The trip down the dimly lit spiral staircase and the anticipation of putting a picture to the gruesome sounds echoing at the end of the corridor was the worst, even if you know exactly who was making them and what they were doing; the claustrophobic space void of anything but a few overhead lights and a single door resembled the image of passing to the afterlife, following the brightness until your face smacked against a heavy door and opening it to see another version of Hell altogether – Heaven for some – the conundrum teetering in favour of walking back up the tolling steps and into the contrasting space that was the rest of the house, enjoying the heavy polluted air instead of the cleaner, sterile smell that was every flavour of disinfectant. Dante had now reached to the point of no return, gripping the brass knob of the gym and focussing once more to locate the exhausting human in the open plan, seeing him at the heavy sandbag hailing from the sky looking to the ceiling, coincidentally directly underneath where he believed Vergil stood with dinner in the making. He turned at the intrusion and nearly had a heart attack at the sheath of baby blue material, clenching his teeth in relief at the younger's body entering the humidity that was the allotted distraction they'd agreed upon. The hybrid slipped through and gestured for him to continue his pace, shifting his attention to the centre of the mat where he would wait patiently until a sufficient amount of rage was out of his system; the context was to be administered under the simplest of settings and with the least amount of strain to any part of his body, and this was a good way to get what was hobbled inside into the air to disperse with the remaining particles that promoted utmost peace and tranquillity – if he was going to make such an elaborate lie he might as well believe it, going against every principle he'd instilled and lived by for the graces of humanity to beat his overthinking brain to the punch and surprise him. The older twin thought he knew Nero enough to imagine the scenario and its consequences, but as it played out he wasn't in the hot seat and his brother was present to sponge the bullets shot in his direction. Funny how things worked out, didn't it?
True Vergil observed the ball of muscle in all his black glory, watching the single-armed tight spandex shirt strike at every angle utilising different types and speeds of momentum to drive the bag into a seizure, rocking back and forth and absorbing all but one of his powerful slugs; deep breaths and a deep growl plummeted his right fist into the middle of the bag on his swing back to equilibrium, pulverising the material like a cloud of smoke as it exploded on the opposite side looking like a droopy character from a nineteen thirties cartoon as the tough exterior sank and softened with the loss of its essence to the floor below. His naked right arm flexed at the feat, shaking the excess tension from his bleeding knuckles while his covered left was limp against his tall frame, twisting both wrists as he came down from his inebriated flash of perceived arrogance that rode hand in hand with violent passion as the ideal output for his blender of mixed emotions. Nero faced Dante in a frenzy, breathing out of rhythm and beads of sweat taking individual races to the finish line that was his jaw, dripping onto the dark material and evaporating at the instantaneous heat coming from him; the veins in his triceps bulged in sync after their hard work, straightening the headband along his hairline and giving Dante a good eyeful of the results his efforts were showing; the matching-coloured sweats were no help, sitting an inch too low underneath his hipbones and shifting in tune with his breathing as a small sliver of drenched skin was visible below the hem line of his shirt. The twin walked across the room and grabbed his fingerless gloves he was meant to wear to prevent a mishap like this from occurring, pocketing the set and resuming his unwavering stance at the spongy mat; it was too good a replication, Nero thought, envisioning the other and seeing no difference to their poses, granted Dante was playing the fool to do justice to the deadly weapon nestling sombrely in his grasp. He quickly tapped the foam three times giving the teen a tiny fright, alarmed more by the subdued unmoving facial expression upon their connected stares. "There's more to break."
He took a good look at the surrounding opponents, either tough as nails or would bite back the instant he rumoured to have the upper hand. In addition, he didn't have the money to replace all of it at one time, and restricting himself to a military-grade punching bag was already a step over the cautionary thin yellow line of his monthly allowance. "I think I'm done for now."
"In that case, join me," said Dante, pointing to a spot on the mat with the sheath; he obliged, his bare feet unable to handle the dead weight of his body while slumping to the invisible X, midway being lifted off the ground and thrown on his back with no means of warning whatsoever. He didn't see it coming, the tackle stemming from nowhere and no extra strings attached whilst the twin giggled next to him, snuggling between his legs and placing his palms flat at his ribs and smiling apologetically. "I'm not taking any chances on some random bits of fizz launching at me."
Remarkably, it didn't hurt. "Fine; this one I'll deal with for my own sake."
"There's a good boy." Dante smoothed his tousled hair, calmly sitting back on his knees remembering his complex place in the entirety of the situation. He wondered how many more mistakes he'd make in his sibling's armour, counting three and four as he massaged both his ankles and calves while he retrieved the breath that left him by surprise. "Can I steal some time from you? There's something I need you to see."
Nero so much wanted to lie there and take his penalty, breathing easier at the strain relief in his lower body; he sat straight up, flattening his feet to the floor for the smallest workout on record and calming further as Dante's face came into view, offering a warming melancholy smile at the sight of his untense shoulders. "I thought I'd do all the talking-"
"Later." Dante tried to shake his hair out of his face and made a worse mess, curling his lips and blowing upward to no avail; the human shuffled closer after a mini giggle fit, moving the mane of silver to its proper places piece by piece, working inward with the flow of the style and progressively twirling them around his fingers – a tactic he was taught by the victim to hold the uncooperative strands in their rightful spots. He added his other hand into the mixture, climbing into his knees and toying with the smaller hairs on their tailored route that would usually greet him with a face succumbed to a mouthful of sour gummy worms, and now… nothing. "This is something that's been undeservedly been kept from you… and we believe you have the right to see it and take back what was yours to begin with. There is no right time to do this…" The teen continued on, raking the hair outward from his crown all around his head, feeling the purrs dissolve out the hybrid's mouth. "You're making this difficult to try and be serious."
That was the point; he sat still nonetheless, rubbing his hands on his thighs as his rolling eyes comforted the gigantic step forward in Nero's manliness to play in a grown man's hair to delay the switch of topic. The muscular hips swaying in front of him were tempting, smoothing his lips together before breaking his momentum and snapping his head toward the ceiling and blankly stared his brother's hair out of the ponytail grip Nero was having too much fun with. "Who's we?"
The twin regretfully pulled the fingers to a lower level, crushing them in his grasp. "The four of us."
Last time he counted, there were only two. "Four?"
"It will make sense in the next few minutes." Dante gingerly held his hands, holding a temperate glare that Nero wanted to avoid. "We did this thinking it would be a better choice for you to start fresh, not knowing it would come back to bite us. It hasn't really bitten yet, but down the line it might, and it may be too late-"
"Dante, you're scaring me." He smiled unconvincingly, too afraid to let go and more frightened at the grave hint soberly lining his usual carefree features; it faded like an inked sketch on paper dripping from a healthy trip in the rain, the remnant aftermath making its mark on the canvas as it ceased purpose from its original meaning and took an obscure shape that amplified the gloom of the moment, pointing the edges of his prior content in the wrong direction. And for the first time in so long, as Dante or Vergil, the twin had no clue what to do or say to encourage himself to carry through with the plan after a mere mention of it altered the fibres swathing his insides, tightening his entire core into a ball of nerves similar to tinfoil and yarn cuddled in a wrestling match.
The twin helped Nero's swift fall planting him in a relaxed position, gently easing his grip to claim the sword and get the ordeal over with; the teen tentatively crossed his legs and creaked his neck awkwardly at the shiny blade making its short doomy appearance, the bland taste of blood and syrup hitting his tonsils most unnervingly as the hybrid coiled the weapon in his steady clasp. "This is going to hurt. I don't want you to be scared."
Mentally, emotionally, and physically; the teen was incredibly strong-willed and there was one outcome unbeknownst to both of them, waiting patiently at the perimeter of the room for its moment to shine. "You're doing a horrible job at convincing me."
Dante shuffled behind him, setting Yamato to the boy's right. "I'll be here with you every step," he said, sticking his nose into his hair on instinct. "Vergil too."
He always did this when he thought he couldn't offer anything else, seeing his younger brother on a number of occasions as Nero was studying in a corner of his room or outside on the patio with a roaring fire; in the kitchen after a long day of nothing going right; sitting with his feet in the pool reading a book when he shut himself off for the day, shutting the book the instant his lips touched the light strands in defeat at the cuteness of his accustomed, hard, badass exterior with the tough and cuddly mushiness encased. The human dropped his shoulders and patted Dante's head, hiding a chuckle at what must have been an exaggerated performance for the result to not hit as badly as everyone involved was anticipating; from his crown to his neck, the boy skimmed the pads of his fingertips along the ridge of the pale skin and into the crook, giving it a caring squeeze and warranting a hot breath to part his hair and prickle his scalp. "What do you need me to do?"
"What you're doing now." The twin's knuckles turned the same white colour as the hilt, wrapping the milky digits to unsheathe its killing glory and glint in the light that shone directly into Nero's eyes; blinded for a millisecond, he felt his hands being stretched palm-side up in front of him to witness one the worst feelings he imagined to never accede to: he chose to skew his mouth as the burn came and went with a swift cut along the span of both his palms, blood pooling along the tiny crevices that had been there since birth. The puddle of blood on his hands was sucked on the surface of Yamato, resembling a DNA helix in tribal form flowing in sync and twisting down the sword stopping just short of dripping onto the mat at the tip of the blade and glowing a bright crimson, sparking small flames that inched closer to the hilt and cauterising his wounds; the heat seeped up his forearms and kept them in an appropriate position for the second stage, freezing his entire body and ceasing its regular functioning while echoing all the way through his immune system, sending warning messages to his frozen, blocked off brain and icing off normal processing except his hearing. It took two full minutes for him to 'die', breathing his last breath and tightening his grip on the bleeding sword. The shell dropped his chin to his chest and Dante closed his eyes, leaving creamy spots in the translucent skin as his hands caressed his soft neck; to his amazement, Nero utilised the last bit of his energy to lean into it, tilting his head to the warm in the last few seconds of his livelihood – Yamato screeched in a full blue flame that scorched the boy's skin, oozing the inferno and its black smoke into every open pore and taking with the tar the fragments of the embedded lost memories unhurriedly forming a misty picture inside his subconscious. "I won't leave you, Nero."
The words resounded on the frozen walls, bouncing and cracking on the safer layer of the thinner barrier blocking him from regaining control of his limbs until the sword had competed his instruction, the essence of mounting recollection growing in size at delivering the forgotten emotion attached to them, unfaded with the time that had passed and squashing the hope it wouldn't be as taxing as when it was first stolen. The twins were cripplingly reliant on his maturity and how he chose to compartmentalise the younger versions of himself and the outside influences at play in his 'past' life; no matter how hard they tried, no force could compel or motivate the hybrids to imagine his reaction or possibly get close to a suspected conclusion, reflecting only on the pure hatred and disappointing aspects of the reveal. True Vergil rubbed a tender thumb on the cold cheek, moving his hair behind his ear for a clearer view of his face and slicing his middle finger to break the blood seal on the epitaph at the top of the hilt, smearing the ichor on the unholy emblem causing a small vibration on the weapon and dispelling a sphere of magic to burst out of Nero's lost blood to encircle them from interruption, making the pair invisible to anyone being walking through the entrance of the gym. Vergil toyed with the golden strings as any shape of contact sufficed, drawing from him the binding enchantment that allowed the pilfered shards to return home.
