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Nero held his father as he died in his arms, fought back tears as his father whispered with his last breath, “It was all for nothing.”
And, once the light in his father’s eyes had flickered out, Nero was forced to lower his father’s body to the cold floor. With his last shred of composure, Nero wiped away the blood trickling out of the corner of his father’s mouth and down his chin, collecting in his beard. Then, for a long moment, all he could do was stare at his hands, shaking with a fine tremor and covered in quickly drying blood that had begun to flake at the creases of his palms.
Nero finally managed to lift his head, raise his eyes, with far more effort than the action should have cost him. And then all he could do was remain crumpled on his knees, watching helplessly as his entire world crumbled to dust around him.
A sea of bodies trampled through the narrow hallway as panicked people, desperate people, pushed and shoved to escape the opera house. Within the jumbled mass of heads and jackets and clicking heels, something caught his eye. A brief glance of the back of someone’s retreating head, black hair shaved into an undercut.
Avilio.
A rush of heat flared up inside him, consumed him, and with every fiber of his being he longed to jump to his feet and pursue the man. Tackle him to the floor and blast his brains out with the simple pull of a trigger. But his legs refused to move, too heavy. Too heavy.
Nero lost sight of Avilio behind the corner of a wall.
¤¤¤
Nero finally managed to rise to his feet, stiff legs screaming in protest, when the opera house caught on fire. It was automatic, instinctual, the primal fear of death and fire spurring him into motion. He ran and ran, lungs full of thick, dark smoke that choked him as his chest heaved. And then suddenly he was tumbling out through the opening of a smashed-in door to land in a heap on the sooty cobblestone of an alleyway. He laid there, gasping for air, hacking coughs tearing through his throat. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten out, wasn’t sure if he wanted to remember. Then he was on his feet again. He ran.
He didn’t react when he sprinted around a corner and crashed into Cerotto. The man shrieked in terror, clutching at his chest, all color draining from his face. Nero just stared at him, watching as Cerotto took in huge gulping breaths as he attempted to calm down. Nero’s eyes drifted up and over the man’s shoulder, focusing on the car that was parked a few meters away from where they stood. He hoped it had gas.
Cerotto finally straightened up and managed to wheeze out, voice hoarse, “Jesus Christ, Nero! You almost gave me a fucking heart attack! What the hell are you—”
His voice cut off in a yelp as Nero grabbed him by the arm and started to drag him towards the car. Cerotto stumbled beside him, trying to keep up with Nero’s long strides and stay on his feet. Nero yanked the car door open—it was unlocked, thank God—and shoved Cerotto into the driver’s seat, saying, “Drive. We’re getting out of here.” Cerotto gulped, but stayed silent. Nero slammed the door, then slumped into the fabric of the backseat of the car just as the engine rumbled to life. Then they lurched into motion with a squeal of tires on pavement, and Nero closed his eyes.
¤¤¤
He directed Cerotto to one of the many safe houses the Vanettis had set up throughout the city. He knew it wouldn’t be safe for long, but he had to make a call.
It didn’t take nearly as long as he thought it would to locate Avilio. With a few well placed calls, he managed to get in contact with someone who was camped in a building across from where Avilio was being held. The man said he had seen Avilio enter the building, he was certain of it. Nero wasn’t sure he could trust anyone anymore, but it was all he had to go on.
His informant told him that he had seen five men go in with Avilio, all armed with guns, dressed impeccably in expensive, black suits. A mafia family, then. Nero had a strange certainty that it was the Galassias. He sighed, lifting his gun to count the bullets left in its barrel. Five. He dug around in his pocket, found an almost empty pack that held two more. He looked up to raise a questioning eyebrow at Cerotto, who just shrugged, lifting his empty hands in apology.
Nero sighed again, staring blandly at the bullets resting in his palm. Well. He’d have to be a good shot, then. He smirked, meeting Cerotto’s uneasy gaze through the rear-view mirror.
“Don’t even think about leaving.” The threat behind Nero’s words went unsaid, but he saw the way Cerotto cowered slightly in his seat.
