Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

March is her favorite month since she can remember what seasons look like, how the rain pit-patters on her window frame until the sun peaks outside her cover while she’s unwilling to get out of bed, enjoying the rhythm that makes her heartbeat in a regular melody.

She knows that Grandma Eva loves March as well, the very reason why she likes it too. Spring has finally come, she would say to her, hand cradled in her tiny own, their feet bare in the muck and the mud while watching the growing daffodils with eager eyes and excitement bubbling in her blood—they were born into the world until they would eventually die and be reborn, tranquil.

She likes it, loves to take her time with grandma to dig and plant what she wants to see bloom, tending to them every day, watching grandma’s happy smile whenever Nero joined them and fumbled in the soil and the dirt, wanting to spend as much time with them as possible.

When Eva is not at home, Helen feels like there is something missing, like a loneliness that sticks to her very bones, anxiety clinging to her stomach; why does it feel so lonesome to be the only one that stays behind, wanting something different for herself while her own brother is always buzzing with unbounded energy, always trying to pick a fight, never wanting to settle until it gets out of his system.

As she navigates her turmoil, she struts downstairs in search of a place where she knows Nero wouldn’t find right away, the sudden need to be left alone today while rain downpours and cuts through the day, making it impossible to roam outside and hides inside the large growing weed at the end of the garden.

The book cradled inside her arm is heavy, and she’s eager to reread the Odyssey her father gifted her a year ago, having caught on her muted, yet eager rambling about how she really, really liked the museum she went to with Grandma, and how unfair it was for Medusa to have been wronged by the Gods and killed. She remembers feeling very upset about that, but truly enamored with the myths and legends.

She remembers her father, between Victorian poems reading at night and stories about Legendary Dark Knight, would recount to her brother and her at the burning of a candle, stories about Gods and thunder and wars and honor.

Vergil had come to her room one night, a plain paper bag in one hand, while they sat at the edge of her bed, her eyes narrowing at the sight.

“There. I am sure you will find quite the joy in reading this.”

He had said, her hands digging inside the bag while she looked at him, confusion turning to surprise, to awe when she saw the woven brown book, the smell of leather so new she felt herself puffing outside of her skin, fingers wiggling alongside the spine.

When she tried to thank him, she saw her father looking down at her, the edges of his face soft with a muted, tender glint in his eyes that made her blush from embarrassment.

Her father is not the most open person she knows, makes her feel careful sometimes, but never let her feels unloved, no matter how reserved he is. His affection is cherished close to heart and honest.

She came to accept that fact with all the understanding of a thirteen years old, and pressed her head against his shoulder, loosely snaking her arm in his.

His hand brushed a lock of white hair from her forehead in a gentle display of care that made her fuzzy inside, the acknowledgment seen.

The noise that can be heard inside the kitchen is what brings her back from her reverie, wanting to avoid the unnecessary greetings as the only thing she wants now is to be left alone to her own device until it turns into a game of where the hell Helen have been hiding?

As she pads softly around the corner, she makes no sound that could indicate her presence, yet, you can’t fool a thirty-year-old half-demon from its shenanigans, and, soon enough, an arm loops around her shoulders, pressing her body against his side, a hand on her hair ruffling the mop with barely contained amusement.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Quips her uncle, proud.

She sighs an annoyed breath, her elbow digging into his ribs. Dante makes a show of it, wincing in mocking pain as he releases her from his lock. She’s not as strong as him, yet.

“You’re annoying.”

“Aw, you’re wounding me here—I thought my favorite niece liked having me around!” He pouts, a smirk stretching his lips as her face grows more bored by the second.

“I’m your only niece.” She says back, unimpressed.

“And you’re your father’s daughter.” Dante looks at her, his head tilted to the side in question. “Where’s your brother?”

Her eyebrows crease in a frown, voice coming harsher than intended, “I don’t know. We’re not always together.”

Dante must smell the growing animosity licking the mood, his hands up in front of him in a display of surrender. “Fair enough, I’ll let you be.”

She watches him, as frivolous as always, salute his way inside the kitchen he was minutes ago, her eyes trailing behind his red coat, mud clinging to its bottom. She frowns with barely disguised disgust and proceeds as planned.

From all the things she appreciates about her uncle, the fact that he doesn’t linger when he’s not wanted is her personal favorite. She loves him, not that she will ever tell him that, but sometimes, he’s downright obnoxious, and she has too little restraint to not grumble her way out of the room, much to the delight of said uncle.

Counting her blessings, she swiftly creeps to the shadows of the walls, brushing the curtains with her body like a ghost, undetected. She can hear music coming from behind the closed doors of the living room, Grandma playing her vinyl in the comfort of her privacy.

The keys and tunes follow her until she reaches the main corridor where she can see the rain splatters against the windows, the trees outside moving with vigor at every shift of the wind.

She opens the large oak doors that welcome her inside the Family library, books neatly arranged on the imposing shelves while those that still haven’t found a place lies in various, tall piles on the parquet floor near seats and regal carpets.

