[Nero recognizes that glance-away maneuver, knows it intimately. Honestly, every time he looks at Vergil and sees one of his own mannerisms unconsciously mirrored, it dawns on him once more, in sharper relief. But now that he's said it aloud, it's easier to think it without dodging around the word, or using his name, or tripping over a far too stuffy "father." This is his dad. And for the first time, he can admit that he means it as more than a bland descriptor. Vergil is his dad. He wants to be. He's fighting to be. And Nero wants him to be, too.
A quick swipe at his eyes isn't enough to fully hide the tears, but it takes care of most of them. With another snort he's through the worst of it, and he can even vaguely look in Vergil's direction again. Seeing him struggling with his own emotions hurts, but in the good way. Like stretching a sore muscle to the point it finally relaxes.
Then, for lack of a better description, Vergil can't hold back anymore and bursts forth an explosion of poetry. Nero smirks the moment he recognizes it, thinking fondly of V and his inscrutable soliloquies. Only this time, he recognizes it from somewhere else.]
William Blake, right?
[He reaches over and clasps Vergil on the forearm, a gesture of affection that isn't too over-the-top and doesn't require Nero getting up from his chair. Mostly because if he somehow coerces a hug from Vergil right now he's gonna fucking cry hysterically.
And with it comes a profound statement of understanding and empathy. The only thing he can really think to say to something like that.]
no subject
A quick swipe at his eyes isn't enough to fully hide the tears, but it takes care of most of them. With another snort he's through the worst of it, and he can even vaguely look in Vergil's direction again. Seeing him struggling with his own emotions hurts, but in the good way. Like stretching a sore muscle to the point it finally relaxes.
Then, for lack of a better description, Vergil can't hold back anymore and bursts forth an explosion of poetry. Nero smirks the moment he recognizes it, thinking fondly of V and his inscrutable soliloquies. Only this time, he recognizes it from somewhere else.]
William Blake, right?
[He reaches over and clasps Vergil on the forearm, a gesture of affection that isn't too over-the-top and doesn't require Nero getting up from his chair. Mostly because if he somehow coerces a hug from Vergil right now he's gonna fucking cry hysterically.
And with it comes a profound statement of understanding and empathy. The only thing he can really think to say to something like that.]
Ditto.