[By the time Nero intervened with Dante and Vergil atop the Qliphoth, both twins had exerted much of their energy into their own battle with one another. Vergil also was not interested in a true fight against his son, not one where there was the chance Nero could be significantly injured. Thus, Vergil irrefutably lost that fight against him that day. And while Vergil would not say that those factors somehow undermine that victory for Nero, he has begun to wonder if perhaps it has set unreasonable expectations.]
[Nero should be just as proud of what he's managed today as he is over his victory atop the Qliphoth. Perhaps even prouder. But Vergil senses that rather than taking pleasure in finding a way through Vergil's guard or correctly reading his movements to avoid a blow, Nero instead only buries himself in frustration when his next strike doesn't land or it ends up that it was a feint and he finds himself quickly facedown again.]
[Vergil sheathes Yamato as it strikes him just how much this is like looking into a mirror. Nero fixates on his perceived inadequacies to the detriment of everything else, and his temper only increasing as a consequence in frustration with himself because of what he believes he should be capable of versus his actual performance. Historically and even now, Vergil is much the same way albeit his frustrations these days do not stem from shortcomings he identifies in battle.]
This isn't a real fight, Nero. [In contrast to Nero, Vergil does not adopt a stance again. He stands there opposite his son, trying to convince him that this has been enough for today rather than encouraging him to push forward instead.] There is no need to push yourself to exhaustion today.
[He shakes his head slightly.]
You've done well, but it will defeat the purpose of this to press on any further.
[Yeah, there it is. The rational thing to do would be to take him up on it and bow out. There are zero stakes to backing down, and refusing isn't really proving anything. Too bad every impulse inside him is screaming that he can't stop now. He's better than this. He's not going to look this pathetic in front of Vergil. If he can land just one more hit, then maybe he won't feel like such a futile little brat, flailing his sword while his father easily holds him at bay with a hand on his head.
Besides, he's already exhausted, so what's a little more?]
You giving up already? [The quip lands a bit hollow, given Nero looks like a gentle push could knock him over at this point.] I'm not done. I'm better than this.
[He revs Red Queen over his shoulder, lighting the engine with flames.]
[Vergil sighs quietly as Nero revs Red Queen back into life. He knows Nero is stubborn and rarely one to let something go, but this is certainly a more extreme demonstration of that trait than what he's used to seeing from him. Vergil has a choice to make: he can either indulge Nero or he can refuse. Indulging him would not end well, Vergil believes. Most likely, he will lose another round and only grow all the more frustrated and angry with his failures. Refusing him may result in Nero making the choice regardless of what Vergil says, or lend more to his growing temper.]
[No real option feels like the right one inherently, but Vergil still believes it to be better that Nero does not push himself now.]
Your form is becoming sloppier than it was when we began because you are beginning to overexert yourself. [Vergil is beginning to realize he perhaps should have put a stop to this a few rounds prior. Perhaps it would not be so difficult as it appears to be now.] There is no shame in recognizing a limit, Nero. Sloppy form grows to become habit to become muscle memory, and we both know what the outcomes are if you bring that into true battles.
[It becomes much harder to train that out of oneself than to accept the limit exists where it does.]
You will not do better today, but you will tomorrow if you exercise wisdom now and rest.
[He is tired. He is sloppy. Of course he can't top Vergil. Of course he's barely holding his own. He should just give up and quit before he embarrasses himself even worse. Before he gets this sloppy in every fight because of muscle memory, like his dad says. What if he sucked this much in every fight? If this is the best he can do maybe he just sucks in general? But seriously, there's nothing at stake here, except an outsized chunk of his pride that suggests there are, uh, some issues being tied up with what's supposed to be a basic spar. Who cares?
Nero does. A hell of a fucking lot.
His fingers shake on the grip of his sword as his wings appear, and a wave of demonic energy simmers around him, not quite firing yet but threatening to.]
[Nero's temper flares all the more and with it his demonic energy, his wings manifesting in a burst. Vergil's brow furrows in response, but still he remains as he has been. Still and firm in his refusal to engage Nero any further in this. Especially now as he borders on the edge of an outright tantrum.]
Nero, enough.
[There is nothing to prove. There are no demons to be fought. He's gearing up to fight purely on emotion alone rather than thought or technique. It serves only to his detriment, and he has to realize that. There has to be some part of him that does.]
[But Vergil is through appealing to it. His tone is more warning than advisement at this point, which is why he says nothing further. Just those two words alone.]
[His eyes widen, then narrow again, and he bites back a growl. That tone very nearly tips him off. Something about it brings him right back to the Qliphoth. When he demanded to be taken seriously, was met with--what he read as-- patronizing skepticism, and proceeded to kick Vergil's ass for it. That all feels a million years away now. Even though the stakes here are non-existent, it doesn't feel that way as he finds himself drowning in disgust and disappointment with himself.
He teeters forward, then back again. Then further back as the futility sinks in. Finally, he swings Red Queen over his shoulder. The gout of flame that bursts from the engines makes it look much more dramatic when he slams it crookedly into the dirt and leaves it sticking there.]
