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If anybody were to see Dante now, they would say that this isn't like him. The look on his face is distant, nostalgic, lost in memories of simpler times; back when the biggest thorn in his side was an older brother who wouldn't give up the top bunk no matter what; back when all of his troubles boiled down to what they were having for dinner that night, and whether he'd have to eat any pesky vegetables; back when the sword fights he had with his brother were with toys rather than the real thing. Dante thinks it isn't like him to dwell on these matters either, much preferring to laze about as he always does, dealing with matters as they come and crossing bridges only when his side is set ablaze, because no matter how much he dreams of that day back in the Underworld, that day he let Vergil fall alone into the depths, nothing will change.
But time rolls on, whether he wants it to or not, and the older Nero gets, the more he begins to notice the way they both have the same nose; the same deep set eyes that carry the same intensity, even if channelled in vastly different ways; the same chin… With every week, every month, every damn year that passes far too quickly now for Dante's liking, Nero looks more and more like his father.
Like Vergil.
Being half demon comes with many perks - he doesn't technically need to eat or sleep, requiring only two to three hours every few days to maintain an optimal state - but chief among them is that his tolerance for pain is exceedingly high, allowing him to shrug off every scratch, every gash, every impalement without so much as a shrug or a wince. Lady used to comment on it all the time, saying it was creepy and unnatural that he could feel no pain, but if that's the case, why does he feel something twinge deep in his chest when he looks at Nero now? It's such a small little thing, like a tiny pinprick in comparison to the many things he's been stabbed with over the years, but what differs is that this hits him where Dante is the most vulnerable - his heart.
He should be happy, shouldn't he? That the son of his brother is alive and well, wielding the power of his father in his right arm to protect that which he loves the most in the most ironic form of karmic justice that Dante's ever seen. He should be happy. And he is, he thinks, as he watches Nero sort through all the documents he pilfered from the destroyed headquarters of the Order of the Sword. He is. At least until the late afternoon sun hits Nero a certain way, accentuating the high cheekbones of the brother he failed, and that's when he feels that little prick again.
"I think that's all of them," Nero says, binding up the last of the crisp documents and dumping them into an old cardboard box. He rises to his full height, and god, Dante thinks he's probably about as tall as Vergil was the last time he saw him too. "We just need to keep them somewhere they won't-- what?"
Nero's curt bark is what pulls Dante back into the present, and with a series of rapid blinks, the faraway look in his eyes shrinks away, but doesn't disappear. No, it's always there, and it gets a little harder to force back the more time passes.
"What the hell're you staring at?"
Dante tilts his head, feels his lips tug into an automatic, familiar smile. "Eh, not much. Just thinking about how you're getting old."
The younger hunter blanches. And to think he was worried for half a second. "Speak for yourself, old man." Nero folds his arms across his chest, and Dante notices that the faint glow of the Devil Bringer matches the colour of the summoned swords he grew so adept at dodging over the years. That's another similarity to add to the ever growing list. "Just knock it off. It's weird."
At that, Dante can only huff an amused snort, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock defeat.
"Yeah. I was kinda thinking the same thing."
Getting emotional really isn't his schtick at all. Maybe there's a little of his brother to be found in him too.