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The night had slipped on in silence, broken only by the tapping of the wind against the windows. Vergil, half-asleep in the warmth of the blankets, felt the weight of Dante beside him, his warm, spiced scent mingling with his own. But something was missing. He reached out to the empty space next to him.
Nero’s scent—fresher, with that mineral note his demon associated with youth—wasn’t where it should be. He hadn’t come up. From the temperature in the room between the two of them, it was clear he hadn’t entered the nest all night, since returning from the mission with Nico.
Vergil opened his eyes and sharpened his hearing. The room was dark, calm… but from downstairs, an irregular rhythm of low whimpers and rustling fabric filtered up from the living room. He carefully sat up; the slight shift in the mattress made Dante, still asleep, let out a grumble of protest before settling back among the blankets. Vergil rose without a sound, guided by the faint trail slipping along the hallway. The boy had bathed, surely after arriving: the scent of shampoo and soap still lingered in the bathroom air, a sign that only a few hours had passed since his return.
At the end of the hallway, looking down from the top of the stairs, he found Nero lying on the three-seater red sofa, near the jukebox. His brow was furrowed even in sleep. From time to time, a low gurgle escaped his throat—not human, but the instinctive sound of his uneasy demon.
Vergil descended the stairs silently and stopped to watch him, protective instinct rising with a clarity that required no thought. Nero had arrived late that day and didn’t want to be a nuisance; he had surely decided to wait until morning to announce his return.
He leaned down and, with his knuckles, gently brushed the boy’s cheek. The eyelids lifted just enough to reveal two narrow slits of demonic yellow. Nero’s human side remained sleepy and drowsy, while his demon gave a flicker of recognition. The gurgle returned, softer this time, resonating from deep within him.
“Come to us,” Vergil said, in a firm whisper that allowed no refusal.
In silence, he rose and followed him upstairs. As soon as he sank into the blankets, he found his place in the exact space between the two demons. The enveloping warmth, the steady, deep pulse around him, immediately lulled him into a profound sleep.
----
The darkness in the room was dense, barely marked by the deep rhythm of their breaths. A low, wet whimper, vibrating in Nero’s throat, reached Vergil’s demonic hearing and pulled him from his stupor. The boy, lying on his side with his back to his uncle, trapped between the two, shifted in his sleep. His hands clenched against the sheets, and from time to time, a spasm ran through his legs or along his back.
Vergil’s eyes fluttered open; two blue slits cut through the gloom. At the same time, on the other side, Dante opened his as well: red and alert, like embers waiting to ignite. Both of them fixed their gaze on the young man.
Nero growled in his sleep, twisting slightly, as if his body were fighting something invisible. Dante reacted first: he wrapped a heavy arm around him, pressed against his back, and buried his face in the nape of his neck. The warmth of his younger brother enveloped him, and the whimper faded into a long, deep sigh.
For a moment, silence seemed to return.
It was broken by a rough moan from Nero’s throat, a pained sound belonging more to his demon than to his human side.
Suddenly, the boy sat up, though his body seemed still asleep. His eyes, still clouded, fluctuated between human blue and a rising gold, like embers struggling to ignite.
Vergil and Dante moved almost simultaneously: the elder rested an arm on the mattress and tilted his head with a puzzled expression, wrinkling his nose; the other pulled his own back with a low snort and arched his brows. Both, with bright, feline eyes, scanned the young man sitting between them.
Nero remained seated, suspended between sleep and wakefulness. His hands moved on their own, awkwardly scratching his neck, forearm, and side. Automatic, unconscious gestures, as if his body were trying to rid itself of an invisible discomfort.
Vergil noticed immediately. The blue of his pupils sharpened, and his protective instinct rose with clarity. He inhaled calmly but wrinkled his nose instantly: a harsh, mineral hint, too familiar. His pupils narrowed as his demon recognized it: earthy, brittle… the trace of old skin peeling away, a memory buried deep within his very nature.
----
Nero, still with clouded eyes, let out another low growl and scratched his forearm clumsily again. Vergil leaned in closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Wake up, Nero,” he murmured, with the gravity of an order, but without raising his voice.
