Work Text:
His finger quivered over the trigger. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."
Nero raised his head to look at Corteo but didn't answer. Dark rings beneath his eyes spelled countless sleepless nights and one of his cheeks was bruising up in dark colors. Blood was crusted into his hair, streaked down the shape of his forehead and temple. He looked a mess, and Corteo didn't particularly care why. Or who had caused this.
All he knew was that the man kneeling in front of him had killed his only friend – his only family. After his mother died, Angelo was all Corteo had left. The Lagusa family had always treated him like one of their own. And the Vanetti had taken all of that away from him again.
Most of the others were dead. Nero was the only remaining member.
"Answer me!" Corteo spat. He pressed the barrel against Nero's forehead – cold metal against flushed skin.
Nero licked his lips, chafed and dry from days of being denied food or water. His face was sunken, hollow, and he did not at all look like the man Corteo had come to know during his brief brush with the mafia.
He looked pathetic.
A hushed whisper was uttered, Corteo had to bend down just to be able to hear the words Nero was slurring together. "There aren't any."
The gun was trembling in his hand. "What?"
"There aren't any," Nero repeated. "Just kill me and get it over with."
Corteo's eyes went wide. His arm dropped to his side, like a puppet whose strings got cut. Part of him tensed, expecting Nero to make a grab for the gun now that he had lowered his guard, but no such thing happened. The man in front of him just sat there, shoulders hunched and looking utterly defeated. There were chafe marks around his wrists from days of them being bound behind his back with rope. His ribcage looked frail, shaking with every inhale. Corteo felt as if a gust of wind could destroy Nero.
And with that revelation, the anger washed out of him.
Killing Nero here would not mean justice for him. It would not bring back Angelo, or any of the other people destroyed by this legacy. It would not do anything except add another marker to the growing graveyard of this city.
Corteo never wanted to kill anyone.
"Get up," he said. The gun was still in his hand but he didn't even feel like pointing it anymore, using it to gesture instead. Nero stared at him with nothing but detached indifference. "Get up, we're getting out of here."
If the change of heart surprised Nero he did a good job not showing it. He tried to follow the instruction to get up, but he hardly had managed to get onto his feet before his knees went out from under him. Corteo had to catch him, dropping the gun onto the floor where it clattered off to the side. Neither of them would bother to pick it up again.
He had expected to buckle under the weight, but after his two weeks of captivity, Nero had thinned out and felt like nothing but air in his arms. Corteo pushed against his side, threw Nero's arm over his shoulder to support him as they walked out of the basement.
"Why?" Nero muttered against his ear. His eyes were closed, like he didn't even have the strength to keep them open. Every step was a laborious undertaking.
Corteo hesitated, swallowed the doubt in his chest. "I don't know."
His apartment was dark. There was dust on the counters and the curtains were drawn. After what happened to Angelo, Corteo hadn't been here much. He opened the tap and the water that came out first was rust-colored and smelled off, so he let it run for a moment before filling a glass. Then he wetted the cloth he got from the closet.
Nero was lying on the bed, his button-up removed and hung over the back of a chair, his shoes left in the corner. While undressing him Corteo had seen all the scars the previous days had left on his body, welt marks along his back and a deep gash that ran over his shoulder to just below his throat. He pulled up the chair to just beside the bed, sat down on it with the things he prepared.
"Do you think you can drink?"
Nodding his head, Nero tried to push himself up against the headboard into more of a sitting position. Corteo put everything down on the bedside table so he could help. Nero's skin felt too hot against him, coated in dried sweat. Putting his hand on Nero's forehead, Corteo could tell he had a fever. Either from an infection or from being so badly taken care of. He picked up the glass again to give it to him, but Nero's fingers were shaking so badly he couldn't hold it properly.
Instead, Corteo put the glass to Nero's lips himself, cupping it forward slowly to allow the other man to drink. When he was done, he picked up the wet cloth he had brought and started washing the blood from the side of Nero's face.
Whatever had caused the wound must have been incredibly forceful. It was several inches wide and deep, and while it had stopped bleeding a while ago it had coated Nero's hair in such a way that it now hung together in disgusting tangles. Corteo did his best to clean it before applying the bandage. "Does it hurt?" he asked when he was done.
Nero hadn't looked at him during the entire time he was doing this, eyes downcast as if he hardly noticed they had left the basement at all. His arms were positioned stiffly on top of the blanket, even the power to move them had left him. He shook his head.
"I can get you some medication?" Corteo said while he got up. "Something for your fever at least."
Taking Nero's silence as agreement he went to see what he still had lying around. The bathroom felt foreign, in the shower was a stain that had been growing there since he rented the place. He came back with the medicine only to find Nero sitting straight, eyes closed and muscles tensed. His brow was furrowed – either in pain or deep thought.
He opened them when Corteo approached the bed and sat back down, handing Nero the pill and helping him drink again to swallow it.
With a sigh, Nero finally looked at him. "Why?"
The same question as before.
"I-" Corteo stopped. It felt strange to admit to a man he had worked against for so many weeks, whose demise he had actively been helping somebody plan. Looking at Nero, all he could see was Angelo – empty and bitter – wishing for the death of another. "I guess it just doesn't matter anymore. It's already over."
And maybe that was exactly what Nero needed to hear. He slumped down, a shaky exhale and then there were tears in his eyes. He managed to bring one hand up to cover his face but didn't make a sound. Corteo watched him do this, not saying anything either. Not knowing if there even was anything left to say.
Whatever they were to each other before died with Angelo. Now they were just two men with nothing left to lose.
They were the only two left at all.