Fuck!!
[He kicks the dirt almost as hard as he turns around, fists clenched, stomping furiously a few paces away as he tries to get a handle on his flaring temper.]
[What relief Vergil may feel that Nero finally appears to be backing down from continuing any further is sapped away by Nero's subsequent outburst. He's not disappointed by the display of anger, but rather concerned over it. While he does not know Nero's exact thoughts, he can take an educated guess at what they may be.]
[It's perhaps not particularly advisable to approach Nero right now. In fact, Vergil hesitates a moment before doing so, wondering if the best thing to do is interpret the steps away as his implicit request for space. But his concerns outweigh everything else, the ache he feels in his chest at seeing his child struggling in a way he had yet to witness until now leading him to walk past Red Queen in the dirt and through the additional paces. Vergil says his name again, much softer this time, before he reaches out to try and place a hand on his shoulder, attempting to pull him in for a tight embrace.]
[If he's rebuffed, so be it. Vergil thinks it far worse to just stand there passively observing Nero as he is now. He'll only try again one more time in that instance before giving up on it albeit remaining close by.]
[If there was a wall around, he'd punch it. Something to kick, he'd kick it. He's fuming and frustrated and for no real adequate reason he can put his finger on. You're acting like a fucking baby, he thinks, which is one more thing to be upset about. Add it to the pile. The worst thing about it is knowing that Vergil is watching him, probably bewildered at the very least-- if not actively disappointed. Check out his grown-ass son who can't hold his own, and can't handle his temper either.
There's movement at the corner of his eye, a hand on his shoulder, and he spins around defensively. Vergil moves in and out of sheer reflex he swats and stumbles back a step, and it's then with the second attempt that he realizes his father is trying to... hug him? This makes him freeze, torn between angry reflex and his implicit desire not to shun Vergil's clumsy attempts at affection.
So he ends up in Vergil's embrace the second time. Still outrageously pissed about basically nothing, and his fists remain clenched at his side rather than returning the gesture. But his weight slumps forward and his forehead thumps against Vergil's shoulder, unmistakable signs of surrender.
His shoulders tremble and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back tears. It's fine. He's fine. Vergil can hold him tight as he likes. He just needs a minute.]
[With one hand still holding Yamato, Vergil merely keeps that arm tightly wrapped around Nero once he finally relents and allows for Vergil to hold him. His hold on Nero's opposite shoulder with his free hand does not last long. Nero rests against him, hiding his face in Vergil's shoulder, and Vergil cradles the back of his head. He's not bothered at the lack of reciprocation and Nero's hands remaining balled into tight fists at his side because Vergil remembers what it was like when he was small. When he would grow so frustrated and angry that all the thoughts inside his head would jumble themselves together until he couldn't explain why he was so angry in the first place, not even to himself. He just knew it was white hot anger and he hated every second of it until he found himself on the verge of tears. And that would just reignite his temper all over again because he felt it was stupid and childish and so far below what he should be that he couldn't speak and it was even more all of those horrible things that he was about to cry over it.]
[Vergil can't really say he's necessarily gotten better about it per se. It comes out a little differently now at forty-four than it did at five or eight, after all. But he knows the only way past it is through, and he knows now it's better when he's not riding the flood of emotion all by himself. Even if in some ways it feels awful not to deal with it on his own, it's ultimately better knowing someone is there on the other side of it.]
It's okay, [he says, quietly.]
[He does not urge Nero one way or another on how to handle it any more than he really attempts to rush him along. He lets Nero find his own way through, trusting that he knows it better than Vergil possibly could. Vergil's hand drops from Nero's head to between his shoulders, rubbing a few circles there as Nero shakes and trembles before stilling his hand again. Vergil keeps his own breath steady and even against Nero's more labored, agitated breathing.]
[Oh, thinks Nero. This is what it would be like. This is what it's like when his father holds him and tells him he's going to be okay. It's a wistful and longing feeling, and it's a good thing he's already on the verge of tears because that would have knocked him right over the edge otherwise.
He lingers there a minute, letting the rage and frustration and everything else rush over him like he's standing still in a rough surf. At a certain point it crests and finally starts to flow away, leaving embarrassment and shame in its wake.
It's a few minutes before Nero moves. It's to bring one of those balled fists forward in a gentle, frustrated thump against Vergil's leg.]
[It's easy to tell when the worst of it is over even before Nero finally moves again by the way his body finally releases tension just enough to speak to the absence of his temper. Vergil shakes his head slightly when Nero finally speaks.]
You are being too harsh in your judgment of yourself.
[Now and before. A statement of observation rather than a criticism of his behavior.]
He relaxes a little further, slumping a little harder on Vergil. The other fist mirrors the first, but the movement is more of a dull thump than a deliberate action this time.]
[Nero couldn't necessarily be faulted if he felt the question wasn't sincere. Most people probably would not ask and would make their safe assumptions about why Nero felt the whole affair has been, in his own words, stupid. But for better or worse, Vergil tries to err on the side of caution when it comes to assumptions pertaining to Nero as best he can.]