Nero took quick glances around the black bottomless space, seemingly floating in cold nothingness, stark naked inviting the chilled bite to nibble on his skin with a glaze to his sight that became clearer with every passing second, forming an image he was more familiar with yet unfamiliar in every aspect other than its picturesque nature: a little boy sat with a bowl of cereal in front of a blaring TV dribbling milk tinged in many colours, openly laughing at a dumb grey cat chasing a brown mouse succeeding his intelligence; in a kitchen to his left stood a screaming couple fighting over a pot of stew and pointing to the oblivious boy enjoying himself, grabbing at ties and blouse collars for the duration of the episode and taking breathers between commercials until another program sprang in colour on the child's stare, smiling and completely aware a mother and father were arguing over a new pair of shoes his size standing tall on the dining room table. Nero turned his head to the clock above the TV and saw it was eleven thirty five, noting that no child should be in front of a screen that late at night and subconsciously blaming his sleeping problems on the exact moment. The picture froze mid-action, the mother's hand held high over her head, the father tilting his expression in a dare, and the boy with both of his hands up in victory and the milk of his cereal flying onto the floor. It swirled in a blend of vegetable soup to another image of the same woman and her son in a bathroom he vaguely recognised, bawling his eyes out at the trademark burn of the improper application of hair dye, black smudges running down his face mixing with the smear of tears while the mother scrubbed messy black spots on the floor and murmuring that 'he was going to kill her if he saw this', and yes, she had disregarded his disagreement at the endeavour in the first place. The front door to the small apartment opened and the man from before ran to the screams, busting down the door to comfort his impending black-haired son, absolutely furious at the act of going behind his back. 'It doesn't look so bad now; he won't stand out as much as before,' she said; the father gave her one look and she removed herself from the picture at light speed. He gently set the boy in the tub and shushed him tenderly, grabbing a bucket under the basin and filled it with lukewarm water. 'It's okay now, my boy,' he said, removing the tiny Buzz Lightyear t-shirt he'd received for his birthday and bending him forward to rinse his hair. The man turned to see the woman continue nonchalantly hanging the colourful ornaments on the big spiky pine tree in the corner of their lounge; Nero took steps forward toward the adult and the lump in his throat, breathing a shaky breath as he turned his attention to his son and his discomfort. 'This is going to burn, okay? I have to get it all out, Nero.' The sound of his name soothed the past and present editions, both watching the black water tint the dark green ceramic of the bath.
The dark stream obscured the transition into another memory with an eight minute timer counting down in the bottom right corner where the man from earlier held his tiny hand as they walked with two Toy Story backpacks and another tog bag the adult carried in his empty hand; the third person perspective shifted and placed him directly in the little boy's shoes, looking upward at the attempt of a smile as they talked about insignificant things and walked into a large plot surrounded by a low wooden gate that stretched the length of a huge white single story home and its accompanying garden in the front yard. The man knocked three times and averted his worrying eyes to a much older woman filling the space of the door. 'We spoke on the phone.' Flat, disheartened regret was all he heard, being pushed over the threshold as the woman got down on her haunches and accepted all three bags. 'This is everything he owns.' Her reply was blurry and muffled and he tried to wiggle forward to read her lips, his true form wrenched back into the third person at the bulldozing hunk of flesh down the pebbled path and down the street from which they came, reaching out to him as he turned at the sound of his son crying and hobbling onto his legs. He fell to his knees and held him close, his tears forever soaked in the tiny patched cloak that was the warmest piece of clothing he owned. Nero stopped next to the ball of sadness in the road, swivelling between them and the woman at the gate holding back tears; that face was more familiar than his own father's. 'Is mommy gonna be mad?' The man shook his head on his shoulder, sniffing and swallowing his gloom to appear strong for his son. 'She doesn't know where you are.' The timer hit zero and a freeze frame of the man cupping his young face left too many questions than answers in his mind, confused at the broad smile on his childish features upon hearing he would be hidden out of view of the monster perceived as his very own mother. This particular one he remembered somewhat, more the pain of seeing his only family walk away for his own protection than the act of giving him to be cared for by strangers. The promise of coming back would be left open for hawks and vultures to pick at, satisfying their appetite at his void expense. The significance of him losing both of his parents on that day cut close to the bone, recalling the next few seconds of waving to the man unknowing it would be the final goodbye until many years had passed, hitting him a tad worse when he was able to compute his family wasn't planning to come get him; he kept his gaze fixed on the picture, anxious as to whether he would have done more to stay at his father's side had he been told the truth, figuring it wasn't worth fighting for if it meant going back home to a fate of pain and misery at the hands of the woman he barely knew as his mother. The beauty and sadness of the image zoomed out as part of a film reel, replacing the tender moment with depictions and flashes of his child- and teenhood that portrayed the same melancholic, lonely tone doused in filters of uncolour, except for one that he nearly missed as it sped past him: Nero extended his reach and touched it, zooming in to fill the dark space of he and a uniformed police officer talking over some bread and stew; from where he stood they were both unbelievably happy engrossed in conversation he wouldn't dare think of, sparking a flame of warmth he could feel spread outward to the rest of his frame. On its own, it zoomed out and began another highlight reel with the same officer in every moving picture, handing out gifts to the many that shunned him and calling to join him in their favourite corner, handing over the best gift out of the lot each time. Nero watched teary-eyed at his growth and his friends reverse ageing; a constant face and changing hair meant one thing to him now, glad he didn't carry such prejudice at the impressionable age that would have doomed the very livelihood he now lived. Every photo had the letters L-A-R-S written in obscure capitals like it was a different language, becoming happier as the images progressed.
All the goodness saturated in them caught fire, his subconscious lighting the match on the flammable substance in all but a picture so pure it could be on a postcard, fresh scenery on a summers day and the sliver of a school uniform on the left side that traded the warmth from before to a toxic retch stuck in his throat, growing in sourness the closer the picture came into view. Alarm bells rang in his head raising in volume until he chose to watch what it had in store, shutting everything down as it played in normal time: the high-schooler walked down a clean empty street he remembered on sight, glimpsing a police car parked at the opposite curb; he tried to smile at the uniform inside but the fear of being caught was too great, bowing his glare to the uneven pavement and adjusting the straps on his school backpack before walking up a flight of stairs concealed from every angle. This experience was miles different from the others as Nero felt everything the figure was, recognising the drop of his stomach as he breathed at the front door seconds prior to opening it, looking straight into his own eyes while stepping inside his supposed home. He screamed for the boy to not enter for some reason and the plea fell on deaf ears as another face looked to see if he was followed. No amount of strung profanities would break the surface of his anger the moment the disgusting face came into his line of sight, personifying boiling rage in the seconds it took for him to run up the stairs and have the door slammed in his face consequent of his terribly timing. The slam banged in his eardrums and forced a wince out of him, blinking for a millionth of a second to induce sudden pitch darkness, washing the sepia tone in favour of a colour to replicate the tone of what was to come. Thin slices of light shone through above and below his eye level and a deep muffled voice could be heard while both instances floated in a depressing abyss of sensory elimination, diagnosing the dread with the onset of cotton mouth and unease that something terrible was about to happen – his breathing became lighter and restricted in a full panic, tears pooling on his cheek instead of flowing down his face. He was far too confused at what to feel, attempting to moisten his oesophagus while a searing pain pulled on his eyelids, coming face to face with a vision temporarily branded into his memory. With the burden of sight came the raw bruising on his body made present by incessant concentration and fear for the other things he may do to him; there was a toothy grin and evil in his dead orbs, spooning brown lumpy sludge into his mouth, losing his vision to scratches and greyscale blotches instilled on his pupils like an old movie transitioning between scenes. He was grateful for the haziness in his courage as the next scene formed like white smoke, keeping dead still while the room filled with uniformed officers dragging a flailing lump by all four limbs into the other room, teasing and degrading the man who had given him months of torture and ridicule. Nero didn't look but heard the boy shaking against his restraints and calming what parts he could, feeling the aura of his best friend in the adjacent room and calling his name. 'Lars, is that you?' He already knew the answer, cheeky bastard. The tall demon responded to his name simmering in fury with a green hue following him; Nero was able to get a good enough look at the man who kneeled at his feet, hiding his true nature in every way he could as they resumed a normal everyday conversation in the midst of forthcoming doom.
The future events flew by in fast forward – Lars' hair swooshing around, being hovered over a toilet that hadn't been cleaned in months and plonked into an empty bath, going and returning to his side, ripping the stickiness off his undernourished body; Nero stood at the threshold after making way for Lars to come through and crumbled at a distance, realising what he must have felt to see him in such a time of need in the grave circumstances put forward by the rescue itself. Given no time to reflect, the movie flashed forward once again and halted on Hanson's face as he lay bundled in his arms; all the love he knew to exist in the galaxy were present in his green eyes and bewitching smile, getting giddy in his present form at the piece that finally clicked into place, altering to a space of connection much deeper than he anticipated. He felt so silly at the slow movement of the brothers and how incredible the flicker of reality made him feel, finally grasping a sense of time in the hour-long conundrum presented to him without warning on the incapacitating toll his mental and emotional well-being would be exposed to. It hadn't killed the fact that he appreciated every second of it, more embarrassed at the notion of his caregivers seeing his sorry excuse of a life before they came and finished his picture for him, unable to see the man he is now as a viable result from what he had just witnessed.
The script was flipped on him with sounds stemming from behind, jumping out of the middle of a raining street he woke up to every day, facing his current home and nearly knocked over by Dante's red Camaro parking field side directly parallel to his front door. Hanson climbed out quickly and picked the small figure out of the backseat, crossing the street faster than a normal human and setting him back on the ground for him to get a good look at his new home. The three stories baffled him and it was big. He liked big. Still do, he thought to himself. 'Don't set them on fire on your first day; when I say warm them up, I don't mean in a literal sense, you got me?' Nero heard his younger self giggle. It was the first time in years. 'Those two in there are very important to us and I want them to love you.' He took a deep breath through his nose and the smells coming from inside were heavenly and unlike anything he'd ever eaten, judged solely on the idea that he had no clue what it was. Present Nero did the same and it was Dante's chicken soup; the very same that had driven common influenza out the back door and made him feel a dime a dozen in times of turmoil or when he wanted to be twenty times more peckish on a healthy variation of his usual meals. Hanson gave four hearty knocks to the massive door and faint noises erupted from the inside, seeing Vergil's striking face peep through the small space he made, relieving the chain and opening it fully. No words transpired between the beings but at least now he knew why, earning his infamous blank expression turned on full blast at the red cheeks puffed from the cold peeking over a thick scarf; out of nowhere came an identical face popping over the tall shoulder, bulging his eyes at the package holding onto Hanson's hand for dear life and cowering behind the equally intimidating physique. He laughed, recalling that moment of mild fear at suddenly seeing double and the blessing it had been. The door opened wider and they stepped in, leaving adult Nero in the rain as the door shut him from the festivities, the bang of the oak collapsing the remaining scene to dust that swept over his physique, bringing with it a few flecks of a hot bath, cotton pyjamas, low lighting and a Bundt cake. He wanted to understand it all before his time ran out but it all fizzed from the inside out, the king of dreams burning the butt of his cigar in the exact centre of the chasm he too dissolved into and became one with the darkness, observing his fingers fall into nothing and opening his eyes to Dante's soft scared face and doe orbs with a slight chill in the air.
