Thunderhead
folder
+A through F › Devil May Cry
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,291
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+A through F › Devil May Cry
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,291
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Devil May Cry game series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 2: Hailstorm
Chapter 2: Hailstorm
Dante lit a candle to see his job. With every movement, every pondering noise, he could feel the moonlit gaze of his brother. Which made him doubly determined to set the fire. Having broken apart a chair and several other decidedly unnecessary pieces of the cabin, there was a rightfully good enough stock of dry wood. Kindling came from a dusty old broom, and Dante had already realized that matches were important to carry around. And yet as much as he cursed and spat and got angry at it, it refused to light. Possibly in fear of the storm.
The first chunk of ice landed on the roof with a startling ‘plunk’ in the quiet room. Dante recoiled as though hit, and Vergil simply looked up. The tiny whisper of a flame in the hearth guttered and gave up its last breath.
Dante gave his last aggrieved sigh of the event, looking to his companion in apology. The faintest flicker of a smile crept onto Vergil’s face, and he crouched next to the defeated. With an expert flick, a single stroke, the wooden match sparked to life. Soon the hearth glowed warmly, tongues of flame seeming to mock Dante all the while. He almost stuck his tongue out back at it.
At first, the storm talked for them. The hail had grown into an agonizing applause, battering the roof and the brother’s ears. Every now and again, sporadic bursts of lightning and throaty laughs of thunder chimed in to the caphony of wailing and ice.
Several times when the screams has gone quiet, Vergil had tried to speak. Eyes searching the other’s face, his strangled words always ended in a mockery of a question, cut short by a voice so long out of use. Every time, Dante’s warm hands would wrap carefully around his throat, massaging and kneading, persuading blood to flow again where it should. And until it did, he talked to his brother of nothing and everything, deep rough voice trailing from subject to subject. He talked of the world, the time, the news, his city with his apartment and his dog, the jobs he willingly did, his “vacation” to Italy. He never skirted or shied from telling everything that filled his mind and, without hesitation, his feelings.
Years had passed since Vergil had heard his brother’s voice. Ages. He let the rich, depthless and firm voice take him down to nothing, until he was simply a mind, not a cold and desperate man. He drank in the tones, the topics, the lips and the man who spoke from them, down like the most cloying of wines. It both invigorated and hypnotized him, until his body was relaxed for the first time in years. He felt himself drifting further away, yet closer to something else, entirely different. He collapsed from his secure couch corner, falling into warmth and comfort that had so long been denied him. And just before lids covered his fire-lit eyes, he caught three words spoken to him and him only, meant as a salve for his heart and a balm for his lips.
“I love you.”
~~~~~
Dante lit a candle to see his job. With every movement, every pondering noise, he could feel the moonlit gaze of his brother. Which made him doubly determined to set the fire. Having broken apart a chair and several other decidedly unnecessary pieces of the cabin, there was a rightfully good enough stock of dry wood. Kindling came from a dusty old broom, and Dante had already realized that matches were important to carry around. And yet as much as he cursed and spat and got angry at it, it refused to light. Possibly in fear of the storm.
The first chunk of ice landed on the roof with a startling ‘plunk’ in the quiet room. Dante recoiled as though hit, and Vergil simply looked up. The tiny whisper of a flame in the hearth guttered and gave up its last breath.
Dante gave his last aggrieved sigh of the event, looking to his companion in apology. The faintest flicker of a smile crept onto Vergil’s face, and he crouched next to the defeated. With an expert flick, a single stroke, the wooden match sparked to life. Soon the hearth glowed warmly, tongues of flame seeming to mock Dante all the while. He almost stuck his tongue out back at it.
At first, the storm talked for them. The hail had grown into an agonizing applause, battering the roof and the brother’s ears. Every now and again, sporadic bursts of lightning and throaty laughs of thunder chimed in to the caphony of wailing and ice.
Several times when the screams has gone quiet, Vergil had tried to speak. Eyes searching the other’s face, his strangled words always ended in a mockery of a question, cut short by a voice so long out of use. Every time, Dante’s warm hands would wrap carefully around his throat, massaging and kneading, persuading blood to flow again where it should. And until it did, he talked to his brother of nothing and everything, deep rough voice trailing from subject to subject. He talked of the world, the time, the news, his city with his apartment and his dog, the jobs he willingly did, his “vacation” to Italy. He never skirted or shied from telling everything that filled his mind and, without hesitation, his feelings.
Years had passed since Vergil had heard his brother’s voice. Ages. He let the rich, depthless and firm voice take him down to nothing, until he was simply a mind, not a cold and desperate man. He drank in the tones, the topics, the lips and the man who spoke from them, down like the most cloying of wines. It both invigorated and hypnotized him, until his body was relaxed for the first time in years. He felt himself drifting further away, yet closer to something else, entirely different. He collapsed from his secure couch corner, falling into warmth and comfort that had so long been denied him. And just before lids covered his fire-lit eyes, he caught three words spoken to him and him only, meant as a salve for his heart and a balm for his lips.
“I love you.”
~~~~~