Work Text:
He closes his hand around the pistol, grip firm. The sand under his feet shifts like snow, the crashing of waves against the shore a constant hum, like the chirping of cicadas in the trees. Angelo walks in front of Nero, footsteps leaving a trail in the sand. Slouched, shuffling, Angelo looks small, as if he's still the child Nero had aimed at all those years ago. It's funny, how things work out.
Angelo doesn't turn back, and for that, Nero is grateful.
He looks down at his feet, pausing when he spots a feather in the sand, jet black and gleaming. He closes his eyes and breathes. He opens his eyes, resolute, and pulls the trigger.
.
(i.)
Nero is still young when he stumbles upon a baby bird, fallen from its nest. It cowers under Nero’s shadow, a little puffball of black down twitching a broken wing futilely in self-defense.
“It’s not going to live,” Vanno says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Leave it.”
Don’t tell me what to do, Nero thinks, just to be contrary. Nero kneels down, movements slow and telegraphed, staring at the fledgeling with wide eyes. He reaches out a finger curiously, and the bird flinches before lashing out, pecking at the pad of Nero’s finger hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck!” Nero draws his hand back, sucking his finger into his mouth. The taste of iron washes over his tongue, and he smiles. “Feisty little shit, I’ll give it that.”
The bird makes a pitiful noise, and Nero sighs, eyes darting over to where Vanno is standing, giving him a notably unimpressed look.
“You’re not seriously thinking about keeping it, are you? Shit, just get a normal pet, like a dog or something!”
Another insistent peep worms its way into Nero’s heart, and he caves, scooping the tiny bird up with gentle hands. It pokes his palm a bit with its small talons before it settles with a contented chirp, and Vanno grumbles with frustration.
“Fucking softie.”
.
(ii.)
The fire crackles to life in the darkness, warmth an immediate comfort on Nero's skin. He reaches over and wraps his fingers around the neck of the bottle sticking out of his bag, drawing it out. Popping the cork, he stares at the fire through the tinted glass — the refraction of the light filters through the amber liquid sluggishly, turning the campsite on the other side into a blurred haze. He drinks, alcohol sharp on his tongue. He feels it burn its way down his throat, as if he's swallowed the flames in front of him whole.
There's a soft rustle that draws Nero out of his thoughts when Avilio — Angelo? — shifts in his sleep. He's lying on his side, curled in on himself as if he's trying to draw away from Nero — and maybe he is. Nero wouldn't blame him. His hair falls in stray strands along his face, jet black and gleaming with gold highlights in the warm light of the fire.
He's beautiful, Nero thinks, not for the first time.
Nero wonders if he's really asleep, or if he's just pretending. Nero could get up now, and draw his pistol. He could press the barrel of the gun against Avilio's temple, could pull the trigger with shaking fingers and watch Avilio's blood paint the ground red. He could burn the body in the woods, and nobody would ever know. He'd disappear without a trace. Nero traces a finger along cold steel, letting out a shuddering breath before slipping the gun back into his pocket.
It's not that Nero thinks he can't do it. He knows, with the certainty of someone who's killed a million times over, that he can. The real question, then, is if he will.
Nero stares down at his palms, fingers itching to close around a cigarette, a bottle, another vice to keep his sin alive for another day. Vanno was always the religious one, and Frate even more religious than the two of them combined. He feels the weight on his shoulders, the perpetual smell of gunpowder and iron on him a constant reminder of what he's done. There's blood on his hands, of friends, family — but Avilio is neither friend nor family now.
There shouldn't be a decision to make. He's killed for less.
He can almost hear Vanno's voice in his head, echoes of that familiar laugh still etched into his memory. What a sentimental bastard. You never could pull the trigger, could you?
The moon shines down overhead, clouds clearing in the night sky and illuminating the quiet forest with cold light. There's a kind of feral beauty to the woods on nights like these, and it tempers the storm raging beneath Nero's skin, giving him another excuse to lay back and stop thinking. He'll decide when the time is right, he tells himself, listening to Avilio's quiet breaths, a slow counterpoint to the quick pace of his own pulse beating in his ears.
Nero's a simple guy. He's used to answering complicated questions with simple answers. It's harder when he's facing simple questions with complicated answers. He feels like he's teetering on a dangerous edge, like his skin is just a brittle shell, one touch away from crumbling open. He feels like he’s a dying furnace, as if at any moment his ribs will split open and let the embers of all the things he’s been keeping inside of him pour out of his chest and burn him raw.