The twin kept his word and stayed by his side, watching the blood reverse to their homestead bringing colour to his entirety and searing his skin in a bulbous scab that Vergil would fix in a heartbeat. Dante seized the weapon and set it in its case, laying it at the perimeter of the mat while the viscosity of the bubble pulled and effervesced until it was no more. He crossed his legs and forced himself to look at the pale face that was having a bit of trouble in processing what he'd just seen. Getting back to reality was the hardest part as the abyss brought a sense of numbness with it; when floating in emptiness, the burden of reality isn't as heavy as it would later lead to be, and the tweak from being light as a feather to a weighty mass of flesh and bone hit harder than it ever should, altering the load to a substantial punch in the gut that made you sick to your stomach. The twin bit his tongue at the sad eyes that began to water, intrinsically begging him for the full story. He was a better story teller than Dante anyway. "In short, your parents had only been together for a short time before your mother fell pregnant. She wanted to get an abortion immediately and your father begged him not to, claiming he'd marry her if she kept the baby full term. They married the following week but absolutely hated each other, mainly owing to her being jealous of the time and effort he was putting into the preparation of raising you. Your father couldn't get enough of his first born and she was fed up with having to share; they had agreed that he would take care of you but she couldn't comprehend how much money, sweat and tears it would be. She was an average Jane and she liked it that way, so put yourself in her shoes in having a son with hair brighter than any prospects she had in life. You stood out like a sore thumb and she made you believe it was a bad thing and you shut yourself up and off from everything but your father because he was the only person who had treated you like a fucking human being-" he closed his eyes and twisted his neck, squaring his jaw at the momentary lapse of partiality, be it true or false. "He was the breadwinner which meant he couldn't spend much time with you; your mother stayed and home-schooled you to save money and face. Your education meant less than her image." He took another breath. "She taught you the basics and that was enough; the odds and ends you saw were when teaching ended and motherhood began. The hair dyeing incident was the last straw and your father planned to send you for one year only; he did come back for you, but the mothers on duty reported that he was in no way fit to take you home. He'd lost a ton of weight and looked terribly sick; she called a hospital to pick him up. You were with Lars at the time and no one would disturb you. The rest is self-explanatory." The truth was that he hadn't ventured further in the file, already pissed that a child would get the bad end of a heads-or-tails coin toss each time and more so that the advantage of knowing wouldn't better him as a person in any way. He simply didn't want to and that was the beginning and end of it. What sick bastard would benefit information of that calibre leaking to the masses?
Nero listened with a blank glare on a piece of wall above Dante's head. "Do you know who Lars is?"
"I do," he said, cracking his knuckles to not spill incongruous beans. "He chose us to look after you because of the legal trouble he'd be in if he kept you."
Ah, Vergil's favourite L word. "And Hanson?"
"We're close, but he doesn't like me as much as he'd tolerate Vergil." He wasn't lying. True Vergil kept a cautious eye on him, the data not yet hitting his cerebral cortex. "It's a lot to take in and I won't lie and say I know how you feel; all I can offer are answers-"
"Tell me about the last bit." The human stood slowly and walked to the fridge, fetching two bottles of sparking water and handing one over as he sat back in his dent, avoiding the demon's fussy gaze by playing with the plastic. "Where does that fit in?"
The elder twin remembered it like it was yesterday, left alone to give his side of the story to the open pairs of ears. "That was your first official day with us. After Hanson said goodbye for the fourth time, you were shaking and we didn't know why. We were stupid, of course, because the house was freezing and we don't feel cold. Vergil suggested a bath before dinner and owing to it being so late we decided to let you sleep everything off and talk the next day about formalities and such. Straight after eating six bowls of soup – yes, six-" he held up six fingers just in case, "-we finally got you into bed making sure you were snoring before turning off your nightlight. D-" he pretended to choke, taking a sip of his water. "I left the door open because I read somewhere it's a good thing to do in 'complex' situations; we didn't have a definition of complex so early but it seemed a good idea. We were going to burn some midnight oil and get your papers sorted and have everything done at once, keeping the day open for that purpose. You were missing a birth certificate-"
"Missing or didn't have one?"
Each choice had a facet to being worse than the other. "Lars called the orphanage and put in an enquiry for it, but nothing turned up. And being the impatient sod he is, he went to the affairs office and got the forms instead." He'd leave the part about it being for the possible adoption out of the multipart equation. "While we were making leeway, you came out of your room and saw us at the table and offered to help; you were clinging to a pillow and climbed onto a seat next to me-i-eye brother. He wasn't as comfortable as you were but something snapped in him that was strange to see."
Nero looked up. "What… like… he was okay with it?"
"More than that." He might as well get done with the awkward part. "He was being nice. Vergil hates putting in effort to be nice, but it seemed natural. I'm not sure if he read the files on the case, but it was so out of place I had to stop what I was doing and look over the table to him explaining things to you; nothing too hectic, still it was something I couldn't have predicted in my wildest dreams." The beauty was that it didn't have to make sense. "We had somehow gotten onto the topic of birthday parties and the like, and you said you never had a single one. The only thing you should every worry about at your age was how big the cake was going to be, and yet-" This was a new record. "So we put down the papers and had one for you; thankfully, and because of my illustrious diet of all things sweet, we're always fully stocked in that department. Vergil made a quick cake in the microwave and I dug out some candles; you ate yourself into a food coma." Yep, that sounded like him; it gave him great joy to know he was a glutton as a tradition. "We took your memory the next day and went after our errands to get you a decent gift." Nero remembered that; searching for a good electronics shop and running at full speed to the only thing on his Christmas list for an entire day. He found it odd that he was a scarred happy child right off the bat, and they still did their best to earn his trust the right way. "We tried not to think we were selfish."
The word didn't suit them. "Have you two seen this?"
"Vergil has. The sword has a mind of its own and he would have seen it regardless of not wanting to. I've never wanted to, but I've heard snippets."
The human unscrewed the cap on his bottle. "Heard?"
In what galaxy would explaining a sword could talk in an ancient language understood by those who could decipher it make any sense? "Yes, heard."
Nero tried to look anywhere but the handsome face within reach, snaking onto anything that would keep his attention for the time being. Keeping to his nature, Dante grabbed the hand that wasn't constantly wiping an unnecessarily wet cheek, crunching the excess moisture along the length of the thick scab. He found the best excuse and watched a few grains of sand fall to the floor while his fingers were kneaded and spread as a last ditched to be the shoulder his younger brother normally was, completely lost on the appropriate action in failing to channel the man's caring and enigmatic touch. Nevertheless it was an unwanted ignition blazing an unneeded trail to his throat, bubbling sewage and off-tasting reminisce at his words and gluing his eyes to the sharp side profile and clenching jaw cautious of his anxious baby blues. "I promise I'm fine."
"I believe you," he said; he hadn't pulled out of their contact.
The pair shared a forlorn glance at their joined hands, soft and rife with words and emotions left untouched. "Please tell me what I'm meant to be feeling."
"How do you want to feel?"
"Numb. That's what's happening now."
Dante squeezed his hand reassuringly, making him pick up his wilting vigour for a full blast on untainted admiration in his favourite shade of blue. "Feeling nothing is still feeling something." The boy was so easy to read these days that he may as well have his thoughts on a neon sticky note pasted to his forehead or sewed into his left sleeve, leaving little configuration behind the slightest of his movements. The twin stood and pulled him along, letting go of his hand and extending it to welcome the cyan death blade that knew nothing of gravitational force. "He's upstairs, probably taking a bath. You should be used to that answer by now."
He pointed to the golden tassels swishing in the air. "How did you do that?"
The older held the weapon in both hands, tapping the flat end on has palm. "It offends me that you underestimate my power, Nero."
They boy blushed – still unconvinced – but made his leave quietly, turning the handle with his fingers. "I love you, Dante." He looked back at the wide blank face, pushing the door open in a morbid, abstemious exit that left a piece of him mixed with evaporated sweat in the humidity, smugly clinging to every object in the space until Nero chose to be whole again.
He was out of earshot, not that he needed to be. Was that good enough?
Water swished around on loudspeaker. That was good. I feel bad for being a part of it.
The elder twin began flaming white-hot, his naked sword doing the same. I'm on standby if you need me.
Vergil-
I'm fine. The flames doubled in size and his eyes scorched a pitiful blue. I'm fine.
Nero tightly gripped the handle and closed it gently, focussing the silence on both ends of the house; he made the mistake of looking back, the white wall a perfect canvas for a subtle reply of the newly-acquired resource and cursing his eidetic memory as each flash came with more detail filled in with prior technicolour voids now meshed with his restored thinking making a conclusive whole with the extra bits that were locked away too deep to locate on his own. The pain in his hand made his eyes water, shifting its position on the handle so the wound had no further contact with the slippery brass. Never before would he see himself wince from blankness, stepping backward down the passageway for the images to progressively fade and find solace alone, heavily jogging up the stairs carrying double his normal weight to the living room potent with the smells of dinnertime and powerless against the missing morsel of enjoyment for his favourite dish. He was restless and he hated it, drumming his fingers on the wooden table and failing to keep his composure on all the blank walls taunting him wherever he went. Every twitch of his eye flicked through scene after scene in quick succession, getting used to the forsaken trail that no amount of chocolate could fix. Without thinking, he ran up the stairs to Vergil's bedroom seeing the steam drift through the door left ajar, moving over the threshold with little discretion to his status in personal space.
He didn't care. He needed him.
Vergil's head rested along the ledge of the black claw foot tub with a cool cloth draped on his forehead, looking to his brother's equally dark ceiling and fibre opting lighting that resembled a thousand tiny stars in a night's sky, the scorching temperature emitting steam by the dozen that hazed the small lamps on each corner and providing an extra illuminative boost to the luxury and regret after climbing out of the true definition of relaxation. Dante didn't care much for baths if a shower did his body ultimate justice, but today had not been an exhilarating day; total opposite came nowhere close, and neither did a day in Hell – in fact, he'd experienced better days down below than this. He frolicked on the surface of the water with his fingers, drowning his hand and then quickly exposing it to the air to watch the soothing droplets fall from his tips, sometimes racing one another down the long milky digits to cross his palm on the way down. It was a humble motion that appeased him, fixed on easy scientific mechanics with no chance of confusion or disagreement for the law and how things worked yet elegant in repetition at its simplicity in general, causing soft ripples as the limb broke the quiet exterior time and time again to keep his feeble mind away from the initial reason he was submerged in liquid coal. He sunk lower into the heated lavishness his toes reaching the far end of the tub and pushing his head straight for the cloth to fall and spritz him lightly; too lazy to get up and out, walking the one and a half steps to the basin – not occurring to him a tap performing the same action was within one quarter of his reach – he left the floating cloth to soak up the wrong temperature for its intended purpose. True Dante breathed through his nose and blew bubbles at the unfortunate incident, choosing to rather finish his bath in traditional raisin style when the door opened and Nero slid through the small area he'd created, closing it hastily to lessen the escaping steam. Out of breath and red in the face, the boy leaned his weight onto it, exhausted from the burst of courage required entering the humid space; he appeared significantly smaller than his usual no-nonsense and hard-headed aura, his mind deserts apart from the four tiled walls covered in perspiration. Nero's preoccupied orbs were drawn to the floating head caught mid child-fantasy, raising both faultlessly sculpted eyebrows like it was a run-of-the-mill action and watching between the navy accent and the boy's face with a softened gaze and tentative cheeks that meant a hidden half-smile under the clear water. "Do you need me to do that for you?"
The hybrid narrowed in on the swooshing material, nodding against the clear liquid and forming miniscule waves in its gentle flow allowing parts of the sunken purple bruise to sneak into the conversation; it was an impeccable response granting a silent seal of approval that communication between them was on the cards for as long as he needed to stay. Nero gently grabbed at his objective – Dante resisting the need to fake bite his fingers – and did as he suggested, wringing the warmness and rinsing the cold back into the fibres that were his shield versus the heat coming at all angles. He turned at the sound of Vergil moving his humungous frame to a sitting position and noted the troubling discolouration was going down. "Would you like to talk about it?"
"I would, but…" He trailed off, walking over with the spare chair in tow to sit at Vergil's head, bending it comfortably and placing it directly onto the lukewarm portion of skin and playing with the smaller hairs at his fringe. "The words I need are suited to a brightly lit corner wearing a dunce hat and a slap on the wrist, wallowing time away and never ceasing to exist just because; it's best screamed on top of a lost mountain range so the echo punches me back and everything I have cooped up gets doubly worse."
