Archive of Our Own

The shrill ringing of the telephone jolts Nero awake. 

The sound startles him, and he reaches for Blue Rose, resting on the old bedside table. It's an automatic gesture — one Kyrie has never particularly appreciated. She murmurs something indistinct as the warmth beside her suddenly slips away. 

She wakes completely when Nero tries to pull away. Her brown eyes, still clouded with sleep, watch him with sleepy resignation. 

"Leaving already?"

She looks resigned as she adjusts herself in bed, sitting up to speak to him — and Nero hates himself for what he's putting her through.

The past few months have been hell ever since those idiot twins decided to throw themselves into the Underworld as though it were some sort of holiday resort. The streets of Red Grave have become increasingly overrun with demons, the veil between worlds thinner than ever since Father of the Year decided to raise the Qliphoth— 

A Poison Tree, he thinks bitterly, remembering one of the many poem titles engraved in the book the man had given him.

"I'm sorry," Nero says.

He feels like an idiot, leaving her behind to take care of the house and three children who've already been through far more than they ever should have.

He is reluctant to leave. He had only returned from the mainland a few hours earlier, still buoyed by the simple comfort of being home — of doing things that didn't end in bloodshed. He'd lifted Kyle into his arms, played with Carlo and helped Julio with his homework. For one brief moment, Nero had felt normal.

The phone stops ringing.

Nero considers ignoring it. Going back to bed and wrapping himself around his girlfriend's smaller frame. Letting himself drown in the scent of orange blossom shampoo lingering in her hair. Running his fingers across the softness of her stomach.

He considers staying, getting up early and making breakfast. Walking Julio and Kyle to school and spending the rest of the day taking care of Carlo while waiting for Kyrie to come home from rehearsal.

The phone rings again.

It somehow sounds more urgent than before, even though he knows it isn't. The ringing hasn't changed — it's the guilt that distorts everything else.

Kyrie watches him while he hesitates. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminates her delicate features — not that Nero needs it to see her. He would recognize her face even if he were blind, simply by the way his fingers had memorized every curve of it. 

She doesn't judge him. She simply waits while he makes up his mind.

He doesn't deserve her, but he's far too selfish to let her go. Nero has always had so little. Everything he has, he holds onto with claws.

The phone keeps ringing.

"I'm sorry." He says it again.

Kyrie's shoulders sink in quiet acceptance, and she smiles at him, trying to comfort him when he doesn't deserve it.

A better man would let her go. But Nero isn't.

He's a rotten, starving creature with claws and fangs.

"It's alright, Nero," Kyrie says.

And he believes her — because she's kind and gentle, and she would never let someone she loves suffer just to keep him with her a little longer.

Nero wants to apologize again. He wants her to know just how badly he wants to stay. But he knows that if he starts, he won't be able to stop. So he gives her one last longing look before hurrying downstairs.

He doesn't hold back, vaulting silently over the banister so he won't wake the children, his feet barely brushing the second-hand carpet to keep the floorboards from creaking.

Nero crosses the kitchen and heads for the garage where the van is parked.

He braces himself against the side of the van, where one of the windows has been left open, reaches his right arm — flesh and bone. Real — and lifts the receiver from its cradle.

"Devil May Cry."

There is a brief silence on the other end.

"Hey, kid..."

[...]

Nero doesn't visit the twins during the first week.

There's a petty sort of satisfaction in making them wait for him, even when restlessness keeps tugging him in their direction.

It's instinctive — something he'd spent far too long without a name for, something whose hunger disgusts him. It had only gotten worse after awakening his Devil Trigger, and ignoring whatever lay hidden beneath his skin had become a Herculean task.

Even so, he spent the week at home. The boys loved it.

Kyle asked Nero to show him his wings one afternoon while they were out in the backyard. His eyes widened with awe when Nero finally gave in.  Júlio is noticeably more hesitant than his adopted brother, but he still reaches out, carefully threading his fingers through the translucent feathers.

Nero doesn't move. He simply watches as the boy lets out a tiny giggle when the feathers rustle beneath his touch.

But he draws the line when Kyle asks him to take him flying.

Instead, Nero tries to occupy himself with the things he can control.

He washes the dishes while Kyrie cooks, runs to the market whenever they need groceries, fixes the bathroom plumbing after the pipes clog from the winter cold, and even helps their neighbor, Mrs. Pellegrini, repair part of her porch.

The elderly woman had lived alone ever since her son died during the Savior Incident. When Kyrie and Nero first moved in, she'd been the first person to welcome them — and she'd never once let the rumors surrounding Nero change the way she treated him.

He doesn't visit them during the second week, either.

The phone didn't ring with any new jobs. 

He keeps himself busy around Fortuna instead, taking whatever assignments the Order sends his way. Restlessness sits beneath his skin, and extra money is never something he can afford to turn down. Even if he refuses to admit it to Kyrie, Nero misses the action. His instincts kept nudging him toward the next fight, the next hunt, the next prey  — and that didn't help.

Eventually, even Kyrie began watching him with quiet concern.

Nero knows he's become impatient, prowling around the house as though something might emerge from the shadows at any moment.

"Nero."

Her soft voice pulls him from his thoughts. He'd been so distracted he hadn't even noticed she'd stopped humming whatever new song had been playing on the radio.

His head snaps toward her far too quickly. His muscles react before his mind does, his entire body tensing for a heartbeat as though preparing to spring.

Judging by the way she's looking at him, this probably isn't the first time she's called his name.

He's sitting on the battered second-hand sofa, its worn upholstery hidden beneath a quilt Kyrie had embroidered herself.

It's late afternoon. The setting sun spills lazily through the folding windows, bathing the room in warm amber light, while Nero rocks Carlo through his nap with one of his wings. The little boy had developed quite a liking for curling up there.

Nero's wings are sharp. Their pointed edges can cut through demonic flesh with nauseating ease.

Yet he keeps them perfectly still. Soft.

Kyrie doesn't flinch at the abruptness of his movement. She had long since grown used to Nero's peculiarities. 

She leans against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her hair is tied back in a careless knot, loose strands escaping around her face. She's wearing one of Nero's oldest shirts and a pair of loose-fitting trousers. The scent of the herbs and spices she'd used for dinner clung to her, mingling with the warmth from the stove and the faint sheen of sweat across her skin.

His canines ache.

"You should go, Nero." She sounds tired. Less tired than she had these past few months, now that he'd been spending more time at home. The shadows beneath her eyes aren't quite as deep.

Guilt settles between his ribs all over again.

He knows taking care of three children and the house on her own is wearing her down. He knows she never sleeps well when he's away for nights at a time.

But the bills still have to be paid.

It takes him a moment to realize what she means.

"They made me wait six months.” His voice comes out rough. Nero feels the familiar pressure of anger bubbling beneath his skin, hot and corrosive. "They can wait a couple of weeks." The words slip through clenched teeth, sardonic — sharp enough to make her hesitate for just a moment.

Regret follows immediately after. The apology is already forming on his tongue when she answers.

"I know." She doesn't waver. "But you want to go."

"Kyrie—"

"Don't do this to yourself, Nero." She cuts him off gently but firmly, raising one hand between them. It's a small gesture, but still enough to stop him.

She walks over carefully so she won't disturb Carlo asleep in his arms, her bare feet sinking softly into the carpet.

Nero lifts his head to look at her. She stops in front of him. Too close. His fingers twitch against the urge to reach for her.

"Sometimes you just stand there staring out the window." She nods toward it. "Always toward the pier. The mainland." There's no accusation in her voice. Only kindness.

He looks away. He wishes she'd yell at him. He wishes she'd finally lose that endless patience. Demand something from him he can't possibly give. A normal life. A normal job. A normal family.

"I have a life here." He wets his dry lips. "I have you and the kids."

"And you'll still have us." Kyrie lifts a hand, brushing the white strands of hair away from his face in a gesture so familiar it almost hurts. Need to get it cut. The thought drifts through his mind as he leans, almost imperceptibly, into her touch."Even while you're gone." 

It sounds final. As though everything had already been decided the moment that damned phone started ringing. His jaw tightens as he adjusts Carlo against his chest. The boy is so fragile. So trusting in his arms. All bird bones beneath delicate skin, hardly weighing anything at all.

Nero's fingers tighten around him for one heartbeat longer than they should.

Then loosen.

He doesn't realize he'd closed his eyes until he has to open them again.

Kyrie's fingers — light as feathers — had begun tracing every line of his face, following the bridge of his nose before brushing over the curve of his lips while patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts.

"Why does it have to be me?" His voice cracks. "Why can't they want this as much as I do?" For a moment, he feels like that little boy back at the orphanage again, asking the sisters, why not me? while another child was chosen instead and he hates it.

"A heart is a heavy burden, Nero." Kyrie's lips brush softly against his forehead. For a fleeting moment, he thinks of the book resting carefully on the bedside table upstairs. "So full of longing ."

She kisses him again, gently smoothing his hair back. She's always so careful with him.

"You've never been very good at ignoring yours, Nero. Don't start now."

[...]

Walking into Devil May Cry was like stepping into the territory of an apex predator.

The first time, Nero had frozen right on the threshold. Some dormant instinct had warned him of immediate danger. His body reacted before his mind could catch up; every muscle locked with a single command: Run. Run. Run—

Dante's relaxed posture had always been a lie — a carefully cultivated façade meant to look harmless to human eyes.

It took twenty-year-old Nero far longer than it should have to learn that.

And his uncle — still just Dante, back then — had seemed to derive an almost malicious satisfaction from proving the point, with crooked grins and terrible jokes that left Nero simmering every time he remembered just how naïve he'd been to think he could defeat him during the Savior Incident.

Years later, the feeling hadn't changed.

The drive to the mainland felt endless. The van seems to crawl through the ruined streets of Red Grave despite Nico's reckless driving.