He lays down on his back, on the makeshift futon they've laid out.
Question one, he thinks, raking fingers back through his choppy hair: what is Avilio, to me? Why is this so hard?
He doesn't let himself voice his second question, even to himself, feeling the shape of his pistol against his chest like a brand.
.
(iii.)
He keeps the bird in a makeshift nest at first, a bundle of towels and foliage arranged on the nightstand next to his bedroom window. It takes to indoor life hesitantly, but it devours whatever scraps Nero offers it, eyes glinting with satisfaction. He constructs a miniature splint for the bird, a tiny thing of cut up medical tape keeping its injured wing close to its body, and eventually it heals to completion. Feathers start to poke out of its down, glinting glossy and jet black in the light.
“Jesus, that thing is still alive?” Vanno asks, when he stops by one day.
“I’m thinking about naming it,” Nero says, watching as it pokes at bits of risotto.
“Is that a raven? A crow?” Vanno shakes his head, pulling out a cigarette. “That’s a bad omen.”
“You’re a bad omen,” Nero fires back half-heartedly, grabbing the cigarette from Vanno’s fingers. “Smoke outside.” Vanno stares at him, before shooting a glare at the bird.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
"Birds have fragile respiratory systems," Nero informs him, pushing the cigarette into Vanno's chest. Vanno takes it, stuffing it back into his pocket, running a hand through his hair.
"I can't believe you," Vanno says, sounding as if he's been betrayed. "All our friendship, and for what? You replace me with a bird."
"We're still friends," Nero replies, flippantly. He pets the bird absently with a finger. "I just have new priorities." Nero crosses his legs where he sits on his bed, leaning forward to watch the nest on his nightstand.
Vanno scoffs, plopping himself into the armchair across from Nero's bed. "Can the thing fly yet?"
Nero frowns, drumming his fingers on the mattress. "I've seen it try. It manages to jump, a little, but it hasn't flown yet."
The bird finishes its meal with a satisfied clicking noise, hopping about its nest and staring up at Nero, who gives it a small smile. "Yeah, we're talking about you, you little shit. You'd better start flying soon, you hear?"
"What'll you do if it never flies?"
Nero pretends he hasn't heard.
.
(iv.)
"You should have killed me, seven years ago!"
Avilio's words rattle in Nero's chest, digging into all the spaces he'd forgotten and drawing out a dangerous, hollow ache. Nero clenches his fingers where they rest on the steering wheel, the low rumble of the engine a calming hum in the background. Avilio leans against the window, eyes closed in the semblance of sleep. Nero glances at him, frowning at the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his brow. He wants to reach out and smooth them away, just as much as he wants to hate Avilio for it all.
Nero doesn't even know how he feels. He's always been an emotional guy, fire and impulse running through his veins, always a brash counterpoint to Frate's wariness and caution. He's never had to question what he'd felt, or why.
Nero grits his teeth, stares out at the stretch of open road in front of him, and forces his thoughts to sharpen, to focus.
There are two people resting in Nero's passenger seat.
There's the Avilio that Nero had known and trusted and — and there is Angelo, a manipulative killer, who'd taken away everything that Nero had lived for. He knows, rationally, that they're the same person, that likely the Avilio he'd known had been a constructed identity, made to gain Nero's trust.
But — he can't help but believe, with his gut if not his heart, that it wasn't completely a lie. Maybe he has to believe that, because it's the only thing that he has left.
He takes a breath, thinking back. Avilio, frowning, dragging cool fingers across Nero's forehead, his touch a welcome distraction from the heat of Nero's fever. He thinks about the way Nero had leaned into his touch as if he'd been starved for it, the way he'd wanted. He thinks about the cup of saccharine eggnog, thinks about the worry marked in the focus of Avilio's eyes on his face, the way his palm on Nero's temple had lingered half a beat too long. Had he faked that, too?
Then: a warm cup of coffee, slid across Nero's desk in the wake of Frate's death. The way Avilio had crossed the dark office, cracking open the blinds, before leaning on the corner of Nero's desk, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. The way his voice had gone soft and honest when he'd said, "It wasn't your fault, Nero." The way Avilio's voice had sounded almost vulnerable — almost guilty — when he'd said Nero's name.
