Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

Анон · 2015-07-03 12:51:43

А меня бесит юзер, который осел на заброшенном сообществе и стал постоянно там постить свои рисунки. Раньше было годное сообщество, где писали про актера в основном. Теперь выкладывают рисунки деффачкоф с яйками, а даже и без яек, выдавая типа за мужиков. Зацените:
http://bagoas-in-love.diary.ru/
У анона рука не поднимается отписаться, вдруг снова будут про актера постить.

*по 2103 стр.

▼ЛИЧНОЕ ДЕЛО⬍

▼ДЕВОМЕМЫ⬍

Анунахи, аннонаки. В треде прижился благодаря монструозному фиклу Бздевы "Аннунаки" и пародийным фикам анонов.

Асексаул - асексуал с девиной грамотностью.

Баклань. Эльва сама причислила себя к туркам и балканцам, анон принесший высер назвал ее туркой и бакланкой, а потом и Баклань появилось. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 3#p2132503

Баклажан. Девобатя. Пошло от его собственной многомудрой кортинощки с цытаткой https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 1#p2603661

Белое вино/испить белого вина - сперма/сделать минет. Из фика Девы "Аннунаки", в котором Александр "пьёт белое вино" Багоаса.

Бешеный бабуин - типаж мужчины мечты Эльвы. Стереотипный, агрессивный джигит с балшим кынжал, режущий глотки всем кто не так посмотрел.
Бугогас - от "Багоас". В исполнении Девы это нелепейшее существо, которое вызывает смех. Или фейспалм.

Я не гой. Ненавижу и презираю.
Гитрер, Сталин и Полпот.
Кострация.
Мемчики авторства самой Девы, были принесены из ее днявки еще в самом начале треда, потом Дева окуклилась и только два года спустя раскуклилась и анон внес содержимое ее днявки вместе со скринами
https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 0#p3356780
https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 7#p3356797

Гомодиды, гомодидятня, гомодинастия, гомоберложка, близуны, полировать бананы, невступление в секс, перейти/не перейти ЧЕРТУ - мемы порожденные совместным фичком Девы и Криски "Тайна близнецов Декарт", который пишется уже полтора года и родился из порноролевочки Девы и ее соавторши. Волосатый член, каждый яичко и растараненная попка - из прочих фиков их соавторства.

Груди-арбузы и жопы-дирижабли (дирижопли). От самой Девы https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 5#p1134765

Гомогусары. Создано аноном, как реакция на толпу абсолютно одинаковых персонажей Эльвы типажа "усатый гусар с ирокезом трахает девочку мальчика"

Девопризма - особо целомудренный и чистый взгляд Девы, превращающий персонажей в переломанных, жопастых уродов внешне и редкостных свиноебов внутренне, и перерождающий больноублюдочные отношения в виликую любовь.

Деревня Гомосеково/Колхоз Гомосеково. Пошло от Эльвиных йумарных фанфиков про Мехмедо-Раду и Грозный-Басманов в колхозных реалиях.

Духовное стояло. Мем авторства 48-го, порожденный во время очередного выпляса в защиту Пихмедки https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 4#p2653174

Дева не барышня. Из девиного бомбалейо о том, что она не возмущается, когда ее называют барышней, так и трансы МтФ не Лорды расстраиваться, что она считает их мужчинами https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pid=766563#p766563

Ебля в фонтанах - из фанфика Девы, в котором Александр Македонский и Багоас 20 дней подряд "предавались любовь в садах и фонтанах под смущенными взглядами случайных свидетелей". Также есть арт с соответвующим содержанием.

Заебанные сердца. От Эльвиного эпопейного фикла "Завоеванные сердца", которое заебало своей тупостью всех чтецов.

Золотые трусы или написьник. Униформа Багоаса. Дева возмущалась, что Багоаса рисуют в набедренной порядке, хотя сама рисовала точно так же.

ЗОПРЕЩЕНО - из фика анона об амазонке Калено. Высмеивает манию Девы Багоаса запрещать в фичках мясо, выпивку и все, что ей ему не нравится.

Иггдрасилье. Пошло из девиного фичка "За гранью Иггдрасилья".

И они сели пить чай с конфетами. - к девиному комиксу о стродающем-ебущемся тройничке Багоас-Александр-Гефестион. Дева всегда говорит, что пишет/рисует высокую драму, но всегда скатывается в дочки-матери. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 4#p2421104

Кросивое - у дев все кросивое, особенно ошибки, которыми их писанина кишит, как лисья шуба блохами.

Кебаб моего сердца. Попугай сердца в устах, саз лица и арфа шеи. Из дословных подстрочных "переводов" Эльвы с османского.

Молодой бог - из фика Девы "Иггдрасилье", в котором Локи всегда все делал лучше всех и как молодой бог.

Нет чистоты во взгляде, Противные бабы с дряблой кожей - Дева обсирала фотографии обычных иранских женщин. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 2#p1972112

Не бабы, а мужчины! Приписка Девы под каждым ее артом, на котором изображена широкобедрая грудастая куколка с ололоконами и томным взглядом из-под метровых ресниц. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 5#p2091675

Охуевнух. Очевидно, охуенный евнух, то есть такой, от которого все охуевают. В исполнении Девы - с волосами до пят, сиськами 3 размера, смоки айз, в пищевой плёнке и с двумя сундуками дорогобогатых украшений.

Пихмед, Сраду- Мехмед и Раду из эпопеи Эльвы. Родилось как реакция на маниакальное стремление эльвиного Мехмеда пихать свое духовное стояло во все, что движется и на инфантильного эгоиста Раду.

Полутюрка. От самой Эльвы https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 6#p2081336

Мемы, родившиеся вне треда, но прижившиеся:

Гей-радар. С помощью него сабжи безошибочно определяют, что всегеи. Использовано верной хомячихой Лизкой при обсуждении фильма "Коловрат" https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 5#p2871145

Гетеронормативность, гетеропропаганда, гетерасы, гетерофобия, евнухофобия. Ответ дев на любую критику.

Дгуг, какисторик, какпереводчик и производные перекочевали из треда Галуасты, когда видамчик подсасывался к девам.

Ололоконы - родилось в треде ролевиков, прижилось к девиным куколкам как родное.

Червепидор
В этом треде оно пришлось очень в тему, так как Дева любит рисовать своих пидоров в виде каких-то белесых червей, да и по характеру хуже их трудно найти. Изначально копипаста:
https://lurkmore.to/Копипаста:Червь-пидор

▼ГЛАВНЫЕ ПЛЯСКИ, СРАЧИ И ПЕРЕОПЫЛЕНИЯ⬍

▼ЗОЛОТОЙ ФОНД ЦИТАТ⬍

▼ХОЛИВАРКА ОБРАЗОВАТЕЛЬНАЯ⬍

▼АНОНСКОЕ ТВОРЧЕСТВО⬍

▼ЧИТЕНИЯ⬍

▼My Only One. Части 1-31⬍

▼Part 1⬍

▼Part 2⬍

▼Part 3⬍

▼Part 4. The last night⬍

▼Part 5. Separation⬍

▼Part 6. The struggle⬍

▼Part 7. Life goes on⬍

▼Part 8. Without you⬍

▼Part 9. Stigma⬍

▼Part 10. Battle buddies⬍

▼Part 11. To be with you⬍

▼Part 12. I've found you⬍

▼Part 13. What happened to us?⬍

▼Part 14. Discipline⬍

▼Part 15. I remember⬍

▼Part 16. Next-door neighbors⬍

▼Part 17. It's been a long time⬍

▼Part 18. It's YOU⬍

▼Part 19. Protector⬍

▼Part 20. Like a man⬍

▼Part 21. Sacrifice⬍

▼Part 22. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot⬍

▼Part 23. Flower boy⬍

▼Part 24. Love hurts⬍

▼Part 25. The kiss of life⬍

▼Part 26. In the office⬍

▼Part 27. I'm fine⬍

▼Part 28. Have mercy⬍

▼Part 29. Against the wall⬍

▼Part 30. Out of my league (flashbacks)⬍

▼Бонус порисулька⬍

▼Part 31. Kiss-me kill-me⬍

Помни сам, и расскажи другому, Анон: лучшая тактика против 48-го - игнор!
Маскот треда: https://i.imgur.com/tWFwehW.png

Анон · 2025-10-30 23:15:07

Зачем ты сказал, анон! :pink: :lol:

Анон · 2025-10-30 23:20:11

Анон пишет:

Зачем ты сказал, анон!

Я сделаю еще хуже

▼Скрытый текст⬍

Думаю Дева начала обмазывать или ШИшку, или старые любовные романы, типа такого:

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Отредактировано (2025-10-30 23:25:30)

Анон · 2025-10-30 23:31:17

Анон пишет:

Я сделаю еще хуже

that ass :lol:

Анон · 2025-10-30 23:33:35

Анон пишет:

Блин, главное к длине шеи не присматриваться

Всё нормально, это просто такой жираф и герой-любовник. Ну как демон и дворецкий :lol:

Анон · 2025-10-31 19:33:44

Анон пишет:

Думаю Дева начала обмазывать

ИИ она обмазывать начала ещё в период упарывания по Мистерио, у неё даже была выложена процесска, где она обрабатывает фото Джилленхола ИИшкой и потом дорисовывает финтифлюшки под свой стиль.

Анон · 2025-11-01 01:17:06

Хэллоуинский паук Невротик

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Анон · 2025-11-01 01:48:20

Анон пишет:

Хэллоуинский паук Невротик

Просится лицо Свидетеля, вам не кажется? :lol:

Анон · 2025-11-01 02:14:18

Анон пишет:

паук

Милый, похож на безухую черную кошонку :3

Анон · 2025-11-01 14:36:27

Анон пишет:

Просится лицо Свидетеля, вам не кажется?

По-моему, он уже и так почти Свидетель, только волосатый. :lol:

Анон · 2025-11-01 16:25:48

И волоокий.

Анон · 2025-11-02 02:00:39

Аноооны, к пауку Невротику Дева добавила паука Васяна и это реально волосатый Свидетель даже дорабатывать не надо :lol:

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Анон · 2025-11-02 02:19:32

Анон пишет:

Аноооны, к пауку Невротику Дева добавила паука Васяна и это реально волосатый Свидетель даже дорабатывать не надо
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:panic2:

Анон · 2025-11-02 02:21:08

Анон пишет:

реально волосатый Свидетель даже дорабатывать не надо

Ссссука, вот это я понимаю, мысли материальны :lol:
У нас есть каноничный пауко!Свидетель. Зачем-то

Анон · 2025-11-02 05:49:29

Анон пишет:

Аноооны, к пауку Невротику Дева добавила паука Васяна и это реально волосатый Свидетель даже дорабатывать не надо
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Свидетель эволюционировал, аноны!!! :panic2: Новая ступень у покемона!!! Это не учебная тревога!!!

Анон · 2025-11-02 08:07:25

Трусы, им нужны золотые трусы :lol:

Анон · 2025-11-02 10:52:09

Анон пишет:

Трусы, им нужны золотые трусы

А прикиньте, щас Дева подумает о том же и реально дорисует :lol:

Анон · 2025-11-02 21:37:03

Анон пишет:

Свидетель эволюционировал, аноны!!!

Да просто шерсть сменил. Зима близко)

Анон · 2025-11-03 02:14:16

Дерево

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Анон · 2025-11-03 11:14:50

Мускулистое дерево.

Анон · 2025-11-03 17:09:38

Анон пишет:

это реально волосатый Свидетель

Взоржал в голосину :lol: у нас новый маскот тренда, в пару к старому! :chearleader:

Анон · 2025-11-05 07:23:05

Дева внезапно выложила 10-ю главу своего стродательного писева про Невротика и Васяна https://archiveofourown.org/works/67081 … /189497001

