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“All lain aside
It's written in our blood
Two souls divide
Our roots beneath the flood.”
- Fire Inside, Casey Edwards and Victor Borba
Visiting the Devil May Cry office was always a daunting prospect.
Dante not only managed to settle in the shittiest city (Capulet), but in the shittiest neighborhood (Pandemonium) he could find. Every single vice was on open display – illegal casinos, fighting rings, topless bars, porno theaters, flea-ridden rent-by-the-hour motels, all advertised with flashing neon lights that blurred together into a kaleidoscope. Trash, vomit, and wayward revelers littered the streets; drunks fought in the black alleyways; working girls crooned from the corners. Sweat, blood, flesh – all things that stirred the nascent demon growing under his skin in a way that made Nero want to wretch.
Then, upon turning the corner onto Dante’s street, the feeling of being observed would overcome Nero. He had just entered the territory of an apex predator, and the apex predator knew it. Dante didn’t even have the manners to act surprised whenever Nero came in, no matter how unplanned the visit; he’d just be in his chair, feet on his desk, patiently waiting for Nero to open the doors. It was a deeply unsettling way to be reminded of his place on the food chain.
Now Vergil was living there, too, and the feeling only grew.
The other twin had quietly followed Dante out of Hell, and quietly moved into a spare room, and quietly taken over the business from his brother. Vergil, shockingly, did not like having the utilities shut off, living in filth, or eating pizza every day of the week, and was willing to learn Excel over it.
By all accounts, Devil May Cry was running better than ever: the trash was taken out, the lights stayed on, and Dante’s smile reached his eyes. Nero should be thrilled by the change. He had managed approximately three conversations with Vergil over six months: two work-related, one a stilted discussion of the weather.
Kyrie’s subtle suggestions that they invite the twins over for dinner were becoming much less subtle. The idea of Vergil sitting down at their kitchen table to eat lasagna was so incongruous with reality it gave Nero a headache thinking about it. No way. No way.
Kyrie braided her hair before bed, the red caught aflame by the low light of their bedside lamp, sparkling in her big eyes. Her delicate fingers slipped through the strands as she sat at the battered vanity Nero had found and fixed up for her. She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled, smoothing her hands over her white nightgown. He had a cache of money hidden deep in his toolbox that Nico pretended not to know about, wrapped up with ads for rings.
And lo, Nero dodged ragged trash bags and broken glass as he weaved his bike through the shittiest street in the shittiest neighborhood in the shittiest city. He parked in front of the office, taking his helmet off and nervously pushing back his hair. The air crackled with the smell of wildfire and blood, the shared scent of the sons of Sparda. Had Nero ever actually seen Vergil eat? Did he even need to? Dante ate, so his twin had to eat, right?
Nero walked up the stairs, took a deep breath, and pushed open the doors.
Dante and Vergil were not-casually standing around the front room, Dante leaning against the pool table with his arms crossed while Vergil stood stock still, the Yamato held behind his back. Any façade of Nero having interrupted a conversation was shattered by how both brothers had been staring at the door when Nero walked in. God, they didn’t even try.
“Hey, kid,” Dante said with an easy smile. “We were just talking about divvying up some jobs.”
Bullshit. Whatever plans they had were immediately postponed when one of them noticed Nero turning the corner.
“Sure,” Nero said and decided to rip the band-aid right off. “Uh. Kyrie wants you guys to drop by for Sunday dinner.”
“Oh, score!” Dante yelled, then slapped his twin’s back. Vergil did not move. “Have you had Kyrie’s cooking yet, Verge? Worth hell for.”
Kyrie had met Vergil exactly once, when Vergil went with him and Nico on a job. They had pulled the van into the garage, where Kyrie was waiting for them with snacks and coffee. Vergil had gotten out of the van, and a flash of something – anger, fear, horror? – echoed over her face before she hid it beneath a polite smile. Vergil’s expression was, per usual, unreadable.
“For you, too, Mr. Vergil,” Kyrie had said. Vergil simply shook his head.
“No thank you, Miss,” Vergil said with all the courtly manners of a prince. “I will be taking my leave.”