The gunsmith herself remained unusually quiet for the entire trip, though Nero caught the questioning glances she kept throwing his way whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

He couldn't blame her.

He'd spent the whole ride digging the nails of his right hand into his left forearm, flesh and bone — real — until tiny beads of blood gathered beneath his fingertips. His muscles remained taut, torn between fighting and fleeing as they drew closer and closer to the shop, Dante's demonic aura growing stronger by the minute.

Threaded through it was another presence. Less familiar. His father's. 

"You gonna go in?" Nico asked, leaning lazily against the van's open window, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She peered at him over the rim of her sunglasses. "Or are you gonna stand there like a little bitch?"

Nero glanced over his shoulder before returning his attention to the same doors he'd walked through hundreds of times.

"Don't you think some things are better left alone?" They'd already had this conversation months ago — about fathers and the wounds they leave behind.

"What was that saying again?" Nico brought the cigarette to her lips, taking a practiced drag while pretending to think. "Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "The gods favor the bold."

She exhaled slowly, smoke curling between them as she stared straight at him. "Or better yet — quit being such a chickenshit and go get the answers you've always wanted."

To his own surprise, Nero laughed. It slipped out almost involuntarily. His shoulders relaxed, betraying the rest of his body, and he drew a deep breath before stepping forward.

He shoved the doors open hard enough that they slammed against the old walls.

Dante was already behind the desk, heavy boots propped atop the battered wood as he lounged in his equally battered chair. A guitar rested across his lap, his fingers lazily picking out a melody Nero vaguely recognized. He looked distracted, as though he hadn't sensed Nero's demonic aura from several blocks away.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite nephew!"

The sheer openness with which Dante acknowledged their relationship caught Nero off guard. He slowed for a moment, stopping beside the desk to study the older hunter.

He looked rested. A little leaner than before — Nero found himself wondering what kind of food even existed in the Underworld and shuddered at the thought.

His silver hair had been cut. His beard is neatly trimmed. His iconic coat was clean, free of tears and dried blood. He didn't look like a man who had thrown himself into Hell. He looked like a man who had conquered it.

"Look who's still breathing," Nero shot back dryly, stopping in front of the desk. "Enjoy your vacation?"

Dante grinned at him. Wide and wild. Predator, his mind whispered, kin.

"Well..." Dante began. The guitar vanished in a crimson flash. Now free-handed, he folded his arms behind his head in a deceptively relaxed pose. "If that's what you wanna call it... then yeah. Guess I did."

Nero stared at him for a long moment before his attention drifted upstairs, where he knew his father could already sense him.

"Love what you've done with the place, by the way," Dante continued, gesturing around the shop, now noticeably cleaner and containing far fewer pizza boxes. "For a second there, I thought I'd walked into the wrong office."

Nero looked back at him. Slowly. He didn't want to fight. He knew Vergil had held back during their battle atop that damned tree. That had to mean something.

"Not all of us have a sword that cuts through reality," Nero replied with a crooked smile. "Had to find somewhere to sleep while I cleaned up your mess."

"Yeah, yeah." Dante chuckled. "For what it's worth, good job, kid. The city's still standing."

Nero's teeth ground together. His fists clenched. Dante noticed and seemed amused.

"Were you ever gonna tell me?" The question came out low. Tight. He cast one quick glance toward the stairs. When he looked back at Dante, his blue eyes had sharpened. “Or were you just gonna leave me in the dark forever?"

"Nero..." Dante sighed. He shifted in his chair, slowly lowering his boots to the floor, as though buying himself time. "Some things are better left alone." He repeated Nero's own words, his expression unusually solemn. It didn't surprise Nero he'd overheard them. He hadn't exactly been subtle on his way in.

"Don't you think I had a right to know?" Nero snarled, slamming both palms onto the old desk hard enough to make the wood groan beneath the impact. His breathing had turned ragged as he leaned over the desk, glaring at his uncle."It was my life. Mine.”

"I did what I thought I had to do, Nero." Dante continued as though his nephew weren't practically breathing down his neck, teeth bared. "I wanted to protect you."

"That wasn't your decision to make!" His voice came out strangled, as though someone had looped a rope around his throat and pulled tight. "You took that choice away from me!"

"Nero—"

"Did you ever stop to think about what not knowing would do to me?" His fingers dug into the wood like claws. He spat every word through gritted teeth. "Did it ever occur to you that I'd wanna know what the fuck happened to my dad? "A long silence stretched between them.

Dante simply looked at him. Something flickered across his face so briefly that, had Nero blinked, he'd have missed it entirely. Then Dante exhaled. Long and heavy. Bone-deep tired.

"Trust me, kid," he said quietly at last. "I know."

Nero stood motionless. His fingers slowly loosened their grip on the desk, as though they'd forgotten why they were holding on in the first place.

"Right." He laughed. There wasn't a trace of humor in it. The tension drained from his body all at once, leaving his limbs feeling strangely heavy. "You." He pointed toward Dante. "Him." Then toward the staircase. "But I'm the only one who gets left in the dark."

Dante looked at him. And kept looking. Sharp. Predator.

"This was a terrible idea." Nero shook his head, his fringe falling across his eyes. "All of this." He gestured around the vast, empty shop. "I'm leaving."

He turned away, his coat snapping behind him as he strode toward the doors.

"Nero." Dante's voice stopped him.

The younger hunter froze. But he didn't turn around.

He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed ahead.

"You should come back."

Nero hesitated. Then let out a bitter scoff and walked out.

[...]

Nero comes back. Because he's a sentimental idiot—

You've got a big heart, Nero, Kyrie would say whenever wanting something became too much. A good heart.

He spends weeks avoiding setting foot on the mainland, taking on minor assignments for the Order and ignoring the wary looks the newer recruits throw his way whenever he does something even vaguely inhuman.

He doesn't wear the uniform anymore — he doesn't think he could ever bring himself to put it back on.

Isacco will simply have to accept him as he is: coat and jeans. And if Nero takes a certain private satisfaction in the way the Supreme General of the Order's lips curl with distaste every time he returns from another mission, he keeps that entirely to himself.

Eventually, he returns to the mainland. Nico, as always, tags along.

There isn't any urgent case or mission requiring his attention. He ends up acting more like her bodyguard than her partner, standing beside the van while she negotiates, watching as she haggles over the price of her newest shipment of weapons.

The demon-hunting business had exploded ever since the near-end of the world his father had caused — especially once the government got involved.

The first time a video of him ended up all over social media, Nico had practically shoved her phone into his face, rambling nonstop about making an Instagram account for the two of them. He'd refused.

Nico made one anyway.

By the time they're finally done, the sun is already beginning to set, staining the sky in shades of orange while traffic crawls at a snail's pace. Nero's ears throb from the sheer number of times Nico leans on the van's horn. The young hunter nearly jumps out of his seat when they finally screech to a stop in front of the shop, the tires protesting beneath her reckless driving.

"One of these days, I'm reporting your ass," he mutters, slamming the passenger door harder than necessary just to annoy her.

Nero ignores her outraged yell and heads toward the heavy doors. The cold air paints his cheeks red, but he barely notices.

He hadn't warned them he was coming. For a brief moment, his heart tightens at the thought that there might be no one there to meet him.

Then his father's aura resonates against his own — Kin, predator — and the nervousness transforms into something else entirely.

His grip tightens around the book in his hand.

Drawing a deep breath, he ignores Nico's watchful stare and pushes the doors open.

Vergil is already looking at him when he steps inside.

He freezes. His entire body tenses, ready to run, run, run—

His arm itches, remembering the sensation of long fingers closing around it.

Pulling. Tearing—

He can't do this.

What the hell had he been thinking, believing he could face the man who haunted his nightmares?

Vergil watches him. His eyes are glacial. Sharp.

"You need to breathe," he says, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. "Nero, breathe."

Pull yourself together, Nero thinks, forcing his lungs to obey. Breathe, you idiot.

Little by little, his breathing steadies. His heartbeat slows until it no longer feels as though it's trying to claw its way out of his chest. The nausea lingers, but his vision clears enough through the tears caught in his lashes.

Only then does he manage to look at his father. Vergil has risen from the leather sofa, abandoning the book he'd been reading.

He's standing closer to Nero than he'd expected — but not close enough to invade his space.

He simply remains there. Hovering. Watching while Nero struggles to collect himself.

"I must look pathetic to you." Nero lets out a shaky laugh. Ridiculous.

"Pathetic isn't the word I would choose to describe you," Vergil replies thoughtfully. He keeps his distance, posture perfectly straight, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "You should sit."

"This wasn't how I planned this going," Nero mutters.

Still, he complies, dropping carelessly onto the sofa. The springs groan beneath his weight. He settles the book across his lap, oddly relieved he hadn't dropped it.

His father follows suit, seating himself in the armchair opposite him. Vergil crosses one leg over the other, graceful and composed in a way Nero has never once cared to imitate. His gaze drifts briefly toward the book, his expression unreadable.

"You kept it." His voice is flat. Vergil seems as though he belongs in a museum far more than he does inside Devil May Cry, like one of those marble statues meant to be admired from a respectful distance.

"Wasn't I supposed to?" Nero asks, almost challengingly. He hugs the book a little closer. His heart still aches. For one terrible second, he imagines his father trying to wrench it from his hands—

Just like he'd torn off his arm—

Stop it.

"You read it?" Vergil sounds faintly curious. His head tilts ever so slightly, blue eyes fixed on Nero. His hands rest quietly in his lap. 

He looks strange without Yamato. Then again, Nero supposes the man is dangerous enough even without it.

"You thought I couldn't read?" Nero arches a brow.

Vergil's gaze settles fully on him, and it unsettles him all over again. Predator. Kin.

Nero forces his fingers to uncurl from the book's hard cover. His lips feel painfully dry.

