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It was so so sudden, and he blacked out. When he came to, there was blood. No weapons were drawn. The smell of gunpowder was absent, but the coppery odor was everywhere. It was stained into his skin, soaked into his clothes, and he didn't know how it happened.
He looked down at where he was standing. A corpse was at his feet. Not a corpse, his corpse. The blood blended into the thick cotton of his vest, though it stood out in its brilliance on the gold clasps. If he was on his back, perhaps Nero could just assume that he was sleeping. The red matched his jacket so well after all, as if I had been made with blood to start.
Blood.
Blood is everywhere. He clenches his right hand, feeling the leftover gore in his claws. A wave of nausea takes him in the same moment that a strange sense of satisfaction fills him. Tries to fill him. He feels so hollow, so broken now. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He should be the one lying supine on the floor.
But he wasn't and he knew exactly why. It was the same reason that this emptiness consumed him so much.
He didn't cry, couldn't cry. He felt too numb for that. Instead Nero stood in silence, stared at the carnage that he had done. That his own hands had caused. He stared, unable to move, hardly able to breathe anymore. The stench was taking the breath out of his lungs.
“I told you to stop me.” His voice sounded distant, as if someone in the other side of the room had said it. It continues without his permission. “You said if I got outta hand you’d stop me.” Those last two words were gasped. Pained. He felt the familiar twisting in his stomach, but no tears fell. His knees give out, and he falls only to sit face to face with him.
He can see his eyes closed, relaxed now unlike before. He doesn't remember what happened between then and now, but he knows it must've been agonising. Nero lifts his demonic hand, takes his cold, lifeless one and kisses it. It was a worthless apology, but it was all he could offer. Then he drops His hand with sudden disgust. No, not disgust. Disdain, horror, shock perhaps.
He's too cold. This is too real. His head is spinning, heart racing. Everything is sinking in again, and it's like a punch to the gut. You did this to him you monster. The growling is crescendoing, he wants it to stop. He wants Dante to sweep him into his arms and smother these urges like he always does.
Did.
There's blood on his lips. They look cold, tinged blue now. The red contrasts the paleness of the lifeless flesh it rests upon, stains the cracks in his skin. When he swallows it feels like sandpaper.
He knows why he didn't stop him.
There was nothing to gain from kissing him. There were quite a few things he could lose, but at this point he was so numb that he couldn't care less. He felt weak, desperate, hungry for something. The growls and hisses wouldn't fucking shut up.
He moved so fast that it scared himself. His mouth was pressed against Dante's. They felt lifeless. They tasted coppery. All at once the growling morphed into a content rumbling. That familiar warmth crept up his back, consumed his body with a sense of helplessness. It was exactly what he knew it wanted, exactly what he hadn't wanted to give it. He was blacking out, and his demon was taking over once again.
He sat back, staring at his corpse blankly. Blinked once, twice, then laughed. How pathetic that he’d killed over so easily. The son of Sparda, he who was constantly boasted about, had fallen at his hand. And for what? He remembered whispering those biting words into his ear as Dante fell to his knees, blood gushing from his abdomen. Those eyes had looked so betrayed. He should've known better.
“I can help you control your demon.” The thought of him saying it made him laugh again, and he rose to his feet, absently licking the blood from his lips. Yes, that was one thing he’d miss. The man had such good blood, it was his favorite flavor.
The door was opening. Two women stood in the doorway. In moments they had weapons drawn, aimed at him. Lady's eyes stared in horror at Dante; Trish focused her hit into fury and sent it towards Nero.
“What did you do?” Lady screamed. Nero chuckled, merely circled around Dante's desk and sat on it. He stared down at his claws, covered in dried blood and pieces of gore. Probably some intestine.
“What does it look like sweetie?” That wasn't Nero's voice. It was one they’d heard from him before, but it wasn't what he should've sounded like. A gun cocked, the sound echoing through the shop.
“Why?” It was all Trish could manage to say. Nero cupped his face with his bloodied demon hand, dragging smudges of crimson along his face. His claws made long marks all over his cheek. His smile was nauseatingly sweet, but his eyes held a certain malice.
“He was so weak for his love that he let me!” That bitter, victorious laughter filled the air only to end abruptly. One single bullet through the forehead. His brains adorned the wall in an instant. He fell to the floor, next to Dante. Fate is an ironic bitch.
Trish had to guide Lady out. She was hysterical, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. Trish sighed, searching the sky for answers that wouldn't show.