It was a dream. It had to be. It had that surreal, cold quality that all of Dante's dreams took on, right down to the typical black and white color scheme. Before him, Vergil walked a few paces ahead, and Dante, wanting to catch up and not be left in this shadowy hallwall full of God only knew what alone, tried to pick up his pace. It was like dragging his feet through mud.

He called Vergil's name, and Vergil either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore him. With the elder twin, one could never tell which was the case. Dante made to do so again, pulling in a lung-full of hot air that scorched on the way down, one that felt filled with cornsilk and water, and it was only then that he became aware of the heavy weight pressing on his chest. He paused a moment and rested a hand against the wall, which pulsated slightly under his fingertips, and gasped for breath, the other hand going to press against his chest where his heart beat like a jackhammer, heavy and fast and altogether too hard.

But he had to keep going, didn't he? He didn't know why, no, but he knew they had to keep moving. There was something important at the end of this long corridor they made their way down, and he couldn't let a silly thing like shortness of breath hold him back.

He pushed away from the wall and moved after Vergil once more, his breath coming a little easier (though that could have all been in his head, he supposed) and his feet moving a little faster. He couldn't let Vergil down, he figured. Vergil was counting on him for something, and Dante was tired of his elder brother's sniping about what a disappointment he was, if he was going to be completely honest.

Vergil paused up ahead, his back still to Dante, and Dante felt his heart speed up again, though this time it wasn't from a lack of oxygen. A shiver skittered down his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he took in the sharp lines of Vergil's form, the tenseness of his muscles evident even under his jacket. "Vergil?"

Vergil turned then, a wide, humorless, and fangbearing grin plastered across his face. But it was his eyes that drew Dante's gaze. They were wide, hollowed, in that inverted color scheme of red on black. Focused there, he failed to notice Vergil's hands moving, and only when there was the slick click of metal did he tear his gaze from his brother's eyes, realizing he'd drawn Yamato.

"What are you-" He never got to finish that question. That grin still in place, his eyes still those unearthly shades and shape, Vergil brought Yamato up with a quick flick of his wrist and swung, the blade level with Dante's neck.

Dante's eyes flew open, some noise or another (most likely a scream) trapped behind his lips where his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. He was covered in a cold, sticky film of sweat, and he extracted an arm from underneath the bedcovers to press to his forehead, taking a few deep breaths. It was just a dream. And it made sense! Really, it did, as he and Vergil had argued all day, and hadn't Vergil threatened to lop off his head and be done with it about fifty times? Of course he had.

To prove this, he glanced to his right, finding Vergil just as peaceful as he could be next to him, breathing deeply (and not snoring for once) in sleep, almost looking innocent that way, with his lashes as long as a girl's (something their mother had cursed them both with, though girls seemed to like guys with long lashes, Dante had discovered) fanned against his cheeks like a shadow's breath. No bad dreams troubled the elder twin, at least. Dante reached over, to push a lock of hair that had fallen across Vergil's forehead and was tickling his nose, back into place, and paused, sure even that light touch would wake him.

And he knew - knew - he'd never hear the end of it if he did.

Besides, it was silly to freak out over that kind of dream. Vergil would never do that, despite what he might claim to the contrary. Dante knew him too well.

Satisfied, and the dream taking on the hazy qualities they tended to upon waking, he laughed under his breath to himself and settled back, folding his hands over his chest as his gaze found the ceiling.

Sleep overcame him quickly after that, and it was dreamless, until his eyes fluttered open in the dark, and at once he was on edge. At first he could see nothing, his eyes blurred with sleep, and then they focused, and he realized Yamato's point hung above him like a pendulum, one held steady in Vergil's grasp. Beyond Vergil's face was a complete blank, his eyes shuttered and emotionless, as he held the blade that way, his arms high above his head.

This, Dante was sure, wasn't a dream. And he knew it was coming. He knew that any second he'd feel the cold steel bite into his throat, and the hot blood would bubble up, running down his neck and over his chin and down into his lungs as he struggled for breath, and Vergil would have done whatever it was he'd needed to.

