Chapter Text
Dante left with his twin brother, and every day after that was no different. Nero felt as if there was a big hole in his heart.
That day was the same. The phone rang, and he received a job: there were traces of demon activity in a botanical garden in a city nearby. Enjoying beautiful scenery was usually the ladies’ preferred choice, but the kid had been in a low spirit since that day. Demon-slaying was the only thing that could lighten it a bit. So, Trish and Lady generously passed him this job while they handled other business. Consider it a way to look after the family of their old friend.
“Don’t forget to bring us some gifts, gentleman.” The woman with red and teal eyes pinched Nero’s cheek. Kid was just too cute to resist.
Nero gave a flustered nod before climbing into the van, fleeing in a hurry. Nico cackled loudly beside him, mocking the young man for his quality that easily aroused maternal instincts in women. Of course, except for herself.
When he arrived, the situation was worse than he’d expected. These weren’t simply demons slipping through portals from the underworld. The plants here were twisted and corrupted by dark magic, fused with demons to become nasty hybrids, which became tough and tricky to kill. There was even a pot of clawing monkey tail cactus that looked like something straight out of a Lovecraft tale. All thanks to Qilipoth starting this bullshit. Nero recalled the feeling of slimy tendrils wrapping around his body and shuddered. Ugh, gross.
His spectral claws clamped down tight on the writhing creepers as Nero swung his roaring Red Queen at full power, burning fuel twice as fast as usual. These hybrids might be weak in defense and attack, but they excelled in tenacity. Dragging the fight out would only make things worse. The young hunter harvested demons in the garden like a hurricane and even freed two staff trapped behind rose-strangled trellises.
With a shriek pitched beyond his hearing (he had heard that plants could talk, just not at frequencies humans can detect), the last demon twitched and collapsed. Nero shook his beloved blade. His clothes were torn by thorns, and some small cuts on his face had already healed thanks to his grandpa. Unlike the usual gory battles, these demons had no blood. Only broken branches, leaves, and scattered petals fell around, with a sweet, dusty scent hanging in the air. It smelled quite nice, if only a bit choking. Standing in the mess, Nero sneezed a few times. The adrenaline triggered by the battle quickly faded, leaving only a slight fatigue behind.
Before leaving, the client expressed gratitude to him repeatedly. The rescued employees, upon hearing his request, even presented him with an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers. All clean, mind you. Nero’s entire upper body was almost blocked by the blooms, causing passersby to turn and look, wondering if today was some important holiday they had forgotten.
Nico drove up front while Nero sat in the back cradling the flowers. The blooms in his arms were vibrant and charming, their scent sweet and calming enough to lift anyone’s mood. For once, the girl drove like she valued her license since she was afraid of jostling the delicate petals. Nero coughed a few times and cracked open the window for some air. Once they picked up the huntress and the demoness, they’d all head back together.
Trish chose purple irises, while Lady went for fire lilies, declaring she wanted to try her hand at flower arranging or gardening. Their team had recently cleared a whole stack of jobs in the area. Unless another Urizen popped out of nowhere, things would probably stay quiet for a while.
“Drop by our place sometime, alright?” Trish said, giving Nero a quick hug. Lady was already hopping out of the van, Kalina Ann hoisted over her shoulder.
After bidding the ladies farewell, Nero picked some sunflowers and stuck them in a water bottle on the table. He coughed again, causing Nico glanced back at him. “Since when are you allergic to pollen?”
Nero waved her off. He arranged the rest of the flowers in floral foam carefully, let Nico to deliver them to Kyrie and the kids back in Fortuna, while he stepped out at the office to say goodbye. Nico asked when he was going to head back.
He thought for a moment. “Later, maybe.”
Nero had shifted his work base from Fortuna to the mainland. The office sat abandoned since the twin vanished, so he just moved in. With the help from Trish and Lady, he had taken most of Dante’s old contracts from Morrison, along with the key, the lease, and the bills. Emotionally speaking, he was Dante’s nephew. And practically, he was the heir to the Devil May Cry demon-hunting business.
Someone had to keep the lights on, right? Otherwise, that old bastard could only crash on a park bench when he got back.
At least, that’s what Nero told himself.
Truth was, he wasn’t even sure Dante would come back.