He then slapped a hand onto Cerotto’s shoulder, grinning wickedly.
“Wish me luck! I know you’d just die from the pain of no longer having my company.”
He chuckled at the way Cerotto flinched, then exited the car.
And, just like that, his bravado began to fall away, smile turning down into something twisted and bitter as he walked through the dark doorway leading into the building.
He killed the men in quick succession. Their bodies thumped to the ground one after the other, the click of the trigger as his finger pressed down far too easy. Anticlimactic.
He walked to the door, sliding a limp body out of the way with a foot. He ignored the way his shoes left bloody prints in the carpet. When he turned the knob, icy in his hand, it was unlocked. And when he slowly pushed the door open, there was Avilio, sitting stiffly in a wooden chair, hands tied behind his back. Avilio didn’t react to the gunshots he must have heard, didn’t react to the creak of the door as it opened. Didn’t react as Nero walked closer, floorboards groaning beneath his weight. Didn’t react as Nero silently cut the ropes that secured Avilio to the chair. And Nero knew that he should be furious right now, wished that he could be. But when he finally looked into Avilio’s eyes, the only emotion he could scrounge up was a muted twinge in his chest as he found that golden gaze to be empty, so lifeless and dull.
That twinge didn’t stop him from roughly dragging Avilio to his feet, uncaring if it hurt the man. Nero ignored the strange way his chest tightened as he found Avilio to be limp in his hands, the only thing holding him up the strength of Nero’s arms. He ignored the uneasiness rising in his throat as he half-carried half-dragged Avilio to the car, Avilio’s legs doing little to support his own weight.
He shoved Avilio through the car’s open door and into the backseat. They then sat in the dark for a long, silent moment wrought with palpable tension. That was when Nero should have shot Avilio. Should have shot him in the head, right through his temple, when he was bound in the car minutes after the aftermath of his destruction had begun to spread like wildfire.
Nero felt grief, so much grief, and when he pressed the gun to Avilio's forehead in the darkened car, the flickering light of fires raging across the river reflecting in the glass of the car's windows and in Avilio's own unfeeling gaze, he believed himself to be furious, livid, incensed. Was fully intending to channel that raging inferno of hatred through the barrel of his gun in a single shot that would end all of this, destroy this man who had torn everything, absolutely everything, away from him. But as he met Avilio’s eyes, an empty gaze, a shell of a man harboring the look of someone who no longer had the will to live, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t complete that one simple action. He tried, God he tried, tried to find the anger that he thought had been boiling up inside him. Contorted his face into a snarl. Did nothing to attempt to even out his ragged breathing. Adjusted his shaking grip on the gun, pressed it harder into Avilio’s smooth, pale forehead. Tried to imagine the satisfaction he would feel, the resolution he would gain, when he blew that head into a million pieces. But there was no anger to be found. He wasn’t angry at Avilio. How could he not be angry?
Then the realization slowly, inevitably sank in that he understood far too well why Avilio had done what he did. That he was far too close to feeling exactly what Avilio had felt when his family had died by the Vanettis’ hands.
And as that empty, lifeless gaze stared resolutely back at him, no fear, no sadness, nothing—he saw how Avilio’s revenge had fixed nothing, given him no closure, filled no void. If anything, it had made him emptier, destroyed what little good he might have still had in his life. Nero thought of Corteo, how Avilio had sacrificed his friend, his brother, for what he believed to be a greater cause. Nero had the sickening realization that he had done exactly the same when he had killed Frate, believing that it was for the greater good of the family. And it had all meant nothing in the end. Killing Avilio, getting his revenge, would do no more good than what Avilio’s own revenge had done for him.
Nero wasn’t angry. He was just devastated.
And that terrified him far more than any all-consuming rage. So he lifted his still shaking hand, the metal of the gun glinting as he raised it behind his shoulder, and drove it down into the side of Avilio’s head. Avilio immediately slumped forward, shoulder crumpling against the hard metal of the car door as he lost consciousness. Nero stared for a long moment, and found that his actions had given him no satisfaction. He remained hollow.
