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Perhaps it was the way Nero seemed to stand closer to his brother than he had ever done with himself. Perhaps it was the way Nero didn't seem to flinch at Dante's casual shoulder slaps, the playful jabs, or the way he laughed so freely in his presence.
Vergil found himself watching, silently, as Nero exchanged words with Dante, the two of them slipping into an easy, effortless banter that Vergil himself had never quite mastered.
It shouldn't have mattered. It didn't matter.
Vergil had no need for such trivialities, no need for warmth, for familiarity. He had walked alone for so long, torn his own path through the darkness, clawed his way back from nothingness. Bonds were unnecessary distractions.
And yet…
There was an unmistakable pull, an irritation that simmered beneath the surface, though he would never name it as jealousy. It was merely an observation. That was all. A detached analysis of how effortlessly Nero had slipped into a rhythm with Dante, how easily they understood one another.
He told himself he didn't want that.
He told himself it was foolish to yearn for something so sentimental.
But it gnawed at him nonetheless.
Dante was an idiot, a fool who wasted his strength on frivolity and nonsense. But his brother had never abandoned Nero unless it was to protect him. He had reached out, over and over again, and now Nero stood by his side, not just as a fellow warrior, but as something more. As family.
His brother was there for his son when he wasn't. His brother gave his son a position in Devil May Cry without a second thought. His brother gave his son the confidence to stand tall, to embrace his power without hesitation, to laugh without the weight of the past dragging him down.
Vergil had never been that kind of presence to Nero.
He had never known how to be.
His interactions with Nero were always edged with restraint, measured in a way Dante's never were. He offered guidance through combat, through lessons of strength and discipline, but never through the kind of warmth that came so easily to his twin. It wasn't his way, and it wasn't something he had ever thought he needed to offer.
And yet, as he watched Nero throw a teasing grin at Dante, as his son rolled his eyes but made no effort to pull away from the casual way Dante clapped a hand on his shoulder, Vergil felt that gnawing sensation twisting deep in his chest.
It wasn't jealousy.
He told himself that again, but the words rang hollow.
It was simply, again… an observation. A recognition of something he had never known how to reach for.
He watched as Dante ruffled Nero's hair, and he caught the quick smile Nero had on his face before he lightly smacked his brother's hand away.
Vergil's grip tightened around the hilt of Yamato. It was a fleeting reaction, one that he quickly dismissed.
He then exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to loosen around his blade. It was unbecoming; this reaction, this irrational tension winding through him like a coil pulled too tight. There was no reason for it.
But…
Dante had known Nero a lot longer than he had. He knew how to handle Nero better than he ever would.
Dante had always been the one who stood in the light, who made connections effortlessly, who embraced the chaotic, messy nature of human bonds with an infuriating lack of hesitation. And Nero... Nero had inherited that same ease, that same instinct to reach out and tether himself to others.
Vergil had no place in that equation.
It was what he wanted to think.
"Here."
Vergil was derailed from his thoughts when a white, floral-patterned tea cup was held in front of his face. He stared at it for a moment, flickering his gaze up at Nero before tearing it away and taking hold of the cup in his lap.
He didn't say anything. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the younger man sat beside him against the curb on his right, but he wasn't close. Nero left a respectable distance between them.
A respectable distance that was just directed at him.
It did not go unbeknownst to him that Nero would always hover at his right side, never his left.
Vergil tried not to let the grip on the teacup increase, lest he betray his discomfort and break it. He brought the cup to his lips, the warm porcelain offering him a moment of calm that didn't quite reach his mind. The tea was mild, soothing in a way, but it was unable to silence the thoughts spinning within him.
His son's gesture had been simple. A cup of tea. A quiet offering, nothing more. But to Vergil, it felt like a bridge, one he wasn't sure how to cross. He hadn't known how to accept such gestures before. His world had always been one of necessity and duty, where bonds were fragile things that could break at any moment.
Nero's presence beside him, though distant, was different from the void Vergil had grown accustomed to. Even the distance was an attempt to connect, and yet it felt foreign to him. He had never known how to reach out like Dante had. The easy camaraderie, the effortless warmth, all things Vergil had dismissed as weaknesses.
But now, as he sat there with the cup in his lap, he realised something: it wasn't about weakness. It wasn't about needing anyone. It was about wanting something. Something more than cold solitude. And yet, he wasn't sure if he had the strength to acknowledge that yearning.
How… foolish.
"Thank you," Vergil accepted the cup, his voice quieter than he intended.
Nero gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, but he didn't say anything more. Vergil felt the silence settle between them, not uncomfortable but laden with unspoken thoughts. It lingered, the air thick with what wasn't said.
The stillness of the Redgrave District stretched between them, the city's usual hum subdued as if respecting the weight of unspoken words. The air was crisp, tinged with the distant scent of rain that had long since passed, leaving only the ghost of petrichor clinging to the stone streets.
Vergil kept his gaze forward, staring past the steam curling from his tea, watching the dim streetlights flicker against the encroaching dark. Nero did the same, his expression unreadable, but Vergil could feel the younger man's presence beside him, steady and unwavering. A silent anchor, neither pressing nor retreating.
