Dante lunged again, Sparda forward, Cerberus behind. A trick he had seen one too many times. He parried the greatsword and danced away from the whirring flail, eliciting a giddy laugh. When his own blow connected his sparring partner stumbled and fell forward, still giggling.

"You're learning!"

Nero offered a hand. Immediately regretted it.

Shit.

His face met the sand with an unpleasant crunch, his uncle, still holding his arm in a painful position, raised his blade to finish their training. It sang through the air and stopped a hair's breadth from the nape of his neck.

"Dead!" Dante announced, finally releasing him.

Still eating dirt, Nero groaned his submission, and allowed himself to be picked up. Once back on his feet, he made sure to pout until Kyrie hurried over to check him. Dante winked and sauntered away.

"It's not as bad as it looks." He bragged, puffing out his chest. "I was just getting bored."
Kyrie put a finger to his swollen cheek, and he hissed. "Oh really?"

"Maybe I could use some ice."

Brushing her lips against his, she disappeared into the house, from whence she would no doubt emerge with a whole sock full of sweet relief.

"You know, you think you'd learn not to say that after such an ass-whoopin." Nico chimed in from under the van.

"Didn't ask you." He grumbled, kicking the skateboard she had taken to resting on.

"I know! If you'd asked me I'da told you not to help him. Then maybe you wouldna ate it!" She rolled out, face streaked black with oil and dirt.

Nero turned away from her, only to spot the figure standing in the gloom of the open garage. Had he been watching the whole time? Had he seen -

"Hey!" Nico tugged at his pants. Nero swatted her away. "You should ask him!"

"Nope."

"I'm tellin ya!"
"No, Nico."

"He might even give you some pointers for Dante!"

Nero glared. Nico shrank back under the vehicle.

"Alright, alright. Was just sayin."

He was about to give her another kick, when Vergil strode up beside him.

"He has a tell, you know."

"Huh?"

"Dante."

"Uhhh.."

"His right foot. It moves before the rest of him does."

"Right."

His father nodded.

"Thanks."

Vergil walked away.

Somewhere under the van, Nico chuckled. "Told ya!"

02:36

Why did he always wake at 02:36?

Nero kept his eyes closed, hoping he could lure the Sandman back. He didn't want to get up now. Not when Kyrie was snuggled so tightly against him. Then the night air assaulted his bare chest, and his eyes snapped open.

Kyrie.

Sure enough, she was wrapped up warmly in the soft covers. All of them. Only a corner of the duvet remained draped over his legs. If he rolled her, maybe he could -

She stirred. He froze. No amount of blanket was worth waking her up. Not when it would mean his life.

He lay there a half hour more, shivering, then forced himself up. Pulling on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, he crept downstairs.

At these ungodly hours, the only shows on were black-and-white relics from the dawn of TV, and reruns of forgotten reality shows. Nero, half-asleep and bleary eyed, gawked slack-jawed as a group of housemates sat around their living room arguing about...well, everything. He wished someone would throw something. Liven things up.

The faint sound of boots scraping across the floorboards, and to Nero's dismay, his father settled into Dante's usual armchair. He pretended to be engrossed in the pointless drama onscreen.

"Can't sleep?"

Nero suppressed a groan. Here it was. Another flimsy attempt by Vergil to start a conversation. Did he not feel awkward? Stupid? Nero certainly did. As he had told Dante before, countless times, they had nothing to talk about.

At length, he responded: "Nuh."

"Nor I."

'Nor I'? Who the fuck says 'Nor I'? What fucking century... He took one look at his old man and said: "Should try taking your boots off, for one."

Vergil, sitting there in his usual fancy getup, burst out laughing. Nero blinked. Not the reaction he was expecting. "I'll be sure to try that next time."

The resemblance to Dante was more obvious when he laughed. When his features returned to their habitual stoic expression, however, Nero might as well have been looking into his own future. It was weird. He turned back to the TV.

The housemates had gone their separate ways. Some out to the garden. Some in the kitchen. One or two retreated to their rooms to lick their wounds. Conversations moved on from points of contention to gossip. One girl whined to the camera that no-one liked her.

His father, no longer able to hack it, growled. "This is inane."

"Yeah." Nero changed the channel until a familiar title appeared on the info bar, only to be severely disappointed. "This isn't Scarface!"

"The one you're thinking of is a remake of this." Vergil informed him.

"It is?"

"Yes. And this was originally a novel written by Armitage Trail."

"You read it?"

"I believe so."

Nero turned the volume up and went to the fridge. Taking a beer for himself, he hesitated for a long moment, then took another. Vergil looked up in surprise when he offered the bottle, but took it with thanks. Nero flopped back down onto the sofa and took a long draught. His old man sniffed the drink with suspicion before taking a sip. His face immediately contorted into an expression of distaste.

Nero rolled his eyes. Figures.

Nonetheless, Vergil politely withheld his remarks, and focused his attention on the screen, setting his own bottle down quietly before his son. Nero drank both. And two more after that. The movie was longer than he expected, and old as balls, but he was soon engrossed. On more than one occasion, he spared his father a glance, only to find Vergil watching with mild interest. They fell into a comfortable silence, and when the credits finally rolled, he even bade the stone-faced stranger 'goodnight'.