O' Death, o' Death, o' Death,

won't you spare me over another year?

But what is this, that I can't see

with ice cold hands taking hold of me?

When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,

who will have mercy on your soul?

O' Death, о' Death, o' Death.

No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold,

nothing satisfies me but your soul.

O' Death.

Well, I am Death, none can excel,

I'll open the door to Heaven or Hell.

O' Death, о' Death.

My name is Death and the end is here...

O' Death, by Jen Titus

O' Death

Pain. That's all I can feel as I slump against a dark alley wall, a flickering street lamp my only source of light. I use one hand to clutch at the wound in my chest, feeling warmness seep out regardless. No doubt turning my once white shirt, red. I drop my useless gun on the ground so that I can rip off my tie, which suddenly feels more like a noose than anything. The thought almost makes me want to laugh if I wasn't in such pain. Since joining the mafia, I've always been prepared to die and to do what was asked of me. Yet, despite everything that I've ever done: the blackmailing, the torture, the blood...

I never regretted a single thing.

Because I always knew that I was going to Hell, just like I always knew that I couldn't have a future. Our family was dirt poor...when our parents died, Romulus, our grandfather and only other living family member, worked day and night to try and provide enough food so that my younger brother and I could eat, as well as allow us to continue our education. A couple of months after I turned eighteen and my brother turned sixteen (we happened to have the same birthday), he died, and I knew the path that I had to take. So as the eldest, I dropped out of school and joined the mafia; I was never the scholarly type anyway. It wasn't that I wasn't smart enough, hell no! When I actually gave a shit and participated in class, I ended up knowing more than all my teachers combined. I could've probably gotten a full ride to college if I wanted to, but...going to college doesn't pay the bills.

And it certainly wouldn't help my brother.

Don't get me wrong, I love my little brother, but there's no way in hell that Feliciano could survive without me back then. I mean, he couldn't tie his own shoes until last year...when he turned nineteen. It didn't matter though, because he didn't have to be good at math or science in order to do what he loved: painting. He was a genius at it, always was. Feliciano felt bad and tried to also drop out of school at first, in order to help pay the bills, but I flat out beat his ass if he ever didn't get to school on time. Eventually, he gave up and continued to go to school while I did various jobs for the mafia. Whenever I had to leave for 'work', I would just tell Feliciano that what I had to do was 'incredibly important', and that's why I had to go so often and randomly. And he believed me...he always believed me.

He would tell me every day, with that big stupid smile on his face, how proud he was of me and how lucky he was to have a big brother like me. You would think that it would make me feel bad or some shit like that, and I mean...I kinda did when he smiled at me like that. But strangely, his words were what helped me sleep at night. Because I knew that I was going to Hell anyway, so why not let Feliciano pursue his own dreams?

I knew I was going to Hell since I was eight years old, when my own priest admonished me, saying that Heaven had no place for someone so foul-mouthed and downright sinful such as I. All because I confessed on how I thought the altar boy looked a lot cuter than any girl. I was beyond terrified back then, having only nightmares of fire and brimstone that lasted for years. But after a while, the feeling eventually became numb with acceptance. Sure, I had always liked to flirt with women, but that's as far as it would get. I tried to be physically attracted to them...God, how I tried...but in the end, they were just too soft for my liking.

I suddenly laugh at loud. No one would've thought, let alone believe, that when confronted with Death, the infamous Lovino Vargas would become a sentimental idiot. Seriously, I'm dying in an alley in some God-forsaken town in Sicily, and this is what I contemplate on?

My laugh gets cut off and I start violently coughing up blood, making my vision go slightly blurry around the edges. My body feels cold now as it slumps all the way down to the ground, using the wall as a support. I close my eyes and let my mind go blank, now silently waiting for Death to finally deliver me to damnation. It may sound weird...childish even, but I always expected the skeleton in the black robe to appear in front of me when I die, just like what Romulus told me would happen when I was a small child.

"Hola, querido. My, you don't look so good, do you?"

My eyes snap open, my mind suddenly alert, only to see a young Spanish man bending down in front of me, emerald eyes boring into my own. He looked to be in his late twenties, and had slightly curly brown hair that was mostly hidden under a bright red hoodie, whose sleeves looked a bit too long for him. The man is also wearing a simple pair of jeans with black Converse and, though it was hard to tell in the current light, his skin appeared to be of a natural tan color. What was really strange though (other than the fact that a man was nonchalantly watching me bleed to death in an alley), was the fact that he was carrying a black halberd with one hand casually, like it was completely natural for one to do so.

That's when it suddenly all clicked in my head.

Well...I guess it explained why I somehow wasn't dead yet...and he wasn't in a long black robe or had a scythe like I imagined but...you can't be serious. Could this bastard really be...? I scowl at the apparent 'man'.

"Well, I didn't know Death was Spanish," I retort back. Death simply laughs at me before giving me a broad white smile, making me blush with the little blood that I had left. That smile...

