Chapter 6: The Past Always Comes Back
The chrome elevator doors slid open directly into Dante’s penthouse, releasing Dabi into an atmosphere thick with the ghosts of expensive cigars and the muted thump of bass rising from the Inferno Club far below. Dante stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling cityscape glittering like spilled diamonds at his back. He wasn’t facing the door, his posture rigid, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans. The usual effortless swagger was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt like the calm before a detonation.
Dabi closed the distance, his own heartbeat a frantic drum against his ribs. The sleek black marble floor reflected the low, moody lighting, amplifying the vastness of the space – and the chasm that had opened between them since Hawks’ revelations. He stopped a few feet away, the scent of Dante – oud wood, smoke, and that unique, electric tang of his power – hitting him, twisting the phantom ache low in his belly into something sharper.
"Dante," Dabi said, his voice rough, cutting through the heavy silence.
Dante didn’t turn. "You came back." It wasn’t a question. His voice was flat, devoid of its usual Detroit-inflected charm.
"Who wouldn’t?" Dabi countered, forcing a bravado he didn’t feel. "After that fucking storytime with Hawks?" He took another step closer. The air crackled, charged with unspoken history and fresh tension. "Who are you?"
Slowly, Dante turned. His eyes, usually a piercing hazel, held a dull, weary sheen in the dim light. He gave a humorless, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. "You already know, pretty boy. Don't pretend." His gaze raked over Dabi, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the wariness in his eyes. "Hawks tell you the bedtime story?"
Dabi met his stare head-on, refusing to flinch under the weight of that ancient gaze. "He told me something. Said you were Lucifer's kid. Said you ran Hell's army. Said they..." He swallowed, the images Hawks painted still horrifically vivid. "...they made you watch Azazel die. Tortured him. Then your sons... Zephaniel and Seraphine. Said Balial killed them. In front of you."
Each detail felt like dropping a stone into a bottomless well. Dante’s expression didn’t change, but a muscle ticked violently in his jaw. The air pressure seemed to drop, making Dabi’s ears pop faintly.
"And?" Dante prompted, his voice dangerously low. "What else did the little bird sing about?"
"That you... lost it." Dabi’s voice dropped to a near whisper. "That you went full monster. Destroyed worlds. Killed millions. That your siblings had to cage you." He forced himself to hold Dante’s gaze, searching for the truth. "Is it true? All of it?"
A beat of silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Dante looked past Dabi, out at the glittering city, his profile stark against the night. "Depends on the details," he finally murmured, the words rough, "but yeah. The gist? It's true." He turned his head back, those ancient eyes finally locking onto Dabi’s. "It happened. It’s done. Can’t go back." He said it like a verdict, final and heavy as lead.
A cold fury bloomed in Dabi’s chest, burning away some of the dread. "Can't go back? That's your fucking answer?" He took another step, closing the gap until barely a foot separated them, forcing Dante to look down at him. "Bullshit. Tell me why, Dante. Why?" He emphasized the word, driving it home. "They took everything from you, fine! I get that! But millions? Entire worlds? What the fuck gave you the right?"
Dante’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous igniting in their depths. "I told you. It’s done."
"Not good enough!" Dabi snapped, his own voice rising. He shoved at Dante’s chest, an act of pure frustration. "What, you just snapped? Decided to play god and wipe the slate clean because you hurt? Tell me why you did it!"
"Leave it, Dabi," Dante growled, a warning rumble vibrating in his chest. He didn’t move from the shove, a solid wall of contained power.
"No!" Dabi yelled, the sound echoing off the marble. "Fuck no! You don't get to drag me into your fucked up world, pin me to your sheets, make me feel…" He choked on the rest, trailing off, the memory of that raw, consuming power flooding back. "…and then expect me to just swallow this without an explanation! Why did you kill them?!"
"ENOUGH!"
The command wasn't just loud; it was visceral, a physical force that slammed into Dabi, making him stumble back half a step. Dante didn’t transform, didn’t erupt into some monstrous form, but his eyes blazed, molten gold replacing the hazel, radiating a heat that wasn't physical but felt like it could sear skin. Raw, unfiltered agony contorted his handsome features, stripping away centuries of control.
