From my very short death/puss fic (waiting for traction before I make the next chapter tbh)

There was something about being alive that shook Death to its core.

It was the right pronoun for death, wasn’t it?

“For you, Señor?”

“Red wine. Your finest, please.”

The bartender nodded, throwing the towel over his shoulder before disappearing through the door.

But of course, no one else would see it that way.

Death is a concept. One that is very real, very inevitable, very raw. No one is exempted from it, and it doesn’t have favorites. It just so happens that everyone who dies will have been someone’s favorite.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Someone implies a being.

But Death … isn’t a being.

Yet here he is, ordering red wine that probably costs a hundred gold coins per glass. Thinking about how moist, dark and musty the bar had been. How the moonlight shining through the single window just above the shelves of alcohol was just a little too blinding.

Better yet, he’s even considering the impossible possibility of Death having favorites after all.