Yet, despite the apparent danger, he found himself amazingly calm. Enough that he could see the tension in the muscles of Vergil's torso and arms, those few scars he had (from that night, and was that what haunted the elder twin so, as it did Dante?) standing out in sharp pale relief to the rest of his skin. There wasn't a quiver present, all the muscles locked into tight readiness, and for a moment Dante found Vergil's eyes and held them, finding that one of Vergi's pupils was huge, the other a mere pinprick, feeling the expression of sad acceptance take over his features, before the blade descended.

This time Dante jerked, sitting straight up in bed, his breathing heavy. What the hell. Seriously. Who the hell had two dreams like that in one night? It had been...Quite a while, period, since he'd had a nightmare, especially two, that shook him as badly as those two had.

He swung around to look at the other side of the bed, finding Vergil still there, and still sleeping, though he'd turned his back to Dante, and the younger twin, needing to make sure, leaned over, bracing one hand on the other side of Vergil, to get a good look at his face. If he'd expected to find anything there beyond the peaceful relaxation of sleep, he would have been sorely disappointed. Another lock of hair had joined the first, and Dante'd be damned but there was a small smile on Vergil's face - not a smirk or a tight pulling of his mouth, but a true smile - and, Dante supposed, that was probably the first time since they were small that he became aware of just how much they looked like one another.

He was amazed, too, that Vergil didn't wake, with Dante's weight pushing down on the mattress around him, though he counted his blessings. Finally giving into the urge from earlier (had he even been awake then?), he reached over and smoothed back the hair from Vergil's brow, watching the smile on his brother's face flicker and fade, though his eyes didn't open.

Satisfied, Dante lay back down himself, putting his back to Vergil. They were just dreams. That was all they were. He was silly, letting them get him worked up.

When morning came, it was bright and cheery, though Dante felt far from that himself. In fact, he felt downright exhausted, though he supposed he'd gotten more sleep than his body was telling him he had. With a stretch and a yawn, he sat up in bed before swinging his legs over the side as he swept back the covers, to feel something clatter and roll under his feet. With a pause he glanced down, and felt his heart stop dead in his chest.

Under his feet lay Yamato's sheath, and a few feet away, toward the end of the bed and as though it had been tossed there, lay Yamato. It's blade glinted cleanly in the morning sunlight, but a hand rose by reflex to his throat. Just what the hell had happened last night? It was a dream. A fucking dream. Vergil hadn't stood over him, intending on killing him. Dante flat out refused to believe it. No matter how much they didn't like each other, and no matter what kind of threats they made to one another, and no matter how they might bust each other up from time to time, neither one would stoop so low as to kill the other. Never. And nothing could change Dante's mind to the contrary.

He gave a snort, though it was far from humored, and rose to his feet, bending to gather Yamato's sheath from the floor. A few paces brought him to the blade itself, and he lifted it, as well, holding it up a moment to examine it more closely. It was just as clean as a whistle, and that was the way Vergil kept it. Despite it being out of its place, and despite that not being like Vergil at all, that proved right there that what he'd dreamed about hadn't happened.

Satisfied with that, he slid Yamato home in its sheath, feeling it click as it did so. For all Dante knew, with the way Vergil kept the thing at the head of his side of the bed (because he was a paranoid fuck), Vergil could have moved funny in his sleep and knocked it to the other side. That, honestly, was more plausible than Vergil standing over him, ready to whack Dante's head off.

Yamato secure, he moved to the other side of the bed, not in the least surprised to find it empty. He picked up the sound of the shower running, and shook his head as he propped Yamato where Vergil would find it in its usual place, giving a sigh. It'd be another damn hour before he got in there himself, and by then all the hot water would be gone. He'd practically forgotten what a nice, hot shower felt like at that point, because Vergil was just an ass enough to use all the hot water no matter where they were.