"I thought," Vergil begins, "your tastes would be more closely aligned with Dante's." The faint note of disdain coloring his brother's name makes Nero's lips twitch despite himself. He has to fight down a smile that would be wildly inappropriate under the circumstances.

"So where is he, anyway?" Nero asks.

Earlier, he'd only sensed the lingering traces of Dante's demonic energy. It still hangs throughout the shop, gradually blending with Vergil's.

"Out."

Nero's father was genuinely infuriating to deal with. 

He grits his teeth and, for the briefest moment, swears he catches a flicker of amusement in those blue eyes.

"Did you enjoy it?" Vergil's question catches him completely off guard. 

Nero blinks. Hesitates.

"I-yeah." The answer slips out before he can stop it, and he immediately wonders whether he should be this honest with someone like him. "I didn't think it'd be interesting, but it was. I mean." Heat creeps into his cheeks the moment the admission leaves his mouth.

Vergil hums. The sound is almost amused. But not unkind. 

Silence stretches between them.

"He used to read it to me." His voice is quiet. His gaze lingers on the book before slowly lifting to meet Nero's. Nero fights the urge to shiver.

"Sparda?" The question escapes him, genuinely surprised.

This conversation had gone nowhere near the way he'd imagined it. In his head, there'd been more shouting. More blood.

"Yes." The air seems heavier somehow. "He left it to me."

Nero adjusts the book on his lap, his fingers still stiff around the cover.

"Why didn't you throw it away?" Vergil asks. The fingers resting in his lap twitch ever so slightly.

"It seemed important to you," Nero answers. He swallows before continuing."To V."

Silence returns.

"Did you knew about me?" The million-dollar question. His heart lurches painfully in his chest as his father simply looks at him. Nausea coils in his stomach.

"No."

Vergil says it as though it were nothing more than a fact and not a particular kind of cruelty. He's perfectly still — like marble, like a statue.

Nero lets out a slow breath and leans back against the sofa. In a strange way, it's a relief.But it doesn't change the fact that he'd been abandoned.That at some point, someone had looked at him and decided he wasn't worth keeping.

He wants to ask more. He wants answers. But he doesn't think he's in any condition to survive them. The remnants of his earlier collapse still cling stubbornly to his limbs.

"Are you angry?” Nero looks up, startled. Vergil's expression remains unreadable. For a moment, Nero wonders whether he'd imagined the question. Then Vergil continued. "At me?" A pause."At him?"

Nero considers the answer. For the first time, he allows himself to truly look at his father without adrenaline clouding his thoughts. Everything about him is sharp. Like a blade honed to perfection. His attentive eyes never stop searching. Always looking for a weakness to exploit. Nero wonders whether he'd just handed him exactly what he was looking for.

"Yeah." He sighs. He's not looking for an argument. He's simply stating a fact. Because he is angry. And anger is easier than tears.

Silence settles heavily between them.

Then Vergil speaks.

"I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end."

His cadence is smooth. Every word delivered with the care it deserves. Nero stares at him. Blake, his mind supplies automatically.

"I don't think that's how it works," he murmurs. "It'd be too easy."

He tightens his grip around the book again. It suddenly feels heavy in his lap. Like an anchor.

"Indeed." His father agrees. His gaze drifts elsewhere, as though looking through the room toward someplace that no longer exists. "It would."

Right on cue, the shop doors swing open again.

Dante strolls inside carrying several pizza boxes under one arm, while the other waves animatedly as he recounts yet another hunting story to Nico.

"Well, look who's back." Dante laughs, carelessly dropping the pizzas onto the table. Without asking permission, he walks over and ruffles Nero's hair. Nero immediately bares his teeth "My favorite nephew!"

"I'm your only nephew," Nero grumbles, lifting a hand to brush the white strands out of his eyes. Seriously, I need to cut this. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back.

"Yep," Nico says. "DNA test not required."

Nero shoots her a flat look. Brows knitting together.

"You're literally proving my point." She laughs when Nero rolls his eyes.

"Who's hungry?" Dante throws himself onto the sofa hard enough to nearly tip the whole thing over. Nero instinctively plants his feet against the floor with a low growl directed at his uncle. "The pizza just came outta the oven."

Without waiting for an answer, Dante reaches for one of the boxes. The smell of melted cheese hits Nero almost instantly — hot and rich.  His mouth waters before he can stop it.

Somewhere behind him, he catches his father's quiet, long-suffering sigh.

"...Did you at least wash your hands?"

Vergil asks, frowning at his twin with unmistakable disdain.

"What doesn't kill ya makes ya stronger."

He absolutely deserved the spectral sword that stabbed him.

In the months following the twins' return, Nero found himself accompanying them on missions far more often than he'd ever expected.

[...]

"Family reunions," as Nico loved to call them.

Nothing particularly challenging for him — jobs any competent hunter could've wrapped up without much trouble. The problem was that, precisely because they were so easy, they almost always ended with the twins trying to kill each other.

Nero had learned to keep his distance during those moments, watching from afar with steadily less concern and steadily more fascination. And, every now and then, exasperation.

His father was every bit as difficult to decipher as V had been.

Their interactions were awkward, tentative, and more often than not ended in misunderstandings, leaving Dante to serve as an increasingly reluctant interpreter between the two of them.

Nero found himself stopping by Devil May Cry far more often; what had once been an occasional visit gradually became routine. Having a sword capable of cutting through reality proved incredibly useful. It also happened to save a respectable portion of his travel expenses.

Watching Vergil adapt to the human world became unexpectedly fascinating.

The way he reacted to people, to ordinary situations, slowly helped Nero piece together the puzzle that was his father. At night, when he and Kyrie curled up beneath their heavy blanket, he'd tell her about each tiny discovery. She would laugh at him, then point out — with infuriatingly smug amusement — just how much the two of them actually had in common.

Learning that one of the very first things his father had done was to have both his own documents and Dante's legally restored — a task his uncle had neglected for decades — had genuinely surprised Nero.

The legal process dragged on far longer than Vergil had anticipated, even with Morrison's help and a handful of Dante's clients calling in old favors. Eventually, however, both brothers managed to petition for their mother's estate to be reopened. His grandmother.

Countess Eva Redgrave had left behind a considerable fortune, one that had remained under the custody of the Red Grave government for years.

To say Lady was furious upon realizing Dante could've paid off his debts long ago was an understatement.

Nero, on the other hand, remained strangely stunned by the revelation.

He stared at Dante with something bordering on disbelief while the older hunter accepted Nico's challenge to stuff three slices of pizza into his mouth at once.

"You're telling me this guy's the son of a countess?"

"I assure you," Vergil replied flatly, "we received the same upbringing."

When Vergil handed him the documents officially recognizing him as a Redgrave, Nero's hands trembled.

He rifled through the paperwork with movements bordering on desperation, hurriedly flipping through page after page until he reached his new birth certificate.

His breath caught sharply. At last, the information he'd longed for throughout his entire childhood.

His fingers traced the names written there with quiet reverence—

A stillness wholly foreign to someone as explosive as Nero.

"Arabella Veronesi." The name escaped him in little more than a whisper. Here it was. Everything he'd ever wanted.

His father never spoke much about his mother. Nero had tried countless times to ask. But whenever he did, Vergil's face settled into an expression of desolation. It looked so strange. So wrong on features that were almost always unreadable.

After moments like that, Nero often wouldn't see him again for days. He doesn't ask anymore. 

"Yes." Vergil's voice came out strangely hoarse. "It was all I could remember."

"It's more than I've ever had," Nero answered quietly.

He still held the papers tightly in both hands, absorbing every word as though he feared they might disappear if he looked away.

Nerone Valerius Sparda Redgrave. He had a surname. A full name. Something he could one day pass on to Kyrie if they ever got married.

Finding out the twins' real names had simply been an added bonus. Honestly. Vergilius Aurelius and Durante Antonius? Their grandparents had been ridiculously pretentious.

But, of course, like every good thing in Nero's life it couldn't last.

His nightmares made sure of that.

Always in the garage. His father's long, slender fingers closing around his arm. Flesh tearing. The floor soaked with blood.

Vergil, impassive and indifferent— like marble, like a statue — towering above him. His cold, emotionless eyes watching Nero writhe across the filthy concrete like a worm. Moonlight washes over his untouched figure, his clothes flickering between the tattered rags he'd once worn and the long coat he wears now. Past and present. 

"Foolish creature." His voice is cold. Contemptuous. Utterly unmoved by Nero's grunts and cries of pain. “Let me be clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered.

Nero screams and begs: "Wait, please, wait!"

But his father either doesn't hear him or doesn't care. Not when he tears his heart from his chest.

When Nero wakes, Kyrie isn't beside him.

The thin sheets are tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. The bedroom window is open, but the warm predawn air does little to dispel the weight of the nightmare. For one panicked moment, he reaches across the mattress and doesn't find her. He's already halfway dressed before he remembers.

She's spending the night with her friends.

Nero lets out a heavy breath, the demon within him still restless at the edges of his consciousness.

It was rare for Kyrie to do that. Nero usually worked nights, and someone had to stay home with the children. He tries to ignore the guilt twisting in his stomach.

He blames the nightmare for the nausea. It's easier that way.

Still, the inheritance his father had secured had made life considerably easier for all of them. Kyrie's friends weren't really Nero's friends, no matter how often she insisted otherwise. Whenever he reluctantly agreed to accompany her, there was always an unmistakable tension hanging in the air. Granted, his perpetually stiff posture and sharp features probably didn't help matters. But Nero was working on that.

Which was why he'd stayed home instead of going with her.

As he makes his way downstairs, his footsteps light enough to keep the old wood from creaking, he's surprised to find Júlio already awake. Normally, he was more attentive than this. His demon watched over the children as though they were its own young. Sometimes it was a constant struggle convincing it that not everything was a threat and that it was allowed to let them out of its sight.

