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Nero woke up with a start, gasping for air, his bedsheets uncomfortably damp with sweat.
Back when he was still a teenager with no clue where he came from, when his arm had first changed - he’d started having recurring dreams. He never remembered them in the morning, but they all rushed back into his memory, all at once, when his powers first awakened, and ever since then - it had been in the back of his mind, at least what fleeting recollection he had of them.
A man with an intense stare and a peculiar voice, telling him he needed more power.
In hindsight, it was almost ridiculous how obvious it was… but he never had the puzzle pieces needed to put it together, huh?
He’d taken to having similar dreams again, of late… except now, the man wore a tatty cloak, and ripped his arm off with a cold sneer on that beautiful, otherworldly face of his; or those icy, steely eyes would turn to meadows, hair suddenly inky black - before he flaked off into nothing, leaving him to grasp at dust motes, knowing he’d failed.
And Nero would wake up, and despite the terror that gripped his heart - deep within him, he wished for that man’s presence, real and tangible (so he could shake him down, demand an explanation, answers to so many questions, and their blood would rise, their demons spurred instinctively into motion, and it would be magnetic, a push and pull that he only ever got to taste the one time but he could still savour in the back of his throat - that blue electric tang, that energy, the buzz of his wings wrapped around scaly limbs to throw him into the ground- ), and each time, without fail, his chest hollowed out once he came to his senses.
Right.
Seriously, how stupid was it - to develop such an obsession, an infatuation, almost, for someone you’d only ever seen in a dream… only for said dream to turn out to be real, and alive, and wouldn’t that have been just great? Except…
Except.
Except Vergil was real, alive and breathing, and also Nero’s father.
Fate was such a cruel bitch, sometimes.
He was real, Nero’s father, alive (probably), and also rotting away in hell (the two weren’t mutually exclusive, it turns out).
And the bastard clearly didn’t give a single shit about him, hadn’t cared to stick around for any part of Nero’s life - even Dante, in that regards, had done better. Sure, he’d lied to him for half a decade, had never told him anything of substance at all, really, but… every now and then, he’d been there. Not exactly present, but - he only had to take one look at the bright blue “Devil May Cry” sign hanging on the side of his van to know instinctively that if he ever really needed him, he only needed to call.
What had that piece of shit ever done for him, except bring him into the world? Oh, right - he’d ripped off his arm, effectively crippling him for over a month, caused the deaths of more people than he could even begin to fathom, and right when he finally got to take the barest look at him… he fucking up and left again, leaving only that dumb old book behind.
What was so special about it, anyway?
He grabbed for it blindly in the darkness - he’d kept it close, ever since. He was probably a right moron to give it that much importance, the old man probably just needed to get rid of it and pacify Nero at the same time, so he just figured he’d pawn it off on him, but - he couldn’t bear to part with it, for whatever reason. So what if it had been given without a single thought? It still…
Well, it wasn’t like Nero ever really got presents, before. He’d gotten the one necklace from Kyrie, an almost identical twin to the one he’d given her all those years ago, and he knew it was a cheap little thing, but - he wore it with him in the shower, would not take it off.
And Dante - Dante’s sign, that one had to have cost a pretty penny, so it was justified then, if he spent particular attention polishing it until it was spotless, making extra sure that as much as Nico drove them around like a maniac, she never damaged it - damn thing would probably cost a lot to repair, too.
So what if he wasn’t used to having things given to him, and when he did, he clung to them with all of his might? If he did, then that was just Nero’s business and his business alone.
He turned his eyes back to the book - he didn’t need to turn on the light to see it. He’d always had a pretty good night vision, but ever since his trigger fully unlocked, he found he could actually see a bit better in the dark than in the light, if that was even possible. It would’ve freaked him out if it wasn’t so useful.
Either way, he studied the book - a worn-thin, faded old thing. He’d flipped through it before, of course - many times, in fact. He’d even read the poems - there was no title or author name on the cover, which was the first thing he’d noticed. Only one big, ornate V - and, initially, Nero had thought it might’ve been a roman numeral, but. Maybe it stood for “Vergil”?
