And alone he awoke, stiff and sore from his night on the cramped sofa; it seemed his bones would be forever bent and bowed as he stood and tried to stretch them out. He must have fallen asleep quite early, and slept quite late as the fire was out. She would have found it too chill to leave her room, but he felt nothing against the cold. Still, he bent himself over the hearth and tended to the coals, adjusted the gas, then went to the piano and sat. Something warm and sharp and passing tickled the back of his neck but was gone in an instant, leaving him with a terrible ache in his chest. Erique found he could not bring himself to play anything sensible and simply depressed the keys randomly with no passion or direction for several long minutes before standing again and turning away. He had missed something last night. His dreams were telling him something—yes, it was time to die, that's what he had been up to before he somehow fell prey to queer dreams. But how to proceed now? Recollection of his original intent made him shudder again at the though of being on display for the passing pedestrians on the street. Poison would perhaps be a viable option, but as he had become resistant to the effects of so many, it would be difficult to judge a proper dosage, and too little of something could have frightful effects. As he contemplated, he trudged to his room and stripped himself, gathered a set of clean, crisp blacks and left his house to bathe in the icy lake. Ah—drowning, perhaps. It had been good enough for a Changy, after all!
He could not get his lungs to hold in the water. His body betrayed him on four attempts; panic set into his limbs, and without his accord, they brought him back to the surface again and again to sputter and choke on the foul water, rasp out curses, and splash about like a child throwing a tantrum. Erique finally realized that perhaps drowning was not for him—he could not join Christine in this manner either. When the corpse hauled himself onto the bank, wheezing and retching, he was immediately met with a long, warm hand curling under his arm, pulling him to his feet, and draping him modestly with the towel he'd intended not to have to use. The moment he was touched he regained his wits, turned sharply away, and bent hastily to replace the mask, clutching the towel over his pathetic frame in chilled, numb, white hands and remaining where he was, hunched on the ground with the towel stretched over the ridge of his back, which he kept to his guest.
"Not as easy as you thought it'd be, hm?"
Erique turned his upper body enough to glare up at the creature. "It is impossible to drown oneself!" He argued—it certainly couldn't be his own failing. His body had betrayed him.
Death flicked its cigarette into the lake, the little light going out with the faintest hiss, and gave its light, musical laugh. "Oh, and I suppose you would know better than I? Self-drowning is never an easy affair, but only impossible if one's heart does not yet wish to seize in one's chest. Get dressed; you look ridiculous down there, huddled like a rat in a wet skin."
Erique growled at the creature and pulled the neatly-folded pile of his clothing against his chest, which still heaved with his efforts to gain breath, trying desperately to keep his modesty hidden from the eyes of the Dead. "I would appreciate it if you would leave!"
Death raised its bony hands in petition and cocked its head sharply to one side, looking every bit like Saint Sebastian ready to accept his arrows. "I don't think that's what you want at all, but I will turn around so that you may dress yourself." And it did, boots crunching on the crumbled mortar and dust. A momentary flare signaled the lighting of another cigarette—did it never run out of those damnable things? Erique struggled to cover his hideousness quickly and then stood, having regained his dignity, and turned to go into the house. He gave no word but left the door open after himself so that his guest might follow.
Tiny Persian cats clicked and skittered across the table and floor, their respective roles—those of marble chess pieces—had been interrupted when the board was upset. Pale, yellow hands clenched on either side of the white mask, and a moment later a breath was huffed out behind it with the force of the wearer's frustrations. "I've ruined the game now, haven't I," Erique muttered miserably—his first real game of chess with an opponent other than himself and he'd sent the board flipping off the table with in a moment of childish rage at not having seen his competitor's last move before it had been made. He suspected Death would now not care to keep his company, such as it was. What a strange thing to suspect—especially for him.
The creature across the table sat in the same relaxed position it had been in the entire game, sleeves rolled up over the pale yellow-white bone of its forearms, cigarette clutched in the rough fingers of the right hand above where its elbow rested on the table and the other hand curled casually over its thin hip. "I think you've broken your knight's ear. And they are such lovely pieces—I'm sorry. If you feel up to it, we can try again later." It took a long draw of its cigarette and shifted to lean over and pick up the broken chess piece which lay near his foot, setting it carefully back upon the table. "Of course, Erique, you should not expect to be able to defeat me at this particular game; I've played with every master who ever died. Ah now—I have no doubt that you can repair this poor little fellow with your considerable skill, and no permanent damage will be done." Death smiled across to his host and pushed the little, black-marble cat across the tabletop with a pair of fingers.