Nero smoothed the cloth on his skin, shedding cooler droplets down the sides of his handsome face and along the bridge of his nose to cascade onto his Cupid's bow upper lip; he could practically taste the exquisiteness under the guidance of the droplet, tracing the pads of his digits under Vergil's jaw and tilting it upward with painful concern to his wounds, falling victim to his quiet charm and placing a timid, succulent, lingering peck on the manly pink cushiony goodness, sliding his tongue gently into the younger twin's mouth. True Dante's wet hands couldn't resist digging into his soft locks, deepening the kiss and distracting Nero's sense of self-awareness to his unmatched speed and strength: he held his fervour while simultaneously grasping the tight hem of his shirt, heaving him in a forward flip without an appropriate reaction to the immediate shake of his balance, squishing his face in delight as his body hit the deep water that splashed half of the bath onto the tiled floor, slowly sinking onto the stretched physique lining the bottom of the tub; Vergil held him close to his chest and followed the intimate clutch with a quick kiss to the temple, confusing the exuberant excitement the human had just experienced. "The echo is just as good in here." The burn on his back was odd to place given the warm temperature and even warmer frame he sunk into. "Talk to me, kid."
Lost in the moment and the mindless clue uttered by mistake, he held at the arms around his shoulders and waist, snuggling comfortably into his puzzle piece. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Do you assume it's healthy you're not feeling anything?"
Nero rested his head on the huge torso behind him. "I got answers; if I'm being really honest, I could have gone without them, but there's no harm in knowing either."
This was the first official time he admitted to not wanting to know particulars, and the twins would have probably kept the asbestos curtain firmly closed it if hadn't been for one thing. "Hanson told us about your nightmares. No detail, but we figured it best for you to sift through and fill in the snippets from your dreams. At this point, it's unfair to you and we hope they'll stop now that you know the full picture."
"And I appreciate it." He wiggled higher to peck the base of his strong jaw. "It's going to hit me later, I swear."
The twin moved the touch at his hip and ironed and tangled in his strands, inclined to the honesty and intrigue at the tiny voice to his right; his brother was better at voicing the innocent blunders that spiralled out of a mind's proportion and adding a price tag costing more than one's own capability at peace. His fingers trailed softly on his scalp, tracing intricate patterns of lithograph equanimity in pure delight, hearing Nero's heartbeat fall to a steady, rhythmic lullaby translating to wholesome virtue on the amazing surface. The teen intuitively lifted his leg over the monster to the other side, straddling a very naked demon and sitting snuggly on his powerful hips, looking through the clarity on the arrangement of flawless at his disposal to distract himself from the grief that took preference over his depressing childhood. Vergil manoeuvred to two dry spots at the edges of the bath for a closer look, bending his knees and loosely gripping his midsection. "There's something else."
When he spoke in the deep, gruff tone with delicate notes of honey and milk, all attempts at lying were futile. "No there isn't-"
"Don't lie to me young man. I know you better than you think I do." He tapped on the hard flesh directly above his belly button to grab his attention by the pointy end. "There are many things I could do to get you to speak, even more so with the motivation of you being fully clothed."
Vergil was sexy when he got serious, tight-lipped and intimidating until Nero found the gusto to spill the beans. "I couldn't tell him about us. And now I'm doubting if I should."
The sentiment took a few milliseconds for the impact to hit. "You telling him means there's a chance for us."
"We haven't talked about you wanting an us; you go quiet when I choose to, like the words zoom over and around your head with no opportunity to get anything in reply."
The fact of the matter was that he preferred something running in perpendicular similarity over nothing at all, and the hybrid was currently victim of the latter. "Nero, just because I'm silent doesn't mean I have nothing to say."
"What does it mean, then?" Nero couldn't look at him, fixing his interest on his hands flat on the other man's chest. "Are you afraid to take this seriously?"
"You were the one who stressed the idea of no strings attached. You can't hate me for keeping my end of the deal."
There it was. "So that's all it is? A deal?"
It was a pity that would be the best he'd get out of the stoic idiot. "I'm doing what you're asking of me."
Yes; this drama in its entirety, going back and forth with late nights and early mornings, plugging the temporary gulfs with a makeshift romp inducing more sleepless nights, and the overall lies he told himself to end them were indeed all his fault. It rightly was. But he couldn't find it within him to be mad. Furious, misled, upset, yes. But mad, never; Vergil's blunt integrity and his natural knack as a browbeating bastard was what caught his eye in the first place, so being mad would negate the sole motive of him ever wanting something this complicated. The elaborate lie wasn't going anywhere but he was, unable to bear the sight of the identical pale deities. "I'm going for a walk."
Nero's mind was made, and unknown to Dante was Vergil's innate reaction to stop him mid motion of standing up, holding fast onto his thighs pending adequate logic. "Why?"
"It's starting to hit and I don't want to be around either of you."
He tried again; failure. Combining that with the surprise on the twin's face was a recipe he'd never try again. "Do you truly mean that?"
"Yes. I'm wasting my time here. Or should I say I'm wasting yours."
The younger had under no circumstances seen him so angry in all his time in their custody. "Then I can't stop you," he said, giving him the freedom he sounded desperate for, a daring and indefatigable glare shooting at him the phrases he wished he knew to say; Vergil was admirable in admitting defeat but would still go out with one helluva bang with his rich vacancy and hard-learned passion to gain control of the situation, and Dante couldn't do it. The younger's gaze fell incapable of glimpsing the hurt that wasn't anyone's fault, recalling that same look in Lars' eyes when he refused to give him his absence and condemning what seemed to be an outlandish request to suite his own want of a longer reconciliation. He turned the switch on his left to zero, feeling the heat drop instantaneously to retreat from another stab to the chest; the daze of too many things clouded his view as he looked to the boy once more, and in a flash of lighting his back was pushed against the cooling rim of the tub with Nero's full weight over him, holding onto the bath at either side of his head: the pair acted on impulse, digging deep to set aside their difference of a few minutes' opinion to bask in the glory that was their chemistry one last time, falling knee-deep into one another's psyche with the need to remain under the flood of spontaneity and lust; wild and controlled, the enigmatic pair caused monstrous irregular surges of the water to move from side to side, catering for the incomparable must that was the supposed last of its kind; the man on top struggled with his grip as the twin melted every part of him, burrowing his fingers down the length of his back under the fitted material; they both moaned, hungrily, untamed into one another's mouths and cursed the necessity of oxygen in their indelicate routine. They slowed their tempo for their own sakes – Vergil smoothed over his partner's back and hooked his index fingers into his elastic waistband, pushing the bottom half of his body away from his growing greed. To call that satisfying would be in bad taste and unjust to the actual word that should be used to describe it. "What was that for?"
Nero placed their foreheads together, out of breath with a newfound mettle he should have used a long time ago. "If that's our last kiss, I want you to remember it." The boy rose and kissed his forehead, tucking his damp hair out of the way to pucker on both his cheeks too; true Dante was in no mood for cuteness, twisting his head to catch the gesture of chastity between his teeth.
The steps down the corridor looked like stones chiselled out of a beige tiled mountain, dimly lit to supersede the welfare of his muscles after climbing the short ten step program to exhausting doom, underappreciating his talent for teleportation and knowing it would tire him more but with the benefit of being as far away from one of three of his critically acclaimed mortal enemies in close proximity. The Dante in him gave the flight a once-over in enervation, sighing to the small light above him and glaring death at the door veiling his ultimate freedom as he took the first step, placing both feet flat on the milestone with a flourishing curse under his breath. The other half wanted to do the same but remembered the red flag of blame flying in the wind atop six bold letters spelling out his name, putting on a tired yet brave pout for no one to see and log in a record book and coercing the twin in the driver's seat to take a double step to step number three, half-smiling at the rock-solid stupidity on display. He wished to cheat, he really did, but the piece of him resting in its sheathe grew irritated being used as a walking cane and as such completely unwilling to assist his master in any way. Numbers five – reached by another slower double step – six and seven were better, the burn less heady after a comprehensive pep talk to the lower section of his supposed immortal body. Small, soft footsteps took their time walking to the front door, fighting with strings of rubber and hard plastics presumably looking for a reason to be stopped. Vergil knew these steps and the feet that tentatively searched the room for anything out of place to delay the inevitable, giving any purpose to a miniscule duty to shorten the task he set out for himself. Nero did this when things of his own accord were in play, usually out of routine to cater a blip in his mindset to set his thinking back on its straight, dedicated, dug out path from the thick forest he occasionally wandered into as the weather altered to all four in less than twenty four hours, the thicket too risky owing to its blinding, misty nature and needing a push to get him back on track. The silence of unmoving propelled Vergil in two steps to the top, basking in the light at the end of the short tunnel and coming face to face with a snuggly version of the human – fuzzy scarf and matching beanie with a bobble, a hoodie and ugg boots with his skinnies tucked in – and a pair of headphones blasting rock opera staring to the field on the other side of the road with his hands stuffed into his pockets; a flash of pure demon singed the corner of his eye, turning his head to the slowness of the tempo to the radiating ball of charming toxicity trying on metaphorical slippers to sate his fuming high of vigorous… whatever it was. Nero proffered a sad smile as he pulled the speakers to his neck when the twin approached, completely unfazed by the danger reeling on the edge of the abyss on his furrowed brows. "The air seems fresher today."
Dante nodded, looking to the same image and not seeing any calm in the blistering wind swaying the trees out of their happy places. He knew the code, puffing his cheeks full of air with his shirtless stature inflating with each breath. "Be back in time for dinner. We'll wait for you."
"You don't have to-"
"Yes we do," he said, honouring the only rule in the house he liked. "Go on; enjoy the last bits of sunset." He punched the poofed shoulder, gliding to the kitchen before attempting his second pitfall, grabbing two waters from the fridge. "And don't get into trouble. Dante isn't street smart as he is Sesame Street smart."
That earned a breathy hint of a giggle. "Made funnier by the third person stint." True Vergil stopped mid sip; Nero's solid frame shook with a chuckle as he left for his walk; there was another heartier laugh following him down his bedroom stairs, where a raised eyebrow pointed to its place of origin and sheer disgust at the only route to get there.
Vergil walked into the tepid room and ignored the clear liquid fighting for a chance to get between his toes, handing a cold bottle to the dehydrated twin splashing around like a new-born elephant. "I said I was on standby." Dante thankfully grabbed the beverage, spinning the top and letting it float to wherever it saw fit. He sat at the seat by his brother's head. "Why couldn't you tell him the truth?"
The twins drank in sync. "Because I don't know what the truth is." The real problem now would be to allow that truth to simmer into concentrated oxygen and get accustomed to his newfound vulnerability in front of the tiny hand-held spotlight his kin would be shining at the wonder of such a reveal. It was a huge step he'd grown comfortable with in discreet, and the time for it to be shared in a warm nature gave him the creeps. The good creeps; the creeps of visiting an uncle you haven't seen in years and finding out he's rich; the creeps of going into a haunted house and locating a packet of old but not expired popcorn kernels. All of that silver lining on the other side of a hellish confession that he may or may not get the chance to eventually smell the freshly cut grass that was the aftereffect of Vergil's thinking mechanics gone overdrive. He couldn't tell what went down in the exact spot he sat, praying it was better than their previous heated encounter. "He'll come around, brother; he knows how you feel even if you don't."
Everyone did, and no one bothered telling him. "I'm not going to ask why the floor is wet."
The insurmountable glaze of smug suited Dante fairly well, chugging half the bottle in one go. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, man."
And so rang the alarm bells in his concurrent blanking brain, shifting to another angle of his own face and touching the tender bruising on his skin; the discolouration where the true force of his anger hit was already healing, judging by the smile on display, but one feature stood prominent over the purplish-yellow, intrinsically giving away his notions on the upcoming torment. "Your lips are swollen."
