum, repeating some generic rhythm that changes every four-bar phrase. For a moment, he hopes that Vergil will break the awkward silence, but then Dante remembers that he never does. He’s the only one that comes running, and that running is always back towards his brother.
Well, Vergil’s burnt out the last wick of Dante’s kindness. Yeah. Yeah, now that he’s thinking about it, why should he? Especially when he didn’t even do anything that atrocious.
He goes to shuffle out of the booth, but a soft touch arrives at his knee.
Dante looks at his brother. Vergil does not reciprocate.
Dante considers standing his ground.
And he doesn’t.
“Are you being for real right now,” he mutters. He leans back into the leather seat.
Dante swears that the hand on his knee tightens a modicum. He scowls and pinches Vergil’s waist in retaliation—it makes Dante overjoyed to imagine that Vergil might have twitched.
The hand crawls up his own thigh, intrepid little caterpillar. It hits one of Dante’s many sensitive spots, and Dante curses his own body for being the weak instrument that Vergil always calls it out as, despite that Dante’s been up a few wins since they last fought.
“Can’t believe you expect me to just take it,” he mumbles. But he puts his hand on Vergil’s leg too, accepting his hand in a mutual dance.
He waits impatiently for Vergil to make the next step, to follow in his hand-tango, but Vergil doesn’t. At most he rubs a thumb into Dante’s thigh so much that it feels scrubbed raw, the same way he might fiddle with the corner of a page. Still, it’s enough to work Dante into a tangle of nerves.
Vergil turns the page. Dante kneads Vergil’s leg pointedly, modest enough that a stranger might mistake it as soothing and platonic, but anyone who knows Dante, his friends, his family, his Vergil, would know that he works under the influence of sinister pubescent ambitions. He tip-toes his way up with his fingers, on a path that his hands already know, and right before he meets Vergil’s groin that very hand on his own leg slips between where two perpendicular lines intersect. It’s no more than a ghost haunting him with a chilly whisper to his cunt, but Dante gasps.
“Vergil,” demanding Vergil’s attention with his eyes, but he remains inscrutable. Dante shifts forward unsubtly (he prefers the word assertively) but Vergil’s wrist sits on his leg, moving with him.
“You asshat,” Dante says, and he aims for Vergil’s dick. To his delight, he grabs more than he expected. Vergil’s brow pinches like an angry, taut bow, and then he presses Dante over his trousers. Two fingers check his pulse on his clit, which only when Vergil cups them between fingers does Dante realize how chubbed up he is too.
Dante flushes. It’d be embarrassing, but at least they’re both in the same quicksand. He gropes Vergil through his slacks, but his gaze refuses to deviate from Vergil’s face. It’s the best part of his brother to watch at times like these, when Vergil’s above him or below him, to see what he forgives his body to express during the cardinal sin of frenzied, degenerate, incest sex. Side by side, and with only Dante’s hand, what remains on Vergil’s face is a slight constipation of the orgasm churning in his balls.
Vergil caresses him gently. It’s the only place on Dante’s body that he’s merciful to. His hand comforts the entirety of Dante’s crotch, palm over his clit. Dante buckles over the table as fingers dig into the give at the end of his pussy.
“Ah–goddamit, V—” before he bites a moan back. He squirms on it, that immovable object that stills when Dante tries to fight back, but he can’t help it, he has to move, and so he squeezes his thighs around it and rubs them back and forth to get a fire started. He palms around for Vergil’s opening, and gets the zipper hidden behind a flap to come down before trying for the button. Try being the operative word, because Vergil crooks his fingers into Dante’s slit again and Dante momentarily forgets the alphabet.
“Jus’ lemme,” Dante groans, and Vergil pauses long enough for Dante to fish his brother’s cock out into the diner air, warmed by the smoke of bacon and burgers cooked over the stove in their own greasy sweat. Dante gives it a few warm-up jerks, before he licks his palm (getting a not-so-secret taste of that cloying musk yet to be stolen away by Vergil’s evening shower) before stroking Vergil more meaningfully, purposefully.
Vergil closes his book.
“A-ha—”
“Here’s your food–“
Dante almost jumps out of his school uniform. He quickly leans forward to block off the view of his and Vergil’s bits, to what he hopes is a decent success.
”–and your milkshake.”
“Right! Thanks, lady,” he stammers. Every thing of his falters, and most importantly, the hand on Vergil’s cock. Vergil has the decency to stop as well.