The warmth that the candles and the soft yellow lights bring into the room against the tarnished red curtains is calming when she wants to concentrate, the solitude she gets to picture the books without images in her mind. She still prefers the cocoon of her bed inside the cover to truly appreciate what she reads but the silence that can be broken anytime by her noisy brother that comes from her door that doesn’t have a lock, is bothersome inside her sanctuary.

At the end of the room, behind a shelf that haven’t seen the light of day since before her birth, covered in yellowed books and spider’s webs, are forgotten old boxes and old lamps that gather more dust and spores than anything else, hiding far away inside the room to be forgotten completely.

She likes the library, never had the want to conceal here, always in plain sight on a comforter.

It’s the perfect hiding spot.

She pushes boxes and books, hiding a cough as particles fly around her, making her eyes hitch and her breathe stutter—her hands are comically trying to disperse the aggressor as she sits between cardboards high enough to cover her whole body, making herself small against the wall, legs crossed. She pushes everything around her at a respectable distance as to hide her presence, opens her book and drowns the sound of the upcoming storm around her,

She starts counting.

Chapter Text

Nero scratches the dried blood that stuck on his temple earlier during training, his feet carrying him around the house, purposeful.

He remembers the words of his Father, feeling a sense of shame painting his cheeks with crimson at the mention of his lack of enthusiasm for sword play. He didn’t try to hide it, he was preoccupied.

Between wooden swords colliding and swift escape on his agile legs, he thought about his sister, and what she was doing while she left him alone, again, during training today. She missed the last three sessions, disappearing when he had no time to seek her out, reappearing like she never left when all he could taste was blood and his ass thrown by their father.

How unnerving it felt to be alone when all he could see was the calculating eyes of Vergil in his rearview, assessing his every move, figuring him out with as much ease as he made it out to be.

With his last suffering defeat, he didn’t feel the stubborn fire that makes him want to try harder than the last attempt, eyes glued to his feet, drifting occasionally to the door.

Vergil’s gaze had bored inside his whole body, like a hawk watching for the faintest of movement. His voice had cut through the silence that made Nero’s spine straighten out, blue eyes caught like a deer in headlights, trying to scold the edges.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” he asked, accusing yet lacking coldness.

Nero didn’t respond, saw his father waiting with a patience he’s not sure he ever saw coming from him, silently encouraging his response.

“She’s not here.” He said, unwilling to see the truth he can’t hide reflected in front of him.

The echoing silence of the room had permeated the walls with his troubles and the lack of response from his father was nothing but a habit of his. He didn’t wait for an answer, picked up the discarded training gear at his feet when the soft touch of calloused fingers took his chin in their grasp. His face had turned without preamble, confused at the casual affection his hold took on his gesture.

Vergil’s face betrayed nothing but thoughtful thinking, his thumb rubbing the blood that dripped from his hairline as to not let it trickle the side of Nero’s face, the boy melting under the affection lingering—a flutter of joy caught in the veins of his heart.

“Do not worry. I am sure your sister will come when she feels ready.”  He said, the wistfulness of his words settling inside his guts when his father’s eyes clouded with unknown remembrance he was not privy to. Nero's chin jerked in embarrassment as he broke from his hold, his fingers brushing at his nose.

The first crack of thunder jerks him from his thoughts, head spining as the past hour fogs around the present—perhaps his father’s words were more of a warning for respecting her alone time, but Nero could tell, behind the want to satisfy his own whims and wants, that there’s a nagging guilt that creeps every time he tries to engage with her.

Whatever.

Hands in his pockets, he listens to the sound of the rain outside while he books it towards the stairs, searching.

Younger, Hide and Seek was an activity of choice for them both, whether to avoid their father or simply plot together, the joy and warmth it brought to scramble inside deep rooms untouched with time and full of dust bunnies in the dark was as cherished as the struggle they put whenever they fought—happy to be together, sharing snickers and the seemingly telepathic mind of siblings that spend too much time plotting.

As Nero grows restless as minutes pass without so much of a peep, juggling between rooms, he remembers why they stopped hiding at every turn; when childhood blossomed into early teen, and simple, quiet moments were replaced by more concrete realities that made the taste of the chase bitter in his mouth, resentment blossoming in his heart at the prospect that she was now hiding from him.

They’re not kids anymore.

Nero’s swirling frustration makes him groan with barely contained anger because what did he even do in the first place, he asks himself. Her growing silence towards him irking his skin with confusion, letting his mind wander to places he doesn’t want to acknowledge, her childish ways of interacting with him unwarranted.

There’s music coming for behind closed doors, his ears peaking the tunes of Grandma’s old gramophone. He doesn’t want to disturb her, now by sight that he should not barge inside. If he’s honest with himself, he missed her today, and it wouldn’t be so bad to take the time to talk to her.

As he knocks three times on the door, he wonders if she hides with grandma today, knowing he won’t bother to confirm. Childishly, it fuels his want to go inside even more.

“Come in!”

