Chapter Text
“What is it? You hungry?”
Nero half-turns, throwing a perfunctory glance over his shoulder at the silhouette haloed in the setting sun. A weird one, cloaked in rags and hunched over, like they dug themselves straight out of a grave—but Nero’s seen worse, and he’s not particularly swimming in luxury himself.
He gets it. And Kyrie does, too. It’s why they’ve never turned anyone away.
“You’re in luck, then,” he says, refocusing back on the van’s engine, “because Kyrie—”
He stops when his Devil Bringer prickles, itches with an abrupt flare of isolated heat. He stares down at it, at the way it pulses a cold blue. Something is wrong.
The man (demon?) has shambled closer, close enough that Nero can hear his labored breaths. No response, no nothing. Nero’s gaze returns to him warily, his other hand tensing against the body of the van. Red Queen leans against the wall next to the door, put there carelessly because Nero had thought their abode was safe.
Well. He doesn’t necessarily need Red Queen to handle himself.
His Devil Bringer throbs again, sharp and irritating, though the stranger comes no closer. Nero resists the urge to step back, resists the urge to strike first. He doesn’t want to act hastily. He’s learned, just a bit, but he also can’t help it: giving people the benefit of the doubt.
“What’s wrong?” he says carefully, eyes riveted.
It’s because of this that he catches the way the stranger stumbles, almost before it happens; the way his legs abruptly give out, and Nero is already halfway across the floor when the guy just—drops, smack dab in the middle of the garage.
“Hey! You alright?” Nero skids to a stop on his knees, instinctively reaching out but remembering himself just in time. Instead, his hand hovers awkwardly over the stranger’s prone form.
Prone, alright. There’s no movement at all. Did he pass out? What the hell? Nero hesitates. He has absolutely no idea what to do in a situation like this.
In the end, concern wins out. He carefully turns the man over—and that’s what he is, a man, long-limbed and rather heavy, his dark clothing just as filthy and tattered as the ratty cloak draped over him. The hood falls away as Nero shifts him onto his back, and Nero pauses at the sight he sees.
“Nero?” he hears from the door. Kyrie. “The food’s getting cold.”
“In a sec.” His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “In a sec!”
His Devil Bringer pounds. He realizes belatedly both of his hands are shaking. Confusion sits cold and thick in his chest—why the fuck is he reacting this way? Hey, moron, he thinks. Maybe have the inexplicable mental breakdown after he makes sure the guy is still alive, how about it?
He’s breathing, at least. Nero tries not to stare, but the cracked and splintered picture before him looks more statue than human, more clay than skin and bone. Little flakes of… of skin?... crumble like sand pouring off a stone effigy of a king, buried and eroded by time.
That’s the least of his worries, though.
“Nero…” Kyrie has approached from behind, her hands wrung together. “He looks bad.”
“No kidding.” Nero forces himself to look away from the stranger’s (...familiar…?) face to give the rest of him a once-over, searching clinically for any sign of other injuries. Nothing else on the outside. Just the bizarre disintegration problem. He’s unconscious, completely dead to the world, and Nero wonders if it’s okay to even move him.
“We’re not keeping him in the garage,” says Kyrie, as if she’s read his mind. She takes a better look at him and her voice softens. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” says Nero, shaking his head. “It’s fine. My arm’s acting up, but it’s probably nothing.” His gut gives him a pretty defiant lurch at that. Kyrie doesn’t look like she believes him, either.
“We’ll take him inside,” she decides.
“He’s probably dangerous.”
The look Kyrie shoots him can only be described as: Yeah, and?
Nero relents. His protest was cursory, anyway. “Have Nico keep the kids in the kitchen,” he says, as he assesses the best way to transport their new burden. The dude is tall as fuck; bridal might be the only way. Nero scratches the back of his neck, then sighs and gingerly slips an arm around the man’s back and under his knees.
Oh lord, Nero sure hopes he doesn’t wake. And—yeah, he’s heavy. Shit. You’d think a body gradually flaking into dust would’ve shed a few pounds by now.