¤¤¤
It had been days, now, since they ditched Cerotto. Nero had left him behind at a small supply store, unable to find the energy to feel guilty about abandoning him in an unfamiliar town in the middle of nowhere. As he drove away, watching Cerotto’s figure grow smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror, he even thought that Cerotto might be better off this way. The Galassia’s were after Nero, after all, not him. The man could try to start anew.
Then it was just Nero and Avilio. It almost made Nero want to laugh, how things had come full circle, how he had practically ended up on another road trip with Avilio. It was almost like before, when things had been simpler. But of course it wasn't the same.
A nagging voice in the back of his mind insisted, but is it different? Is it really?
¤¤¤
Nero was cold. God, he was so cold. He pulled his arms tighter to his sides, trying to hide the fact that he was shivering, that his shoulders were quaking. It wouldn't do to show weakness, not when the man walking next to him was completely composed, face blank. Unreadable. Just as it always was.
Sometimes that expression drove Nero mad. It was infuriating, Avilio’s indifference, his lack of expression of emotion. Nero refused to believe that that lack of emotion was genuine. There must be something, something, going on in that head that was more than just cold calculation. There was something hidden in those eyes, something dark and vengeful and full of pain. It was terrifying, sometimes, when he caught a glimpse of that elusive flicker of emotion. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see that, be confronted with that. All that rage, kept buried so deep for so long...who knew what would happen if that were released. Nothing good, Nero imagined.
At the moment, though, Avilio was maintaining his mask. Their car had broken down a few miles back and they were walking to the nearest town. It had started to rain halfway through their journey, leaving them to plod through ever deepening puddles as water rapidly seeped into their clothes for what Nero guessed would be at least another hour. Avilio was completely unaffected. He walked as if his clothes weren't hanging from his body, sodden and heavy with water. He continued forward at the same brisk pace, completely unhindered. He didn't even move to brush his hair away from where it clung to his forehead and fell over his eyes, didn't move to wipe away the droplets of water that collected in his dark eyelashes. Didn't react to the trails of water that ran down his cheeks and pooled in the dip of his collarbones.
Nero, on the other hand, was absolutely miserable. His shoes were full of water that sloshed with each step he took, and he began considering whether or not he should just take them off. Either way, his feet would be wet and freezing. Might as well try to avoid the blisters he would undoubtedly get from his shoes. Stupid, expensive things that had no other purpose but to make him look put together, imposing, maintain the image of the Vanetti family. He wished he could have worn boots that were actually sensible. His life seemed to lack that, didn’t it? Sense.
But he didn't pause to take them off, had to disregard the thought as Avilio’s blank stare focused ahead, his intensity making Nero feel, yet again, that he would somehow be giving in to his weakness, conceding defeat, by relinquishing his shoes. He frowned down at his feet, glaring at the water-darkened leather that encased them. He tried to focus on them, on navigating the uneven and cracked cobblestone that paved the poorly maintained country road they were traveling on. But, despite his best efforts, his gaze continued to flicker up to focus on Avilio.
He couldn't figure out why he was so drawn to Avilio, why he was studying him as if something were off, that something was wrong. Nothing was wrong—well, nothing was more wrong. Nothing was different, nothing had changed since they escaped...right? Had Nero missed something? He felt so on edge, uneasiness curling in his chest and tightening his throat.
All he could do was continue to study Avilio, ignoring the fact tugging at the back of his mind that what he was really doing was staring, plain and simple. He looked Avilio up and down, perplexed, verging on frustrated, as whatever was off continued to elude him. But, before he could think about how, just maybe, his eyes had lingered a little too long as they traveled up Avilio’s form, from his long legs to his slim waist, where his shirt clung to his skin...He took in a stuttering breath and came to the conclusion that something was wrong with the way Avilio was holding himself, almost too stiff, muscles taut and hands clenched, white knuckled, at his sides. And Nero realized that he might know what the problem was after all.
