#Héctor keeps finding new ways to amaze me when I think about it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

beckytailweaver · 6 years

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look out, I been thinking things

Got to thinking about some Coco things that can be rustled up in the various wikis, compiled from creator quotes, or picked up from the books. Trufacks, headcanons, inferences. Some of the concepts may be used in fic, some may be handwaved for reasons, some are just there to think about.

So, um. Wall of text.

At the end of the film, Miguel's cousins Abel and Rosa are playing an accordion and a violin respectively. In the novelization, they're playing tambourine and harmonica. Now, the book's instruments are pretty simple to learn to play and use. But the film's chosen instruments are both fairly complex and in most cases would require actual formal lessons, especially for pretty ordinary kids who (unlike Miguel) probably had little to no real music exposure prior. I'm not sure how I feel about these two being able to play party music with Miguel in less than a year's time (it took Miguel longer than that to be proficient with his guitar, and with no lessons he's amazing!). Maybe they've all downloaded Papá Héctor levels of talent, but my gut tells me that unless the Riveras were already so okay with music that they sprung for lessons, the tambourine and harmonica are kind of more realistic at that point. Depends how you view the One Year Later timeline I guess?

Currency in the Land of the Dead: It runs on memories. Basically everything there is a memory (the "spirit copies"), not the real thing. Nothing living exists or grows there except for the cempasúchil marigolds. These flowers grow all over the Land of the Dead and I suspect anything else you might see is either temporary (Día de Muertos gifts) or artificial. There isn't much space for crops in that crazily stacked-up cityscape anyway. With this being the case, it's likely that the dead there don't have much resources such as renewable food (details not really touched on in the film). My mind is proposing that the primary way the Land of the Dead acquires such resources is through Día de Muertos. Not that eating is necessary to the deceased, but it's likely nice, and as they are sustained by memories, then the memories of food and goods lovingly crafted and given to them likely has a strengthening effect. In such a world there's probably little use for money, though it might exist as a kind of IOU currency. My mind proposes that most of the dead would trade in goods from their ofrendas and funerary offerings. Though they don't have nearly as many needs as the living, "wealth" would be measured in how much you got from your ofrenda(s). Likely the very wealthiest skeletons are those who (like Ernesto) receive such a bounty from so many ofrendas that they can well afford to "hire" other skeletons to work for them and have plenty to pay in memory-goods.

The Forgotten live in shacks with nothing to their names. Firstly because they have no one to remember them and no offerings. Secondly, the skeletons nearer to them on the social ladder would have little to spare in terms of extra offerings (though some likely do, given the stuff found rolling around the shantytown and Chicharron's bungalow). Thirdly, the skeletons "wealthy" enough to hire them are those who would least want to, because they wouldn't want to be reminded of the Final Death that looms for everyone no matter how long—and because who wants to hire somebody they don't know if they'll just disappear and not show up for work? (Once the joints start sliding apart, you know that guy's no good for anything, you can't rely on them to show up and they haven't the strength to make it through a day's work...)

If everything in the Land of the Dead is memory, it's probably a good thing that Miguel didn't stay there for too long. They seem to have water there, at least (no guarantees for sanitation), in the depths surrounding the city and in the cenote seen on screen. However, if the foods available are nothing but memory, I suspect that eating them wouldn't do a living kid much good. They might taste good (or provoke the memory of taste), but likely would not fill him. Same reason Héctor could straight up drink a shot glass of tequila without playing a PotC skeleton joke—it's not "real" liquor. If Miguel doesn't go home, not only will he turn into a skeleton himself, he'd starve to death anyway in a matter of days. (Obviously one can take or leave this quasi-headcanon for purposes of fic, but it is an interesting underworld concept to consider.)

Factoid: The marigold bridges (or at least the magic that runs them) are aware in their own way and work with the ofrenda photo scanner system to prevent unauthorized skeletons crossing. I suppose the borders of the Land of the Dead are so jealously guarded to prevent the dead from escaping to create a profusion of ghosts and "evil spirits" rushing about the land of the living. Obviously not every skeleton is a nice person; Ernesto was there, and it seems everybody—or at least everybody Mexican—ends up there, as it's not a Heaven-or-Hell-Judgment sort of place. The rules would at least keep unsavory sorts from pestering the Land of the Living for selfish or evil reasons; but since rules have to be for everyone to be fair, nobody gets through without a pass, no matter how nice or desperate they are. Me, I'm wondering how things went before the scanner was implemented (it's "technology" and fairly modern). Heck, how did they run the place before photos were invented? That long ago, did you only get to cross over if you were wealthy enough someone painted your portrait? It's all based on ancient Aztec/Mayan magic (if that's what we should call it) going by the temples/pyramids that anchor the bridges. What did they used to do centuries ago in lieu of pictures? Obviously the old magic has adapted to the changes in culture and technology, but I'm curious how this place ran when it was first "built." (Anybody knowledgeable want to weigh in on this? Otherwise I'm gonna have to go drag my mythologies texts off the shelf.)

Héctor the Forgotten: he's barely hours behind Chicharron on the Final Death schedule and he still manages to bounce across half the city with this kid like it's nothing! It's worse once you've seen the film all the way through: you know Héctor's a (more) dead man walking, he's got literally hours left to live, he knows he's terminal, and yet he's still so full of energy and smiles and kindness. It's heartbreaking and it makes him one of the strongest people I've ever seen in fiction. I firmly headcanon (in multiple fandoms) that there is an ancient Power that sustains the wronged dead so they have a chance to see justice done. I suspect that above and beyond his sheer heart, that power was what helped keep Héctor upright and at full speed despite the condition of his bones and the memory-magic holding him together fraying at the seams. Chicharron seemed ill and infirm that close to his end, apparently rather bedridden. Héctor was up and dancing on a stage. Héctor also didn't start getting flashes until after his murder was revealed—to someone who could carry that knowledge to the living world to right those wrongs. The power sustaining him immediately started to ebb. There was probably some loophole for getting to the living world for wronged dead too; maybe to go haunt your murderer or such, to try to get justice. Héctor might have availed himself of these bylaws, if he'd known he was murdered. But he didn't until it was too late, so he was stuck behind the photowall at the bridge gates for decades. I figured on a source for his marionette-movements as well, beyond the creators' stylistic decisions: If Héctor is pretty much running on heart, emergency power, and duct tape, it's sheer willpower keeping him animated. It's almost less that his body moves, and more that he moves his body. If he's falling apart that badly, just lifting his arm without the will to keep together might have his hand drop off! (Just look at how he sags and stretches whenever subjected to sudden or stressful movements! He almost lost his head the first time Miguel grabbed him—did lose an arm after that.) It's like he partially has to will his limbs to move, like a paralyzed telekinetic—so yes, Héctor's body is a marionette; his mind is the puppeteer tugging on the fraying strings of memory-magic keeping him together. And then he dances.

Héctor was, according to the wiki, creators, and books, 21 years old when he died in 1921. As it is canon his birthday is November 30, he would have had to have died in December of 1921, after having just barely turned 21. Inferring this date for his death gives me a headcanon that after months on the road with Ernesto, Héctor was tired and homesick and it was almost Christmas and he didn't want to miss Christmas with his girls and that's why he was even more determined to go home. Ernesto probably had some holiday gig planned to play and was even more pissed off. It just makes the murder that much more horrible. (I mean, Christmas, Ernesto. It was Christmas season. And you had to kill the guy who just wanted to be home for the holidays.) I will probably go cry and write fic now, because that's just the saddest thing ever. (I could be completely barking up a tree with this too—anyone know about Christmas celebration in early 1900's Mexico? ...it's still a horribly sad thought.)

Anyone has something to say on these thoughts, please tell me if I’m wandering too far afield or if something needs further consideration! I never know if I’m letting my mind run too wild.

#omg CHRISTMAS Ernesto #is Héctor being his own puppet too creepy?#this place runs on memories #Need more Aztec Mythology #Need more Mayan Mythology #actually I'll just read all the Central American mythology!#I love legends #musical instruments are not easy for everyone #not even all Riveras #Héctor keeps finding new ways to amaze me when I think about it #Héctor is such a good guy #like a terminal cancer patient who gets out of bed to go cheer up ill children in the hospital without a care for his own health #coco headcanon #coco spoilers #*bawls* Christmas Ernesto REALLY?!?

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 19

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

Art by @swanpit.

[All chapters are tagged as ‘mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: Kind of sucks when your brain tells you one thing and your heart another entirely, doesn't it.

***

“... And they chewed through all the cables!”