Her voice sounds muffled by the music as Nero pushes the doors open, revealing Eva near a potted plant as her fingers rake against the thick, green leaves, a spray bottle in the other hand—a growing daffodil that reminds Nero of the warm sun of spring morning and the uncomfortable feeling of mud under his nails.

“Taking care of the plants, grandma?” Nero asks, eyes trailing inside the room, greener with seedling than red with wallpaper.

She smiles at the plant, spraying some water on its delicate soil, her crinkling eyes finding his. “Well, can’t go outside with this storm.” She flaunts her hand around, “And those little guys needed a bit of help today.”

Nero skirts around the room, admiring the care and effort put in the process, a longing nagging at his stomach when he remembers the lonely potted weeds that dried in his room for lack of proper care.

“What about you, young man?” She beckons him towards her, Nero falling into step easily as she cards her callused hand in his hair, kissing the top of his head. He relishes the affection. “Are you not with your sister?”

His mood sours at the question; Eva sensing the growing tumult that clings to his head as he retreats from the comfort of her embrace, her eyes racking his face with a concerned frown.

“You look just like your father—my little storm cloud.” She coos tenderly, earning her an embarrassing grumble as he shrugs, a hand flying at his nape. “Did you two had a fight?”

“No.” That’s the problem.

She nods, distracting herself with her growing Alocasia, the leaves a deep-streaked green and white; Nero sees the droplets of water cling to its sinews, dripping in the pot.

Nero takes a breath, the calm atmosphere doing wonders on his loosening tongue, nonjudgmental.

“She wasn’t at training. Again.” It slips with a petulant huff. “I’m looking for her.” He says, candid in his choice of words, an innocent tilt to his voice.

Now, as a matter of fact, nobody is as close to Helen as their grandma these days. As much as the distance that grows between them keeps them in a thick fog, Nero prides himself at knowing the implication of the bond they share—that she talks to her.

But for all his cunning ways, his grandma knows him better.

She hums in thought, her hands expertly tucking and pushing the soil with her fingers around the roots.

“Well, have you searched enough?” she asks, looking at him from the corner of her eyes, a sparkle glinting.

Nero stares in turn, his eyebrows turned in a frown and a discreet pout of disappointment. “Well, yeah.” Is his simple response. He hopes she will tell him as the thrill of the search had been dwindling long before coming into this room.

Eva stares at him, her hands freezing as dirt and earth clings to her pale fingers, the smell hitting Nero with nostalgia.

“And you think I know where she is?” There’s a playful tilt to her voice that makes him turn his head towards her in outrage, dusting his cheeks red, puffed.

“Wha—No! Well. Maybe. I don’t know!” He scrambles with his words around puffs of indignant breath that makes him look like an idiot.

She laughs with delight, her head shaking with her mirth as she cleans her hands on her apron. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her you asked for help.”

Nero sighs, his head reclined to the ceiling until his chin rests against his collarbones, defeated.

“This is stupid. Why does she always have to hide where nobody ever finds her?”

“Your sister likes the calm.” Is what she settles with. From the corner of his eye, Nero sees the pensive edge of her eyes, her lips moving with a thought she doesn’t say—thinking.

Whatever.

“Maybe you should look where she doesn’t normally go unseen.” She says to him, a glint of whimsy dancing in her green eyes, her smile hiding her secret involvement.

He thinks about all the ways and places she likes to go, all the rooms she haunts—comes short of an answer and digs his own premature grave, until he remembers the only place he knows she’ll always lounge like she owns the place.

His eyes grow restless, eyebrows turning upward in muted victory as he bids Grandma goodbye with a flick of his hand, running out of the room.

His smile turns into a conspiratory smirks on his lips, his heart beating with each step he takes towards the library, careful to hide the noise he makes with the help of his father’s unrelenting training, feeling light on his feet as he approaches the room. The doors are hardly open, just enough space for his body to slither its way behind the old oak wood.

He knows a test when he sees one.

He glides with ease between the crack, moving without any noise as his body makes it to the other end without trouble. He whoops happily in his mind, his face the picture perfect of the word smug.

His eyes and ears are trained around the room, darkened by the absence of lamps, the storm grey and thick when the only source of light is the thunder that roars its white fangs against carpets and seats.

He smells the dust and the faint molding from old books behind pipes as he does not make a single peep with his feet, walking like a snake, his head turning around every sound he can gather—he doesn’t want to frighten, he wants to surprise.

There’s a shuffle at his far right, body rigid as he turns around, skulking with ease towards the back of the room.

He’s in front of an old shelf, books polluting the space with alarming concern as he can see some trying to hold on for dear life on their hinges, practically ripping themselves apart from old age.

Another shuffle, clearer to the ear this time, just behind the mess.

He searches with his eyes the spines, tucking one book from its resting place like a door opening for him to see what’s behind, curious, sharp eyes peaking.

Behind boxes and piles of remnants of the past, he sees a movement, discreet—like it’s trying to move with little to no noise, no eye catching. His smirk turns feral as his voice booms ominously from behind the shelve.

