AN: This is a prize fic I did for one of my followers on Tumblr - Plavo-sunce! It's short and fluffy, Parental!DantexKid!Nero. I don't own DMC and all that other crap. Enjoy!

He was finding it very hard to keep his composure. Difficult to ignore the sensation in his legs that kept pleading with him to run in the other direction. The suit was uncomfortable, the tie around his neck practically strangling him. If he's had his way, e would have worn his own cloths, not the awful politically correct outfit a certain brunette had rented for him. Speaking of the sadistic woman, she had a death grip on his arm, dragging him down the aisle lined with flowers and empty pews. And what was waiting for him at the end of the aisle? A solemn looking pastor, clinging to his bible for dear life. All he wanted to do was run…

"We're almost here. Just a little farther," she whispered next to him, gripping his arm a little tighter. Ti wasn't like he needed blood to circulate through the limb anyway…

Her words didn't make him feel any better. It didn't mater what anyone said, nothing would make him feel better about being dragged down an aisle to an alter of death. The closer they came to the end, the more he dug his heels into the old burgundy carpet. He never wanted to reach the end, never wanted it to be true. But that wouldn't change the reality of it.

Standing there in his strange uncomfortable cloths, he was left peering down into the casket alone. His brunette companion stood with the pastor to give him a moment alone. It was like looking in a mirror, the preserved corpse in the glorified pine box before him was practically his clone. Except he was the younger twin. And no matter how much they argued and fought, no matter how many years it had been since they'd seen each other face to face, he would have given anything to trade places with him. In a heartbeat.

"Dante? Dante!"

Groaning loudly, he tried to roll away from the female voice that was shouting at him. His head throbbing violently with each syllable and it only got worse as he rolled off of whatever surface he had been laying on and landed on the floor with a loud thud. Not to mention he'd landed on something hard and cylindrical, probably a bottle left over from last nights binge. Just his luck, feel like shit, fall and hurt himself even more. Just another day in the life.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she snapped, his eyes finally focusing on the snippy brunette hovering over him. He could almost see up her plaid skirt. "Are you drunk?"

"Mehbeh…" he groaned, rolling off of the bottle as he tried to right himself. "Whazzit to ya?"

He was laying between the couch and his beat up coffee tale, more than a dozen beer bottles scattered everywhere. It took him a moment to get a good grip on the coffee table, standing up on wobbly legs before he flopped back down on the couch. The whole room was spinning and she was still bitching about something he didn't care to hear.

"Are you even listening to me, Dante? Do you know what day it is?" she growled, poking his shoulder.

He reached up slowly, wrapping his long fingers around her wrist and shoved her away. There no way he was going to put up with her shit, not today of all days.

"Do you know wha' day it is?" he hissed, nodding toward the calendar.

Her mismatched eyes darted across the room, falling on the day that was circled in red. When it finally dawned on her, she just turned to look at him sadly, sinking onto the cushions next to him.

"I'm sorry, I forgot," she muttered apologetically. "It's been so long."

He shrugged lightly, falling over onto her lap. For a moment she went rigid, finally relaxing when she realized he wasn't going to get up. Her longs fingers slowly brushed thought his snowy hair, petting him like a dog. They were only friends, they had been for longer than he cared to remember, but something about the tender act seemed a little more intimate than just friends. But then again, it could have just been the alcohol…

"It's been five years Lady," he huffed, closing his blue eyes tightly. "I thought it was supposed to hurt less."

"You lost your brother, your only living relative. Your twin. It's normal to hurt Dante. You can't be strong all the time," she cooed, tugging on his hair gently. "But it's not healthy for you to grieve this way. Drinking won't make the hurt go away."

"I can sure has hell try."

Lady opened her mouth and continued to talk. About what he wasn't exactly sure, most of it was toned out by the pounding in his head. It wasn't until he saw the door to his shop peel open that he even realized she'd been telling him there was someone knocking. Lifting his head slightly, he watched in fascination as two women slowly shuffled into the room. Both were dressed from head to toe in plain white robes, their heads covered in a garment who's name he couldn't put his finger on. One seemed young, in her early twenties, while the other had to be closer to sixty. He was so used to them being black not white, but the rosaries they wore around their necks told him they were nuns. He could tell by the way that they were staring wide eyed at his collection of empty alcohol bottles and naked torso that they were greatly regretting their intrusion. If he thought they might just leave if he ignored them, he would have just laid back down and closed his eyes, but Lady was the first to speak up.

"Can we help you, sisters?" she asked, her voice as innocent as a catholic school girl. He had to catch him from snorting out loud at the irony in that.

"We're very sorry to bother you, but we are searching for a man named…Dante?" the older nun chirped, her wrinkled mouth turning down into a frown as she stared at him.

"I'm him. Wha' d'ya want?" he slurred, sitting up slowly.

The older nun stepped forward, holding a thick looking envelope out toward him. With blurry vision it was hard to make out the name scribbled on the white stationary, but as he pulled it gently from her grasp and brought it to his face almost close enough to touch his nose, he could see it was really elegant script. Fancy lettering spelling out his name, written in a hand that could only belong to his older brother.

"Wha's this?" he demanded, not finding the cruel joke very funny. Of all days to deliver him a letter from his brother, it would have to be on the fifth year anniversary of his death.

"We found it among his things. We were instructed by his mother to bring it here," the young nun piped up, earning a stern glance from her superior sister.

"His things? You mean, Vergil? They mailed me all of his shit when he died. Where the hell did you get this?"

Lady slapped him in the arm for cursing at the women, but he really didn't care. He was suddenly feeling very sober and very irritated. He didn't care who he offended, he wanted to know what was going and he wanted to know yesterday. Then he could have at least prepared for the mind-fuck that was standing in front of him now.

"No. We have no clue who Vergil is. We found it among his things…"

At first, he was so lost he was about to tell them to just leave. Whatever the hell they were talking about, he just wasn't getting it. It wasn't until the younger nun stepped to the side, pushing a small boy forward that he really started to think about what was happening. Those stormy blue eyes, the frosty white hair. That nose.

"D-Dante-" Lady stuttered beside him, leaning forward to gawk at the young boy who was fidgeting nervously. "You have a kid?"