[Vergil's hand between Nero's shoulder blades moves back up to his head, running fingers through Nero's hair. He does not bother with asking what is so different about this that Nero is struggling so much to accept his limits today. Vergil already knows the answer because Vergil was hardly any different when it came to his parents, and especially his father. Dante's heads up about Nero getting in his head over wanting to keep pace and impress both him and Dante also certainly did not hurt in making Vergil more cognizant of that fact.]
[The arm around Nero releases before the Yamato is tucked beneath Vergil's arm at his side. He nudges Nero to stand upright a little better, holding Nero's face in both of his hands.]
I know you are not a child, but you have also not been someone's son for any longer than I have been someone's father. So, if I may suggest it, you ought to try extending some of the same grace you have given me in that regard to yourself right now.
[Man. Vergil really is all precision when he wants to be. There's a bullseye straight through the static and right into the heart of the problem, even if he can't quite articulate all the complicated facets of what and why.
He feels terribly vulnerable with his face between Vergil's hands, brought up to look him in the eye. The expression is something quite similar to worry, in fact.]
It's not you. It's me. [He's not sure why that's the very first thing he needs to say. But there it is.] It's stupid. It's not even a real problem.
[He sighs quietly. Nero is right in that it's not a real problem, but not for the reasons he likely possesses for deeming it as such. Regardless of whether or not Vergil's best guess at what is going on inside Nero's head is really what's going on for him right now, the problem is something Nero has conjured up for himself and does not truly lie between father and son right now.]
[Although there's a slight furrow in his brow, Vergil does not look at Nero with a critical eye right now.]
Nero, stop. Just listen to me. And before you respond, just take a moment with my words first. A real moment. Not in one ear and out the other.
[One of his hands moves down to Nero's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.]
When I was a boy, all I ever wanted was to please my parents. Nothing made me happier when Mother told me I did something well, or Father said he was proud of me. But nothing made me feel angrier or more frustrated and disappointed in myself than when I felt I fell short of their expectations. Mother barely had to say or do anything for me to know I disappointed her, and I would be in an inconsolable fit of tears. All it took was a few words from Father and I would be stuck replaying them over and over in my head for days afterward. It did not matter to me if it was a mistake that could not have been prevented, or if my own expectations were simply unreasonable, or how foolish I felt for my outbursts later. My reaction was the same each time.
But what I did not understand then is that regardless of whether either of them were ever truly disappointed or I had simply imagined it, they did not think of my mistakes afterward. My mistakes never really mattered, and were never such devastating blows as I thought they were in how they thought of me or what they felt towards me.
[Much as the problem Nero's conjured for himself exists only in his head, so, too, did those problems only exist in Vergil's head. It's a habit Vergil knows he still carries, still becomes lost in once the tide of emotion arises even when a rational part of himself knows better. After all, the memories of his parents still remains colored by those old concerns and hurts even as much as he can recognize now how wrong he was. It's just simply not something that disappears overnight as much as Vergil wishes it could or would be.]
So, whatever outcome you have convinced yourself hangs in the balance, I am telling you that it does not. Whatever opinion you think I might have of you right now, I promise you I do not hold it. [He gives Nero's shoulder another squeeze.] You have nothing to prove to me, Nero. You could have landed absolutely no blows today, and I would not think of you any differently than I did before we sparred.
You are my son. And I will always be proud of you. What you do or do not do will never change that.
[He doesn't try to argue or refuse to listen, even if he does have to divert his eyes. He just can't keep Vergil's gaze while his father absolutely pinpoints the worry, like he can see easily through all the emotional muck and hangups and whatever else makes it too tangled for Nero to figure out himself. Because it sounds like he went through the very same thing once.
He's had A Parent for all of a few months now, and didn't expect all the immediate, inborn longing for acknowledgment that would come with it. Though it's not a new feeling at all. Nero's felt it since he was little, when he would act on his best behavior for Sister Maria in particular, because it made her smile. Since he'd be obedient for Kyrie's parents whenever they visited. Since he sweat and bled and cried for Credo's approval, torn between how much he craved it and how much he hated falling in line, trying to sand off his edges to fit in with the other knights. The more time passes since his mentor's death, the more Nero wishes he was here so he could ask him if he ever could have made him happy. If he ever did. If it would have stopped him from falling in with Sanctus' plans and betraying Nero, then changing his mind and dying for it.
There's always been Kyrie, but she's always been his peer. He craved for the approval of an authority, an older man especially. But growing up without parents, without anyone but authority that only wanted him when he behaved and followed orders, that was the only way to receive it. What other way would anyone ever approve of him? What would otherwise stop them from rejecting him, too?
Now as plainly as if it was written on his shirt, Vergil's seen how desperately he's trying to prove himself to him, and told him that he does not need to. That he's proud of him. His father is proud of him, regardless of how he fights or what he does.
He can't even lift his fact again for a moment, eyes clenched shut, tears silently trailing down his cheeks.]
Nobody ever-- has been. Nobody wanted me to be me. Just to shut up and fight.