"I couldn't fucking control it!" Dante roared, his voice cracking on the edge of a sob. He took a step towards Dabi, not threateningly, but almost collapsing in on himself. "Don't you fucking get it? I tried! I fought it with every fucking scrap of will I had left! It was like… like a fucking tsunami inside my skull, Dabi! Screaming! Burning! A fucking black hole sucking everything into its rage!"
He dragged a trembling hand through his dark hair, the golden eyes wide, haunted, spilling millennia of torment. "The pain… seeing Az… the way he screamed…" Dante’s voice broke, raw and shredded. "And Zeph… my brave boy… throwing himself…" He choked, unable to say it. "Then Sera… Sera… my baby… screaming for me… screaming for his dad to help him…"
Tears, actual fucking tears, welled in those molten eyes, spilling over and tracing paths down his cheeks. The sight was more shocking than any display of power. The King of Hell, weeping.
"The sound… the feeling when his light went out…" Dante gasped, his chest heaving. "It broke something. Something fundamental. The dam just… shattered. The rage… the grief… it wasn't me anymore, Dabi! It was the fucking void!" He slammed a fist against his own chest. "I was gone! There was just… fire. And screaming. And the need to make everything feel what I felt! To make the whole fucking universe hurt!"
He swayed, the fury momentarily giving way to utter desolation. "Do you have any idea?" he whispered, the raw agony in his voice scraping Dabi’s soul. "Any fucking clue what it feels like? To be utterly helpless? To watch the person you love more than existence itself be torn apart in front of you? To hear their agony and be powerless to stop it? And then… then to watch it happen again? To two more souls you were sworn to protect? Two children?"
Dante was trembling now, a fine, violent shiver running through his entire frame. The golden light in his eyes flickered like a dying candle. "Helpless," he rasped, the word a curse. "All that power… millennia of it… and I was fucking helpless when it mattered most." He looked at Dabi, the devastation in his gaze absolute. "I tried… fuck, I tried so hard to hold it back… but I couldn't. I couldn't fucking stop it."
The dam broke. Dante Morningstar, the Prince of Hell, the Destroyer of Worlds, slumped forward. Not towards the floor, but into Dabi. His forehead pressed hard against Dabi’s shoulder, his large frame shuddering with silent, wracking sobs that tore through the silent penthouse. The raw, animal sounds of grief were muffled against Dabi’s shirt. The heat radiating from him was immense, almost feverish, yet the tears soaking through the fabric were chillingly human.
Dabi stood frozen for a heartbeat, the echo of Dante’s agony ringing in his ears, the feel of that powerful body trembling against him. The terror Hawks had instilled warred violently with a surge of something else – a devastating, unwanted empathy. Slowly, hesitantly, his arms came up. Not pushing away. Enfolding. One hand slid up Dante’s back, between his shoulder blades, feeling the tension there like coiled steel. The other cradled the back of Dante’s head, fingers tangling in the dark, sweat-dampened hair near the nape of his neck. He held the ancient, broken creature tight as Dante’s grief poured out in silent, shuddering waves against him, the city lights blurring beyond the glass.
He held the ancient, broken creature tight as Dante’s grief poured out in silent, shuddering waves against him, the city lights blurring beyond the glass. Dabi’s hand moved instinctively, pressing flat against the taut muscles between Dante’s shoulder blades. He began rubbing slow, firm circles, the motion deliberate against the tremors still vibrating through the powerful frame. Dante’s ragged breaths hitched, then gradually deepened, the frantic gasps easing into something less fractured, though the fine tremors persisted, a constant hum of residual anguish beneath Dabi’s palms.
The muffled sobs quieted, replaced by the damp heat of tears soaking through Dabi’s shirt and the shaky rhythm of Dante’s breathing against his neck. Dabi didn’t loosen his hold, anchoring Dante through the aftershocks, absorbing every tremor, every choked breath, the sheer weight of millennia of sorrow condensed into this single, shattering moment. He held on, solid and silent, until the worst of the storm passed, leaving Dante leaning heavily against him, drained but marginally calmer.
“I’m sorry,” Dabi murmured, his voice rough against Dante’s temple. The scent of salt and oud wood filled his senses. “I wasn’t… fuck, Dante, I wasn’t trying to rip you open like that.” He kept rubbing Dante’s back, the heat radiating from him immense. “Hawks dumped that shit on me… and I didn’t know how to fucking process it.”