"Yes they are."
Dante chewed on invisible bubblegum as the water from Vergil's bottle was dumped on his head, slowly and carefully seeping into his scalp and onto his face after he'd done so well to not get his hair wet the entire time.
His favourite park bench was empty considering the confused sun beating down with the feral wind churning healthy leaves from their mother trees, falling miserably with their pliable stems to the ground and crinkling freshly under his boots as he plonked onto the concrete seat, stiffly relaxing on jagged stone that paid him no mind. The headphones were no match for the wind speed, pinning down his head gear with gentle vocals accompanied by a thrashing orchestra and multitudes of static that blocked his thoughts off perfectly, plainly observing the blue and deep orange sky as an open reflection of the thunderstorm he saw coming, influencing his trains of thought from mild gestures of grandeur to insane levels of detachment from reality so deep as not to notice the upper class police uniform level his weight on the bench. Nero's vision and breathing became muddled in attempting to calm his everything, squeezing his laced fingers so hard the tips turned an off-white, seemingly unknowing the affliction and danger of his body operating on autopilot while consequently falling deeper into a bottomless hole with taunting handholds and no grip, glowing in slippery glory and growing plentiful the deeper he fell and making the conscious choice to keep falling in weightlessness without a care in the world, his imagined mind as vacant as the space around him highly reminiscent of the situation induced by Vergil's trusted battled companion but far more depressive in shrouding darkness opposed to the knowledge of oncoming clusters of sadness with a certain route back to living, breathing reality. A gentle hand tapped his shoulder waking him from his spiral back into the obscurity he had only ever transgressed once before, blowing hot air in a deep exhale with mist fogging his teary gaze for the second it took for a small warm squeeze to reach his stout frame, looking to his lap in defeat and slumping forward in disappointment. "Jerky?" It was such an odd to hit the wall of his conscience, flying over his head and straight into the bushes that surrounded the park. "Would you like some jerky, sir?"
The officialness shocked his spine scared, straightening for the uniform to properly offer the snack. "I'm good, thank you officer."
"It'll help with the overthinking."
That sad smile was back. "Is it that obvious?"
The detective shook the bag for him to take his portion quickly. "It's my job to pick those things out. Now, eat up; I only have so much time to cheer you up and get you home safely."
The throb in his head batted its eyelids in Morse code, ignoring the nag at his brain to look up owing to the cold bite on his eyelids. "What's the time limit?"
The officer tweaked his neck to the setting star, picking on the slight nuance of panic at the mention of the inimical concept and wasting the moments of clarity he came for, now more hopeful with company. "When the sun goes down." His voice was husky and reassuringly familiar, melting the iced barrier of status with a dried out meaty shove of chilli into a limp grasp, meekly accepting the snack; Nero took a hefty piece from the bottom of the brown bag and chewed noisily, tasting nothing but the satisfaction of giving his mind something else to focus on other than obsessing over the numerous things beyond his control owing to the stubborn factors in both instances: the first – himself – stupidly thinking he should tolerate and influence to the devastating flood washing through his entirety; the second – Vergil – resolute in every way other than the answers he sought, wishing for definitive comprehension on the decision of formally misusing his feelings or the beginning of something on the deepest end of the prospect pool that would rival his ultimate goal. Telling the truth only got you so far if you were staring at a blank, unyielding wall keeping him from moving forward in sound mind and body without the burden of ingenuous necessity. Crinkling plastic was pulled back in hungry retaliation of the bite of the century, seeing the outline of the strongest jawline make mincemeat of a sandwich half the size of his face. The sun hid most of the action, but living with two hybrids who ate triple their body weight three times a day, he knew a bite when he heard one, crunching under two… perfect… sets of teeth… wait… "You wanna talk about it?"
By habit, he took guesses of the ingredients used to make it, building the foodstuff in his head until a familiar picture formed. No, it couldn't be. "Don't take this the wrong way, but it's not worth your time, officer." The boy felt the melancholy crumby smile on his left shoulder. "I'm looking for things I know aren't there, BUT I get upset when I can't find them. That's it."
"And a tiny fairy just flew by and told me there's something else in those fresh cobwebs upstairs." Confiding in the stranger was easier than the two people he had a connection to. "From experience, it's never one thing. It's a mix of similar things that mingle and become one to double the effects or consequences of what you're feeling, or you're attaching the wrong emotion to the wrong thing making you think you feel the same for both, later realising your mistake and you get confused all over again because you wanted to rush working through it properly and the shortcut comes back to bite you." He took a smaller bite this time, folding the plastic over and shoving it into what sounded like a backpack next to him. "Men do that sometimes, and I'm going on a whim to say one of those forces involves a man or woman messing with that muscle behind your sternum."
Nero snickered, nearly choking while swallowing his fourth piece of jerky ignoring his manners and logic to extend the curtesy to look the detective right in the face. "That's the one."
He groaned, finally making progress. "Then I'm out. I've been in love too long to offer any advice for you youngens."
He toyed with another spicy piece and returned it back to the bag, suddenly feeling nauseous at having a conversation about the subject matter that wasn't in his head with the rest of his instincts. "Anything is appreciated."
The detective hated the look on Nero's face, but the ethereal glow on his melanin changed the atmosphere entirely, maintaining attention away from any part that seemed to internally burst into tears. "So it's a 'dear Cupid, hit us both next time' kinda deal, huh?"
He watched Nero nod slowly and drop his gaze to his favourite tuft of grass at his feet. "Cupid got both of us, but the idiot hides the arrow as evidence."
The uniform lounged on his half of the bench, breathing in the smell of the earlier downpour. "What do you want to hear, son? Would you like me tell you it's as easy as a yes or no, that you can throw away the time and effort you've invested simply because he can't man up and tell you what you want to know? Do you want the easy way of finally knowing what's going on in that head of his, stagnant and happy to hear him say what you've been waiting for but to what end? Things like these are far from easy, but that isn't an excuse to give up. I'm not saying persistence is key, but if you both know what he's feeling, what exactly is it that's keeping him from admitting it?" His way with words wouldn't give away they were tailored for Vergil. "In the end, we all want someone who chooses us. Over everyone else, under any circumstance. You have chosen each other, end of story. It really doesn't matter whether or not you have his permission to say you are his or he is yours, it's there; if people can see it without you saying a word, isn't that a precious feeling in itself?" Nero didn't catch him stare into the distance, smiling in the direction of his favoured devil-hunting establishment. "Someone once told me that everything you want is on the other side of fear; it comes in different shapes and sizes, but the most prominent one is the figure that stares back when looking in a mirror. That only recently made sense to me, and I'm ancient." That someone was Dante. "You lose nothing but the chances you don't take." He knew the older twin too well to lie to the boy, and as his brother had already pointed out, Vergil was the most patient thing on three legs; the detail lied in Nero's fragile hands, having already tossed the coin and making the mistake of waiting for the one aspect that would push his chosen side to the top. But what was he actually waiting for? As his overthinking topped a new high, the man in uniform flicked him against his forehead and poked him in the neck, two series of pain that should keep him occupied in the minute or so he would be gone. "And there's more to my speech, but there's one thing stronger than the sound of love – the siren of an ice cream truck. You can forget everything I just said if you remember this one fact of life." He rushed to the middle of the road and Nero wobbled slightly at the loss of counterweight, bringing his eyes to the other half of the bench that wracked his brain. He needed one more dot that stared him in the face – or rather his nose – to connect the peculiar instance of surprising convenience he had found himself in; the cogs moved, but to what end? The answer was at the tip of his tongue, somehow finding himself leaning into the scent he left as his new acquaintance balanced two double caramel fudge bombs – a fancy name for a vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone dipped in caramel and lodged cubes of fudge spread across its height – and handed one over. Nero gaped in wonder at the rumours he'd heard of the beast before him, never having bought one forsaking the pride of his stomach for quantity over quality. The eight inches of ice cream successfully diffused his argument, fizzing away with the luxurious memory replacing it. "I hope it's okay I bought a double; force of habit. Yes, as I was saying-" they both took a huge bite off the top, both sighing in tandem, tilting their heads in sugary euphoria, "-there's nothing wrong with being selfish with what you want. The feeling isn't going to go away, sir; grab him by his horns until he's tired of denying it, because when he does, everything gets easier, and when he realises that, he'll kick himself in the shin for holding back. Secretly, of course – he can't let you now he hates himself for it."
He'd secretly love that too. "Nero," he said, breaking off pieces of the hardened caramel after scooping out its innards with his tongue.
He turned to face the boy. "That's your name?"
"That's what people call me." The sun had set behind a massive three-story like his own, the colourful sky preparing the darkened blankets to start their shift on the other side of the planet. Nero turned his head to the last spot he saw the peeking sun and its crazy breeze that too died down significantly, leaving nothing but a cool walk to his home under the stars too eager to start their blinking glory. The form in black sat snuggly in the corner of his eye contently minding his own business while digging his gorgeous face in the candied monstrosity, moving his mane of pitch black to his other shoulder to undo the knotty damage done by the wind. "Thanks very much for this, officer."
He nodded cutely. "I can't enjoy sugar by myself. So lonely."
Where had he heard that before? "My dad says the same thing. He doesn't say it, he lives it, but I'm sure he's thinking exactly that."
The detective cleared his throat, taking another bite to ease the burning lump that had grown out of nowhere. "Your dad must be an amazing man."
The boy blushed, taking the worst moment to look directly at him. "Amazing doesn't cut it when it comes to him."
He brimmed with heart-breaking pride at the spoken words, noting the sky in a deep shade of blue and the hooligans that came along with it. "Do you need me to escort you home? Not you, but the ice cream."
And that split second of his beaming smile pulled Nero in, mentally slapping himself back to reality after being sucked deep into those piercing green eyes. A feeling of sorts bubbled with the dairy and burnt glucose, freezing into a solid shape and shooting up his spine to the base of his neck and dissolving with the liquid surrounding his lively grey matter seeping into every available crevice to be deciphered. He couldn't help but melt like butter under the bigger man's scrutiny, trailing every god-like angle of his features for a clue of any kind. "I… I don't live too far from here. I'll… manage."
They stared one another down like their lives depended on it with the detective breaking it to uphold his position as protector of the city. He would do it all night until the boy remembered, but that went against his promise to the twins; on the other hand he may have already shot himself in the foot, given the changing blank stare on the opposite end of the bench. Handsome, it was; his inner demon purring with possibility. "Go well, Nero. You have my number if you need me." The detective stood much to Nero's dislike, licking his treat as he walked to a predetermined direction raking through his hair that flowed down his broad back, sparing enough time for Nero to do a double take at the familiarity of the scene; his eyes bulged in vague recognition just as a drop of ice cream dripped into his grip and he followed the knee-jerk reaction, looking down quickly and back to an empty park with no trace of his new friend whatsoever. Had he made a mistake? Did he ignore a key element on account of his conceit? Was he too, as Hanson phrased it, from his past l-
HANSON! THOSE EYES BELONGED TO HANSON!
He swivelled his view back to where the detective was last seen.
He didn't give him his name.
He didn't need to.
Their eyes met once more as Lars stared back under the ploy of invisibility, standing dead still until his best friend made the move for home, unable to say a word as tears formed in his eyes at the missed opportunity to reconcile the fragments of his memory, two lonely streaks forming a single droplet on his chin. Lars stepped forward and stopped, freezing again in his icy blues that pleaded for another sound – anything – to see him again.
When nothing came, two more followed; he walked with his head low to the main street connecting his home, eating his cone.
Lars had never been more ashamed in his entire life; he grabbed his phone out of his pocket and began texting immediately.