Then he just casually strolled out of Nero’s garage, presumably to make a portal in a less emotionally-fraught place. Kyrie stared in surprise. Nico loudly asked Nero if Vergil had social anxiety. Nero pushed her in response.
“I have not had Kyrie’s cooking,” Vergil responded. “Does she frequently hold these…Sunday dinners?”
God, Vergil talked about it like he was discussing dropping in on some witches holding a black mass or something.
“Yeah,” Nero said. “We’re so busy, it’s a way to spend time together. As a family.”
Family. Dante softened. Vergil stiffened.
“Just like Mom, huh?” Dante said. Nero couldn’t help but lean forward – the twins very pointedly Did Not Talk about their mother. All he knew was that Dante kept her portrait on his desk and Trish looked like her for reasons no one ever wanted to explain. “She was all about family dinners.”
“I suppose,” Vergil murmured.
“So,” Nero weaseled in. “Did she, uh, like to cook?”
Fucking nailed it.
The twins were quiet for a moment, before they laughed – Dante a loud guffaw, Vergil a quiet chuckle. Nero stood there, unable to figure out what he said that was so funny. They recovered. Dante spoke first.
“The Countess Eva Redgrave, the last witch of the ancient and noble House of Redgrave, did not cook,” Dante said in a fake-posh accent, impersonating someone impersonating someone. “Cooking was something other people did.”
Of course, of course, the human half of the family was also fucking weird.
“I do remember when she tried to make us hot cocoa once,” Vergil said, voice very far away. “The resulting fire was quite impressive before Father managed to put it out. The cook was quite annoyed.”
They were fucking counts. Witch counts. Vergil certainly still held himself like one. Fuck, was Nero a count?
Dante laughed, booming, and clasped Nero’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry Nero, we’ll be there,” Dante said with an easy smile. “Nothing’s keeping me from Kyrie’s lasagna, you hear?”
Vergil didn’t say anything, but he gave that small not-smile and inclined his head. Nero swallowed.
“Great,” Nero said, not believing himself at all. “I’ll let Kyrie know. Meanwhile, you were talking about some jobs…?”
--
Nero woke up early, a crick in his neck from sleeping on the old leather sofa downstairs. There used to be an actual guest bedroom with an old cot that everyone had bled on at some point, but upon their return from Hell Vergil had commandeered it for his own. Dante made noises about turning the ‘spare room’ into a guest room for whatever beleaguered devil hunters were staying with him, but in typical Dante fashion had yet to do it. Devil May Cry may no longer be covered in empty bottles and various skin mags, but it was definitely still a bachelor pad.
He tossed off the threadbare blanket he had been offered and stretched. At least Dante hadn’t been lying about the job – the area around Red Grave was still infested with leftover Qliphoth saplings and associated demons. The brothers Sparda were doing well enough that they had work to spare for once.
(There was never enough work in Fortuna.
The van made it easier, but Nico and Nero could be on the road for days at a time, leaving Kyrie alone to deal with the kids and the judgmental stares of the neighbors. Sure, the new guys running things made big promises about reform and redemption, but it was clear to Nero that Fortuna was still Fortuna. A good chunk of Kyrie’s friends no longer talked to her. Other kids didn’t talk to their charges. Kyrie pretended it didn’t hurt, but Nero knew all the signs.
Anyway.)
Nero pondered whether there was something like cereal or perhaps yogurt in the meager kitchen. Neither of them cooked, of course, Vergil just forced Dante to order from more than just pizza places. Perhaps being a count inherently made you unable to cook. They had servants when they were kids! Servants!
“Good morning, Nero.”
He jumped, spinning his head around to see Vergil descending the steps without making a single sound.
“I’m going to put a bell on you,” Nero muttered, and took stock of his father’s appearance.
Vergil was always polished, from the heat of battle to hanging out at the shop. And yet, that morning, it was clear Vergil had done something more.
Nero could see it in how his Prussian blue peacoat was tailored across his shoulders, the mirror shine polish of his silver-tipped dress shoes, the fact he was wearing a three-piece suit under his coat. No tie – he wasn’t a complete douchebag, at least.
Nero couldn’t see the Yamato, but knew it was under that coat.
“Where the hell are you going?” Nero asked.