Your uncle and I only want you to be safe and happy, [he says, wiping away the tears with the hand not upon his shoulder. Normally, he would not speak for Dante like that, but he cannot imagine Dante objecting to that assertion. Not when he sacrificed so much in those five years in keeping Nero at arm's length to avoid drawing Nero further into his grandfather's legacy and the consequences that come from it.] It is not for us to decide anything else for you beyond that.
[He wonders if Nero knows just how different his life would have been had circumstances been so that Vergil would have had the courage to stay with his mother even if not in Fortuna. He knows there's likely been fantasies built up in his head of what it would have been to have two parents who loved him more than anything, but there are probably still yet some things he cannot fathom because it simply is impossible to know so intimately the things one has not experienced firsthand. But Vergil would like to think in those circumstances, where he had it within him to stay instead of running away as he had in reality, Nero would have been permitted to grow up without ever needing to pick up a sword. That he would have been allowed to pursue any number of passions long before learning to wield a blade or firing a gun. And even in the absence of that ideal, Vergil would hope that Nero would know his worth had either one of his parents if not both of them in his life. He did not need to prove anything to anyone because he was loved so tremendously beyond just the moment he was born and whatever time Beatrice was able to give him.]
If all I cared for was your strength and skill in battle, why would I ever watch those videos of those men beating one another senseless with chairs or dropping down on one another from ladders with you when you ask? Why would I see to it that your home here has a place where you can work on your projects at your leisure? Much less, why would I ever allow you to put me in that horrendous sweater on Christmas?
Frankly, if the sweater did not result in me renouncing you as my son, you should remain confident nothing will.
[He's joking a little by the end there with the commentary upon the matching Christmas sweaters to lighten some of the tension he knows Nero must be feeling, but the point is nonetheless a serious one. If all he was ever interested in was knowing his son's strength as a warrior, and it was that alone that sparked any interest in Nero, he wouldn't have wholeheartedly agreed to delay sparring with him like this, and instead taken the time to learn more of his interests and hobbies. Even as Vergil asks perhaps too many questions during the wrestling videos and he somewhat awkwardly just keeps himself out of the way when he pays a visit to Nero in the garage, he's present in those moments for the same reason he's willing to listen to songs that are far from the sort of music he enjoys and tries a sample of food when he's asked. They are things important to his son, and whether or not Vergil necessarily likes any of it or understands their appeal, it still helps him to understand and know Nero better. And it's worth whatever confusion or discomfort or awkwardness that might sometimes come along with it for the sake of knowing Nero because Nero shall always be worth it.]
[That his father and uncle want him to be safe and happy. Sometimes, it's to an annoying level-- like Dante's bad habit of shoving Nero out of things that really ought to be his business, even for his own good. But that aside, neither of them have ever given him reason to believe he's only worth what strength he has as a fighter. Dante, certainly never. And Vergil... even his far more stern, less social, more combat-focused father has done nothing to suggest it. Not with any of his cognizant actions, anyway. It's not fair to hold Urizen against him, or to extrapolate assumptions about him into unwritten standards that Vergil himself has never tried to impose.
It's as Nero said. A problem he created himself, spun up from his own experiences, the damage he carries from his childhood. On some level he knows that, and yet... there is something incredibly powerful about hearing Vergil say it all explicitly.
He sniffles. Clenches his eyes shut when Vergil touches his face. So this is what it feels like to have your father wipe your tears away... even as part of him is embarrassed for it, another part marvels and treasures the opportunity. And he can't help but crack a smile when Vergil mentions the sweater, which he was inarguably a good sport about. And the wrestling. And all the other shit Nero's been putting him through out of powerful desire to find common ground, to build something solid with his father. The same desire that makes him panic when he feels inadequate at the one thing he does know they both share.
Nero shakes his head a little and reaches up to rub his own eyes with both hands. Building his composure back, little by little.]
I'm not good at believing that kind of stuff. But I'm trying to learn how to. [A swallow, and he peers at Vergil between his fingers. It's just as he said before.] New at this "son" thing, you know?
[Vergil's hands fall away from Nero as he reaches up to rub his own eyes, leaving him unimpeded in gathering himself back up. There's a brief flicker of a smile as it seems everything has settled down. At least for now. It's certainly not going to be the last time the feeling of inadequacy rears its ugly head for either of them, and it would be foolish to assume otherwise. But at the very least, Nero is feeling better, and he believes Vergil for the moment that his opinion of Nero is not rooted in his strength or fighting prowess never mind his performance today. Not that there was anything actually poor about it to begin with. The fact he landed anything for his first time sparring with Vergil is impressive in its own right.]
[Perhaps he may believe Vergil's word more that he did well if he ends up sharing any of the training itself with Dante. He can't imagine his brother wouldn't praise Nero for getting in the dozen or so strikes he managed, knowing the difficulty Vergil poses with his speed alone. Nero ought to trust his opinion enough to know Dante isn't out to just inflate his ego, and Vergil was not merely saying as much in attempt to soothe a bruised ego.]
You've done well at it so far, [he says, transferring Yamato back to his hand.] Go on and collect your blade. If you're anything like your uncle, I imagine you've worked up an appetite by now.