Erique lifted his head and nodded a bit, unfolding one long arm to take the piece carefully between his own fingers, being quite delicate so as not to cause any more damage to the piece in case the fall had caused any of those treacherous unseen fractures which could split at the smallest bit of pressure. He still marveled and how the skeletal hands of his guest could be so warm when a fingertip slipped over bone on the exchange. Once the piece was safely in Erique's gentle grip and the inventor was scrutinizing its surface with a jeweler's glass that had suddenly appeared in his other hand, Death sat back in its chair again, the comfortable old wood of it creaking under the slight weight of the occupant. The silence that passed between them was easy while Erique found and affixed the little black ear to the cat-knight's head and set it aside, moving to pick up the remaining pieces, inspect them, and then set them all back up on the polished ebony board, ready for another game. When Death finished its cigarette and turned to flick it into the fireplace, it stood, stretched, and announced that it was hungry. "I haven't eaten in ages, you know—honestly, I'm incredibly famished!"
Erique's comfortable mood dissolved instantly, and he stiffened, fixing his yellow glare on the smaller creature. "Hungry? You cannot possibly be hungry—you're lying—and I have nothing to offer at any rate." He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to look toward the rear of his house where the passage to his wine cellar lay. Well, he certainly wasn't going to part with anything in there for the sake of some thing that couldn't possibly enjoy it properly—it'd probably leak right through Death's old bones and be wasted on the floor, or worse, stain his furniture! The sudden image of the creature with its trousers down around its bony ankles seated over a bucket to catch the wine made him choke and then cough where he might have laughed had his voice not been destroyed. He bent double, his mask dislodging slightly, and thin arms were about his shoulders, helping him to his chair, the humor of the situation suddenly gone. Death fixed the mask for him, gently nudging it back into place without a word and standing over him. Once Erique's fit had passed, leaving him wheezing a bit, Death spoke, leaning back against the table with one ankle crossed over the other. "Well, haven't I a right to be hungry? Surely you have something. You must eat, after all—Opera Ghost though you may be."
Erique held up a hand, his breath catching up to him again. "What will happen to my furniture! Erique's furniture was acquired at a steep price; he doesn't intend to have it spoiled with your...leavings."
The angel laughed and bent forward "My 'leavings?' D'you expect I'll do any business I may have on your lovely divan? You do have a water closet. Ah, or perhaps you're thinking whatever goes in has no where to rest? In that case, let me reassure you." It straightened again and leaned back a little, tugging loose its shirttails from its trousers and lifting the bottom of the soft, white cotton up over a very thin, concave, pale stomach which notably lacked a naval but was solid all the same, up to the point where it met bone and stretched tightly over the lower ribs. It looked almost painful, actually. The shirt was dropped and Death raised its shoulders in a graceful shrug. "So then, I should like some dinner."
"I don't cook." Erique countered, his arms folding over his chest again. "Can't you simply...appear somewhere and eat what you like?"
"Yes. But I don't know what I like. And I rather prefer the company."
The masked gentleman snorted at that and planted his long, spidery hands on his knees. "Do you. I rarely eat. I have better things to do—so when I do take a meal, I try to make it as... entertaining as I can manage. I doubt you would approve of my methods."
The creature shrugged "It's not my place to approve or disapprove of anything. And now you have me curious." It tucked its shirt back into the rich brown suede trousers it was wearing and straightened itself out a bit, rolling sleeves back down to cover the raw bones of its arms, tightening its loosed cravat. "If you don't cook, I assume we're going out—where've I put my coat..." Erique jumped to his feet and slashed his arm in front of himself violently.
"No! Erique will bring the food, and you will not touch his things while he is gone—nor will you leave." He growled, though there was nothing he could do as repercussion for the latter action should it occur.
Death raised a hairless brow at him and opened its arms with a slight bow. "Very well, dear boy, very well. Be on your way then, my stomach growls." The composer straightened himself again and made for the door, looking back once to see Death moving to the divan and sitting with its arms stretched across the backing, the urge for a cigarette painted smoothly across its pale features—almost pretty, if they had not mimicked his own so well. He pulled his cloak on, grabbed his hat and rushed out to meet the world above