As intricate and pretty to look at the design on the cover was, it was very clearly done by hand - did Vergil do it himself? When?
His mind briefly flashed to his Blue Rose and the engravings he’d done on it with his own hands.
Well, there was no title on the cover, so to discover what exactly it was he was reading, he’d had to open it to the first page - poems by William Blake, it read. The name didn’t ring a bell, but, well - Nero never really claimed to have paid any attention in school, only skated by with the bare minimum grades because he could just not make himself sit down and listen for so many hours in a day. And then again, Fortuna very closely monitored which materials were allowed for the citizens to consume - even more so when it came to school aged kids, so it could also have very well been that he’d honestly never heard or read anything by the man in his life before.
Either way, the poems were completely new to him - and in his perhaps overeager desire to just - to understand, to piece together something, anything about the cryptic walking enigma that was his father, he read. He read like it held all the secrets in the universe hidden among the pages, like if he could just think hard enough, maybe something would jump at him, a revelation of some sort - but he must’ve been exceptionally dumb, because none of it made any sense to him. Maybe there really was nothing to understand, maybe it was all just nonsense.
Maybe he should stop caring so much about it all.
As he scanned the pages, he found himself drifting closer to the book, almost subconsciously, and it suddenly occurred to him just how much time the item had spent in V’s possession - tucked away under the leather, held close to his body. Had Vergil held it like that, too? …And more importantly, had Nero had it long enough that it no longer smelled like them?
Before he could process that train of thought, he’d brought his nose down to sniff the pages - and the main, most present smell was simply that of dusty old paper, but over it, Nero’s own scent hung like a cloud - he was almost disappointed before he felt it, the unmistakeable note of V buried underneath.
That smell tugged at something in his heart - V had smelled sickly, of body odour and dirty leather, but with an underlying tang of ozone which he now realised must’ve been a leftover from Vergil’s own scent. That wasn’t to say he’d smelled bad - but it was a worrying smell, one that made Nero want to fuss over the man, get him to take it easy because clearly, he was overexerting himself.
To find himself smelling it again, on the pages of that book - V was gone, for all intents and purposes. Maybe he’d never even been, maybe he’d always been little more than an act and a lie. And fuck, but Nero had liked him - he took himself way too seriously, acted like a snobbish know-all, but… underneath all that, he was charming, perceptive, and witty, and was there any of that left in Vergil? Had he come to know his father, through V, or was that all a façade?
He wished the damn book’s pages held any answer to his questions. Instead, he had to hurriedly close the book and put it away because his eyes were getting suspiciously misty and - fuck, why was he crying? The fucking asshole didn’t deserve his tears, didn’t deserve his heartache, yet as Nero huddled back under the covers, trying to force himself back into some fitful half-sleep, it was only imagining those strong, long-fingered hands that he’d only experienced in violence carding through his hair (in a purely fatherly way, he tried to convince himself of) that he finally dozed off.
Eventually, much to Nero’s (secretly delighted) shock, and the absolute non-surprise of everyone else (seriously, why was he the only one who had freaked out, and why had no one tried to convince him otherwise), the twins did come back.
Frankly, he would have wanted to punch Dante in the face first thing, but he was too dumbfounded to do anything other than stare at them blankly, as the old ma- his uncle (wow, that would never not be weird) stepped into the shop, stretching and complaining something about not having had any decent food or a nap in a long time. Meanwhile, Vergil simply stood by, immobile and staring straight at Nero, his gaze unnerving and too intense, like he was trying to open him up like a specimen and pin him on the wall for all to see with his eyes alone.
Alright then.
He rubbed at his nose as he turned away, self conscious - Dante had made a beeline for the upstairs bathroom, leaving him alone in the metaphorical (and perhaps literal?) lion’s den.
He was still mad, still furious, still desperate for answers - but he found himself almost rooted to the spot, unable to even pivot to look at Vergil, much less go to him to… to what?
Attack him? Punch him? Grab him by his lapels and threaten him to answer every question he had, or else? That last mental image made his entire body flash warm for a second, and he would have almost been content to dismiss it as being afraid - it was understandable, he reasoned, to be scared of such a clearly dangerous man as Vergil. Yeah. He’d take fear, over… whatever the hell that was.