[It does help that he frankly cannot imagine Vergil saying anything untrue in order to soothe a bruised ego. Or lying in general. The man is honest to a fault on basically any topic that doesn't involve himself. If he was just puffing up Nero to make him feel better, it would be incredibly obvious.
The anger is fading, and he's left to deal with the embarrassment and shame it leaves behind. A ridiculous display by any definition. But he tries hard to apply that grace of his inward, treat it the way he did when Vergil flew off the handle that day they had their hard conversation. Firmly, but kindly: stop beating yourself up. Especially over things that nobody is going to hold against you.
Jeez. They really are father and son, huh...
Still, red-eyed and both physically and emotionally sore, he does look a little hangover-sulky yet as he heads over to pull Red Queen out of the ground.]
I'm starving. [And beat to hell. He really wants to sit down for like, half a day.] What are you thinking?
Your choice. I'm not particularly hungry, [he says, watching Nero as he makes his way back to Red Queen and removes her from the ground. Nero does well in masking it, but Vergil would hazard a guess that he's more bruised than he's letting on. Vergil did not take it easy on him simply because Nero is his son. Mistakes as they sparred were punished just harshly and swiftly as they would be were it anyone else in the absence of Nero setting a further limit.]
God, how? [Muttered more to himself than a real question. He could take out an entire cow right now with the hollow emptiness in his stomach. It's like every calorie he ate so far today went straight through him and came out in sparring.
As he straps Red Queen to his back, he thinks about it a moment.]
I want noodles. Like a big ol' honking bowl of noodle soup.
[Even if he hadn't muttered it to himself, the most Vergil would be able to give in response would be a shrug. There's been enough periods of time in his life where he's had less, and less secure means of feeding himself that he's grown accustomed to it. At least, that's how Vergil would prefer to think of it relative to the alternatives of how other things in his life may have changed him.]
[At his request for a large bowl of noodles, Vergil nods and draws Yamato once more to open a portal. He knows of a place in Epiphany. He's been there a handful of times with Mizu after a morning or afternoon in the library together before parting ways. If the portions lent themselves to Mizu not ordering several bowls, they should be enough for Nero. He waits until Nero joins him again before stepping through the portal and out the other side to the street in Epiphany.]
[The doorway to the shop is just a few steps down from the street itself, and left wide open even in the cooler temperatures of winter. Even standing on the street itself, the heat of the shop can be felt radiating outward. A wooden menu board sits outside just next to the entryway with a listing of the day's specials, pictures included. Vergil walks ahead of Nero, but stops at the entryway to raise the cloth banners hanging down with Yamato for Nero to duck inside first. The majority of seating inside is countertop, right in front of the kitchen area, but there are a few small tables scattered about the rest of the floor that can be moved around with chairs as needed for larger groups.]
Pick what you want, [Vergil says, nodding to the ticket machine near to the entrance with the entirety of the menu available, including appetizers, beverages, and dessert.] Take the ticket to the counter, pay, and have a seat wherever you like.
[Normally, Vergil would be willing to pay for whatever Nero wanted and one look at the prices on the ticket machine would indicate this isn't a particularly expensive menu. But his funds are a little depleted after the holiday, and while he would not necessarily admit such a thing aloud... Vergil is willing to allow mild implication by not making any offer to pay.]
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[Nero should be just as proud of what he's managed today as he is over his victory atop the Qliphoth. Perhaps even prouder. But Vergil senses that rather than taking pleasure in finding a way through Vergil's guard or correctly reading his movements to avoid a blow, Nero instead only buries himself in frustration when his next strike doesn't land or it ends up that it was a feint and he finds himself quickly facedown again.]
[Vergil sheathes Yamato as it strikes him just how much this is like looking into a mirror. Nero fixates on his perceived inadequacies to the detriment of everything else, and his temper only increasing as a consequence in frustration with himself because of what he believes he should be capable of versus his actual performance. Historically and even now, Vergil is much the same way albeit his frustrations these days do not stem from shortcomings he identifies in battle.]
This isn't a real fight, Nero. [In contrast to Nero, Vergil does not adopt a stance again. He stands there opposite his son, trying to convince him that this has been enough for today rather than encouraging him to push forward instead.] There is no need to push yourself to exhaustion today.
[He shakes his head slightly.]
You've done well, but it will defeat the purpose of this to press on any further.
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Besides, he's already exhausted, so what's a little more?]
You giving up already? [The quip lands a bit hollow, given Nero looks like a gentle push could knock him over at this point.] I'm not done. I'm better than this.
[He revs Red Queen over his shoulder, lighting the engine with flames.]
Square up. Come on.
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[No real option feels like the right one inherently, but Vergil still believes it to be better that Nero does not push himself now.]
Your form is becoming sloppier than it was when we began because you are beginning to overexert yourself. [Vergil is beginning to realize he perhaps should have put a stop to this a few rounds prior. Perhaps it would not be so difficult as it appears to be now.] There is no shame in recognizing a limit, Nero. Sloppy form grows to become habit to become muscle memory, and we both know what the outcomes are if you bring that into true battles.