He winced and fought the urge to drag his hand across his face as he sighed, long and low. He wasn’t sure that either of them could last much longer trying to avoid their shared history. It was painful, yes, but it was slowly eating away at him from the inside out as he tried to bury that pain further within his mind. It was only making things worse, really, and maybe it would be better to let it out in the open. Confront the tension hanging taught between them and suffer the resulting consequences. At least then he would know where both of them stood, what Avilio really thought of him. Hatred, most likely. What else could it possibly be? He had aided in the murder of Avilio’s entire family. But...he hadn’t been able to kill Avilio. Still couldn't. Strange, that. He couldn’t figure out why.
But it was only a matter of time before one of them would act.
Of course it was Nero who finally couldn’t take it any longer. After another half hour of watching Avilio silently trudge through the muddy water rising in the street, all the while his shoulders becoming tenser and tenser as he continued to stare straight ahead, steadfastly avoiding Nero’s gaze, Nero was seething. His teeth were clenched so tightly that his jaw began to ache, and he was struggling to not draw blood as his nails dug into his palms. Avilio must have noticed Nero’s burning gaze by now, how could he not have? Nero was doing nothing to hide his staring and he knew that Avilio was observant, sometimes too much so. But Avilio did nothing. And that was what finally drove Nero over the edge—Avilio’s unwillingness to act.
Before he could stop himself, Nero found his hands fisting in the collar of Avilio’s shirt as he pulled roughly on the coarse material. He wasn’t expecting Avilio to whip around, twisting violently in his grip. Nero’s eyes widened as Avilio finally met his gaze, and he felt something clench painfully in his stomach at the unrestrained loathing he found held within their depths, directed solely at him. Avilio’s eyebrows knit together into a fierce scowl, his mouth pulled into a snarl, and Nero was almost afraid of what Avilio might do next.
From between clenched teeth, low and dangerous, Avilio growled out, “Get your hands off me.”
And that was all it took for Nero’s rage to come back, burning through him in a searing wave of heat. He yanked on the fabric that he still held within his fists, uncaring as the force of it caused Avilio’s head to jerk back sharply. He pulled Avilio close, lifting him up so that Avilio had to stand on his toes as Nero shoved his face into Avilio’s own. Avilio hung limply in his grip. Nero tried not to be unsettled by the sudden lack of retaliation.
“Don’t you dare act like I’m some filthy piece of trash now,” Nero growled. “Nothing’s changed. You knew who I was from the start.” Avilio continued to glare at him, gaze steely, saying nothing. His silence only fueled Nero’s rage, causing Nero’s lip to curl as he snarled, teeth bared, “You were the one who stayed with me this long. You could have killed me! You had so many chances, why wait, why do this, why—” He cut himself off before he could continue, unwilling to voice what he had almost said. Why let me get close to you .
Instead, he jostled Avilio harshly, his own breathing growing ragged. “I trusted you! God damn it, I still do! And I told you everything, Avilio, everything. I’ve never lied to you. I never lied—” Avilio had slumped further in his hold, head hanging limply, and what Nero had seen of his face before his hair obscured it was how Avilio’s eyes had gone dim. Nero ignored how afraid it made him that Avilio’s rage and fire, his spirit, seemed to have left him. How even his cold detachedness, his determined strength, seemed to have seeped out of him within moments.
Nero tried to shove the sickly, cold feeling of dread that was rising up his throat down again, continuing almost desperately, “—I won’t try to justify my role in killing your family. I was there, I was there, and I did nothing to stop it. I thought killing them was right—”
And suddenly Avilio was lifting his head, Nero only then noticing how Avilio’s shoulders were trembling in his grip, how Nero’s own hands were shaking. And when Nero could finally see Avilio’s face clearly again, his blood ran cold as something sharp and excruciating pierced through his heart. Those were tears running down Avilio’s face, not rain, and those were sobs that were making his shoulders tremble and shake. And Nero found that all he wanted to do was wipe those tears away with the pad of his thumb, fix whatever it was that had caused this strong, composed, unshakeable man to break down so thoroughly. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t—
And it broke something inside of him to hear the quiver in Avilio’s unsteady voice, thick with grief, as he managed to bitterly choke out, “Then tell me the truth!”