“They never do that at ho--”

“Say that one more time, and I’ll strangle you. With the cables.”

“Didn’t they chew--”

“I bought new ones. Which you’re going to pay for. Immediately.”

Ernesto opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get in another word Sofía slaps something against his chest - a full list of expenses that he supposes he will have to pay back. Dog food, of course, cables, some toys to keep them from destroying the cables, new leashes when they chewed through the leashes, a new cover for her couch when they destroyed it, a new pillow, dog shampoo, pet-safe nail polish-- wait a moment.

“Did you give them spa treatment or what?” Ernesto asks, glancing down at the chihuahuas. They're all on their hind legs, pawing at him and yapping for attention. Come to think of it, Clara looks particularly fluffy and the others have really shiny fur, and… she’s actually painted their nails. He blinks, and looks back at Sofía.

A shrug. “They’re good boys and girls. They deserved it.”

Well, Ernesto can agree with that assessment, of course, but he didn’t expect it to come after a long list of their supposed misdeeds. “Didn’t they wreak havoc--”

“Not their fault if their stupid master didn’t bother to train them properly.”

“They never did that before,” he protests despite the very real threat of strangulation. “They missed me!”

Sofía rolls her eyes. “Clearly,” she mutters, but smiles a bit. “So now take them back and don’t drop them on me like that ever again.”

“I won’t,” Ernesto promises, crouching down to let his dogs lick his hands and face. There is a chuckle above him.

“... Well, did it help, being off for a bit?”

Ernesto nods, still petting his dogs. “Yes. Guess it did.” He doesn’t feel like going over his visit to Santa Cecilia again - or explain yet again that yes, his father was indeed stone sober - so he keeps it vague. “I needed some time away.”

“And, the situation with…?”

“We sorted it out.” Ernesto stands with an armful of dogs. “We’re okay. It’s over, but we’re okay.”

He ignores the dull ache in his chest as he says it’s over aloud. Of course it stings, and will keep stinging, but it will get better, eventually. They are the closest to okay they can be. It will get easier.

“That’s good.” Sofía looks relieved. “Back on the market, then?”

“Guess I am.” Ernesto smiles but ah, it feels fake to his own ears. He clears his throat and nods towards the table where he left his phone, still holding up his dogs. “Can you take a photo? For Instagram.” He smiles again and this time it comes easier. “My fans were getting worried.”

Sofía rolls her eyes. “Ay, all four of them?” she jokes, but picks up the phone. “All right, smile.”

Ernesto tries to smile, but the dogs do their best to lick his mouth and he has to pull back his head, laughing. The photo catches him mid-laugh and it’s… not bad. Not bad at all. He uploads it with a chuckle, pays Sofía for her trouble, and he’s off with his dogs in tow. It’s nice to have them back, to be back. Something still aches, but it was to be expected. It will get better, in time.

It must.

***

“Are you sure it won’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure.”

“What if it hurts the baby?”

“It won’t hurt the baby.”

“What if I hit her with my--”

Imelda groans, dropping her head on the pillow and shutting her eyes, with half a thought of biting it in frustration. Above her, Héctor is the very picture of parental anxiety. “Héctor,” she mutters, her voice tight. “We have been through this. Well-endowed as you are, you cannot hit the baby with your penis.”

“Ah. Right.” A nervous chuckle, a pause. “... So you think I’m well-endowed?” he asks, sounding just a touch coy now. Imelda looks up at him, unimpressed.

“You are, mi amor, and I would really appreciate you putting it to use,” she almost growls, pushing back against him. “Now would be a good time, considering it’s the last night we have the house all for ourselves,” she adds.

With her brothers coming over the next day to stay in the guest room, so that they can start learning how to make shoes and then help her set up the shop she has just rented, it may be… a good, it will be a while until they are able to enjoy a full night like this without any worry of being overheard. And Imelda has no intention whatsoever to let it go to waste.

“Right, right.” Héctor clears his throat. “And, uh, would love to-- I just--”

For fuck’s sake.

Imelda groans and sits up with more difficulty than she’d like, grasping his cheeks and bringing her face a scant inch away from her husband’s. “Héctor,” she spells out. “Do you want me or not?”

“What!” he sputters, like she just casually asked whether or not Earth is round. “Of course I want-- agh, this looks bad, I’m sorry, that’s not it at all! You look amazing-- even more amazing-- I just…” a pause, and he swallows. “Sorry. I know it can’t harm the baby. I just, well, I worry.” A sheepish grin. “You know.”

Imelda sighs. Of course she knows; Héctor is still half-expecting to mess up somehow, and Imelda supposes it is not a fear easy to look past. “Trust me,” he says, letting go of his jaw to cup his cheek. “There is no risk.”

A smile, and he turns his head to kiss her palm. “I trust you with my life,” he says, before leaning in to kiss her. “But let me try something else…”

“Something else?” Imelda tilts back her head when his lips trail lower, letting him kiss her throat. Her breathing grows a little faster, the aching need between her legs a little more urgent. Héctor’s mouth moves down her chest, over her breasts and oh, right, she’s more than willing to see where he’s going with this.

Plus, may as well let him enjoy her breasts until someone else claims them for the next few months.

His mouth trails down her stomach, over the bump - oh God please do not let him turn into mush at the thought of being a father again, it is very sweet and all but right now she is so horny - and then, thank God, lower down. With a long sigh, Imelda parts her legs, grasps the sheets, and lets Héctor go about it his way. She has no complaints, now.

Her husband has more good uses for his mouth and tongue than just singing.

It’s… not the most passionate of nights, but it is sweet. Imelda’s senses are still numbed by the ripples of her orgasm when she pulls Héctor down on her, kisses his mouth, reaches down blindly to grasp him and stroke, a thumb brushing the tip. She finds him hard, and he lasts little under her touch; he comes with a shudder and a soft moan he muffles against her lips before he sinks beside her, pulling her close.

Imelda chuckles, leaning into the warmth. “Feeling better now?” she asks, resting her head on his chest. She feels him smile into her hair.

“What color is the sky? Ay mi amor, ay mi amor…” he hums, and settles down with a content sigh, an arm around her. The hand rests on the bump and Imelda smiles, covering it with her own. It’s cozy, warm, just right. Everything as it should be: the two of them and their baby on the way, Héctor’s first album about to launch, the lease for the shop she’s looking to open to expand her business signed, her brothers coming over to help and start learning a viable trade.

Everything is moving in the right direction. Everything is in place.

Or almost. Something about their bed feels out of place - like it’s too large.

Don’t. Don’t go there, you know why it is, don’t.

It would be the wise thing to do, keep her eyes shut and avoid looking at the empty space beside them, but she doesn’t. She opens her eyes, and looks at the spot where Ernesto would usually rest, leaning close to them. And ah, it stings.

It could never work. We are friends again. It is for the best.

Imelda briefly wonders if Héctor ever looks at the gap beside them, too, thinking the same, but she doesn’t ask. Some things are best left unspoken.

Imelda closes her eyes not to look, shifts a little in her husband’s warm embrace, and focuses on nothing else.

Ernesto keeps staring at the ceiling for a good while after his dogs have fallen asleep.

He knows it’s not a good idea. He should be trying to sleep, shouldn’t be thinking about Héctor and Imelda a couple of floors up, sharing the bed he will never be welcomed in again. Except that of course, that is exactly what he’s thinking about.

His bed is not empty because his dogs all climbed on it, of course, not about to let him out of their sight a second after he went seemingly missing for days, but it is… definitely not the same thing.

He could go out and find someone to spend the night with, call some of the numbers he still has on his phone - he never had trouble getting someone in bed, after all. It was the norm, up to just about a year ago; find someone to have a good time for the night, part ways in the morning, possibly stay in touch to meet up again for another pleasant night.

A few people met that way he’d become friends with - Sofía was one - but in most cases, he barely remembered their names, and mostly only recalled their bodies with clarity. It had been a simpler time, uncomplicated. No string but those of his guitar, he said. He would go back to that.

Only the thought didn’t appeal to him at all, now.

What’s the point?

A sigh, and Ernesto closes his eyes. He needs time, that is all, to get used to this new normal. Eventually, it will be just like the old normal. And he did enjoy the old normal, he tells himself.

He just needs to remember how to.

***

“Why does your cat hate me?”

“Huh?” Héctor looks up from the string he’s tuning to follow Ernesto’s gaze. The damn cat in question is looking down at them from the top of a bookcase or, rather, staring straight at Ernesto. Her eyes are narrowed, to slits of pure malevolence, tail whipping the air.