The brothers were shuffling in the kitchen in their short pyjamas for the tinge of warm in the air – there was none – getting things ready for dinner and drinking their sixth neat serving of bourbon rocking to their own rhythm while trying to balance cutlery and resting steaks in an expertly sober repertoire. True Dante put the finishing touches on the components, stirring the bubbling sauce to keep it from coagulating. He switched the heat off and looked to his sibling, sipping on the brown burn while mentally fighting the direction in which his brother placed the two sets of knives, laughing at the picture of a madman frustrated at metallic inanimate objects lying in shiny humility – what else could they do – unable to fight back. The elder took a deep sip and spilt a drop along his bottom lip, instinctively running his tongue on the wetness and biting it in its entirety while strolling to the kitchen for a refill, taking the last few drops of his brother's glass for the same ride. "Would you relax, brother? It's just a text. He can look after himself."
"I know, and I'm not worried." He leaned on the counter facing the rack of exotic spirits they seldom drowned in but fitting for the evening ahead; the message from Lars sent them in a superfluous tizzy of sorts, putting their senses on high alert for anything out of the ordinary on their demonic radar. But in the meantime, all they could do was wait and numb the worry that came with seven measly words. LET ME KNOW IF HE GETS HOME. If, not when. The meaning changed with one word; certainty altered to possibility, and neither twin enjoyed the grey area between a yes and a no. Vergil was surprisingly calm in his trust of Nero, or he hid his anxiety brilliantly. "I'm hungry, that's all."
The pouring twin replaced the cap on the now empty bottle and crossed the space to the bigger refuse bin, walking back to the shelf after dropping it to the bottom of the rubber container. "You're hungry when you're nervous."
"That's not an argument; I'm hungry all the time."
Dante's body stretched to the highest shelf and pulled out the prettiest bottle. "Fine; you drink when you're antsy."
"I drink so you don't seem like an alcoholic."
Vergil set the bottle down without negating the falsehood on account of his broody stance over his tumbler. "Remind me of the last time you heard a great story starting with someone eating a salad."
"Says the only person who eats salad in this house." It sounded better in his head, falling flat onto the tiled kitchen floor as he took the new bottle and unscrewed the tight cap, breaking the seal with the littlest of effort and drank straight from it, going smooth as silk down his velvet throat and chunky Adam's apple bobbing with the heavenly motions of consumption. The glass neck returned to sight pulling a happy face compared to the grimace and coughs behind it, wiping his mouth for any excess with the back of his hand and sticking his tongue out for the rest of the burn to be cooled by a chill nowhere to be found. "This is really good."
Of course it was; it set Vergil back a little over two thousand dollars. He attempted a sly smile, turning sexy watching the bottle levitate its contents into his body. He effortlessly made Dante irresistible with the tiniest of quirks, his intense blues glaring at the hilarious audacity pulled by the contrast of the body he inhabited. "You're horrible."
He grabbed the mini investment from the shaking hands. "I've been telling you that for years."
The elder twin poured them each a copious glass, closing the cap tightly well in view of the younger, daring him to touch the drink without consent with a glare that could make sheep crap silk. Saved by three knocks at the door, Dante went for his quota and retreated to the corner, hiding a loose grin behind two-handed grip. "That's him," said true Vergil, instantly vigilant at the curt, quiet knocking on his own door. The risk of stumbling into Vergil casually biding his time in the lounge by barging in was too great, so the timed raps to the oak could mean two things: he was either in trouble or wanted the preferred definite of Dante opening the door and his brother's attention in a book or magazine for a few second window before he lifted in incommodious curiosity. The latter seemed more fitting, taking a quick savouring swig of the eighty percent impression on his already thumped awareness as he left the kitchen. "Try and be civil."
Two eyebrows shot up in its six foot four glory. "I'm always civil-"
"I'm talking to me. Inside you."
He could smell the lip bite next to the blue cheese. "After dinner, Vergil. Maybe when Nero falls asleep."
Was he expecting another reply? "If you think Nero will let you out of his sight, you're drunk." Dante's body crossed the room quickly and went for the handle, looking over his shoulder at the muscled back squirming at the obscene strength of the noble liquid. The elder opened it slightly, obeying his hunch of not wanting to face Vergil just yet. It really was a pity. His face peeked through the gap as Nero faced the open field glowing by full moonlight and amplified by the afternoon drops of rain clinging for dear life on the crisp blades of grass. "Hey-" he followed protocol getting his attention, and he wished he didn't; the boy had been crying, that much was certain, showing only half of his face to the twin as he turned and beckoned him to a cold spot on the porch to his left as if cracking a stubborn bone in his neck. He closed the door and his bare feet took him next to Nero's side, abiding pure reflex with a comforting hand on his lower back. "What's going on?"
His demon purred in anticipation of danger around both corners with a peculiar glaze over his intense blues; he had the worst feeling overcome his sensual calm, chilling his spine to the bone as he noted every inch of the boy's face littered in grief with an eerie draft as the perfect backdrop for trouble – the twin's famous cerulean went dead as a doornail, running down the steps and searching down the deserted road for sharp headlights, deafening exhausts, a mob carrying lead piping laced with tetanus, anything to clarify the explanation he wasn't planning on asking for. The hairs on the back of Nero's neck stood straight up as Dante readied for the kill at every angle, flexing his fingers behind him for the familiar blue dust sparkling out of thin air. "It isn't like that-"
"Then tell me in plain English why you look as though your world just plummeted into dead space and the colour in your face just decided to fuck off."
His voice was husky, deep, dark, two-toned whisper soaked in dauntingly irresistible power and looking ahead at the pleasantries of the clear night's sky while a soft hand encircled his arm. "Something happened in the park-"
"WHAT?" True Vergil's sternness shook them both, echoing down both ends of the street; a quick glance to his arm at the melancholy replacing the sparkling, lively, fierceness that he was used to seeing capped the blast at its peak, pulling his usual sternness unlike his brother in every way. Nero avoided the gaze altogether, clamping onto the twin's arm to calm them both. "Forgive me – what happened in the park?"
Dante's observant brutality didn't die down, turning his head in the opposite direction for any unsavouries lurking owing to his mistaken riled scent. "I think I may have met someone."
He stayed silent for a few ticks, waiting for the punchline. "I need a bit more than that, champ-"
"From those memories." The 'those' made them seem so detached, so foreign, as if they weren't his own but merely sucked through his fingertips and vague recollections that were similar to his actual childhood, the dissociation an unexplored coping mechanism fitting into the category of last resorts for the younger man who up to this point was the strongest person the twins knew. He wasn't at his worst – not even close – but this was the closest he'd be to that moment, feigning indifference for the seesawing time bomb that would surely never explode in front of him unless called upon to do so. He squeezed his pillar of strength wanting his attention, locking intense with serene azure, unable to pull away from the half-hearted smile that disappeared the more the memories clicked into place. "The police officer. He got a helluva promotion."
It was such an understatement it was almost hilarious. "He's a detective."
The assumption of stress didn't fit the bulked, toned frame of the stranger. Could he call him a stranger? "I think it was him." Nero cleverly steered Dante back to their front door under the safety of the porch and not in the big wide open where a solitary tree was a target. "Something with an L… and that's a face you don't forget. The irony."
Dante took his arm back, calmer that there was no apparent danger and equally bleh at the point of Nero being able to take care of himself. 'What the hell was that', he asked himself, overcome by logic and reality of his unnecessary actions, and how silly of him to hope the boy didn't notice. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing. I didn't even look at him."
The willpower was strong on this one; he wasn't attracted to the man but he'd gotten a few double takes out of the older hybrid simply because. "You feel bad for not looking at him?"
"And not recognising him sooner, not asking any questions, not telling him the things I wanted to say that only came to mind on the way home, not spending more time with him or making the effort to have a proper conversation, not even taking time to get to know him although it would barely scrape the surface of questions I have…" Nero snuck under his sleeve and scratched his forearm, his tell that he was obscenely uncomfortable with having no control over his situation. It sounded familiar. "And I won't see him again."
Like Dante would let that happen. His brother needed only a tiny nudge to spill the beans, especially when it came to Lars. "He's in the force. I'm sure you'll cross paths." True Vergil put his huge hands on either shoulder, rubbing the tensed muscles at his neck; the human moved with the gesture, grabbing both his wrists as a noiseless thanks to making him feel better. Why couldn't he have this with him? Oh right, he was an obdurate jackass who pushed him away in foolish rationality. There was always method to his madness, but if the method was known only to him what was the point in his reticence? "This isn't anything to get upset over, Nero."
"I know that," he said, blushing slightly at asking the next question. "I was hoping you could tell me about him."
Last nail in the coffin. 'You aren't going to tell me, are you,' he screamed in his head; an added tilt to his head softened the air significantly, seeking something small – anything – to not mix up his boundaries and go back to how he was; he hated nothing more than missed opportunities, and because this was his fault he felt obliged by invisible courage to do all he could to make up for it. The pleading smile sunk as he focussed on a blank spot on the floor, watching the past hour flow by in slow motion, counting in his head; he got to five and his mood sank to thirty two degrees Fahrenheit. "Why don't you come inside and have dinner? It's your favourite."
Six. "I don't have much of an appetite." Seven.
"Then you can watch us eat until you're annoyed." Eight… Nine. Dante took half a step forward and blocked his line of sight interrupting the boy's steps back to his dark place. Although void of light, it was comfortable to sit in a corner of your mind with nothing but nothing; a space where disappointment and triumph stood on equal footing and therefore cancelled each other out – the plot holes in his storyline began to form when, every time, he proved himself better, climbing out of the vacuum set to the weakest level and propelled him into a mindset of satisfaction and appreciation for the occasional flecks of abysmal chucked in his face. And such was the case, drifting back and forth conscious he was meant to feel something yet knowing it didn't matter; it was all a matter of opinion and the repercussions was how he chose to deal with them, not dictated by the recognised channels of everyday life. That thought alone shot his evening out the window, smiling to himself that he could daydream on the only worry in his mind for the time being. Its reign in his mind wasn't over, but reminding himself that all of those things led to the things he has now didn't make it seem bad; it was horrible, yes, but it only proved that he had been strong before he knew the meaning or how to pronounce it. The black figure stepped closer, playing with the hair tucked behind his ears and peeping out of his beanie and curling under the woolly auburn headpiece; Vergil wasn't used to this Nero, and the course of action dictated itself when he was too close, encased in the intoxicating scent of contentment he'd solely breathed when they made love – without the inebriating sweat of their corrupted bodies, naturally. The smaller man giggled as he continued to entertain the lonely hairs on his neck, the melodic sound moving his hands to his upper arms. "Please just come inside."
The soft smoothness of his voice hit an inappropriate place. He almost felt bad. "Vergil can't see me like this-"
"He doesn't give a shit." As his brother had said previously, once his mind was made, it would take Haley's Comet to fly through the sky before there was a possibility of him changing it. "But if that's what you want..." The contact ceased, dragging his fingers along the remainder of both limbs and talking with his back to Nero. "Vergil knows him better than I do; when you're ready, why don't you ask him?"
Dante sounded annoyed walking through the door without looking back. Jackpot.
True Dante waited for the clear of the two figures safely tucked outside before jumping the counter with one hand, spilling none of the liquid who's one-centimetre-radius drop cost more than a single item in his wardrobe to grab his cell on the dining room table; he reread the text from Lars and despised the inborn reflex to type a reply and set his mind at ease when all he did was merit a cheese string of profanity from the depths of Nero's trademark filth. He took a sip to clear his head and placed the Glencairn at his setting on the table, positioning his back to the open window standing behind his seat. He chose to rather sit down before engaging in mental battle with the unarmed – a little chuckle escaping his swollen lips at the scarily sharp wit of his other half – plonking in his proper place and unlocking his phone, greeted by three smiling faces that miraculously changed his entire mood. It was the only portrait in existence to have a heart-wrenching authentic smile on Vergil's face, too proud and in the moment to give Nero the brief lapse in stature, immortalised on Dante's phone screen and the other two devices in their shared home.