▼Глава 10⬍

Shadow of Nero
DevFarvahar
Chapter 10
Summary:
Illustration for the chapter: https://www.deviantart.com/develv/art/T … 1258307552
On X: https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1983832875536724447
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Weiss spent more time at the computer, working on projects that brought steady income. His determination and energy impressed even his colleagues, who knew him as a perfectionist. The money from his parents’ inheritance allowed for thoughts of the future, but Weiss didn’t want to just save it. He dreamed of a place that would be their permanent home, a sanctuary where they could build memories free from the shadows of the past.
One evening at dinner, Nero looked at Weiss with a slight smile, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?” he asked, leaning on his elbow.
Weiss smiled back, pouring tea into mugs beside freshly baked apple pies. “Yes. I was thinking about buying this house and fixing it up properly. To make it not just a place we hide from the world, but our real home.”
"A real home..." Nero said thoughtfully, his gaze briefly serious. Then, as if inspired, he straightened, his face glowing with joy. “That's wonderful! Can we plant a garden? In spring?”
“Of course,” Weiss replied, his heart fluttering with happiness at Nero’s genuine excitement. “On top of what’s already there, we could add more. Would you like flowers or maybe something for the kitchen; vegetables, berries, herbs?”
Nero thought for a moment. “Both. Flowers for coziness, and vegetables… so I can cook for us. We could ask the farmers for seeds; I’ve got some gardening experience. We could sell any surplus. And I’d love more potted plants in the house.”
Weiss smiled. He saw not just someone who’d suffered so long but someone starting to dream. The thought warmed his soul. “If we buy the house,” Weiss continued, “I’d like to renovate, as I said before. Maybe expand the bedroom, kitchen, and terrace. You love sitting outside, watching the sunset, the stars.”
Nero tilted his head, his gaze shining with gratitude. “You think about me more than yourself.”
“Because you make this house feel cozy and like home,” Weiss said softly, looking into his eyes and patting Nero’s knee under the table.
They fell silent, savoring the moment. Nero took a sip of tea, then said thoughtfully: “A home… it sounds so peaceful. I want us to always have a home, our own.”
“We will,” Weiss said firmly. “I promise.”
In the following days, Weiss began researching documents and purchase options. He called Tom to discuss it. He shared his plans with Nero, talking about wall colors, furniture, and where to place flower pots. Nero took the lead more often, sketching ideas for the garden and home changes—simple drawings of blooming flower beds and a larger terrace for stargazing. Their dreams grew detailed, becoming ever more real. Together, they were building not just a place to live but a space reflecting their love—bright, cozy, beautiful.
***
Weiss and Nero sat on the veranda under a starry sky, pressed close together. Before them, the embers of a fire glowed softly beside potato skins from their meal, casting a faint, flickering warmth that danced across their faces. A cool breeze stirred their hair, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth, and in the distance, beyond the dark silhouette of the forest, city lights twinkled like distant stars. Their house, perched on a slight hill, offered a stunning view that stretched into the night, a serene backdrop to their quiet intimacy. Nero gazed at the stars, his silence carrying something deeper, as if seeking an answer within himself, his head resting lightly on Weiss’s shoulder.
“I’ve figured out what that power is,” he said softly, turning his face to Weiss.
Weiss looked at him attentively, his blue eyes radiating care and curiosity. “What power?”
Nero smiled faintly, his expression thoughtful yet peaceful. “Love. It’s love that kept me from stepping into the abyss. Love held me up when I fell, suffered, cried alone at night. Love for you and deep faith in you…” He paused, searching for words, then continued: “That’s what protected me, stopped my hand from…”
He trailed off, lowering his gaze to the fading glow of the embers.
“From what?” Weiss asked quietly, his heart tightening with a mix of concern and anticipation.
Nero was silent before answering, his voice low but firm: “From getting rid of Heinrich and Kurt. You don’t know, Weiss, but I was close to killing them.”
Weiss couldn’t hide his shock but stayed silent, letting Nero continue, his hand instinctively finding Nero’s in the cool night air.
“I planned revenge,” Nero admitted, his hands gripping the blanket’s edge, his eyes gleaming with an odd, reflective light from the fire. “In my darkest moments of despair and hatred, my mind told me it would end all my suffering. I imagined it, thought through ways. It scared me, but it also drew me in.”
Nero took a deep breath, his voice trembling but unbroken: “But my heart… it told me it was cruel. No matter how others treat you, what matters is not becoming like them. The darkest hour comes before dawn, and you were that dawn for me, Weiss.”
Weiss felt tears sting his eyes, a wave of profound relief and admiration washing over him. He pulled Nero close, hugging him tightly, as if afraid to lose him, inhaling the faint scent of lavender from Nero’s hair. His voice broke, but he managed: “You’re stronger than any of us could imagine. I’m proud of you. I love you, Nero.”
Nero closed his eyes, letting himself feel the warmth of Weiss’s embrace, and whispered: “You’re my light. You’ve always been my only light.”
Weiss gently kissed his forehead, then his lips, deeply, feeling their hearts beat as one. Nero didn’t pull away, his lips responding with confidence, his fingers tracing Weiss’s jaw in a tender, unspoken affirmation. He no longer feared—neither himself nor the world he once hated. His fantasies of a “dark power” dissolved, giving way to a reality where he was loved and free.
They sat under the stars for a while, savoring the silence and the realization that their light and love had conquered even the deepest darkness, the breeze whispering through the trees like a gentle lullaby. As sleepiness set in, they headed inside. Weiss scooped Nero into his arms, carrying him like a bride to their bed.
“Weiss,” Nero gasped, wrapping his arms around Weiss’s neck in surprise, a soft laugh escaping his lips.
“You’re my miracle,” Weiss whispered, his voice singing with joy. “And I’ll never let you go.”
***
In the bedroom, Weiss paused and gently set Nero down, his gaze lingering on him. Nero slipped off his woolen cape, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap. His fragile silhouette in a nightshirt seemed almost ghostly in the dim light, but his eyes held a mix of tentative desire and a flicker of fear—uncertainty about crossing a threshold he’d long approached but now hesitated to step over. Weiss moved closer, his hand gently brushing Nero’s cheek, sliding to his neck where a rapid pulse thrummed beneath the skin. Nero flinched, his breath catching, but he didn’t pull away, his eyes searching Weiss’s for reassurance.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Weiss whispered, his fingers pausing at the collar of Nero’s shirt, waiting for permission. “I’m here with you. I’m always on your side. I love all your strengths and weaknesses.”
Nero lowered his gaze, his hands nervously fidgeting with the fabric of his shirt. “You always say that,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, tinged with anxiety. “But… you love my scars, don’t you? My vulnerability. You’ve only seen me like this—broken, humiliated, scarred. Sometimes I wonder… do you even know me any other way?”
Weiss felt his heart clench with a sharp realization. He understood how his words and touches might have been perceived by Nero, whose suffering in the past distorted everything, even love. Nero’s shift in mood stemmed from his longing for something deeper, something he’d been moving toward for so long, only to falter at the edge, gripped by fear. Weiss gently cupped Nero’s face in his hands, urging him to look up, his touch steady and grounding.
“Of course I do,” Weiss replied, his voice firm yet warm. “I remember the joyful boy running through the grass, weaving me a crown of flowers. The boy whose smile filled my heart with joy, whose shining eyes dreamed with me as we gazed at the clouds. That boy nearly faded, but I want him back—his smile, his light. I love you, Nero, not for your pain, but for you.”
Nero stared at him, his eyes glistening with tears, and in them, Weiss saw gratitude and something more—that unique spark that had once captivated him, now burning brighter. Nero took a step forward, his hands timidly resting on Weiss’s chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.
“I want… us to be closer,” Nero said, his voice breaking but sincere. “But I’m afraid… I won’t be able to.”
Weiss smiled, his hand sliding to Nero’s waist, embracing him through the thin fabric of the shirt, feeling the warmth of his body. He moved slowly, giving Nero time, his lips brushing Nero’s temple, then his cheek, softly, as if promising protection. “There’s no rush,” Weiss whispered, his breath warm against Nero’s skin. “You’re already doing more than you realize.”
Nero took a deep breath, his nervous trembling easing, and he leaned toward Weiss, his lips meeting his in a cautious but deep kiss.
Nero’s fingers traced Weiss’s jaw, hesitant but hungry, their excitement revealing a yearning that had long been buried beneath layers of fear and pain. His touch was light, almost reverent, as if rediscovering Weiss, mapping the contours of his face with delicate curiosity. The dim glow of the lamp cast soft shadows across the room, highlighting the vulnerability in Nero’s eyes—a mix of longing and uncertainty that made Weiss’s heart ache with tenderness. This moment, Weiss thought, is ours—a step beyond the past, and a step towards what we can be.
“Do you want this?” Weiss whispered, his voice low and steady, capturing Nero’s wrist gently in his hand. The pulse beneath his thumb raced with anticipation, a quiet fire that mirrored the warmth spreading through Weiss’s own chest. He searched Nero’s gaze, seeking permission, ensuring every step was one Nero chose freely.
Nero’s answer was a kiss, slow and deep, his lips tentative at first but growing bolder as he pressed himself closer, erasing the space between them. The world shrank to the rhythm of their breaths, the soft rustle of fabric as their clothes slipped away, unnoticed, unneeded. The chill of the night faded, replaced by a heat that had simmered for years, now igniting in the quiet intimacy of their shared sanctuary. Weiss’s hands moved with care, exploring the familiar scars that marked Nero’s skin, each one an evidence to his survival, now touched with a reverence that spoke of love, not pity. His fingers traced the jagged line along Nero’s shoulder, the faint scarring on his back, each touch a silent claim: You’re beautiful. You’re mine. He kissed the hollow of Nero’s throat, and murmured against his skin, “You’re everything to me.”
Nero’s breaths came in soft gasps, his hands finding Weiss’s shoulders, gripping lightly as if anchoring himself to this moment. His body, once tense with the weight of memories, began to yield, softening under Weiss’s gentle caresses. The nightshirt slipped further, pooling at Nero’s waist, and Weiss’s hands glided along the curve of his spine, careful not to rush, savoring the warmth of Nero’s skin against his own. Every movement was deliberate, as they wove their connection tighter, thread by thread. Nero’s fingers tangled in Weiss’s hair, pulling him closer, and he kissed Weiss’s lips again, deeper this time, as if surrendering to the moment with newfound courage.
Without breaking apart, kissing, they slowly moved toward the bed. They fell onto the soft sheets, and Nero let out a short squeal as he landed on Weiss.
The room was filled with the quiet sounds of their closeness; the rustle of sheets, the soft creak of the bed, the murmur of their breaths intertwining. Moonlight filtered through the lace curtains, painting their entwined forms in silver, a fleeting portrait of two souls finding solace in one another. Weiss’s lips brushed Nero’s collarbone, then the faint scar at the base of his neck, each kiss a vow to protect, to cherish, to rebuild what had been broken. Nero’s hands roamed Weiss’s back, tentative at first but growing surer, as if he were learning to trust not just Weiss but himself: his own capacity to love and be loved.
Nero wrapped his legs around Weiss’s waist and whispered, his voice a soft plea, “Weiss, be brave. I’m not as fragile as I seem.”
Weiss’s eyes sparkled with a mix of tenderness and desire, as if he’d been waiting for this moment, this permission to let their love unfold fully. “Oh, you’ll be delighted,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, carrying the promise of a wild night where their connection would transcend all fear and pain.
“Give it to me, I’m ready,” Nero moaned, his voice trembling with unbearable arousal, the heat of Weiss’s body against his igniting a fire that had been suppressed for too long. The press of Weiss’s arousal against his own sent shivers through him, a delicious ache that spoke of want and freedom. Their bodies moved together, caught in a single, demanding force and desire. Weiss’s hands slid lower, tracing the contours of Nero’s hips, his fingers firm yet gentle, exploring with a reverence that made Nero’s breath hitch. Nero arched into him, his fingers digging into Weiss’s shoulders, urging him closer, his body no longer a vessel of shame but a canvas of love, on which he wrote his own story. Their kisses deepened, urgent and hungry, as they shed the last remnants of restraint. Nero’s hands found Weiss’s hair, tugging gently, grounding himself in the reality of this moment—a moment where he was no longer defined by pain but by the fierce, beautiful passion they shared.
Weiss entered him, first with a gentle push, then with a confident, unstoppable thrust that drew a deep, shaken moan from Nero. It was the sound of complete acceptance, permission for the passion that had smoldered for years, forbidden, burning from within.
The world narrowed to their union, to the rising heat that burned in every vein of Nero's body. Wild, pure passion from the way Weiss moved inside him: confident, ruthless, loving. Weiss moaned with him, growing more and more aroused by the sensations and sounds Nero made, and how hot and tight he was around him.
Nero gasped for breath, overwhelmed by the feeling of freedom, the rush of pleasure. He responded to Weiss's rhythm, arching his back, giving himself over, his voice breaking into whispers and moans. He felt the tension building, coiling into a tight spring, ready to burst in a single, healing explosion.
And when they came, it wasn't just a peak, it was a flood of light and feeling, a white noise of ecstasy that knocked them over. Nero cried out Weiss's name — the only one he loved — echoing Weiss's whisper: “Nero...” and went limp in his arms, heavy and happy.
Later, as their breaths steadied, Nero curled against Weiss’s chest, his body fitting perfectly into the curve of Weiss’s embrace. His lips brushed a fading bruise on Weiss’s collarbone, a lingering mark from a long-forgotten moment, and he murmured, his voice soft but resolute, “No more shadows, only love.” The words hung in the air, fragile yet powerful, carrying the weight of their shared journey. Weiss held him tighter, his arms a fortress against the past, feeling as though the shadow that had haunted their family, destroying lives, had finally been tamed. The warmth of their bodies, the steady rhythm of their heartbeats and breathing, wove a cocoon of peace around them, a promise of a future where love would always outshine the darkness.
***
The end of summer arrived with a gentle sigh, as leaves on the trees turned golden and amber, their edges curling like whispered secrets. Mornings brought a delicate white frost that sparkled on the grass like scattered diamonds, while soft white mist cloaked the rolling hills in a dreamy veil. Yet the days still held warmth, pleasant sunlight alternating with overcast skies that promised renewal. Nero adored the rain; he would curl up by the window, wrapped in a thick, knitted blanket, sipping hot cocoa that steamed with hints of cinnamon and vanilla, listening to the rhythmic patter on the roof and the steady tap of Weiss’s fingers on the keyboard. Their home had transformed utterly; the renovations and additions had reshaped it into a haven of light and comfort. Weiss had purchased the land and house outright, fulfilling their shared dream. A vibrant garden bloomed beyond the windows, alive with colorful flowers and neat rows of vegetables that delighted the eye. Among the beds, plump orange pumpkins glowed like lanterns, and Nero had turned to Weiss one evening with a sparkle in his eyes: “I want to celebrate Halloween... for the first time in my life.” Weiss’s heart had swelled with joy at the idea, embracing it wholeheartedly. Now, they were free, unbound by the chains of the past, able to chase every whim and wonder they’d ever dreamed.
***
Weiss had decided, after much deliberation, to visit his father in the rehab clinic; Heinrich was on the mend, his health steadily improving. Nero accompanied him on the drive but hesitated at the entrance, a subtle unease flickering across his features. Weiss understood immediately, squeezing Nero’s hand gently. “You don’t have to go in if you’re not ready,” he said softly, his voice was soothing.
Nero nodded, his gaze distant but resolute. “Yes… I think it’s better if he doesn’t see me just yet. Go, check on him... he’s still your father.”
Weiss pressed a quick kiss to Nero’s forehead and disappeared through the doors, leaving Nero to settle on a weathered wooden bench outside. The grounds stirred faint echoes of the psychiatric hospital where he’d once been confined—the manicured lawns, the distant murmur of voices—but now, no fear or melancholy gripped him. His life was a tapestry of beauty now, woven by the love of one extraordinary person. A quiet smile curved his lips as he tilted his head to the sky, a vast expanse of azure dotted with fluffy cumulus clouds drifting lazily, casting fleeting shadows on the earth below. He waited patiently, wondering how the reunion unfolded inside. Heinrich likely hadn’t expected his favored son’s visit. Did regret weigh on him for the cruelties of the past? What lessons had time etched into his soul? To his own surprise, Nero felt no burden of resentment or dark thoughts, only a serene acceptance.
When Weiss emerged at last, Nero rose, searching his face for clues to his emotions. Weiss looked slightly flustered, a warm smile breaking through as he met Nero’s curious gaze. “He’s doing well—he’ll be discharged next week,” Weiss said, linking his arm with Nero’s as they strolled toward the gate. “He was overjoyed to see me, nearly in tears…” He paused, choosing his words carefully.
Nero tensed, his steps faltering. “And?”
“He asked how you’re doing,” Weiss finished quietly.
Nero pressed his lips together, his eyes dropping to the path ahead. They walked in companionable silence toward the car, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. “I don’t hold any grudge against him,” Nero sighed at last, his voice light with forgiveness. “We all suffered in our own ways, and the important thing is that we’ve learned from it.”
“Yes,” Weiss agreed, though a thousand unspoken thoughts swirled in his mind—conversations are still ahead, bridges have not yet been built.
Nero’s gaze drifted to the lush marigolds lining the fence, their velvety petals a riot of orange and gold. “Look how big they are,” he said, his mood shifting like sunlight breaking through clouds, pointing with a playful grin. “Maybe we should take some of those faded seeds?”
Weiss frowned in mock exasperation. “We already have plenty of marigolds at home, why more? And from a place like this, no less…”
Nero countered with a mischievous glint in his eye. “But none as grand as these. And what makes this place different from any other? Are the flowers here tainted? Do you think they’ve absorbed all the negative energy?”
Weiss nudged him playfully in the side, laughter bubbling up. “Fine, you win. Take them!”
As Nero knelt to gather the seeds, the sun dipped lower, bathing the world in a golden haze, a promise of autumn’s magic and the endless joys yet to unfold in their cherished home.
***
A weeks later, they went into the forest, to gather mushrooms and berries. The woods shimmered with gold and crimson, as if a skillful artist had painted every leaf in shades ranging from pale yellow to deep red. Leaves rustled underfoot, and the air carried the sweet, earthy scent of moss and autumn’s quiet charm.
Weiss’s basket was already filled with mushrooms; firm-capped and white-stemmed. Among them were clusters of honey agarics, colorful russulas, and bright chanterelles. With the air of an expert, he examined each one carefully, checking that it was clean and whole. Nero, unhurried, picked berries nearby. They came upon a wide clearing, bathed in gentle light. It was carpeted with scarlet, orange, and bluish berries, scattered among wildflowers.
Nero set his basket on the grass and spun around like a child, turning his face toward the sunshine. A wreath of flowers rested on his head. His long black hair streamed in the wind, and the light violet dress — Weiss’s gift — fluttered softly like a bellflower’s petal. Golden leaves swirled around him, and Weiss froze for a moment.
It was impossible to believe that all this was real, and not a dream. He looked at Nero as at a miracle — alive, free, laughing. Nero turned, his eyes shining.
"Weiss, come here! Look how many berries there are!"
Weiss smiled — sincerely, truly happy. "I’m coming," he said, feeling the soft crunch of leaves beneath his boots. When he reached him, Nero caught Weiss’s hand and pressed it to his chest. "I never thought I could be this happy."
Weiss looked into his eyes and said quietly: "You deserve it. You always did."
He kissed him gently, and Nero melted into that tenderness.
The forest grew still. The wind barely stirred the branches, shaking loose a rain of golden and crimson leaves.
In that moment, within the autumn light, they needed nothing else — no words, no striving.
Only warm joy. Only life.
Autumn is often associated with sadness — the end of summer, the herald of the coming cold. But for Weiss and Nero, it was the happiest autumn of their lives. Then would come an equally happy winter, and spring, and every new summer.
Each moment of life had become precious — because they had learned to overcome pain and see beauty in everything.
Sorrow and grief will always be near, for they are natural companions of humankind. The only thing that matters is not letting them overshadow the good that still exists.
And while the world kept turning in its eternal cycle of seasons, they simply lived, without fear, without pain, but with love.
Notes:
This chapter was the most difficult one to write, not only because it’s the final and most important part of the story, but also because of what I was going through in my own life. I had planned to finish it three months ago, yet life had other plans. I suddenly lost two of my dearest loved ones — my grandmother and grandfather. The grief and shock left me unable to write anything hopeful or bright for a long time.
But this chapter needed a true happy ending. It deserved light, warmth, and peace.
So I waited until I could write it with sincerity — until I could feel that quiet happiness again. I hope I’ve managed to create a worthy conclusion to this story that means so much to me. So the happiness in this ending is real, maybe not perfect, but lived and earned. Just like life itself.
Thank you for reading, and for sharing this journey with me.

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Поскольку вряд ли кто-то еще помнит сколько там банановые братья настродали, собрал главы в кучу.