He mentally braced himself, as he finally managed to turn around and look at his father and… was he? Sniffing the air? He was still in the exact spot where he’d been the last time he’d looked, but his nostrils were flaring oddly, and. Ookay… he’d file that under Weird Demon Bullshit he did Not Want To Know About, thank you very much.
Nero’s skin itched under Vergil’s unnerving stare, though - he swallowed past the lump in his throat to say something, anything to get the situation any less awkward than it currently was.
“So…” he started, before realising he had no fucking clue what he was going to say and fishing around in his brain for a topic of conversation.
“How… was hell…?” Smooth, Nero. Real smooth.
Vergil simply cocked his head at him, and very slowly blinked like some kinda freaky human-looking reptile.
“Full of demons.”
He offered no further elaboration than that. God, this was gonna be just great.
Nero figured it was a good time as any to start asking his questions - whether Vergil would answer them or not, though… he had no idea.
“You got that Qliphoth thing cut down, right? You couldn’t come back right after it was over? You had to wait -“ he very quickly ran some mental calculations, not remembering at which exact month of nothing he’d lost count. “-over ten months to come back?”
Vergil raised one eyebrow at him and - thank god, at least that one was a vaguely human expression.
“We had to find a place where the veil was thin enough that Yamato could make a portal. That took some time.”
Well… that was one thing answered.
Shame that it just opened the floodgates for Nero, who felt all of his anger coming back full force at the man’s impassivity.
“And you didn’t think to let me know before you left? No “hey, just so you know, we will be back, it might just take a while”? What, you had to be as cryptic as possible for theatric effect?!”
Vergil did react, then - the moment Nero’s anger started burning, it was like a switch had flipped for him as well. He was purely in his human form, but if he had that tail his demon form had, he was sure it would be lashing violently like an angry animal’s.
“We didn’t have time for explanations, Nero. We had to act quickly.”
“Yeah, because just a couple extra words would take sooo much more time and effort. You just -“ don’t give a shit about me, he was about to say, but - well - that was obvious, wasn’t it? Why would Vergil care, when everything about him said otherwise? When they barely even knew each other? What would be the point of calling it out, when he probably didn’t even feel bad about it? “-couldn’t be assed, admit it.”
They were face to face, now, all of the awkwardness forgotten in the electric pull that thrummed in Nero’s blood, yelling at him to prove himself, subdue the threat, assert his dominance -
Before he realised what he was even doing, he was staring up into his father’s deadly pale eyes, in a way reminiscent of two alley cats gearing up for a fight.
“Well. Forgive me for overestimating your ability to put clues together, then, son.”
Vergil’s words were calm and to the point, but he might as well have been shouting for the way he spit them out mere inches away from Nero’s own mouth.
That was the breaking point - Nero reared back with a yell, blindly swiping at his father with hands that turned to claws without him even realising or meaning it - Vergil ducked and dodged with ease, as if mocking the way his anger made him sloppy.
He hadn’t taken out Yamato, but that perhaps was even more insulting - as if to say, you’re not even worth the effort, I only need my hands to take you down. Nero’s entire being reeled with fury.
He hadn’t meant to go that far, he hadn’t - but all at once, they were at eachother’s throats, literally - Nero’s scaly clawed hands wrapped tightly around his father’s neck.
His blood thrummed and pulsed, inciting to squeeze harder, press closer, further - but he was almost immediately snapped out of it once he looked into Vergil’s face… and took in the almost awed expression he wore, his eyes intense, yes, but not with anger - he wasn’t sure he wanted to give a name to what he saw in them, suddenly bashful to even his own thoughts and wilting under the scrutiny.
All at once, the thread of tension snapped when loud, thumping footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Dante’s big, overwhelming presence settled into the room.
“Seriously? Guys, I was only under the shower for what, ten minutes? At least wait for me to get the party started, man.”
Nero immediately broke away from Vergil as if burned - turning away self-consciously, and barely suppressing the urge to rub at his nose out of nervous habit. He could still feel the other man’s stare boring holes in the back of his neck.