Nero stared, shocked, as Avilio closed his eyes, causing tears to run down his cheeks. Avilio then took in a shuddering breath that, halfway through, turned into a sob that caused his chest to heave painfully. Then, voice wrecked, he gasped, “Now, when it really matters! When I’m asking you! Why didn’t you kill me? Why couldn’t you have just killed me?” He was grabbing at Nero’s wrists, fingers icy against his skin. “It would have been so easy. So easy, and—It could have been over, I could have left this all behind—” His words seemed to fail him, then, overcome, and his hands fell away from Nero’s wrists to hang by his sides. As if he were giving up. As if he were waiting for the inevitable.
And all Nero could do was hang his head, shoulders hunched, grip tightening impossibly further in the collar of Avilio’s shirt. He ground his teeth, eyebrows pulled together fiercely, and found it impossible to look at the man he held in his fists before him. He squeezed his eyes shut, nose wrinkling with the force of it. He couldn’t—he couldn’t take this any longer. Avilio was all he had left, everything else had been taken from him. His family, his wealth, his pride, his life, everything he had ever known—Then it hit him. Avilio was all he had left. He almost laughed, hysterical, at how twisted that was. How the one person he had left was someone who had been planning to kill him from the start. And Nero still trusted Avilio—how could he still trust him?
Nero told himself that he didn’t know why. But, deep down, he knew the answer.
And then Avilio spoke again, grinding out, “Please.”
Nero’s breath froze in his chest.
“Please! Why didn’t you kill me?”
Nero couldn’t, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t look up, not when they had both killed each other’s families, not when they were both destined to die—
Avilio was gripping Nero’s wrists again, fingers clenched painfully tight, and Nero realized that Avilio was pleading now. Pleading for an answer or for death, he did not know. Nero felt sick.
A shuddering breath escaped from between Avilio’s lips, and along with it came words so quiet that Nero almost didn’t hear them. But he did.
“...Nero...Nero please.”
And, at the sound of his name, Nero snapped.
He raised his head, eyes wild.
“I couldn't kill you! I didn't want to kill you! Because—” His voice snagged painfully in the back of his throat, his breath hitching in a way that was far too close to a sob, “because I—” And he found that his words had failed him.
He lurched forward, unsteady, and dragged Avilio down by the collar to meet him, covering Avilio’s mouth with his own. It was more forceful than he had meant for it to be, and their noses clashed painfully. Nero didn’t care. All he knew was that Avilio was in his arms, cold and wet and shaking, but undeniably, undoubtedly alive. He could feel Avilio’s warm breath brush over his face, feel his lips part slightly against his own in shock. Could feel the feather-light brush of eyelashes against his cheeks as Avilio’s eyes widened.
And this was wrong, so incredibly wrong. Wrong how he wanted this, how he yearned for it, how something ached deep inside of him, desperate and raw and distraught. How the feel of the lips of the man who had killed all the people he had ever cared for against his own didn't repulse him. How he wanted to pull Avilio closer, drown himself in the man. And he knew that he was going to drown, that he was already drowning, and he could do nothing to stop it.
So he surrendered.
He unclenched fingers stiff from the cold, lifting a hand to tangle his fingers in Avilio’s sodden hair, run his fingers through the tangled strands down to the nape of his neck, the short hairs there pricking his palm. His fingertips brushed the shell of Avilio’s ear, traced the curve of it, thumb smoothing over the bruised skin beneath Avilio’s eye and digging into his cheekbone. He then cupped the back of Avilio’s neck, pulled him closer, gasped against Avilio’s mouth at the feel of him pressed to his chest, bony and whipcord thin, yet so very solid. So real.