And after all of it was said and done, the fact of the matter is that Nero is still alive. And for all of Avilio's excuses, Nero knows that they're bullshit. If Avilio — Angelo, whoever — had wanted him dead, he would have been dead. The conclusion, then, is that he didn't want to kill him, for whatever reason. Nero almost hopes that it's because he couldn't bring himself to kill him.
It's almost laughable, if it's true, because then they're in the same boat: a road trip with your family's murderer, with your bleeding heart the only barrier between your bullet and their skull. He wants — he doesn't know what he wants, and that's the issue. He wants to push Avilio back against the side of the car and kiss him just as much as he wants to kill him, and that — that's a problem he shouldn't have, and Nero hates himself for it.
He steals another glance at Avilio in the seat next to him, taking in the way his clothes fit less well these days, the way his cheekbones have sharpened on his face.
Nero pulls off the main route at the next sign and into the parking lot of a diner.
.
(v.)
"Which name do you prefer?" It's a mindless question that comes out before Nero's sleep-addled mind can filter all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth, and he winces a little to himself. Nero frowns, because that's not what he'd wanted to ask, not really.
Who do you prefer to be?
"I don't care," Avilio says, after a pause. They're in a cheap motel this time and out of the elements, Avilio's pickpocketing and the few connections Nero could scrape together after they'd fled giving them enough pocket money to rent a room for the night. "Does it matter?"
Yes, Nero wants to say. I want to know who you really are. I want to think that I know.
"Guess not," Nero says, instead. Avilio stays characteristically silent, eyes fixed on the floor. The circles under his eyes are fading, giving way to clear skin. Nero hates himself for the way it eases a tightness in his chest, for the way he wants to reach out and stroke the soft skin there with his thumb. Angelo pulls out a cigarette, placing it between his lips. Nero tosses him his lighter, and Angelo lights his cigarette before passing it back.
"Angelo," Nero murmurs. "Angelo."
"What?"
"Nothing," Nero says, with a snort. "Just testing it out."
Angelo shakes his head in what Nero has come to recognize as disapproval, and Nero turns away to hide the way his lips quirk up fondly.
This is dangerous, the way the rage in his chest has burned itself out. Thinking about his family, about the past, elicits a dull pain that digs into him, but it's devoid of the scathing, violent anger that it'd filled him with before, at the beginning of their trip. Can he blame Angelo for what he's done?
Yes, Nero wants to think. He killed Vanno, and Volpe, and Frate.
No, he thinks instead. I'm the one who killed Frate. My family killed his family. Wasn't that wrong?
Nero can't feel guilty for what he's done — but at the same time, his anger fizzles away when he tries to grasp it, leaving him strangely empty. He remembers something his father had told him, when he was younger: staying alive is easy. It's living that's hard.
Nero thinks that Angelo, of all people, would understand that line better than he could ever hope to.
"You won't ever forgive me, will you?" Nero asks. It's a pointless question, when he already knows the answer and when he doesn't want or need Angelo's forgiveness, but he asks it anyway.
Angelo doesn't say anything at first, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Would you?"
Nero ignores his question, pointedly. "Then why not kill me?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Angelo says, pointedly. "I'm not the one with a gun." There's an intensity in his eyes as he walks up to Nero, throwing his cigarette onto the cheap carpet and crushing it beneath his shoe. His hair is longer now, grown out from time on the road. Angelo raises a hand, pressing it to Nero's neck with enough pressure to hurt, but not enough to choke. Nero knows that Angelo can feel the way his pulse races to life beneath his fingers, knows that Angelo can feel the way his breaths shake on every inhale. He locks eyes with Angelo, a challenge. Angelo's eyes are dark and intent, drinking in each of Nero's reactions greedily.
"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to," Angelo mutters, his grip easing. His palm traces over Nero's jaw, almost tender, before his hand trails down Nero's chest, pausing on the outline of the pistol through his clothes and huffing out a bitter laugh.
"Too trusting," Angelo admonishes.
Would you shoot me now? Nero wants to ask. I almost think I'd let you.
"Is that such a bad thing?" Nero murmurs instead, raising a hand to encircle Angelo's wrist loosely. It feels like the strange balance they've been in for so long is finally tipping, seconds away from collapsing in on them like a crumbling roof.
