Death Is A Phenomenal Dancer

Day Two

The next day, Death didn't come around til' midnight. The window was open once more as if the boy was waiting for his return, and he jumped into the room fuelled by both curiosity and irritation.

"You've returned!" the young man cried in delight, but Death did not return the warm greeting.

"Your name is Jonathan, is that right?" he spoke slowly, and precisely, his words pronounced to perfection, yet not overacted. He was soothing to listen to, like a deep lullaby – the last one, you'll hear, at that.

The boy nodded, honoured a bit that Death addressed him by his first name.

"And yours?"

"Mine? I'm death"

"Well you must have a real name too, I assume?"

Now, Death did have a real name, but he had never introduced himself before, and he wasn't very good at it. He's job was usually composed of screams and last wishes and begs, on a few occasions remorse and guilt – but not small-talk.

"Sinclair...I suppose, it's Sinclair"

Jonathan smiled brightly, as if he had gotten to know the most important piece of information he'll ever possess, his heart-shaped face now even more handsome than usually. He had an oddly feminine touch to his face, but it made him all the more good-looking, even now, pale as a ghost, and too thin to be called fully alive.

"Do people call you Sin, perhaps?"

"No one knows my name, Jonathan... Well, no one but you. But you'll die soon, so it doesn't matter."

"While I'm alive, I'll call you Sin."

"If that serves you any joy, go right ahead."

After that, Sinclair remained quiet and just looked at the other without knowing what to say or the urge to leave. He should've ended his life yesterday, but he didn't feel like it, and now he straight up despised the idea. He wanted to stall it, he wanted to hear more of this strange boy – and who could it hurt? A few more days for this poor soul, shouldn't be very important.

"I wrote about you, I hope it is alright."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm a poet of a sort. Or at least I wished to be... I thought my dream was gone, but at last, you came. Never have I been inspired so much, then by you, my dearest muse. I beg of you, allow me to write everything that you are."

Death hesitated for a second, at first wanting to deny, but he miserably failed at saying no to the boy. He's soft, fair locks, framing that delicate hollow face of his, hiding those bright blue eyes, vivid and lively like the sky, and just as distant and untouchable.

"Read something to me, something you wrote! If I find it bearable, I'll let you write of me"

And so Jonathan read Death a few of his works, and Death listened carefully, finding joy in and understanding the importance of art for the first time in his life. He paced around the room for hours, hearing and observing every word, and stopping when something moved him too tremendously for him to even comprehend.