So he just clung to a faint hope while repeating to himself every day doesn’t matter if he shows up again or not like a mantra. It was the only way the emptiness didn’t hit too hard every time he opened that door and saw no one waiting inside.
Over time, it became routine.
There was another routine he developed these days after returning home. Shower. Laundry. Meal. Well, meal might’ve been an inflated term. He just went for whatever was quickest. A sandwich the day before yesterday, pasta yesterday. Nero opened the fridge, eyeing the wilted greens inside, and hesitated. Forget it, he wasn’t in the mood for salad today. He dumped anything that looked too far gone and fixed himself a quick bowl of oatmeal to keep his stomach from growling.
It wasn’t that Nero couldn’t cook. On the contrary, under Kyrie’s influence, his skills were quite decent. But what was the point of preparing a feast when you had to eat it alone?
He wolfed down the lukewarm porridge in a few quick gulps, washed the dishes, and, with nothing else to do, flopped onto the couch and stared at the aging ceiling. The first floor was Nero’s territory. He’d scrubbed it spotless the day he moved in. As for upstairs, He’d never set foot there.
Four years ago, he’d arrived unannounced at the shop’s doorstep, fueled by naive enthusiasm and clumsy determination. Face-to-face with Dante’s surprised expression, Nero had blurted out the speech he’d rehearsed a hundred times.
— Uh… well, thanks for the neon sign, I guess. I was thinking about starting a shop in Fortuna, but I’ve got zero experience. And… I kinda wanted to ask you about demon hunting. I mean, combat skills, you know… things like that.
Dante hadn’t slammed the door in his face as Nero had feared. The older man just wore a slightly troubled smile and accepted this awkward kid who couldn’t get his words out properly. Thus began their half-year of living together in the office. Nero had crashed on Dante’s couch during that time. They went on missions together, fought side by side, and sometimes Dante would spar with him, offering tips on fighting styles. Just like they’d agreed, Dante did his best to be a patient, responsible mentor.
They’d also go out to eat sometimes, until one day Nero complained “No wonder you’re always broke.” So the dinners out turned into regular grocery runs, and Nero’s cooking skills were put to practical use. Dante had also taught him how to play pool. And sometimes they’d just sit around drinking and chatting about nothing in particular. There were even times when they sat so close together that there was barely a gap. Close enough for Nero to feel Dante’s body heat through their clothes.
Back then, Nero felt their bond had quietly deepened. From tentative politeness to playful bickering and harmless fights, to lounging on the couch together watching dumb late-night shows. But Dante still called him kid, always with that tone like he was placating a child. It irritated him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, yet he didn’t want to deepen Dante’s impression of him as a grumpy child. So he just found himself staring more and more at Dante’s lips as they moved when he talked or laughed.
Once, during another late night session, Nero had dozed off. When he woke, he found himself resting against the shoulder of the man beside him. He moved to sit up, but the soft rhythm of even breathing stopped him.
Dante was asleep. Slowly, slowly, he turned to study his mentor’s unguarded face. No careless smirk, no battle-cold glare, just childlike peace. And something inside Nero bloomed without warning at that moment.
He wanted to kiss Dante. So he did.
The feather-light kiss landed gently at the corner of Dante’s lips, no more than a breath. Nero’s heart hammered as he quickly retreated, face burning, the softness of that phantom touch lingering on his own. He didn’t regret it at all. Quite the opposite, there was only a quiet joy bubbled in his heart. It felt warm and steady, as if he’d finally clutched something precious. Wrapped in that secret, he drifted back to sleep.
He naively believed that as long as he never spoke of it, as long as everything stayed the same, they could continue like this forever. But he forgot that happiness was never a word meant for him.
—Kid, I’ve got nothing left to teach you.
—If it’s about that girl’s brother… Credo, right? Don’t sweat it. She’ll come around. After all, she is your… family.
Nero said nothing. He just left. He had always been good at hiding his true feelings behind indifference and scowls. His pride simply wouldn’t allow him to look shattered or pitiful. In the years that followed, Dante occasionally called to invite him on jobs. Nero would go, but he never stayed overnight at the office again. Dante never asked for Nero to stay; and Nero never brought it up, too. They have a special tacit understanding in this, as if those six months never happened.
Then Yamato was taken.
