"We pack demolition, we can't pack emotion
Dynamite? We just might...
So blow us a kiss, blow us a kiss
Blow us a kiss, we'll blow you to pieces"
-Marilyn Manson
Nero is watching himself fasten a chain to the ceiling. It glints dully in the dim light filtering in from somewhere nearby. The metal swings a bit and there's a corresponding tug on his human wrist. He has a possessing urge to fall asleep, pressed against the cold stone all around him but he keep his eyes open because he's worried he won't wake up again if they close.
"You know, you're quite resilient for a corpse." He hears his own voice say. "Perhaps I haven't given you enough credit."
His mirror image looks at him sourly. Its devil bringer, matching his own gives off a faltering glow. Nero wonders how much effort it takes to keep it lit like that. Clearly the false is struggling a bit.
"What are you?" he croaks though his mouth is dry and his throat is burning.
"Why, I'm you of course, Nero. For now, anyway."
He wants to say something, ask a question, make a witty rebuttal about how remakes are never quite as good as the original but he feels like he's swallowing razor blades.
The copy is walking towards the light that casts shadows all over the dank room.
"I think it's time for me to pay our dear friend Dante a visit ...and take his head." The dark chuckle that follows doesn't sound anything like him.
A low groan echoes through the room and then the light is gone and Nero is alone.
The only sound is Nero's own labored breathing and the occasional drip of water out of a pipe in the ceiling. With no windows to asses the position of the sun in the sky, he's already lost track of how long he's been down here- wherever that is, exactly.
He feels the dull weight of the metal cuffs on his wrists, each with a chain tethered somewhere above him. They're long enough that he can place his palms flat on the stone beneath him, which he does to center himself and keep the dizziness in his head at bay.
There's a pronged collar fastened at the the top of his throat, just below his jawbone. Its chain is much shorter and Nero can hardly move his head without it boring into his skin.
A slice above his eyebrow throbs though the trail of blood running down his has has since dried. The worst pain, however, radiates outward from the blast in his abdomen. Unable to trigger and heal in this state, he can feel the bullet festering in his muscle tissue.
He knows hexed bullets like these don't go deep because they don't exist to pierce; they exist to poison and rot from the inside. He's sure Dante told him something along those lines once upon a time.
Bile climbs his esophagus again and he turns his head to the side and pukes. After a third time though, all he's tossing up is blood. The collar digs into the side of his neck and warmth runs down in rivulets into the fabric of his jacket.
Nero sits there, listlessly for what seems like an eternity before he swears he can hear movement above him. Three sets of footsteps, to be exact, one of which scuffs the ground with its heel. The halfbreed thinks for a moment that they might be the demon's cronies coming to finish him off but they smell human. Not that his sense of smell is at its best in his condition, but his devil arm doesn't lie and it's only giving off this pitiful, faint glow.
There's muffled laughter and two male voices going back and forth. Then the sound of glass clinking together. He can't hear what they're saying but they sound young. No older than Nero, at least. The third voice is shrill and feminine and Nero is suddenly reminded of Kyrie.
He remembers how her voice always sounded like a bell tinkling. Then he thinks of her face and how it crumbled to dust when he told her that he couldn't give her what she wanted. He'd loved her- he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to save her if he hadn't after all. But the love he felt for her was like that of a sibling and she wanted more. So Nero had left and found Dante.
Dante.
Stupid, fucking infuriating Dante who'd given him a home and a job no questions asked. He made Nero feel like he had a purpose, like he belonged for once.
"I'm not gonna lie to you, Kid. I have a thing for you. I've had it for a while now." He'd said it like it was the easiest thing in the world. Nero's blood had boiled that day because here was Dante, breezing through a confession while Nero had spent countless night staring up from the couch at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with the fact that he probably loves his halfbreed roommate.
He seems so far away now.
Bitter tears burn in Nero's eyes.
How pathetic it would be for Nero to die here, chained up and covered in his own blood. Trapped in this musty hell hole with a bunch of teenagers getting wasted over his head. This is not how Nero wants to be remembered. This is not how Nero chooses to die.
The bands on his wrists are too tight to slip out of even if he were to dislocate his thumbs. He knows if he's ever going to free himself, he'll have to break through the metal.