As though he sees none of that, Héctor chuckles.

“She doesn't hate you.”

“She’s glaring at me.”

“No, she’s not.

“That is a glare. ”

“Believe me, if she hated you I’d be calling an ambulance for you right now.” Héctor laughs, focusing on tuning the guitar again. “You just think all pets should behave like dogs.”

Ernesto grumbles, still keeping an eye on the beast - who, from her part, seemingly decides she’s had enough of making him uncomfortable for the afternoon. She stretches, yawns, and jumps off the bookcase onto the windowsill to lay down. The window is open, to allow her to jump on the tree right by in case she wants to--

Wait a minute.

“Héctor-- Imelda’s pregnant. ”

That causes him to blink, looking up at him. “... Well, we’ve known that for a while.”

“And you’re still letting her go out?”

Héctor blinks again, at a loss. “She’s just checking on the twins putting together furniture in the new shop and getting some groceries, it won’t be long and it’s good for her to stretch her leg--”

“What-- not Imelda , idiota! The cat!” Ernesto gestures towards Pepita, who seems on the verge of falling asleep. “She could be catching and eating mice or rats, and what if she catches toxoplasmosis?”

“Toxo-- what?” Héctor clearly has no idea what that is, but the name and Ernesto’s tone worry him enough to pull out his phone and search. He reads on, his gaze going from perplexed to mildly concerned - markedly more concerned once he reads it can be passed on to humans - and Ernesto knows he’s reading what happens if it’s caught during pregnancy when all color drains from his face.

He’s not especially surprised when Héctor jumps to his feet. “We must take her to the vet to check,” he urges. “Now.”

“... Can’t we wait until Imelda gets ba--”

“Now!”

The struggle to get Pepita into the cat carrier is brief, but oh is it vicious, and Ernesto takes great care to hold the carrier as far as he can from his body while Héctor tries to coax Pepita in at first, then wrestles her. He had no idea a cat could make such a vast array of unpleasant noises. Ernesto suspects he’ll keep hearing a few of them in his nightmares; on the doorway, both his dogs and Dante are observing the scene in utter confusion.

By the time Pepita is in the carrier, which jumps and clatters as she throws herself against the bars, Héctor looks like he might need medical attention himself, scratched-up and with his shirt in tatters.

“You might want to disinfect--” Ernesto begins, putting down the carrier carefully and taking a step back for good measure, but is immediately silenced.

“Later, I’m calling the vet to let him know we’re coming,” Héctor cuts him off, waving his free hand as he searches for the vet’s number. Ernesto sighs, and glances down at the carrier. Pepita stares right back at him, and hisses.

You’re going to regret this, that furious hiss tells him, and Ernesto suddenly wishes he never mentioned toxoplasmosis in Héctor’s presence.

“All right, we can go in immediately!” Héctor declares, ending the call and picking up the carrier.

Like being told we can’t go in immediately would have changed your mind, Ernesto thinks, and follows him through the doorway, almost to the front door. Almost , because they’re still a few steps away when the door opens and Imelda steps in, holding up a grocery bag so that Dante - and Ernesto’s dogs, too, but mostly Dante - can’t get to it.

“Héctor, can you get this to the kitchen for me? I need to... sit down just a...” Imelda’s voice slows as she takez in the scene - Pepita screaming from the carrier in Héctor’s hands, her own husband looking like he’d just crawled back from battle, and Ernesto pretending to be very busy smoothing down his shirt. “... Moment?”

“Imelda!” Héctor cries out, and lets the cat carrier fall, getting a literal howl of fury out of Pepita. He grabs both of her hands, including the one still holding the groceries, before she has time to voice any objections. “Mi amor! Are you feeling all right?”

She blinks. “What’s gotten into--”

“Aches? Fatigue?”

“I’m pregnant, of course I am-- the cat, what--”

“Headaches?”

“Por Dios, you’re giving me a headache right now!” Imelda groans, and turns to Ernesto. “You. Explain.”

And for the love of God, her gaze tells him, give me an explanation that makes sense.

He shrugs. “Taking her to the vet,” he says, and Imelda’s expression suddenly becomes worried.

Well. More worried.

“Is she sick?” she asks, leaving the grocery bag to Héctor and picking up the carrier. She holds up before her face, and Pepita’s growls turn into pitiful meowing to be let out. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing!” Héctor exclaims. “I mean, we hope nothing’s wrong. We’re taking her to the vet to check!”

“... You decided to wrestle her in the carrier and rush her to the vet for an impromptu check-up?”

“Well, Ernesto said--”

Oh no, this is Not Happening. He’s not taking the blame for something he is… probably to blame for. “I told you we should wait until Imelda came back! And I only asked because she keeps going out hunting rodents and if she catches it--”

“If she catches what?” Imelda cuts him off, opening the carrier. Pepita immediately jumps in her arms, tame as a kitten, although she does shoot Ernesto another look of pure evil. Like it was him to put her in there, anyway.

“Toxoplasmosis,” Héctor speaks, sounding like he’s naming the most horrifying thing in the world. “Ernesto told me that it would be-- really bad if you caught it.”

Imelda blinks and turns to Ernesto, honestly surprised. “Since when are you an expert on…?”

“Dogs get it too,” he points out, crossing his arms. “I did my research after I got mine.”

“I see,” Imelda mutters, sounding… mildly impressed before she turns to Héctor. “... Mi amor. Did you think I did not do all the research needed?”

Héctor blinks. “Well-- of course you would, but--”

“Remember how I asked you to take on the litter cleaning duty when I realized I was pregnant?”

“Yes, but--”

“Why, in God’s name, do you think I asked you to do that?”

Oh, Ernesto thinks, of course she’d already taken it into account. Well, that’s… a relief. Makes him feel kind of stupid, but it’s still a relief. Beside him Héctor opens his mouth, then closes it. He hesitates.

“So-- you’re safe?”

“I am perfectly safe and so is the baby.”

“Ah.” Héctor glances at Pepita, who returns his gaze with another hiss. He gives both cat and wife an embarrassed smile. “Heh. Lo siento?”

Imelda sighs, reaching to cup his face. “Let me look at that - you have to be on TV in less than a week,” she points out. “You shouldn’t show up on screen looking like you’ve been to battle.”

Ernesto nods. “She has a point. That nose is not doing you any favors as it is, best not to make it worse on camera,” he says, gaining himself an unimpressed look from Héctor.

“Pendejo,” he huffs, smacking the grocery bag against his chest, and he turns to Imelda with a dramatic hand over his heart. “I would go to battle for you, just for a dance,” he declares, causing her to roll her eyes.

“It would be less of a dance and more of a waddle,” Imelda points out, a hand on the baby bump, now remarkably close in size to a ripe watermelon. “Come, let me fix your face. Hope we still have peroxyde.”

“No! Anything but that!”

“What happened to being willing to march into battle for me?”

Ernesto has a chuckle at Héctor’s expenses as Imelda leads him to the bathroom, but it is short-lived; it fades almost as soon as they’re out of his sight, and he’s quiet as he takes the groceries to the kitchen, ignoring the pleading looks from his dog, the murderous glare from Pepita, and holding it well out of Dante’s reach.

It’s nice to be welcomed back, of course. It’s good to have his best friend back. It’s good to be on good terms with Imelda, to know they want him there, want him to be their child’s godfather. It’s been weeks, almost two months; he should be used to this new normal. He is, for the most part - but he’s still human and ah, sometimes it still hurts. Sometimes he wonders if they feel the same, too, but he may never know. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself.

It’s for the best.

***

“You know, we could invent a machine that--”

“No machines, Felipe.”

“Actually, I’m Óscar.” “I have never fallen for that, and I won’t start now. So, when it comes to working the leather--”

“It would be faster if we built a machine to do it for us.”

“If we used machines, it wouldn’t be traditionally handmade.”

“Yes, but--”

“And that is what our brand is about,” Imelda cuts him off, sitting back. Her brothers are sitting across her at the workbench, supposedly to watch her and learn, but they seem to be too busy running their mouths to retain much of what she's trying to teach them. “People buy these shoes because they want them traditionally handmade, or else they’d be buying from a chain store.”

“Not that they would know,” Óscar mutters, the next moment he barely ducks under a roll of masking tape.

“We are not using machines,” Imelda enounces. “And that is fin--”

Her phone beeps suddenly with a reminder, and both twins leap over the workbench to sit next to Imelda, looking over at her laptop, which at the moment is showing the latest orders received.

“It’s about to start, isn’t it?”

“Come on, get it on!”

“They’re streaming it, no?”