She slides the plate and glass in front of them.
“Just holler if you need anything else,” she says with a smile. Dante breathes out again, until–
“Excuse me, I’ll have a glass of water.”
Dante suppresses a flinch when the hem of his shirt lifts. Then Vergil’s chilly fingers creep back in and toy with his boxers waistband.
The waitress nods. “Just a water?”
Vergil takes the menu out of its stand. “On second thought…”
His hand slips under and brushes one stroke down Dante’s clit.
“Mmph–” Dante keens. He nearly faceplants into a pile of whipped cream. His own creation, coming back to destroy its maker.
“Are you okay?”
“He’s alright,” Vergil answers, without giving Dante a performative look-over, no hand on his forehead, no comforting brush of his hair away from his face. “A water for him too.”
“Sure…” she responds uncertainly, but something must command her away, another client, Vergil’s generally rude demeanor, whatever. Dante conceals his face under his bangs until he can no longer hear her footsteps.
“Vergil,” he begins menacingly, but his words snag on Vergil’s fingertips driving into him in one go. He takes his time to clench around Vergil’s fingers, heartbeat stuttering, milking it as indiscriminately as if it was Vergil’s dick. “Hah, oh, oh fuck.”
He looks up at his brother desperately, but Vergil turns to the window, counting cars. All the while those fingers stoke a more and more urgent need in him.
“Don’t give me the time of day, why don't you,” Dante grunts, and he cups his mouth and his eyes roll back when Vergil’s fingers do their best to reenact a pair of scissors.
At this angle it’s hard to get deep inside, but Vergil knows how to stir him up without the classic in-out, in-out. For a second, Dante wonders what his brother would look like without a twin to practice on, if he’d be as skilled with the girl whose number Dante handed out like candy. The idea makes his gut flip upside down, and not in the way that he likes it to be wrung into a misshapen rag by no other than, you guessed it, his brother.
Dante fondles him again, sliding a damp hand over the head and squeezing around it. It’s a happy thing, that’s for sure, even if Vergil remains particularly unbothered, but Dante feels so disproportionately affected, assaulted on both ends, in the reality of his cunt and in the fantasy in his mind, fucked by the image of Vergil’s penis that Dante could pick out of a police line-up just by touch alone.
He can hear his own pussy talk under the music from the jukebox, and he swears Vergil’s ears get a little pink. Riled up by the admission, Dante jacks off his brother faster, no more savoring his meal, his actual food left to the elements. Vergil has nowhere to obscure the clench of his jaw, the rise of his shoulders, the rest of his physical surrender.
As payback, he stabs into Dante more, the heel of his palm grinding against Dante’s erect clit as he fingers his insides like the violin he’s so attached to for two hours of each day and two hours that Dante so impatiently waits through until he gets a fair turn with his brother. He can feel each callused tip inside, playing something aggressively allegro, and Dante grits his teeth through it, working Vergil’s cock faster, though not too fast, with Vergil’s body he still knows a middle ground exists between fast and good.
With them knowing too much about each other’s bodies, it’s a hard call to make for who cums first, or who makes the other cum first, the decapitating guillotine of Dante’s pulsing cunt as telling as the expulsion of Vergil’s jizz over the underside of the table. Vergil hides a groan in his throat, Dante hides it on a bated breath that drips out of him along with a trail of drool that falls from his lips and onto some charred bacon.
“Dante,” Vergil sighs, and Dante’s heart soars.
Though Vergil’s soon distracted by the mess he’s made, and after he deems his balls empty tears a tissue out of the tissue box to wipe it clean, but soon finds out it’s single-ply and he rips out a few more. Dante’s orgasm is longer, usually the thing to wring Vergil’s nut clean off his cock. Under the diner’s exposing light, he bounces on Vergil’s fingers that must be painfully crooked, rocking on it back and forth.
“Guh…”
“Two waters,” and Dante hears the telltale clink of glass on plastic. Vergil pries himself out, and it’s Dante’s cue to follow. As unabashed as he can be, this is one instance where shame and the fear of being permanently banned at his favorite diner knocks at his door. He keeps his head bowed.
“Oh, honey, you haven’t touched your food at all. Is it not to your liking?”
“It is,” Vergil assures, and he takes a long sip of Dante’s untouched milkshake. “But we’d like to take it to-go.”