And after that came the Qlipoth…
Nero jolted awake, yanked out of his dream by a strange sensation. An intense itch had suddenly flared deep in his throat, like something was trying to sprout from his windpipe. He sat up abruptly, chest rising and falling as he coughed hard, feeling the tremors all the way in his lungs.
When he finally managed to calm down, he wiped away the involuntary tears with the back of his hand and stumbled to his feet. Still half-asleep, he shoved on his shoes and poured himself a glass of water. As the liquid slid down his throat, he could feel a scratchy, papery friction at the back of his mouth. Something wasn’t quite right.
Frowning, he dragged his groggy body to the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and splashed his face. He opened his mouth wide and peered into the mirror—
No swelling. No secretion.
He cleared his throat again. Had he caught a cold? That would be a first.
He scoffed at his own reflection. Just as he turned to leave, a sudden flash of crimson in the mirror caught his eye. He stopped dead.
Somehow, a single vivid petal was clinging to the front of his shirt. Without thinking, he plucked it off. It was soft and slightly damp, fresh as if it had just fallen from a bud, even still carried a faint fragrance with it. A rose petal.
Had it come from the bouquet he’d brought back today? But… had there even been red roses? Nero couldn’t quite remember. His head felt fuzzy, and his back was uncomfortably warm, burning with what felt like fever. Perhaps he really had caught something, he reassured himself. The crimson petal, now warmed to his body temperature, remained tightly pinched between his fingertips when he returned to the couch.
Maybe everything would be fine after a good night’s sleep.
It did not.
The coughing had gotten worse. It was kind of manageable during daytime, but once night fell, Nero would cough so violently that he couldn’t sleep at all. The itch nestled deep down in his throat, like a tiny feather lightly brushing against his windpipe, nearly driving him crazy to the point where he wanted nothing more than to reach down and rip out whatever wretched thing caused this along with his entire trachea, tearing both to shreds just to find relief. And then there were the petals.
Alongside the coughing, came the endless stream of red petals spilling from his lips like blood, yet also falling like snow, drifting upon his chest, his knees, and the floor. He’d lost count of how many times he jolted awake in the middle of the night, dashing to the bathroom to hack and wheeze as he hunched over the toilet, tears streaming down his face. The torment would not stop until there was nothing left in his stomach, until all he could do was dry retch up foamy bile.
His planned trip back to Fortuna was put on hold. He had called Kyrie, asking about medicines for colds and coughs. His sister on the other end of the line, hearing his voice so hoarse that it was nearly unrecognizable, rattled off a list of medicines, her voice thick with worry. Nero noted them down, but soon he found that some of the cough suppressants were prescription only. And the hospital was out of the question. Not just because of the devil genes in his body, but because of what he was coughing up. If anyone found out he was spitting up petals, he might never make it out of some strange lab alive, if they returned the body at all.
Nero wrapped a scarf over his face, stocked up on food and whatever meds he could get his hands on, and tried to avoid going out during the day. Now the petals came during daylight hours too. At first only one at a time, sometimes two recently. Nero had never seen anything like this, but his instincts screamed: this was no good sign.
His energy vanished along with his appetite. Days blurred together as he curled up on the sofa conserving what little strength remained, enduring the burning agony in his chest while desperately hoping his quarter-Sparda blood might somehow kick in and wipe out whatever cursed virus or parasite was tearing him apart from the inside.
The harsh hacking echoed through the house, bouncing off the bare walls. For the first time, Nero felt that the place was too empty—so empty that it was almost frightening. From his days in the orphanage to now, he’d never lived alone for this long. He couldn’t understand why he’d left Fortuna again to come back here all by himself. It was like he was a well-trained dog: Dante waved a hand, and he came running, tail wagging. If Dante felt like it, he’d play with him for a while; if not, he’d toss him aside. And all Nero could do was sit patiently by the door, waiting for his master to remember him.
He had tried slamming the door and leaving. Many times, he wanted to walk away for good. But this place was enchanted. He never made it more than ten steps before something pulled him back.
The enchantment lurked in Dante’s room.
His throat bobbed as another coughing fit seized him. Nero stumbled up the stairs, a thin layer of dust had gathered on the handrails, undisturbed for weeks. Gotta clean all this up before Dante returns.
Finally, he stood before the place he had never dared to enter. In the dark, guided by pure instinct, he found it without hesitation. His hand curled around the doorknob, turned it with a soft click—
He stepped into Dante’s world.
