Chapter 23: Sisterly Love
The silence in Dante’s library wasn't peaceful. It was the heavy, watchful quiet of a mausoleum. Moonlight streamed through tall, arched windows, casting elongated silver rectangles across the obsidian floor and illuminating swirling dust motes dancing in the still air. Dante stood before a vast, empty fireplace carved from volcanic rock, a crystal tumbler of impossibly dark bourbon dangling forgotten from his fingertips. He hadn’t lit the hearth. The cold radiating from the stone matched the glacial emptiness inside him.
He wore only loose black silk pants, his tattooed torso bare under the spectral light. The intricate ink seemed less vibrant, the piercings in his nipples and navel mere points of dull metal. The usual effortless power, the crackling charisma, was gone. Replaced by a stillness that felt… fractured. Deep shadows pooled under his eyes.
The heavy library door creaked open a fraction. Sapphire slipped through like smoke, her ruby lips pressed into a thin line, her feline eyes scanning the cavernous room before landing on him. She wore midnight blue silk that shimmered like a bruise, her movements uncharacteristically tentative.
"Hey, boss," she called softly, her voice echoing slightly in the vastness. "Been looking all over this crypt for you. Thought you might be brooding down here."
Dante didn’t turn. His gaze remained fixed on the cold, black maw of the fireplace. He took a slow sip of the bourbon, the amber liquid catching the moonlight. "Found me," he rasped, the Detroit edge rough, stripped of its usual swagger.
Sapphire drifted closer, the scent of her expensive perfume – jasmine and something sharper, like ozone – cutting through the dust and old paper smell. "Yeah. Saw you vanish after the meeting with the Stygian emissaries. Seemed… intense." She stopped a few feet away, leaning against a mahogany bookshelf overflowing with grimoires bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin. "Where’s the little firestarter? Haven’t seen Dabi skulking around giving everyone the death glare for days. Usually he’s glued to your side like a particularly surly shadow."
The silence stretched, thick and brittle. Dante’s knuckles whitened around the tumbler. He finally turned his head, just enough to look at her over his shoulder. His eyes, usually storm-grey or molten gold, were flat. Empty. The colour of tarnished silver under the moonlight. He held her gaze for a long, unnerving moment.
"Gone," he stated. The word dropped like a stone into the silence.
Sapphire raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Gone? Like, vacation gone? Or pissed off and stormed out gone?"
Dante turned back to the fireplace. "Just fucking gone, Sapphire." The rasp was harsher now, frayed at the edges. "Don’t."
"Don’t what?" she pushed gently, taking a careful step closer. "Ask why? Dante, I’m not prying for fun. Something’s off. You’re off. More than usual. This place feels like a tomb, and you look like…" She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his rigid posture. "Like hell warmed over, frankly. I’m concerned. About you."
He flinched almost imperceptibly at the last word. You. Not the club, not business. Him. He drained the tumbler in one harsh swallow, the burn doing nothing to thaw the ice in his veins. He set the empty glass down on the mantel with deliberate care, the click unnaturally loud. Then he turned fully to face her, his expression carved from granite, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed the cracks.
"He’s fucking gone," Dante repeated, each word sharpened on bitterness, "because he decided to fuck around. Literal moments after I fucked him." He paused, the memory hitting him fresh, a physical blow that made his breath hitch. He forced it out, the details spilling like poison.
"After I had him bent over that goddamn bar," he began, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl laden with raw hurt. He swallowed hard, the image vivid, torturous. "After I told him, for the first fucking time in centuries, that I loved him. And he said it back. Looked me in the fucking eye and said it back."
He took a step towards Sapphire, not threateningly, but propelled by the torrent of anguish. "He crawled off that bar, Sapphire. Smelling like me, like us. And he walked straight to fucking Hawks. Let that winged fuck put his hands on him." Dante’s voice cracked. "Did he tell him he loved him too?"
Sapphire stood very still, her face carefully neutral, but her eyes held a complex mix of sympathy and understanding. She hadn’t needed the explicit detail, but she let him purge it.
"So yeah," Dante finished, the fire in his voice guttering out, replaced by devastating emptiness. He spread his hands, a gesture of utter desolation. "He’s gone. Because I saw it. Saw his betrayal painted all over him. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t fucking breathe."
He looked away, towards the moonlit windows, his profile stark against the silver light. The silence returned, heavier than before.
Sapphire let it hang for a beat. "So… that’s it?" she asked softly. "He’s gone, and he stays gone?"
Dante didn’t answer immediately. He stood rigid, a statue of contained agony. Then a tremor ran through him. A single, violent shudder. His hand flew to his face, pressing hard against his eyes. A choked, ragged sound escaped him.