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Анон пишет:

Дева порождает новое пиздостродательное писево про Васяна и Невротика https://archiveofourown.org/works/67081 … adult=true
D. Art@DevelvDeva·22 ч
I wrote a new Weinero dark fanfic with great difficulty, I edited one chapter for 6 hours, until 4 am, and there are 9 chapters. I'm horrified
▼ Глава 1⬍
Shadow of Nero
DevFarvahar
Summary:
In the hauntingly tender shadow of Nero, Weiss embarks on a desperate quest to rescue his beloved Nero from the suffocating grip of their oppressive family and a sinister psychiatric institution. Bound by a love that defies convention and scarred by a shared past of cruelty, the two navigate a fragile path toward healing in a secluded haven. As Nero’s enigmatic visions and cryptic whispers of a "dark power" unravel unsettling truths, Weiss grapples with revelations that blur the line between reality and nightmare.
(Note: Contains themes of violence, trauma and forbidden love.)
Notes:
This dark, psychologically heavy story, filled with pain and suffering, simmered in my mind for a long time, growing details like a shadow that cannot be ignored. Initially, I didn’t plan to write it - it was just a fantasy, but a friend inspired me to put it onto digital paper to release the emotional weight. This story became a way to express the inner turmoil, pain, and hope hidden in the depths of subconscious. It was born from a concept of two characters, inspired by Nero and Weiss, but reimagined as ordinary people, stripped of their prototypes’ grandeur and powers. Their journey from the darkness of trauma to the light of healing is filled with haunting but vivid details that make the story deeply human. It may feel vague or heavy, but at its core lies love and faith in something better.
My illustration: https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1940388792986484828

Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Darkness had always been Nero’s companion. Not the kind that cloaks the world at night, but another—thick, cold, steeped in shame and pain, pulsing within him like a second heartbeat. His long, dark hair, flowing over his shoulders and back like shadows, concealed his face but could not shield him from a world that seemed to hate him from the moment he was born. His pale, almost translucent skin, as if faded from endless sleepless nights, bore the marks of that hatred: bruises, scars, fresh cuts hidden beneath baggy clothing. His large eyes, deep, gentle, like those of a hunted animal; reflected both infinite tenderness and bottomless sorrow. He rarely looked in the mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. Not because his face was unattractive—on the contrary, it held a fragile, almost ethereal beauty—but because it reminded him of who he wasn’t. Not normal. Not loved. Not free.
Nero hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable, to dissolve into the air. His pale lips, perpetually downturned, rarely knew a smile. Only sometimes, when his gaze found Weiss. Weiss was his light, the only ray in this darkness, the only one who looked at him without contempt. But even that warmth was rare, like sunlight breaking through clouds on a cold, rainy day, and Nero clung to it like a drowning man to a straw.
Nero grew up in a house where the walls held more hatred and humiliation than warmth or acceptance, where “home” was synonymous with “prison.” His adoptive family—wealthy but as indifferent as the stone floors of their mansion—was ashamed of him, as if he were a stain on their pristine reputation. He was unwanted, an outsider, and they reminded him of it daily, with words, glares, blows. His adoptive father and father's brother, Nero’s uncle, were particularly cruel. In drunken rages, they beat and shouted, their fists leaving marks on his delicate body that he learned to hide. Crying was forbidden; tears only fueled their anger, and Nero quickly learned that silence was his only defense. His adoptive mother looked away, pretending nothing was happening. She never called him to the family table, never asked how he was. To her, he was a ghost, a shadow better left unseen.
He lived in a small room in the farthest corner of the house; a damp, cramped space with peeling paint, a moldy mattress, and a concrete floor. That was his sanctuary. He got scraps and hand-me-downs, his existence reduced to housework and gardening. The high metal fence around the mansion was the boundary of his world; he was not allowed to step beyond it.
As a child, he escaped this pain in fantasies. In his dreams, he wasn’t weak or broken. He was a superhuman, a master of darkness, whose power could crush those who hurt him. He soared in his dreams, gliding above the world. But reality always dragged him back to the cold room with the concrete floor, to the bruises, to the loneliness. He had no childhood. No friends. No family. Only darkness and pain, growing alongside him.
The only one who broke this joyless routine was Weiss—the pride and joy of his parents. Unlike them, Weiss saw Nero. As a child, he secretly brought him candies, pastries, small toys, which Nero hid under his pillow like treasures, handling them in the dark as if they could protect him from the world. Weiss and Nero whispered when no one could hear, because Weiss was scolded for his kindness, and Nero… was punished. Their meetings grew rarer, more cautious. Those moments were like gasps of air for Nero before plunging back into the black swamp. He cherished them as the happiest in his short life, falling asleep with Weiss’s name on his lips, clutching his pillow tightly.
But over the years, something changed. Weiss grew distant. His warm glances, once a source of comfort for Nero, became rarer, more guarded. Sometimes Nero caught his gaze, quick, almost furtive, filled with something he couldn’t decipher. It hurt more than the blows from his adoptive father and uncle. Why had Weiss pulled away? What had he done wrong? What was his fault? The questions tormented him, but there were no answers, only an emptiness that grew within.
Then came a realization that made his suffering unbearable. He understood that he loved Weiss. Not as a friend or brother, not as a savior, but as someone whose smile, kind eyes, and masculine beauty made his heart race. This love was both a blessing and a curse for Nero. The desperate, overwhelming feeling swelled in his chest, lifting him to euphoria one moment and plunging him into unbearable sorrow the next, a sorrow that made him want to cry and scream, inescapable like the nightmares that haunted him lately. He missed Weiss. In the silence of the night, he dreamed of touching his hand, their eyes meeting without fear, Weiss embracing him with tenderness, Nero feeling the warmth of his strong body, his pleasant scent. But shame followed—burning, suffocating. He didn’t dare think of Weiss that way. He, Nero, was unworthy. A shadow, pathetic and broken, while Weiss was the light that could never belong to him. Perfect, beautiful, strong—everything Nero was not.
Shame drove him to pain. To cuts, deeper and more frequent, hidden under long sleeves and loose clothing, but they were his silent scream. He hated himself—his body, his reflection, his thoughts. He wanted to be beautiful for Weiss, to be worthy, but every glance in the mirror reminded him he never would be. Jealousy gnawed at him when he saw Weiss smile at others, speaking easily with people who weren’t trapped in a cage like Nero.
Days dragged on, gray and identical. Early spring, when the greenery was already pleasing the eyes, but Nero’s heart was still empty and sad. Nero worked in the garden, cleaned the house, washed floors and dishes, dusted. He stayed silent when humiliated, didn’t resist when beaten. He was a prisoner—not just of the house, but of his own mind.
Sometimes he sat on the grass by the high fence, leaning against the cold metal, staring at the distant forest. The wind played with his tangled hair, blowing long strands aside as if trying to reveal his face to the world. He plucked petals from a wildflower, mechanically, just to occupy his trembling fingers. His gaze was lost somewhere far off, where the forest whispered with the wind, promising a freedom Nero had never known. He thought of dissolving into the green foliage and blue sky, becoming part of that majestic serenity. He pondered the meaninglessness of life. A torturous longing, sadness, and loneliness overwhelmed him, and he sank into a black void where the line between reality and nothingness blurred.
Weiss noticed him in one such moment. His heart clenched at the sight of Nero—frail, almost transparent, like a ghost frozen at the edge of his world. He glanced around to ensure they were alone and stepped closer. His steps were cautious, almost timid, as if afraid to shatter the fragile moment. Nero didn’t notice him at first, lost in his thoughts, but the air seemed to lighten and freshen.
Certain they were alone, Weiss called softly.
“Nero,” his voice was gentle but tinged with awkwardness, as if he didn’t know how to begin. “Are you… okay?”
Nero flinched, his fingers freezing on the crumpled flower. He hadn’t expected Weiss’s voice—warm, with a hint of care so rare in his life. His large, dark eyes slowly lifted, meeting Weiss’s light blue gaze. There was something in that look Nero couldn’t grasp, not just pity, but something deeper, something that made his heart tremble. He wanted to answer, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he turned away, pressing harder against the fence, as if it could shield him from this warmth, this hope that scared him more than familiar pain.
“I’m… fine,” he mumbled, his voice trembling, betraying his turmoil. Kindness was a mirage to him, a cruel trick of fate, and he didn’t know how to accept it. It was foreign, dangerous, like light that blinds after long darkness.
Weiss sat beside him, at a safe distance but close enough for Nero to feel the warmth of his presence. He reached out and gently brushed a leaf from Nero’s dark hair. The gesture was simple, almost casual, but for Nero, it was overwhelming. His cheeks flushed, his heart pounded, and he instinctively pulled back, fearing Weiss would notice his confusion. But Weiss didn’t retreat. His hand lingered in the air, a shadow of guilt in his eyes.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Weiss began, then paused, searching for words. He looked at Nero—at his pale face, old and new scars, bruises he didn’t bother hiding in that moment. Something broke inside Weiss. He could no longer pretend he didn’t see Nero’s suffering, couldn’t ignore his family’s cruelty; his father, Heinrich, whose rage was merciless, and his uncle, Kurt, whose taunts cut like knives. Even his mother, Eliza, with her silence, upheld this injustice. Weiss wondered: why did they treat Nero this way? Why adopt him if they hated him? But there were no answers, not from his mother, whose face turned to stone at such questions, nor from his father, whose glare promised punishment for asking too much.
“It looks like rain,” Weiss said, his voice quieter but firmer. “You’ll get wet if you stay here.”
“Why…?” Nero whispered, almost inaudible. He wasn’t asking about the rain. He wanted to know why Weiss cared, why he was here, beside him. Thunder rumbled in the distance, dark clouds creeping across the sky.
“It’s… wrong. All of it,” Weiss faltered, his voice trembling. He looked at Nero, and pain flashed in his eyes, as if he saw not just him but the entire injustice of their world.
Nero stayed silent, clutching the crumpled flower. He didn’t know how to respond. Weiss’s kindness was too bright, too painful. It sparked hope in him, but also reminded him that hope was a trap. He wanted to run, to hide, but he stayed, pinned by Weiss’s gaze, by the warmth he feared losing.
***
Weeks passed. Weiss began seeking Nero out more often—in the garden among the overgrown bushes he trimmed, or in the dark corridors of the mansion where he scrubbed floors. Sometimes he brought food pilfered from the kitchen, sometimes he just sat nearby, silent, while Nero worked, occasionally helping but discreetly, so no one would notice. These moments were like breaths of fresh air for Nero, but each time he braced for a catch. He couldn’t believe Weiss was sincere, that his kindness wasn’t just pity. Yet his heart, lovesick and tormented, took every word, every glance as a sign of reciprocation, proof he might be worthy of love. These illusions tore him apart, but he clung to them, the only thing keeping him afloat.
One day, Nero was cleaning the windows in Weiss’s room. Sunlight streamed through the glass, illuminating dust motes in the air. He moved slowly, cautiously, afraid to draw attention. Weiss sat in an armchair, flipping through a book, but his gaze kept drifting to Nero, as if drawn by a magnet. The silence in the room was thick, almost tangible.
“Weiss,” Nero’s voice was barely audible, trembling, as if he feared breaking the moment, though to him it felt too loud in the awkward silence. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Weiss replied, turning a page. The sunlight reflected off the book’s pages, illuminating his beautiful face, so flawless it hurt Nero to look at him.
“What… what kind of beauty do you like?” Nero exhaled, his heart freezing in anticipation.
Weiss looked up, slightly surprised. He set the book aside, thinking, and answered casually, almost dismissively: “Beauty? Like, in appearance? Hmm… probably tender girls in white dresses, with long hair. Like fairies or nymphs, you know, like in old paintings.” He smiled, then added more seriously, “But honestly, a person’s soul matters more. Appearance isn’t everything.”
Nero froze. His fingers, clutching the rag, shaking slightly. He lowered his head, hiding his face behind his long bangs, and nodded as if agreeing. But inside, something collapsed. As if someone had ripped the last spark of hope from his chest. He quickly finished his work and left without a word. Weiss watched him go, a shadow of worry in his eyes, but he didn’t call after him.
In his room—cold, with peeling paint and a cracked mirror in the corner—Nero stopped. He approached the mirror slowly, as if afraid of what he’d see. His reflection stared back: a thin, pale, exhausted face, dull eyes, tangled hair he tried to comb but which still stuck out in all directions. A gray, shapeless sweater hung on his slight frame, hiding scars and bruises. A painful lump rose in his throat, ready to burst. He touched the cold glass, as if seeking an answer.
He wasn’t a tender girl in a white dress. He wasn’t a fairy or a nymph. He was a strange boy—broken, unworthy, with a body he hated. No one had taught him to care for himself. He had no good soap, no shampoo, no creams to hide the marks of beatings and frailty. He’d heard people say men couldn’t be feminine, couldn’t be beautiful. He recalled Uncle Kurt, sitting in front of the TV, ranting about “feminine guys” in a flashy ad, his voice booming with contempt: “What’s the world coming to? It’s the degradation of humanity, an abomination.” He’d spat out a crude, insulting word that made Nero shrink, shame burrowing deeper. Now those words echoed in his head, mingling with Weiss’s casual reply about beauty.
Nero stared into the cracked mirror, his reflection screaming that he’d never be someone Weiss could love. He wanted to be desired, to be someone Weiss could love. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and unstoppable. He clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sob tearing out. His love for Weiss—burning, all-consuming—was the only thing that kept his heart beating, but it also tore him apart, bringing unbearable pain. He hated himself for this love, for his weakness, for daring to dream. His fingers gripped the mirror’s edge, nails digging into his palms, leaving red marks. He wanted to shatter the reflection, shatter himself, but instead, he pressed his forehead to the cold glass, choking on tears. “I’ll never be good enough,” he whispered, and that whisper was louder than any scream.
▼Глава 2⬍
Chapter 2
Summary:
(Warning! Graphic Depictions of Violence)
Notes:
Illustration for the chapter. "Fear"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1940421073704796634
Chapter Text
The tears dried, leaving salty trails on his cheeks, but the pain in his chest didn’t subside. Weiss’s words about tender girls in white dresses, fairies, and nymphs echoed in his mind, mingling with Uncle Kurt’s venomous taunts, his contempt for “feminine boys.” Nero hated his reflection, hated himself—for his weakness, his ugliness, for daring to dream of Weiss’s love. But somewhere deep within, beneath layers of shame and despair, a faint hope flickered. What if? What if he could become someone Weiss could truly love? What if he could stop being this broken, pathetic creature? Better to try and regret than to miss the chance and regret twice as much. That thought, fragile and dangerous, ignited a spark of resolve in him.
He began to act. Quietly, cautiously, so as not to draw the family’s attention. Each day, he tried to make himself presentable with the meager resources he had. He washed his hair with water mixed with herbal infusions, attempting to soften its dry strands. He scrubbed his skin with coarse soap, hoping it would look even slightly better, fresher. One day, rummaging through dusty boxes in the attic, he found an old white dress; silk, with slightly crumpled lace edges, a forgotten relic from Eliza’s past life. Nearby was a worn cosmetic bag: a tube of foundation, cracked pink lipstick, some eyeliner, and crumbling eyeshadow. Nero froze, holding the dress, his heart pounding with excitement.
Once, Eliza had been different—vibrant, stylish, full of life. But after Weiss’s birth, or perhaps after Nero’s arrival, she changed. Her jewelry, dresses, and makeup were stashed away in the attic, as if she wanted to erase that part of herself. Now she wore only severe black outfits, her demeanor cold, almost heartless. To Nero, she was terrifying, not as cruel as Heinrich or Kurt, but her indifference and coarseness cut just as deeply.
Nero summoned the courage to ask Eliza for better soap and shampoo, saying his skin and hair were in terrible condition. She eyed him suspiciously, her distant gaze narrowing, but to his surprise, she agreed—on the condition that he do double the work. Guests were coming to the mansion, and Nero would have to set the table for restaurant-ordered food and wash a mountain of dishes afterward. He nodded, hardly believing his luck, and clenched his fists to hide their trembling. Even this small victory—soap and shampoo—felt like a step toward something greater, a hope he feared to name.
Weeks passed. Nero waited for the right moment. He chose a quiet, warm evening when the mansion was still, and Heinrich and Kurt had gone to visit neighbors. Eliza was occupied in the living room, and Nero, gathering all his resolve, put on the dress. The silk felt cool against his skin, gently embracing his slender, graceful frame. He covered his bruises with foundation, applied pink lipstick to his pale lips, and tamed his hair. Around his neck, he wore a pearl necklace he’d found in a box in the attic. In the mirror, he looked different—not himself, but someone who might be worthy of admiration and love. His heart raced as he walked to Weiss’s room with a light, almost floating step, despite the fear gripping his throat.
Weiss sat by the window, scribbling in a notebook. The scent of climbing roses wafted into the room, mingling with the warm evening air. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and froze. Nero stood in the doorway—in the white dress, with silky hair cascading over his shoulders, his face almost unearthly in its fragile beauty. He looked like a celestial being, an angel descended from the heavens. Weiss gasped, his notebook slipping from his hands. He stood, unable to tear his eyes away, and extended a hand, inviting Nero closer.
“Nero… you…” Weiss faltered, his voice trembling. “You look… incredible.”
Nero felt heat flood his cheeks. He stepped forward, driven by feelings he could no longer contain. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out all thoughts. He hugged Weiss—for the first time, timidly but with such intensity, as if afraid he’d vanish. His hands trembled, and he buried his face in Weiss’s wide chest, inhaling his scent—warm, with notes of roses and old books. Weiss, stunned, hesitantly returned the embrace, his strong arms gently resting on Nero’s back. He felt Nero’s rapid breathing, his quick pulse, his nervous excitement.
“Why are you… so beautiful?” Weiss asked, his voice soft but diffident.
Nero looked up, his eyes shimmering with tears and love. He could no longer stay silent. The words he’d hidden for so long spilled out, trembling but filled with desperation and passion: “Weiss, I love you. I love you so much. For so long, so deeply, I can’t keep quiet anymore…”
He leaned toward Weiss, pressing his lips to his in a kiss—gentle, but brimming with everything Nero had held inside for years: pain, hope, love, secret passion. Weiss froze, his eyes widening in shock. He pulled back, unsure what to do or think. His hands still rested on Nero’s shoulders, but he was paralyzed, unable to respond or push him away.
At that moment, the door slammed against the wall. Kurt stood in the doorway, his face contorted with rage, his eyes blazing with hatred. Nero turned, and his heart plummeted. Kurt, the cruelest person in his life, whose fists and words he feared most, stared at him—in the dress, with makeup, in Weiss’s arms.
“You… filthy pervert!” Kurt roared, his voice like a wild beast’s. “Disgrace to the family! You dared… with my nephew?! I always knew you were…”
He jumped into the room, he lunged at Nero, grabbing his hair and yanking so hard that Nero fell to the floor. The dress tore with a ripping sound, exposing his thin shoulders, scarred from past abuses. The necklace snapped, white pearls scattering across the floor. Kurt’s fists rained down on Nero, each blow accompanied by insults: “Whore! Dirty freak! Should’ve thrown you in a pit when you were born!” Nero curled up on the floor, shielding his face with his hands, but the blows kept coming—fists, then heavy kicks from Kurt.
Weiss, snapping out of his shock, rushed forward, shouting, “Stop! Kurt, enough! Leave him alone!”
But Kurt, blinded by rage, shoved Weiss so hard he nearly fell. In the family hierarchy, Weiss was nothing against Kurt—a burly man with a bristly face, whose crude words and actions were his way of dominating and humiliating the weak ones. Weiss was physically strong, but he was raised in such a way that he had no right to raise his hand against his elders. The commotion drew Heinrich and Eliza. Kurt, panting heavily, spat out, “This… this freak kissed Weiss! In a dress, like a slut!”
Heinrich turned to Weiss, his eyes blazing with anger. “Is it true? He kissed you?”
Weiss rooted to the spot, his face paling. He didn’t answer, his silence louder than words. Heinrich stepped toward Nero, sprawled on the floor, and joined the beating. His blows were painful, methodical, as if he wanted to purge everything that made Nero human. Nero no longer screamed, only whimpered and rasped, curled into a ball, blood staining the torn white dress. His face and body were scary to look at. Eliza stood aside, her face almost lifeless, though a flicker of pain—or perhaps Weiss only imagined it—flashed in her eyes.
Weiss watched, as if trapped in a nightmare. His hands trembled; he wanted to rush to Nero, but his legs wouldn’t move. Images flashed before his eyes: Nero’s tears, his quiet plea, blood on white fabric and tender skin, and then... silence. Emptiness. Kurt and Heinrich finally stepped back, leaving Nero motionless on the floor. Eliza turned silently and left, and soon muffled voices—hers and Heinrich’s—came from behind the walls, as if discussing what to do next.
Weiss stood alone, staring down at Nero’s body, his heart torn by guilt and horror. He hadn’t reciprocated Nero’s feelings. He hadn’t stopped Kurt. And now Nero lay before him—broken, like the cracked mirror in his room. Weiss fell to his knees in front of Nero, and extended his hand, everything seemed unreal to him, like in a nightmare. He didn't notice how tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto the beaten, unconscious body.
***
Nero was locked in his room, stripped even of the right to leave it. His body ached from the beating, his ribs throbbed with every breath, his face swollen, nausea made him sick, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony eating him from within. He felt dirty, repulsive, rejected. He thought Weiss now hated him, that his kiss, his love, had become something shameful to Weiss. That thought was unbearable, choking him, forcing out tears he could no longer hold back. He lay on his mattress, clutching the remnants of the torn dress, as if it could restore the hope that died in Weiss’s room.
That night, Weiss didn’t come. He couldn’t—fear of Kurt and Heinrich’s wrath held him back. But in the silence of the night, Weiss thought he heard faint sobs from Nero’s room. The sound tore at his heart. Guilt, pity, fear, and something else—something he couldn’t name—mixed within him, making him feel complicit in this tragedy. Why hadn’t he responded to Nero? Why hadn’t he protected him? Those questions tortured him like instruments of torment. When he closed his eyes, he saw Nero; covered in blood, with empty eyes, a ghostly voice whispering, “Why…?” Weiss woke in a cold sweat, his hands trembling, his heart pounding as if it wanted to break free.
In the morning, Eliza, with her usual cold tone, told Weiss that his father had secured him a prestigious job. Weiss nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He thought of Nero, of how to pull him out of this hell. A job meant money, and money meant a chance to leave, to take Nero away, to give him freedom. He clung to that thought like a lifeline.
The next night, when the house was quiet, Weiss crept to Nero’s room. He clutched a first-aid kit and painkillers taken from the family cabinet. His hands were sweaty with nerves and fear, but he knew he could no longer stand by. He reached the door and froze, seeing the heavy bolt locking it from the outside. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and guilt surged anew. Nero was a prisoner, and Weiss, through his inaction, had helped keep him in that cage.
“Nero,” he whispered, pressing against the door. “It’s me, Weiss. I’m here.”
He tugged at the bolt, but it wouldn’t budge. Weiss pressed his forehead to the door, his breathing heavy. He didn’t know if Nero could hear him, but he hoped he could sense his presence, his desire to help. Inside, fear, guilt, and something else—a feeling he was afraid to name—battled within him, growing with every memory of Nero, his fragile beauty, his desperate love.
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▼Невротик дуреет от этой прикормки⬍