"Found you”

A flash of electric blue stares at him from her tiny form on the floor.

Nero feels his victory dwindles at the bored look in her eyes.

Chapter Text

     Peeking from between spines of old dusted books, Nero’s face looks ridiculously out of place, like a bad imitation of a spook, trimmed in white with thunder bolts. She is unimpressed. The book on her lap takes her attention away as Nero fawns closer, his gangly legs shuffling until he noisily pushes boxes and dust bunnies out of the way. She scrunches her nose in distaste, frustration growing.

“You’re making a mess.”

She says, ignoring the grating way he fails to get comfortable against the wall, his knees knocking hers when he sits at her side. She pushes it in retaliation, childishly bickering with their limbs without a word until silence prevails.

“Not my fault you chose the dustiest room to try and ditch practice.” he grumbles at her side, his head peering onto the pages she tries her hardest to read for the third time, to no avail.

Her fingers curl against the leather cover, nails leaving crescent on its hardback, bile bubbling at the tip of her tongue—irritation swirls in her stomach. Ignoring the obvious jab at her expense, she does not dignify her brother with a response.

This does not deter him, his forehead knocking against her temple, his dried sweat sticking to her skin as she pushes against his weight, willingly putting himself in her space, uninvited.

“What are you reading?” he asks, not unkindly, colorful at the tip of his tongue, falsly innocent. The edges of his words are well-known from multitudes of past attempt at butchering the only peace she has for herself when she can feel the unbound buzzing in the pump of his blood.

Like you even care, she thinks, curling visciously at the tip of her acerb tongue. Yet, it unfurls warmth in her belly, the beginning hope—a quiet optimism.

As she gazes at him from the corner of her eyes; the shining, crusted ruby red of his own blood catching her own attention. His face twists with recognition as she sneers at him.

“Dad beat your ass again.” she doesn’t ask, merely states the obvious; a frequent occurrence. Nero shifts on his haunches, eyebrows furrowed in barely contained temper, nostrils flaring with a disgruntled grumble. He nervously scratches at his nape, an anxious habit he picked when younger. She wishes she couldn’t read him as well as she does.

“No.” He mumbles, the lines on his face turning somber, his eyes like daggers cutting slits in their disappointment as he glares from his scrunched nose at her. “Wouldn’t have happened if you were there in the first place.”

The protest is not easily missed, the bitter taste of it hiding his subtle acknowledgment of their shared prowess against their dad. Better, stronger when together; as life made them to be, growing inside the same amniotic fluid, two developing amas of cells intertwined until they couldn’t be distinguished. Until the cruel world pushed them outside in a wet, bloody heap of gore and sticky fluids.

Secretly, she wants to smile, smug and boisterous at the utter humiliation bestowed upon getting defeat after defeat while she is away from the cacophony of splintering swords and cracking bones. It is easily overshadowed by resentment, the only truth that sticks when he takes it upon himself to deign bother her when the only thing that matters is him and his whims.

She should have known better than to think that this time, her own flesh and blood that trickles farther away each day would seek her out of genuine interest, and not his own.

Her throat bobs around a mean quip, childishly gnawing at her bottom lip as she spits her venom at him, pooling from her marked heart that begs her to speak with honesty. Poison is easier when it drips through.

“Of course. You’re an incompetent, this doesn’t surprise me.” outrage as raw as her nerves sparkle in his eyes, sizzling the fire there. “Came to drag me out and take your revenge? Too chicken shit to do it yourself?” She blames, her body pushing his own that tumbles to the side with barely contained animosity, picked.

“What is wrong with you?” He screeches, his boyish voice cracking with the tale tail of early manhood, his shoulder pushing her to the side as he stands, anger bubbling, boiling at the surface. She glares at him from below, his chin upturned, the picture perfect of misplaced pride.

“Like I care if you’re there—you’re useless! Always hiding when it gets serious! Brooding with your stupid books and your shitty attitude!” He hurls at her, accusation heavy at the tip of his harsh tongue, his throat roaring with the insult that chips a deeper slit in her heart than she wants it to. Her knuckles turn white where she clutches the book in her hand, standing up on strong legs.

Not for the first time, a tale as old as time, Helen is acutely aware of how Nero is the sole bearer of her deepest pain, a knife each time brother and sister stab themselves deeper and meaner—Outside, the thunder roars with the beat of her scarred heart, wringing the wet anguish of herself like a rag.

“The only reason I’m brooding with my stupid books is maybe because I don’t want to spend time with you!” She screams at the top of her lungs; it scratches her throat with the vile taste of a lie. “Ever think about that?”

In a split second, where the white, translucent bolts of thunder shine on his furious face, genuine, unbridled hurt carves itself in the creases of it. The twist of his lips full of dejection, the glimmer in his eyes diming with betrayal.

She scoffs at the audacity of it all, her nose scrunching at the perceived hostility dripping from his body, until there is nothing but both gauging each other at the altar of a cataclysm she knows will come.