The boy blinked several times, as if struggling to emerge from his lethargy. His breathing remained heavy, drawn out, and his hands continued to move almost automatically.
Vergil lowered his gaze to them. The knuckles looked tense, the skin rougher than usual, a dull shade appearing at the edges. He leaned toward him, extending his own open hand.
“Show me one of yours.”
The voice carried no harshness, yet it was impossible to mistake it for a mere request.
Nero reacted instantly: his eyes opened a little wider, enough to reveal the human blue gleam. The confusion of not understanding how he had arrived in the nest gave way to a defensive spark, and his lips pressed together in protest.
“What? No, I’m fine. I can handle it myself.”
Vergil’s brow arched with feline patience. His hand remained there, motionless, waiting.
From his side, Dante let out a short, harmless laugh. He drew in a breath, as if confirming a suspicion, and smiled slightly, with that expression of his that could mean both amusement and warning.
“It’s scratching at your soul, kid…” he commented.
“Not funny, old man,” Nero protested, turning toward him with an annoyed glint in his eyes.
“I can fix it. I’ll even wash the sheets… the clothes…” Nero hurried to add, a thread of guilt in his voice, “…and get rid of any demon mites or fleas I might have brought back from the last mission.”
He glanced at Vergil with poorly disguised worry, as if fearing his carelessness might affect the whole family.
The elder’s hand remained there, patient, awaiting his. Vergil did not move, but the stillness of his posture was more commanding than any verbal order. Finally, Nero relented with a huff and placed his hand over Vergil’s.
The skin was calloused, more than usual. Vergil turned the wrist carefully, inspecting the palm, the knuckles, the rough texture in various spots. There were reddened areas, others where the tone took on a darker hue, as if something beneath the surface was demanding space.
Now Vergil understood why he hadn’t come up to sleep.
Nero looked away, uncomfortable, ignoring that every touch of his father’s fingers sent a shiver through the deepest part of his being—one he still did not fully understand—a soothing lull he was not accustomed to.
“First molt,” the elder declared, voice deep and calm, as if announcing something inevitable.
“Mol…t?” Nero repeated, incredulous. “What am I, a reptile now?”
“Well, about that…” Dante murmured, scratching his beard.
“What?” Nero stammered, looking at him with the same expression he had worn when told that Vergil was his father.
Nero wanted to shower again. The stinging drilled into his nerves, and in his head his demon clawed desperately, whining for a solution he did not know how to provide. Frustration mingled with dense shame, giving him a headache. He did not want to be watched; he wanted to curl up in a corner and remain silent, away from everything… but Vergil’s hands held him in place, firm yet gentle, carefully inspecting the rough edges rising on his skin.
The meticulous touch of those expert fingers sent an electric shiver down his spine. He felt his demon relax under the contact, as if all irritation melted away under that patient attention. Then he heard it: a deep sound, almost a purr, vibrating in the elder’s chest. An instinctive approval, restrained, leaving him still and bewildered.
“It’s normal,” Vergil said, without taking his eyes off the skin. “But it won’t be solved with moisturizer or just hot water and soap. Dante and I experience it too… and it will happen again.”
“Yes, but you managed it on your own, didn’t you?” Nero looked away, a lump in his throat. “And look at me… me, a damn adult, knowing nothing, here relying on it being explained step by step, like a child… This is… ridiculous.”
Dante leaned forward, and the warm, spiced scent of his skin filled the thick air of the room.
“It’s not ridiculous, kid. It’s natural. And… you look cute like this, growling.”
“I’m going to…” Nero clenched his jaw but did not move.
Vergil released his wrist and, instead of pulling away, placed a warm hand on the back of the boy’s neck. The heat seeped to his bones, and something inside him, tense for days, softened just slightly. A quiet, sweet, strange relief enveloped him as Vergil’s firm yet careful pressure conveyed acceptance and protection, beyond any physical discomfort.
----
Vergil had already brought a warm towel and a bowl of barely hot water. Steam rose in fine threads, undulating through the air. The fresh scent of the water contrasted with the rancid smell of old skin still lingering in the room, mingling with the deep musk of the two older demons. Nero could even taste it with each breath: a thick, metallic-sweet flavor, like wet earth after rain.