“Yes, yes, give me a moment…”

It is… odd, to see Héctor and Ernesto on screen, being interviewed about their upcoming album. She’s seen them playing before crowds, and they were interviewed by radio stations before - she can’t say their agent doesn’t know how to get them visibility - but a TV studio must be an entirely different experience. And Héctor looks… a little overwhelmed at first, although the smile is wide enough that no one who doesn’t know him as well as she does would be tricked into thinking otherwise.

“So, your debut album will be out tomorrow. Tell us how your career started…”

Ernesto, of course, looks perfectly at ease and does the lion’s share of the talking, smile bright and voice smooth, a natural in front of the camera - even inspiring, if you fall for his ‘seize your moment’ spiel. He has the interviewer and just about everybody else in the studio absolutely charmed, and soon enough Imelda sees Héctor’s body language relax, too. His smiles are more sincere, he laughs when Ernesto brings up a particularly disastrous trip over a cable during their first day recording, playfully punches his shoulder when he brings up the time he forgot to pick him up from the airport years ago because he got caught up writing a new song.

“It was one time!”

“It happened at least three times.” A laugh, and Ernesto shoves him back. “But we got three good songs out of it, so who am I to complain?”

More chuckles, and the interviewer turns to Héctor, who looks perfectly at ease by now.

“I understand you’re the songwriter - I listened to a preview of your album and loved Un Poco Loco especially. Who is the song about?”

Héctor’s smile grows wider, and so does Imelda’s. “Oh, it’s about my wife.”

“Awwww,” her brothers exclaim, bringing a hand to each other’s heart. Imelda lightly smacks the arm closest to her, eyes on the screen, still smiling.

“She’s amazing - she couldn’t be here today, but she’s… my muse,” Héctor is going on. “She’s in the album, too! In our cover of La Llorona, the female singing voice? That’s her! She and Ernesto did the video, too, and it won't be out until--”

He goes on talking about the song, gushing about her, and the smile remains on Imelda’s lips - only a tad more melancholic. She remembers the day they recorded the song, of course. She remembers the day she and Ernesto filmed the video, too, dancing in front of a green screen. There had been attempts at upstaging each other, bickering, and oh they were so tired by the end of it - but they had given their absolute best, and it had been fun, looking back. Not that she’d have admitted it in front of Ernesto, then.

A good time.

She keeps listening, keeps her gaze on the screen as they stand and grab their guitars to play for the public - and if her brothers notice a change in her expression, they say nothing of it.

***

To their credit, Héctor would think later, he and Ernesto managed to wait until they were alone in a changing room backstage before they erupted in gritos, laughter and more gritos while hugging each other and dancing around like idiots, almost knocking down a clothes rack.

But what the hell, they just talked about their album on TV, played for the audience, and were loudly asked for an encore; they have every reason to celebrate and be as loud about it as they damn please. To think of how they’d started out from Santa Cecilia… well, this was beyond anything Héctor ever thought they would achieve.

And clearly, Ernesto’s dreams go even further.

“And this is just the start!” Ernesto exclaims, an arm tight around Héctor’s shoulders and the other hand gesturing at empty air, like he’s addressing a crowd of fans. “It’s going to be a success, I’m telling you, and so will be the albums that follow! Our names will be everywhere - Ernesto y Héctor!”

“You mean, Héctor y Ernesto,” Héctor points out, grinning a little and elbowing him in the chest. “That’s what it says on the album. Armando agreed it sounds better.”

Ernesto rolls his eyes. “Details, details.” He waves a hand dismissively, like he didn’t pout for the entire day after the decision to place Héctor’s name first was taken. “What matters is, we’re on the right track! We should go out and celebrate!”

“Ah, I…” Héctor shifts a little, feeling mildly guilty. “I should go back home. You know, with Imelda… her brothers are there, sure, but… you know.” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. Ernesto is not very happy to hear that, he can tell. “How about you come over and have dinner with us?”

“No,” Ernesto says a little too quickly. He clears his throat. “I mean-- no, thanks. I will probably go out, have some drinks… networking, you know?”

Héctor nods. “Of course. You were always the best at this kind of thing. Just, uh… you’re alway welcome. You know that, no?”

Ernesto pauses at the door to look back at him. His expression is somewhat blank for a moment, then the easy smile is back, familiar, reassuring. And, Héctor fears, not entirely sincere. “Of course. Thanks, amigo. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Héctor says, and sighs when the door closes again. Part of him wants to throw the door open, call out for his best friend, tell him they really want him to join them, but in the end he cannot bring himself to do so. They are no longer an item, so he can… do his own thing, party, maybe get some company - meet someone else. If he wants to, then he should get to do so.

It would be the normal thing to do. Things are back to normal, and all is going well. But ah, sometimes… no, often, Héctor misses the way things were. He misses what they had.

And he wonders if Imelda does, too.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #coco #mind the gap

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bcdrawsandwrites · 6 years

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Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo !

Reminder that I am still accepting prompts for this! Check out my initial post for the guidelines. Also note the current bingo card on this post–the things I mark with crossbones are completed prompts, and ones with a single bone are ones that have been requested, but not written yet.

(Fics are also posted to AO3 and FFN, but please just use the links in my blog desc to get to those ‘cuz I’m too tired to make links for them.)

Aaand here’s our next prompt, submitted by BookwormGal (who does not have a Tumblr). Beware, this one gets a bit... brutal.

Prompt: Setting a Broken Bone Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón

A metallic groan filled the air, waking Héctor up from his daze. He wasn’t sure what time it was, or even what day it was, but he was very quickly aware of the overwhelming pain in his leg. In the dim light of the holding cell, he could see the scotch tape barely clinging to the two broken portions of his left tibia, the larger bone in his lower leg—the tape had lost most of its adhesiveness a day or so ago, and he was frankly amazed it had lasted this long. With a tired moan, he turned in his cot, trying to shift the broken leg to a more comfortable position, only to belatedly realize why that was a bad idea. The two broken ends scraped against each other, and his voice pitched up into a shriek that quickly tapered off.

He’d done quite enough screaming over the past few… days, or however long it had been since Dia de Muertos.

Not long enough, given he wouldn’t be able to try again until next year. Ay.

Past the heavy cell door, he could hear hushed voices, followed by a faint clinking. It was too hard to think past the pain, so he thought nothing of it until the door creaked open.

Lifting himself up on his elbow, he blinked at the two guards who stared down at him. They were looking from his face and back to his injured leg, the older one of them frowning and the younger one wincing. The first leaned over to his partner, trying to whisper to her, but Héctor caught what he was saying anyway: “You see what I mean?”

“Hola,” Héctor said, forcing a tired smile. “Can I help you, señor y señora?”

“Uh… no,” the younger guard said, glancing away briefly. “We’re just here to tell you that you’re free to go.”

“…Go? Right now?” He reached up to scratch his dirty wig, eyes narrowing as he tried to think past the fog of pain. Had it really been… a month? Was that how long he’d been here? That was how long he was supposed to be here, he was pretty sure. Or maybe the corrections officer had been exaggerating?

“We’re letting you out early, Rivera,” the older guard said, pulling his hands behind his back. “Under normal circumstances you’d carry out the full sentence, but…”

“You need a doctor,” the younger guard blurted out. “Seriously. We can’t keep you here in this state.”

Oh. A doctor, huh? Aside from the fact that he wasn’t particularly keen on a man he didn’t know rearranging his bones…

He lay back down in his cot, snatching his hat from the floor and setting it over his face, smiling sadly. “Well, it’s a nice thought,” he said, managing a laugh, “but that sort of thing costs money that I don’t have.”

“Regardless, she’s right. We really can’t keep you here like this, and frankly, we don’t want to.”

“Can’t imagine why.” He resisted the urge to wiggle the foot on his bad leg in demonstration. Of course, he could guess what they were talking about—he wasn’t exactly deaf to the pained sounds he was making. Or maybe they could just feel sorry for him, but he doubted it.

“Basta.” He heard the guard’s bones clatter in what was probably an exasperated gesture. “You’re free to go, Rivera. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Sí,” Héctor replied, with no small amount of bitterness. “Just give me a moment to hop on up.” In truth, he wasn’t exactly upset about being let out early, but… if they were actually concerned about his well-being, they might have done something to help him with his leg.

At least they hadn’t made him deal with those awful cuffs—the ones that had some sort of magic in them that locked one’s bones together. He usually had to deal with those things to keep him from pulling himself apart to slip through the bars, but this time they hadn’t bothered—not like he could get anywhere with a snapped tibia.

