Nero feels like he’s gonna hurl. The overhead lights shine almost clinically and he’s so certain he’s heard the song that’s playing on the speakers a total of five times already. Not to mention the thin sheen of sweat that begins to accumulate over his forehead.

You pull the curtain that separates the two of you aside, ask him if the shorts you’re trying on make you look fat. He shakes his head, tells you that you look nice in them. This is a song and dance you two have performed every time you bring him with you to go shopping.

He swears to Sparda, which he seldom does, that not even fighting demons for hours on end brings him this much fatigue.