"Yes," he whispered, the word thick, muffled against his palm. "He stays gone."
But the word dissolved into a sob. It tore from his chest, raw and broken. The first tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down his cheekbone, catching the moonlight. Then another. He tried to stifle it, pressing his hand harder, his shoulders hunching. But the dam burst. Centuries of carefully constructed control, the arrogance of the Firstborn, the King of Hell’s invulnerable facade… it all crumbled under the weight of a mortal’s betrayal.
He wept. Great, heaving sobs wracked his frame, bending him double. Tears streamed freely now, dripping onto the cold obsidian floor. He made no sound beyond the harsh, gasping breaths between the silent convulsions of grief, his body shaking violently.
Sapphire moved instantly. No hesitation. She closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him, pulling his trembling form against her. He didn’t resist. He sagged into her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his tears soaking into the expensive silk of her dress. His body shuddered against hers with the force of his silent weeping.
"Shhh," she murmured, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling slightly in the dark strands at his nape. The other rubbed slow, firm circles on the intricate tattoos covering the powerful muscles of his back. "Shhh, Dante. Let it out. Just let it fucking out. It’s okay. I got you."
She held him tightly, anchoring him as centuries of guarded loneliness and fresh, brutal heartbreak poured out of him. The King of Hell, ancient and powerful, reduced to shuddering, tearful silence in the arms of his second, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, his breath hitching against her skin. The moonlight painted them silver in the vast, cold library. Dante’s shoulders continued to tremble long after the audible sobs subsided, the only sound the ragged hitch of his breath and the soothing murmur of Sapphire’s voice against his ear, promising nothing except her presence in the echoing void he now inhabited. A king dethroned not by war, but by the devastating simplicity of a broken heart.
The heavy velvet curtain muffled the club’s relentless throb, leaving the Inferno’s VIP lounge draped in oppressive silence. Dante slumped in the same blood-red wingback chair, the flickering candlelight carving harsh angles into his face. Days had passed since Sapphire held him as he shattered, but the hollow ache remained, a constant throb beneath his ribs. He stared into the shifting shadows, a crystal tumbler of bourbon untouched on the obsidian table beside him, its surface reflecting the distorted dance of the flames. The scent of stale cigars and expensive perfume couldn’t mask the lingering ozone, the ghost of his own fury.
The curtain ripped aside violently. Hawks stood silhouetted against the pulsing neon bleed from the main floor, his golden eyes narrowed, wings held stiffly behind him. He strode in, the deliberate click of his boots echoing unnaturally loud on the thick carpet. "Morningstar," he announced, his voice artificially casual, a brittle veneer over something sharper. "Been looking for you."
Dante didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him. His gaze remained fixed on a point beyond Hawks, grey eyes flat and cold as tombstone.
Hawks stopped a few feet away, shifting his weight. "Look, I know things are… tense." He gestured vaguely, the movement jerky. "But we need to talk. About Dabi."
The name hung in the air like a struck gong. Dante’s stillness deepened, becoming predatory. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw.
"He’s a fucking wreck, Dante," Hawks pressed, his forced coolness fraying at the edges. "Miserable. Barely eats. Looks like death warmed over. He’s drowning in guilt, man." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that scraped Dante’s nerves raw. "He fucked up, yeah, big time. But this? This self-destruction? It’s brutal. He needs—"
Dante moved. Not stood. Uncoiled. One fluid, terrifying motion propelled him upright and forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. The air crackled, thick with sudden, violent energy. Hawks instinctively flinched back, his wings rustling nervously.
"Needs?" Dante’s voice was a Detroit rasp scraped over broken glass, low and lethal. It wasn’t loud. It vibrated in Hawks’ bones, in the very stone beneath their feet. "What he needs?" Dante took another step, forcing Hawks back towards the velvet-draped wall. "He needed to keep his fucking dick in his pants after I poured my fucking soul into him!" Spittle flew with the raw fury of the words. "After I split him open on that bar and told him I loved him!"
Hawks hit the wall, the heavy velvet muffling the impact. He tried to hold Dante’s gaze, tried to summon his usual cocky smirk, but it faltered badly. Dante crowded him, invading his space completely, his sheer presence radiating ancient, terrifying power. The grey of Dante’s eyes ignited, molten gold flooding the irises, burning with infernal heat. The temperature plummeted.
"He needed," Dante snarled, leaning in until their faces were inches apart, his breath hot and smelling of bourbon and brimstone, "to not crawl straight from my fucking come into your bed!" Hawks’ eyes widened, genuine fear flickering in the golden depths. Dante saw it. Savored it. "Did he taste like me when you sucked him off?" Dante hissed, the obscenity deliberate, brutal. "Did you lick my fucking spunk off his cock before you shoved yours down his throat?"