For all the things Vergil had yet to understand about his son, he recognised this for what it was. An attempt. Small, unobtrusive, but deliberate.
"You don't have to sit here." The words left his mouth before he could decide whether to speak them or not. They weren't sharp, nor were they cold, but they carried a strange sort of reluctance, an uncertainty Vergil wasn't accustomed to hearing in his own voice.
Nero huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Didn't think I needed permission."
Vergil strained his hearing into the office behind them. His brother's loud, idiotic snoring sounded behind his desk, meaning he must've been asleep long before Nero decided to accompany him outside.
He took it as an answer that Dante did not meddle this time.
Vergil let out a slow breath, tilting the teacup slightly in his hands. The warmth had dulled, but it was still there.
Nero was quiet for a moment, his elbow propped up on his knee. "You know," he started, his tone measured, "You're really bad at this."
Vergil's fingers twitched. "At what?"
"Being a dad."
The words were blunt, but there was no malice in them. If anything, there was a hint of amusement, even understanding, as if Nero wasn't looking for an argument—just stating a fact. A fact Vergil had already long come to terms with.
His grip on the teacup firmed, but he didn't rise to the bait. "I see no need to dispute that."
Nero exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with something resembling a wry smile. "Yeah. Figured." He fiddled with his fingers before intertwining them, glancing at the dim glow of the streetlights ahead of them. "Y'know, when I was a kid, I used to make up stories about you."
Vergil turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him from the corner of his eye.
"I didn't know who you were, obviously. But when I was stuck in that orphanage, I used to tell myself all kinds of things to make sense of it. That maybe my dad was some kind of important hero who couldn't come back. Or maybe he was trapped somewhere and just couldn't reach me." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "Stupid, right?"
Vergil remained silent.
"I used to get mad," Nero admitted, his fingers tightening. "Like, really mad. I'd tell myself I didn't care. That it didn't matter. That whoever he was, he wasn't worth my time. But every now and then…" He trailed off, his jaw working as he searched for the right words. "I'd catch myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, I wasn't… I don't know. Worth it."
Vergil's fingers tightened around his teacup again before he forced them to relax. His throat felt tight.
Nero scoffed, but it wasn't directed at him. "It's dumb, I know. Doesn't really matter now, but…" He exhaled. "I guess what I'm saying is… I get it."
At this point, Vergil turned his head fully to look at him. Nero met his gaze, his blue eyes, his own eyes, steady. "You get what?"
"What it's like to pretend you don't care."
Silence stretched between them again, but this time, it was heavier, like the air before a storm.
Vergil looked down at his tea, staring at his reflection in the dark liquid. He had spent years perfecting the art of indifference, of convincing himself that emotions were nothing but burdens, that weakness was something to be discarded. And yet, Nero, his son, had seen through him with effortless clarity.
"…It is not pretence," Vergil finally said, but the words rang hollow, even to him.
Nero smirked, but it wasn't mocking. "Sure. If you say so."
Vergil should have been irritated, should have dismissed the conversation entirely, but instead, he found himself setting his tea down beside him, his gaze never leaving Nero's once he looked at him.
"I… do not know how to be what you expect of me." The confession felt foreign on his tongue, but he said it anyway. "I do not know how to be what you might want me to be."
Nero blinked as if caught off guard by the honesty. Then, with a shrug, he said. "I never asked you to be anything else. I just want you to be my dad."
Vergil's breath stilled in his chest.
He should have expected such an answer. Nero had always been direct, never one to dance around his feelings or hold back his opinions. Much… much like himself.
But hearing it, spoken so plainly, left him at a loss.
His son had no expectations of him. No demands, no conditions.
Just that.
Be his father.
The identity of 'father' was one he had never worn, had never considered himself worthy, or even capable of carrying. It was something he had forsaken before he even realised it had been his to hold. And yet, here Nero was, looking at him not with resentment, not with scorn, but with expectation. Not for something grand or unattainable, but for something Vergil didn't know how to give.
His son had every right to be angry with him. He tore his arm off. He stabbed him with the Yamato (to which the boy retaliated and did the same thing back to him) and then left him. Again.
My son means nothing to me.
The echo of his own words almost haunted him. He thought Dante was joking with him, to throw him off amidst their battle on the Qliphoth. Someone as hot-headed as Nero couldn't be his son. Such traits belonged to Dante. Such traits of the use of profanity when angry belonged to Dante.
Such traits of a specific stubbornness… Such traits of determination and motivation could only have belonged to…
Vergil pressed his lips into a thin line.
Nero… is my son.
This time, it wasn't a pondering question like it had been. It was a certainty.
He stole a glance at Nero's right arm. It was whole and normal. Something the boy had told Dante was that it happened when he Triggered to stop their fighting. After that, it didn't go away, did not disappear. It became part of him.
One could say it was normal, but to a half-demon like himself, he could spot and trace the specks of blue that still lingered beneath Nero's skin.
Blue, from him. Not red, from Dante.
Nero was his. No amount of denial could change that.
And for a moment, his own possessiveness startled him.
But he had so little to call his own.