“Alright, alright, house rules at least for tonight - I’m gonna need you,” Dante spoke up, looking pointedly at his brother,
“To take a shower, and you-“ he pointed to Nero, “-to take a chill pill. That alright?”
Nero mumbled in assent, too emotionally drained to snipe back at the old man. Vergil didn’t even dignify him with an answer, instead heading straight into the bathroom.
None of them talked much for the rest of the evening - idly, Nero went to his room to thumb through the book.
Surely, now that Vergil was back, he’d want it returned? Selfishly, Nero hoped he really didn’t care about it - it stung to think of how little his father thought of him, but, well… he found that, despite it all, he was hesitant to part with it.
Life seemed to pick back up as normal, after the twins’ return - or, well, whatever the new definition of “normal” was. It wasn’t like Nero had much of an excuse to stay at the office now that the real owner was back, but when he called Kyrie to tell her the news, she didn’t seem surprised at his apparent desire to stay and pick things up with his newfound family - and , for all intents and purposes, neither Dante nor Vergil had implied that they wanted him out or gone. It wasn’t like they had discussed it, though - he and Dante, it turned out, got along pretty easily, the banter was smooth and free-flowing, but they never actually talked about the things that were important.
And Vergil, well.
Vergil was an enigma wrapped in a mystery.
Nero had resolutely tried to avoid him, after the fiasco that was their last interaction - it wasn’t easy, he still burned with so many questions, something in him still unpleasantly cried out for the father he’d never had, hoping naively that now that he was there they would seamlessly fall into step, but he knew that was wishful thinking.
And he knew himself - he knew he’d get pissed off and riled up at the man’s silences, his withdrawn nature, and that would get them nowhere - his demon pushed and pulled at him to measure himself up against him, insisting to bond through violence, but with Vergil, it seemed like the possibility of it going too far was always around the corner. And what “too far” meant, in their specific circumstance - he wasn’t too keen to find out.
Now more than ever, he wished he’d been right at his initial theory of Dante being his biological father - sure, his uncle’s apparent rejection had stung as well, but now that everything about that was out in the open, he and the old man got along swimmingly. And while it was still nice to get some recognition, (he would never admit if his life depended on it, how pleased and warm in his stomach it made him feel the one time Dante had patted him on the head for a “job well done”, and all his bluster about how he didn’t want to be patronised and he was a grown man was for show, he couldn’t let him know just how deeply he’d enjoyed it. And, ah, fuck it. If he was going to ogle his father now that he was back in his life, admire him from afar and note how statuesque he looked, how his body was carved out of marble, he could admit to himself, in the privacy of his own brain, that he’d had a thing for Dante as well, even as he believed him to be his actual dad. There was probably something to unpack there about abandonment and daddy issues, but Nero was so far from caring about it anymore.) he couldn’t help but long for the acknowledgment of someone else - and then felt decidedly shitty for using Dante as a stand-in for the father figure he was too awkward to approach, too bitter to let into his life.
Not that Vergil made it any easier, either - he mostly kept to his own devices and did his thing, true, but - when he didn’t, his actions were downright bizarre.
The three of them were all currently working as hunters for Devil May Cry - Nero because he’d had for the past five years anyway, and just had changed his location, and Vergil because there wasn’t much else he could do to earn his keep, at least straight out hell and with no prior experiences fitting into human society. (The man didn’t even have any legal documentation, they’d found out in the first few days of the twins’ return - that had been a doozy, having to pull string and forge up an identity for him. ) And that would have been all well and good, except - except, the few times Dante had trusted Vergil to go on a mission on his own, every time, he’d brought back pieces of the strongest defeated demon - and it wasn’t even like Nico’s experiment parts that she used for weapon forging, no, the things Vergil had brought back looked more like cuts of meat than useful parts or spoils of battle - a thigh here, a rib there. A liver, that one time - he chalked it up to, maybe he’d had to resort to eating demons when growing up, and had saved them as a snack for later? The thought left so many feelings for Nero to sort through - sympathy for the apparent hell his father had to go through as a child, horror and disgust at the image it conjured up, but - that thought was quickly dashed when it appeared that Vergil wasn’t actually eating any of it, just… leaving them around, seemingly for Nero to find (he’d almost yelled the one time he woke up to a Lusachia leg by his bedside). He stubbornly ignored the voice in his head that slobbered at the thought, that urged him to feast on it all - the bile of shame usually closed up his stomach more than the smell of the demons’ blood made it rumble. (At least, he told himself it did.)