The brats are nowhere in sight as Nero struggles into the living room, which means Nico actually listened to Kyrie, which is also bloody unfair because Nico never listens to Nero. Whatever. Kyrie’s fluffing one of the pillows on their secondhand couch, which Nero takes to mean this is their destination. Slowly, he lowers his oversized cargo onto the sinking old cushions.
His demon arm still hasn’t stopped tingling. What the fuck. Nero’s fingers curl into fists, as if that would lessen the ceaseless, rhythmic pulsing of the blood stampeding in and out of it.
A long beat of silence. Indoors, under proper lighting, there’s almost no mistake.
“His hair…” Kyrie falters. “He looks a little bit like Dante, doesn’t he?”
Like you, she doesn’t say, and Nero appreciates it. Really, he does, because he’s wondered too, like all the others, enough times about Dante, but he’s never had enough guts to ask for real. He’s still not actually sure whether he wants to hear yes or no.
“Could be a coincidence.” His gut rebels again, and Nero’s long learned not to ignore his instincts. “You think I should ring him up?”
“It sounds like you’ve already made your decision.”
Nero sighs again and scrubs at his hair. Kyrie reaches for his hand—the demonic one, even. She smiles. “I’m sure it’ll be alright,” she says, as strong in her optimism and in her belief as she’s always been. “Call him. I’ll grab a bowl for you from the kitchen and make sure the children stay away.”
“Thanks, Kyrie.”
She kisses his cheek and leaves him be. Nero reaches for the nearest phone and dials Dante, feeling jittery all over, annoyed again because he knows Dante’s number by heart. The old bastard had better be paying his phone bills, ‘cause there’s no way in hell Nero’s gonna haul ass all the way over there just to—
It rings. “Devil May Cry.”
Nero swallows. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Oh? And who may that be?”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Nero hisses. “It’s me, Nero. I.” He pauses awkwardly, picking at a loose thread sticking out of the back of the sofa. “Uh. Might need some advice.”
“Advice?” Dante sounds as cavalier as ever. It’s been five years since they met and his flippancy still never fails to grind Nero’s gears. “That’s a new one. Alright, kid. How may I serve you?”
Nero makes a face, which he knows is precisely why Dante worded it that way. “Some guy dropped by my place today—literally. He’s dusting to bits, which, as far as I know, is definitely not human. Ever heard of something like that?”
“Not in so many words. Dusting?”
“Like he’s crumbling apart. Skin cracking and veiny and everything.”
Dante doesn’t respond for a moment. “Sorry to say, but that sounds like it’s out of my expertise, kiddo. Have you tried Trish? If it’s demonic, she’d know.”
“Stop calling me that,” says Nero. “I guess I’ll try her later.” He exhales. “Actually, that’s not entirely the reason I called. My Devil Bringer’s acting up like no one’s business around this guy, Dante. I think… I think it’s Yamato, actually. I dunno. He’s got white hair, like us.”
The silence this time is deafening.
Jackpot.
When Dante speaks again, it’s in such a low rasp that Nero has to press his ear flat against the receiver to hear him properly. “Have you asked his name?”
“Never got a chance; he collapsed in the middle of my garage. Hasn’t woken since.”
“Describe him to me.”
There’s an edge to Dante’s tone that Nero’s never heard before. It makes his heart flip a little in alarm. “I did,” he says, halting. “He’s got white hair. It’s combed back, I guess. His skin’s cracking all over, like in those nature documentaries when the earth’s too dry. He’s wearing a cloak? Dirty as fuck. I don’t know what else you want me to say. He looks a bit like you. Got any relatives you don’t know about?”
More silence. Nero wishes he could see Dante’s face.
“Don’t go anywhere.” Rustling on the other end. A slam. Two slams, then a curse. “Watch him, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. Don’t let those kids anywhere near him, either—and that girl of yours, too. I’m coming over.”
Nero scowls. “I thought you said this was out of your expertise—”
“Nero,” says Dante, strained and tense, and Nero stops short. “Listen to me. Don’t keep your eyes off him for even a second. You’ve got Yamato. That’s what he wants. I’ll be there ASAP.”
“You live an ocean away, I’m not gonna watch him for—”
Dante hangs up.
