Corre, Corre, Corderito

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Muerte is DreamWorks.

"Could you not learn to love me? You-you who seem to have such a heart to love the world and everything in it?"

You turned your face away, your jaw clenched, pity and anger tugging at your heart in equal measure. Why couldn't he just accept your rejection gracefully? Yes, it must hurt, though you were trying to be gentle, but he was being absolutely unfair to you now.

"I would not be unkind to you," Muerte persisted. Cupping your face in his hands, pulling your gaze back to his. "I would never."

"Asking me to love you when I do not is unkind."

Muerte's grip tightened.

"Making me fall in love with you and refusing to love me back is unkind."

Your eyes flashed with rage and you batted his hands away from you.

"I will never love you. Never."

You didn't look back as you turned and walked away from him. If you had, you'd have seen his own face twist into a snarl, and his dark pupils flash white.

You let out something between a sob and a sigh, the memory still fresh on your mind despite having several days now to process everything. You hadn't seen Muerte since that day, or at least you thought you hadn't. You'd catch a glimpse of a shadowy poncho and silver fur here, glowing red eyes there, but you weren't sure if it was actually him or some grief induced hallucination.

You weren't sure what to do about it. Should you seek him out and try to talk things through? Wait for him to apologize? Let the friendship die? You didn't know and you couldn't keep busy enough to completely distract yourself. He was always there in the corner of your mind.

Setting your drink down on the bar, you rubbed at your eyes tiredly. How had it even come to this? You'd known him nearly a century and you'd never once suspected he had feelings for you. It pained you to think about how long he might've been sitting with them, how long you'd been unintentionally leading him on. Now you were both suffering at the hands of the other.

It was all incredibly unfair.

You threw down the necessary coin for your untouched drink, nodded your thanks to the barman, and slipped quietly out of the tavern. Drawing up the hood of your cloak, you set out down the dirt path toward the town's edge, toward your own home.

A whistle sounds out behind you and your heart leaps to your throat, drumming a painfully fast beat. Your fur stands on end, and despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you stop and look for him.

Muerte's stood in the middle of the street, eyes glowing like two red moons.

You turn back around, this time to run, because you are suddenly afraid of him. Afraid like you had been when you first realized who he was all those years ago, but it's all for naught. As you right yourself, you come nose to nose with him and he chuckles as you yelp and stumble backwards.

"Pobre corderito," Muerte coos gently. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I told you I would never be unkind to you."

There's something strange glinting in his eyes, something unfamiliar and dangerous. Your flight mode kicks in and you backpedal even further. He's quicker though, perhaps having anticipated you'd flee, and he snags your hand.

"Let me go!" You try to put some fire in your voice, but it just sounds like a terrified plea.

"You think you can run?" He questions you in that same gentle tone. "You're clever, pequeño, clever enough to know there's nowhere you can go in this world where I can't find you."

You recognize the challenge for what it is, despite the honeyed tone, and fear throbs through your veins. You don't know whether you should accept it or not, you don't know what the consequences are if you lose. At the very least, he can't kill you, but that does little to assure you.

Finally, you turn and bolt, unsure of how far you'll get or where you'll go. Muerte's cackle on the wind only serving to drive your feet harder and faster down a bleak path.