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Васяноневротические стродания продолжаются
▼Глава 3⬍
Chapter 3
Summary:
(Warning! Graphic description of the illness)
Notes:
Illustration for the chapter. "Broken"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1940710091193499798
Chapter Text
The silence of the night was oppressive, broken only by the creak of old floorboards and the distant whisper of the wind outside. Weiss stood at Nero’s door, gripping the first-aid kit and painkillers so tightly his knuckles whitened. The heavy, rusty bolt resisted, as if the house itself refused to release Nero from its grasp. Weiss couldn’t erase the images from that evening: blood on the white dress, tears in Nero’s eyes, his desperate cry.
“Nero,” he called again.
A faint, pitiful sound came from behind the door, barely audible: “Weiss? Weiss…” The voice was so frail, so weak. Weiss leaned into the bolt, and it finally gave way with a groan. The door opened slowly, with a heavy moan, revealing a dark, musty room reeking of blood and pain.
Nero lay on a narrow bed in the corner, curled into a ball, dressed in his old, tattered clothes. The torn white dress lay on the floor, a reminder of his shattered dream. His face was swollen, covered in purple bruises, his lips cracked, and his hair, silky just yesterday, was tangled again, clinging to his sweaty forehead. He looked awful. Bloodstains marred the sheets and pillow. A half-empty bowl of porridge, likely brought by Eliza, sat on the bedside table—Nero had barely touched it. A bottle of rubbing medical alcohol lay on the edge of the mattress, used to clumsily treat his wounds. His hands, covered in fresh scrapes, trembled as he noticed movement at the door.
Nero flinched, his eyes, cloudy with pain and fear, widening. He shrank back against the wall, instinctively shielding himself with his hands, as if expecting more blows. In the dim light from the hallway, he didn’t immediately recognize Weiss. It could have been Kurt, Heinrich, or just another vision born of his tormented mind.
“Nero, it’s me,” Weiss said softly, sitting on the bed beside him. His voice was warm, gentle. “I won’t hurt you. Please, look at me.”
***
Flashback: The Day Before
Eliza entered Nero’s room, holding a bowl of watery porridge. The door creaked, and Nero flinched, huddling in the corner of his narrow bed. He hugged his thin knees, his body trembling, his swollen, bruised face hidden behind tangled strands of hair. Eliza paused, her gaze sliding over him—a mix of pity and barely concealed contempt.
“Eat,” she said, her tone careless, tinged with irritation, as if Nero were to blame for everything that had happened. She set the bowl on the bedside table. “Or you’ll starve.”
Nero didn’t move. His eyes, clouded with pain and inflammation, stared at the wall. His head was spinning, he felt like he was going to throw up. “I’d rather die,” he whispered, so quietly the words barely reached Eliza. But they carried such agony that even her cold heart wavered. Tears he’d tried to hold back broke free, leaving wet trails on his cheeks. His tears were not clear but bloody due to the injury. It was haemolacria.
Eliza frowned, her tone sharpening. “If you hadn’t been fooling around—dressing up, acting unnaturally toward your brother—none of this would’ve happened!”
Her voice trembled with anger, not just at Nero but at the situation, at the way her life had turned into this grim, chaotic drama. But as Nero hid his face in his hands, his thin shoulders shaking with sobs, her tone softened. She sighed and sat on the edge of the creaking bed, her movements stiff, as if fighting herself.
“Listen, I’m already doing what I can for you,” she said, her voice quieter but still tense. “I take care of you, so stop crying and eat.”
Nero tried to calm himself, but the tears choked him like burning coals. He was suffocating from pain—not just from bruises and scrapes but from the loneliness, the hatred surrounding him.
“Why… why is everyone so cruel to me?” he sobbed, lifting his red, inflamed eyes to her.
A shadow of memory crossed Eliza’s face. Her lips trembled, and for a moment, something flickered in her gray eyes—pain, guilt, fear? She looked away, as if afraid Nero would see too much.
“Because you’re a child of sin,” she said quietly. “You’re a punishment for our family. You weren’t supposed to be born, understand? But I… I pitied you. And now you’re a burden. You’re… an anomaly.”
Nero froze, his tears stopping, not from relief but from shock. Her words were like poison, slowly seeping into his veins. He didn’t understand their meaning, but he felt them gnawing at his soul, amplifying his pain. What did she mean? Why was he a punishment? He cried harder than before, and Eliza stood, her face impassive once more. She left, leaving Nero with the bowl of porridge, his tears, and words that burned inside him, impossible to comprehend.
***
Nero froze, his breathing ragged. He slowly lowered his hands, and his gaze, full of distrust, met Weiss’s eyes. Seeing his face—not angry, not judgmental, but filled with worry and care—Nero shaked harder. Weiss cautiously reached out, afraid to startle him, and placed the first-aid kit beside him.
“I brought ointment, iodine, bandages, anti-inflammatory eye drops” Weiss said, opening the kit. “And painkillers. Let me help. I wanted to come sooner, but I couldn’t.”
Nero stared at him, as if unable to believe this was real. His cracked lips trembled, but instead of words, a soft sob escaped his throat. Weiss began treating his wounds, gently dabbing iodine on broken skin, applying ointment to bruises, and covering scrapes with bandages. Each movement was careful, almost reverent, as if he feared causing more pain. Nero stayed silent, his body tense, but he didn’t pull away. When Weiss finished, he handed him a painkiller and an old tin mug of water.
“Take it,” Weiss said quietly. “It’ll help.”
Nero took the pill with trembling fingers and swallowed it with difficulty, washing it down with water, his eyes filling with tears. He could no longer hold back. Pink tears streamed down, hot and unstoppable, and he broke into sobs, his shoulders shaking.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Weiss,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I ruined everything… I wanted… wanted to be beautiful for you. Wanted you to… to…” He gasped, covering his face with his hands. “I brought this on myself. I’m disgusting. I hate myself for this… for loving you.”
Weiss felt his own eyes sting with tears. He moved closer and, without thinking, pulled Nero into an embrace, holding him gently. His arms were warm but careful, as if afraid to break this fragile being. He wiped the tears from Nero’s cheeks, his fingers lingering on his face, and, in a moment of impulse, softly kissed his feverish forehead.
“You’re not disgusting,” Weiss whispered. “You’re not to blame. I am. I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve…”
He fell silent, his throat tightening. The scene of Nero’s beating, blood on the white dress, his desperate cry, his father’s and uncle’s shouts, the blows—it all played before his eyes like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Nero’s sobs, heard in the night, tore at his heart. Guilt choked him, but there was something else—something he feared to name, growing with every glance at Nero, at his broken beauty, his pain, his fervent words.
“I won’t let them touch you again,” Weiss said, his voice firmer. “I’ll get you out of here. I promise.”
Nero looked at him, his eyes full of tears, disbelief, and fear. He wanted to believe Weiss, but his mind screamed that it was a trap, that he was unworthy of salvation, that Weiss would soon turn away like everyone else. But the warmth of his embrace, the softness of his voice, was the only thing keeping Nero from drowning completely in his darkness. He closed his eyes, slowly drifting off in the gentle embrace that rocked him like a child.
***
Weiss returned to his room, but sleep wouldn’t come. His thoughts swirled around Nero. He knew his inaction had fueled this nightmare. If he’d responded to Nero’s feelings, if he’d stopped Kurt and Heinrich, things might have been different. Now he felt obligated to act, even if it meant going against his family, against everything he knew. To abandon his familiar world for Nero.
The only way to save Nero was to get him out of this house, this cage. But how? Heinrich and Kurt watched every move, and Eliza, though silent, was part of this system. Weiss had no money, no power, but he had his new job—and maybe a chance. He began to think of a plan. Perhaps an old school friend who now lived in the city? Or a colleague who could help? He remembered Tom, a former classmate who’d once mentioned his family rented a room in a nearby town. It was a faint glimmer of hope, but Weiss clung to it.
He knew escape would be dangerous. Kurt and Heinrich wouldn’t let Nero go easily, their hatred was too deep, almost supernatural, as if Nero wasn’t just an adopted son but a symbol of something they wanted to destroy. And Eliza… her silence, the shadow of pain in her eyes, suggested she knew more than she let on. Weiss resolved to save money from his first paycheck, find allies, and plan the escape. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Nero—broken but still beautiful in his vulnerability. That image pushed him forward, despite the fear and risk.
И Барби бросилась под каток одиннадцать раз подряд
▼Порисулька⬍
▼Глава 4⬍
Chapter 4
Chapter Text
Days dragged on, blending into a gray blur of exhaustion and anxiety. Weiss started working at a prestigious company—a sales manager surrounded by glass walls, the hum of voices, and endless spreadsheets of numbers. The job was grueling: client meetings, reports, pressure from superiors. He returned home late, head buzzing, collapsing onto his bed and falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. But even in sleep, Nero haunted him. His eyes; huge, trusting, then filled with tears and fear, followed Weiss. The sound of Nero’s sobs from that night echoed in his ears, tearing at his soul. Each memory of the blood on the torn dress, Nero’s quiet plea, tightened a knot inside him.
He lived as if split in two. One life was what Heinrich, Kurt, and Eliza expected: the obedient son, the successful worker, the epitome of “normalcy.” The other yearned for Nero, desperate to protect him, to pull him from this hell, to defy fate. But these two parts of Weiss were at war. His father’s and uncle’s homophobia, their venomous words about “abnormal” people, their contemptuous glares, had weighed on him for years. Kurt, with his coarse laugh, had once said over dinner, “Those… perverts should be sent to camps, re-educated.” Heinrich nodded, lighting a cigarette with a smug air, tossing out sarcastic, biting remarks, and Weiss had stayed silent, shame and fear gripping him. Now those words returned, making him doubt himself. What did he feel for Nero? Pity? Brotherly affection? Or… something more? He was terrified to even think about it, afraid to admit that his heart raced at the thought of Nero’s fragile figure, his trembling voice, his love. Of his soft lips, warm and tender, of that kiss on a warm evening.
At night, lying in the dark, Weiss made plans. He saved every spare coin from his first paycheck. He thought of Tom, a school friend now living in a nearby city who might help with housing. Or Anna, a colleague who’d once mentioned her aunt, a doctor who helped people in need. But each time he thought of escape, fear gripped him. Heinrich and Kurt were too powerful, too watchful. And Eliza… her silence made Weiss suspect she knew something she wasn’t saying. He felt Nero wasn’t just an adopted son but a key to some dark family secret. But how could he uncover it?
One day, Weiss came home earlier than usual. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes red from exhaustion. He entered the living room, where Eliza sat with a cup of tea, her face as impassive as ever. Quiet music from the TV played in the background. She looked up, and a shadow of something—worry? Guilt?—flickered in her eyes.
“You’re early,” she said, her voice even but with a faint edge of tension.
“Yeah, finished early,” Weiss replied, taking off his jacket and loosening the tie from his long white hair, letting the strands fall free. He wanted to ask about Nero but hesitated, sensing something in Eliza’s demeanor. He pressed on: “How’s… Nero? I haven’t seen him since that night.”
Eliza held her breath, her fingers tightening slightly on the cup. She looked away, as if choosing her words.
“He’s been taken away,” she said finally, her tone cold but with a note Weiss couldn’t decipher. “To a hospital.”
Weiss felt the blood drain from his face. His voice trembled: “A hospital? Where? Why?”
Eliza met his gaze, her eyes narrowing, but a flicker of pity—or perhaps he imagined it—passed through them.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice firmer. “He’ll be better off there. They’ll help him. And you… eat, rest. Stay out of it.”
She stood and walked to the kitchen, leaving Weiss alone. His thoughts spun, anxiety swelling like a storm. A hospital? What did that mean? Nero was weak and beaten, but a doctor had already visited, saying the wounds weren’t very severe… or was it worse than he thought? What if it wasn’t a hospital but something else? Weiss recalled rumors in town—about places where “troublesome” people were sent, about “treating” those who didn’t fit the “norm.” His hands shook. He couldn’t just sit there, couldn’t just “eat and rest.” The image of Nero—his tearful eyes, his trembling voice—stood before him like an accusation.
Weiss went to his room, but peace eluded him. He paced, his heart pounding as if it wanted to break free. He had to find Nero. Had to know where he was, what was happening. But Eliza wouldn’t tell him, and Heinrich and Kurt would only grow furious if they knew he was asking. Weiss sat on the bed, clutching his head. He felt trapped, between fear of his family and his duty to Nero. For the first time, he wondered: what if he truly loved Nero? Not as a brother, not out of pity, but… differently? The thought terrified him, but it also gave him strength. He couldn’t abandon Nero. Not now.
***
Every night, the same dream tormented Weiss. He saw himself as a child, standing in an endlessly long, empty corridor. The walls seemed ancient, cracked, but something alive seemed to stir beneath their surface. Ahead, at the far end, loomed a massive black wooden door with an ornate metal bolt. The door drew him like a magnet, an otherworldly wind pulling him forward, and despite its weight, it seemed to breathe.
He heard his parents’ voices, distant and distorted, as if echoing from the depths of a well: “Son… don’t you dare go near… you’re forbidden from entering that door…”
Weiss turned, but the corridor behind him was empty. The voices dissolved into the air, leaving him alone in the ringing silence. He faced the door again, cold sweat trickling down his spine. His heart pounded louder, each beat echoing in his ears.
The air was thick with suffocating dread, as if the corridor held its breath, waiting for his next step. But he couldn’t stop.
“Why can’t I go in? My brother’s there… my little Nero… He’s alone… he’s scared…”
He walked forward slowly, the corridor seeming to stretch with each step, the walls pulsing, the light from bulbs overhead flickering more frequently. The creak of old wood underfoot sounded like a groan.
Reaching the door, Weiss stopped. His trembling hand touched the cold surface. It was unpleasantly damp, as if it had absorbed streams of tears.
“Nero… it’s me,” he whispered, but only dead silence answered.
A spasm of fear gripped his throat, and suddenly he felt something sticky touch his bare feet. Weiss looked down and paralyzed. Thick, crimson blood began seeping from under the door, drop by drop, pooling and spreading across the corridor.
His breath caught, his feet rooted to the floor. The cold stickiness of the blood touched his toes, as if pulling him in. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his throat. Mute terror filled his mind, and when he turned to run, the corridor vanished, and he fell into the void…
Waking, he bolted upright, gasping. His heart pounded as if it would burst. The room was dark and quiet, but the vision lingered before his eyes. “Nero…” he rasped.
He ran trembling fingers over his face, realizing he was drenched in cold sweat. The dream… it was too real.
“It’s not just a dream. I feel him… I feel his pain.”
He had to find Nero. No matter the cost.