Somehow even more unnerving than that, was all the staring - Nero had always known the man’s gaze to be uncannily intense, had known it in his dreams for years, now - but there was something there that burned him, that felt physical, the trail of his eyes like little hands on his skin.
It was better at times, worse at others - being examined like a lab specimen was infuriating, but it beat cold harsh judgement and contempt. Those were the worst, and it made him flounder whenever they fought together, feeling like a knight in training all over again, veering for Credo’s approval and desperate not to disappoint him, except ten times worse.
The first time that, after a particularly difficult mission that left him breathless, muscles trembling with leftover adrenaline and sulphur on his breath from the last dregs of his trigger, Vergil had seemingly out of nowhere placed a hand on the nape of his neck and squeezed, he’d startled so much he almost bit his arm clean off (and wouldn’t that have been ironic) - but just as it appeared the touch vanished, and his father made no move to acknowledge it in any way, shape or form… so he’d put it out of his head, momentarily. Until it happened again, and again, and - he really couldn’t place the meaning of it. Vergil was, by every definition, not at all a touchy-feely person, having no reservations for skewering Dante as soon as he invaded his personal space too much or for too long, and save for this, he didn’t seem to be making an exception for Nero - yet the subtle, fleeting touches continued.
It was a few weeks in this uneasy cohabitation that Nero realised that also, Vergil seemed to sometimes just… pick up his stuff, for no apparent reason, only to put it back where it was - he didn’t have the first clue about what that could be about, until something in him realised that all his jackets, now, smelled like Vergil - he wanted to believe it was some shitty territorial demon thing, but the satisfied curl of warmth that gave him - the sense of home and comfort he’d never voice aloud. That made him think it was something else entirely, and he wasn’t too sure he actually wanted to know. (And if he took advantage of that smell and comfort, when he was alone in bed and everything in him hungered, and he needed to pretend it was another’s hand on him - well. That, too, could stand to stay unexplained.)
All of that was weird, unplaceable by human logic, yet somehow - something in Nero felt almost comforted by it.
It wasn’t like he and his father had gotten anywhere closer than that initial outburst on the twins’ first day back - by regular societal standards, they were near strangers, Vergil barely talked on a good day, and for all intents and purposes, he still very much felt like the man didn’t care for his general existence in the slightest.
And yet, he couldn’t help thinking of him fondly, these days - logically and rationally speaking, their relationship hadn’t improved, and emotionally he still felt that distance, but - instinctively, something deep inside him felt like there was something deeper, charged, something he couldn’t name.
For as long as he could, Nero tried to ignore it all - he hadn’t known Vergil until very recently, for all he knew, that was just the way he was as a person, and in the most tender and human part of him, he still held tight coil of tension, made of the conflicting feelings he held for the man - he held himself, reasoning that it was best he keep his distance, as much as he could.
But he couldn’t stand his father’s stare, looking appraising as much as it was expectant, and - he needed to know, he felt like a caged animal in his own skin and he itched to do something about it, and if they didn’t at least vaguely talk about this, it felt like sooner or later, they were going to snap and rip one another apart.
Well. At least Nero felt like he would - and he had no doubts his father would oh so kindly repay the favour.
“Seriously, old man. What the fuck is up with you?”
Nero’s entire mind felt like it had been rubbed so raw he didn’t even register the usual awkwardness that interacting with Vergil instinctively brought him - he launched straight into it without thinking twice, caging his father in as he sat on Dante’s couch, reading.
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
The fucker had the gall to ask, without even a twitch to his facial muscles, his eyes still firmly on the page.
“You know what I mean. Why do you act so weird?“
Vergil let out an irritated-sounding breath.
“”Weird.””
“Yes, “weird”. Do I need to spell it out for you? Is it some demon bullshit thing I don’t understand?”