Dabi swallowed, the admission scraping his throat. “Part of me is pissed. Pissed you didn’t tell me. Who the fuck you really are.” His fingers dug slightly into the tense muscle. “Part of me… gets why you wouldn’t. Why you couldn’t.” He paused, the next words sticking, heavy and terrifying. “And part of me… hurts. Because I fucking care about you, Dante. More than just… more than the fucking.” He forced it out, the raw truth hanging in the air between them, thick as the city smog below. “I’ve got… feelings. For you.”
Silence stretched, taut and fragile. Dante didn’t pull away, didn’t move. His forehead remained pressed against Dabi’s shoulder, his breathing still uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was a wrecked rasp, muffled against Dabi’s shirt. “Don’t be sorry.” A shudder ran through him. “You had every fucking right. To feel whatever you feel.” He lifted his head slightly, just enough for Dabi to see the raw, red-rimmed exhaustion in eyes that had dimmed from molten gold back to a haunted hazel. “If you were smart,” Dante added, his gaze locking onto Dabi’s, intense and bleak, “you wouldn’t have feelings for me.”
Dabi’s hand stilled on Dante’s back. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper.
A low sound escaped Dante’s lips. Not a laugh. A hollow expulsion of air, thick with defeat. “Because I have feelings for you too, Dabi.” He said it plainly, the words landing like stones. “And it scares the fucking hell out of me.”
Dabi frowned, confusion warring with the ache in his chest. “Why? Why does it scare you?”
Dante’s gaze drifted past him, out to the indifferent city lights. “I’ve loved two people. Partners.” His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, which somehow made it worse. “Azazel… died because of choices I made. Choices to leave my family behind.” He blinked slowly. “The other… he was consumed. By a curse. Twisted beyond recognition.” Dante’s jaw tightened, a flicker of ancient pain crossing his face. “I had no other choice. I had to kill him.” He finally looked back at Dabi, his eyes holding a terrifying depth of sorrow and fear. “I can’t… I can’t watch that happen to you. I couldn’t fucking survive it.”
The raw vulnerability in Dante’s voice, the terrifying weight of his history – Azazel consumed, another lover killed by his own hand – hung thick in the penthouse air. Dabi felt it like a physical pressure against his skin, colder than the marble beneath his bare feet. Dante leaned heavily against him, the tremors finally subsiding, but the desolation radiating from him was palpable, a crushing gravity.
"It won’t happen to me," Dabi stated, his voice low and fierce against Dante’s temple. The declaration felt reckless, a defiant spark against millennia of darkness. He tightened his grip on Dante’s shoulder, fingers digging into the taut muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
Dante lifted his head slowly, his eyes, still red-rimmed and hollow, met Dabi’s. A flicker of desperation warred with the bleak acceptance. "You don’t know that," he rasped, the Detroit edge roughened by grief. "My father… Lucifer… he’s still out there. Scheming. Waiting." He swallowed, the movement visible in the column of his throat. "What’s to stop him from coming for you? If he finds out?" The implication hung, ugly and sharp. If he learns you matter to me.
Dabi didn’t hesitate. "I don’t care." The words were stark, final. He held Dante’s haunted gaze, refusing to look away from the crushing fear he saw there. The silence stretched, charged with the city’s hum and the frantic beat of Dabi’s own heart against his ribs. He took a slow breath, the scent of Dante’s skin – smoke, salt, that unique ozone-tang – filling his lungs.
"I want you, Dante." The admission was quieter now, stripped of defiance, raw with a need that surprised even him. "Not just… not just the fucking. Though fuck," a shaky breath escaped him, "that’s… intense." He shook his head, struggling. "I want you. The whole fucked-up, ancient, terrifying mess of you. I didn’t… I never knew I… craved this. Craved the things you make me feel. The safety, somehow, tangled up in the danger. The fucking warmth." His voice cracked. "The… love, Dante. I didn’t know I needed any of it. But I need it with you."
Dante went utterly still. Not rigid, but frozen, as if Dabi’s words had struck him like a physical blow. He lifted his head a fraction more, pulling back just enough to truly see Dabi’s face, to search his eyes for any hint of deception. Dabi met that searching gaze unflinchingly, his own need laid bare. And then he saw it.
Dante’s eyes. The haunted hazel was gone. The molten gold of unleashed power had vanished. Instead, they glowed with a soft, luminescent pastel pink. Not harsh, not threatening, but utterly alien and breathtakingly tender. Dabi stared, mesmerized, confusion warring with a sudden, fierce hope. What did it mean? That color… it was unlike anything he’d ever seen in Dante before.
