In between one job and the next, he meets a man.

He's about the same height as him, with pale eyes that look like they've seen hard years pass without respite. His hair is silver and long, stray strands of it falling loose from where he's tied it back. His clothing looks like it's seen better times, and its darkness has more to do with years of accumulated dirt and grime than any aesthetic preference. He stands frozen in the back alley and ignores the tangled strands of hair that the night breeze blows across his face. It's this minor detail, that and the ragged, faded edges to the man's clothing that throws Dante off.

Still, it's the eyes that give the other man away. He'd recognise that flat, unfriendly stare anywhere. Suddenly the rest of the picture falls into focus, like wiping the dust off an old photo you found in the attic. The blackened frock coat, the bad fashion sense, the wounded martyr's pride.

"Vergil..?" he ventures hesitantly. The man's eyes harden and narrow.

"Vergil!" Dante exclaims, certain now. "Fuck, man! Where the hell you been?"

The reply is instant and bitter, just like he remembers. "Hell," the other man says.

That's a conversation killer if there ever was one, but Dante's used to his brother's bad attitude. They had the same teacher after all.

"On vacation then?" he asks and grins at the sneer his brother can't quite hide. He watches the other man shift and waits for a comeback that never manifests. Instead they stand in an awkward silence that fills up with bitter, sharp-edged memories that taste of salt and stink of blame.

They could argue like they used to when they were kids, squabbling over their mother's attention. Or like they did when they were older and the arguments were all about their father. Or they could just fight it out like they did after that when they were both adults and all the words had long been said.

But it would feel stupid to bring the old sore points up again after all these years. They're there anyway though and they both know it.

Why'd you do it? What the hell were you thinking? You're not Dad and you never will be.

Every time you go back into Hell it chews you up and spits you right back out again. Every time you come crawling back spitting blood and fire and each time you go back for more.

Why do you keep leaving me?

-Don't impose your weaknesses on me.

Except they don't say these things to each other anymore. Dante sighs and pulls out his guns, twirling them with an ease born of long practice. You don't need words to have a good fight. Who knows, this time he might even win.

"I guess it's time to play the game again then?" he says. He lets his gaze skim over his brother's body, checking stance and the telltale angles that signal the tension of a coming movement. His eyes skip over and then back, scrutinising the folds of Vergil's coat and the angle of his body.

"Where's your sword?" Dante says suddenly.

Vergil tilts his head to the side and into shadow so that all Dante can see of his expression is the gleam of his eyes in the streetlamp's ruddy glow.

"...Vergil? Where's your damned sword?"

"Hell," Vergil replies, and his voice is full of something dark and degenerate, twisted in the way he says it. He takes a step backward and Dante watches him list unsteadily, the whites of his eyes stark and pale in the gloom.

"Fuck," says Dante mildly, and steps forward to grab his brother's arm and waist. Beneath his hands he can feel the wet slick of blood and the shiver of muscles tensed and bruised.

"You never did know when to stop."

Vergil laughs and blood bubbles between his lips.

Dante catches him before he can fall.

oOo

Vergil heals like the devil he is. Dante cleans his wounds and patches him up as best he knows how, but in the end it doesn't matter. Give it until dawn and all of it will be gone anyway.

"What the hell did this to you?" he asks as he works. "You getting slow in your old age or something?"

Vergil's lip twitches as his brother upends a bottle of spirits across the slashes on his shoulders before taking a swig and setting it back down on the desk.

"Hey," says Dante, picking the bottle up again. "You want some?"

Vergil takes the bottle and sniffs it before lifting it to his lips. Dante continues to prattle as his brother drinks, cleaning the poison from his wounds and pressing bandages across the worst of them until the flesh knits itself together again.

"I ain't gonna ask why you keep on going back there," Dante says levelly. "I know you wouldn't give me a straight answer anyway. Still. Stay there a second, don't move."

He reaches for the drawer behind his brother's chair, pulling it open and fishing inside. Vergil continues to stare at the door of his brother's rundown office, just as he has done since Dante sat him down here. He's awake and aware, but silent, and the bottle in his hand is streaked with the blood from Dante's fingers. He swirls it absently before taking another long swig.

"I've always wondered what you get out of it. You pretty much told me to go jump the first time you went off chasing Dad's legacy. Still got the damned scar. Funny that, eh? Devil claws and tainted blades don't leave a mark, but my own brother's sword? Yeah. Burns sometimes too. Makes me wonder what the hell you're up to out there."

Vergil snorts softly and watches the first fat drops of rain impact on the dirty windows.

"I guess I can't stop you going back, though God knows what it is down there that's kicking your ass so damned well each time. Thing is see, I reckon you don't know yourself what you're doing. You're fighting for a reason to fight, just like everyone else. You're trying to be better than everyone because you're trying to make up for what Dad did. Mum's dead you kno-"

"You talk too damned much," Vergil cuts in sharply, but his face keeps that same, cold mask that infuriated his brother so much as a kid. Still does if he's being honest with himself.

"Yeah, maybe. I just think one of us ought to get a grip on the situation," says Dante.

He moves with confidence, like he's just reaching to press a bandage to another wound, which is probably why Vergil doesn't see it coming. The artefact snakes around his neck and down his arms faster than he can react. He leaps to his feet, going for a sword that isn't there and Dante catches the falling bottle with the toe of his boot, flipping it up and into his hand even as he takes a step backwards.