Avilio took in a sharp breath, then, and lifted hands that wavered in the scant space between them before clenching in the front of Nero’s shirt. He didn’t pull Nero closer, and for a moment Nero thought that Avilio might shove him away, because Avilio was not returning the kiss, not responding, standing there seemingly frozen in place. So Nero dug his nails into the soft skin of Avilio’s neck, pressed until he knew it must hurt. He needed to get a reaction out of Avilio, didn’t care if it would make Avilio finally come to his senses and punch Nero in the jaw. Didn’t matter, as long as Avilio did something.
Avilio let out a snarl and bit Nero’s lip. Hard.
The wave of pain shot straight through him, and Nero tasted blood. He groaned at the sharp, cloying tang of iron on his tongue, shuddered at how the taste filled his mouth and clung to his teeth.
And then Avilio was kissing back, all sharp teeth and soft lips, a desperation that Nero had never seen in Avilio before making his movements graceless and harsh. He dragged a hand across Nero’s ribs to wrap around his back and fist in the fabric there, right between Nero’s shoulder blades. The weight of his arm burned like a brand around Nero's waist. Avilio’s other hand rose to tangle itself in Nero’s hair, nails sharp against his scalp, tugging him ever closer, drawing him in, enough force behind it to turn the kiss bruising.
It was overwhelming. Almost too much. Nero’s breath had gone ragged, his hands were shaking where they both cupped Avilio’s cheeks, fingers curling beneath his jaw. He couldn’t even think properly, could only focus on the way he could feel Avilio’s pulse beneath his fingertips, how the rush of blood pounded away at a staccato rhythm that mimicked his own frantically beating heart. And he knew he needed to pull away, but the wet heat of Avilio’s mouth as he nipped at Nero’s bottom lip was sending shudders through his veins, and he couldn’t hold back the hoarse moan that escaped his throat when Avilio ran a tongue across the seam of his lips. Couldn’t stop himself from pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses to the corner of Avilio’s mouth, starting to trail along Avilio’s jaw, ever closer to his throat, before he finally managed to tear himself away, managed to stop himself before he could run his teeth along the tendon there, tongue at the sensitive skin in the hollow beneath Avilio’s ear.
He pulled away with a gasp, but couldn’t bring himself to step away, resting his forehead against Avilio’s own, hands still cupping Avilio’s face. Nero was breathing heavily, eyes closed, shaken and feeling as if he had just toppled into a bottomless pit. Avilio’s forehead was warm against his own. He could feel Avilio’s breath against his cheeks. He could feel how Avilio’s hands were shaking with fine tremors where they still clung to him.
And it hurt, God it hurt, when in that moment he finally admitted to himself just how much he cared for this man. It was laughable, really, but it was true. He tried to huff out a laugh, but it came out too much like a sob, raw and shaky and anything but humorous. And he was crying, now, wasn't he? He could feel how the tears were slowly beginning to well in his eyes, how his vision blurred at the edges, how they burned hot, wet tracks down his cheeks.
The ache in his chest started to build, became a desperate sort of need that swamped him, consumed him. And all he could do was kiss Avilio again. Slower, deeper. Kiss him until neither of them could remember who they were, what they had done.
It felt like dying.
And suddenly the feeling pushing against his ribs shattered in his chest, splintering like broken glass. Nero had reached his breaking point. It was too much, it was all too much, and he dropped his head to Avilio's shoulder and couldn't choke back the sobs fighting their way up his throat any longer.
Nero wept. Wept and shook and fisted his fingers in the back of Avilio’s shirt. Pressed his face into the crook of Avilio’s shoulder, breaking down. Crumbling. Just tried to breathe, Avilio’s damp hair brushing against his cheek as he clung to Avilio like he was the last thing anchoring him to the world. Which he was.
Avilio sucked in a sharp breath, the line of his shoulders going taut. His hands hovered uncertainly, fingers grazing Nero's back. Afraid to touch, not knowing how to comfort. But he tilted his head ever so slightly to just barely lean into Nero's touch, just barely turn his face into Nero's hair, cold nose brushing his ear. And it was enough. It had to be enough.
All they had was each other. They were all that was left.
They were all that was left.