(When his eyes are that color...) The thought flickered, unbidden, through the storm of Dante’s own shock. (It means love.) The realization slammed into him with the force of a supernova. Not possessiveness, not lust, not ancient rage. Pure, terrifying, overwhelming love. For this stubborn, defiant, achingly human man who stood in his ruins and demanded the truth. Who saw the monster and the prince and the broken thing beneath, and wanted him anyway.
Dabi saw the shift in Dante’s expression – the disbelief, the dawning awe, the sheer, paralyzing vulnerability. Acting on instinct, on the need to bridge the impossible gap Dante’s eyes had just revealed, Dabi closed the distance between them. He didn’t grab, didn’t demand. He simply leaned in and pressed his lips to Dante’s in a kiss that was startlingly gentle against the backdrop of their raw history. Soft, questioning, yet charged with the depth of everything he’d just confessed.
For a heartbeat, Dante remained frozen. Then, a low sound, almost a whimper, vibrated in his throat. His lips parted beneath Dabi’s. Not taking control, but yielding, accepting. And then he pushed back. Gently at first, then with increasing pressure, deepening the kiss with a desperate, aching hunger that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with connection. His large hands came up, framing Dabi’s face, his thumbs brushing the high ridges of Dabi’s cheekbones with a reverence that stole Dabi’s breath.
The kiss deepened, a slow, molten exploration. Dante’s tongue touched Dabi’s lower lip, a silent question. Dabi opened for him with a soft sigh, the taste of salt tears and desperation mingling with the familiar, addictive essence that was uniquely Dante. Dante’s tongue slid against his, not demanding conquest, but seeking solace, communion. The pastel pink glow emanating from Dante’s eyes seemed to warm Dabi’s skin where Dante’s thumbs still rested. The world narrowed to the slick heat of their mouths moving together, the shaky rhythm of Dante’s breathing against his face, the impossible tenderness in the demon prince’s touch. Dante kissed him like a drowning man finding air, pouring centuries of choked-off longing into every soft slide and gentle nip, the raw, filthy power he usually wielded now harnessed into this devastatingly sweet invasion. His fingers slid from Dabi's jaw into his hair, tangling in the dark strands, not pulling, just holding, anchoring himself as he licked deeper into the wet warmth, mapping Dabi's mouth with aching slowness, rediscovering a language he thought he'd forgotten. The scratch of Dante's stubble against his chin, the low groan that rumbled from Dante's chest directly into his own – it was surrender and claim intertwined, a silent vow sealed in the shared breath and trembling heat between them. Dante finally broke the kiss, just enough to rest his forehead against Dabi’s, his eyes squeezed shut, those impossible pink lashes stark against his pale skin. "Dabi..." His voice was wrecked, a broken whisper against Dabi’s lips.
Dabi traced the damp track of a tear down Dante’s cheek with his thumb. "Yeah?" he murmured, his own voice thick. "Well, get used to the terror, Morningstar. Because I'm not walking away." He pressed another soft kiss to Dante’s trembling lips, tasting the lingering salt, feeling the desperate edge beneath the tenderness. "Not anymore."
Dante’s breath hitched. The pink glow in his eyes pulsed, brightening the shadows around them. His hands slid from Dabi’s hair down to grip his shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully, grounding himself. "You should," he rasped, the argument weak, half-hearted against the pull between them. "It’s not safe. Loving me… it’s like loving a fucking supernova."
"Screw safe." Dabi grabbed the collar of Dante’s shirt, twisting the fabric in his fist. He tugged Dante down, stealing another kiss, harder this time, biting Dante’s lower lip. "I want the fucking supernova. I want the burn." He pushed forward, forcing Dante back a step. Then another. The kiss turned messy, frantic, a clash of tongues and teeth fueled by adrenaline, fear, and that terrifying, burgeoning love. Dante groaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, his hands sliding down to grip Dabi’s hips, pulling him flush against the hard line of his arousal straining against his jeans.
Dabi broke the kiss, gasping. He shoved Dante again, harder. Dante stumbled back until his shoulders hit the cool, polished black marble wall near the vast windows. The city lights painted shifting patterns across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the raw need in those glowing pink eyes. "You think I don’t know the risk?" Dabi snarled, crowding him. "Hawks painted a fucking mural of your apocalypse, Dante."