“I am picking up a book I ordered,” Vergil said, folding his arms behind his back. “I will be right back.”
Nero stood, slipping his boots and coat on. “Sounds fun. I’ll come with.”
“That’s unnecessary,” Vergil said, slightly pained.
“I was going out to get breakfast, anyway,” Nero said. “We’ll grab it after we get your book.”
Vergil closed his eyes. Exhaled. “Fine. Do keep up.”
He strode out of the office, and Nero jogged to keep up. A smell hit his sensitive nose. “Are you wearing cologne?”
“None of your concern,” Vergil replied.
In the morning, Capulet was diminished. All the neon bug lights were off, the shutters rolled down, and the revelers hid from the sun. Vergil and Nero were the only two things still alive.
“You’re seriously dressed up,” Nero prodded. “Bookstore that important?”
“Some of us take pride in our appearances,” Vergil responded. “Perhaps you still have time to learn that. Dante is too far gone.”
“No point if it’s just going to get covered in demon guts,” Nero pointed out. Vergil scoffed.
“Proper technique and skill would prevent that,” Vergil said. Pretentious fucker.
The bookstore was a few streets away from Devil May Cry, where the neighborhood went from ‘den of inequity and vice’ to ‘kind of rough.’ Vergil stopped at an ivy-covered building; there was a big plate window, covered with iron bars. Nero could just make out the faded gold paint that said ENGLUND’S RARE BOOKS AND ANTIQUTIES. Vergil paused, adjusted his coat collar, and – almost as an afterthought – popped open an additional button on his shirt. A bell twinkled when Vergil opened the door.
The store was packed full of shelves that were overflowing with slowly decaying books. The smell of old paper and leather was overwhelming, but Nero could pick up the faintest ozone tinge of magic – he was getting better at noticing that kind of stuff. Vergil stopped in front of the register, one hand folded behind himself and the other gently touching the counter.
“Good morning—o-oh, Mr. R-Redgrave!”
A woman had popped out from around a shelf, a flush spilling down the bronze skin of her round face. Her big eyes were obscured by her wire-framed glasses; her dark curls spilled over her face. She was pretty in a shy, mousy sort of way, and stared so intently at Vergil she didn’t even register Nero standing next to him.
Nero traced her stare back to Vergil and—what the fuck was that quirk of Vergil’s mouth? Was he smiling at her?
“Good morning, Miss Annabella,” Vergil replied in a gentle tone that gave Nero whiplash. “I’m here to see if Englund has acquired those books I requested.”
“Well, Mr. Englund isn’t h-here,” she said, tugging at the hem of her sweater and imagining climbing Vergil like a tree. “B-but I think one of the books has c-come, if you don’t m-mind me showing you and not M-Mr. Englund.”
“Being in your company is a fine way to spend a morning,” Vergil said. Annabella looked away, clutching her book tightly to her chest, her blush luminescent.
Oh God, these were the moves! These were the moves that worked! This shit had proof that it worked! Nero was the fucking proof!
It was then that Miss Annabella noticed Nero standing there. Dazed, she said, “O-oh, sorry, sir, I didn’t see—”
“It’s fine,” Vergil cut in. “This is my son, Nero. Nero, this is Miss Annabella, Englund’s assistant.”
“Uh, hi,” Nero said. Annabella did not look like the revelation of Vergil being old enough to have a twentysomething son put her off. At all.
“H-Hello,” Miss Annabella said. “I’ll…I’ll get that book for you right away, M-Mr. Redgrave.”
She scuttled into the back room, door slamming shut behind her. Nero turned to Vergil with wide eyes.
“What the hell was that?” Nero asked. Vergil had the audacity to side eye him.
“I assumed you were aware of how conversation works,” Vergil said. “Was I incorrect?”
“Oh, that was not a conversation,” Nero shot back. He felt hysterical. “Were you seriously just flirting with her? Right in front of your kid?”
Vergil scoffed, fixing his gaze on the door to the back. Waiting.
“I am not flirting, I am being friendly,” Vergil said. “Should I be discourteous to her? I deal with her more than the actual owner of this establishment.”
Vergil had no issues being discourteous to anyone and everyone around him. Nero let out a squeaky, disbelieving laugh.