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▼Глава 5⬍
Chapter 5
Summary:
(Warnings: Medical details, graphic descriptions of illness, injuries and mental issues!)
Notes:
Illustration for the chapter. "Decay"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1941115200910041364
Chapter Text
Weiss stood at a crossroads, torn between two worlds. One was the world of his family, their homophobic expectations, their “normalcy” enforced through years of contempt and threats. The other was Nero’s world—his pain, his love, his desperate cry. His job as a manager in a prestigious company consumed his time. He sold expensive equipment to companies whose activities he was not particularly interested in, but needed the money. He returned home drained, collapsing onto his bed, but sleep brought no relief. Nero haunted every nightmare: his huge, trusting eyes turning to fear and tears. The sound of his sobs from that night echoed in Weiss’s ears, making his chest tighten with pain. And that dream of the corridor and the door, with blood seeping from beneath it. Weiss felt like a traitor, unable to protect the one who had trusted him.
In rare moments of quiet, he recalled their childhood. Nero, still small, with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, running through the garden, his rare smile as bright as a ray of sunlight. He’d show Weiss a flower or a colorful beetle, his large eyes sparkling with delight. But those flickers of joy had long been crushed under the weight of the family; Kurt’s fists, Heinrich’s mockery, Eliza’s cold silence. Weiss swore to himself: he would bring back that smile, that happiness. But first, he had to find Nero. Save him.
Eliza’s words about the hospital burned like hot iron. Her eerie calm, her evasiveness, her phrase—“Nero’s better off there”—rang false. Worse was her hint: “You don’t want your father or uncle to hurt him again, do you?” Those words suggested the family’s “help” wasn’t care but a way to erase Nero, like an unwanted stain of “shame.” Weiss recalled their hatred, their talk of “abnormality,” and his suspicions grew. What had they done to Nero?
One night, when the house was asleep, Weiss slipped into Heinrich’s study. Fortunately, the door was unlocked. In a desk drawer, he found a sheet with the address of a private clinic and a contract signed by Heinrich. The words “special supervision” and “behavioral correction” made his blood run cold. This wasn’t a hospital. It was a place for those deemed “wrong.” Weiss clutched the paper, his hands trembling. He had to act. He copied the address into his notebook and quietly left the study.
He took time off work, citing exhaustion, and drove to the address. The road led out of town, through a sparse pine forest where the only sound was the whisper of the wind. No birds sang. The clinic was a grim, gray building surrounded by high concrete walls topped with barbed wire. It looked more like a prison than a place of healing. Weiss approached the gates, and a guard, sizing up his suit and car, let him through, directing him to the reception.
Inside, it was cold, reeking of disinfectant. A woman at the desk, with a stern face and colorless eyes, looked at Weiss.
“State the purpose of your visit,” she said, her voice sharp as scraping metal.
“I want to see Nero,” Weiss replied, trying to sound firm. “He’s my… brother.”
She shook her head, not looking up from her computer. “He’s not in a condition to see visitors. Please leave.”
“What do you mean, ‘not in a condition’?” Weiss raised his voice, his hands clenching into fists. “What’s wrong with him? I want to see him!”
“Rules are rules,” she snapped. “Leave, or I’ll call security.”
Weiss argued, but his words drowned in the staff’s indifference. He left but didn’t give up. He called Tom, his school friend now working in city administration, who might have access to information. He also contacted Anna, whose aunt had connections in medical circles. But weeks passed, and the clinic’s doors remained closed. Weiss was torn between his job, where he was praised for his success—smart, self-confident, tall and handsome, Weiss could charm clients—and his fight against a system that seemed designed to break Nero.
***
For Kurt and Heinrich, Weiss tried to act as if nothing was wrong. His demanding job allowed him to minimize family interactions, and when home, he cited exhaustion to skip family dinners. Several times, he visited Nero’s room, hoping to find him, still unable to believe he’d been taken somewhere unknown. Each time he entered, a heaviness washed over him, as if the air thickened, saturated with the remnants of unbearable suffering.
The room was empty, as always. Tangled sheets with stains of dried blood lay crumpled on the bed. The cracked mirror in the corner reflected dim light, scattered like fragments of memories impossible to piece together. An old, warped bedside table stood against the wall, as if tired of bearing its burden.
Weiss sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He still felt that if he stood still and listened, he might hear Nero’s breathing, sense his presence as he had in childhood. But it was a desperate delusion. He moved to the bed, gently touching the sheets. The sight of the bloodstains—proof of that evening he longed to forget but couldn’t—unsettled him. He carefully pulled the sheets off, as if afraid to wake a ghost, and tossed them into a corner for washing.
Then he approached the bedside table. Opening the top drawer, he found books Nero had borrowed from the family’s large library, read, and returned. But the last two remained, abandoned. Opening the bottom drawer, Weiss froze. There were Nero’s things: stretched-out shirts, baggy pants, a comb with a few long hairs caught in it, and… the cosmetic bag. The one Nero had found in the attic.
His fingers trembled as he touched the items. Such simple, everyday things, yet each bore Nero’s imprint. It was too painful. He closed the drawer, swallowing the lump in his throat. His gaze fell on the cracked mirror.
How many times had Nero looked into it? How many times had he seen his face, hated it, hated himself? How many times had he sat here, alone with his pain?
Weiss stepped closer. His hand reached for the cold, cracked surface, as if it could connect him to Nero. For a moment, he held his breath. In the mirror’s shards, he thought he saw someone behind him—long black hair, a pale face, huge eyes full of tears.
“Nero…” he whispered, turning sharply.
No one. Only silence, so oppressive it could drown you.
Tears filled Weiss’s eyes. His shoulders shook with a stifled sob.
“Nero…” he repeated, louder, as if hoping Nero would answer.
But only emptiness replied.
***
Meanwhile, Nero existed in hell. He was confined to a sterile room with white walls, where every sound echoed, amplifying his anxiety. The drugs they injected dulled his emotions but turned the world into a hazy fog, detached from reality. He felt his identity dissolving, losing himself. His wrists and ankles were chafed from the restraints used when he screamed and resisted. The straitjacket, reeking of chemicals, became his second skin, stripping him of human dignity. Nightmares tormented him: Kurt with his heavy fists, Heinrich with his rage-twisted face and insults, Eliza with her “child of sin” words. They surrounded him like ghosts, invisible to others but terrifyingly real to him. Sometimes, he glimpsed dark entities emerging from corners, taking on spider-like forms, reaching for him from the ceiling. It felt as though even the walls were trying to kill him. The IV tubes piercing his wrists seemed to drain his life force, though they were nourishing his depleted body with vital nutrients. He called for Weiss—whispering, then louder, then screaming, his voice breaking, but only ringing silence or the harsh shouts of orderlies answered: “Shut up, or it’ll be worse.”
And worse it was. They beat him, subdued him, threatened to move him to the general ward with the most deranged patients. But worst of all was Gabriel. His predatory, glassy eyes always watched Nero with humiliating mockery. He stripped Nero’s clothes and doused him with icy water in the communal shower, calling it “tempering the will.” His gloved hands lingered longer than necessary, “checking his health.”
“It’s for your own good,” Gabry said with a crooked smile, his voice dripping with venom.
Sometimes, he forced Nero into humiliating situations that left him breathless with fear. Perhaps Gabry never crossed the final line, but his actions left scars deeper than blows. Nero felt dirty, broken. One day, Nero bit Gabry's hand, which made the orderly angry and put a special bondage on his face.
The only bright spot was a young orderly named Eric. His careful hands and soft voice offered faint hope, but Nero’s trauma was too deep to trust anyone. Over time, Nero broke. He stopped speaking, barely moved. His mind crumbled more each day. Hallucinations became his only reality. He saw Weiss, felt his warm touch, heard his voice. But each time, the mirage faded, leaving him alone in the cold, empty room. Constant drug injections worsened his cognition; amnesia relentlessly consumed his mind. He sat for hours in the corner of his bed, staring blankly, his eyes empty as a doll’s. To keep him from starving, they used IV drips or forced liquid food through a tube. His body existed, but the Nero Weiss knew was nearly gone.
***
Weiss didn’t give up. He visited the clinic, tried bribing staff to get inside. Finally, by luck, he met Eric, he turned out to be Anna’s aunt’s nephew. Eric, in a white coat, looked troubled as Weiss questioned him about Nero. They crossed the clinic’s courtyard, surrounded by gray buildings, and Weiss felt something sinister despite the neatly trimmed bushes along clean paths. In the shadows of old plane trees lining the walkway, ghosts seemed to linger. Even the sunlight felt dim and cold here. “Less volatile” patients in white and gray clothes sat on benches. Weiss anxiously scanned for Nero, but Eric said Nero rarely left his room, having been locked in too often.
Eric led him to the building where Nero was held. The corridors smelled of disinfectant, hopelessness and despair. Patients’ screams echoed from behind closed doors. These sounds sent shivers down his spine.
“Why is he here?” Weiss asked, his voice trembling.
Eric hesitated before answering: “He tried… to take his own life. He made a rope from his shirt and climbed a tree in the courtyard. We barely got him down.”
Weiss closed his eyes, his heart breaking. He imagined this scene and felt so bad.
When the door opened, Weiss saw Nero and his world collapsed. Nero sat on the bed, thin and haggard, with gray skin and purple marks from restraints on his wrists. There were fewer bruises and cuts, showing some medical attention, but his overall condition had worsened. His eyes, once full of life, were empty, almost dead. He didn’t react to the sound of footsteps, didn’t lift his gaze.
Weiss fell to his knees before him, his voice shaking: “Nero… it’s me. I’m here. I found you.”
Nero slowly turned his head, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Only emptiness.
“It’s me, your brother,” Weiss repeated, his voice breaking into a whisper.
Weiss wanted to touch him, to hug him, but Nero flinched, as if expecting a blow. Weiss pressed his lips together, tears falling to the floor. He swore to himself he’d get Nero out, even if it cost him everything. But seeing his broken body, his lifeless gaze, he realized time was running out.
Weiss looked at Nero, tears burning his cheeks, but he didn’t dare look away. This fragile, broken person on the bed was so far from the boy who once rejoiced in the garden, showing Weiss a butterfly, weaving him a crown of clover and dandelions, laughing as Weiss smeared cream on his nose while sharing pastries. Childhood memories seemed like a distant past from another universe.
“I’ll get you out,” Weiss whispered, his voice full of resolve despite the tremor. “I promise.”
Eric, standing at the door, nervously glanced into the corridor. His face was tense, and his eyes held genuine concern.
“We need to hurry,” he said quietly. “If Gabriel or the senior orderlies see I brought you to Nero, our plan’s done. You won’t get in again, and I won’t be able to help.”
Weiss nodded, but his gaze stayed on Nero. He cautiously reached out, careful not to scare him, and to his surprise, Nero didn’t flinch now, though his body tensed like a cornered animal. Weiss pressed his lips together, stifling a sob. He stood and turned to Eric: “How can we get him out? Today? Now?”
Eric shook his head, his voice heavy with regret: “It’s not that simple. Nero’s under strict supervision after… the rope incident. Your father signed the papers for his stay, and without them, no one will release him. But…” He hesitated, glancing at Nero. “I can help. I’ve seen how they treat him. This isn’t treatment—it’s torture.”
Weiss felt rage flare within him. He recalled the contract, the words “behavioral correction,” Eliza’s indifferent stare. His family had done this to Nero. They broke him.
“What needs to be done?” he asked, his voice firmer.
“We need the documents,” Eric replied. “Or a forgery to arrange a transfer to another clinic. I know someone who can help, but it’s expensive. And dangerous. If your family finds out…”
Weiss lowered his head, deep in thought. He knew Heinrich and Kurt wouldn’t stop if they learned he was trying to free Nero. But he could no longer live with this guilt, this fear. He looked at Nero’s empty eyes, and something clicked in his soul. He loved Nero—not just as a brother, not just out of guilt or pity. He loved him more than he could say. The thought scared him, but it also pushed him forward.
“I’ll find the money,” he said. “How much time?”
“A week, maybe more,” Eric answered. “I’ll try to make things easier for Nero here, but Gabriel… he’s dangerous. I can’t always be around.”
Weiss nodded, his gaze hardening. He cast one last look at Nero. He wanted to hug him, to say everything would be okay, but he knew words were powerless now. He had to leave. He’d need a lawyer to pull off the document scheme. And he’d borrow money from friends, adding it to his earnings.

Meanwhile, Nero drifted in his hallucinations. He saw Weiss—his loving smile, his outstretched hand, heard his loving voice. But each time, the image dissolved, leaving him in the cold room with the smell of disinfectant and the echo of Gabry’s footsteps. He didn’t know if Weiss had truly been there or if it was another mirage conjured by his tormented mind. His body trembled, but he no longer cried. There were no tears left. He could no longer distinguish reality from his hallucinations.
***
Eric led Weiss to a small office belonging to his senior colleague. The room was clean and white, but the atmosphere felt heavy: stacks of folders on the desk, cold fluorescent lights, the sharp smell of chemicals and solutions. Eric gestured for Weiss to sit and began rifling through a folder marked with a long number—Nero’s medical file.
“I shouldn’t show you this,” he began, avoiding Weiss’s gaze. “But you need to know the truth.”
He pulled out sheets and began reading, his voice restrained but occasionally worried. “When Nero was brought here, his condition was… critical. Chronic malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, anemia. We started intensive therapy to stabilize him. Blood transfusions, IV drips.”
Eric glanced at Weiss and saw his hands grip the chair’s armrests, knuckles white.
“His breathing was a concern too,” Eric continued, lowering his voice. “Issues like that arise from prolonged exposure to cold or toxic mold.”
Weiss closed his eyes, suppressing pain. Images of Nero’s musty and cold room, stained with mold, its damp rot smell, flooded his mind.
“Then…” Eric hesitated, “…we found several ribs broken in childhood, improperly healed. It caused chest deformity, limiting mobility, causing pain, and restricting breathing.”
Weiss tensed, nearly leaping from the chair. He recalled Kurt brutally kicking Nero, the frail boy curling into a ball, silently crying to avoid further enraging his tormentor.
“Those injuries…” Eric continued, not looking at Weiss, “…were inflicted with such force it’s a miracle he survived. He also has kidney issues, likely from hypothermia and… physical abuse.”
Weiss rubbed his temples, his head spinning. Eric went on: “There’s more. We ran tests, and…” He paused, choosing his words. “Nero has brain changes. Partial damage, reduced volume in some areas.”
Weiss frowned, his heart clenching. “What does that mean? Why?”
Eric sighed, glancing at the records. “It could be from head trauma, chronic stress, malnutrition. His body and mind have been through too much. These changes can cause memory issues, concentration problems, emotional dysregulation…”
Eric looked cautiously at Weiss, as if afraid he couldn’t handle it. “It’s not fatal, but… it affects him strongly. With treatment, some functions could recover, but there may be lasting effects.”
Weiss clutched his head, grappling with a wave of anger and helplessness. Everything he knew about Nero’s past now formed a picture where each detail was a blow to his brother.
“I should’ve protected him,” he whispered with despond. “But I couldn’t.”
Eric met his gaze heavily: “Nero’s young, and with proper treatment, he can heal. But it’ll be a long, hard road.”
Weiss stared blankly, his breathing quickening. Eric put the papers away and sat across from him, his eyes full of empathy.
“But that’s not all,” he said. “His mental state… it’s dire. Chronic anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia. He barely speaks, and when he does, he’s not always aware of where he is. Frequent derealization and depersonalization. Nightmares, crying in his sleep. Sometimes he shakes at the slightest touch. We don’t know how long he can endure this. But he has a chance. With care, with safety, he could recover. It’ll take time and effort.”
Weiss stood, pacing the room, his steps tense. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said firmly. “I’ll get the money, hire the best doctors. I’ll do anything for him.”
Eric nodded, standing. “If anyone can save him, it’s you, Weiss. Don’t give up.”
Before leaving the office, Eric placed a hand on Weiss’s shoulder, offering comfort. “You’re doing everything you can right now. That’s what matters.”
“Thank you,” Weiss said. “I’m glad there are still good people like you in this rotten world.”
▼Порисулька⬍