Biting his lip, he re-adjusted his hat and carefully eased himself up into a sitting position, staring down at the two halves of his left tibia. Hm, this would be a challenge. He reached down to peel off the remainder of the tape first, which should have been an easy task. Most of it wasn’t sticky anymore to begin with, having quickly gotten covered in dust and ash, but as he pulled it away a small part caught against the jagged crack in the bone, and he jumped in his seat with a startled yelp.

“D-do you need help, Señor Rivera?” the younger guard stammered, and he gazed up at them.

The female guard was new—mid-to-late twenties, it looked like, possibly even recently-dead, given he hadn’t seen her before. Her hair was in a long, dark braid that went past her waist, and she didn’t wear lipstick. She stood oddly tall compared to the other guard—Juan, he recalled the name suddenly. Juan was big and stocky (or as stocky as a skeleton could be), but not much in the height department, whereas this girl looked like she might be barely shorter than Héctor. She kept looking from her partner and back to him, and Héctor couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable with the situation in general, or just uncomfortable with him.

Probably the latter. No one felt comfortable around the dusty old souls from the shanties.

“I’ll manage,” he grumbled finally, tossing the wad of tape away and looking down at his leg again. He wasn’t going to put weight on his tibia—he wasn’t sure if he could wreck his bones permanently, and he didn’t want to find out. So… he’d have to be a little more creative. At first he almost tried to grab for half of his tibia, but it wasn’t set right, and trying to pull it off that way would be disastrous. Instead he plucked off his kneecap, ignoring the sounds of disgust from the guards, grabbed the bottom half of his broken tibia with one hand, and with his other hand carefully eased his already-loose fibula off of his leg. The bottom half of the tibia, no longer connected to anything, came loose, and Héctor set it to his other side, wincing when he placed it on the bed. Next came the upper half, which he gently tugged away and set next to its mate, before reassembling the rest of his leg.

With his femur and kneecap connected to the fibula, which was connected to his foot, that should give him… some support, right?

“Wh… what is he doing,” the younger guard whispered, not quite quiet enough for Héctor to miss it.

“What I can,” Héctor replied simply, pressing his hands into either side of his cot as he eased himself to his feet. He kept most of his weight on his good leg and braced one hand against the wall. Even then, his bad leg was already wobbling. The fibula was definitely not made to bear weight by itself, but maybe it would last him until he got to Shantytown. He pulled his hand away from the wall, and, when he didn’t immediately fall, forced a smile. “See? You can learn to make due when—”

Pop.

Héctor flailed as he tried to lean toward the wall again a second too late, and quickly loosened his joints as his body tipped over on its left side. A few bones were knocked out of place at the impact, but were otherwise unharmed, and he grumbled as he willed himself back together, careful to keep the tibia away. Right, he’d forgotten that fibula didn’t like to stay in place anymore.

“Enough of this,” Juan growled, grabbing Héctor by the arm and hoisting him up. “Yolanda, you take his other side.”

The female guard—Yolanda, evidently—shot Héctor an apologetic look as she took his other arm, lifting it around her shoulders. Hesitantly she glanced over at the broken tibia sitting on the cot, and reached down to pick up one of the pieces, looking like someone who had to pick up a particularly filthy piece of trash.

Héctor immediately shuddered, clenching his teeth. “Ay, be careful with that—!” he whined, and Yolanda responded by tucking the broken bone under her free arm, and doing the same with the other half, thankfully keeping the broken ends away from each other.

So here he was, being hoisted by two guards out of the holding cell early, with his tibia being carried by one of the guards and rubbing against itself.

It was going to be one of those days.

Keeping his head down and his hat shading his face, Héctor let himself be dragged out of the building, biting his metaphorical tongue against the “friendly” jeers a few of the workers there threw at him: “Ah, there he is!” “Ey, gotta keep yourself together.” “That was some show on Dia de Muertos! Could’a used more fireworks, though.” “Tough luck, huh? Maybe next year, amigo!”

Yes, maybe next year he would cross so he didn’t have to stick around to hear their estúpido unfunny jokes. But finally he was out of the building and out onto the streets, and Juan shrugged him off of his shoulders. “All right. You can head on home, now.”

“What?” Héctor blurted, snapping his head up to give the guard an incredulous look. “You’re just gonna leave me here like this?”

“This is the Department of Family Reunions, not a transportation service. The gondola station’s two blocks away, trolley is three.”

“Ah, sí, let me just walk over there on my one leg!” he snarled, but the guard had already turned away and was walking up the steps. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he turned to the other officer, who was looking away. “What? Aren’t you gonna leave, too?”

“Uh, well.” Yolanda re-adjusted her grip on his broken tibia, causing him to hiss at the mild pain. “My shift ends in…”—she glanced at her watch—“six minutes anyway. I… I can help you get to the station, if… if you…”

“So you don’t have leaving a pobre soul like me to fend for himself on your conscience?” he muttered, and immediately winced when he realized he’d said it aloud. “I… lo siento. Yes. I would… like that.”

Seeming to ignore his earlier comment, she gave him a look over, her gaze lingering on his bad leg (the fibula barely clinging to his femur and kneecap) before she pulled him a little closer. “Be careful,” she said, and began walking. “Where is it you need to get to?”

Rattling off the tower address and the station that would take him the closest to his section of Shantytown (and it was never close), Héctor put the rest of his focus on keeping his bad leg from falling apart again. That fibula did not want to stay connected, and if he moved his leg just wrong, it was going to come apart again.

“You’re sure I can’t take you to a doctor, señor?” Yolanda asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“No,” he said quickly, staring down at the cobblestone beneath his bare feet. “I don’t have the money, and anyway, they don’t…” Realization struck him, and and he shut his eyes as a numbness filled the void where his stomach once was. “They don’t… treat people who can’t heal.”

The guard went silent after that, and Héctor resumed his focus on keeping his leg from falling apart, or trying to. Don’t think about it right now, he told himself as the numbness slowly began to morph into something more dangerous that would not help him right now. It may still be okay. They can probably still do something for you back home. There are people there worse than you, and they get through, right? You’ll be okay.

“Señor?”

Blinking, Héctor shook himself out of his thoughts and found himself staring down at his solitary foot.

…Wait…

“You… seem to have dropped something back there.”

Ay, this was going to be a long day.

It took a few tries to get his fibula reconnected with the rest of his leg, but they managed, and Yolanda continued to walk him down to the gondola station. They reached it without incident, and Héctor dug through his pouch to scrounge up the coins necessary to pay for the trip, relieved he had enough for that, at least.

“Gracias,” he murmured to the girl as she helped him onto the bench in the little car and handed him the two halves of his tibia. But when she turned around to head out, he blinked. “Are you not coming?”

“No, sorry, señor,” she said, not turning to face him. “I… I need to get home to my family.”

“Ah.” Wish I could say the same. “Adiós, then.”

Unsurprisingly, the other passengers in the gondola seemed to be keeping their distance from him, some of them practically sitting on top of each other to avoid getting too close. The ones across from him deliberately looked away, or stole glances at his leg or his disconnected bones when they thought he wouldn’t notice. It was something he should probably be used to by this point, after so many decades of bearing dusty, yellowed bones and tattered clothes, but some part of him still ached at the thought that he’d become someone that no one wanted to be around.

Not even his family.

Heaving a shaking sigh, he tipped his hat to shadow his face, so he could at least pretend to not notice their stares.

While it was nice to rest his bad leg for a while, at least, the break was short-lived, and the gondola came to its final stop. Héctor stayed put, letting everyone else shuffle out around him so there wouldn’t be any witnesses to the spectacle of him trying to get out on one leg. As he waited, he stared down at his fibula, wondering if he could coax it to stay in place somehow. He had no more tape on him, however (he’d only grabbed as much as he could from the correction officer’s desk before being incarcerated), and not a lot of time before the conductor threw him out. He wrung his hands for a moment before catching a glimpse of his right sleeve—the worn suit had been damaged during his crossing attempt, some of the fabric toward the end hanging in shreds. Having no better ideas, he quickly tore off a strip of the fabric and got to work tying it around the end of his femur and his loose fibula.

Hopefully it would hold, at least until he got to Shantytown. There was nothing else he could do.

With one hand clutching the two halves of his broken tibia close to his chest, he used his other hand to push himself up off his seat, his left leg wobbling. The movement immediately felt wrong—the fibula was not meant to bear weight without the aid of the tibia—but he kept as much weight on his other leg as he could, and began limping.