Vergil looked down at his hands, at the fading wisps of steam curling from his abandoned teacup. He had faced demons beyond reckoning, walked through the very depths of hell, clawed his way back from oblivion, and yet... this?
This was an unfamiliar territory.
However, it was not unwelcome.
Nero was more than just his son. He was proof that, despite everything Vergil had done, despite all the years spent running from his own humanity, there was still something left worth protecting.
Some pesky fatherly love… was it?
It was laughable how his own words came running back to mock and bite him.
"I do not know what that entails," he admitted after a long silence, his voice measured, as if saying the words aloud might make them less… cumbersome. "I was not raised with an adequate example to follow."
Nero hummed. "Yeah. Neither was I."
He knew, of course, the details of Nero's childhood. He had read between the lines of what little the boy had revealed. But there was something stark and raw about the way he said it now. A quiet acknowledgement that they were both shaped by absences rather than presences.
Perhaps, in that, they were more alike than either of them had ever cared to admit.
"I'm not asking you to figure it all out overnight," Nero continued, "I'm not even saying you have to force yourself if you don't want to at times. But… I'm here." He nudged his foot against a stray pebble, watching as it rolled a short distance before settling again. "That's gotta count for something, right?"
Vergil turned his gaze forward once more. The streetlights flickered, their glow catching the edges of puddles left behind by the evening rain. The world around them was still, quiet, as if listening.
Nero was here.
Despite everything, despite the years of absence, despite the distance Vergil had placed between them with his own hands, his son was still here.
That did count for something.
Vergil closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before he spoke. "…It does."
A small silence stretched between them, but it wasn't heavy this time.
Nero smirked. "That sounded painful for you."
Vergil's eye twitched, but there was no real heat behind his glare. "You are insufferable."
"Yeah, yeah. That's what Kyrie says, too." Nero leaned back on his hands, sighing. "Guess I got that from you, huh?"
"You seemed to have learned that from your uncle."
Nero snorted. "Right, because you're a delight."
He huffed but said nothing.
They lapsed into quiet again. The tension that had weighed so heavily on Vergil's chest had eased—just slightly.
Nero cleared his throat, his voice quiet, but there was a hint of something in it that Vergil didn't quite expect.
"You wanna come to Fortuna with me tomorrow?"
The question hung in the air, and it was subtle, almost casual. But Vergil caught the slight hesitation in Nero's words, the way his fingers fidgeted just a little as if unsure.
He paused, his gaze still fixed on his son as his mind worked over the unspoken undercurrent of that simple request.
"You want me to come with you?" Vergil asked, his voice a little rougher than he intended. He wasn't sure why he said it. Perhaps it was the way Nero seemed almost shy as he rubbed his nose, as if expecting rejection.
Nero's eyes flicked to Vergil's for the briefest moment, then quickly darted away, his lips quirking into a small, hesitant smile. "Yeah, I guess I do. I mean… It's been a while for you, right?"
He had no particular attachment to that place unless he was talking about…
Vergil expelled a small breath, swallowing down the shakiness that threatened his breathing as he closed his eyes for another moment.
A pair of beautiful brown eyes was staring back at him.
Yes… of course.
Opening his eyes, Vergil watched Nero for a moment longer, noting the sleepiness that hung in the younger man's features. The faint dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged slightly with fatigue, spoke volumes without a word being spoken.
He leaned a little closer, his fingers brushing against Nero's messy hair, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through him. It was the gentlest of motions, but to Vergil, it felt like crossing an insurmountable distance.
Nero froze, his breath catching as Vergil's hand lingered there for a moment longer than it should have. For a second, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a quiet pride in this tiny act. The simple connection. The quiet reassurance.
Vergil pulled his hand back, but the fleeting moment remained. Nero didn't look at him directly, but the softness in his expression told Vergil everything he needed to know.
"Very well," Vergil said, his voice softer than usual. "I will accompany you."
Your son wants to spend time with you.
He did not want to believe Dante's words until now.
And such was an opportunity he would not waste.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel proud. Proud of the young man Nero had become, proud of the person who had fought through so much, and yet still carried a spark of hope, a willingness to reach out.
He could learn a thing or two.
Nero blinked once, twice, as if trying to process what he had just heard. The surprise was evident, though he was clearly trying to downplay it. His fingers drummed against his knee, and his lips parted as if to say something, maybe a teasing remark, maybe a genuine response—but all he managed was a quiet, almost shy, "Cool."
Vergil exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh, but something close enough. His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile forming as he caught the faint flush dusting Nero's cheeks, creeping up to the tips of his ears. He wasn't sure why he found it amusing, why the sight of Nero flustered in such a simple way stirred something warm in his chest.
Then Nero hesitated, his fingers tightening briefly before he exhaled and muttered, "Thanks… Dad."
Vergil turned away, his head tilting just slightly as he let the words settle over him. It wasn't the first time Nero had addressed him as such, but this time, it lacked the frustration, the sarcasm, and the bitter edge that usually accompanied it when there was a spat.
This time, it felt… natural.
Vergil couldn't stop the small, barely-there smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.
The gap between them was not as distant as it once was.
And for the first time, Vergil allowed himself to believe that perhaps… It never had to be.