Hawks paled, his bravado crumbling. "Dante, c'mon—"
"Shut your fucking mouth!" Dante roared, the sound shaking the candle flames, making the velvet tremble. He slammed a hand flat against the wall beside Hawks’ head, caging him. "You think I give a single, solitary fuck about his misery? His guilt?" Dante leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper that was somehow worse than the roar. "He made his fucking choice. He chose you. A cheap thrill. A fucking distraction." Dante’s gold eyes bored into Hawks’, stripping away any pretense. "He shattered something precious. Something ancient. For you."
Hawks swallowed hard, his throat working soundlessly. The fear was palpable now, a sour tang cutting through the air. He pressed back against the velvet, trying to melt into it, away from the incandescent fury radiating off Dante. "He… he regrets it," Hawks stammered, his voice thin. "He’s destroyed."
"Destroyed?" Dante’s laugh scraped raw, devoid of humor, echoing the crackle of the nearby candles. Gold fire blazed in his eyes, incinerating the last trace of grey. "Good." The word was ice and venom. He leaned in so close Hawks could taste the bourbon and brimstone on Dante’s breath. "Maybe he’ll feel a fucking fraction of what he carved out of me."
Hawks flinched, feathers rustling nervously against the velvet. "He didn’t know you’d see, Dante! It was a mistake! A stupid, drunken—"
"A mistake?" Dante slammed his palm flat on the wall again, making Hawks jerk. "You think that’s the fucking knife, pretty bird?" His voice dropped, a serpent’s hiss. "The knife is that he crawled to you. That he let you touch him. That he let you fuck him." Dante’s gaze raked over Hawks’ face, predatory, relentless. "But you know what twists the blade deeper?" A cruel, knowing smile touched Dante’s lips, devoid of warmth. "Heard it was a pretty pathetic fuck."
Hawks stiffened, confusion warring with indignation. "What?"
"From the source," Dante purred, the sound dangerous. "Sukuna has loose lips when he’s bored. Told me all about your little… encounter." He watched the dawning horror in Hawks' golden eyes, savoring it like fine wine. "Said you couldn’t get it up properly. Said he just… laid there. Like a corpse." Dante’s smile widened, predatory. "Said Dabi kept whispering my name."
Hawks’ face went bone-white. Mortification flooded his features, his mouth falling open, eyes wide with pure panic. "N-no," he choked out, the word a strangled whisper. "He didn’t— It wasn’t like—"
"Wasn't it?" Dante’s hand shot out, impossibly fast. Not a punch. His fingers clamped like steel bands around Hawks’ throat, just below his jaw. Not crushing. Not yet. But firm. Unbreakable. Hawks gagged, eyes bulging, hands flying up instinctively to claw at Dante’s wrist, finding it immovable as stone. His wings thrashed uselessly against the velvet drapes. Dante leaned in, his molten eyes inches from Hawks’ terrified ones. "Tell me," Dante growled, the vibration thrumming through his hand into Hawks’ neck. "Every time you tried to shove your pathetic cock in him, did he whimper my name? When you finally managed to get hard enough to get inside, did he cry out for me while you rutted?"
Hawks made a desperate, gurgling sound, tears springing to his eyes. Panic flared as Dante’s grip tightened fractionally, cutting off his air just enough to induce terror, the edges of his vision spotting. He tried to shake his head, tried to form words, but only a wet gasp escaped.
Dante’s face was a mask of cold, ancient fury. "Shut. Up." He gave Hawks’ throat a final, terrifying squeeze, feeling the frantic flutter of Hawks’ pulse against his thumb before releasing just enough pressure for Hawks to drag in a ragged, desperate breath. Snot and tears mingled on Hawks’ face. "Listen carefully, you feathered fuck-up," Dante snarled, his voice a low, deadly promise dripping with Detroit grit. "You stay the fuck away from him. You stay the fuck away from me." He leaned in until their noses almost touched. Hawks flinched violently. "You breathe a word of this – a single, fucking syllable – to anyone, and I will pluck every fucking feather from your wings while you scream. Slowly."
He released Hawks’ throat abruptly. Hawks slumped against the wall, gasping, clutching his bruised neck, wings trembling violently. Dante stepped back, the gold fire receding from his eyes, leaving chilling, empty grey. He turned away, dismissing Hawks’ terrified, crumpled form as if it were refuse.
"Get out of my sight," he said, his voice flat, final. "Before I start plucking early."