People waiting the board the gondola immediately backed away upon seeing him, and he ignored them, trying to act like it was the most normal thing for a half-lame skeleton to be limping around and carrying his own broken bones with him. It wasn’t an easy feat when his leg left like it would give out beneath him with every step, but he kept it up anyway, at least until he got past the crowds. It was still a long walk to get to Shantytown from here, and in this condition, it would take even longer.

Héctor found himself getting worn out quickly, and hobbled over to lean against the wall of a building with the intent of resting until he caught his breath. Unfortunately the shop owner had other ideas, and poked his head through the doorway to ask Héctor to not loiter. Héctor could only mumble an apology as he shuffled away, too tired to put up a fight this time.

For some distance he carried on like that, limping down the gradually sloping streets and stopping to rest where he could. Occasionally people would openly stare at him and whisper to each other, but he was beyond caring at this point. Even with his efforts to put most of his weight on his good leg, his left fibula was aching something terrible, and his energy was near-spent by the time he was halfway to Shantytown. He couldn’t very well sleep on the side of the street, in front of one of these buildings—not unless he wanted to get arrested again—or fall asleep in an alley and risk falling prey to petty thieves, so he had to force himself to keep moving.

At one point his foot caught against an uneven cobblestone, and with a wave of blinding panic he realized he was about to slam his already-broken tibia into the street. Twisting himself around on his spine, he managed to turn his front half around, clutching his tibia to his chest for dear life and falling hard on his shoulder. The fall still hurt a bit, dislodging a few bones, but he’d prevented himself from ruining his leg any more than it already was, so at least he had that.

Taking a moment to catch his breath as his panic ebbed away, he called his bones back. He made it to his knees, and, not thinking, tried to push himself up on his bad leg. The pressure sent a jolt of pain through his fibula, and for a terrifying moment he thought the thin bone would snap. But it held, and he eased his leg back down.

As Héctor fought to stand up again, part of him wished someone would see his struggle and help him. But fewer people came down this low on the tower, and those who did walked in a wide arc around him, sparing him a glance, if anything. At the same time, he almost wished no one were here at all, so they wouldn’t have to see him in such a ridiculous predicament. Those who saw him were probably wondering what on earth he’d done to land himself in such a terrible position, and that was a question he didn’t want to explain the answer to.

It took him far longer than it should have to right himself, but he managed, and with a more pronounced limp he resumed his trek down to the shanties. Under his breath he nearly cursed the guard who had simply dumped him on the street when his screams had gotten too grating to listen to. It’s better than staying in there, though, he reminded himself, and the anger reluctantly ebbed away. They could have just made you stay there with your broken leg. And aside from that… they weren’t the ones at fault in the first place.

That would be the idiota who thought that attempting to rocket himself over the bridge via fireworks was a viable plan.

Ay, that would be something to explain to his Shantytown family. People didn’t usually ask questions there, but they might this time given the state he was coming home in. Ah, yeah, the fireworks. Turns out they don’t make good transportation. But they do have a tendency to blow off your limbs if you stand too close. Who knew, right?

A chuckle escaped his throat, only to be cut off by a gasp as his left leg gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. He wasn’t able to twist himself around this time, and his tibia was caught between his body and the hard cobblestone ground.

All that existed was pain. If Héctor were capable of thinking beyond the current agony, he would have found the pain comparable to what he’d felt the moment he’d realized his tibia was not in one piece.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there before he gradually became aware of a strange barking noise accompanied by an insectoid buzzing and distant footfalls, which he could just barely make out over what sounded like a hoarse scream nearby.

…Oh. That last part was him, wasn’t it?

Choking, he pushed himself up on his arm, wearily raising his head to see a sky-blue and neon-orange alebrije flying toward him—one that looked like a fox with ears as big as its body, and buzzing dragonfly wings carrying it through the air. It was strangely familiar, and suddenly he recalled that one of his primos back in Shantytown had an alebrije like that. But that would mean—!

“Héctor? Cousin Héctor?!”

Héctor wheezed out a laugh and let his head drop, facing the cobblestone below him. “Hola, Primo Lorenzo,” he said, lifting his head again and cocking a brow bone as the man got closer. The alebrije, meanwhile, landed next to him and began sniffing him over, its breath almost ticklish against him. “Good to see you out and about.”

“Where have you been, cousin?!” Lorenzo cried, hurrying closer. His sombrero, tied around his neck, was flailing behind him. “Did you get yourself arrested again? Why are you—Dios mio.” He stumbled, drawing back with an alarmed hiss.

“Ah, it’s, uh… not as bad as it looks.” Héctor gave a sheepish grin, but it must not’ve been enough to convince his primo, who was looking him over in horror.

Quickly Lorenzo’s widened eyes narrowed into a glare as he clenched his fists. “Who did this to you? Who do I gotta send Lola after, huh?”

Héctor looked askance at the little fox alebrije that was now nosing his cheekbone, tickling his face with her whiskers. “Looks like you’ve already sent her after the one responsible, primo.”

Lorenzo looked him over again before heaving a deep sigh, frame wilting. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Stooping down, he grasped Héctor’s hand and eased him to his feet.

Biting back a moan as the pain flared in all parts of his broken leg, Héctor shut his eyes, leaning to his right side. “Gracias,” he breathed, clutching the two halves of his tibia to his chest. He waited, expecting his primo to wrap his arm around his shoulders to help him limp back to Shantytown.

Instead, there was a moment of silence before Lorenzo spoke: “Uh-uh.” And suddenly Héctor was lifted off his feet and scooped up into the man’s arms.

“¡¿Que?!” Héctor blurted, opening his eyes to find himself being carried in the direction of the shanties. “Oye, what are you doing?!”

“You’re not walking like that,” Lorenzo said with a firm shake of his head. “Wouldn’t make it down two steps.”

…Ah. Right. The stairs. He’d forgotten about those. “Fair enough,” he muttered, settling himself in his primo’s arms. Meanwhile, Lola buzzed around him, whimpering in concern. He wondered if Lorenzo would ever ask him what happened, but the man remained quiet, at least until they got to the stairs (in a shockingly short length of time, he thought—at the rate Héctor had been going, it might have taken him another hour or so).

“Heh, thought I was going to go play for tips this evening,” Lorenzo said, shaking his head. “Guess there’s always tomorrow.”

“Do they still come near you?” Héctor glanced toward him; Lorenzo’s bones were only in slightly better condition than his own, though he had a crack through the bottom of his right eye socket.

“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing over Héctor’s ribs so he could see the steps beneath him. “If I can play good enough, sometimes they don’t notice just how yellow my bones are.” He glanced back at Héctor as he stepped down to the first landing. “You should try it sometime, cousin.”

Thinking about playing music again made a heavy weight settle in his chest cavity. “No gracias, primo.”

“Eh. Suit yourself.” With that, Lorenzo kept quiet as he continued carrying Héctor down the rickety staircase, concentrating on not falling off or through the rotten wood. But finally they reached the gates to Shantytown, and Héctor twitched his good leg.

“Set me down,” he whispered, “por favor. I…” I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. “…I think I can walk now.”

“You sure?”

“Sí. Please.”

Shrugging, Lorenzo eased Héctor down to his feet, but kept an arm around his shoulder. Héctor could accept that, throwing his own arm around his primo and grinning like they’d just been having a fun conversation. No need to worry the others, after all.

As they limped into town, immediately it came to life with the joyful cries of the nearly-forgotten. “Cousin Héctor!” a few souls shouted, waving enthusiastically, and he called out their names in return. “Where you been, cousin?” called another.

“Out and about?” He tried to shrug as best as he could. “You know, got to keep up with the plans, heh. Get ready for next year!” It wasn’t entirely a lie—when he’d been able to think around his pain, he had been contemplating potential new plans for next year. And he had been out and about. Primo Lorenzo was giving him a look, but he only grinned back, glancing pointedly in the direction of his shack.

“What’s that you’re carrying?” Tía Chelo asked, taking a few steps closer, and Héctor flinched, tugging it partially under his jacket.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said frantically, contemplating whether or not he should just scramble away from Lorenzo and bolt to his shack. “Just, uh…”

“Are you limping?” one tío asked, also stepping closer. “What’s—eEEEAGH!”

Héctor shut his eyes, gritting his teeth. Here we go.

“What happened to your leg?!”

“Pobrecito cousin! Are you carrying your—?”

“When did this happen?”

Dios, he didn’t want to answer any of this right now. But he held up his free hand, grinning as best as he could as he faced the growing crowd of souls. “Hey, estas bien! I can barely feel it. You don’t need to worry about me, eh, primos?”

“You’ve been gone for two days, Héctor!”