The hybrid draws back his devil arm, fist clenched tight. He grunts sharply as his knuckles glance off the metal and connect, instead with his human hand. Pain hums under his skin but he ignores it. He tries again but still, tough scales meet soft flesh and he roars in frustration and agony.
Glass smashes against the floor above.
He knows he has to break this cuff- his freedom depends on it. So he does it again, and again, and again, his collar biting holes into his flesh with each flex of a neck muscle. He does it again, until there are hot tears boiling from his eyes and he's certain that at least three of his fingers are very broken.
Over his ragged panting, the half-devil hears the voices upstairs hush to frantic whispers.
"I'm down here," he tries to yell to them but his own voice is hardly more than a strained whimper.
The metal cuff is only beginning to feel tighter on his left wrist as his hand swells.
Nero accepts gravely that he won't be able to smash himself loose in his condition and all he's doing is wasting energy. He slumps against the cold stone wall and lets the dread of defeat wash over him as terrified footsteps retreat above him.
The setting sun is plummeting behind dark thunder heads when Dante roars into the overgrown driveway of 62 Dorothy Diebold. The house itself looks like a mausoleum, drained of color, and caving in towards the center. It's covered in graffiti- Tabor wuz here! fuck you faggot. GOD IS DEAD. It says. Most of the windows are cracked and some of them have been smashed in completely.
Dante isn't sure of what he'll find inside but he doesn't have any more time to waste thinking about it. With his weapons strapped in, he makes his way in.
The floor is hardly visible underneath papers, shoes, and empty beer bottles. A Ouija board lays dejected in a corner, it's matching planchette rests over Goodbye. A dead rat decomposes at the base of a staircase with three steps left intact. The rest have been stomped in and smashed to pieces.
The devil hunter is looking around for a door or a false bit of flooring that will lead him to the basement when he smells something familiar. His senses are only just starting to return to him since he's distanced himself from the overwhelming scent of cleaning supplies (which he realizes was meant to mask the demon-smell of the fake Nero) back at the office and the timely digestion of that tampered-with pizza (honestly, is nothing sacred?).
Finally, his boot sinks a bit on a wooden board and immediately he's on his knees clawing at it. Blunt nails find purchase and a square shaped bit of floor reveals a dark opening that he might just be able to squeeze himself through.
He's immediately slapped across the face by the cloying smell of blood- thick and coppery. His own arteries turn icy at what he's pretty sure he's about to see but he descends anyway.
The basement ceiling is low enough that Dante has to bend his head forward a tiny bit to be able to stand. There isn't anything here though except for a pair of fold-up tables and a hunched-over body pressed against the wall.
Oh, fuck.
The white hair is illuminated by the infiltrating light and Dante knows it's Nero. The real one.
"Fuck, oh no. No... Nero." It doesn't really register that it's him saying it as he goes over to the younger halfbreed. He's just looking at the kid whose eyes are open but they're glassy. His wrists, cradled in his lap, are chained to the ceiling with separate metal braces. There's a collar around his neck with spikes nestled into raw skin. One white eyebrow is blackened with dried blood. Dante sees red everywhere and it's hard to differentiate between what's blood and what's Nero's jacket.
He feels ill once he sees Nero's hand. It's almost purple and horribly bloated. The metal rings on his first and third fingers are violently choking the skin around his knuckles. He's breathing, thankfully, but it's shallow and ragged.
Cloudy blue eyes search him for a moment. "Dante..." Nero wheezes through bloodied lips. "I'm... dreaming?"
"No, no, Kid. I'm here, you're here." Dante doesn't know where to start as he looks at the broken body before him. "Stay with me okay?"
He remembers the key that he looted from the demon.
Spurred by a surge of boiling emotions, he digs the key out and starts working at getting the cuffs off. If there were ever a time when Dante could cry or scream or both, it's now as he frees Nero's hands and they just fall limp onto the ground. He wants to trigger- to breathe life back into that demon just so he can kill it again. The collar falls to the floor and still there's no reaction; no breath of relief. The elder hunter feels himself getting hot in this cellar; his blood is beating underneath his skin and he wants to let the devil inside of him take over and set himself loose on the next living thing that looks at him or at Nero wrong.
Nero. Concentrate.
"I know you got shot," Dante says, focusing his energy into looking for the entry wound. "I need you to show me, or tell me where it is."
"Sleep..." Nero offers meekly, his heavy eyelids fluttering.