'You will give him anything he asks for,' he remembered saying, walking on the wide open field next to the school hall as the ceremony closed; at the student's exit stood a crowd of female graduates patient to get a photo with their delicious Valedictorian while he looked across the field for the identical faces that had the same flurry of proud moms behind them, sneaking in from every angle at the pair of specialist crime fighters who were well-known recluses apart from their job, the end of the month, and occasions like these. 'I will pay for your therapy.'
Nero caught Vergil's eye and he waved, receiving a salute from both of them in return and simultaneous. 'I know how to be decent, Dante.'
'I'm not asking you that. You helped raise him. Act like it for once.' That was true, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that the younger had taken the lead at the best and worst of times owing to his stronger sense of humanity than the blunt counterpart. 'This is a huge moment for him.'
Vergil heard the squeals from the women who had mastered the art of the selfie, picking out their favourite as their new profile picture on their social media. 'I know it is. But you weren't this excited when I got my masters-'
'This is high school, not university. You didn't go to your graduation, so I'm certain you weren't either.' He punched his brother in the shoulder. 'And you had three of them; I learned by the second one.'
Vergil was only pulling his leg; he loathed the attention and the nonsensical bowing while someone of a higher academic standard hit you over the head with a hat they undoubtedly hadn't washed in years, handing over a rolled-up piece of paper that he wished made sense in his line of work. It came in handy, but only after the boy had graced their doorstep. 'Don't worry, brother. All I have to do is tell him the easiest part of life is now officially done.'
The older hybrid saw the crowd disperse some more and Nero was in his sights, eager to get his last day of high school over and done with. 'We can't even have champagne to celebrate.'
'You can have all you want; I said I wasn't going to. He asked to watch movies tonight and I don't want to be in a mood.'
A bad mood as a result of Dante's choice of variation or a good mood as the normal effect of the liquor? Neither was clear with the deadpan delivery. 'No thanks; you have the same taste and I like my movies like I like my foreplay – to be seen over the damn blanket.'
Good for him – it sounded like it was going to be a serial killer clown movie anyway. 'Suit yourself.'
The long strides on the fresh grass caught their interest as a flailing black gown fluttered in their direction; Nero ran at full speed and crossed the expanse in seconds, the shiny gold medal knocking the wind out of his chest with each step but he didn't care; his youthful smile stretched from ear to ear, becoming more striking the more he closed the gap. 'Hiiieeeee-' and the mothers behind them joined in adorable force with a collective 'awwwwwwwwwww' when Dante scooped him in his arms and spun with the momentum of his strong legs, squeezing his frame tightly in case he went flying under strain of underestimation of his strength. He didn't count the embrace as a factor, and the air left over from his dash had left his soul. 'Where did that come from?'
The high pitched voices went quiet after an unintentional half smirk from Vergil. 'I told you I was going to embarrass you.'
'Would have helped if you didn't look as good.'
Dante attacked the achievement around his neck. The principal had introduced him as the youngest Valedictorian in the school's history and obtaining the highest overall aggregate in the school; 99.6% was his average score on his seven picked subjects. Numbers didn't matter, but damn if he'd let that figure disappear from Nero's mind. 'Fancy.'
'Real,' he said, knocking the gold against his teeth as the explicit way to tell it was pure, 'and my name is engraved over here.' He gestured to the tiny strips of bronze along the strap around his neck emblazed in the names of his predecessors, pointing to the very last one right above the medal. 'I have to give this back when we're done with the photos, but I get a mini version. It looks nothing like this one, but my name and year is stitched in the material.'
'Okay then; let's take a good one,' he said, moving into Nero's left and squishing in to capture the moment; both of them got into a pose and left Vergil to do the picture-taking, handing his phone to his brother to stomach the brunt of his husky moaning regarding better angles and blur to bring out the full effect of the two-dimensional keepsake. Vergil swapped the camera and gave Dante an indecorous expression, a frozen slap to his face thawed through with two beaming smiles mocking him. 'That means you have to smile, Vergil.'
Nero faked surprise. 'Oh no – is it a blue moon?'
Dante licked his index finger and lifted it to the air, measuring the direction of the wind like he was destined for the next shot to be a hole in one. 'Apocalypse. You're a bit off.'
The other two knew he loathed the concept but it was too fun to stop. 'Please, do carry on. I can be angry all day.'
The older twin did his one job for the day, setting himself up for a cute disaster as he wrapped his arm around Nero's lower back. 'You can't,' said the human, snuggling into his side and pulling Dante into the portrait orientation; the phone sounded the momentary snap, securing the catalyst for death of humanity into the younger twin's phone memory named by its exact timestamp and upon meticulous approval, the thumb's up brought more relief than he'd imagine. He handed the device over and followed through with unlocking his own, taking one with neither of them prepared but smiling nonetheless, locking it quickly and setting it in his trouser pocket to an unhappy younger sibling who complained to his wits end to delete it, silenced by the same narrowed mien that stopped the female version of Death in her tracks.
He later remembered a bad angle didn't exist and gave up trying to see it until Nero had secretly sent the multimedia text from Vergil's phone a few weeks later. Dante tapped his gallery icon and went to the second photo, zooming in on the single piece of detail that he had previously disregarded as a stroke of luck: Nero's smile – a full toothy grin looking not anywhere close to the lens but at his brother's face doing an unusual yet distinguished trillion-dollar-half-smirk-face-crunch-raised-eyebrow thing rarer than a drowning fish; the boy's eyes sparkled like an entire galaxy woken from a routine slumber, smiling at the unbelievable creature in a playful mood as if he were the core of his universe, the epicentre of the earthquake that would wrack his stable mentality and flip it inside out. That look was genuine passion and fascination, and in that moment his graduation and everything else going on in his mind took a back seat to Vergil's captivating aura.
The split second of chemistry that began the snowball to now, bigger, deadlier, softer, and malevolent as he would expect. It was still too early for Nero to realise it, but this first definitive twinkling of emotion caught on record was the gateway to something dangerous and new, an inexplicable knee-jerk to his true unvoiced feelings for the hybrid that none of them saw coming. Knowing Nero now, he probably sent the message on purpose in the hopes that he'd read between the lines, but all he saw was source material for possible blackmail at the touch of a button – a few taps across a screen, actually – with a repeated action to send it to his mother where the distribution channels feasted like flies on a Sunday roast. Were there earthly pleasures more satisfying than terrorising your older brother?
True Dante chuckled at the plain reality in front of him, clicking from his gallery to his messenger and began texting. Nero's home. Word it better next time.
Lars was typing. He's in a state; you can be mad at me later.
The hybrid sniffed the air – all was under control outside, but he didn't need to know that. Lars Astaroth Nygård, what did you do?
It took a few seconds before the reply came, retyping his wording a dozen times. He was on my bench. I didn't know what to do.
And I guess Hanson didn't tell you we gave his memories back?
Dante could hear the fumes that may or may not have escaped his ears. I think he tried to, but I ran out of that house with half of his sandwich.
He's not having a great day to begin with, but we'll handle it... He wanted to say more, but the rundown wasn't important. The last thing you need is stress so don't worry.
Putting his mind at ease was far more difficult than in person, given the state he was in when they left his apartment. His phone dinged in his hand. Did something happen between him and Vergil?
So that caught his attention? Me or actual Vergil? That should have woken him up. Because yes.
Lars was mid reply when his own body sauntered through the front door, leaving the three fading dots to flicker to black setting the blank screen face down on the huge table; the younger twin propped his head on his palm, scratching a nervous itch on his left cheek while watching his twin take the seat next to him. "How is he?"
Vergil sighed deeply. "Count to sixty." It's a miracle he made no joke about his sibling's ability to count to the big number. "Were you texting the great almighty?"
He bowed meekly, sitting against the backrest and raking his hand through his hair, no one more surprised than true Vergil at the copycat action. To top it off, Nero wasn't here to see his utter dedication at deception. "I need more time in this body to handle his mood swings."
The humour was on point too. "You have got to be kidding me; one more smile and I will personally request Lucy to punch me back to old Vergil." He was lying – his arms were stronger than concrete and anyone wanting that for personal reasons was either insane already or would after one round with the purest personification of evil in existence. "No questions, okay? They're gonna burn in your chest, but I urge you to resist the need to be me for a couple of hours."
True Dante smirked, planted his palms on the table and stood, walking and leaning against the closest part of the counter that spanned the perimeter of the kitchen. "I wanna eat. I'll be too busy stuffing your face to think properl-"
"Why will you be stuffing his face? Is that a twin thing?"
Nero did a bad job trying to sneak in with four precious blue eyes glued to his face before he stepped through the door, turning around to bolt the door while four circles burned through the double layers that wind couldn't get through. Dante took the lead and stood from his chair too, pulling a caring smile his brother didn't know he learned to do. "Hungry?"
The boy nodded coyly, knowing they were waiting for him. "A little."
The ice cream did nothing to his appetite. "I'll be right back," said Dante, walking with humungous strides to the pantry and boxing himself in with non-perishables and other shelved foodstuffs. The younger caught the hint but acted too late, watching Nero take short steps to stand next to him and plonk his arms on the marble countertop, keeping his line of sight forward while the boy indulged in the impeccable view that was his jawline.
"Don't look at me like that."
He was a good piece of meat as far as references went, and the plea flew over his head. He was the only one allowed to look at him as his mouth continued to water, needing to speak to drag his mind out of that specific corner of his brain. "You're not gonna ask anything?"
"Is there something in particular you want to say?" Vergil took one of the hands on the counter into his own, tenderly rubbing the back of his hand and knuckles with his thumb. The boy shook his head limply, enthralled by the contact from the twin. "Then I will wait until there is." He seemed to swoon the limb allured by the tug he felt toward the person attached to it, kissing the soft skin under his careful touch and relishing the light dusting of prickle up his wrist. The hybrid's form softened to an nth degree, looking deep into Nero's eyes and reading the same lines on the same page, straightening his posture in support for the smaller man to lie over his frame and stand on his tiptoes, hot breaths ghosting Vergil's succulent lips as he bent his forehead on the other. Cupping his face with a hair's width separating them, the twin dipped lower in a sweet lingering kiss, controlling its effects to remain on the surface of their embrace so as to not get out of hand while Dante was so close by; their cerulean orbs glazed over in sugary lust, pulling apart in a flurry of hurried noisy smooches that felt too good to let the chance pass, keening in the back of their throats at how impossibly fast their circumstance escalated. The clanks within the pantry became louder and slower, and they guessed he was closer to what he was looking for; the twin looked back in telepathic appeal, moving from the human's face to his waist and crushing his breakable frame in anxiety for more, even a sliver of the intoxicating taste of his tongue as reprieve for his past blameless faults. Vergil held one arm tight at his waist while his other dug into his scalp, moving the silver strands behind his ear for more surface area to devour and gripping a cluster at his crown to commit the fulfilling sin, plunging tongue first into the younger man's mouth. The banging declaration of Dante's reappearance allowed for a few seconds to peel away in shaky breath, calming them to their normal operating level on household standard. The elder twin walked around the kitchen and set the array on condiments in the middle of the table, collecting the plates on their spots to dish up the first portion of dinner.
"Oh shit, the tabasco." The stacked plates at the edge took second priority as Dante ran back – quicker this time – with a small red bottle and a green top hidden in his monstrous grasp. "D-Catch!"