[It becomes much harder to train that out of oneself than to accept the limit exists where it does.]
You will not do better today, but you will tomorrow if you exercise wisdom now and rest.
no subject
[He is tired. He is sloppy. Of course he can't top Vergil. Of course he's barely holding his own. He should just give up and quit before he embarrasses himself even worse. Before he gets this sloppy in every fight because of muscle memory, like his dad says. What if he sucked this much in every fight? If this is the best he can do maybe he just sucks in general? But seriously, there's nothing at stake here, except an outsized chunk of his pride that suggests there are, uh, some issues being tied up with what's supposed to be a basic spar. Who cares?
Nero does. A hell of a fucking lot.
His fingers shake on the grip of his sword as his wings appear, and a wave of demonic energy simmers around him, not quite firing yet but threatening to.]
I'm fucking better than this. I'll prove it.
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Nero, enough.
[There is nothing to prove. There are no demons to be fought. He's gearing up to fight purely on emotion alone rather than thought or technique. It serves only to his detriment, and he has to realize that. There has to be some part of him that does.]
[But Vergil is through appealing to it. His tone is more warning than advisement at this point, which is why he says nothing further. Just those two words alone.]
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He teeters forward, then back again. Then further back as the futility sinks in. Finally, he swings Red Queen over his shoulder. The gout of flame that bursts from the engines makes it look much more dramatic when he slams it crookedly into the dirt and leaves it sticking there.]
Fuck!!
[He kicks the dirt almost as hard as he turns around, fists clenched, stomping furiously a few paces away as he tries to get a handle on his flaring temper.]
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[It's perhaps not particularly advisable to approach Nero right now. In fact, Vergil hesitates a moment before doing so, wondering if the best thing to do is interpret the steps away as his implicit request for space. But his concerns outweigh everything else, the ache he feels in his chest at seeing his child struggling in a way he had yet to witness until now leading him to walk past Red Queen in the dirt and through the additional paces. Vergil says his name again, much softer this time, before he reaches out to try and place a hand on his shoulder, attempting to pull him in for a tight embrace.]
[If he's rebuffed, so be it. Vergil thinks it far worse to just stand there passively observing Nero as he is now. He'll only try again one more time in that instance before giving up on it albeit remaining close by.]
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There's movement at the corner of his eye, a hand on his shoulder, and he spins around defensively. Vergil moves in and out of sheer reflex he swats and stumbles back a step, and it's then with the second attempt that he realizes his father is trying to... hug him? This makes him freeze, torn between angry reflex and his implicit desire not to shun Vergil's clumsy attempts at affection.
So he ends up in Vergil's embrace the second time. Still outrageously pissed about basically nothing, and his fists remain clenched at his side rather than returning the gesture. But his weight slumps forward and his forehead thumps against Vergil's shoulder, unmistakable signs of surrender.
His shoulders tremble and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back tears. It's fine. He's fine. Vergil can hold him tight as he likes. He just needs a minute.]
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[Vergil can't really say he's necessarily gotten better about it per se. It comes out a little differently now at forty-four than it did at five or eight, after all. But he knows the only way past it is through, and he knows now it's better when he's not riding the flood of emotion all by himself. Even if in some ways it feels awful not to deal with it on his own, it's ultimately better knowing someone is there on the other side of it.]
It's okay, [he says, quietly.]
[He does not urge Nero one way or another on how to handle it any more than he really attempts to rush him along. He lets Nero find his own way through, trusting that he knows it better than Vergil possibly could. Vergil's hand drops from Nero's head to between his shoulders, rubbing a few circles there as Nero shakes and trembles before stilling his hand again. Vergil keeps his own breath steady and even against Nero's more labored, agitated breathing.]
You're okay.
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He lingers there a minute, letting the rage and frustration and everything else rush over him like he's standing still in a rough surf. At a certain point it crests and finally starts to flow away, leaving embarrassment and shame in its wake.
It's a few minutes before Nero moves. It's to bring one of those balled fists forward in a gentle, frustrated thump against Vergil's leg.]
This is so fucking stupid.
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You are being too harsh in your judgment of yourself.
[Now and before. A statement of observation rather than a criticism of his behavior.]
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[That obvious, is it? (Yes.)
He relaxes a little further, slumping a little harder on Vergil. The other fist mirrors the first, but the movement is more of a dull thump than a deliberate action this time.]
It's stupid.
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[Nero couldn't necessarily be faulted if he felt the question wasn't sincere. Most people probably would not ask and would make their safe assumptions about why Nero felt the whole affair has been, in his own words, stupid. But for better or worse, Vergil tries to err on the side of caution when it comes to assumptions pertaining to Nero as best he can.]
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[He stumbles over words. Lifts his forehead and then thumps it down again. Not only is it stupid, it's so stupid he can't really parse it into words.]
I'm not like this. I can fucking handle it when I struggle. I'm not a damn child.
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[The arm around Nero releases before the Yamato is tucked beneath Vergil's arm at his side. He nudges Nero to stand upright a little better, holding Nero's face in both of his hands.]