Анон пишет:

▼Глава 6⬍
Chapter 6
Summary:
The previous chapter was the darkest point in their story, from which the path to the light begins.
Notes:
Illustration for the chapter. "Healing"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1941578038510223620
Chapter Text
Weiss recalled Nero’s tormented face, his fragile body, and felt despair battling with resolve. He remembered the medical history Eric had read to him, barely holding back tears. A week passed, filled with anxiety, anticipation, and hope. The forged documents, arranged through a lawyer found by Anna’s aunt, were ready. Weiss sold a rare antique candelabra from the house to his boss, an avid collector, to raise money—for the lawyer, for medicine, for a doctor, for their new life. The money weighed heavily in his pocket, a reminder of the cost of Nero’s freedom. Eric, risking his internship, arranged a meeting with the clinic’s head doctor. The greedy staff happily accepted payment to release Nero, for them, he was just a burden, another patient better disposed of. Even Gabry, with his predatory eyes, didn’t object: Nero was merely a toy to him, pretty but not worth the effort, especially now that he was little more than a lifeless doll.
Weiss entered the ward, his heart clenching at the sight of Nero. He sat on the bed, pale as a ghost, his skin thin and almost translucent, his wrists and ankles bearing fading marks from restraints. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, his body limp as if life had left him. Weiss gently lifting Nero into his arms, feeling his weightlessness, like a broken bird. Nero didn’t resist but didn’t respond either, his breathing barely noticeable. Weiss held him close, his steps echoing in the disinfectant-scented corridor, sharp with the smell of detergents.The smell made Weiss feel sick. It was another hell, from the damp and musty room in the mansion to a sterile one, saturated with diseases and fears.
Eric walked beside him, his face tense but his eyes glowing with inner relief. He handed Weiss a bag of medications, ointments, and instructions, along with the address of a proper clinic where he worked weekends.
“I’ll visit when I can,” Eric said quietly, looking at Nero with pity. “Keep an eye on his condition. The first weeks will be tough. My little brother… he’s sick too. I know what it’s like to watch someone close fade. Don’t give up.”
Weiss nodded, his gaze radiating quiet gratitude. He settled Nero in the backseat of the car, covering him with a soft blanket.
“These are antidepressants and sedatives,” Eric said, pointing to the pill blisters. “They’ll help stabilize him after the clinic. But be careful—side effects can include drowsiness, weakness, dizziness.”
Eric pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Here’s a rough plan: medication schedule, basic relaxation techniques. He needs stability to recover. It’ll be hard at first. He’ll need a lot of care.”
“Thank you” Weiss took the paper, his hands trembling slightly. He looked at the instructions, feeling his chest tighten with anxiety and worry. “What if… what if he can’t? If he doesn’t want to live?”
Eric sighed heavily. “He can, if he knows someone loves him. That he’s not alone.”
Those words hit Weiss like a lightning “I’ll make sure he knows that.”
Eric looked him in the eyes. “One more thing, Weiss. His trauma runs deep. If you can’t handle it, find him a good therapist. It’s crucial. He’ll struggle with nightmares, flashbacks. Sometimes the world will feel like a trap to him. You need to be there so he doesn’t get lost. If he starts avoiding you, flinching at your touch, or acting strange, it’s normal. He needs time to adjust to freedom. Sometimes he’ll think he’s still in the clinic. Be patient.”
Weiss shook his hand gratefully. “Thank you, Eric. I owe you.”
Eric shook his head. “Just make it work. I did what I could. The rest is up to you.”
In the car, Weiss unfolded the paper and read it again, as if it could give him strength. “I won’t let you down,” he whispered, glancing at the backseat.
Nero sat silently, his thin fingers touching the cold window. His lips parted as if to speak, but the words caught in his throat. The light from the window illuminated his face, making his features almost ghostly. Long shadows from his eyelashes fell on his cheeks.
Eric stayed behind as the car slowly left the clinic’s grounds. When the gates closed, Weiss felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders, but a new battle loomed—bringing Nero back to life.
***
Weiss rented a small house in a remote village, surrounded by a beautiful forest with clearings, where the world felt far from their oppressive past. He has already moved all the necessary things from the mansion. Weiss bought new things in advance, as well as new clothes for Nero; comfortable, light, pleasant. Tom, his old friend, helped find the place—modest, but cozy, with a wide veranda and windows opening to green treetops. A garden with fruit trees, berry bushes, and flowers lay out front. Wild roses and briars entwined the old fence. Despite its remoteness, the village had electricity, internet, and nearby farmers’ markets, small shops, and pharmacies. Weiss quit his manager job, its successes meaningless now, and switched to remote work to never leave Nero alone. He feared even a brief absence could sever the fragile thread holding Nero together.
The first days were exhausting. Nero didn’t speak, didn’t look at Weiss, didn’t eat on his own. He sat in a rocking chair by the window, his gaze lost beyond the horizon, where leaves swayed in the wind and spruce tops touched the sky, much like when he’d sat by the fence at home, staring at the forest. Weiss fed him with a spoon, patiently coaxing him to swallow bits of nourishing broth or porridge. He bathed Nero in a small tub of warm water, gently scrubbing his skin with a soft sponge and fragrant soap, trying to wash away the clinic’s stench, as if he could erase the memories of its horrors. Afterward, he dried him with a soft towel and, following Eric’s advice, carefully applied healing ointment to every scar and bruise on Nero’s body. Each mark—on his back, arms, legs, chest—was a page in his story of pain. A long, diagonal scar on his back from Heinrich’s belt when Nero was a child. A thin mark by his temple from being shoved into a doorframe by a drunken Kurt. And on his wrists… Weiss looked away, unwilling to think of how Nero, in moments of despair, had inflicted those wounds himself. But the memories crept in, each scar cutting into Weiss’s soul like an accusation of his inaction. Guilt tormented him, driving him to fix what he could. But beyond that, another growing feeling fueled his motivation. Love. Deep, powerful, it began as a tender sprout and now grew into a mighty tree, ready to offer shelter and support.
At night, Weiss slept beside Nero, holding him, feeling his faint breathing. He whispered memories—of days when they ran through the garden, when Nero wove a crown of dandelions and placed it on Weiss’s head, laughing so brightly the world seemed happier. Of days when Weiss sneaked him pastries, sharing them away from the family’s eyes. Or when Weiss shared with him the cake his parents bought him for his birthday. Nero remained silent, his face unmoving, and Weiss wondered in silent horror: would that boy he knew ever return? Or had the clinic stolen him forever?
Each morning, Weiss placed a bouquet of wildflowers—daisies, clover, bellflowers—picked from the meadow behind the house on Nero’s bedside table. Their scent filled the room, but Nero didn’t notice, his gaze fixed on distant trees. Weiss followed Eric’s instructions: giving medications, massaging wrists and shoulders to restore circulation, talking to Nero even when he didn’t respond. He worked nights to pay for rent and food, hiding his exhaustion behind a smile, but fear gnawed at him.
One evening, as the sunset painted the sky orange, pink, and lilac, Weiss broke. He looked at Nero in the rocking chair, his motionless silhouette, and despair overwhelmed him. He approached, dropped to his knees before the chair, wrapped his arms around Nero’s waist, and buried his face in his lap. Tears flowed, hot and unstoppable, his shoulders shaking.
“I’m trying so hard, Nero,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if it’s enough… I don’t want to lose you… I was too late... and yet, you still held on for me. If I could take your pain into myself, I would. A thousand times over.”
He expected silence, as always. But then he felt a light, almost weightless touch. Nero’s weak, trembling fingers brushed his hair, gently stroking. Weiss froze, afraid to shatter the moment. A faint, barely audible voice, unheard for so long, whispered: “It’s okay, Weiss… We’re together.”
Weiss looked up, his tearful eyes meeting Nero’s. Pain still clouded them, but for the first time in months, a spark flickered—faint but alive. Weiss smiled through his tears, his lips trembling. He gently took Nero’s hand, pressing it to his cheek, feeling its fragile warmth.
“Yes,” he whispered, “we’re together.”
Weiss kissed Nero’s hand, unable to believe in the miraculous awakening of Nero’s spirit.That moment was a turning point, a ray of light in endless darkness. The past—blood on sheets, screams in the clinic, cold walls—merged with the present, where only their bond, their love, their hope remained. Weiss realized his patience and care were beginning to awaken Nero. And Nero, in comforting Weiss, showed his strength, delicate but unyielding, for the first time. It was the start of their path to healing—long, difficult, but no longer hopeless.
Weiss would forever cherish the memory of that warm summer evening, etched vividly in his heart. The air was alive with the gentle, rhythmic chorus of crickets, their song weaving a soothing melody that seemed to cradle the world in tranquility. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the delicate fragrance of wildflowers—clover, daisies, and bellflowers—carried on a soft breeze that rustled through the meadow surrounding their small house. In the deepening twilight, fireflies began their enchanting dance, their tiny golden lights flickering like stars scattered across the earth, weaving patterns of fleeting magic in the air. The scene felt like a moment stolen from time, a fragile bubble of peace where the weight of the past seemed to dissolve, leaving only the beauty of the present shared between Weiss and Nero.
▼Глава 7⬍
Chapter 7
Summary:
The mystery of Nero's origins is revealed.
(Warning: mentions of rape/non-con of OC)
Notes:
Illustration for the сhapter: https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1942684224110419994
Chapter Text
Little by little, Nero was coming back to life, as if piecing together the fragments of his soul. His personality, shattered in the clinic, began to reassemble like a puzzle, slowly and cautiously. He started showing initiative: helping Weiss in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with trembling hands or passing the kettle. Sometimes, casting a quick glance at Weiss, he smiled—a rare, shy, but remarkably tender smile that took Weiss’s breath away, making the exhaustion from work and care fade. Every sound of Nero’s voice—quiet but growing steadier—was like a melody to Weiss, restoring hope. He looked at Nero and saw not only the shadow of his past but also sparks of the boy who once laughed in the garden.
One evening, as Weiss brewed tea in the small kitchen filled with the scent of mint and chamomile, Nero quietly approached from behind. His arms unexpectedly wrapped around Weiss’s waist, pulling him into a warm, gentle embrace. Weiss froze, afraid to disrupt the moment. Nero stood on tiptoes, his lips brushing Weiss’s neck, then his cheek, and he whispered, his voice sincere and pure: “Thank you for the flowers… I love them so much.”
Weiss’s cheeks flushed. He turned, catching Nero’s gaze—tinged with lingering sadness but also the warmth he’d waited so long to see. Weiss smiled, gently squeezing Nero’s hand and pressing it to his chest, unable to find words but feeling their bond grow stronger.