The boy is sitting on the sofa, wrapped in the blanket Kyrie had embroidered for him when he was officially adopted by the couple. His bare feet swing absentmindedly over the edge of the cushion. Too small for them to reach the floor, Júlio looks almost swallowed by the fabric.

Nero approaches carefully, making just enough noise to announce his presence. He could be far too quiet when he wanted to be, startling Kyrie and Nico more often than he cared to admit.

Júlio watches him draw near, his fingers tightening around the blanket in search of comfort. Nero crouches in front of him, trying to appear inviting. His eyesight had always been exceptional compared to the others in the Order, but it seemed to have sharpened even further after awakening his demonic powers. He knows his eyes must look strange in the dark — far too bright to be human — so he tries to make up for it by looking as harmless as possible for his children.

Júlio's eyes are red and swollen, traces of tears still clinging to his cheeks, his nose rubbed raw from how many times he'd blown it.

"A nightmare?" Nero asks softly. Almost like birdsong. He reaches toward the boy, brushing the brown strands away from his face and wiping away the mucus beneath his nose.

Júlio leans into his hand. His eyelashes flutter as heavy-lidded eyes struggle to stay open.

"Yeah." His voice comes out in a tearful murmur, unusually fragile for him. Nero's heart aches at the sight: so small. So frightened.

Júlio takes his role as the oldest brother seriously. Responsibility rests on his narrow shoulders in a way that reminds Nero far too much of Credo. He always tries to be an anchor for the younger ones.

"It's alright." Nero continues running his fingers through the boy's soft hair, the quiet trill in his voice growing slightly stronger in an effort to soothe him. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

He shakes his head, another tiny sob slipping past his lips. The sound splinters something inside Nero. He doesn't need to guess what haunts Júlio's dreams.

"It's alright," he assures him, gathering him into his arms. Júlio is eleven now — far too big to be carried like a little child — but Nero lifts him effortlessly, the boy's weight meaningless against his demonic strength.

The boy clings to him like a lifeline. Thin legs wrap tightly around Nero's waist, almost painfully, while his face buries itself against the curve of Nero's neck, as though hiding from whatever dangers still linger in his subconscious.

Nero tightens his hold, rubbing his cheek against the boy's brown hair in a quiet gesture of affection.

"What do you say you keep me company tonight, hm?" Nero whispers conspiratorially. "I'm feeling kind of lonely in that huge bed."

He pokes Júlio's side, right where he knows he's ticklish, and is rewarded with a bright little laugh, followed by the boy's futile attempt to squirm away from his fingers.

The sound echoes louder than it should in the quiet darkness of the house, and for a brief moment Nero worries he's woken the other two. When he reaches out with his senses, though, he feels no change.

"Did I wake you?" he asks as he starts climbing the stairs.

"Nah. I was already awake."

"Did you have a nightmare too?" The question is so soft it's almost a sigh against Nero's ear. His fingers tighten around Júlio for a second longer, sinking into the soft fabric of his pajamas.

"Yeah." He swallows hard. He feels tired all the way down to his bones.

"What do you dream about?" It's an innocent question, but it sends ice flooding through Nero's veins.

He thinks of long fingers. Of cold, indifferent eyes. Of wait, please, wait.

He considers his answer for a long moment.

"It's okay," Júlio says when he notices Nero's hesitation. He shifts just enough to look him in the eye. "You don't have to tell me."

God, how Nero loves him.

They step into the bedroom he shares with Kyrie, and with exaggerated care Nero lays the boy down on the bed. Júlio watches him, green eyes shining with the unquestioning trust only children possess. Nero doesn't feel worthy of it — not when the very same hands rocking Júlio to sleep could so easily tear through that delicate skin.

Just as long, merciless fingers had torn off his arm.

He takes a slow breath before settling beside Júlio, pulling him close against his chest. He inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of the shampoo the boy shares with his brothers. Nero combs gentle fingers through the brown strands, rocking him patiently back toward the realm of dreams.

"You can go back to sleep, buddy," he whispers when he notices the pointless battle Júlio is fighting against exhaustion. The boy's sleepy green eyes find his. Trusting. "I'll fight the nightmares for you."

[...]

Over time, Nero had grown strangely fond of his father's office. It was oddly cozy, steeped on every side in the older man's demonic aura. Light slipped through the few cracks it was allowed, spilling across shelves crammed with tomes and impeccably preserved books. The faint scent of dust and aged paper mingled with the smell of smoke and fire that seemed to belong to Vergil himself.

His grandmother's inheritance had done much to pull the twins back from the edge of bankruptcy, despite the media circus that came with it. The first time a particularly bold reporter shoved a microphone in his face, Nero had snarled. It became a meme.

Nico had made a point of showing it to him.

The money was reflected in the changes the shop had undergone over the past few months. Everything seemed better cared for.

He walked with measured steps down the hallway leading to the office door. He had crossed paths with Dante earlier, who had been enthusiastically preparing for a mission with Lady.

The younger hunter had bitten his tongue to keep from teasing his uncle. Discovering that Dante and Lady were actually in a relationship had been quite the shock for twenty-year-old Nero, who had decided to drop by the shop unannounced.

Saying he'd avoided the walking arsenal for weeks afterward would have been an understatement.

He stopped in front of the door, feeling the warning the place itself seemed to exude — predator, kin — and knocked lightly against the wood.

"Come in."

His father sat behind the desk, his eyes fixed on an old map, judging by the sepia tones of the parchment.

The twins had developed an unusual hobby: hunting down Sparda's vaults, traveling the world in search of whatever hideaways and relics the Legendary Dark Knight might have left behind. Vergil had discovered two of them while still in his teens and, apparently, had found the pastime interesting enough to continue well into adulthood.

Nero had accompanied them on a few of those expeditions, but he preferred not to spend too many days away from Kyrie and the children. Because of that, it wasn't uncommon for him to receive nothing more than a poorly planned warning before the two of them disappeared for weeks.

The first time it happened, the restlessness had nearly consumed him.

His skin had felt too tight over his bones, driven by an old, irrational need to make sure he wasn't being abandoned again. That Dante and Vergil weren't going somewhere he couldn't follow.

He tried not to think about the way desolation — so terrible and so out of place — seemed to cling to Dante.

Or about Vergil, who always returned stiffer and more distant — like marble, like a statue.

"Nero." Vergil's eyes settled on his son the moment he entered, measured and unreadable.

His body prickled in response, but Nero had grown good at ignoring that instinctive reaction over the past months.

"You're early." Vergil glanced briefly at the clock before returning his attention to where Nero remained standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Are you busy?" Nero asked. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes," he replied.

Then the corners of his lips twitched with restrained amusement.

Nero sighed, feeling the familiar exasperation that always came from dealing with those two idiot twins.

"Great," he shot back sarcastically, shoving his hands into his coat pockets before stepping inside. "Exactly what I wanted to hear."

His gaze drifted lazily around the office. Very little had changed since his last visit.

The walls still bore the same dark tones that dominated the rest of the shop. Tall bookshelves overflowing with ancient books and tomes occupied nearly every inch of the room.

Everything was already familiar to him.

After all, Nero himself had helped assemble them.

The second-hand Persian rug had been acquired during one of the twins' treasure hunts and had served as decoration for Vergil ever since. Behind the heavy wooden desk, his father sat surrounded by documents and scattered papers.

His eyes never left him.

Nero dropped into the room's only armchair without much ceremony. His thumb brushed absently against the bridge of his nose.

"I thought we'd scheduled our training session for two o'clock," his father remarked. The words weren't accusatory. Even so, Nero still felt compelled to explain himself, as though he'd been reprimanded.

"Yeah, yeah," Nero agreed, trying not to sound anxious. He picked at his thumbnail — the one on his right hand. Flesh and bone. Real. "I finished earlier than I expected."

It wasn't a lie.

The job he'd been hired for had been simple enough: a handful of Hell Judeccas haunting one of Red Grave's quarantined districts. Something Nero could've handled in his sleep.

In the end, dealing with the soldiers assigned as backup had been far more frustrating than fighting the demons themselves.

"Then I may assume everything proceeded according to plan and that I won't be receiving a phone call from the mayor regarding collateral damage," Vergil asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That happened once," Nero groaned, slumping dramatically into the armchair like a spoiled child. The chair slid across the rug from the force, nearly tipping before he caught himself. "Dante's worse than I am."

"I wasn't aware it was a competition," came the dry reply.

Nero waved a dismissive hand and settled deeper into the armchair, letting his muscles finally relax into the soft upholstery.

His mind, however, remained restless.

He knew he wasn't particularly good at containing his emotions. He was too honest, as Kyrie was always quick to point out. But being in his father's presence made him painfully aware of that flaw.

Silence stretched between them.

His father simply waited, watching him with those icy eyes while Nero tried to organize his thoughts into something coherent enough to say aloud without sounding like a challenge.

"I have an invitation," he blurted out.

Vergil arched his brow.

Nero swallowed hard, nervous and uneasy in a way that made him uncomfortable in his own skin.

"Kyrie and I thought- I mean," the words tangled together, his heart pounding in his chest. Nero drew a slow breath, inhaling the scent of old paper, leather, and polished wood, trying to gather his thoughts into something intelligible. "We wanted to know if you and Dante would like to have dinner at our house." He paused briefly before adding, in a rush, "On Sunday. Maybe."

He avoided meeting his father's eyes, choosing instead to focus on the easel standing in the corner, almost hidden from view, where the unfinished figure of a woman remained frozen in place.

The landscape unmistakably depicted Fortuna. The red dress, cut in a style long out of fashion, still struck him as strangely familiar. The hood forever concealed the face he longed to know.

His heart tightened.

"Hm." His father hummed thoughtfully.

Vergil's gaze drifted toward the white porcelain vase decorating the desk, nearly buried beneath the stacks of papers and books — a gift Kyrie had insisted on sending to her father-in-law.