“You seriously think I’m going to believe you’re just being polite?” Nero asked.
“Miss Annabella has a vast knowledge of the magical texts I seek,” Vergil continued like Nero hadn’t said anything. “It is important to maintain good relations with someone like that.”
Good relations. God, his father was into librarians.
The door to the back opened, and Annabella was holding a slim box. She hurried over to the counter where Vergil stood, standing on the other side. He towered over her by at least a foot. Annabella kept her head down to hide from the sheer intent in Vergil’s gaze. Any moment he was going to bust out a William Blake quote and seal the deal.
From the box Annabella produced a slim leather book that managed to radiate bad vibes all the way over to where Nero stood. She placed it on a little book stand, and right as she did so, Vergil reached up to touch the cover. Their fingers brushed together, and Annabella took in a sharp breath. Nero wanted to hurl.
“Apologies,” Vergil murmured, pulling his hand away. He placed it on the counter, clenching and then unclenching. Hey, Nero had seen Pride and Prejudice (2005) too, asshole! He knew what Vergil was doing!
“I-it’s fine,” Annabella said. She flipped open the book and began to ramble about it. Nero was unable to pay attention because Vergil was so blatantly staring at Annabella and not the book. Annabella kept looking up at him through her lashes. He was about to jump out the window.
Finally, Annabella was closing the book and putting it back into the box – an end to this hell. Vergil took it from her, tucking it under his arm.
“Thank you, Miss Annabella,” Vergil said. “Are you working late again tonight?”
Annabella gave a stuttering laugh. “O-oh, not that late, nothing you have to worry about, M-Mr. Redgrave.”
“Nonsense,” Vergil said. “I will be here at eight thirty to escort you home.”
“Really, Mr. Redgrave!” Miss Annabella exclaimed. “I won’t bother you like that…Jackson downstairs can walk me…”
Vergil reached out, gently touching the back of her hand.
“I walk the village round; if at her side A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,” Vergil said, throaty with agony. “I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe, That made my love so high and me so low.”
Annabella looked about ready to dissolve into a puddle. Nero wanted to grab the Yamato and give himself a DIY lobotomy.
“I will see you tonight, Miss Annabella,” Vergil said, slowly drawing his hand away.
“I-I’ll see you tonight, M-Mr. Redgrave,” Annabella murmured.
Finally, Vergil was leaving that infernal bookstore and Nero could take in the disgusting rankness of the city in an attempt to purge that encounter from his mind.
“That’s why you dressed up,” Nero said. “You dressed up to flirt with the girl at the bookstore. You wore cologne to flirt with the girl at the bookstore.”
“I am polite to a woman and you find a way to slander me,” Vergil said.
“Sorry I didn’t want to see the techniques that led to my conception, old man,” Nero shot back. “Did the brooding romance hero look work on my mom that easy, or have you taken the time to workshop it? Should I be worried about having a new little half-sibling running around—”
Vergil stopped in the middle of the street, whirling on his heel to shove the butt of the Yamato’s scabbard under Nero’s chin. Nero hadn’t even seen him open his coat.
“You invited yourself,” Vergil hissed. “Go deal with your feelings about it alone.”
He turned back on his heel and walked down the street, not sparing a single glance towards Nero. Fucking asshole.
--
Nero got back to Fortuna late, after everyone else was asleep. He parked his bike in the garage, near the van. He took off his helmet, stared at his garage. Something prowled in his chest, restless.
He crept through the tight, cramped house as quietly as possible. Two bedrooms and rent was an arm and a leg. Nero sighed, kicking off his boots and jacket.
“Nero?”
He looked over to where the living room flowed to the hallway, where Kyrie stood in the archway in her nightgown and robe. The porchlight peered through the drapes, just enough to make her glow.
“Hey babe,” Nero said, keeping his voice low. “Didn’t mean to wake you up, just got back.”
“It’s alright, I was having a hard time sleeping,” Kyrie sighed. Nero frowned, striding over and gently touching her arms.
“What’s up?” Nero asked. “Is something the matter?”
“I was just missing you, silly,” Kyrie said, stroking his jaw. “How are Dante and Vergil?”