The room was cold and lifeless from disuse, but it overflowed with an overwhelming, unmistakable familiarity. He inhaled deeply without thinking. Dante’s room smelled complex, a woody incense mixed with aged liquor, leather, and gun oil. A bit strange, yet not unpleasant. There was warmth to it. Like stepping into an old cabin during a blizzard, only to find the fire already crackling in the hearth, and someone had saved a spot for you by the dancing flames.
The sensation nearly drowned him. The aching in his chest suddenly loosened its grip. For the first time in days, it seemed like he could breathe again.
Nero gulped the air greedily. Not enough, still not enough. He stepped forward, slowly, until his knees bumped against the edge of the mattress. His strength gave out, and Nero collapsed face-first into the bed. There. This was where Dante’s scent was the strongest.
He buried himself in it, like a dying man in the desert who had finally found a spring. Tears came without warning, soaking into the sheets.
Nero curled up in Dante’s bed and slept deeply and soundly for the first time in a long while.
“Hey you—What the hell happened to you?! Don’t tell me you’re on a diet, dude. Crash diets always backfire!”
Nero sat in the passenger seat, face dark, tuning out Nico’s dramatic yelling. Worried about raising suspicion among those who knew him well, he hadn’t worn his scarf today. Instead, he kept his head down, burying the lower half of his face into the zipped-up collar of his coat. But he knew it was a weak attempt at hiding. If anything, it only made things more suspicious.
Ever since he started sleeping in Dante’s room, the coughing at night had eased a little. But it wasn’t the miracle cure he’d hoped for. He still coughed up petals from time to time, two or three at once now. He’d tried cough syrup once, only to nearly choke on a clump of petals stuck in his throat, thanks to the smooth muscle suppressant. He hadn’t touched those stuff since.
This morning, he’d barely recognized himself in the mirror: deep shadows under haunted eyes, hollow cheeks, long bangs hanging limp across his forehead. He looked absolutely miserable.
“Quit making a big deal out of nothing. Just caught some flu, haven’t had much appetite lately,” he mumbled, clearing his throat to fight back the rising itch. “Better keep your distance. It might be contagious.”
The girl with glasses responded with half-hearted hmms and uh-huhs, clearly unconvinced as she shot him a skeptical sideways glance. Nico wasn’t the type to pry or force people into talking about things they preferred to keep private, especially with someone like Nero, who tended to explode if pushed too far. Their friendship had always worked because of the unspoken distance they kept: Keep it light, but don’t cross the line.
Still, she made a mental note of it. Her gut told her this might have to be something supernatural again. Maybe she should phone for backup. She chose her words carefully. “Hey, Nero... you do know it’s okay to lean on people sometimes, right?”
Nero remained deflated, curled into himself on the seat, his mind clearly wandering. “Mmm…”
Yeah, he definitely wasn’t in the state to listen to reason. Nico swallowed the rest of what she was going to say. That’s fine. There’d be time to break him later. Right now, the priority was catching the ferry back to Fortuna.
Something was off. No, Shit was bad.
Nico exchanged a worried glance with Kyrie. Nero’s plate was barely touched, which was completely out of character for someone his age, who usually devoured meals like he had a bottomless pit for a stomach. All day, they’d caught his choked-back coughing fits when he thought they weren’t looking. Just now, he had bolted from the table and locked himself in the bathroom, and the sound of coughing that followed behind that door was enough to make anyone’s chest tighten in sympathy.
Dude looked wrecked. His face looked pale as the usual healthy color gone from his cheeks. His steps were unsteady, and his whole body slouched with exhaustion.
They had compared notes earlier, trying to piece things together, but there wasn’t much to go on. Frustrated, Nico raked a hand through her hair. Maybe she really should call Trish and see if she knew anything?
Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the screen and let out a short, relaxed laugh.
Speak of the devil.
“Hey, Trish. What’s up?”
“Nico. Is Nero with you? I tried calling him—he didn’t pick up.”
“He’s here,” she said, instantly alert. “Something going on?”
“Well... not really.” Trish reassured, her voice carried a hint of a smile, layered over the distant background noise of a crowd or maybe a bar. “I just thought he might want to know right away.
“—Dante and Vergil are back.”