“It doesn’t hurt?! I broke my pinky toe last month and could hardly walk!”

“Is your fibula tied to your femur? ¿Estas loco?”

“¡Apártense!” a harsh voice cut through the crowd, and a few souls moved out of the way. “What’re you all gawking at?”

Héctor flinched, fighting the childish urge to duck behind Primo Lorenzo as a familiar figure hobbled to the front of the crowd. “Hola, Chicharrón,” he said, voice small.

Chicharrón looked him up and down, eying his mangled leg and shattered tibia. Quickly he made the connection, and his usual scowl deepened.

Héctor felt his non-existent guts sink. He knew what was going to happen next, and braced himself.

To his surprise, Chicharrón turned around, hobbling back toward his bungalow. “Well, bring him over,” he called over his shoulder.

…Okay, so he was probably saving it for later, then. Wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. Héctor looked cautiously at Lorenzo, who only shrugged and began to help Héctor across the boardwalk to Chicharrón’s house. A couple souls followed while the rest stared. Their looks may have been ones of sympathy, but Héctor would rather they not look at him at all.

As they entered the bungalow, Chicharrón immediately began digging through his shelves and piles. “Set him in the hammock,” he grumbled, tossing a shoebox full of socks behind him, “and make sure he stays there.”

Héctor frowned. “It’s all right, Cheech. I can get in myself,” he said, moving to get away from Lorenzo so he could prove it.

“No, you can’t.” The old man glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the two souls that had come with them—probably Estefan and Manuel, if he were to guess without looking.

Before he could check, they were both suddenly at either side of him, hooking their arms under his in a way that reminded him a little too much of the security guards back at the bridge. But they weren’t rough, at least, and glancing to either side of him (his guesses had been correct), he found them looking away, their expressions a mix of sympathy and unease. “Wh-what’s with all this, Cheech? You’re just gonna duct tape it back together, aren’t you?” He looked frantically around the house, clutching his tibia as close to his body as he could. “You… have duct tape, right?”

“Mmm, nope, not this time,” came Chicharrón’s grumble from the other side of the house. A cascade of items crashed down at his side as he continued his search, unperturbed. “Leather n’ glue will have to do, and a splint until it sets.”

“Uh… well, that… still sounds doable. If you give it over to me, I could… probably do it,” Héctor offered as his tíos gently lifted him into the hammock. Said hammock was full of junk, and he grimaced, pulling a violin bow out from beneath him as he tried to make himself comfortable. “I mean, not like last time, with my… arm.” His left hand reached over to rub said arm, over the tape and leather that held the fragmented end in place. “I-I’ve got both hands free this time!”

Finally Chicharrón turned to face him, straightening his back. “So set it.”

Héctor blanched, looking down from his tibia and back to Chicharrón. “What, right now?” When the old man’s expression didn’t change, Héctor attempted a smile, the corners of it strained. “What’s the rush? I was just going to head back home and take a nap, first—I mean, not like I’ve got anywhere to—”

Chicharrón marched up to the hammock, his cane stamping against the floor, and held out several strips of leather and a can of glue. “Set it.”

Stepping forward, Lorenzo held out a hand. “Cheech—”

Chicharrón shot a glare at Lorenzo, and waited until he backed off before looking back to Héctor.

Swallowing, Héctor reached out with a shaking hand to take the items, looking from the leather and back to his tibia. It’s… it shouldn’t be that hard, he thought, setting the leather and glue aside and taking one half of his bone in his left hand. Just putting two pieces back together. He bit his lip as he held out the two pieces of bone, trying to ignore that his tíos and primo were all turning away. I’ve done crazier stuff to try to cross the bridge. Trembling, he turned the two halves of the bone in what he guessed was the right angle, and—

The two broken fragments bumped against each other, and Héctor shrieked. Moments later, he could barely hear Chicharrón’s voice over his daze: “Now you see? Lorenzo, take those things over here. Estefan, bring me the rest of his leg. Manny, give him this, and hold him down.”

Before he could ask what was going on, a bottle was held out to him. He took it without question, tipping it back to pour some of its contents down his throat, some of it splashing against his face when his left leg was very suddenly tugged off below the femur. Shortly afterward the bottle was taken from him, and his two tíos stood slightly behind him and off to either side of the hammock, each with their hands over his shoulders.

“Idiota,” Chicharrón grumbled from the other side of the bungalow, and Héctor shut his eyes to keep himself from looking in the old man’s direction. “When we get broke, we don’t get fixed, and you go off with your estúpido plans and…”

“Cousin Héctor,” Lorenzo said over Cheech’s grumbling, hurrying to the hammock, “have you thought about your plan for next year?”

Héctor eyed him. “Why are you asking me n—”

Pain briefly shot through his absent leg, and his voice hiked up into a yelp, his entire body bucking as his tíos forced him back down. His femur swung around uselessly while his right leg kicked a jar of buttons and a very broken accordion out of the hammock.

“Sí, you were saying you were getting ready earlier,” Estefan said, his voice a little too loud.

Héctor shut his eyes, his hands clinging to either side of the hammock in a death grip. “I-I don’t know yet, the f-fireworks didn’t work this yeeEEAAAAGH—”

“Fireworks?!” Chicharrón growled, and Héctor could only give a pained moan in reply.

“Okay, but what else can you try?” Lorenzo prodded, then waited for a response. “Cousin?”

Feeling like he would throw up if he tried to answer, Héctor only turned his head away, facing the sound of the water lapping the docks outside the house. There was a sudden but light pressure against his chest, and he gasped, looking up into the face of a tiny, big-eared fox. Instinctively he reached out to pet her, and tried to make his mind formulate words. “A-al… alebrije?” he offered, and hissed as he felt something cold between the two halves of his tibia. Lola tipped her ears back at the sound, but didn’t move away, and he kept his focus on her. “C-could… dress as an alebrije, and… and they’d… let me… pass…?”

Behind him came a few soft, but genuine, laughs. “How do you plan to do that, cousin?”

“I… I think Ceci was using some glowy paint—nnngh!” He gritted his teeth, kicking out with his good leg as he felt his bad one get twisted slightly. “Use the—glowy paint, and—”

Chicharrón gave a frustrated cry. “Lorenzo, get over here!”

Héctor could feel them holding his tibia together while something was wrapped around it, binding to it with cold, sticky glue that made him shudder. “C-could rearrange my bones, a-and look like… an alebrije… M-maybe some other costume work…” He shifted, trying to turn to grin up at his tíos. “You think it might work?”

Manuel cocked a brow bone. “Estas loco, cousin. Maybe, though.”

“Heh, un poco,” he mumbled, settling back into the hammock. Whatever they were doing to his leg didn’t seem to hurt quite so much now, and he felt like he could ignore it, maybe if he just shut his eyes again for a little while…

It didn’t feel like long, however, before his leg was suddenly shoved back against his femur. Yelping, he sat bolt upright, the hammock swaying beneath him, and looked around. Lola was sleeping off to his side, and on the other side of the bungalow, he could see his primo and two tíos talking quietly. But then where was—

He glanced back to the left and nearly leapt out of the hammock in surprise to see Chicharrón standing there, scowling at him. “Normally I’d ask you to get outta here, but unless you want your leg to snap like a twig again, lie down. Gotta let the glue set for twenty-four hours.”

“...Gracias, Cheech,” he muttered, lying back into the hammock.

Chicharrón grunted, hobbling back over to a spot that Héctor couldn’t see. Meanwhile, Héctor looked down at his leg, inspecting it: a few long strips of leather had been wrapped around it and held with glue, which he could still see faint glimmers of. But over all that, a splint had been tied to his leg with a few more strips of leather and what appeared to be several strips of a charred fabric. It looked... blue? Purple? Something like that. Sort of like his—

Blinking, he looked to his right arm, only to find the sleeve had been cut off. “Wha—hey!” he cried, turning his head to look for Chicharrón and finding him off to the right behind his hammock. “You wrecked my suit!”

“That sleeve was in shreds anyway,” Chicharrón said with a shrug. “Don’t think you’re missing much.”

“Quite the fashion statement!” Manuel called from the other side of the shack. Héctor was almost offended, but his tío gave him a good-natured grin—a real one, not like the ones the people in the Department of Family Reunions gave him. “Maybe you’ll set a new trend.”

Héctor snorted, settling himself back into his hammock and shaking his head. “Ah, yes. The just-recently-blown-yourself-up look. Sure it’ll be... explosively popular, eh?”

The others broke into laughter, while he was pretty sure he could hear Cheech rolling his eyes before shouting: “I’ll dump that hammock out into the water for the next one, Héctor!”