"No. You can sleep later." Dante's voice has taken on a dark edge. The urge to protect and to fight is churning his guts. Right now though, he has to focus on healing. Nero's slipping away fast and there won't be anything for him to protect pretty soon.
The devil bringer shakes as it comes to rest on Nero's stomach. It's the best hint the kid can manage.
Dante hauls the younger halfbreed's enervated body onto his lap and cradles him carefully in his arms. He's getting blood all over his coat and pants but that is the farthest worry from his mind.
Nero's eyes look far away but he blinks every so often. As carefully as he can manage, the elder hunter opens the tattered blue coat. There's no sense in unzipping his jacket as the zipper's been blasted apart by the shot so he does his best to peel the fabric off the wound. Dante's certain it hurts like hell because it's begun to scab over with the skin at the edges of the entry wound so as he pulls, he's reopening it. Nero doesn't move though, and he doesn't speak. He blinks and tear rolls down his blanched skin, but nothing more.
"This is gonna hurt," he says though he knows the kid's not listening. And even if he was, he's clearly already in excruciating misery so it wouldn't really make much of a difference. The larger half-devil is just hoping that maybe his voice will keep Nero's consciousness rooted here.
Dante clenches his jaw, face taut, and reaches into Nero's wound to fish for the bullet. There's no reaction other than those distant eyes rolling into the back of his head and for a second Dante freezes, thinking he may have just killed him. But the body shudders beneath him and his eyes refocus on Dante's face. There's agony and fear in those eyes but it means he's feeling this, which means at least he's not dead.
Dante feels the soft muscle tissue flex weakly around his fingers. Soon, he finds what he's been looking for and strains to get a good grip on it. His digits emerge covered in Nero's blood and clutching a tiny black ball made up of knotted grooves and ruts. A demon bullet.
The smaller hybrid is too far gone to trigger, he decides, because Nero's still laying across Dante's lap looking too much like a corpse.
Making a quick decision he sinks his teeth into his own wrist and tears, hot blood spilling freely. He holds the dripping appendage over Nero's wound and lends some of his own demonic power to the half-devil in his arms.
"I swear I'll watch whatever fucking dumb movies you want, just please stay with me, Nero." He pleads, and his voice sounds thin.
Rain is battering the roof of Devil May Cry when Nero's eyes open. He stares up at an off-white ceiling and idly grips soft sheets in between bruised fingers. He's alive, by some miracle.
Said miracle, he sees, is slumped over the sheets fast asleep.
He clears his parched throat and sits up, wincing as his sore muscles strain with movement. He can breathe clearly without blood clogging his lungs now. He'd almost forgotten what that felt like.
The halfbreed is in the process of looking over his skin for leftover bruises and scarring when Dante stirs and lifts his head, white hair tousled.
"Hey," he says, and Nero thinks it might be the most important sound he's ever heard. Ignoring the protests of his joints he coils his arms around Dante's neck and pulls him into a crushing hug. He feels the elder devil's chest heave with laughter and a hand cradles the back of his head. "Sorry I took so long," But he's already been forgiven.
One week later.
A draft floating through Devil May Cry no longer stirs Nero's hair as he sits on the couch. With the repairs to the window, the door, and the staircase, it finally looks the way it did before the nightmare swept through like a hurricane a week ago. Though Dante spent a solid three days whining and griping about how the contractor was clearly ripping him off, he was happy with the way things turned out.
Dante's stepping out of the bathroom, running a towel through his snowy hair when Nero hits the play button on the remote.
"So what's this one?" He asks, coming to take a seat next to the smaller half-devil.
"The Shining."
"Oh, nice. Hitchcock, yeah?" Dante slings an arm over Nero's shoulder and Nero leans into it.
"No, it's Stephen King."
"Right," He picks up his beer off the coffee table, where an open box of pizza sits, and takes a sip. He feels better now than he has in a long time.
But Dante knows this isn't the end. He remembers the demon's warning like it was hissed at him yesterday. As long as he's Sparda's son he'll be hunted and Nero's safety in turn will probably be jeopardized again. He's ready for it now. And Nero is here, breathing and still being difficult when it suits him. Dante couldn't ask for anything else.
(A/N): I had such a blast writing this and I hope it was an okay read as well. I sincerely appreciate all of the support and feedback, thank you so much! See you next time.