Death Is A Phenomenal Dancer

Day One

Death loved aristocrats – well, to put it better, he loved taking them. He also loved the poor, but he was bored of killing those; if he hadn't taken hundreds a day, then none... But spilling the blood of royalty, only to see, it actually smells just as bad and flows just as thick as the peasants'? Now that has always been fun – ever since aristocracy has been a thing, that is... so, as said above, always.

This particularly mild, and lovely night he came for a young lord, who resided in the most beautiful master bedroom in the entire mansion – though it was also the coldest, and most quiet, for the boy was the only one living in the entire West-wing; the family and the servants were afraid of the terrible illness that had gotten the best of him. They called many priests to the house, and tried every other means of irrational remedies as well, only to slowly lose hope in the young man's health– and so they left him for dead in the West-wing, only visiting on the rare occasion their guilt overgrew their fear.

Now, Death didn't know all that, but he still didn't have to worry about being seen with the young lord, since he came to visit him at a very late hour.

The window was open, and Death quietly sat down on the ledge to observe the room and his victim; one lonely candle lit the bedroom, revealing a meticulously crafted wooden wardrobe, a small table and a king-sized bed in the middle of the cold, and unwelcoming space. The sick boy laid in the bed, peaceful and quiet, except for the times when he burst out in the most horrendous coughs.

Death frowned – he knew this one. He didn't give it a name, he was sure the humans will, eventually, but he had seen this many times before. The sneaky, ruthless disease sometimes took years to finish of it's victims, but in the meantime, this merciless coughing – that sounded like the individual was about to vomit their lungs up – accompanied their days, with sometimes blood coming up their throat.

Such an ugly death, for such beautiful youth – the boy couldn't have been older than twenty-one, and despite his state, his face was almost glowing in the mixture of the dim moonlight and the candle's soft blaze.

"So you came in the end, dear friend?"

Death jumped in his seat, now fixating on his victim with slight disbelief. He was caught off-guard, by the sweet tone that was addressed to him, but in an attempt to pull himself together, he decided: the fellow must have a fever-dream.

"I'm not your friend"

The young man's face lit up even more when he heard the deep melodies of the undertaker, and he pushed himself up on his numerous, thick pillows, to get a better look at the entity. Though his excitement caused him to cough for almost half a minute before the conversation could go on, Death had time – even if the boy didn't.

"What is a friend, if not the one who shows up when you need him the most?"

Silence settled on them, while Death considered the ludicrous words of the other.

"Do you know, what will happen now?" The reaper asked, pushing himself away from the window, his dark silhouette exposed in the silver moonlight. He wore a dark cloak, hiding his face and body, but it was easy to make out that he carried a pitch-black scythe. Other than his weapon, the only part that one could see of him, were his green, bright eyes, and his animalistic, sharp teeth. He smiled a lot, usually, but not now. He was confused, and thus, irritated, his jaw locked in a way that a child's is, when they don't get what they want.

"I'll die."

The young man's placid expression rubbed Death the wrong way. How dare he not fear him? Of course, he had met soldiers, and old folks before, who were in too much pain to cling to life, yet, never had he seen someone stare at him in the eyes as if they were deeply satisfied to see him.

"I'll cut you to pieces with my scythe!" Death roared.

The boy looked down at the weapon, then smiled, and glanced back up at his visitor:

"Alright"

"You know what? Not even that; I'll rip you apart, limb from limb with my own two hands"

 "Then, may I take off my nightgown before?"

"Pardon?"

"It's an excellent piece, really well made, I'd save it if you'd be so kind to allow."

Death stared at the blonde man in silence, trying to decide if the boy was making fun of him, or not. There was no humour, in those blue eyes, no mocking, and no bravery either – it was as if there was nothing to be afraid of. As if he had known him, for all his life, and he welcomed him in that manner, letting him end his very existence with delight. It just wasn't right, and Death didn't understand any of it. Before the boy could've spoken, the reaper left the room, and vanished into the darkness completely, furious and puzzled by the events.