Vergil turns to him and the expression on his face makes Dante choke on the bottle he has pressed to his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grins.

"Nadire's Chains. Got them from a relics dealer in Turkey. Never had a use for them until now, but I figured they'd work. Whaddya think?"

In the quiet the only sound is the drumming of the rain on the windowpanes, almost enough to cover the far off whine of traffic but not enough to conceal the harsh scrape of Vergil's breath.

"What the hell is this?" his brother hisses, and Dante's grin fades to something calm and thoughtful.

"Safety measure," he replies casually, leaning on the desk.

"Dante..."

"I know, I know. You're going to hate me forevermore, I'll never be forgiven. Heard it all before bro'. Fact of the matter is, you made all that clear the first time you went to Hell. Hurt like a bitch then and now. Thing is, you've been doing this for so long now-"

"Dante..."

"-just hear me out. You've done this so often I just want you to stop and think this time. We could fight, hell, I'd enjoy that. Beating the crap out of you is always good for a buzz. But by the end of it we're both so beat up I can't stop you from doing anything. And I can't make you listen either, but at least like this I've got you in one place." Dante pauses and gives his brother a lop-sided grin. "I won't let you run away from me this time. This time, you gotta listen."

Outside the heavens have opened in full and the hiss of rain against the streets and the glass has built to a muted roar. Vergil stands with his chin down, his eyes locked on his brother's face and full of that cold rage that makes Dante's skin creep. His hands are bound before him by Nadire's Chains, and a looping length of silver runs from his wrists to his neck. The link between wrists and neck is long and loose, but the bond between his hands is short and tight. The relic glows faintly with a golden light and for all that the muscles in Vergil's arms stand tense, the links do not even creak in protest.

For a long time, neither of them speak. Dante takes the time to run his eyes over his brother's form, over the tears in his flesh and the burns from devil poisons, across the bruised swell of his muscles and the black tattoos of runes that should never see the light of day. Vergil's gaze is unwavering and locked on his brother's face throughout. There is a tension in his body that makes his muscles shake and burn with fatigue. Hell has a hundred thousand devils and it feels like he has fought each and every one of them personally.

And then Dante starts to speak. Vergil listens in silence as his brother meanders his way through explanations and theories and memories, old gripes and new ones, on and on and on. Eventually the burning in his legs becomes too much - there are forty demons in St Augusta the Damned's legion and each one took its price from his skin - and he steps backward, sinking down onto the edge of the battered sofa that sits beneath the stairs. He listens, his elbows on his knees and his head low and throbbing in time with the rhythm of Dante's words.

He hears hurt and pain and betrayal, all threaded through with the cocky bastard brashness that is his brother's shield against the world. He listens to an anger masked by years of practice, and lets the accusations flow over him until he hears the real words underneath. It's been a long time since he listened to his brother talk and it takes him back to a time when they used to talk only to each other. Strange how time passes and however much we change we still rely on the things we first knew.

"-are you even listening to me anymore?"

"I'm listening."

He doesn't look up when Dante approaches and kneels in front of him.

"I missed you," his brother says.

"I know."

"I always miss you, bastard."

"I know."

He doesn't resist when his brother loops Nadire's Chains around his fist and pulls his head down to kiss him.

oOo

Dante doesn't take the chains off and Vergil doesn't ask him to. He lets his brother have this control, parting his thighs and lying back into his arms and his lips and his deft hands. He gives himself over to his brother's anger and bows to the accusations that still fall from his lips. Dante curses him and Vergil smiles. Dante pulls on his brother's chains and Vergil doesn't tell him that these chains are nothing, that he's been bound to him since the day they were both born.

The rain streaks the window gold in the streetlamps and paints strange shadows across their skin as they move together. Dante is careful of Vergil's wounds until the other man bites him hard enough to draw blood and that's the end of civility. After that it's head down strength and chains that dig into skin and teeth bared and breathing that sounds more like dying than anything so soft as pleasure.

They remember together with lips and hands, and relive the days of a youth they'd almost forgotten. Never once does Dante loosen his grip on the chains and Vergil presses back into his skin and lets himself forget it matters.

oOo

In the morning Dante wakes to sunlight streaming half-heartedly through windows grimy on the inside. He moves and Nadire's Chains slither to the floor, their magic banished by the dawn or by a rune that his brother has kept secret even from him. He swings his legs over the edge of the sofa and blinks at the sunlight burning a halo around his brother's body. Vergil stands in the doorway, one hand on the handle, his head tilted so that he can look back over his shoulder.

There's supposed to be a line for situations like this, Dante thinks, but for the life of him he can't conjure it up. Outside the pavement gleams golden with the sheen of rain puddles and morning brightness.

"You're off then," he says and Vergil nods. "Back into Hell?" he says and tries hard not to make it sound like an accusation. He fails and even the attempt to turn the words into a jibe falls flat. He can hear the disappointment in his voice and winces on the inside.

"I need to fetch my sword," Vergil says.

"Right," Dante replies.

Vergil nods and returns his gaze to the street and the early morning. The door closes behind him, shutting out the gleam of sunlight and cutting off the chance to see if he ever looks back.

Dante suspects that he doesn't.