As her body alights with a multitude of angry shades, Nero’s own technicolor dwindles to nothingness; a sudden, unexpected silence brewing. His eyes a shade of dull gray, a dagger straight through the heart.

When he opens his mouth, her arm is already moving backward. “Cool. I don’t want a sister like you anyway.” How dare he?

Without much warning, fueled by an explosion inside her ribcage, she expertly launches the heavy book right in his face, the movement easily caught by their queer nature. She knows it won’t land like she wants it to be, never underestimating the sheer instinct she knows her brother possess.

Childishly, it heals a wound he slashed himself in her heart with malicious words. Seeing the look of utter affront crossing his face when he catches the offending weapon is priceless.

Her breath comes ragged as his mouth moves with silent scorn, clutching the cover with a too tight grip and an attitude. Her chin perks up, daring. The book breezes at lightning speed past her temple, cutting through white strands.

From behind them, she hears the leather thumping on the wall, pathetically clapping its last breath on the floor. Pages flip pitifully on themselves, the crunch of them getting ripped out is a hollow ache inside her ears.

There is no prideful boast, no contemptuous smirk. Only a twinkle of challenge when his head tilts upward. Suddenly, she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, her body too big, full of pent-up resentment. Her palms come pressing against his shoulders, pushing with low effort, still strong as he staggers backward.

It catches them both off-guard, eyes wide, incredulous. Nero’s mouth part with offense, the rain patters against the glass windows, eerily silent in the room as their breathing mingle, matching and twining.

He pushes her back. Like a jolt of current buzzing alight inside her veins, her body shakes with shock, fire blazing in her muscles as they tumble down on the floor in a heap of too long limbs and aching teeth that yearn to bite inside relentless flesh and stubborn kick in the chin.

Like mere cubs, they fight like they’ve never been socialized a day in their life; an intrinsic, inherent need to let off some steam, to conquer temper.

“Idiot—!” She hears herself squeaking between a kick in her side.

“You’re so annoying!” Nero growls, her hand pushing his head away, her fist colliding with his nose.

“You too—! Ow!” Teeth bites the inside of her arm, blood dribbling in steady drops.

Their feet kick at each other like feral, untamed cats growling and spiting, gangly limbs tangled awkwardly as fingers clutch a chunk of silver hair in a painful grip, earning each other aborted screams of dull pain and bruises on their knees—messy.

“Dickhead!” She pips.

“Bitch!” He quips back, strained.

When their mouths run out of juvenile insults and petty fight turns into a strained, reluctant squabble, their bodies crash on the floor below with the discarded, crushed boxes—the only eyes that saw the undignified mess they made of themselves.

Copper trickles the side of her split lip—a well timed punch—as her nose congest with a goo made of blood and unspent mucus, clogging her nostrils. She chances a look at her brother, arms resting on his bruised knees, head between the mess of his own ragged body.

His breath comes in strangled puffs, his temple bleeding anew. He snorts his blood away, his face coming to meet hers. They share a look, haggared, spent. Obstinate, she waits for him to break first, unwilling to accept anything remotely close to a defeat she knows her brother will make everything for to happen.

Unsurprisingly, they stare at each other until her eyes sting with dryness, blinking until It’s wet enough to see him move, his hand coming on his face, rubbing the dirt and the muck off his battered face.

When he opens his mouth, it’s distant, almost ashamed, but knowing, “Dad is going to kill us.”

“Yeah.” her head lolls to the side, her nails racking on the floor below. And who’s fault is that, she wants to taunt—she thinks the better of It, her brother looking at her from the side, shifting where he sits, awaiting for something; bashful, even.

Her eyes follow where his own trail, his head tilting upward in acknowledgment. A timid glimmer of geniune interest sparks in the crinkle of his earnest eyes. Muted, albeit eager anticipation tingles at the tip of her fingers.

When his mouth opens, his own body freezes like a deer in front of a moving car, her own following suit like a well-oiled cog that can’t move without its companion, wheeling and turning in tune with the other in their intricate patterns. It’s the smell—sulfur, hormonal sweat of adrenaline— that tipped them both.

From behind the same shelf Nero tried his magician’s talents, blue eyes sparkling with bursting devilry on a carnivorous smile peer at them from where he stands, atop the very podium of the winner of today—Brother and sister know a snitch when they see one.

“Wait ‘til I tell Vergil about this.”

They exchange a look, comically frightened.

Chapter Text

     Dante knows the smell of adrenaline like the back of his scarred, worn hands. He understands the way it makes the heart beats faster with joy, the nerves frying with anger.

Most of all, he recognizes the smell of a fight before it even happens—the salty sweat, its warmth humidifying the air. He grew up with Vergil, after all.

Blood of my blood, it sings its tune, resentment wafting around the house for days on end these past few weeks, crawling up the walls, slithering behind velvet curtains and whistling through mahogany doors.

There are two little devils in the details, waiting. Dante is ready to hunt.

