Tony.
Nero doesn't like the sound of it. He's found some letters. The name's too simple; it rolls off his lips awkwardly. At least, he thinks they're letters; they're parchments of text, most short to the point of a brief casual conversation, but some are longer. Nero snorts; the old man can read? And if that's not the case, then he goes around stealing people's mail? He was even more senile than Nero had once thought.
The older man's absence shouldn't feel strange, but it does. He isn't always here; even Dante, being as lazy and reluctant to work as he is, gets out every now and again, whether it's for booze, pizza, or a mission. And yet, Nero feels like Dante should be here right now, reclining back in his chair, feet up on his wide oak desk, a pizza box at his crossed feet, and a slice semi in-between his lips.
But he isn't. And Nero feels like he's stumbled upon something intimate, fumbling through Dante's things, looking for tools to work on some new weaponry. He hasn't meant to find anything personal; heck, despite rummaging through Dante's room, Nero hasn't surmised that he'll stumble upon anything personal or intimate. The only truly intimate possessions Dante seems to own are his his weapons, which he assumes Dante has generally gathered and collected on various missions throughout his life.
And Yamato. Yamato's really important to Dante, too. But, wait, does that mean that my arm is important to Dante, too…?
He can almost feel a clammy appendage smothering his Devil Bringer when he jumps, turning wide eyed, blushing, to face Dante.
"Whoa, calm down, kiddo," Dante says. "It's hot outside, is all." To emphasize, he clasps the collar of his black, belted shirt and attempts to string it out away from his neck. It doesn't look like it works, which causes Nero to smirk maliciously. Dante keeps trying to relieve his neck of the supposed heat he had been previously experiencing, and the continued action just makes Nero smile more and more, the frustrated look in Dante's eyes as he stretches out the fabric too far so amusing that he doesn't want to look away.
It's when Nero's eyes close for just the slimmest of a moment to blink that Dante glares on over to see what the kid's gotten himself into this time. His grin on the outside stands strong, but on the inside, he falters, because it's always just those little things from your past that come up, trying to reign chaos and ruin upon you. Every time something like this happens, he swears it's the last. And it never is.
Dante doesn't mention the papers, or the odd name, and they're both grateful for it, if Nero ever stops blushing to realize.
"Dante?"
It's the middle of the night, and Nero just happens to find himself groggily stumbling into Dante's room. Except he's not; he's almost perfectly aware of his actions, if not a little sluggish as he creeps over to the elder's bed.
"Yeah, kid?"
There's a clock ticking somewhere; maybe not in Dante's room (because, again: "Dante can tell time?"), so maybe it's downstairs. Or maybe it's all just in Nero's mind. The constant ticks every moment make the teen shudder, a clammy, itchy feeling crawling up his neck from the mix of late night heat and embarrassed reluctance. He shuffles closer to Dante's bed until his shins hit the edge, the impact of his body against the wood ringing throughout his body, sending a tingling sensation throughout his body: he shouldn't be here, should he?
And then suddenly he asks, "Who's Tony?" and Dante's immediate uncommon silence tells him more than he probably needs to know.
He isn't supposed to know. He just isn't.
Is anyone, Nero wonders?
"C'mere," Dante says, obviously not answering anyone's questions, if not raising more as Nero scrunches his brow. Dante's thrown back the thin sheet of the bed, more skin showing than Nero is accustomed to see, and is patting the space in front of him as he moves over to the other side of the bed. Nero raises a slow knee over the edge of the bed, seemingly cautious, but large, foreign hands grasp him about the waist, plunging him into the bed next to the older and much more muscular man more quickly than he would have liked. His thin t-shirt presses up and rumples against Dante's nude torso, the action and wrinkles causing the shirt to ride up Nero's lithe chest. It's hotter than it was before; if it was eighty a minute ago, now it's a hundred and twenty two. Dante's hands trail over his hips, and Nero trembles. He's not sure why he isn't squirming or fighting or punching the older man in the face, other than the feeling that they both just need this right now.
Dante needs to hold, and Nero just needs to be held.
"It was a long time ago," Dante's hot breath drawls over his neck and face. The tone isn't melancholic; it doesn't show pain, nor does it show giddiness. It shows almost nothing, and this confuses Nero; Dante's always so expressive, even if it's always simply that quirky tone when he's teasing him.
At least that's something, Nero thinks.
When Dante presses his face into Nero's shoulder, Nero loses it. This is Dante here, Dante, Dante the devil hunter, and here he is, about to cry on Nero's very own shoulder. Or at least that's what Nero thinks, and that's exactly what Nero is afraid of. The demonic blood in Nero's vein twitches, causing him to squirm around in Dante's grip to face him, pulling his head up. Nero can almost smell the salt of a tear or two, and see a glisten deep in the corners of Dante's eyes.
He hovers there for a while, his lips closing closer to Dante's skin. And when he can feel the form of Dante's soft lips beneath his, something inside him screams and cries at the same time, and no matter how awkward he feels, he presses his lips into the elder hunter's.
It's soft, and a little spicy (from Dante's pizza dinner?), but it isn't lustful at all, like Nero would have imagined it would be to kiss Dante.
No, it's soft and full of comfort and emotion. Because Dante's human. And because Dante is human, he has to feel sad sometimes, too. Just like everyone else. He has to be comforted, too. Nero's here for that.
"Tony's gone, isn't he?" Nero asks.
"Yeah," Dante replies, his voice hinting at surprise, but a good surprise. "Yeah, Tony's gone."