“…Fine,” Nero said. “Same old, same old. They’re…they’re coming by for dinner.”
“That’s good,” Kyrie replied.
“Learned my grandma was a countess,” Nero said. Something churned in his chest. “And a witch. And couldn’t cook.”
“I knew you were a noble soul,” Kyrie teased. Nero swallowed.
“Saw my d—the old man flirting,” Nero stuttered out. “Pulled out a William Blake quote and everything.”
Kyrie laughed. “I didn’t think he was capable of that!”
“Me too,” Nero said. Fixed his gaze to the hallway. Two bedrooms, one bath. Way too small. Something clawed at his chest. “Asked him if he used the same moves on my…on my mom. Damn near got skewered by the Yamato. Guess I should’ve expected that, huh?”
“Oh, Nero,” Kyrie murmured. He looked back at her.
For all her warmth and all her beauty, Kyrie was the daughter of butchers, not of lords. Kyrie knew the broom, and the sewing needle, and the coupon book. Nero didn’t think he could ever give her a life where she didn’t have to know those things. Nero didn’t know if she even wanted that kind of life if he could.
But here, where the creeping porchlight made her glow like mother-of-pearl, Nero could understand what Sparda felt when he met his noble countess. Perhaps what his father felt, when he met Nero’s mother. An all-too-human woman staring down something bloodthirsty and wild without showing a hint of fear.
“Nero, he’s your father,” she said. “You deserve the truth from him.”
Nero fell to his knees before her, pressing his face into her warm stomach. Kyrie threaded her fingers through his hair.
--
Would it have been simpler, if he had been Dante’s?
On the surface, Dante was the easier twin to love. Personable, charming, friendly, aloof, depressed, shuttered. His office was full of empty beer bottles and handles of Jack Daniel’s. All the working girls on the block spoke breathlessly of his gallantry and his savagery. He gave Nero the name of his shop and his dead brother’s sword and refused to explain either.
How does an indestructible man self-destruct?
Nero knew very little about Dante and understood even less, and the jagged bits of knowledge he did have cut his palms when he tried to grasp them. He asked Lady about it, once, and Dante’s oldest friend had simply shrugged and said there are parts of him you’re only ever going to get glimpses of, kid.
Perhaps the resentment would’ve just taken another form. Trying to understand Vergil was like grasping smoke – Nero’s hands would slide through and leave him frustrated, but not bleeding.
--
On Sunday, Dante and Vergil knocked on Nero’s door, as promised. Dante had been wrestled into a nice sweater and Vergil was holding a bottle of red wine.
“Yamato has to go into the closet,” Nero said. Dante laughed at Vergil’s face. “Alongside Ebony and Ivory.”
That shut Dante up. Nero wasn’t quite sure if the kids had the strength to pull the trigger on whatever bullshit custom job that allowed Dante to not reload, but he wasn’t going to risk it.
“Oh, you’ve made it!” Kyrie said, stepping out of the kitchen. Dante gave her his brightest smile.
“Of course!” Dante exclaimed. “Couldn’t miss out on your cooking!”
Kyrie laughed. She liked people who could eat. Her eyes slid over to Vergil, and a more uncertain look crossed her face.
“I hope this wine goes with dinner,” Vergil said, offering her the bottle. “We spent a long time…debating it.”
The thought of Vergil and Dante arguing in the middle of a Trader Joe’s wine section was transcendental.
“It looks good,” Kyrie said, gently taking the bottle from Vergil. He nodded at her, shoulders tense.
Nico and the children burst through the back door, yelling and hollering over whatever dangerous experimental toy she showed them in the backyard. The kids immediately swarmed Dante, the living jungle gym with an endless well of patience; Dante, on his part, just laughed and hoisted the boys clinging to his arms into the air with ease. Nero once saw Dante lift and throw a car like it weighed nothing.
“Ah, kids,” Kyrie said softly. Their little faces snapped towards her, enraptured. “We have a new guest! Everyone, meet Mr. Vergil. Mr. Vergil, meet Julio, Kyle, and Carlo.”
“Well met,” Vergil said. The kids were staring at him in open awe. Perhaps, to an outsider observer, Vergil did look somewhat…cool.