The orchids, however, were Vergil's own doing. Elegant flowers with delicate petals that stood in quiet contrast to the dark wood.

Then he looks at him again. Apathetic and cold.

At last, he asks, "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Nero frowns, his jaw tightening as he tries to shove away the vulnerability he'd just exposed. "Because you're my father." He says it as though it were obvious. "Because I want you to meet Kyrie. And your grandchildren."

"Do you think you're ready for that?" he asks. Beneath the little light filtering through the gaps in the blinds, Vergil's hair looks almost golden. Almost sacred in its corruption.

"After all," Vergil's voice remains low, almost careful, "aren't you afraid of what I might do?"

The demon inside him wants to howl in discontent at the mere thought of an unfamiliar predator inside its territory. Too close to everything precious. To everything it had claimed with claws and teeth. But he couldn't keep living like this, as though his life were split between two parallel worlds. At some point, those lines had to meet.

"At some point, someone has to be the one to reach out."

And Vergil stares. With that terrible, icy gaze.

With that rigid, impassive expression — like marble, like a statue.

He stares. And stares. Everything inside Nero bristles in protest.

Then his lips curl into something cruel and disdainful. A smile with fangs.

"Expectations are the root of all heartache." His voice is provocative. Because even after all these months, his father still knows how to be an idiot. Nero is almost certain the quote belongs to one of the dead poets lining Vergil's bookshelves.

"You're such an idiot sometimes." Nero runs a hand through his hair. It's shorter now. Easier to get rid of whatever demonic residue might tangle itself among the strands. "A real asshole."

"Would it surprise you if I told you that wouldn't be the first time someone has said that to me?" Vergil lets out the faintest sound of amusement.

Nero rolls his eyes.

"But are you coming?" he asks, uncertain in a way that reminds him too much of the orphanage days. "To my house, I mean."

Vergil hums quietly, seeming to weigh his next words, his face remaining impassive.

Nero waits. Just as he had waited for twenty-two years.

"Yes, Nero." He says it at last. The ice in his eyes melts. "I will come to your house."

Nero exhales in relief, a smile spreading across his face.

"The kids are going to love you." Excitement begins bubbling inside him, making him lean forward restlessly. His mind is already working through possible dishes to cook and a list of seasonings he'll need to buy. "They're going to make a lot of noise. Especially Kyle. Sparda knows how much that boy loves Dante." He laughs, uninhibited and so happy.

"That doesn't surprise me," Vergil remarks with disdain. "They share the same mental age."

"They're going to love you," he repeats, because he thinks his father needs to hear it.

"So you say."

"Because it's true." Nero insists.

Vergil doesn't answer. But that's alright. Because he accepted the invitation. Because he's coming.

Nero leans back against the leather chair, a satisfied sound escaping his throat. Almost like a trill.

His father lifts his eyes to him and answers with one of his own — a deep resonance.

Safe, nestling, Safe.

I am, he thinks with quiet satisfaction. And let out the same trill. Happy. Unrestrained. He is safe. Predator. Kin.

Nero watches as his father turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the desk, the rhythmic scratching of his pen lulling him into a lazy afternoon while the clock patiently counts the hours until their training session.

He distracts himself with his phone, idly browsing the internet while he waits.

[...]

He dreams again.

About the garage — always the garage.  His father's long, slender fingers closing around his arm. Flesh tearing. The floor was soaked with blood.

Vergil, impassive and indifferent — like marble, like a statue — towering above him. His cold, emotionless eyes watching Nero writhe across the filthy concrete like a worm. Moonlight washes over his untouched figure, his clothes flickering between the tattered rags he'd once worn and the long coat he wears now. Past and present. 

“Foolish creature.” He says it with cold disdain over Nero’s pained grunts and broken groans. “Let me make this clear: every version of this story ends with you being slaughtered.”

And Nero screams and begs: wait, please, wait.

But his father doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care when he reaches out and tears out Kyrie’s heart. Julio’s. Kyle’s. Carlo’s.

And Nero — useless and pathetic — screams and begs: wait, please, wait.

When he wakes up, Kyrie isn’t beside him.

This time, he doesn’t panic when he reaches a hand across the sheets and doesn’t find her. He hears her soft, melodic humming echoing from downstairs, the sweet, almond scent of cantucci fresh from the oven, the quiet sound of the television playing some children’s cartoon, a sign that one of the kids — probably Julio, his little early bird — was already awake.

Nero gets up, his limbs heavy and tense.

When he faces his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, he grits his teeth. His brow furrows. He does not look his best. Nero washes his face before brushing his teeth. The mint from the toothpaste burns pleasantly on his tongue. He gets dressed slowly, his right arm still stiff as he pulls his shirt over his head.

The remnants of the nightmare still cling to the edges of his subconscious as he walks down the stairs, his heavy footsteps announcing his presence.

Julio barely tears his attention away from the television. He only lets out a small grumble when Nero ruffles his brown hair. Something within him — something ancient and primal — settles at the sight of his oldest child safe. Sound. Safe where Nero can see him and reach him, where long fingers cannot tear his heart away.

He steps into the kitchen and pauses for a moment just to watch.

Kyrie hums absentmindedly as she washes the vegetables that will be used for dinner. The wide window above the sink remains open toward the garden, where the clothes hung the day before sway gently on the line. Morning light floods the room, painting her hair in copper tones. On the windowsill, pots of basil, rosemary, and thyme compete for space. A gentle summer breeze drifts through the kitchen, carrying the scent of the cantucci throughout the house.

On the stainless-steel stove, milk simmers slowly, and on the wooden counter sits a plate of freshly baked toast meant to be eaten with honey or jam — just the way Kyle prefers.

The worn Persian rug muffles his footsteps, a recent addition Kyrie made to complement the wooden floors. She lets out a startled little gasp when two arms wrap around her waist, relaxing almost immediately once she recognizes Nero’s touch. His calloused fingers slide beneath the fabric of her tank top until they find her warm, soft skin.

Safe. Safe. Safe.

Nero’s nose traces the curve of her slender neck, breathing in the comforting scent of her natural musk mixed with orange blossom shampoo.

“Good morning.” Kyrie laughs, delicate and alive. Alive. Alive. “Someone woke up needy today.” She teases, bringing one hand up to his silver hair.

She shivers when she feels the young hunter’s lips brush against the smooth skin of her neck.

“You weren’t in bed when I woke up.” He murmurs.

“I was restless.” She admits, looking slightly embarrassed by the confession. She shifts lightly on her heels but does not pull away from Nero’s arms. “I wanted to get a few things done for dinner. I figured I’d prepare breakfast too.”

Kyrie gives a small shrug.

“I could have helped.” Nero gently scolds her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“And who said you won’t?” She raises an eyebrow, turning her head to look at him better. “We still have plenty to do.”

Their faces are close enough that Nero leans in and steals a quick kiss.

“But first: breakfast.” Kyrie smiles at him.

“Yes, ma’am.” Nero mocks.

He steals one last kiss before going upstairs to wake the other two children.

Compared to Carlo and Julio, waking Kyle up was a daily challenge.

Nero gently guides him to the table before settling Carlo into his high chair. Kyrie places the freshly baked toast and cantucci on the table before focusing on feeding little Carlo his yogurt.

Nero concentrates on spreading strawberry jam over Kyle’s toast, while Julio prefers covering his with honey.

Nero dips his cantucci into his coffee, savoring the citrus taste of the lemon zest. He spreads honey on Kyrie’s toast and fills her cup with coffee and milk so she can take small bites between spoonfuls while feeding Carlo. He tries to eat faster so he can take over her task, helping Kyle with his cup of milk in the meantime.

The conversation is sparse. It is limited to a few questions about school activities and plans for the rest of the day. Julio was responsible for helping Kyle with his homework, allowing Nero and Kyrie to focus on cleaning the house and preparing dinner.

The children were eager to meet their grandfather, having heard only the few stories Nero had told them. He had never liked mixing his personal life with his work, preferring to keep anything involving demons, blood, and violence as far away from Kyrie and the children as possible.

Nero hadn’t told them what had happened last year. He didn’t know if he ever would. Some things, he thought with quiet resignation, were better left alone.

Kyle set aside his best drawings to show the man after hearing that his grandfather also enjoyed painting. Julio, meanwhile, had made Nero practice the violin with him all week, preparing a small performance for dinner.

Knowing that his oldest son had chosen the exact same instrument he had been forced to learn as a child slowly replaced some of the bitter memories he carried from those school years.

Nero only hoped Vergil would know what to do with so much expectation placed upon him.

The rest of the day seemed to pass far too quickly.

Nero and Kyrie buried themselves in the kitchen, dividing the tasks between them. The redhead took responsibility for the tiramisu, as it was the most time-consuming recipe, while Nero sliced tomatoes into rounds for the insalata caprese. Once he finished, he separated the potatoes and placed them in the steamer before checking the bowl where the bread dough had been slowly rising since the day before.

He briefly helped Kyrie open the bottle of cognac — purchased specifically for the occasion — before occupying himself with washing the lunch dishes and the bowls they would use for dinner.

As he worked, Nero distractedly followed Kyrie’s movements around the kitchen. He still felt restless. Alert. Whenever he could, he reached out a hand to touch her, as if needing to confirm that she was there. Alive. Safe.

If Kyrie found his sudden neediness strange, she didn’t comment on it.

Nero peeled the potatoes and mashed them by hand. He spread the purée across the countertop, watching the steam escape as it cooled. He didn’t have much experience making gnocchi and, from time to time, needed to consult both the recipe and Kyrie herself.

The closer the agreed-upon time approached, the more restless Kyrie became.

Nero took responsibility for sweeping the living room and mopping the floor, leaving her focused on shaping the bread dough into an oval form.

Later, Kyrie took some time to bathe Carlo and help Kyle get ready, leaving Nero in charge of assembling the insalata caprese. He sliced the mozzarella, layering it with the tomatoes and freshly picked basil leaves from the ceramic pots on the windowsill.