That seemed to get a reaction out of him - at once, Vergil looked up from his book, affixing his pointed stare on Nero - who suddenly, wasn’t feeling too sure of himself anymore, not under the strength of his father’s scrutiny.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
He closed his book and rose, then made his way to Nero, stepping way into his personal space and staring into his face, like there was something there only he could see.
Nero turned away, willing himself to keep going, stay focused.
“S-see, you’re doing it right now!”
He tried to step back, but his father followed him forwards until the back of his legs caught on the edge of something, and he had to pause - the feeling of being trapped by a much stronger demon had his hackles rising, drowning out the leftover bashfulness with adrenaline.
“I just want to know what the hell it is you want from me!”
He shouted in his father's face, powered through by his bottled-up aggression - Vergil, for his part, looked downright unimpressed.
“First, you act like I’m worth less than the dirt on your shoes, and then you do all that cryptic shit with the demon parts and the staring and I just - what the fuck is up with that?"
"Ah. So this is what it's all about, hm?"
And, fuck - the way he was still so calm, like he was assessing some mildly interesting experiment rather than talking to his own son - Nero kept going as if he hadn't heard Vergil's last remark.
“Even that stupid book - it meant nothing to you, didn’t it? Bet you just wanted to shut me up.”
Vergil's eyebrows twitched down, and his impassible mask shifted ever-so-slightly into a frown, his eyes still tracking him with a predator's stare.
“You seem confused. Why don’t you try to listen to your demon, and see if it provides any answers, child?”
That sounded like a load of bullshit and deflection but - fine, Nero tried to tune into that inner voice he did his level best to ignore, most days. He thought of all the various instances of Vergil’s odd behaviour - the demon parts, right, why was it that he’d immediately assumed it had anything to do with eating? That felt like a leap of logic, thinking back on it.
Good parent, feeding us. Good mate? Give us offerings.
He physically startled at that - it was so rare that those instincts felt articulate enough to have any words to go along with them, usually they were just feelings or impulses and he assumed it was the human side that gave them a name but - maybe, maybe he really just hadn’t been paying enough attention. Maybe that’s what he got for running from his nature and shoving it in a metaphorical closet at any given opportunity.
“What the fuck?"
It’s not like he was shocked by the intensity of his own desire - he’d accepted, more or less, that he was royally fucked up a long time ago, but to have it so openly spelled out was no less disconcerting.
And the implications, there, about Vergil's own desires... now, that one was enough to give him pause.
“So you were… courting me?”
The words felt wrong on his tongue, and yet the nervous buzz they brought with them - that was anything but unpleasant.
“Yes, my foolish son. I thought that would be obvious but… perhaps I had overestimated your affinity to your own demon.”
It was a veiled insult, and Nero knew that, and yet he found all his irritation snuffed out, replaced by… by what? He couldn’t tell what he was really feeling anymore, besides that jittery fluttering in his stomach.
But still, there was one thing still nagging at him.
“…is that how you see me? As a… potential mate, and not a son?”
His father kept studying him closely, cocking his head near-imperceptibly as he took in his question.
“Would that displease you?”
He felt selfish, greedy voicing it out - but he couldn’t stop himself.
“I want both.”
Vergil’s hand had come to rest on Nero’s cheek, and he couldn’t help leaning into the touch.
“I’m not going to be a human father to you, Nero. If that’s what you’re expecting of me, you will be sorely disappointed. But you are my spawn, and that, you would think, does count for both.”
His confusion must have been written plainly on his face, because Vergil cocked a brow before asking,
“Did Dante not tell you anything about our nature?”
“Dante never told me shit.”
He tried not to sound too bitter about that - if he did, though, Vergil didn’t comment on it.
“Regarding demon biology, incestuous relationship are an advantage, not a detriment - it’s a perfectly normal instinct to feel attracted to kin that’s shown themselves worthy.”
That was… a lot to process, but in a weird, fucked-up way it made sense - could explain the near immediate pull he’d felt towards his only blood relatives, and while it still grated against his human morals, he’d take that for now, and have a freakout about it later.
