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Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest still as you fumble your keys into the ignition of your car, your pulse probably fast enough to fuel the engine on its own. Tears that only pricked at your eyes earlier as you stormed out of the Fortuna branch Devil May Cry van now run freely down your cheeks, and you hate that you look a mess for something so stupid, but you feel stupid overall.
You’re nothing more than a passing distraction after all. Harm to a sweet girl, temptation to an otherwise good man. You knew better, you’ve known since you were very young, and here you are, crying and trying to get as far as you can because you let your guard slip just once.
The engine finally thrums to life despite the delay, as if providence itself wants you to slow down and think about what you’re going to do next, but as you step on the ignition, you find yourself lurching forward, the rev of the engine loud and clear, but the car going nowhere. In fact, it appears to jerk briefly backwards, destabilizing you - you should really put on your seatbelt - before its wheels settle back in place.
Stunned for just a second, you step on the gas again, until the same thing happens, and then it occurs to you. Your head snaps back to the rear view mirror, and there he is, glaring right back at you, sky blue eyes red rimmed themselves to match yours as one hand grips tightly on the rear bumper of your car, willing it to stay in place, while the other hangs loosely by his side.
You grip the steering wheel, then stick your head out the window.
“Are you fucking crazy?!”
Nero doesn’t respond, and as you stomp on the gas one more time, the engine roars again, but the car continues to make absolutely no distance forward. Overwhelmed with frustration, you find yourself groaning loudly, then shout again.
“You can’t stop me from leaving!”
You stomp on the gas again, but he’s rock steady, and you lay onto the horn, a cry of aggravation not for help - you don’t need help, but you need him to know that you can’t stand him right now.
“Grow up, Nero!”
At this, Nero does flinch a little, enough that the flame of your anger flickers just a little, and he averts his eyes so that he’s looking off in the distance in the night. This clearing is relatively empty save for your two vehicles - Nico is off to sleep in a real bed at a nearby inn several hundred feet away, and the two of you had aimed to talk for a few moments longer under the stars, but of course, that devolved into the current scene.
How could he not have told her?
The softness still retained in his voice as he reassures Kyrie over the phone that he and Nico are okay, the very passing mention of you being around as well. It all makes you feel disgusting and impure and pathetic, especially when the taste of his lips is still so very present on your tongue.
You’re not built to not care.
Nero inhales deeply and lets out a visible exhale, still not letting go in case you attempt to speed off once again.
“Just let me explain it to you. Please. Once I’m done, if you still want to leave, I promise not to stop you.”
Biting your lip enough that you almost draw blood, you contemplate this for a moment. The steering wheel you grip tightly feels safe and grounding. You squeeze, then press your forehead onto it, letting the coolness seep through your skin. A few moments pass, and you can feel Nero watching you from behind, growing concerned, but you turn the ignition off, then raise your head. Before you can open the door he’s beside you, almost a bit too fast, but he senses your intent and opens the door for you, stepping aside as it swings open.
His eyes are still teary red.
“Listen, I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Your posture is closed and impenetrable, arms crossed over your chest. You raise an eyebrow, and you don’t have to say the words before he understands them, pronounced clear as day in his head.
You’re doing a terrible job of it.
“It’s just-” he runs his hand through his hair, distressed, pleading. There’s a hunch in his back that’s unnatural for such a proud man but you say nothing, open to hear whatever excuse he has to offer before you can ridicule him.
“I can’t end things on a phone call.”
“Then don’t touch me,” you snap. He opens his mouth in protest, but closes it immediately in resignation.
“Right.”
He bites his lip, before letting his loosely held fist rest against the hood of your car as he stares at the ground.
“Don’t play games with me,” you murmur.
He looks at you again - really looks - and you almost feel bad for calling him a coward just moments ago as you gathered your things. You can imagine the insult is replaying in his head even now as he stands before you.
He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a coward. In this, he’s more careful than anything, unwilling to hurt his loved ones.
“It doesn’t have to be me,” you know. Your arms tighten around your own body again, keeping you safe and warm and together. “I’ll get over this… whatever this is. As long as you give me time.”
He quickly interjects.
“It has to be you,” he insists. “I… I know it feels different when I’m with you, something more than just…” he trails off.
He’s being careful with his speech, out of respect, out of love. The words a soft landing place come to mind. Home, peace, sanctuary… those are the things Kyrie is for him, and you should never intrude upon that. You can’t offer him that. You’re tumultuous and moody and you’ve only softened down your rough edges over time, you’re not a natural, unblemished smooth surface.
“She’s what you need,” you admit, even if your voice breaks at the end.
“Please,” he starts, reaching for your hand before thinking better of it. “Just… just let me be the one to tell you what I need.”
Someone has to pay for the upset roiling in your chest, you feel, but it’s not solely his fault, nor even your own, really and definitely not hers.
“Please don’t run away from me,” he asks of you, in a voice, softer and more desperate. “I won’t-” he pauses, then regains his voice, “touch you again, not until I’m face to face with her and tell her the truth.”
Your lips press into a thin line, and he tells you what you’ve always wanted to hear from him.
“I need you. I want you.”
You think of Kyrie again, guilt eating away at you.
“I don’t really want to make you choose, Nero,” you admit, your voice croaking. The tears you hold back start to make their way back to the surface. “I kind of wish we’d never met.”
“Don’t say that.”
An edge in his voice returns ever so slightly until he recomposes himself with a deep breath.
“Please, don’t say that,” he reiterates, the hurt vibrating in the thrum of his voice. “You’re not making me choose. I already did choose, and I promise to do a better job of following through.”
You can sense the longing in his hands that move towards you but never quite reach, based on the invisible barrier of your consent (or lack thereof). You’ll allow him just this once, reaching for his right hand first, and placing it where he wants it to be, on the curve of your right cheek. His lips fall open gently, and his thumb wipes away an escaping tear.
“I’m a bad person,” you whisper.
He’s not supposed to touch you so the most he allows himself to do is open his arms as you step in closer, tucking you under his chin.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You want to argue, but instead you hold him closer, letting your selfishness win at least for just a few more moments.
Maybe you won’t run away, not just yet.