     There is something bitter sitting in his stomach each time his sister thinks she can take him for a fool, her own cutting tongue harsher than any swords he ever dealt with.

They were supposed to be a team, and yet, it doesn’t feel like a given these days. Nero thinks it cannot be all his fault, until she can’t help but insults her way into diminishing him. Nero thinks it’s all her fault.

His sister’s reprimand is a betrayal carved inside the silent agreement to always be together when he feels inadequate below the sharp eyes of their father—swimming against the tides of life together.

He hates fighting like this. She plays unfair, biting and kicking until their blood mingles, undistinguishable from each other; reeling him up, not taking him seriously. She never has.

Nero does not have any qualms left to play nice with her anymore, for she doesn’t want to spend any time with him. Then, so be it; she doesn’t deserve his own in return. He’s better off alone.

With each blow to his nose, every limb creaking painfully and every bone grinding to dust, pretending they’re both rubbers drawn taunt, Nero can feel his boiling anger bubbling at the surface with exhilarated purpose; pouring over their childish bickering, the shackles of his own hurt letting go as he kicks her in the ribs.

It’s unnerving, how she doesn’t want to let up, but Nero will not go down without and fight, until the last of his energy drains from his body in a heap of tired squabbling and half-hearted attempt to push her—the only thing lasting inside his scarred heart is the growing guilt of having to explain to their father the reason they drew blood in hostility. Of letting her down.

     His eyes catch the book that pathetically lays left alone, crumpled against the wall; It holds his attention just as it had hers, willing to understand the appeal that the paper had on the time his sister gave it to its lecture when all he wanted was hers for himself.

Curiosity gets the better of him, his fingers twitching where they rest on his dirtied knee. The twinkle in her eyes at his interest is worth the time lost fighting like mere animals.

It’s easy to admit he likes the positive attention, preening under a glimpse of the sister he is fond of. It’s harder to forget the words that made him feel unwanted in the first place.

There is a relief when Dante catches them, convenient when it stops him from taking the first step, making amends. It is short lived, for the reprieve is replaced by bone deep annoyance for his uncle that is way too comfortable nosing around.

     Dante might be easy to love, but he never fails to be frustrating—the wildest card between his father and him; the uncle that stands with his proud swagger in front of them is nothing of the picture he paints when he’s the one helping them snag candies late in the night and fly them off deep in the starry skies between his claws and his flapping wings, a secret well-kept from their rigid father.

"Wait until I tell Vergil about this."

With that cocky smirk plastered on his face, Dante looks twenty years younger, full of mischief and eager to please. Nero should know the look well enough, for he too, recalls wanting to impress his own sister.

Dante hadn’t said a word in a minute, Nero is already bubbling with frustration. From the corner of his eye, he sees Helen shuffling on her feet, her fingers spasming with irritation.

“Don’t you have a job or something?” he spits, annoyed, “Instead of lurking like an idiot?”

“Wow! Language young man!” Dante swoops on his feet, his hand coming to rest atop his heart in a show of dramatics, “Didn’t your daddy teach you manners?”

The falsetto is grating with insincerity, his sister puffs out a scoff between her sardonic smile, her eyes narrowing with intent, “Manners don’t matter to a snitch like yourself—what did you do?” She asks, a resigned, knowing edge to the question that reads like an accusation. Nero can feel the rise of a skeptical eyebrow on her face, matching his own.

“Me? Why would I be in trouble when you’re the one hiding from big bad Verg?” He taunts, almost mocking—an underlying affection to the words. Nero wants to wipe off the pompous grin from his face with a smack.

Blood clogs his nostril, a bubble of mucus blowing at the air he breathes. It trickles down the side of his upper lip, the back of his hand wiping the warm liquid. Nero has no heart to let him win.

“Nah, afraid you can’t fool us, uncle. You’re only trying to stir shit up when you want to hide from father.”

     Dante is not easy to read, even years after spending time living under the same roof. Unpredictable he is in his daily, mysterious life, but still, he is an open book when it comes to their father. Dante never had to resort to them to stay in his good grace before though.

“Is this an admission of your own guilt?” Dante's head lolls to the side, his irritating eyebrow cocked in interest, always joshing around.

“What?—no! Why would I admit something I didn’t do!” Nero rasps, indignant, feeling himself lose the argument with how ferociously his feelings get jumbled when there’s an accusation running, whose false nature brings only anger to his stomach.

His face contorts with his next vitriol, only stopped by the no-nonsense attitude his sister had mastered with years of practice. She reminds him of their father.

They cross eyes with mutual understanding, grateful instead of humiliated. She knows when the moment warrants her help—them against a common foe.

They can beat their uncle better than he could imagine in the game he is willing to play.

“Don’t bother with excuses, uncle. If father is busy dealing with us, you’ll have time to skip and bail.” She sneers, the trademark of her judgment in her cutting stare Nero can feel even if innocent of such schemes. Dante does not fold.