Nero stares, flabbergasted, at the opposite wall. “What the fuck? Dante? Dante! Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
“Might wanna watch yer language.” Nero whirls to find Nico leaning against the kitchen doorframe with her arms crossed. Kyrie stands behind her, a bowl of stew steaming in her hands, her eyes round and her forehead creased in worry.
“Sorry,” he says, his eyes flitting immediately back to the man on their couch. Dante’s orders, not that Nero would admit to following them. “Dante says he’s coming over.”
“For something like this?” says Kyrie, at the same time Nico says, “Wait, Dante?”
“He sounded serious.” Nero’s blood is still pounding in his ears. Nothing better to spike your cortisol levels than a legendary devil hunter confirming you’ve got someone dangerous lying on your couch. Thanks, Dante. “Sounds like he knows this guy, too.”
He stares hard at this insensate man. Still breathing, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Still flaking, his pallid, gray-tinged skin feathering away in shifting motes with each involuntary movement.
The brother Dante had once mentioned, maybe? Might make sense, given Yamato’s ceaseless, obnoxious thrumming from where she’s still contained in his Devil Bringer. But isn’t Dante’s brother dead? Dante has only spoken of him once, back when they met. After, never again.
“Let me get this straight: yer talking about the Legendary Hunter Dante?”
Nero hisses a breath between his teeth. “Yes, Nico.”
“Yer shittin’ me.” She still sounds agog. “My grandma made his guns.”
“Cool story,” says Nero. He feels weary, suddenly. Nervous, too, restless sparks vibrating just beneath the surface of his skin, and it’s a strange combination. He paces once around the couch, then sits down in the worn armchair beside it, closest to the man’s head.
Kyrie, ever attuned to his moods, hands him the bowl of stew. “Nico,” she says, and Nico jerks to attention from where she’s been fiddling with her hands, no doubt itching for a cigarette, “help me take the boys upstairs. I have a feeling Dante won’t be long, if it’s serious like you say.”
“He warned everyone away.” He’s agitated, he realizes, because now that he thinks about it, Dante didn’t seem confident in Nero’s ability to contain whatever potential disaster he might’ve just set in motion. Fuck Dante; Nero’s plenty capable. But also: maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring the guy inside, after all. Not that leaving him in the garage would’ve made the place any safer.
“Then we’ll stay away,” says Kyrie. “But I’m not leaving you alone here.”
Nero knows better than to argue. He watches the girls herd the kids up the rickety staircase, their mouths still stuffed with food given the fact that they had stopped dinnertime short. The youngest, Carlo, reaches for Nero as they pass, but Kyrie scoops him up in her arms, and Nero has to give him a tiny little wave to ease the distressed moue that tugs at Carlo’s lips.
“We’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” says Kyrie, and Nero nods.
He settles back with the stew. It’s thick and fragrant, brimming with cubes of beef and cut vegetables. Nero isn’t hungry, but it’s easy to swallow down. Kyrie’s cooking always is. Maybe Dante will want some, his pizza-only diet be damned.
Nero sets down his empty bowl on the end table. He hopes he won’t have to sweep later.
The sun dips into the horizon, casting long shadows from the window mullions along the wooden floor. Dust motes drift in the golden sunlight, inevitable no matter how often they clean the house. The children are quiet upstairs, but sometimes Nero will still hear the shrill twang of Nico’s voice, perhaps laughing at something Kyrie has said.
The man doesn’t wake. How fucked up is he to stay passed out for so long? Sometimes Nero thinks he can see the microscopic cracks along the ashy skin knit together in real-time, but mere seconds later the furrows return, deeper than ever. Like sad little attempts at healing.
Yamato’s resonance has receded to a low hum, less bothersome now but still simmering in the back of Nero’s consciousness. The confusion is unavoidable. The longer Nero stares, the longer he sits, alone, in this strange limbo of flame-orange sunlight and odd shadows and the quiet creaking of the house settling around him, the more questions he has, and the more his five-year-long uncertainty burns.
He looks like Dante.
(He looks like you.)