When Nero had gained a bit more strength, Weiss took him to the clinic Eric had recommended—the same one where Eric’s mother worked, a respected specialist and, as it turned out, the aunt of Weiss’s colleague, Anna. Thanks to the savings he’d quietly built up, Weiss was finally able to pay for proper care.
Eric was visibly glad to see Nero again. The improvement of Nero's health was obvious, and Nero recognized him too, which helped him feel safer within the bright, welcoming clinic—so different from the cold and shadowed institution he’d once been locked in.
During the examination, X-rays confirmed what Eric had long suspected: without surgical intervention, the improperly healed rib fracture would only worsen. The diagnosis was clear: osteotomy and reposition were necessary to prevent long-term complications.
Weiss hesitated at first—Nero had only just begun to recover—but Eric reassured him. The procedure was routine, the stay in the hospital short: one or two nights at most, depending on recovery. Nero himself agreed without resistance. The pain in his chest had become a constant shadow, and he understood that the sooner it was done, the better.
The operation was scheduled and performed by some of the region’s top surgeons. When Nero woke from the anesthesia, the first thing he saw was Weiss—smiling down at him, eyes soft, hand gently holding his.
And in that moment, despite the aching tightness of bandages across his chest and the dull, floating haze of painkillers, Nero didn’t feel afraid. Not anymore. Not with Weiss there.
The doctors told him to stay still for now—no sharp movements, no sitting up yet. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t alone.
***
Nero recovered faster than anyone had expected. The surgeons had done an impeccable job—the incision was small, clean, and precise. Each day, Weiss helped him with the bandages, carefully applying iodine to the healing line of stitches. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as if tending to something sacred. The simple routine of healing brought a kind of closeness that words couldn’t match.
To bring more warmth into the house, Weiss got a cat, a fluffy ginger with a lazy purr. The cat became their shared joy, a symbol of comfort and peaceful life. Nero often held it on his lap, stroking it, whispering to it as it purred against his stomach. Sometimes, when the cat chased a ball of yarn, Nero laughed—quietly but joyfully. That laugh was more precious to Weiss than anything.
With surprising enthusiasm, Nero took up knitting: scarves, sweaters, and socks emerged from his needles, clumsy but heartfelt. Weiss watched him, his heart filling with warmth: Nero was returning.
But Weiss noticed Nero had changed. He was stronger, more confident, but the trauma left its marks. Weiss avoided mentioning past pain, fearing to reopen old wounds. Some nights brought candid conversations. Sometimes, Nero said strange things that made Weiss pause. He spoke of their father, Heinrich, as an evil scientist conducting experiments on people, the clinic a secret lab turning patients into super-soldiers or living weapons. “I have the power of darkness,” he’d say, his eyes gleaming with feverish intensity, “but the injections suppressed it because they feared me.” Weiss listened without interrupting, then asked questions, trying to discern: was this trauma-induced delusion or a fantasy to cope with pain? One evening at dinner, Nero looked at him and said with grim seriousness: “Weiss, I avenged us. I killed him. My power… it killed Kurt.”
For a second Weiss stopped breathing, his blood running cold. He cautiously asked, “Who? Kurt?”
“Kurt,” Nero repeated, his gaze distant, as if seeing something beyond reality.
Weiss didn’t know how to react, fear gripping his throat. Was it true? When Nero did this, if he ever leave him. Or was Nero’s wounded mind, scarred by the clinic, conjuring these images?
***
Months had passed since Weiss left his family. He didn’t look back, but the shadows of the past still haunted him. The decision to visit his parents weighed heavily on his mind, a choice fraught with uncertainty and dread. Should he even go? He wasn’t sure how they would receive him. After all, he had vanished without a word—no note, no explanation—gathering his belongings, changing his phone number, and severing all ties in a desperate bid to protect Nero. Saving Nero had demanded secrecy and speed, a clean break from the family’s suffocating grip to shield his beloved from their cruelty. Yet now, the need for answers gnawed at him, pulling him back to the mansion despite the risk of reopening old wounds or facing their wrath. What if they blamed him? What if they knew about Nero’s escape? The questions churned in his mind, but the hope of understanding what had become of Heinrich and Kurt—and perhaps finding closure—pushed him forward.
Deciding to visit the mansion, he hoped to unravel the fate of his father and uncle. The house greeted him with a grim silence, as if the building itself concealed the pain of their wretched family. Its once-familiar walls now felt oppressive, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and buried suffering.
His mother Eliza sat in the living room, her face calm, almost impenetrable, framed by the faded opulence of a room. Dust clung to the heavy velvet curtains, and the air carried a stale weight. Her sister, there to support her, sat nearby, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on Weiss with a suspicious glare, as if he bore the weight of some unspoken crime. Weiss ignored his aunt’s scrutiny, greeting his mother with a strained nod before asking about Kurt and Heinrich. Eliza, staring into the void, replied, her voice hollow: “They met a cruel fate. One was taken by death, the other is far from here…” She sighed, gathering her thoughts.
“What? How?” Weiss’s stomach churned, his mind caught between disbelief and a strange, unbidden relief. He didn’t know whether to feel pity or liberation. Was it fate punishing them for their cruelty? Or their own guilt, unable to bear its weight? Eliza, as if reading his mind, spoke, her voice quiet but heavy: “After that fateful evening when Nero… was beaten… everything fell apart. Heinrich saw you, Weiss, as his future—his perfect son, given everything: education, a job, the family’s honor. He was proud, made plans, even chose a bride for you. But Nero… he became a nightmare. That night when Nero kissed you in that dress, it broke something in Heinrich. He saw him as a threat, a corruption. Kurt fanned the flames. ‘He’s dangerous,’ he insisted. ‘He’s corrupting your son. We need to get rid of him.’ Heinrich, suppressing doubts, sent Nero to that clinic, thinking it would fix him. But a month later, you were gone. And Nero was no longer in the clinic. Heinrich was beside himself. He searched the house, the neighbors, called your work, the clinic, but you were both gone. He screamed that he’d lost both sons. He blamed Kurt: ‘You pushed for this! You ruined everything!’ Kurt snapped back: ‘What did you expect? For Nero to keep ruining Weiss? Weiss made his choice.’ They argued, nearly fought. Heinrich slammed his fist on the table, yelling that Kurt destroyed his family. Kurt vowed to find you but found nothing. He drank even more. A month later, he became… strange. He whispered that Nero was watching him from corners, that his red eyes burned in the dark, searing him. ‘He’s in my head,’ he said, ‘he wants to strangle me.’ We thought it was drunken delirium. Heinrich snapped, ‘You are an idiot, Kurt. You’re to blame.’ But Kurt didn’t listen. His obsession grew. One night, he woke us screaming: ‘He’s here! Don’t you see? He’ll kill me! The child of sin and darkness!’ I snapped, ‘That’s your conscience.’ Heinrich threw out, ‘You’re done with us.’ Two days later, Kurt was found in his room. He’d hanged himself on the chandelier. A note on the table had one word: ‘Sorry.’”
Weiss felt a chill run down his spine. Nero’s words—“I killed him”—echoed in his head, sharp and unsettling. The memory of Nero’s distant gaze as he spoke those words sent a shiver through Weiss, as if some unseen truth lingered just beyond his grasp. Was it Kurt’s guilt, his nightmares? Or something more? Or had Nero somehow learned of this first? Unless the incident happened after Nero’s cryptic words…
Eliza continued, her voice softer: “Kurt’s death broke Heinrich. He blamed himself, me, Nero. ‘If I’d gotten rid of him then,’ he muttered. He drank daily, locked himself in his study. Alcohol didn’t dull the pain—it fueled it. He started hearing voices, footsteps in the empty house, feeling watched. He screamed that he saw Nero in the corner, watching. That Nero turned into a shadow, merging with the house, and the house wanted to kill him. I called an ambulance when his delusions became dangerous. They took him to a rehab clinic. He calls for you, Weiss, sometimes pleading, sometimes raging that you abandoned the family for Nero. He’s barely alive.”
Listening, Weiss couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to this story, something none of them understood. Nero’s shadow, real or imagined, loomed over them, destroying their lives. Eliza, as if resolving herself, spoke again: “Weiss, there’s something you need to know. About Nero.”
Weiss tensed. Eliza gathered her courage, her face emotional for the first time: “Nero… he’s not adopted. He’s my son. But…” She paused, her hands clenching tightly. “His father… was another man. I was taken by force, against my will. I was young, naive, married to Heinrich, with you, a two-year-old baby. Heinrich was furious, demanded an abortion, but… I couldn’t. Something stopped me. Maybe the religious values my parents instilled? Heinrich agreed to keep him but forced me to forge documents, to say Nero was from an orphanage. His hatred for Nero… it’s hatred for the man who sired him. And I… I couldn’t look at him without reliving that nightmare.”
Weiss listened, his mind reeling, unable to process the words. Shock gripped his chest, but his love for Nero didn’t waver. He wanted to ask why they hadn’t told him the truth, but the words stuck in his throat. Eliza saw his emotions and continued, her voice breaking: “I was unfair to him. I know. But that trauma… it destroyed me, my marriage, my feelings for Nero. I couldn’t see him as my son. Sometimes I thought it’d be better if he didn’t exist. Maybe then he wouldn’t have suffered so much…”
Weiss clenched his fists and finally spoke, his voice firm but full of pain: “That doesn’t justify what you did. He was innocent. A child. He’s not to blame for how he came into this world.”
Eliza lowered her gaze, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know why it all happened this way. But at least you’ve broken the cycle of our family’s pain, and I hope you’ll be not just a brother but a guardian angel for Nero.”
She handed him a slim leather folder—inside, crisp banknotes stacked in neat bundles—from Heinrich and Kurt’s inheritance.
“This isn’t atonement,” she said. “But take it. For Nero. For you.”
She hesitated, then added, “This is only part of the amount. The rest is in your bank account—you can access it whenever you need.”
Weiss stood still, his fingers tightening around the folder. A part of him wanted to reject it, to say it was too late, that no sum could rewrite the past. But another part—the part that had watched Nero suffer, bleed, tremble—knew this money could help. He swallowed the bitterness.
“For Nero,” he echoed quietly. Then he turned without another word, walked out of the suffocating house, and didn’t look back.
His thoughts were a storm, but his resolve was clear.
Home awaited Nero, his smile, his cat, his flowers. Driving, Weiss pondered: should he tell Nero the truth? He feared it could shatter his fragile recovery. But Nero deserved to know. He was not just a victim but part of their family—the part Weiss loved most in the world.
Back home, Weiss sat beside Nero for a long time, watching him stroke the purring cat on his lap, the soft glow of a lamp casting a warm halo around them. Nero sensed the unease in his gaze and quietly asked, “Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” Weiss replied, but his voice wavered. He wanted to hide the truth, afraid of hurting Nero. But Nero’s gaze—deep, understanding, as if he knew more than he said—made him reconsider. Nero covered Weiss’s hand with his soft palm, and Weiss knew: he had to tell him. Nero deserved to know.
▼Глава 8⬍
Chapter 8
Notes:
Illustration for Chapter 8 "Embrace":
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1943023952722317437
Chapter Text
The warm light of the evening sun bathed the room, casting soft shadows on the walls adorned with Nero’s knitted tapestries. The scent of woodsmoke and chamomile tea lingered in the air, but within Weiss, a storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions churned. The truth he’d learned from Eliza weighed heavily, crushing him with a sense of despair. He gazed at Nero—his delicate profile, his hands still bearing the faint traces of scars—and felt fear and love wrestling within him. How could such an innocent angel endure so much pain from his own family? How could they treat him so cruelly, just because he was born of violence? Or was there something more, something Weiss didn’t yet know? A nagging feeling tugged at him, as if a new door to an unknown mystery was about to open, though he couldn’t grasp what it might reveal. The revelation of their shared blood troubled him less than the fear of how Nero would react—and how others might judge their bond if the truth came to light. That fear clawed unpleasantly at his soul, a sharp reminder of the world’s harsh gaze beyond their sanctuary.
Nero deserved to know the truth, but Weiss feared it could shatter his fragile recovery. He recalled Nero’s words about Kurt—“I killed him”—and Kurt’s nightmares of “red eyes,” and a shadow of doubt crossed his face. But Nero’s gaze, deep and understanding, as if sensing his turmoil, spurred Weiss to act.
“Nero,” he began, his voice quiet, “I need to tell you something. It’s… important.”
Nero tensed and straightened, a flicker of unease in his eyes, but he nodded, gently setting aside the lace handkerchief he’d been knitting onto the table. Weiss took a deep breath, gathering strength.
“I went to see Mother,” he continued, his words cautious, as if treading on thin ice. “Kurt is dead.”
Nero’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and recognition crossing his face, despite his earlier claim that his “power” had killed Kurt. “It’s true, then,” he whispered softly, his voice barely audible.
“Yes, he took his own life. After months of drinking. He fought with Heinrich. After Kurt’s death, Heinrich blamed himself and started drinking too. He’s in a rehab clinic now.”
“Oh,” Nero murmured, shaking his head, clearly unprepared for his “fantasies” to align with reality. Was it sympathy or relief he felt? It was hard to tell, his expression a tangle of emotions.
Weiss pressed on: “I learned something else, something crucial. Mother told me about you. About your birth. Nero… you’re not adopted. You’re her son. We share the same mother.”
Nero paled and looked away, as if seeking solace in the walls of their home. His eyes, usually calm, widened, reflecting a mix of shock and confusion. Weiss continued, his voice trembling but resolute: “Your father… was another man. Eliza… she was raped. She couldn’t go through with an abortion. Heinrich couldn’t accept you, so they forged documents, said you were from an orphanage. Their hatred for you… it stems from that. But you’re her son. My half…” Weiss faltered, the word “brother” catching in his throat. “You’re mine, Nero. You always have been.”
Nero remained silent, his breathing uneven. His body trembled, and he suddenly covered his face with his hands, as if trying to hide from the truth. “Why… why is it like this…” he whispered. “Why did she only tell you now? If I’m… her real son, why did she treat me…” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” he murmured, as if he were trying to convince himself the past could be left behind.
Tears slipped through his fingers, quiet sobs shattering the room’s silence. Weiss felt a heavy, inexplicable guilt settle over him, as if he shouldn’t have revealed the truth. As if by speaking the truth, he’d unwittingly added another scar to Nero’s already wounded soul. But he couldn’t lie to Nero. He moved closer, gently touching Nero’s shoulder. “Nero,” he whispered, “look at me. Please.”
Nero shook his head, his voice hoarse, barely audible: “I always felt you were… my soulmate. But I didn’t think we shared blood. This… it makes everything worse, Weiss. Our love… it was already forbidden. And now…” He choked, tears streaming harder. “They’ll despise and hate us even more. And I… I’m dirty. I’m a child of sin. They were right. I wish I’d never been born.”
Weiss flinched at Nero’s words, his thoughts racing. The truth of their shared blood—that they were half-brothers—did complicate things, but it didn’t shake his feelings. He recalled their childhood, their closeness, and then that kiss that led to a nightmare. The love he felt for Nero was deeper than brotherly, and that frightened him, but it didn’t diminish its strength. He knew Nero was ashamed of himself—his body, his scars, his past. Each time Weiss tried to kiss his lips, Nero would turn away, as if fearing the memories of that first kiss and the beating that followed would return. But Weiss never retreated, whispering that Nero was the most beautiful person in the world, admiring his tenderness, his strength, his soul.
“You’re not dirty,” Weiss said, his voice filled with resolve. “You’re not a child of sin. Your past doesn’t define your present. You’re my beloved. My Nero. And I love you. I always have. And I always will, no matter what.”
He gently pulled Nero’s hands from his face, wiping his tears with his thumbs. Nero’s cheeks burned with shame, tears, and despair, flushed and warm. He looked at Weiss, his eyes filled with sorrow, but in them flickered that spark—the one that had appeared when he first stroked Weiss’s hair, when his spirit returned from oblivion. Weiss leaned in, his heart pounding, and softly kissed Nero’s lips. This time, Nero didn’t turn away. His lips trembled, but he responded, hesitantly, as if afraid it would all vanish. The kiss was gentle, filled with grief and love, a promise that they would endure everything.
Nero pulled back, tears still falling, but a faint smile broke through. “You really… won’t give up on me?” he whispered.
“Never,” Weiss replied, holding him tighter. “I’ll choose you again and again. In any circumstances, in any world, until my last breath. We’re together. And I’ll never abandon you—no matter what.”
“Weiss,” Nero whispered softly. He buried his face in Weiss’s shoulder, his body trembling slightly, now from the flood of emotions and excitement, but Weiss’s embrace was warm, soothing, and gentle. The truth about his origins, about Kurt, about the “power of darkness” still loomed over them like a shadow, but in that moment, it receded. Weiss’s love, his care, his kiss proved to Nero he wasn’t alone. Nero’s visions of Kurt—“I killed him”—and Kurt’s nightmares of “red eyes” remained a mystery, but they no longer frightened Weiss. He knew their bond was stronger than any past.
***
Weiss watched Nero, feeling his love grow bolder, as if the truth about their kinship had dissolved the boundaries between them. He wanted to show Nero that their feelings were not a sin but salvation, their home a sanctuary. In the evenings, bathing Nero in the small tub by candlelight, he filled it with warm water, adding a drop of lavender oil and rose petals, their fragrance mingling with the steam, curling upward in delicate wisps. The flicker of candlelight danced on the tiled walls, casting a warm, golden glow that made the small space feel like a romantic date. His touches grew closer, more intimate, surer: he scrubbed Nero’s skin with a sponge, gliding over his shoulders, down his back, along the scars, with such tenderness that Nero, initially tense, began to melt, closing his eyes in quiet pleasure. Weiss leaned closer, his breath warm against Nero’s ear, and whispered, “It’s okay, Nero. You’re safe. We’re alone here, free, with no one to disturb us.”
Nero gave a faint smile, his cheeks flushing a soft pink, and the shadow of fear—memories of the clinic, of being doused with cold water in harsh, clinical hands—dissolved like a mirage. He pushed away the intrusive thoughts, sinking into the soothing sensations: the velvety timbre of Weiss’s low voice, the tickle of his warm breath against his ear, the gentle press of the sponge against his skin. Weiss didn’t rush, his hands patient, each movement a reassurance of safety and love. Nero’s fingers grazed Weiss’s wrist, a tentative invitation, and he pulled Weiss closer, signaling his readiness for greater closeness.
“I wish you’d join me in the bath,” Nero said, a shy smile playing on his lips, his voice carrying a spark of unexpected playfulness.
Weiss chuckled, pleasantly surprised by Nero’s newfound lightness. “If only the tub were bigger—it barely fits you,” he teased, his eyes warm with affection.
“Then we definitely need to expand it,” Nero replied, his fingers playfully flicked a droplet of water at Weiss, his smile widening, a rare glint of mischief in his gaze.
“Absolutely,” Weiss agreed, his heart lifting at the thought. “Not just the tub, but everything else too.”
Late in the evening, preparing for bed, Nero sat on the edge, his long, pale legs stretched out, illuminated by the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He applied healing ointment to his scars, his fingers trembling as they traced the marks on his wrists. His voice was quiet, and Weiss sensed the familiar weight of Nero’s melancholy returning: “Sometimes I feel like my body… is so damaged. It’s impossible to desire. It’s so… unattractive. Pale, translucent, with these veins and tendons…”
Weiss, folding his day clothes on a chair, froze at those words. He looked at Nero—his fragile silhouette in the soft light, his long, now-silky hair cascading over his shoulders—and a pang of tenderness pierced him. Weiss’s heart ached at the thought that Nero couldn’t see his own radiance, a beauty that shone brighter with every step toward healing. He approached, sat beside him, and gently took the ointment tube from Nero’s hands. “That’s not true,” he said, his tone firm yet loving. “You’re beautiful, Nero. The most beautiful. Every scar is a story of your strength, of how you survived. They’re like a warrior’s battle marks, and you’ve fought life’s harshest war.” He brushed Nero’s hair aside and began applying the ointment to his shoulders and back, where Heinrich’s belt had left its deepest scars. “Look at how you’ve changed. Your nutrition, exercises, surgery, therapy… You’re stronger. Sometimes I look at you and barely recognize you—you shine, Nero. You’ve always shone for me.”
Nero looked up, his eyes glistening, as if on the verge of tears. “Really?” he whispered, his voice raw with sincerity.
“Really,” Weiss replied, his fingers gliding over the scars on Nero’s chest, softly, as if touching something precious. “You need to believe in yourself the way I believe in you. You’re my miracle. And I’ll never tire of saying it.”
He leaned in, kissing Nero’s temple, then his cheek, and Nero reached for his lips in return. Their kiss was tender yet bold, like a step off a cliff into an ocean of the unknown. Nero smiled through his tears, his hand resting on Weiss’s shoulder, and he said softly, “Thank you… for everything.”
Weiss pulled him close, feeling the warmth of his body. They lay down, covered by the blanket, moonlight streaming through the window, painting patterns on the floor through the lace curtains. The cat slept on the couch in the corner, its purring blending with the chirping of crickets outside. In that moment, their home was filled with peace, love, and comfort. The truth about their kinship, about the “power of darkness,” lingered like a shadow, but it couldn’t dim their light. Weiss knew Nero still struggled with himself, but his love, his touches, his words helped Nero open up, step by step.
As they lay in bed, Weiss gently stroked Nero—his thigh, his stomach, his fingers slipping under the thin fabric of his nightshirt. Nero trembled, his breath catching, and Weiss sensed his nervousness. He paused, whispering, “Darling. I’m here. We’re together.”
Nero nodded, his body relaxing, the warmth of Weiss’s strong torso against his back a grounding comfort. He turned, finding Weiss’s lips, and their kiss was deep, brimming with trust. Nero pressed himself closer, his arms wrapping around Weiss’s neck, his touch tentative but eager. The unfamiliar, exhilarating sensation sent their heads spinning, a quiet thrill of discovery. Weiss kissed him with full devotion and passion, feeling Nero respond, his fingers tangling in Weiss’s hair. In that moment, there was no past, no pain—just their love, warm and radiant, shielding them from the harsh, hostile world outside.
After their kisses, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the world fading into a gentle haze. Tomorrow would bring new days, new challenges, but for now, the sweet veil of Morpheus enveloped them, carrying them into a world of dreams. That night, no nightmares haunted Nero. As they drifted off, the soft glow of the lamp flickered, casting a warm halo over their entwined forms, a silent promise of the future they were building together—a future where love would always triumph over the shadows of suffering.
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▼Глава 9⬍
Chapter 9
Summary:
The memory of the past haunted him like a shadow. Nero’s nightmares and confessions of vengeance reveal the scars of his past. Wounds too deep for words, memories too dark to bear — and yet, through it all, Weiss never let go. His love was the only truth Nero could believe in. His unwavering love becomes the light that guides him toward healing.
Notes:
Illustration for the chapter:
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1945933322632478927
Chapter Text
In the depths of the night, Weiss woke to a faint rustle. His eyes fluttered open, and instinctively, his hand reached for the space beside him on the bed—empty. A pang of unease gripped him, and he sat up, scanning the room for Nero. In the dim shadows, he spotted him in the corner, curled up on the edge of the bed, knees drawn tightly to his chest. Nero’s body rocked slightly, and a faint, almost incoherent whisper slipped from his lips. In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, his face was ghostly white, his eyes glistening with unshed tears he fought to hold back.
Weiss understood immediately. He moved closer, his touch gentle as he placed a hand on Nero’s shoulder, feeling him flinch at the contact.
“Shh, love, I’m here,” Weiss whispered with warm and soothing voice, a steady anchor in the dark. It had been a while since Nero’s nightmares had resurfaced, but here they were again. “It’s okay. You’re safe. It was just a dream. It’s not real. You’re here, with me, in our home.”
Nero lifted his gaze, his eyes shimmering with moisture, a mix of terror and shame swirling within them. His grip on his knees tightened, his breathing uneven and ragged.
“What if… it wasn’t just a dream?” he whispered, his voice trembling as if the words themselves were dangerous, as if speaking them aloud might give them power to become real.
Weiss slid closer, wrapping his arms around Nero with careful tenderness, his touch warm and protective. He could feel Nero trembling, his body taut, still trapped in the grip of the nightmare’s lingering fear.
“What did you see?” Weiss asked softly, his voice a quiet invitation.
Nero shrank into himself, his fingers digging into Weiss’s arm. He was silent for a long moment, his breathing growing more erratic until he finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper, choking on the words.
“I’m so ashamed… it’s disgusting,” he murmured, his voice faltering. “I was back in that clinic—dark, grim, freezing. It was so lonely, so terrifying, like an eternal darkness had swallowed the world, like the sun would never rise again, and all joy had vanished. Then I felt… rough hands. That orderly, Gabri… he… his hands…” Nero’s voice broke, his eyes wide with horror. “They were crawling over me. I was strapped to the bed, those restraints binding me, helpless. A mask covered my face, and I couldn’t scream—my voice was gone. And he…” Nero gasped, his words dissolving into a sob. “I don’t know if it was real. A dream… or a memory? It felt so real, Weiss. I want to wash it away. I can’t bear it…”
His voice broke off, and he pressed his hands to his face, as if trying to hide from himself. Weiss felt the full weight of Nero’s pain, a deep ache that pierced his own heart. He pulled Nero closer, enveloping him in a firm embrace, his hands stroking Nero’s back with deliberate care, avoiding any hint of the physical scars of his past, focusing only on offering warmth and safety.
“It was a dream, love,” Weiss whispered, his voice steady and certain, yet soft with compassion. “You’re here, with me. No one will touch you. I’m right here, and I won’t let that happen.”
Nero let out a quiet sob, his eyes closing as his breathing gradually steadied. He pressed himself closer, burying his face in Weiss’s shoulder, seeking solace in his warmth.
“What if it’s true?” he whispered, barely audible. “What if… it happened, back in the clinic? I can’t tell…”
Weiss’s hands stilled, his heart pounding with a surge of worry and anguish for Nero. A shadow of doubt gnawed at his mind, sharp and unsettling. He pulled back just enough to meet Nero’s gaze, his eyes searching and resolute.
“If it’s true, I’ll handle it,” he said, his voice edged with steel. “I’ll talk to Eric, pull the security footage, check every record. If anyone—Gabri or otherwise—dared to touch you, I’ll make them answer for it. I swear, Nero, I’ll destroy them. They’ll wish they’d never been born.”
Nero stared at him through his tears, a faint spark of hope flickering in his eyes. He nodded, his arms tightening around Weiss as if clinging to a lifeline.
“Thank you, Weiss,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude. “With you… I’m not as afraid. It’s not as terrifying.”
Weiss pressed a gentle kiss to Nero’s forehead, then his temple, his lips warm and comforting. He guided Nero back down to the bed, lying beside him and pulling him close, ensuring he felt safe and protected. Nero nestled against him, his head resting on Weiss’s chest, the steady rhythm of Weiss’s heartbeat drowning out the echoes of the nightmare.
“I’ll protect you, don’t be afraid,” Weiss murmured, his hand gently stroking Nero’s hair. “We’re together, and I’ll always be here.”