“Now why would I do something like that?” Dante counters, rounding them both with an arrogant sway. Both do not move as their uncle ends between them, both hands on each their shoulders—placating. Nero feels his sister’s smell turn sour, her blood thumping out. He fights the urge to shrug him off, jaw clenching.

“I’m just concerned about my brother’s kids getting all troubled with each other.” The lie would hurt if it wasn’t true—Underneath the snark and childish petulance to win against two kids, Dante loves them both, Nero can attest with embarrassing recollection.

“Nope—not gonna work!” Nero chirps, twirling on his feet with a forceful push—his sister does the same, not bothering to hide her scoff. Dante doesn’t seem fazed, utterly entertained.

“Let us guess for you, yeah? Was it the Yamato? Did you steal it?” Nero questions, emulating thinking.

“Impossible—he already did it last week!” His sister chimes in, manifesting her guess with a snap of her fingers, “I’m sure it’s the car this time.”

Nero points at her, “Definitely, she was acting up all week—Bet he tried to convince father to take a look at it himself.”

“And he refused.” she counters, nodding her head in acknowledgment. Everybody knows how their father is prickly with whom can touch his possessions.

They both share a look, a self-satisfied grin, all teeth and snark painting their respective face. They blabber back in tune,

“But he did it anyway!”  

As they snicker at the expanse of the very present subject of conversation, Nero can only feel himself glow under the back and forth they share, connecting with each cell of brain, like they never had a fight to begin with—the last few weeks chalked up by the mere idea of antagonizing their uncle.

“Oh man, that’s why she’s still at the garage, bet you did a number on her.”

They share a look—self aware. His sister’s familiar grin dissolves in an embarrassed frown he wouldn’t have understood, for the fact that he knows her like the back of his hand—Nero feels the same way.

The short, awkward silence is broken by their uncle throaty, choked breath. They both look with mild irritation, confused.

“You kids have no idea just how pumped I am about this.” Dante is almost giggling under his breath, like a child.

Dante’s face break in a sparkle of out-of-pocket pride—fond—preening radiantly that makes Nero want to snuff out. What is he so happy about anyway?  Nero steals a glance at his sister who looks suspiciously wary of their relative.

“Are you an idiot?” She deadpans, Nero snorts an ugly laugh, rolling his eyes.

Dante’s red coat glimmers under the thunder that illuminates the room, strangely ominous in the suffocating silence. His eyes narrow as he overlook them both from his towering height.

There is no smell of danger—adrenaline fueled by purpose, yet, Nero’s skin prickles with apprehension. His eyes instinctively travel to his sister—she gazes at him, fingers flexing. He is not alone.

“You two are smart little gremlins, I’ll give you that.” He smiles, cheshire-esque, “You know what—I’ll tell you both, since I’m clearly dealing with Sherlock and Watson junior here, might as well spill the beans.”

They both are too engrossed in Dante’s amenable display to get offended by the poorly hidden mockery. Nero feels his body lean when Dante’s own does, the three of them making a picture perfect of secrecy. He feels strangely giddy about it.

“Thing is, I’m kind of in a pickle right now, you see—” Dante’s gloved hand move in theatrics, nose scrunched, discomfit.

“A few days ago, I had this bet with Lady—we were out on a job, nothing too fancy, little town, you know how it is—people getting scared by the devil, thinking about judgment day and everything—which, does not exist, right.”

“Come on man—get on with it!”

“Alright alright! Well, 'told her if she could find the little bugger hiding under one of the basement’s poor shmuck houses before me, I’ll pay her the next two weeks’ pizza round, which—I know, very generous of me—”

“Dante!”

“Bottom line is; she found it, I lost, had to hold my end of the bet with money I didn’t have and…”

“You stole from your bother.” Nero assesses, unsurprised.

“Borrowed.”

“And now you have to payback our father.” his sister concurs.

“Yes.”

“You know Lady came by the house four days ago because you owe her fifty bucks, right?

"Who in the world do you not owe money to?”

“Uh—top of my head, you two? And I paid her yesterday, with my own, hard-earned money. Amazing right?”

They both look at each other, The silence talking for them,

“Wait—but it doesn’t make any sense.” His sister cleverly counters, “If it’s been a few days, how come he didn’t kill you already?” She asks, suspecting fallacy, which, contrary to Dante’s own defense, makes sense.

“Did you magically made him forget about you?” Nero jokes, shaking his head in disbelief. Dante, as good as a liar can be, does not fool their father one bit—knowing that his first and most fervent antagonist is his own twin.

“Wouldn’t want him to forget his incredible little brother.” Dante jeers under the watchful eyes of his scheming sister, ready to dismantle whatever pieces of the puzzle that do not fit. Nero knows his father to be diligent, keeping a close eye on his little brother that likes to fiddle, who loves messing around a bit too much.

“You didn’t—!” Helen gasps, almost surprised, practically hysterical. She looks at Nero, urging him to understand, the cog in his brain running, until he sees the look painting their uncle’s face, pinched ugly like he swallowed a whole lemon.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dante mumbles. Nero forces himself to think, until the metaphorical light bulb from his favorite comic books illuminates above his head, vibrating with mean excitement.