He decided to season the salad only when they were closer to serving dinner.

He senses the twins before he sees them. Their demonic presences suddenly emerge at the edge of his senses, familiar and unmistakable, making him lift his head immediately. The movement catches Kyrie’s attention.

“They’re here.” Nero confirms.

Kyrie glances at the clock, her eyes widening when she realizes they have arrived exactly at the agreed-upon time.

The doorbell rings moments later.

As promised, Dante and Vergil are standing at the door.

The first thing Nero notices is the absence of their iconic coats.

Dante looks decent. Not extravagant, but dressed in a way Nero has never seen him before. Not that they had been particularly close after the incident. Dante rarely visited, and when he did, he always left before Nero could gather the courage to invite him to dinner.

He wears a plain black shirt, fitted to his frame, and had the sense not to choose anything with an obscene graphic that might make the children ask questions Nero definitely didn’t want to answer. The dark, wide-legged jeans look new, held up by a leather belt already worn from use. 

The black loafers, however, were clearly not his idea.

Nero still hasn’t gotten used to seeing his father in casual clothes. For a long time, he had believed Vergil’s clothes were fused to his skin and that dirt refused to stain them out of sheer spite. Seeing him now, standing at his doorstep, wearing a navy-blue sweater and black tailored trousers, feels strange. Like an idea that was never supposed to last.

Predator. Kin.

His demon bristles at their presence, and Nero clenches his fists to contain the wave of violent possessiveness that surges through him as he takes a deep breath. The scent of freshly cut grass and sun-warmed asphalt mixes with the familiar aroma of fire and smoke that surrounds the twins.

“You know the rules, Dante. Ebony and Ivory stay in the cabinet.” Nero recited, casting a pointed glance at the holsters strapped around his waist. “Kyrie’s orders.”

Blue Rose herself remained safely stored in the couple’s bedroom during the day, hidden somewhere where curious little fingers could never reach her.

Vergil’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly when he saw the pout his brother made at being forced to abandon his precious ladies.

“Dante!” Kyle shouted, his voice high-pitched and full of excitement as he sprinted toward the Legendary Devil Hunter.

“Kyle!” Dante answered in the same tone, crouching down to catch him in his arms. He made an exaggerated grimace when the boy crashed into him. “Ouch, kid. Someone got stronger. I think I almost felt that one.” He teased, brushing away a strand of golden curls that had fallen over the boy’s forehead.  Italian flowed with effortless ease from his mouth.

Kyle laughed, happy and innocent, completely unaware of the strength contained in the hands holding him.

“You’re here.” Kyrie approached, Carlo comfortably settled against her hip. The little one already looked half-asleep. Nero doubted he would make it through half of dinner before becoming fussy.

“Wouldn’t miss the chance to try your cooking, sweetheart.” Dante smiled at her.

Kyrie returned the smile with genuine happiness.

She took pride in her cooking. She had learned from her mother when she was still a child and had never lost the habit of cooking for those she loved. She always made sure to set aside extra portions or prepare enough food for Nero to bring some to Dante whenever missions took him to the Continent.

Her eyes drifted toward Vergil, more uncertain.

“Hello, Mr. Vergil.” She greeted him politely. The evening breeze stirred the delicate fabric of her cream-colored dress. “Shall we go inside?” Kyrie gestured toward the two men.

Both brothers turned their attention toward Nero, moving with the inherent synchronization of twins. They had never looked more like brothers than they did in that moment. Partially illuminated by the orange streetlights, their eyes gleamed in that shade of blue Nero could never quite name.They looked unreal. Dangerous. Beautiful in the same way a wolf was beautiful to a sheep. 

They looked at him — Predator. Relative — and waited.

Nero hesitated. 

Having only Dante was one thing. But both of them? That was entirely different. It made his stomach twist in revolt, his demon clawing at the edges of his subconscious. Predator, instinct whispered. Kin, his blood demanded.

“Of course.” Nero said, his mouth dry. “Come in.”

“Is that Grandpa?” Nero heard Kyle whisper to Dante.

The boy peeked over his uncle’s shoulder, his brown eyes fixed on Vergil, who followed his younger brother carefully. When the man noticed he was being watched, Kyle raised a hand in a shy little wave.

For a brief moment, Nero worried that Vergil didn’t speak Italian, but the panic disappeared when he remembered that the twins were aristocrats and had received an aristocrat’s education.

Nero had been genuinely shocked when he discovered that Dante was, in fact, very good with numbers. Moments like that were when he felt out of place. An outsider.

“Yes.” Dante agreed, adjusting the boy in his arms.

“He looks like you.”

“Of course he does.” Dante laughed, sounding strangely light. “He’s my twin. It would be weird if he didn’t.” He explained afterward.

Julio was waiting for them in the living room, dressed in his new clothes and with his hair carefully combed. He looked nervous, watching the adults with the apprehension typical of someone meeting new people.

He approached them and reached out to hold Nero’s hand. The silver-haired man accepted immediately, wrapping his small hand in a reassuring grip.

“Vergil.” Nero called. The man had remained silent until then, merely observing the scene unfold with his sharp eyes. “This is my oldest, Julio. The one with Dante is Kyle. And the sleepy little one in Kyrie’s arms is Carlo.”

There was a quiet pride in his voice as he introduced his children. With a gentle touch between Julio’s shoulder blades, he encouraged him to step closer to his grandfather.

“Hello, Grandpa.” Julio’s voice was soft and timid. He had to tilt his head slightly upward to meet Vergil’s gaze.

His father was incredibly intimidating, with his unreadable expression and those icy eyes. Nero couldn’t blame Julio for being nervous about introducing himself to the man.

“Hello, Julio.” Vergil replied.

And that’s all there is.

Nero sighs.

Dante lets out a small chuckle.

“Do you hunt demons too?” Kyle asks, excited.

“Yes.” Vergil casts a brief glance at Nero before continuing. “But I don’t believe that is an appropriate subject for a child your age.”

“That’s not fair.” Kyle whines. A pout forms as he crosses his arms. “Nero never tells us anything.”

“And he is right to do so, kid.” Dante intervenes. He pokes one of the boy’s puffed-up cheeks, earning a slap to his hand in return that makes Kyrie shoot him a sharp look.

“Kyle.” She warns. “Don’t start.”

“Sorry.” Kyle mumbles, snuggling into Dante’s arms as if he could hide from Kyrie’s disapproving gaze.

“Why don’t you go get the drawings you set aside to show your grandfather?” She suggests gently, stepping closer to fix the boy’s fringe. 

“Yes!” He squeals, squirming until Dante places him back on the floor. The man grunts when one of the boy’s feet catches him in the ribs, but he only laughs when he hears Nero scold Kyle once again.

The boy darts toward the bedroom, his heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs.

“Careful on the stairs!” Nero calls, hurrying after him.

Dante watches Kyle disappear upstairs before shaking his head, amused.

“Forgive us.” Kyrie says, turning back toward their guests. “Kyle seems to have endless energy. And he’s very excited to show you his drawings, Mr. Vergil.”

“Julio is too.” Nero informs them after making sure Kyle had actually heard him and wouldn’t end up tumbling down the stairs.

His eyes return to his oldest son, who finally seems to have found the courage to approach his grandfather. Julio glances at Nero, seeking his approval, before reaching out to hold one of Vergil’s hands. “He spent the entire week practicing to perform for you.”

His father’s eyes settle on the shy figure of the boy. But Vergil does not pull his hand away.

“Do you sing?” Vergil asks.

“No.” Julio shakes his head. “But I play violin.”

Vergil seems surprised by the admission.

“You do?”  

Nero watches as his oldest slowly begins to open up. He exchanges a brief glance with Kyrie and Dante.

“Yes.” Julio answers, seeming more confident now that they have reached a subject he feels comfortable with. “I play in the school choir.” He smiles. “Nero helped me practice.”

“You play?” Vergil’s attention turns toward Nero, who feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment at his father’s surprise.

“Why are you so surprised?” Nero raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I was capable?” He tries not to sound offended by his father’s disbelief, but he clearly doesn’t succeed very well.

Kyrie discreetly moves closer to him, offering silent support. Dante simply watches them, clearly debating whether or not he should interfere.

“I did not think you possessed the patience required for it.” Vergil replies simply.

“It wasn’t exactly my choice either.” Nero mutters.

Kyrie lets out a small laugh and adjusts Carlo in her arms.

“Yes.” Kyrie agrees softly. “Some schools keep that tradition. The orphanage did as well.” Then she turns toward him, gently smoothing his silver strands. “He would get all grumpy during performances, but he played beautifully.”

“Aww, I can easily imagine that.” Dante teases. “Like father, like son.”

Nero growls at his uncle, who only seems to find it even funnier.

“Kyrie.” Carlo’s sweet, sleepy voice breaks the moment between the adults. The little boy grips a portion of her dress between his fingers, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Hungry.”

“Yes, my love. Forgive me.” She smiles, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “We’re going now. But wouldn’t you like to greet your grandfather first?” She gently rocks him in her arms, trying to encourage him.

The boy’s green eyes turn toward Vergil, studying him for a moment before giving a hesitant little wave. “Hello.”

“Hello, Carlo.”

His father answers. There is something soft at the corner of his eyes.

Nero looks away, feeling a knot form in his throat.

“And what about me?”

Dante steps closer, lightly poking the boy’s soft belly. Carlo laughs and leans toward the hunter, nearly falling out of Kyrie’s arms in his eagerness to reach Dante. 

Dante catches him easily, smiling.

“Could you keep him for a moment while Nero and I set the table?” Kyrie asks after making sure Carlo is comfortably settled.

“Sure.” Dante shrugs. “But how about Grandpa over there tries too?”

“As long as you don’t drop him.” Nero comments dryly.

