Chapter Text
"So.... Are we ever gonna talk about this?" Nero says, leaning not-so casually against the double doors of the shop after a job well-done—after yet another client commented on their resemblance and how Dante must be so proud.
Dante glances up from the desk where he's been cleaning Ebony and Ivory for the past fifteen minutes. His brow wrinkles. "Talk about what, kid?"
"I'm not a kid."
"Are, too. Now, talk about what?"
Nero awkwardly waves a hand over himself and gestures toward Dante, unsure if he can format what he's thinking into words. If he asks directly, he thinks he might be afraid of the answer. "This. Us."
"You're a nice kid and all, but I don't think Kyrie would take too kindly to that kinda thing."
A scowl etches onto Nero's face. "You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
Nero holds back a snappish response and a growl. Dante never gives him a straight answer. Ever. He always evades, twists things around until the original conversation is nowhere in sight. Nero should've known better than to think being vague would get him what he wanted.
"Why do I look like you?"
Dante freezes momentarily, a crack in that damn mask he always wears, and then shrugs like nothing is wrong. "Lots of people look like lots of people, kiddo. Told you before, it's just the hair."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
A warning flash of ember sparks in Dante's eyes and Nero swears his pupils flick into slits.
"You think I'm stupid or something? When we met, I had demons going on and on about Sparda's blood in me. Lo and behold, his own kid shows up out of nowhere. Then you let me keep this!" Nero summons the Yamato to his palm. "You don't just give shit like this to people. Not after saying it needed to stay in the family."
"I told you, you earned it. It was a gift."
"Yeah, you did. You also directly implied we were related, and I stare at the genetic proof of that in the mirror every day! Do you just not want me, or what?!"
Dante's expression hardens. Nero suddenly feels the distinct urge to backpedal, to take it back, because he overstepped. "First off," Dante begins, rising from his seat. "You're not my son." He steps closer to Nero. "Second off, if I didn't want you around, I wouldn't have given you the Yamato in the first place. I wouldn't have let you into my business. And third?" The devil hunter presses closer until Nero stumbles back into the couch. Then, when Nero is left with nowhere else to go, Dante's face softens into something far, far too vulnerable. "Don't you think I would've told you if you were mine?"
"You're weird about details." Nero manages. "Always. You've been dodging the question since day one."
With a heavy sigh, Dante pulls back and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, kid. I may not be your father, but I do know who is. I can't tell you much about him, though."
"Can't or won't?"
"One, the other, both. Does it matter?"
Nero sucks in a breath as though Dante backhanded him. Of course, it fucking matters. He spent his whole life wondering where the hell he came from, who his family was, and why they left. Of course, it matters. Was it so terrible of him to want to know? "I just want to know who I am."
"Nero, last I checked."
"Stop doing that! Stop pretending you don't know what I'm asking! Stop playing fucking word games with me and answer the damn question! If you know who my father is, then tell me!" Nero huffs in frustration when he feels angry tears welling in his eyes.
Dante clenches his jaw and faces the door of his shop, fully intending to walk out.
"Don't you dare."
"What do you want from me, kid?"
Nero scowls again, pushing himself up from the couch and closing the distance Dante put between them. "I just told you. I want to know who my father is. You're not deaf, and you're not fucking dumb no matter what stupid shit you do trying to prove it."
Dante stares him down, unmoved by his rant. That's how he always is: unmoved. And it's fucking infuriating. Always a laugh and a joke here, and a cocky trick there—Dante never gives an inch.
"Please, Dante." Nero croaks, a lump building in his throat. "Why won't you just tell me?"
Fighting like this could ruin his relationship with Dante, and if Dante refuses to tell him in the end, he'll be out on his ass with no business, no answers, and one less friend. He can't fathom losing Dante, despite only knowing him three years. Besides Nico, who else will just hang around and bullshit with him? And, for all he pretends to hate it, who else is going to call Nero 'kid' and ruffle his hair?
What if he pushes away the only person who really knows what his life being different is like?
Dante finally looks at Nero, and the younger hunter almost hates the way he softens again. He lifts a hand to the side of Nero's face. "Don't cry, kiddo."
Nero can't not cry. This is the closest he's been to knowing where he came from his entire life. Tears sting his eyes and a sob tumbles from his lips. He feels stupid, standing in the middle of the room and crying like a child in front of Dante, but he can't stop. What's worse is that Dante just stands there, Nero's cheek still cupped in his right hand. Nero longs to press in closer, to seek the comfort he sorely needs, but Dante isn't his father. He's under no obligation to help Nero with his teary face, hiccupping sobs, or the breaths gasping in and out of his chest. His body feels too small, his ribcage too tight for the amount of oxygen he needs.
All at once, everything changes.
"Come here, Nero. It's okay."
Arms wrapped up in red curl around Nero, allowing him to lean against a familiar muscled chest. And he almost doesn't understand. How could this be happening? A hand strokes his hair, gently carding through it, and another one rubs the spot between his shoulder blades. Dante, ever-aloof and fake-cheerful Dante, hushes Nero.
"I didn't tell you, because...." He sighs, taking a heavy breath. "Because he's dead, kiddo."
And suddenly it makes sense.
So, Nero cries. He never had a chance to have parents. He never had a chance to know if they would've kept him, or even loved him at all. "Can you...?" A sob wrenches out of his chest, and another, and a strangled squeak he hates himself for. "Can you at least tell me his name?"
Dante pulls back, rubbing Nero's shoulders with a pained smile on his face. He really must look pathetic if Dante's taking pity on him. "You never quit, do you? Stubborn kid."
Nero chokes out a laugh, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his clawed hand.
"If I tell you his name, you gotta promise me one thing, okay?" Dante waits for agreement from Nero, teary as it is, before continuing. "Don't try to look into him."
Of course, that's the deal. Of course, it is.
How desperate does he have to be to say yes? The answer: stupidly.
"I promise."
"His name.... His name was Vergil."