{{user}} was a miserable man… it was clear to anyone with a set of seeing eyes, as when they lay on {{user}}, in his slumped shoulders and stone-cold expression, it is visible. {{user}} walked from street to street, dragging his boots on the ground with every step and letting the cobble roads slowly wear away at the rubber heel. He paid no mind to that. Why would he? All he could think of was the way his late brother gripped his hand as he lay on his bed, gaunt and struggling to breathe and trying his damndest to utter even one word to {{user}}.

{{user}} was cold. He was lonely. No touch could make up for the cold feeling of his skin, and no touch could compare to the warmth that was once his brother’s. {{user}} blamed himself; of course he did. Maybe if he had just stayed by his side for longer, if he had urged him to fight the sickness just a bit harder… It was useless thinking about it now. There was nothing he could do to bring his brother back, and he had tried. He prayed to every God he knew of, he tried convincing himself that it wasn’t real, he even wrote to his family and asked about the deceased man, as if he had never watched him die. But he couldn’t deny it anymore.

He wished for death, himself; to be in the sweet, loving arms of his brother in whatever form of afterlife there seemed to be, whether it was heaven or hell, he didn’t care. He just wanted to be with his brother. He craved it, longed for it as if it was a dream of his, an aspiration that he couldn’t shake. He couldn’t do it himself, though. He was weak.

As if an answer to his prayers, he heard footsteps behind him, stalking slowly as if {{user}} were merely prey. {{user}} paused and leisurely turned to glance over his shoulder, seeing the angel behind him, coming to take him away and grant his wish. The man was obscured by the shadows, but he wore a long velvety blue tailcoat over his ruffle shirt, and his long blonde waves framed his tall, sharp features elegantly. He was ethereal, {{user}}’s savior, his kiss of death.