Seeing his father holding his youngest child awakens a flood of emotions Nero is not prepared for. 

It could have been you. He hates thinking that. But he cannot make the feeling disappear.

Nero and Kyrie quickly set the table, placing the gnocchi in the center. It is still warm, the scent of fresh herbs pleasantly filling the room.

“Go call your brother, please.” Nero asks Julio. The boy nods and quietly heads toward the stairs.

“I did not intend to offend you.” Vergil says. He is no longer holding Carlo, having returned him to Kyrie so she can settle him into his high chair. Dante follows her and is already attempting to sneak a bite of the insalata caprese, earning a light slap on the hand from Kyrie. “I was merely surprised by the choice of instrument.”

“Why?” Nero turns toward him.

“Because I used to play the violin as well when I was a child.”

Nero blinks, surprised. It is an enormous coincidence. For a brief moment, he feels the urge to laugh. However, it would not have been a happy sound.

“Of course you did.” He says finally. “You don’t play anymore?” Nero asks.

“It has been a long time since I last held one.” There is a trace of nostalgia in his voice. His fingers twitch slightly, as if his body itself still remembers simpler times.

Kyrie finishes arranging the plates while Dante entertains Carlo by making exaggerated faces. The boy’s laughter echoes through the room.

“Maybe you should start playing again.” Nero suggests, hesitant.

Vergil looks at him. His sharp eyes remain fixed on him for a long moment.

“Maybe.”

The silence lingers for a moment.

“I found them!”

Kyle’s shout interrupts the moment, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

“Don’t run!”

[...]

The thing is, there had been a time when Nero thought Dante might be his father.

He tells him so on a Tuesday, during a job they take together. His father was out of town, searching for an old tome on demonic weapons.

Dante goes still for a moment.

His face is still smeared with the blood of one of the Scarecrows they had just put down. The crimson only accentuates his pallor, the unsettling sharpness of his blue eyes. Predator.

He runs his tongue over his lips, tasting the blood already there, then nods, as though he had been expecting something like this from Nero all along.

"Doesn't surprise me." Dante shrugs. "Took you longer than I thought."

The silence between them stretches as a swarm of Pyrobats swoops down overhead.

They split apart for a moment, driving the demons back toward the perimeter the police had already secured. Nero had already been in the city when the phone rang and decided to tag along, since Nico still had a few things to take care of.

"I wouldn't have made a good father," Dante continues. He twirls Ebony with practiced ease, almost carelessly to anyone who doesn't know him. "Most days, I can't even convince myself I'm a good person."

"Why?" Nero asks from his perch atop an abandoned car.

The streets are quiet now. No growls. No snarls. No insults. No Sparda! roared by vengeful demons.

"What kind of person forgives someone after this?" Dante gestures around them, toward the miles upon miles of ruins surrounding them before turning back to Nero. He looks tired. Exhausted. As though he has been carrying that weight for a very long time.

Nero studies his uncle in silence.

A line from Blake rises unexpectedly to the surface of his mind.

"The cut worm forgives the plow." 

He speaks the words softly, giving each syllable the care it deserves.

"Blake." Dante smiles. It isn't a beautiful smile. It's self-deprecating. It looks like an old wound.

Nero looks away. He remembers the empty bottles. The pizza boxes scattered around the shop. He swallows hard before looking back at his uncle.

"For what it's worth," Nero begins, his throat burning, "I think you would've done everything you could."

Dante looks at him. His sharp eyes remain fixed on Nero, his expression unreadable. For an instant, he looks like Vergil — like marble, like a statue.

Nero's chest tightens.

The resemblance vanishes as quickly as it came.

"You know," Dante says, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "Once, when we were younger, Lady asked me how I could still mourn him after everything he'd done to me."

They continued walking, stopping only to help a small group of construction workers who had taken shelter inside one of the many abandoned storefronts. Men of all ages watch them with poorly concealed admiration before moving on toward the paramedics and police officers waiting to assist the survivors.

The portal had opened without warning, the veil between worlds still fragile after the Qliphoth disaster. It was one of many residential districts still under reconstruction. Rubble and abandoned houses had become perfect hiding places for lesser demons. A perfect hunting ground.

"She said he was evil and cruel and that I knew that." He lets out a hollow laugh. His gaze drifts into the distance, though Nero has the distinct impression he isn't looking at anything in particular. "But how could I've not mourn him?" A quiet pause. "He was brother."

He stops and turns to face Nero. The abrupt movement sends his red coat swaying.

"Wouldn't you do the same?" Dante asks. "Don't you already?"

And Nero thinks of Credo. He thinks of his laughter and his ruin. Nero buries his grief where he always buries it and says nothing.

Later, when they return to the shop, Nero's father still hasn't come back. But Dante is there. Just as he has been for the past five years.

It isn't fair.

But it's what he has.

And somehow, it's enough.

[...]

The shrill ring of the telephone echoes through the house.

It's the middle of the afternoon.

Kyrie is still at the Opera rehearsing. The children are still at school, and Nico has spent the entire day locked away in the garage, seized by a sudden wave of inspiration. Nero had practically dragged her away from her workbench just to make her eat. The gunsmith had all but swallowed her lasagna whole in her rush to get back to work.

For a moment, he thinks it's the phone in the van. Then he realizes the ringing is coming from the landline.

He hurries to answer it, abandoning one of Kyle's sweaters he had been folding on the couch.

"Eleison residence."

"Nero."

Dante sounds relieved the moment Nero picks up. The young hunter frowns in confusion. Then his entire body stiffens. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his head snaps toward the folding windows. He recognizes his father's demonic aura at the edge of the city. The familial bond between them stretches taut as Vergil moves.

"Your father's headed your way."

"Thanks for the warning, but you're a little late." Nero quips.

He leans lazily against the wall, mentally tracking his father's path. Vergil is moving fast. Far too fast. But not toward Nero's house, as he'd expected. Deeper into the forest. A terrible feeling settles in Nero's gut.

"No, kid. You need to listen to me, okay?" Dante presses on. He's breathing hard, his voice tight with unmistakable concern. "Your father remembered something."

Oh, no.

His blood runs cold. He doesn't need to guess who. Vergil wouldn't cross Fortuna like this for anyone else. His father's memories come back in fragments and unpredictably. Nero is never there when they surface. More often than not, it's Dante who deals with the aftermath. They never talk about it. Nero tries never to ask, even when curiosity feels like it's gnawing straight through his bones.

He knows so little about his father. So little about Dante. He aches to know more about them — an ache so fierce it feels almost physical.

"Right." Nero murmurs. His shoulders tense, his body already preparing for whatever comes next. "Right," he repeats, more firmly.

"I need you to go after him." The admission seems painful for Dante to make. Nero grits his teeth. He knows neither of them likes admitting they need anyone's help. "I can't get to you fast enough." Without Yamato, Dante has no way of teleporting to Fortuna. Even if he rushed to buy a ticket on the first available flight, it could still take hours before he reached them.

"I can do it." He agrees because it has to be him, doesn't it? He has to. He has to prove to his uncle that he isn't dead weight.

"I know you can, kid." Dante seems to hear something in his voice, because his own softens. The concern is still there. Nero can almost picture him: shoulders tight, brow furrowed, foot tapping impatiently against the floor. "But be careful anyway. I'll get there as fast as I can."

"Don't worry, old man." Nero teases. "I can handle anything."

He hangs up before Dante can argue.

The young hunter takes a slow, deep breath, allowing himself a single moment to absorb the situation.

One.

Two.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His stomach churns. The plastic creaks beneath the force with which he grips the receiver against its cradle.

He can do this.

"Nico!" Nero shouts, already striding across the room. He isn't wearing what he usually does for hunts. Not even the worn, lightweight clothes he reserves for visiting the twins for another brutal training session. "Nico!" He calls again as he reaches the garage door.

The gunsmith is hunched over her workbench, sketching yet another one of her masterpieces. Her dark curls are tied back haphazardly, flattened beneath her headphones. Even from this distance, Nero can hear the heavy guitars reverberating through the speakers.

He closes the distance in quick strides and abruptly snatches the pencil from her hand.

"Hey!" She yells, outraged.

"I need you to pick the kids up from school," Nero says firmly.

Nico blinks, studying his serious expression and tense shoulders for a moment.

"What happened?" she asks, dropping all pretense.

"Vergil remembered something."

Nero crosses the garage with ease, heading toward the shelf where she keeps a few spare Devil Breakers. He grabs a Gerbera and a Buster, fastening them to his belt. He tries not to think about how he could use them against Vergil. He doesn't know what those memories have awakened in his father. He doesn't know which wounds they've made ache again. Nero doesn't know anything.

But he has to prepare for the worst.

He moves to his own workbench, where Red Queen rests faithfully beside Blue Rose. He'd spent the morning cleaning his weapons — a ritual he'd carried over from his days in the Order. There had been plenty of criticism over the modifications he'd made to his Durandal, but Nero had long since grown used to ignoring it.

The half-demon checks the grip, making sure there's enough fuel for the battle that might come, before reaching for the leather baldric hanging from a hook. 

He slips it over his shoulder with practiced movements, tightening the buckle with nimble fingers before securing the sword in one smooth motion. Nero pauses for a moment. He wonders how ridiculous he must look wearing a band T-shirt and cargo pants.

"And he's here?" Nico asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He fastens Blue Rose's holster to his belt. Checks the ammunition. Hopes he won't have to use it.

"And you're going after him?"

"Yeah." His tone is sharp. Cutting.

Nico snorts and raises both hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

Nero barely hears her, inspecting every piece of his equipment. The bond stretches tighter as his father moves farther away. Something instinctive protests. Go. Go. Go—

Nero takes a deep breath.

"I have to go." He brushes past her.

Nico doesn't try to stop him. She knows better than to even try. She simply watches him with her arms crossed.