“Take off your shirt,” Vergil ordered, without raising his voice.
Nero murmured a protest and hesitated, not moving a muscle. Dante slid in front of him and, without waiting, pulled the fabric up to his chest. The rough contact against sensitive areas made him hiss involuntarily; the friction scraped his exposed skin, making every dry, tight patch burn a little more. The warm light of the room cast uneven relief over his shoulders and revealed patches on his back, like clusters of allergy marks.
Dante’s hands, warm and hardened by calluses, slid slowly over his shoulders. There was no hurry in his gestures; a soft purr escaped his throat, and with a gentle brush of his nails, he managed to make the boy stop protesting.
“Activate your trigger; it’ll be easier that way,” Dante instructed softly.
Nero hesitated, thinking that transforming might relieve the unbearable sensation. His demon was already gnawing at him like a spoiled child demanding attention, and he thought that letting it out would ease the discomfort. With a sigh, he allowed the Devil Trigger to emerge—not explosively like in combat, but in a slow, almost resigned progression.
His skin began to darken, taking on a deep blue tone with turquoise highlights. A scaly texture and hardened plates appeared in waves; translucent wings unfolded from his back, glowing a luminous, ethereal blue. His arms and legs were covered in rough black plates ending in sharp claws. His face remained low, silver hair concealing golden eyes filled with shame and irritation. Instinctively, Nero scratched his nose, as he always did when discomfort overwhelmed him.
But instead of improving, the itching intensified, forcing a low, pained sound from him. The problem areas became even more exposed: small opaque scales began to lift and fall off like sparkling dust in the light. Others, stubborn, clung tenaciously, forming rough, discolored patches that pulled at the living skin whenever he moved. At his joints and shoulders, the tightness mingled with a sharp itch, like tiny needles pushing from within. Between plate and hardened plate, dead remnants accumulated, rubbing harshly and irritating the new skin.
The contrast between clean areas and those covered in old remnants gave him an uneven, almost sickly appearance, clashing with the majesty his demonic form should radiate. A low whimper escaped him as he shifted, raising a claw to scratch at his ribs. The humiliation cut deep; he felt not only weak but also vulnerable.
Dante seemed pleased with the outcome. He purred with unmistakable delight, sighed, and extended a hand, carefully hooking a loose edge of a patch before lifting it. Each gentle tug drew an involuntary sigh of relief from Nero’s demon, though his jaw remained clenched, refusing to show it fully.
“Relax, kid. It’s family grooming,” Dante joked, in a lower voice than usual, carrying an instinctive undertone he didn’t seem to notice himself.
Vergil settled to one side, using the damp towel on the oldest, most stubborn patches. The contact made Nero flinch, but also gradually let go, surrendering to the silent care. Vergil worked with near-surgical precision: lifting hardened plates and removing them as if they were fragile porcelain fragments, careful not to damage the new, shiny skin beneath.
The deep purr returned to the elder’s chest, vibrating through the air like a profound echo Nero could feel in his ribs. Dante, without thinking, mimicked it; his had a warmer frequency, an enveloping pulse intertwined with his brother’s. Together, they created an invisible field of sound and warmth, a net that soothed the young beast deep within.
His breathing slowed, heavy. The warmth of the bodies on either side, the familiar scent anchoring him, and the strange yet comforting sensation of being held lulled him inexorably. Even the itch receded under the patient touch of nails that knew exactly where to press, scratch, and lift.
“You’re going to fall asleep,” Dante murmured, amused, as Nero’s head fell against his shoulder.
“No…” he protested, but his voice carried the same stubborn tone of a child refusing bedtime, dragging the syllable as if it could gain him ground. The contrast with his surrendered body, sinking into the warm drowsiness, made the gesture all the more childlike.
He barely heard Dante’s satisfied purr and his father’s affectionate murmur. Vergil removed one last fragment of old skin and placed it on the towel. Then, almost without thinking, he ran a hand through Nero’s hair, combing the long strands with slow, measured gestures.
“Rest. The rest can wait.”
Nero surrendered completely, and his eyelids closed. The last thought crossing his mind before yielding to sleep was that perhaps… it wasn’t so terrible to let himself be cared for.