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“Hey, Vergil.”
Dante wakes at 11:45 every night. He never says why, though Vergil doubts he knows either. It reminds Vergil of a textbook tidbit of Medieval times, when people would wake at midnight to socialize, then return to bed. Dante is a social creature.
Used to be, according to Dante, he’d just give up on sleep after. Maybe having someone to socialize with helps, because he hasn’t done so since Vergil’s moved in. Nominally, there’s a guest bedroom, but Nero’s name is unspoken on its door, so once again, Vergil finds himself sleeping at his twin’s side.
He has resolved not to care. A bed is a bed. He has not had one in twenty-odd years. Dante doesn’t snore, nor does he move or talk in his sleep. While never admitting it, Vergil prefers him as a bedmate than some random human.
(Or no one at all.)
Vergil hums and turns the page. His inherited night vision doesn’t need a lamp to read. Dante himself hasn’t turned on the bedroom’s overhead light since the “Big Dick Tower.” (He claims the broken nose is worth the Absolutely Accurate name.) Sometimes he glances at it and blinks as if just remembering it’s there.
He does it with Vergil too.
Vergil won’t admit to the same.
Dante groans, bones popping with stretches. “Whatcha readin’?”
“Are you going to feign ignorance?” Vergil asks.
“Hey now, just ‘cause I don’t read your fancy shit—”
“We had the same tutors, Dante.”
“We were kids.”
Vergil lets his silence speak.
Dante sighs dramatically and starts flopping about. Vergil’s growling doesn’t stop him until he’s thrown an arm around Darling Big Brother’s waist and whining, “Tell me tell me tell me!”
“You are still a child,” Vergil gripes.
With a smirk, Dante calls him the equivalent of “whiny bitch” in Italian. And French. And Russian.
He’s starting a German slew when Vergil snaps, “Mysteries of Udolpho, you fool!”
“Now, was that so hard?” Dante coos in English. His nuzzle at Vergil’s ribs tickles.
Vergil refuses to twitch. His little brother doesn’t need the ammo. “If you are quite finished.”
Quiet.
Although he knows better, Vergil tries to pull his focus back to his book. Mother had used it as a bedtime story. She’d never gotten to finish it. It’s a small concession to the goodness buried in Before. V had thought of it often.
In the back of his mind, he counts to sixty-nine before Dante says, “Y’know, I thought Emily was like. Such a modern name for that. You’d think with her boyfriend being Valancourt, she’d have somethin’ like, I dunno, Valentina or somethin’. Be a nice pair of Vs.” Dante flops closer, encasing Vergil’s cold foot between his knees. “Emily, though. Ruined my immersion. At least call her Aemilia.”
“‘Emily’ came to prominence in the 18th century,” Vergil murmurs.
“Sure,” Dante huffs, “but come on, this is melodrama we’re talkin’!”
“English derived it from the Hanovers. Hardly a ‘peasant’ title.”
“Vergil, admit it. Your stuck-up ass would prefer Aemilia.”
Vergil would, but he is an older brother. “I highly doubt Mrs. Radcliffe would care what you think.”
“Yeah, you totally would,” Dante mumbles.
People wonder why Vergil has homicidal tendencies.
Quiet again.
At twenty-two seconds, Dante asks, “What part are you at?”
Vergil unfortunately hears Nero’s hooligan, Julio, in his mind: your mom’s house. He should stop visiting Nero’s home for a while.
“Please tell me you’re at least at the creep’s place,” Dante says, “I wanna see your disappointed face when you find out the skeleton is—”
“Dante. Shut up.”
(Vergil was indeed disappointed, but not surprised. He’s learned his lesson that Gothic works rarely feature true ghosts.)
Dante finally bothers to look up. “Ah, you’re way past that. Bummer.”
“Are you done being a nuisance?”
“Are you done sucking my dick?”
Always good to have a nice, hefty hardback on hand. Vergil makes sure to at least fracture Dante’s skull.
“Take thadazza no,” Dante grumbles.
Thirty-five seconds of quiet.
Healed and clear, Dante says, “Y’ever think you might not be so dramatic if you stopped reading drama?”
“Do you ever think you might not be so incompetent if you resumed reading?”
Just to spite him, Dante recites Dante’s Inferno’s “Canto III” in its original Italian. He doesn’t get far before Vergil shoves his face.
Dante’s squeal heals a speck of his brother’s shriveled soul.
Half-off the bed, Dante calls, “No fun allowed.”
“Abandon hope,” Vergil drawls.
He swats Dante’s kick.
Dante shoves up and recommences his seal-flops. This time, he doesn’t stop until he’s face-down on Vergil’s stomach.
Vergil props his book on his brother’s disgusting hair. “You are the burden of my existence.”
“Yeah, okay Jekyll.”
“You know very well that Jekyll and Hyde—”
“Ugh, fuck, no, don’t start.”
Calmly and loudly, Vergil says, “You know very well that Jekyll and Hyde—”
“Shutupshutupshutup—”
“—were the same person, that Jekyll—”
“SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTU—”
“—merely took Hyde as an alias to his own misdeeds, and the moral of the story is—”
Dante punches him.
Vergil unleashes the hardback again.
Twenty minutes later, Vergil snatches Udolpho from the foot of the bed and settles against the headboard. Dante sighs to his previous place as well, rolling his neck because he gets the “heeby jeebies” when it’s broken. Vergil cannot believe this is his equal.
Dante consents once more to becoming a book stand.
One hundred and forty-four seconds of quiet.
“Hey, Verge?”
Vergil hums.
Softly, Dante asks, “Read?”
Two seconds of quiet.
Vergil marks his place and flips to the beginning. “Chapter 1. A verse by Thomson…”
Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish’d friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
At 12:45, Dante sleeps.