"And pick the kids up!"

"Yeah, yeah." The gunsmith waves a hand impatiently.

"And drive carefully, for the love of Sparda!"

"I do drive!"

Nero is already at the door by the time she opens her mouth to argue. He pulls on his boots in a hurry and takes off at a run.

There are people in the streets. He tries to ignore the inquisitive looks thrown his way as he quickens his pace. Nero is fast. He always has been, even compared to his comrades in the Order. He weaves effortlessly through the crowds, the buildings becoming little more than blurs. 

But it won't be enough. Not if he wants to catch his father. So, with a powerful push, he launches himself into the air. His magic answers his call, and translucent wings burst from his back. It's almost a relief to have them like this open and free..

He vaguely hears the gasps of astonishment below. By the end of the day, half of Fortuna will have a different version of the story to tell. Someone will almost certainly tell Kyrie.

The muscles along his back contract, driving him higher. Despite all the training, flying still sends the same thrill through his stomach. The feeling of defying gravity — and winning — never seems to fade. His muscles burn with the effort of keeping him aloft. The wind lashes at his face, his hair, the translucent feathers.

Under different circumstances, Nero might have enjoyed the exhilaration of flight. Instead, he focuses on the bond pulsing at the edge of his consciousness.

He angles his body toward Lamina Peak, picking up speed as he follows the trail his father has left behind.

He can feel Vergil's aura more clearly as he draws nearer. It had stopped moving several minutes ago. Now it remained perfectly still. Nero tries to probe the bond, hoping to get some sense of his father's state of mind, but he lacks the ease the twins possess in that regard. It always takes him several minutes of concentration to reach what should come naturally to him.

Don't get distracted, he tells himself. There'll be time to dwell on those frustrations later.

The canopy is thick, lush with vibrant green. Nero beats his wings and dives toward the presence waiting for him.

He bends his knees as he lands, his boots crushing the undergrowth beneath them. He allows his wings to dissolve into a shower of blue sparks. Vergil stands before him, his back is turned. The breeze stirs his long coat, gently tousling his silver hair. He grips Yamato's hilt tightly.

He doesn't acknowledge Nero's presence. He simply stands there.

Nero swallows hard.

All at once, the confidence he'd tried so hard to project in front of Dante abandons him.

He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, restless. The half-demon had expected to be greeted by a sword, not by silence.

He instinctively swept his gaze across the surroundings. He could clearly hear the birdsong, the rustling of leaves stirred by the wind — a tranquility that felt almost unreal compared to the bustling streets of Fortuna. 

There were no signs of other demons, only Vergil, standing motionless before him.

Then he saw it.

Just a few yards away, partially hidden behind the trees, stood a house. Nero couldn't understand how he had failed to notice it before. 

He took a step, then hesitated, casting a quick glance toward his father before continuing until he closed the distance between them.

Ivy and climbing vines covered much of the pale stone walls, as though the house itself had been claimed by the forest. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, glinting off the dark wooden windows. A small courtyard paved with uneven stones, carpeted with moss and fallen leaves — clear signs of abandonment — led to the entrance. There was something in the air besides the scent of old wood and wild herbs. Something ancient resonated within him, drawing him closer. He wanted to move nearer, compelled by a deep, nameless urge.

Before he realized it, he took another step.

"The corners of your eyes wrinkle exactly like hers." Vergil's voice was quiet, the words carried almost gently by the wind.

Nero's head snapped toward him so quickly that the muscles in his neck protested.

Vergil watched him, sharp-eyed, his expression unreadable.

He looked strangely out of place amidst the lush greenery of the forest, his dark clothes and silver hair standing in stark contrast to the world around him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"This..." Nero began, his voice rough. He cleared his throat and clenched his fists so tightly that his blunt nails dug into his palms. "Is this... here?"

Vergil looked at him. And looked. Then his gaze drifted away.

His eyes slowly traced the outline of the house, sharp and searching.

"Her mother planted that willow."

Nero followed his father's gaze. Near the courtyard stood a willow tree, its long, drooping branches cascading toward the ground, cloaked in slender, serrated leaves.

"Arabella liked using its bark in her potions." The hand resting on Yamato's hilt tightened almost imperceptibly.

Nero held his breath.

He feared that any sudden movement might shatter the fragile thread of memory. Vergil remained perfectly still, weighing every word before allowing himself to speak it. His gaze wandered over the house before returning to the willow.

Then he began to walk.

His steps were calm and precise, as though he had all the time in the world. His hand never strayed far from Yamato's hilt.

Nero followed in silence.

He wanted so badly to speak — to ask, to know. Suddenly, he felt exactly like the child he insisted he no longer was. He buried the feeling deeper and deeper, somewhere so far down that even he couldn't reach it. This isn't about me, no matter how desperately he wished it were. He matched his father's pace, close enough that, at times, the hem of Vergil's coat brushed against his calf.

Vergil climbed the stone steps leading to the wooden porch. The weathered boards creaked beneath his weight. Then he stopped, as still as a statue.

Nero tensed instantly.  His hand flew to Red Queen's hilt, anticipating.

But nothing happened. There was only the man standing before him, broad shoulders strangely bowed.

"I could never convince her to replace these boards," he said softly. "They still make the same sound."

Nero's hand remained on his sword.

A knot formed in his throat, which he stubbornly ignored.

The porch wrapped around part of the house's façade beneath a roof of faded red tiles. Iron hooks hung from the beams, supporting terracotta flower pots, some still filled with hardened soil.

Vergil stopped before the heavy wooden door, worn by time. Slowly, he reached for the doorknob. But he didn't turn it. He drew in a deep breath. Nero noticed it only by the rise and fall of his shoulders. As though performing such a simple, unconscious gesture demanded tremendous effort.

"Your mother was a powerful witch," Vergil began, his tone even. His long fingers idly brushed over the weathered metal. 

Nero couldn't see his expression from where he stood. He searched his memories, dredging up fragments of the Order's lessons about witches. Agnus had been obsessed with them, he vaguely recalled.

"Some places, after being exposed to magic for long enough, begin to absorb part of it." He continued speaking with the same measured cadence he used whenever correcting Nero's recklessness. Vergil turned toward him, his expression solemn, his eyes fixed upon him. "Can't you feel it, Nero? She's still here."

Nero's eyes burned with tears he had struggled so hard to contain, blurring his vision.

The pull he had felt from the moment he noticed the house — that ancient echo — had been his mother's magic. Recognizing him. Welcome. Welcome.

A sob escaped him, small and broken.

"Fuck." His voice cracked, his chest aching. Like a wave, an old, childish fury surged through his veins and consumed him. He wanted to hit something. To draw his sword and rage, rage and rage until the air left his lungs, until his bones felt heavy enough that this feeling would finally leave him alone. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

He looked at his father.

"It's not fair." The protest sounded painfully childish. His fists clenched. His teeth ground together. It wasn't the first time he'd thought about it. It wouldn't be the last. “It's not fucking fair."

"It isn't," Vergil replied. His arms remained folded behind his back, but something in his eyes softened. Subtly and almost imperceptibly to anyone not intimately familiar with the minute shifts in his expression. "But it's what we have."

Nero sniffed, trying to compose himself. He pressed his fists against his eyes, desperately trying to force back the tears. When he looked up again, his father was watching him.

The corners of Vergil's mouth almost moved. Almost. There was a quiet tenderness in his expression that softened his severe features, like a blade slowly returning to its sheath.

Heat rushed to Nero's cheeks.

"Sorry," he sniffed again. "It wasn't supposed to be about me."

Vergil exhaled slowly through his nose. "There is no need for apologies, little one."

Nero blinked, trying to shake the tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes. It wasn't the first time his father had called him that. Even so, it warmed something deep inside his chest. He held his breath, fighting the humiliating sting returning to the corners of his eyes.

A gloved hand rose to cradle Nero's chin. A thumb, roughened by years of wielding Yamato, slowly stroked his cheek. A hoarse whine escaped Nero's throat. Almost unconsciously, he leaned into the touch. Kin, the instinctive, hungry part of his mind whispered. Kin. Kin. It was a hand stained with the blood of countless lives. If he were a better man, he would recoil. He would feel disgusted. But he wasn't. He's a rotten, starving creature with claws and fangs. There was something profoundly selfish inside him. Because more than anything he wanted that hand to keep cradling him. 

A low trill rumbled from Vergil's throat. Soft. Impossible for any human voice to reproduce. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.

He didn't pull away immediately. He let his hand remain there just a little longer.

The wind swept across the porch, stirring the ivy and lifting the dry earth.

Somewhere nearby, a bird sang.

"She would've adored you." Vergil's voice was utterly sincere. Certain in a way Nero had never heard before. "She would've loved you, Nero."

Nero closed his eyes, allowing his father's words to take root within his chest. They soothed something old, something he had been carrying for years without ever knowing how to set it down. 

At last, Vergil withdrew his hand. Later, Nero would be embarrassed by the way he'd unconsciously leaned after it, trying to prolong the comfort of that simple touch. But in that moment, all he could do was let out another quiet, disappointed whine at its loss.

They didn't go inside. Not yet.

Vergil turned his gaze back toward the courtyard, his eyes lingering on the willow.

He simply stood there for a while.

Nero remained beside him, wiping away the last of his tears with the hem of his shirt.

"She would've hated seeing the garden like this," Vergil remarked after a long silence, giving Nero enough time to compose himself.

"We'll fix it." Nero shrugged.

The breeze drifted through once more. The willow's branches swayed gently. Arabella's lingering magic sang in recognition. Warm. Welcoming.

Vergil watched the tree for several more moments.

"Yes." He inclined his head.

His father closed his eyes. For a fleeting instant, he no longer looked like marble, like a statue. Just a man.

He smiled. The smallest smile. Perhaps the first in decades. Nero watched it as though witnessing the sunrise.

"We'll fix it."