His timing was off; already airborne, the bottle floated to his hand in a perfect arch but the signal in his brain was a millisecond off course, deciding to swap hands for a better chance at catching the darn thing. By the time he could implement his genius, Nero dangled the red spiciness in front of him before setting it next to the wire prison holding the rest. Dante did a slow clap walking to the plates, hitting his hands in rhythm with his footsteps; a hearty giggle chased his solo performance, carefully grabbing the tower in a weak grip owing to his laughter. Vergil shot glowing blue daggers at his brother, mastering the narrowed gaze and squared jaw that froze the hearts of many. "Warn someone before you do that."
Nero licked the vinegary texture from his fingers, its signature burn hitting his tonsils simultaneously. "He did." He licked his thumb one heartbeat too long, teasing Vergil with the tip of his tongue tasting the bland digit on purpose; he floated to and took his seat, shuffling closer to the table while the younger twin found strength from his laughing fit to carry the dishes to the kitchen. The younger's judging eyes switched between the two, utterly incredulous and muddled at what just happened; the other two grasped the concept swiftly, twisting their faces to hold back a ticket to the express lane of hurt under Vergil's diabolically lethal expertise, staying true to avoid his gaze at all costs to keep from turning to stone and pulverised by a single snap of his fingers.
Their shared apartment was quiet when Lars stepped in, apart from the heavily muffled slashes and whips coming from Hanson's surround sound speaker system; button and trigger mashing and disgruntled moans hid behind a deep charcoal door and three layers of soundproofing foam kept the seizure-inducing blinking lights within its wanted confines. The incubus had no energy for a scuffle after what he'd left behind, filling in his official transfer back to his original precinct with heavy set shoulders and an upturned stomach, not having eaten anything decent in over seventy two hours and being too prideful to accept the quick fruit salad Hanson had made for him, stealing the sandwich from earlier and taking flight from the balcony while his brother grabbed a blanket from the spare room, throwing it over the plastic bowl for his dough to rise. He caught a glimpse of the big bullet-proof feathers and the laces of his combat boots in his take-off, striding to tidy the pot plants that always fell over when he ran with his tail between his legs; the shrinking form disappeared behind a bunch of clouds, patient for the last tip of the black veil to flip him off from afar.
His face clouded in guilt at the social dragonfly shutting himself out to everything but his myriad of consoles and the salty smell accompanying his multitude of losses in his single campaign playthrough. Lars looked deeper into the room, erasing the concrete walls and the thick oak door to an assortment of ramen flavour cups stacked on his nightstand – the dirty OCD bugger he was – and a party size of original Pringles sitting contently next to the handsome consumer worshipping every moment until he was stripped of its purpose, joining the noodled mountain to swap stories of their time spent with the demon, grateful for the higher vantage to watch the brooding mess froth at the mouth from uncertainty and recklessness, tunnelling his focus to the solitary cup making his rounds through the six available forests on offer. Hanson showed no interest in the game but carried on, his defeated aura looping through failure after failure until the right-pointing red arrow teased his ineptitude and endurance, glancing toward his wall clock too often and getting a treasured hit to his ceramic body. It was a good challenge to occupy his overactive brain in the two-hour delay of Lars coming home and eventually giving up, coldly turning off his electronic selection and getting into bed fully clothed ready to jump out and seem fine when Lars came home. His head hit the pillow and he shot up instantly, unknowingly locking the piercing green connection as he got out of bed and sneaked to his bedroom door with his back to the inside wall.
The man below made enough noise to sound his arrival home; noisily throwing his house keys in the bowl on the chest next to the flat screen; sighing as he took off his shoes, faking a struggle with the zipper; hanging his heavy black coat and gun holster on the coat rack; grunting out of his safety vest and accidentally plopping it on the floor, heaving to retrieve the dense piece of clothing. He took off his socks for added effect, dropping his shoulders to seem weighty on his feet looking like a huge toddler ready to throw a temper tantrum on his way to the kitchen. As was his ritual, Lars went for a fresh beer after regaining the feeling in his toes; midway to opening the waiting gush of cold, the upper and lower-case letter magnets were assembled in a message for him, utilising his creative skills in the most colourful way possible. It read:
I mAdE 4; u'1l Kn0w whCH !s yRS.
I made four. You'll know which is yours.
Oh, he couldn't wait; whenever Hanson chose to make individual servings, one was different each time – the shape, size, flags sticking out at the top, covered in a thin layer of his least favourite vegetable before getting to the slimy calories – that was undeniably his, reminiscent of a focal point during the day and putting him in a good mood to better digest his dinner, and the trick had yet to fail. Lars opened the refrigerator and at the very top sat four deep clay dishes in mahogany brown with a square of lunch wrap covering each, one very neatly tucked underneath the dish that he guessed was his; he plucked it from the shelf and set it on the island, reading a scribbled note sitting comfortably over the wrap: 'one eighty, ten minutes. You know what happened last time when you didn't listen to me.' If it weren't blatantly obvious it was his, the top crust was layered in grated Gouda and white cheddar with the word DICK written in chopped scallions on top of the cheese. The joke was on Hanson; scallions were his favourite.
Upstairs, Hanson waited for the smell of cherry cola; the sweet tautness mixed with the air when Lars was in a good mood, and his cooking never fell short in slicing his face in half at the worst of days. He heard the switch and timer of the oven, more discreet than his performance over the threshold, and he sleepily went to bed minus the foreboding streak of another night in an empty home. The younger would take clicks and clanks all night; its meaning surpassed the annoyance of waking at two the morning to the sounds of oversized cutlery digging into frozen yoghurt that he'd forget to replace, and they were galaxies apart in comparison. Hanson smiled, stripping to his underwear and climbing into his luxurious four-poster, beckoning the Primordial Morpheus to jiggle his magical bits over his eyes and bring him good rest now that his immediate world was restored-
-until he was forced to wake an hour into blending bloody Marys by a presence sharing his space, standing shy against the door and watching the serene sight next to his mess of convenience foods; Lars was still in his shirt, tie and slacks, moving to his preferred side of the bed and sat down slowly to not obstruct the motion of his brother's sleep. He kept his back to him, slouching into his propped elbows and setting up an invisible wall around his vulnerability. "I see you found yours."
Hanson took the bait, changing his position in favour of Lars' propinquity. "I did."
"You stole my sandwich."
"I did," he said, looking over his left shoulder to see how close he'd shifted. "I bought jerky to make up for it, but I gave it to someone else."
You think prick, you say tut. At all times. "I hope this someone wasn't a random. I'm a pregnant woman giving birth to a werewolf when it comes to jerky."
"You consider Nero a random?" Lars took a deep breath and turned ninety degrees, facing his brother head on; the sleepy look in return was confused jealousy in understanding, unable to compute what the meet did to Lars. Hanson took his hand and laced their fingers with a reassuring thumb grazing where it could, the other hand rubbing up his exposed left forearm. The unique reunion destined to occur became a case of wrong place wrong time, voluntarily undertaken with no intermediaries that would have consequently eased the young man into their lifelong friendship in a gentler manner than the startling electric shock he saw flicker in his intense blues, hitting him like a truck in mid-air with no chance to safely land on the ground to gather himself and be the curious little shit he was remembered as being; he wasn't comfortable without Dante there so he made a run for it like the logical coward he was, mentally shaming the prayer he'd made for Nero saying no to the escort home. "I went to the park when I left the office. Turns out he still visits there."
His brother cuddled closer. "They gave his memories b-" That was it, wasn't it? "Did he… did he recognise you?"
Lars massaged his hand in return, a humble smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I think he did, but it's complicated to explain." He would claim to be ready to hear it all but a single finger over his lips killed his plea, his muted gaze clasping authority in his decision. "Tomorrow; you need your rest."
He leaned forward to get off the bed, but was held back for one last thought. "I'm thinking now's the time to get rid of that case in your closet."
It slipped his mind. "Do you think he's ready?"
"Even if he isn't, those two will make sure he is." Hanson let go, biting the back of his brother's hand. "Let me give it a clean, though. You can drop it off tomorrow when you visit them."
Lars nodded at his efficiency and equally hated him for it, but he was right; it was past it's due and may be a push for the twins to hasten their decision of when they'd allow him to work with them. The 'if' must have certainly turned into a 'when' at the point where Nero's determination knew no limits and continued to push himself for their approval. Vergil has stated previously that they'd consider it once he had finished high school and took him on a few rides outside of his schedule to watch them in action and get him addicted to the reward and satisfaction of keeping the world free from the ungodly masses. It was a decent step forward, but two things stood in his way: his uncanny laziness and its weight. Had he any idea how heavy the thing was? "Thank you for dinner." He went back to the bed and inclined on one knee, placing a kind peck on Hanson's tired lips. "Goodnight."
The irony – it woke him like a bath bomb in a glass of milk. "Good night."
Hanson counted to seven thousand two hundred and sixty and got out of bed to check on a supposed image of Lars in complete darkness snoring lightly on his triple-seated couch covered in the softness of his beige fake fur throw and an open book on his chest; instead, the dim lamp shone brightly as he walked past, casting a silhouette of a man he had never seen in the decades they'd known each other. He opened the door further to see Lars hunched over the edge of the couch with his head in his hands, the tiny movements of his massive frame caught by the lamp and its flagrancy in doing what it was supposed to. The crunch of the opening door on his carpet moved his hands into his hair, tugging roughly at clumps of the long black mane to cause mild pain to his psyche, redirecting the vicious cycle of the evening to a more constructive environment to fester and fizz away quickly so he could get on with sleep.
He continued to scratch, deeper, faster, harder, until there was evidence of remorse. The action was a blur to the naked eye but the younger would never be deceived, springing into the room as the smudge turned a sickly black and more blood soaked into the white carpet dripping from the tips of his strands. His brother stood in front of him grabbed the triggered talons, shutting the momentum to a dead stop and detaching the sticky claws from his head, mushing under tissue and bone that he managed to cut through. Lars fought to gouge more brain and skull but knew better, holding his hands in front of him as his head healed at a phenomenal speed owing to his emotional stature at that moment. His body swelled in strain, readied in battle mode to fight his anger that seemingly popped from nowhere; Hanson knew he wasn't close to calming down any time soon, swinging the bloodied demonised limbs around his waist and holding him close to his chest, saving him the discomfiture of his outburst at the sudden loss of his rationality, exploding as a result off too many things to deal with and few ways to do so and resorting to self-infliction as Sparda had taught them. The obvious enough loop would have Lars tear himself to a futile stupor to the same end as his beginning while his pending calm surfaced ever so slowly and he walked away with only a mark of lost time as a direct result. The foreign cold on his back was a good sign, tentatively spreading on his warming skin as his head fell into Hanson's abdomen, staging his pyjamas to look like the middle of a crime scene, but what worried him more were the parts of his head that sustained bleeding incapable of self-repair as a consequence of his untamed nature and the assumed illusion of control over his emotions; he recalled one time previous where his exposed brain caused extraordinary panic in the fiery depths of Hell, later expunged from history books at the subsequent repercussions and Sparda's resolute command.
Lars relaxed at the warmth, allowing everything to run freely without needing to be told, plainly shattered at the appearance he had to keep after having just been rescued from a maniac hell-bent on destroying a revolution he didn't comprehend. In the younger's blind spot, the lamp flickered, dragging his attention to a book hanging halfway off the edge, the corner of one page bent under the hardback crimson cover: The Enigma of Worth. It was his favourite but also his enemy, laden in tales of two souls defying odds not suited to them, hitting enjoyingly close to home and in this case too close, hovering like Icarus and his invention forestalling the moment of their mutual crumble into dust with nothing but words in a book to show for it. "It's okay," he said, feeling the claws dig painfully into his back and nagging one feather of his wings, squeezing tightly to manipulate a recovery over his stubborn emotion. "Everything's gonna be okay."
And for the first time in centuries after countless times of saying it, Lars couldn't believe him.