Angelo gives him a thoughtful look, and pulls Nero's arm away with his other hand, bringing Nero's hand to his lips. It's cruel, even for Angelo. "What do you want?"
Nero snorts, tearing his hand away. "I want you to stop fucking with me."
"What more reason would I have to lie?" Angelo's face is carefully blank — it pisses Nero off, and he shoves Angelo back, turning away. You could at least pretend that you care.
"Nero," Angelo calls.
What do you want?
"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to," Nero echoes.
.
(vi.)
"It should be able to fly," Nero insists, holding a futile hand out to block the bird from view. Vincent's face is stern, and he shakes his head. "Its wings are fine."
"It never learned to fly," Vincent says, cocking the gun back with a click. "It was too young when its wings were broken. It'll just die in the wild, regardless." Nero grits his teeth, shaking his head. He knows it's true.
"Give me the gun," Nero says, finally.
.
(+)
Angelo takes to living hesitantly, taking one step backwards for every two steps forward. Nero doesn't know why he's trying — some days, he thinks it's hopeless, that for all his efforts, Angelo is still that empty shell of a man he was when they'd first fled Chicago. But Angelo, slowly, surprises even him.
"More," Angelo says, blankly. Syrup sits in a shallow pool in the bottom of his plate, and Nero sighs, exasperated.
"Who do you think pays for your food? Ungrateful brat," Nero mutters. Angelo pauses, tapping his fork quietly against the side of his plate.
"Thank you," he says, hesitantly. "They're good."
Nero stares at him, before hesitantly smiling. "Tch. It's about time." He flags down the waiter, gesturing to Angelo. "Get him another plate, would you?"
"I'll pay you back," Angelo offers. Nero shakes his head, taking a drink from the coffee mug in front of him.
"It's fine. I was joking." Angelo says nothing, but stares intensely at his plate, as if lost in thought.
"Nero," he starts, finally.
"Hmm?" Angelo pauses, and Nero waits, trying to appear patient — he fails, drumming his fingers against the table and leaning forward.
"What am I, to you?"
It's not at all what Nero had expected to hear, especially not from Angelo, and Nero can't think of an answer. The waitress returns, setting down a new plate of pancakes, and still they sit in silence, Nero looking down at the table and avoiding Angelo's eyes.
"A friend?" Nero tries, but Angelo frowns, brows creasing further in contemplation. "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know," Angelo says, finally. "I don't know what I want — I don't even know what I'm doing here."
"You and me both," Nero says, with a sad smile, and hesitates. "You're all I have left. I don't know what that makes you."
Angelo nods, slowly, bowing his head. He starts eating the pancakes with a satisfied hum, and Nero feels a bittersweet tug in his chest when Angelo smiles, glancing up at Nero.
"These are really good," he says again, smile growing into a small grin, and Nero rolls his eyes.
"You should do that more often," Nero says, looking away. "That thing with your face. It's a good look on you." They settle into a comfortable silence, punctuated by Nero's occasional sips of coffee and the sound of Angelo's fork scraping against his plate. A dull sound from the floor gets Nero's attention, and he looks down to see a rubber bouncy ball roll into his shoe, picking it up curiously.
"M-Mister!" A blond haired boy scurries over from a booth across the room, running with so much enthusiasm that he stops a step short of launching himself head-first into Nero's lap. "Um, I think my ball rolled towards you," he stammers, voice high and anxious.
"Hmm," Nero replies, feigning thoughtfulness. "Can't say I've seen it." The boy droops, looking around the floor frantically.
"Wait," Nero says, pausing. "What's that?"
The child looks up, confused. "Where?"
"Right here," Nero says, reaching out behind the boy's ear and revealing the ball hidden between his fingers. "I wonder how it got there."
The child's eyes widen in wonder, gasping as Nero offers him the rubber ball. He takes it, staring up at Nero. "Are you a magician?"
"Something like that," Nero says. "Now, you should get back to your parents, kid."
He ruffles the hair of the kid fondly, smiling warmly as he scampers away. When he turns back, Angelo is watching him, a strange light in his eyes.
"What?" Nero asks, with a raised eyebrow.
"Nothing," Angelo says, shaking his head, but there's the beginning of a small smile at the corner of his mouth, and it makes Nero's grin widen.
"Well. Where to next?" Nero asks.
Angelo takes out a worn travel brochure from his bag, setting it on the table.
"Have you ever been to Florida?"
.