Work Text:
...shall never become a star
- William Blake
Wind whistles through the grass, stirs the strands by his ears. Nero lies flat on his back in the field by his house, squinting up at the sky, sweat cooling on his face. A cloud moves in front of the sun and Nero closes his eyes, savoring the breeze, the back of his neck still annoyingly damp.
“Again,” Vergil's voice says, somewhere to the right of him, but it falls short of cold and imperious. Nero can hear the strain in his normally composed voice and gives a tired snort.
“Fuck off, old man. I’ll kick your ass again in a minute.”
“Big talk from someone who didn't win.”
"Just fucking try me, asshole,” Nero mutters, his words at odds with how he relaxes further into the grass. He's not eager to move just yet. Something about the wind on his face or the grass on his neck or the way Vergil is stretched out beside him, surprisingly not kicking up a fuss about grass stains. Every part of him aches and Nero half thinks he could fall asleep right here. Tired as he is, the significance of the thought isn't lost on him. This man—the son of a bitch who stole his arm, who left him broken and bleeding and powerless so effortlessly that Nero still wakes up shaking from it with his heart in his throat and the phantom taste of blood in his mouth—is someone Nero feels safe around, enough to consider letting down his defenses. Tea and swords, as Kyrie and Nico call it, have really done wonders.
Vergil is quiet for a long time and Nero would've thought he really did fuck off if it weren’t for the way his skin is faintly prickling from being in close proximity to a demonic aura, not to mention he can feel the weight of Vergil's stare on the side of his face.
“You dead over there?” Nero cracks open an eye, turning his head to look. There is dear old demon dad looking back at him, face seemingly inscrutable but Nero recognizes the thoughtful look in his eyes. He makes a face. “What, I beat all the words out of you?”
Vergil snorts, lips quirking up minutely. “Such arrogance. Last I checked you’re the one who needs a nap, boy.”
“Maybe I’m taking a cue from your geriatric ass,” Nero shoots back. “I can hear your bones creaking from here, old timer.”
“Insolent whelp,” Vergil says, almost fondly, and Nero just barely bites back Yeah, yeah, love you too, asshole. He turns his head away, feeling his face flood with heat. It would've been flippantly meant but Nero's mouth tightens at the near slip regardless. Vergil's presence in his life has only just become something he more than grudgingly tolerates, much less enjoys. But love? Love was for Kyrie, for Nico and the kids and even that asshole Dante. Love was for Kyrie's long dead parents. Love was for Credo.
Nero closes his eyes, feeling his throat ache. He prides himself on being someone who lives in the present, on never giving up, never slowing down, ever onwards and forwards, but his thoughts drift to Credo more than he'd like. Vergil could never occupy the space Credo had in his life but damn if they didn't feel similar sometimes. Something about the way they held themselves, kind of grim and straight laced at first glance but hiding a devilish sense of humor underneath, or the way they pushed him to better himself, the fire they lit under him like nothing else.
“Nero,” Vergil says and Nero doesn't think he’ll ever get used to his name in his father’s voice, how strange the tone is, soft and wondering. Nero swallows around it the same way he swallows every other thing he doesn't want to look at too deeply.
“What,” Nero says flatly.
“What does it mean to you,” Vergil says, like the unnecessarily cryptic fucker he is, and has the audacity to stop there, like that is even a complete thought. Nero's mouth pinches. He stubbornly keeps his eyes closed, too tired to deal with this bullshit.
“What does what mean to me? Use your words, man."
“Power,” Vergil says.
Nero’s eyes fly open. His heart beats a staccato rhythm in his chest. He turns his head back to Vergil, who is waiting patiently, strangely intent. The wind picks up again, rustling the grass, and Nero swallows and thinks, all his sarcasm and nonchalance stolen along with the breath in his throat, Vergil's question landing with devastating accuracy to one of Nero's softest places.
