#post dmc1

One could say literally anything about Dante. One could call him a useless idiot who only survived on pizza without olives and strawberry sundaes, who was completely incapable of handling money properly and who never managed to repay Lady. But there was one thing that had to be admitted. Something that everyone knew about the demon hunter. He does not cry. Devils don’t cry, they never do. At least in public where they’d risk being seen by someone. Behind closed doors, however, that was a different story. When the door to Dante’s room in the living quarters above his shop fell shut and he was left alone with his thoughts, the mask he instinctively put on every morning fell.

Dante’s eyes locked onto the picture frame on the night stand next to his bed. Even in the dark he could still clearly see the photo, worn edges already yellowing and the image of two seven-year old boys with snow white hair and bright blue eyes grinning into the camera slowly fading away.

He could never bring himself to put this one next to the one of his mother on his desk in the office. When he was working – or at least busy with his version of working – he liked to have the warm smile of his mom greet him whenever he looked in her direction. A silent reminder that whenever he did take a job, he helped to make the world just a little bit safer. That his work was important.

But that was also the reason he could never put the picture of him and Vergil in the office. It would just remind Dante that because of his work his brother was dead, slain by his own hand. He didn’t need that.

Dante sat down on his bed quietly, not moving for a moment before extending his hand and allowing his gloved fingers to close around the wooden frame, bringing it closer to him. A feeling of nostalgia bubbled in his chest as the memory of that day resurfaced in his mind. It had been a warm day in late spring bordering on early summer.

He and his brother had spent the entire day outside, splashing each other in the river. Their childish giggling and laughter had filled the air while their parents watched from beneath the shadows of the great oak tree in their garden. Their mother had taken the photo after their father had tried and failed to operate the camera. He never did get the hang of human technology.

When they were children, Dante and Vergil had been each other’s closest confident. No matter how hard, long or often they fought, they always stayed together.

Too late did Dante notice the tear rolling down his face to stop it from dropping on the photo. It wouldn’t be the only tear and it certainly wouldn’t be the last night Dante spent like this.