***
Weiss had long noticed that Nero’s stories, however strange they sounded, had a peculiar quality: they gripped the soul and left a lingering shadow that couldn’t be ignored. One evening, sitting on the cozy couch under a soft blanket, with cups of hot tea steaming on the table, Weiss gently started a conversation:
“Nero, tell me more about your visions and other dreams. About what you feel.”
Nero looked at him, his eyes reflecting a mix of doubt and tenderness. He took a deep breath.
“It’s hard to explain,” he began quietly. “Sometimes I don’t know where memories end and dreams begin. Visions and reality blur together.”
He lowered his gaze to his hands, as if searching for answers in the faint scars that marked them.
“Since childhood… I’ve felt something dark inside me. A force. It was like it was watching me, part of me. And in my worst moments, it whispered that it could save me. But I never let it.”
Weiss asked cautiously, “Why?”
Nero paused, his face calm but his voice trembling slightly when he answered: “If I had used it… it would have broken the trials. We all go through trials to become who we’re meant to be. Choosing a path means walking it to the end. If we stray, we risk ending up somewhere worse… somewhere darker.”
Those words unsettled Weiss, but he didn’t argue. Nero looked as if he were answering a question for himself.
“Nero,” Weiss said softly, sitting closer, “have you ever thought your visions might be more than just dreams?”
Nero stared at his teacup, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to recall something. “I’ve thought about it. But you told me they were just dreams, so I brushed them off.”
“Yes, but now I’m not so sure,” Weiss replied.
“Sometimes it feels like they’re not my dreams. Like they’re a reality that was or will be. As if I step into a corridor of time and see the past, present, and future.”
Those words troubled Weiss, but he knew there was more to them than he was ready to understand. He didn’t know if they were fantasies born of trauma or something else he couldn’t yet name. But the coincidences were eerie. Once, Nero described a dream where Heinrich held a key to a “secret room” in the mansion. Weiss, half-disbelieving, checked during a visit to the old house to retrieve belongings and books. In Heinrich’s study, under a pile of papers, he found a rusty key he’d never seen before. Behind a bookshelf was a narrow, dusty door, untouched for years. Weiss shone a flashlight inside: the room was nearly empty, just a few boxes of junk that seemed to belong to previous owners. He didn’t tell Nero, but the shadow of doubt grew—not in Nero, but in the reality of his abilities. Could the unseen, the mystical, truly exist?
Weiss dug through family archives—in the library, his father’s study, sifting through letters, photos, yellowed papers. In one box, he found an old contract with the logo of a scientific organization where Heinrich worked in his youth. It mentioned “genetic research” and “behavioral correction.” The words burned with painful resonance. Were they connected to Nero? To his “powers”? Or were they just echoes of a past Weiss was trying to make sense of? Perhaps it was coincidence. Perhaps Nero glimpsed those papers as a child, and trauma twisted them into strange forms in his memory. He found no answers, but each document, each line, deepened the feeling that the family hid more than he’d thought.
Weiss exchanged brief formalities with his mother. To his surprise, just as he was about to leave, Eliza spoke up:
“How’s Nero doing?”
“He’s…” Weiss paused, choosing his words carefully. “He’s doing alright.”
“Good,” Eliza replied, her tone hesitant, as if she wanted to say more but held back. Weiss noticed the flicker of unease in her expression, and for some reason, it stirred a pang of pity in him.
“Was there something else you wanted to ask?” he said, pausing by his car after loading the last of his things into the trunk.
Eliza’s gaze dropped to the ground, her fingers nervously twisting her wedding ring. “I feel awkward asking this, but… would you consider visiting your father? The doctors say he’s improving. He misses you terribly and… he regrets how he acted.”
“I’ll think about it,” Weiss replied, his tone sharper than he intended.
“I’m not pushing you,” Eliza began, her voice soft, “but if you decide—”
“I’ll let you know when I do,” Weiss cut in, his words clipped but not unkind.
Eliza nodded, then added, “Alright. And please, give Nero my best wishes.”
Weiss gave a curt nod and slid into the driver’s seat. As he started the car, he found himself surprised by the shift in her demeanor—there was a warmth, a vulnerability, he hadn’t expected.
***
Meanwhile, Nero grew stronger, healthier, more active. Despite Weiss’s protests that he could handle the chores, Nero insisted on helping: washing dishes, sweeping floors, brewing herbal teas and berry drinks, watering flowers, knitting new sweaters, rugs, and socks, humming softly. He took up a new hobby: bringing recipes to life—cheesecakes, berry jams, creamy cookies. Weiss joined eagerly, adding his own touches, not limiting himself to savory dishes like porridges, nettle, quinoa, or burdock soups, fried mushrooms with potatoes, or cheesy vegetable casseroles. Nero’s smile, still rare, shone like a ray on a winter day, warming Weiss’s heart. But his “abilities” sometimes unnerved. At times, he’d freeze, his gaze trembling, and whisper: “Something bad’s going to happen, Weiss.”
And a day later, news would come—a crash in the next village, a fire in town. Nero knew things he shouldn’t: names, details not mentioned in reports. His visions were chaotic, spontaneous, sometimes surfacing, sometimes not. Weiss wondered: was this trauma-born intuition or something more?
One cool autumn evening, they sat by the fireplace in their cozy home on the couch. The flames danced, casting warm light on the walls and soft rug. Nero, wrapped in a blanket, stared into the fire, as if it revealed something others couldn’t see. “I’ve always had a power,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but certain. “A deadly power. But I held it back with my will.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Weiss frowned, his voice soft but insistent. “Why didn’t you use it? Against Heinrich, Kurt… the clinic?”
Nero answered, leaning closer, his voice almost a whisper: “You know why, Weiss. I told you—it would’ve broken the trial we all must face. But there’s more…” He looked into Weiss’s eyes. “Because then I’d have lost you. The power… it doesn’t save. It destroys.”
Weiss felt a chill down his spine. He didn’t know whether to believe the words, but they rang with a truth Nero had lived, not invented. He saw Nero wrestling with inner pain, his mind blending reality with fantasies. But those fantasies held truth—an intuition startlingly accurate. When Weiss took Nero for a checkup at the clinic where Eric worked, Eric confirmed with a smile: “Nero’s healthy. His body’s recovered, his psyche’s stabilizing. But he needs to complete the treatment. Everything will be fine.”
Weiss felt immense relief. He looked at Nero, who sat across, assembling intricate puzzles Eric had given him, his large eyes radiating curiosity.
Eric continued, reviewing the results: “Tests show exceptional cognitive abilities. He’s… special. His intuition is rare.”
Weiss asked cautiously, “Is it from trauma or a gift?”
Eric closed the test folder and looked at Weiss with a faint smile. “Nero’s always been special, Weiss. His abilities could’ve surfaced earlier if his life hadn’t been filled with so much fear, pain, and oppression. He intuitively senses things beyond normal perception. It’s a gift, but a big responsibility.”
Weiss frowned, running a hand over the folder on the table. “You’re saying he’s always been like this?”
Eric nodded. “Yes. But it was suppressed before. Constant stress, illness, isolation… it held him back. Now, with your care, his true self is emerging. His dormant abilities are awakening.”
“But what if…” Weiss began but paused, choosing his words.
Eric asked, “Has Nero ever been wrong? Done something that led to harm?”
Weiss thought back to their childhood, youth, recent months. Finally, he shook his head. “No. Every time he predicted or sensed something… he was right.”
Eric looked at him intently. “Then trust him, Weiss. The trauma and darkness he endured didn’t destroy him—they forged him. His intuition, his power, is part of his path. One day, he’ll find himself. Be there, but don’t try to make him someone he’s not. Don’t rush time.”
Weiss sighed, his gaze softening. “I don’t know if I’m always doing the right thing. But I’ll try.”
Eric nodded. “That’s all that’s needed.”
Weiss looked at Nero, who sat calmly observing their talk. For the first time in ages, he saw not fear but confidence in his gaze. “Nero,” he said softly, extending his hand. “We’ll make it. Together.”
Nero took his hand, his face lit by a gentle smile. “I know.”
When Nero stepped out of the office, Weiss lingered and turned to Eric. “There’s something else important I need to ask.”
“I’m listening,” Eric replied.
“Could you help me access the surveillance footage from Nero’s ward in that clinic?”
Eric’s face grew thoughtful. “I’ll try to help, but it won’t be easy. If I ask the administration, they’ll likely say recordings are deleted every 60 days—that’s standard. But our clinic keeps archives longer, so I’m hopeful Nero’s footage hasn’t been erased. I’ll talk to the administrator in charge of the cameras, but I’ll need a reason to request access. They don’t just hand out recordings, even to staff.”
“It’s crucial,” Weiss said, his voice low but firm. “Nero’s been having nightmares—vivid ones—about a staff member, Gabriel, touching him inappropriately in the clinic. He’s not sure if they’re memories or dreams, and it’s tearing him apart. I need to know if it happened, to prove to him he’s safe now—or to hold someone accountable if it’s true.”
Eric’s expression softened with empathy. “I’m so sorry he’s going through that. I’ll do everything I can to get those records. Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can find.”
They shook hands, and Weiss left, his heart heavy but resolute. A few days later, Eric called. “I got access to the footage,” he said. “I tried to copy it onto a drive, but the files are too large. You’ll need to come to the clinic and view them in the archive room.”
Weiss drove to the clinic, a place that sent shivers down his spine with its sterile, oppressive air. But this time, he felt a surge of strength and determination, fueled by his need to protect Nero. Eric led him to a large, dimly lit room filled with monitors and servers, the archive of the clinic’s surveillance footage. They sat together, fast-forwarding through hours of recordings, focusing on moments when someone entered Nero’s ward. Watching was agonizing for Weiss. The footage showed Nero strapped to a bed, his frail body trembling as orderlies handled him roughly; shouting, restraining him, ignoring his cries. His screams, his tears, his descent into despair pierced Weiss like a knife, reopening old wounds. Tears welled in his eyes, and at times he had to look away, his chest tight with grief and rage.
Eric, sensitive to Weiss’s pain, skipped past the worst moments that weren’t relevant to their goal. There were troubling scenes with Gabriel—his lingering presence, his cold demeanor—but, to Weiss’s relief, he never crossed the line Nero feared. Gabriel didn’t visit at night or touch Nero inappropriately. After hours of review, Weiss, emotionally drained and shattered, thanked Eric with a trembling voice. Eric, his face etched with compassion, pulled Weiss into a brief, supportive embrace. “I’m so sorry you had to see that,” he said softly. “But I’m glad we found no evidence of what Nero feared.”
As Weiss left the archive room, he crossed paths with Gabriel in the hallway. The orderly’s eyes widened at the sight of Weiss’s muscular frame and the cold fury in his gaze. Weiss’s fists clenched, itching to lash out, but he restrained himself. Gabriel, sensing the threat, quickened his pace, slipping past and disappearing down the corridor. Coward, Weiss thought bitterly. Only brave enough to hurt the weak and helpless.
Returning home, Weiss found Nero in the kitchen, stirring a pot of berry tea, the sweet aroma filling the air. He took a deep breath and sat beside him, recounting everything: the footage, the painful scenes of Nero’s suffering, and the crucial truth that Gabriel hadn’t violated him as he’d feared. “Nothing like that happened,” Weiss said gently. “You’re safe, Nero. It was a nightmare, not a memory.”
Nero’s eyes filled with tears, but this time they were of relief. He wrapped his arms around Weiss, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry you had to watch that… that horror.”
Weiss held him tightly, his own voice thick with emotion. “I just watched it, and it broke me. But you—you lived through it. I can’t imagine how you survived.”
Nero pulled back slightly, his smile soft but radiant. “Because of you, I’m okay now.”
Weiss felt Nero’s love wash away the heavy residue of the day, like sunlight breaking through a storm. He leaned in, kissing Nero deeply, feeling joy flood back into his heart. The warmth of their embrace, the quiet clink of the teapot, and the soft glow of the evening light wove a cocoon of peace around them, a sign that their love could heal even the deepest wounds.
▼Порисулька⬍
D. Art@DevelvDeva·2 ч
"The memory of the past haunted him like a shadow. Wounds too deep for words, memories too dark to bear — and yet, through it all, Weiss never let go. His unwavering love becomes the light that guides him toward healing."
#weinero #nerothesable #weisstheimmaculate #ff7 #AU

Анон · 2025-11-05 08:09:59

Дева группу в ВК воскресила

Анон · 2025-11-05 08:26:43

Есичо, фичок пересказывали по верхам:
https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … #p18244504
https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … #p18245014

Анон · 2025-11-06 15:29:13

Пересказ по верхам 10 главы:

▼Скрытый текст⬍

Анон · 2025-11-06 15:40:11

Анон пишет:

наконец решаются на ~~пересечение черты~~

Ой, а можно, пожалуйста, хотя бы цитату с ~~невступлением~~

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