Fortuna is far, far away from Devil May Cry; Nero knows this because he’s traveled the distance himself several times. Fuck. How long has it been? He can’t believe he’s actually sitting here, waiting. He’s gonna punch Dante in the face the moment he shows up at Nero’s door.
Does the old coot even know where he lives?
Well, his mistake, if he doesn’t.
The sun sets. Kyrie appears once, leaning over the bannister and looking to Nero in inquiry. Nero shakes his head but gives her a thumbs-up, and she smiles, albeit weakly, and mouths good night before she disappears back down the hall.
The hours pass. The room darkens. Nero stands up to stretch, his limbs aching. He hasn’t sat so still for so long since he was still a brat in the Order, forced into the pews to listen to the endless drone of Sanctus’ sermons.
It’s after he cracks his back with a deep, satisfying pop that he feels it: a familiar blaze stirring the distant corner of his senses, like a sparkling and spitting firecracker set off in the stillness of a quiet neighborhood—and the instinctive prick of wariness that harkens a demon’s approach.
Nero spares a glance into the kitchen, at the clock ticking over the sink. Two hours after midnight.
Holy shit, he thinks. He got here fast.
Another half hour passes before he hears footsteps at his front door, and Nero immediately discovers the reason for Dante’s speed when he heads over and yanks it open.
Dante himself is human, but the blistering residual power of his Devil Trigger hangs like syrup in the thick heat of early summer, uncharacteristically unrestrained and burning off his red leather overcoat like temple incense. Nero’s lip curls in reflex, the fine hairs on his nape prickling with a caution his mind is slow to understand.
“Dante,” he greets, and for just a second, he thinks Dante looks relieved.
There is… an attempt at a grin. “Hey, kid. Long time no see. Let’s get straight to the point, shall we?”
Dante looks absolutely ragged, somehow even older than when Nero last saw him, his hair windblown and sweat glistening in a thin sheen over his bared skin. Not too surprising, if he clung to his Devil Trigger form for as long as Nero suspects he did. The punch will have to wait, Nero decides, for when he doesn’t feel so flummoxed. He pulls the door open wider, allowing Dante inside.
Dante’s eyes zero in on the couch. The shock that settles over him is palpable, an electric zing to Nero’s senses that makes his hackles rise.
“You know him, then,” says Nero.
He feels thoroughly and blissfully forgotten when Dante doesn’t respond, brushed aside without even a glance in his direction as Dante makes his way over to their unwelcome guest. His broad shoulders grow rigid, set, in diametric opposition to the way his coat billows about his legs, and he stands over the couch for a long, silent moment. It’s odd enough that Nero’s tongue ties itself in knots before it can demand answers.
“Yeah,” Dante says finally. Measured. He looks up again at Nero, jerks his head down. His pale eyes glitter in the meager light, uncanny and unreadable.
“Meet my brother.”
***
Nero goes to bed because Dante tells him to. The kid looks exhausted, confused, and frustrated, and if Dante wasn’t feeling completely disassociated from reality, he’d probably feel a little worse about it.
But Dante has his own problems.
For the briefest second during the call, he’d thought Nero’d been fucking with him, because there was simply no way. Absolutely, irrefutably. Dante killed his brother years ago—sunk a blade into his chest himself, had done so without a hint of recognition until he’d picked up the amulet with shaking hands. Had staggered at his own ignorance, and drowned himself for years, afterward, under the anvil of his grief.
So when Nero called with white hair, combed back, Yamato is reacting, Dante’s teeth had sharpened, right there against the phone, and closed in around syllables caustic and angry. Then, in the next breath, he’d remembered Nero was too honest to fuck with anybody. That’s when the cold hit. The disbelief. The fear.
The raw, unbridled hope, which only expanded from a tiny spark to a searing beacon as he shot through the brine-tinged sky. When, only halfway there, an age-old, long-forgotten thrum began deep in his chest—calling him toward Fortuna.
He’d been glad to find Nero still in one piece.
But he’d been even gladder a second later, when his gaze had drifted aside and fallen upon the one face he’s ached to see for more than half his life.
Dante reaches forward. “Vergil,” he whispers, chest tight. His fingers graze his brother’s cracking jaw.
And Vergil opens his eyes.