“He’s my twin,” Dante explained with a laugh.
“Can you swordfight?” Julio exclaimed. At ten, he was determined to be a devil hunter, running around with a wooden sword and constantly practicing the drills Nero had showed him. Nero felt…conflicted about whether or not he should be encouraging that.
“Yes,” Vergil said. “Quite well, I’ve been told. Perhaps when you are older, I can show you.”
Julio gasped, eyes sparkling. Christ, Nero was never going to hear the end of this.
They shuffled into the dining room – Nero and Nico had salvaged the big, wooden dining table off the side of the road, and Kyrie had sanded and polished it until it looked brand new. Kyrie’s magnificent feast was laid out; Nero could see Dante drooling. The walls were painted a warm, welcoming orange and covered in photographs.
Kyrie sat at the head of the table, and Nero sat opposite of her. Perhaps subconsciously, Nico and Dante managed to force it so Vergil was sitting next to Nero. Fuckers.
At least between Nico and the kids, with the occasional quip from Dante, Nero wasn’t expected to talk much. Vergil didn’t talk at all, focusing on eating his food with military precision. His etiquette was uncanny in its politeness. Perhaps that was part of being a count – Dante, surprisingly, became Mr. Manners when you put a fork and knife in his hands.
Whatever. Nero tried to focus on Kyrie’s warm, beaming face as she took in the full dining room.
The meal stretched on, winding down slowly. Dante leaned back in his chair with a sigh, having demolished a good chunk of the lasagna himself. “As excellent as always, Kyrie.”
“Thank you, Dante,” Kyrie replied and then looked over at Vergil. “How about you, Mr. Vergil?”
“It was…enjoyable,” Vergil said stiffly. “Thank you for hosting.”
Maybe Nico was right. Maybe Vergil did have social anxiety.
“It’s my pleasure,” Kyrie said, with that bright smile that made her eyes crinkle.
“Can we show Mr. Dante the gyrocopter?” Carlo asked.
“Hey, Kyrie spent all this time making a nice meal and you’re not going to help her clean up?” Dante asked. “Come on, get to clearing the table!”
Dante was surprisingly good at this, considering he was a perpetual bachelor with no kids. Nero thought about Patty, and corrected himself – perhaps he had a little bit of practice.
In a flurry of activity, plates and dishes were cleared off; laughter and excited chatter trailed into the kitchen. Nero and Vergil were alone.
Motherfuckers!
Vergil was still, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the Sparda statues that still littered Fortuna, with the same cool, dispassionate gaze. During the twins’ six-month tour of Hell, Nero thought of a million things he wanted to say to his father and uncle – why did you never tell me? Why did you never come back for me? Did you even know I existed?
All the words dried up and choked Nero when Dante called one day, cheerfully informing Nero that both him and Vergil were back at Devil May Cry.
“I imagine you have some questions for me,” Vergil said, tone flat. “I will answer them. My answers will not be to your liking.”
No wonder Dante’s first instinct upon Vergil’s resurrection was to try to stab him. The most infuriating man in the entire fucking world, and he had to be Nero’s father. Fuck.
A thousand questions flashed through Nero’s mind. No questions flashed through Nero’s mind. Vergil had a face like a still pond.
Finally, Nero’s mouth decided for him.
“Who was my mother?”
He had been asking for twenty-five years, waiting for someone who could answer.
A pained look rippled across Vergil’s face before it smoothed back out.
“She was a librarian,” Vergil said, voice very far away. “Her name was…her name was Flora. She aided me in my research into my father. I eventually attracted too much attention and had to leave Fortuna. She did not inform me of a pregnancy before I left. I doubt she knew herself.”
“If she did,” Nero said, words small and bitter. “Would you have stayed?”
Vergil was quiet, unmoving in a yellow chair – another roadside find Kyrie had transformed. Past his shoulder was the big, open arch that led into the living room, still covered with toys. Nero swallowed.
“I would like to say I would’ve,” Vergil answered. “But I was also eighteen, incredibly angry with the world, and wanted to never hurt again.”
“So you would’ve skipped out no matter what. Good to know.”