"I see you haven't changed...'Lovino' is it now?" he asks, continuing to just smile at me. I can't help but roll my eyes at him while fighting my blush, he still hasn't answered my question. Thankfully, it doesn't take him too long to respond.

"Ah, well, you see...I can actually change my appearance to anything I'd like, so why be something as boring and predictable as an old man or skeleton? Besides, I always rather liked the passion of the Spanish people and, to be honest, I don't change my appearance with the hope that maybe you'd recognize me this time," he rambles while anxiously scratching the back of his head. I raise an eyebrow at him, what the fuck was he blabbering on about? Suddenly he stops scratching his head and his eyes become unfocused before his lips start moving quickly. He almost looks like he's talking to someone. I'm about to ask him if he had something wrong in that empty fucking skull of his, but he snaps out of it and interrupts me.

"Anyway~! That's not the point," he states, before he suddenly turns completely serious, catching me off guard, "The point is, I would like to offer you a proposition, Lovino Vargas. One that you would be wise in not refusing." I glare at him, immediately feeling suspicious.

"What kind of proposition are we talking about, Death?" I ask. He groans at me.

"Don't call me that, Lovi~! That's such a depressing name~," he chides playfully, though still sounding somewhat exasperated. My face twitches at the nickname before I give the best scowl I can muster at him. Unfortunately, he looks completely unfazed by it. Bastard.

"Then what shall I call you?" I ask sarcastically, not expecting an answer. But Death grins happily at me, like I just told him that he found buried treasure. Well...assuming that gold or jewels would actually satisfy him in the first place. Something tells me that it wouldn't.

"Well, lately I've grown rather fond of the name 'Antonio'," he says, continuing to smile at me. Why did that smile look so fucking familiar...?

"Antonio," I mumble to myself, trying the name out. For some reason that I couldn't place, it seemed like a very fitting name for him. Who knew that Death liked to be called 'Antonio'?

"So~! About that proposition...are you interested?" he asks, cocking his head to the side and catching back my attention. I can't help but twitch, I should've known that Death wasn't the stereotypical 'Grim Reaper' but, I mean...come on! This guy is ridiculous! He was really hot, yeah, but–NO! I scream in my head, wanting to slap myself...hard. I just knew that my face would be red as a goddamn tomato if I actually had the blood to produce it! I mean, who calls Death, 'hot'? B-Because he's obviously not!

...

Who the hell was I trying to kid? The guy looked like he popped out of an Armani ad, for fuck's sake!

Either I take too long to respond due to my thoughts or he's very impatient, because he becomes serious once again, his emerald eyes now turning disturbingly dark.

"Unless you actually like being punished in Hell," he mutters gravely, his face impassive as his eyes carefully assess me. I gulp involuntarily as I feel my mind go slightly blank. He was so goddamn bipolar! Nonetheless, I shake my head, unable to trust myself to say anything comprehensible. He quickly smiles in response, leaving me wondering if that actually just happened.

"¡Bueno!" he exclaims happily, standing up straight before looking me once over, "Ah, we should probably fix you up...huh?" And with that, he simply snaps his fingers.

I suddenly don't feel cold anymore, in fact, I feel great. Which makes me look down to notice my now completely clean suit, with even my tie perfectly back in its place. I frantically feel around my chest for the gunshot wound that should've been there, but I'm unable to find it. What the fuck...?

I notice something red moving in front of me, making me look up to see 'Antonio' offering me a hand, a giant smile on his face.

I hesitate, simply staring at Antonio's offered hand. Eventually, I slowly reach out to take a hold of it, but he gets impatient and decides to instead grab my hand himself, firmly pulling me up. I immediately shiver when my hand touches his skin, goddammit his hand was fucking freezing! It was like touching ice!

"Sorry about that, querido," he whispers while gently squeezing my hand, the action making me look back up at his face. My heart skips a beat, I've never had anyone look at me like that before. His eyes...they look so soft and warm...like what I imagine someone who loved me would look like. N-Not that I ever had! Dammit! I snatch my hand away from his loose grip, now trying to look at anything that wasn't him, my face heating up dangerously in temperature now that I had all of my blood back inside my body. Geez, Lovino, get a fucking grip!

"Aw, you're so cute~! Your face looks just like a tomato, mi querido~," he coos at me. My face somehow gets even warmer, although I still stubbornly refuse to look at the idiot. I briefly wonder if he's joking, but something in the back of my mind tells me that he's being completely serious. That bastard!

"S-Shut the fuck up!" I stutter before trying to change the subject, "J-Just tell me what this proposition of yours is already, dammit!"

The atmosphere suddenly gets dead quiet, making me shift my body uncomfortably. After what feels like hours, I finally make myself face him again, unable to take it anymore.

I almost wish I hadn't.

His face is eerily blank and still...his once bright emerald eyes now a dull green, revealing nothing. He wasn't even blinking.

"Of course...Lovino Vargas, this is my proposition to you. I won't send you to Hell if you, yourself, kill your brother and send him to damnation in your place," he says, his face unchanging while he stares down at me.