“You took from the safe at the shop! He didn’t kill you before because he didn’t know it!”

“What day is it?” His sister is absolutely reeling, matching his own energy.

“Tuesday?”

“Oh, that’s rich—he was at the shop today, right? And now you’re hiding!” Helen lights up, buzzing with malice.

      For someone that does not let himself be as open as they both would like to be, their father is surprisingly a man of routine—younger than they are today, their father would take them both with him to devil may cry, the only day of the week he would be free from his duty of demon hunting to help the shop’s book keeping and the long, endless list of expenses the structure kept sucking in with property taxes and over-priced electric bills when Dante couldn’t be present to do so—away at a job.

We were right.

“We were right! You are trying to stir shit up—You think we won’t tell him? He’s probably tracking you down as we speak, oh dude. You are smoked.”

“Yes. Why won’t we tell him?” Helen asks, eyes alight with caution, “You think we’ll help you hide?”

“Tough luck.” Nero adds, thoughtful—Their uncle will not easily fool them, he decides—something fishy plans around his uncle's white turf of unkept hair, quiet.

“Well, you can always go fetch him, tell him I’m right here.” he answers, suddenly very invested in how his nails look, “Or, you could give me a head start, disappear a bit until my big brother lose the appetite for a lesson and a stab. I kinda lack discipline."

“Why would we even do that?” Helen asks, eyebrow quirked up, unimpressed.

“It’s more fun to see you get your ass kicked.” Nero answers, innocent.

“Because” Dante emphasis the word with his sharp tongue, “we all know what will happen if I go tell your daddy what you were up to, yeah? We should all agree to keep this to ourselves.”

Nero’s spine straightens with an ice-cold shiver. Their father is not an angry monster that hides under their bed—cold, when disappointment crosses his features, is a better fit for a man who do not take kindly to their impulsiveness that turns bloody.

Getting caught is one thing—hating when they’re grounded, but getting caught by a devil uncle who meddles is a worst offense, keeping them both away from the responsibility to live up to their own foolery—or hiding it.

“Do you really think this,” Nero makes a show of his hands, flaunting them in between his sister and himself, “is gonna hold up against you stealing money from your own business?” Nero cannot hide the incredulity in his own voice. Helen nods an affirmative at his right.

“Borrowed—words still have meaning.” complete silence is Dante’s response, “I thought we were tight yall—We’re all family here guys, c’mon!” Nero must admit, his uncle is a very entertaining individual. “And, you really think my brother, your dad, will prioritize an honest mistake from his own twin, over his two precious nestling when I tell him I found you two bloody and beaten, throwing the gift from your father and called your own sister a bitch?”

They gasp in the same breath their outrage; it resonates like an accusation around the stuffy room. The utter shame of being caught squabbeling like two overgrown cats coming back again, red tainting his cheeks. They both cry out their displeasure,

“You wouldn’t—! Did you spy on us?”

“Honest mistake my ass! This is so unfair!”

Dante chuckles at both of their helplessness, like the sniveling weasel he is, "You two are a trip."

Nero will not help him get what he wants, he decides. It seems his own twin has the same epiphany.

“You can forget about us helping you, whatever! This is not even close to being fair.” She complains, cross.

Dante deflates, his face growing unreadable as his hands come up in front of him in displayed surrender, shaking his head,

“Alright, alright—well, I’m sure I’ll have more luck with Verg on this one.” Dante dares as he looks resigned, apologetic. Yet, his feet moving backward speak of the obvious lie. Helen takes a step forward, her eyes round, cautious.

“What are you doing?” she asks in a breath, keeping Nero on his toes as his body straightens, moving around slowly, as if their uncle were a wild animal, easily spooked. Three people in the room are of the same forged fire of Hell. One is a seasoned hunter.

“Me? Nothing. I’m just—going out back the door.” Dante says, nonchalant, his heavy boots too loud on the carpet.

Nero looks at his sister, his sister looks back at him.

Words without sound, the meaningful, knowing stare they share moves over both of their faces, a silent , experienced conversation born from instinctual collaboration between twining pair, sharing the same blood—the same adepts of the fight, taught by one of the most skilled predator they know.

They both understand they are in an impasse. Dante cannot reach their father. Nero feels them growing like a team again.

“No—!” one of them say, probably himself.

Dante turns around suddenly, and, boyishly, sprints out of the room, his voice singing his mischief,

“Vergil! Where are you, brother of mine! I have great news in store for you!”

They storm after him, nearly tripping over themselves to reach the door as fast as possible, no matter who gets it first.

“Dante!”

“Get back here!”

When they bust between the crack left by their uncle, the hallway is deadly quiet, ominously illuminated by the branches dancing with the wind. their shadows conspicuously draw figures on the wall that ridicule them.

A hand circles his forearm in a tight vice, enough to get his attention, soft to reassure. Helen’s fingers dig his flesh under, she speaks with determination.

“We need a plan.”