Besides, right now, all he could focus on was on the shown themselves worthy part - Vergil had never openly complimented him, and yet, somehow, someway, he'd found him worthy enough to consider a potential mate. That probably shouldn't please him as much as it did but, well. It did.
“So then… wait, what about that book?”
He hadn’t meant to bring it up at all, but it nagged at him - if his father really did care (or, well, whatever twisted thing it was he felt for him), then, did that have some kind of meaning as well?
Vergil let out a breath that almost sounded like a sigh - Nero was too emotionally overwhelmed to be irritated by the condescension.
“The mire was deep, & the child did weep - and away the vapour flew.”
It should make no sense, be utterly out of place - but hearing the familiar words was like a comforting blanket being pulled over his shoulders. V had done that, hadn’t he? Quote Blake at him, seemingly out of nowhere, and at the time, he’d just dismissed it as a vaguely annoying quirk of his, not catching any of his references, but - he’d read those poems, over and over. He knew those words now, had mulled them over in his brain so many times - and, shit, he’d missed V and all his other little weird tics. To catch them in his father - maybe, maybe he wasn’t such a huge mystery after all. Maybe there was something known there for him to tread.
He’d unconsciously leaned into the other man, leaning his forehead against Vergil’s shoulder, and sighed.
“Blake, huh?”
“So you did read it.”
“I didn’t have much else to do while I waited for you guys to come back, so… yeah, I flipped through it a bit.”
Vergil made a sound that kinda resembled a snort.
“That book… is the last thing I have left from my childhood.”
Hearing that snapped Nero out of his thoughts - he pulled back to look up into his father’s eyes, and the revelation was enough to allow him to power through the intensity of his stare.
Vergil didn’t seem inclined to share any more than that, which - was frustrating, but he got the picture. This would have to be enough, for now.
Nero’s eyes fell back down to Vergil’s lips, now inches away from his own, and he didn’t have to even wonder about that for too long before his father bent down to close the space between them - his noise of surprise was swallowed up by Vergil, who immediately deepened the kiss by prying his mouth open with his tongue, insistent like he was trying to devour him - the thought itself made him shiver.
He knew in theory this was how kissing was supposed to go but - he’d never done it like this, not in the way that Vergil bit at his lips before thrusting his slick tongue all the way almost down his throat, like he was trying to choke him with it, and when it rubbed up against his own, it opened up something hungry and needy within him, unable to stop himself from whining a little in the back of his throat, his whole body electrified - and when he thought it was already enough, that any more and he’d pass out, Vergil roughly grabbed a fistful of his hair to maneuver his head so he could get even more domineering and all-encompassing, and for a hot minute, Nero’s entire universe was reduced to this - his father’s taste in his mouth, his scent all around him, his touch on him, some deep-seated itch being finally, finally tended to.
It took him a moment to realise it when Vergil pulled back, and Nero’s mind was still hazy as he saw how wet his lips were, how he licked them clean of his own spit, and shit, he would be using that feeling and that image to get off for the rest of forever.
When he finally did get his wits about him and had managed to stop panting, Nero couldn’t help himself from remarking,
“I didn’t exactly say what my answer to your “courting” was, old man.”
“No need for it.”
Vergil didn’t miss a beat before responding.
“You would have acquiesced, naturally.”
“Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure of that?”
“Because that’s simply the way things go. Besides, if you hadn’t, I would have simply made you compliant.”
Holy shit.
That - that should probably have been terrifying, not incredibly hot and flattering, but fucked-up was Nero’s new normal, apparently.
And he’d be lying if he said that after all the doubt, all the feelings of rejection and abandonment, seeing his father’s naked desire written in his eyes, hearing him say he wouldn’t have stopped at Nero’s lack of consent - it felt way too good for what it probably said about either of them.
“Now, I have some business to attend to -“
Vergil got up, putting the book he’d forgotten about back in its rightful place and straightening up.
“-I’m assuming I will see you in my room tonight when I return, yes?”
The was he said it, it wasn’t a suggestion.
Fuck.
“Sure thing, old man.”
Nero replied, and hoped he didn’t sound as impatient and eager as he really was.