Dante's laughing right in his fucking face.
This sarcastic, breathless laugh that's all gasped breaths and unhinged notes and flashing teeth. The guy's face is flushed, hot under commotion, and he's grinning — with this hard, almost mean look about him, like he doesn't give two shits that Nero's got his arms over his head, knees bracketing his sides with this offensive tightness, and that there are ugly bruises and cuts planted all over his face and arms, peeking out past flayed bits of what used to be his shirt.
'Course, it's not that funny from his end. He doesn't get it. Nero's lips are curled in this feral snarl: royally pissed, even if he's cutting nails and claws into his wrists and . It's the unfamiliar Dante he's got, here. The one they jokingly call Junior, with the dark, unruly haircut and a fondness for shitty wife beaters. The one Nero honestly thought he could take with ease, since he's so damn young. Kinda like himself.
Gonna wrestle Dante's own fist into his mouth if he doesn't shut the fuck up.
In fact, he's working towards that.
They grapple for control of their arms while his legs skid around and wear the knees of his jeans down, and Nero sniffles in agitation through a growl. He didn't realize his nose was bleeding, at least for a minute there; when it's just Nero and Dante and the grimy pavement, he's gettin' to know his fucked up face on a personal level, getting puffs of coppery, wet breath bounced back up at him with every jerky heave of his chest.
"... give up?"
The breathless proposal from below, exhaled lightly by a cocky mouth is enough to make him freeze. Consider the seriousness of the offer. But in the end — Nero sneers at it, tells Dante to fuck himself.
Doesn't realize that it's a warning.