In a way, it is the defining question of Nero’s life, something he turns over in his head time and time again. Power was his Devil Bringer and then the Yamato, a low, comforting hum in the hide of his demon arm, tangible things he can touch and hold and better use to stand his ground and fight. Power is never being as helpless as he was in the Savior, as the night he invited a stranger into his home and gurgled up blood on the floor of his garage. Power is something that won't let him be dead weight, not now, not ever. Power would have saved Credo, would keep Kyrie always smiling. Power means never losing anyone ever again.
"It’s the strength to protect the people I care about,” Nero says, eyes going distant. He thinks about Kyrie slipping out of his desperate, grasping hands, fading away before his very eyes. He thinks about Credo, noble and strong and everything Nero would have died before admitting wanting to be, and the unfairness of his promising life being cut so brutally short, his last breaths not even spent in the company of people who loved him. “Without strength you can’t protect anything.”
Vergil flinches, eyes going wide, face turning pale. He looks like he is seeing a ghost and Nero comes back to himself in time to catch it, watching Vergil's throat work with a frown, both fascinated and slightly horrified by the sudden loss of composure. "...let alone yourself,” Vergil mutters, seemingly to himself, and the words have a strange resonance to it, like Vergil's weighed them on his tongue before.
“Something like that,” Nero says. He keeps all his questions trapped behind his teeth, not sure if he wants to hear the answer, but there is a memory flickering on the edges of his awareness, a dream he had almost forgotten. A cold gaze with a touch of gentleness and a voice in his head that sounded like Vergil's, asking what his soul cried out for. In Agnus' lab Nero's voice had distorted for the first time, voice overlaid with the echo of their answer, but Nero didn't know what true power was then. He's only now just starting to figure it out.
In the distance he can hear Kyrie's voice calling him home, beckoning him to dinner, a red string that will always lead him right where he needs to be. Nero stands up, brushing the grass off his jeans, faintly smiling at the sound. Vergil slowly sits up, the mask shuttering back over his face, but Nero can now see the cracks clear as day. V may be gone but traces of Vergil's humanity remain, just waiting to be brought into the light of day.
Nero tuts. "What, your knees giving you hell now too? But then I hear arthritis is pretty common for old geezers like you." He holds out a hand, palm up, and while the move is unintentional Nero can't help but admire the accidental poetry of it being the same hand Vergil cut off. There is the slightest ripple across Vergil's face as he stares at it, clearly disbelieving, and Nero wriggles his fingers at him, smirking. "Up and at em, old man. Save your existential crisis for after dinner."
"I'm forty three, not decrepit," Vergil says, a smile reluctantly tugging at his mouth as he grasps Nero's hand, letting Nero pull him to his feet. "Still young enough to give whippersnappers like you a run for your money."
"You saying whippersnappers isn't really helping your case," Nero says, snorting at the pure ridiculousness of it, "but sure. Whatever you say."
They turn and head home, the silence between them almost comfortable. Nero keeps his gaze straight ahead but he can feel Vergil sneaking sidelong glances, clearly rolling something around his mouth, and Nero waits him out with a patience usually only reserved for his foster children.
“You have it, you know,” Vergil says, finally. “That strength.”
Nero looks at Vergil, taken aback. Vergil's voice is grim and determined but his face is soft with something that almost looks like pride and it is stupid, so stupid, how Nero's heart and lungs tighten, how he has to bite down on the giddy smile threatening to twitch his lips. He shouldn't need this man's validation and yet here he is, craving it all the same.
“Course I do,” Nero says, boastfully. “I’ve kicked your ass enough times, haven’t I?”
“Once or twice,” Vergil says, smirking.
“Oh, I'll show you once or twice,” Nero says, smiling like a knife. “Rematch after dinner. I'll give those old bones of yours something to complain about that isn't just the weather.”
“I’d hate to keep you up past your bedtime.”
“Don't you worry about me,” Nero says. “We'll get you back to the nursing home on time.”
Vergil laughs, all the more special for how out of practice it is, rusty but real, and even after it dissipates in the air Nero carries the memory with him, holding it close, the sound lingering in Nero's ears all the way home.