I know you are not a child, but you have also not been someone's son for any longer than I have been someone's father. So, if I may suggest it, you ought to try extending some of the same grace you have given me in that regard to yourself right now.
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He feels terribly vulnerable with his face between Vergil's hands, brought up to look him in the eye. The expression is something quite similar to worry, in fact.]
It's not you. It's me. [He's not sure why that's the very first thing he needs to say. But there it is.] It's stupid. It's not even a real problem.
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[Although there's a slight furrow in his brow, Vergil does not look at Nero with a critical eye right now.]
Nero, stop. Just listen to me. And before you respond, just take a moment with my words first. A real moment. Not in one ear and out the other.
[One of his hands moves down to Nero's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.]
When I was a boy, all I ever wanted was to please my parents. Nothing made me happier when Mother told me I did something well, or Father said he was proud of me. But nothing made me feel angrier or more frustrated and disappointed in myself than when I felt I fell short of their expectations. Mother barely had to say or do anything for me to know I disappointed her, and I would be in an inconsolable fit of tears. All it took was a few words from Father and I would be stuck replaying them over and over in my head for days afterward. It did not matter to me if it was a mistake that could not have been prevented, or if my own expectations were simply unreasonable, or how foolish I felt for my outbursts later. My reaction was the same each time.
But what I did not understand then is that regardless of whether either of them were ever truly disappointed or I had simply imagined it, they did not think of my mistakes afterward. My mistakes never really mattered, and were never such devastating blows as I thought they were in how they thought of me or what they felt towards me.
[Much as the problem Nero's conjured for himself exists only in his head, so, too, did those problems only exist in Vergil's head. It's a habit Vergil knows he still carries, still becomes lost in once the tide of emotion arises even when a rational part of himself knows better. After all, the memories of his parents still remains colored by those old concerns and hurts even as much as he can recognize now how wrong he was. It's just simply not something that disappears overnight as much as Vergil wishes it could or would be.]
So, whatever outcome you have convinced yourself hangs in the balance, I am telling you that it does not. Whatever opinion you think I might have of you right now, I promise you I do not hold it. [He gives Nero's shoulder another squeeze.] You have nothing to prove to me, Nero. You could have landed absolutely no blows today, and I would not think of you any differently than I did before we sparred.
You are my son. And I will always be proud of you. What you do or do not do will never change that.
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He's had A Parent for all of a few months now, and didn't expect all the immediate, inborn longing for acknowledgment that would come with it. Though it's not a new feeling at all. Nero's felt it since he was little, when he would act on his best behavior for Sister Maria in particular, because it made her smile. Since he'd be obedient for Kyrie's parents whenever they visited. Since he sweat and bled and cried for Credo's approval, torn between how much he craved it and how much he hated falling in line, trying to sand off his edges to fit in with the other knights. The more time passes since his mentor's death, the more Nero wishes he was here so he could ask him if he ever could have made him happy. If he ever did. If it would have stopped him from falling in with Sanctus' plans and betraying Nero, then changing his mind and dying for it.
There's always been Kyrie, but she's always been his peer. He craved for the approval of an authority, an older man especially. But growing up without parents, without anyone but authority that only wanted him when he behaved and followed orders, that was the only way to receive it. What other way would anyone ever approve of him? What would otherwise stop them from rejecting him, too?
Now as plainly as if it was written on his shirt, Vergil's seen how desperately he's trying to prove himself to him, and told him that he does not need to. That he's proud of him. His father is proud of him, regardless of how he fights or what he does.
He can't even lift his fact again for a moment, eyes clenched shut, tears silently trailing down his cheeks.]
Nobody ever-- has been. Nobody wanted me to be me. Just to shut up and fight.
[He sniffles loudly.]
But Dante. And you...
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[He wonders if Nero knows just how different his life would have been had circumstances been so that Vergil would have had the courage to stay with his mother even if not in Fortuna. He knows there's likely been fantasies built up in his head of what it would have been to have two parents who loved him more than anything, but there are probably still yet some things he cannot fathom because it simply is impossible to know so intimately the things one has not experienced firsthand. But Vergil would like to think in those circumstances, where he had it within him to stay instead of running away as he had in reality, Nero would have been permitted to grow up without ever needing to pick up a sword. That he would have been allowed to pursue any number of passions long before learning to wield a blade or firing a gun. And even in the absence of that ideal, Vergil would hope that Nero would know his worth had either one of his parents if not both of them in his life. He did not need to prove anything to anyone because he was loved so tremendously beyond just the moment he was born and whatever time Beatrice was able to give him.]
If all I cared for was your strength and skill in battle, why would I ever watch those videos of those men beating one another senseless with chairs or dropping down on one another from ladders with you when you ask? Why would I see to it that your home here has a place where you can work on your projects at your leisure? Much less, why would I ever allow you to put me in that horrendous sweater on Christmas?
Frankly, if the sweater did not result in me renouncing you as my son, you should remain confident nothing will.