Kyrie had picked out the orange paint used in the dining room, sorting through the massive wall of chips in the back of the hardware store. Tart Orange, a bright and lively shade for the heart of the house. As Nero painted, he imagined the delight on Kyrie’s face when she saw the orange walls covered in photographs.
Nero could not imagine a room Vergil was less suited for. His spine was a straight line, one leg crossed over the other at a perfect ninety-degree angle, sitting in the cheery yellow chair like it was a throne
“You asked and I answered,” Vergil said, unashamed. Such emotions were for lesser beings. “I am trying to be honest. I will never be the father you wanted.”
It was easier when they were stabbing each other.
“Whatever,” Nero spat. He leaned back in his own chair, legs spread and arms crossed. “I know I’m not the son you wanted, either.”
“Do not put words into my mouth.”
Another skipped step. Nero stared at Vergil, and Vergil closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose and exhaling out his mouth.
“You have done remarkably well with our lineage’s legacy,” Vergil said.
“I didn’t want a legacy or a lineage,” Nero spat. “I wanted a fucking family.”
“We aren’t born with the luxury of picking our fathers, Nero.”
“You didn’t want Sparda as your dad?” Nero asked, mocking. “Can’t imagine what the Order would say about that one.”
An apocalyptic fury briefly bloomed across Vergil’s face before being quickly wrestled down. It was surprising enough to shut Nero up for a moment.
“Sparda was an excellent father,” Vergil said, as sharp as a needle. A pause. “But being his son is…difficult. Do you understand?”
Perhaps Nero did – not the excellent father part, but the difficulty of being a son. Nero was doomed to be measured against Vergil, just as Vergil was doomed to be measured against Sparda. A line of fathers dooming their sons to be their fathers.
“Yes,” Nero said. “I get it.”
“The man who taught me how to swordfight was very different than the man who sealed the Underworld,” Vergil continued. “I have struggled to figure out where one ends and the other begins. Dante has, too. So will you.”
You’ll never understand me. You know this. You’ll try for your whole life, anyway.
“Who wants cake?”
Dante and Nico were louder than the children, of course. Kyrie brought in the big chocolate cake on a stand; Nero moved to help her get it on the table. She had gotten Dante to carry the silver tray with her grandmother’s fancy coffee set on it, the finely painted china so delicate compared to the violence of Dante’s hands. He set it on the table without incident. The kids brought the silverware; Nico, the plates.
“Thank you,” Vergil said as a slice of cake was set before him. He took his coffee with cream. He enjoyed his dessert much more subtly than his twin, an unmistakable curl to his mouth. It was the most human expression Nero had ever seen his father make.
Kyrie met Nero’s eyes over the table, and smiled.
Dante and Vergil did not linger after dessert – apparently, they were going on two separate jobs in the morning. Kyrie loaded them down with Tupperware, which Dante profusely thanked her for. Nero walked them to the door.
Dante swaggered out first, and Vergil stepped behind. Illuminated by the warm orange porchlight, backlit by the darkness of the street, they looked unreal and glowing. Pale marble statues of demigods granted flesh, far too large for the silent suburban streets around them.
“Thanks for coming,” Nero said. “Both of you.”
“I’m never going say no to dinner, kid,” Dante said. He ruffled Nero’s hair, ignoring his indignant squawk. “See you around.”
He stepped off the porch into the inky black night, taking in the street and all its quiet houses. Vergil lingered at the edges of the orange light, looking at Nero as he often did – sharp, ponderous, staring at Nero and at someone who was no longer there.
“Thank you for dinner,” Vergil said with that same shocking sincerity he did at the bottom of the Qlipoth. “I hope you have some of your answers.”
Some, but not all. He’ll never have all.
“Did you love her?” Nero blurted, mouth working faster than his brain. “My mother, did you love her?”
Vergil went very still. Nero wondered how badly he just fucked up.
He exhaled, eyes closing, drifting into memory. He opened his eyes again.
“Perhaps, if things had been different, I could have,” Vergil finally said. Another pause. “Come visit. Show me how you wielded the Yamato. And we’ll talk further.”
He stepped off the porch to join his twin, and they vanished down the street. Nero stood in the doorway, the smell of smoke in his lungs.