[He's joking a little by the end there with the commentary upon the matching Christmas sweaters to lighten some of the tension he knows Nero must be feeling, but the point is nonetheless a serious one. If all he was ever interested in was knowing his son's strength as a warrior, and it was that alone that sparked any interest in Nero, he wouldn't have wholeheartedly agreed to delay sparring with him like this, and instead taken the time to learn more of his interests and hobbies. Even as Vergil asks perhaps too many questions during the wrestling videos and he somewhat awkwardly just keeps himself out of the way when he pays a visit to Nero in the garage, he's present in those moments for the same reason he's willing to listen to songs that are far from the sort of music he enjoys and tries a sample of food when he's asked. They are things important to his son, and whether or not Vergil necessarily likes any of it or understands their appeal, it still helps him to understand and know Nero better. And it's worth whatever confusion or discomfort or awkwardness that might sometimes come along with it for the sake of knowing Nero because Nero shall always be worth it.]
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[That his father and uncle want him to be safe and happy. Sometimes, it's to an annoying level-- like Dante's bad habit of shoving Nero out of things that really ought to be his business, even for his own good. But that aside, neither of them have ever given him reason to believe he's only worth what strength he has as a fighter. Dante, certainly never. And Vergil... even his far more stern, less social, more combat-focused father has done nothing to suggest it. Not with any of his cognizant actions, anyway. It's not fair to hold Urizen against him, or to extrapolate assumptions about him into unwritten standards that Vergil himself has never tried to impose.
It's as Nero said. A problem he created himself, spun up from his own experiences, the damage he carries from his childhood. On some level he knows that, and yet... there is something incredibly powerful about hearing Vergil say it all explicitly.
He sniffles. Clenches his eyes shut when Vergil touches his face. So this is what it feels like to have your father wipe your tears away... even as part of him is embarrassed for it, another part marvels and treasures the opportunity. And he can't help but crack a smile when Vergil mentions the sweater, which he was inarguably a good sport about. And the wrestling. And all the other shit Nero's been putting him through out of powerful desire to find common ground, to build something solid with his father. The same desire that makes him panic when he feels inadequate at the one thing he does know they both share.
Nero shakes his head a little and reaches up to rub his own eyes with both hands. Building his composure back, little by little.]
I'm not good at believing that kind of stuff. But I'm trying to learn how to. [A swallow, and he peers at Vergil between his fingers. It's just as he said before.] New at this "son" thing, you know?
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[Perhaps he may believe Vergil's word more that he did well if he ends up sharing any of the training itself with Dante. He can't imagine his brother wouldn't praise Nero for getting in the dozen or so strikes he managed, knowing the difficulty Vergil poses with his speed alone. Nero ought to trust his opinion enough to know Dante isn't out to just inflate his ego, and Vergil was not merely saying as much in attempt to soothe a bruised ego.]
You've done well at it so far, [he says, transferring Yamato back to his hand.] Go on and collect your blade. If you're anything like your uncle, I imagine you've worked up an appetite by now.
Unless you'd like to just return home.
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The anger is fading, and he's left to deal with the embarrassment and shame it leaves behind. A ridiculous display by any definition. But he tries hard to apply that grace of his inward, treat it the way he did when Vergil flew off the handle that day they had their hard conversation. Firmly, but kindly: stop beating yourself up. Especially over things that nobody is going to hold against you.
Jeez. They really are father and son, huh...
Still, red-eyed and both physically and emotionally sore, he does look a little hangover-sulky yet as he heads over to pull Red Queen out of the ground.]
I'm starving. [And beat to hell. He really wants to sit down for like, half a day.] What are you thinking?
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As he straps Red Queen to his back, he thinks about it a moment.]
I want noodles. Like a big ol' honking bowl of noodle soup.
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[At his request for a large bowl of noodles, Vergil nods and draws Yamato once more to open a portal. He knows of a place in Epiphany. He's been there a handful of times with Mizu after a morning or afternoon in the library together before parting ways. If the portions lent themselves to Mizu not ordering several bowls, they should be enough for Nero. He waits until Nero joins him again before stepping through the portal and out the other side to the street in Epiphany.]
[The doorway to the shop is just a few steps down from the street itself, and left wide open even in the cooler temperatures of winter. Even standing on the street itself, the heat of the shop can be felt radiating outward. A wooden menu board sits outside just next to the entryway with a listing of the day's specials, pictures included. Vergil walks ahead of Nero, but stops at the entryway to raise the cloth banners hanging down with Yamato for Nero to duck inside first. The majority of seating inside is countertop, right in front of the kitchen area, but there are a few small tables scattered about the rest of the floor that can be moved around with chairs as needed for larger groups.]
Pick what you want, [Vergil says, nodding to the ticket machine near to the entrance with the entirety of the menu available, including appetizers, beverages, and dessert.] Take the ticket to the counter, pay, and have a seat wherever you like.
[Normally, Vergil would be willing to pay for whatever Nero wanted and one look at the prices on the ticket machine would indicate this isn't a particularly expensive menu. But his funds are a little depleted after the holiday, and while he would not necessarily admit such a thing aloud... Vergil is willing to allow mild implication by not making any offer to pay.]
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