Lorenzo stepped up closer to Chicharrón, smiling. “Why’s that, Cheech? You don’t think it’ll take off?”

An empty bottle crashed at Lorenzo’s feet, and Lola’s head shot up from where she lay at Héctor’s side. But Lorenzo only laughed, and she settled back down, tucking her face against Héctor’s ribcage. Héctor smiled, resting his hand on her head as he glanced back down at his broken leg.

It still hurt a lot, and he wasn’t sure how well he was going to walk after this. On top of that, he had another failed Dia de Muertos behind him, but...

Glass clinked nearby, and Héctor craned his neck to see Chicharrón taking a swig from a new bottle before passing it over to the others. The bottle was passed around until Lorenzo handed it off to Héctor, who took it with no small amount of gratitude, tipping it back. He probably drank more than Cheech would’ve liked, but it was enough to make him too drowsy to care.

He leaned back in the hammock as conversation resumed around him, still warm and friendly in spite of Chicharrón’s occasional grumbles—so different from the harsh voice of the security officer, the mocking voices from the Department of Family Reunions, or the suspicious whispers of the people in the upper parts of the city. It didn’t sound much different from any other day in the shanties, but it was comforting in the way only Shantytown could be.

The sloshing of the water outside and the sound of the voices around him faded and blurred into a pleasant murmur as Héctor shut his eyes.

He didn’t have much else going for him, but right now, his Shantytown family was enough.

#hector rivera #chicharron #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #fanfic #my writing #GOSH this one took forever to write #next up... time to work on the next chapter of Neither Can You!

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sterling-starlight · 6 years

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So I was running on auto-pilot today at work, and I started thinking: I’ve talked about Ernesto’s narcissism and his “I’m in love with you, but I don’t know how to express it/am not allowed to express it without being stoned and ridiculed for it” situation with Héctor. I’ve cried and gushed about Héctor, but have never talked about him. The lovely @humanityinahandbag made a post about Héctor’s anxiety/depression, and I wanted to talk about it because that idea radiates with me.

There it talk about depression and a touch of suicidal thoughts below the cut. To all the lovelies reading, please keep that in mind and stay safe.

So Héctor has had 96 years to think on his failings, perceived or otherwise. As far as we know, he’s lived his afterlife almost completely alone (he has his adoptive family in Shantytown, but he knows no one there is long for the world). Speaking from my own battle with depression, there is nothing more oppressive and accusatory than a quiet room with nothing but your own thoughts for company. I can just imagine Héctor curled up on his hammock in his sad little shack, unable to get sleep because his mind is actively trying to destroy him.

““Failure,”

“You left her.”

““Coco grew up without a father, and it’s your fault.”

““No one really likes you. Not Tia Chelo. Not Chicharrón. They pity you. You annoy them. You’re nothing but a nuisance who steals and breaks his promises.”

““Imelda HATES you.”

“Hatesyouhatesyou-I never want to see you again!-hatesyouhatesme...”

All those thoughts overlap and become white noise. Héctor is left a trembling, sobbing mess because he doesn’t have a way -or the WILL- to argue.

He finds reprieve from his own mind in mundane tasks and coming up with a new plan to cross the Bridge. He learns to embroider from Tia María a few doors down (he isn’t very good, but it keeps his mind occupied). He helps keep Primo Ceasar’s violin properly tuned. He shows kids (Remembered and Nearly-Forgotten) how to dribble a football like a pro.

It quickly dawns in those paying close enough attention that his routines are run purely on auto-pilot. A carefully crafted facade accompanied by a lighthearted joke and charming, crooked smile.

Héctor promises he’s okay.

Héctor tells himself that he’s okay.

But when he stares at the wall, completely lacking the energy to get out of his hammock, he idly thinks that maybe the Final Death isn’t as horrible as everyone thinks. When the Marigold Bridge withers until the next Day of The Dead, leaving nothing but a gaping abyss, he can almost see himself casually walking over the edge.

He’s not okay.

But who cares?

Things get a little better once Imelda welcomes him back into the family. Héctor’s smiles are genuine and his laughter is full of mirth. Once he has reached a steady plateau with Imelda, he sings to her while she’s preparing breakfast. If he’s feeling particularly bold he’ll sweep her into a waltz around the kitchen. When he’s reunited with Coco after 97 long, cold, lonely years he smothers her in enough hugs and kisses and love to last an eternity.

He’s happy, but there are days where his depression comes back with the force of a freight train. He goes out of his way to avoid being alone for too long. He doesn’t eat as much as he normally does, or skips meals altogether. He’s sluggish and tired and there are days where he just wants to lie down and sleep the day away (”Or maybe forever...” his mind whispers solemnly). His family starts to notice when he has his off days, but Héctor waves it off nonchalantly. He has everything he’s ever wanted. He should be happy. Why isn’t he happy? He feels horrible for not being satisfied with the amazing life Imelda and Coco have given him. It gives his mind more ammunition to use against him.

Héctor has never been able to keep a secret from Imelda, and Coco has raised daughters, grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren. Between the two of them they quickly discern that Héctor is hiding something. Imelda finally has enough of the secrecy and cover-ups, and urges Héctor to actually talk to her. She’s there for him. She loves him. So please...

Finally the dam breaks. Héctor is almost unable to speak through his sobs and apologies and pleads, ““I don’t know why I’m unhappy.” “Some days I can’t even feel ANYTHING.” “I’m so sorry for being so broken.” ““You both deserve so much better.” “I’m so sorry.”

Eventually he gets help. There is no medication in The Land of The Dead, but he does go see a therapist twice a week. He doesn’t get better overnight, and for a while it was like walking on eggshells (he felt horrible for causing such emotional turmoil. Imelda told him he had nothing to be sorry for). After an adjustment period, everything in the Rivera household returns to normal. Some days, instead of singing or dancing, Héctor just wraps his arms around Imelda’s waist, presses his face into her shoulder, and mutters “it’s bad today”.

Imelda lets him take a nap after breakfast. After their work is done, Julio and the twins offer to play cards. Victoria wordlessly covers him with a heavy quilt and Rosita presses a hot drink into his hands. Coco (who as it turns out is quite the card shark), tells him what hands are good, what hands are bad, and when Héctor should fold if he wants to prevent losing magnificently. Imelda sits as close as she possibly can, links arms, and knits while humming.

Héctor Rivera is happy.

#Disney coco #Hector Rivera #tw; depression #tw; suicidal thoughts #Rivera Family comfort #love and support #best family 2k18 #If I make someone cry I will earn my wings and finally ascend as a true member of the fandom

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jessadamsdraws · 6 years

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Forget!au Part 11

Part 11

“Trust me nino! This market is the best you have ever seen!” Hector passionately as they rode on the trolley to the market. Well, more like Hector sat on the edge while Miguel was very content playing it safe inside.

“I know it!” He said trying to encourage him. He wanted to keep his Papa Hector as happy as he could. Even though he had no memory of any other market to compare this market to he trusted his judgement, who was he to argue.

Though he had to attempt this place was amazing to look at. Everything was just full of color and life. Ironic seeing as they were all dead.

“Do we really need to eat?” He asked genuinely curious.

“eh, it’s more of an option. But, it gives us a chance to celebrate and enjoy ourselves. After all, it would be pretty boring round here, eh.” He said smirking to him rising his eyebrows up and down. Miguel rolled his eye and playful shoved him to which he laughed.

“Oh, this is our stop. Come on, nino!” He said hopping of before the trolley fully stopped. Miguel, however, waited till it fully stopped and exited the same way Hector did.

“Alright, now, Welcome to Mercado de la Muerte!” Héctor said as though he was a talk show host showing off a new car to someone. It was indeed a cool market. There were lanes of little shops some inside building other on the streets. The smell was also intoxicating. So many sweat and spices filled the air. The chatter was also pleasant to listen as people just seemed so happy to be there.

“People here are getting super excited. It’s almost Dia de los Muertos.” Héctor said letting out a big great grito.

“…”

“Ah, it’s a celebration. Where we can go to the living world and see our familia’s” Hector explained, seeing Miguel’s confused face.

The rest of the day was just him and Hector getting all the things on Mama Imelda’s list. During the day Héctor would creak a skeleton joke, which Miguel actual laughed at thinking that they were funny. From time to time someone would bump into Hector someone that knew his and say things like ‘I love your songs’ or ‘you are so talented.’ But, whenever he would try and ask what that was about he would say ‘it’s nothing’ or ‘Oh look nino, it’s the thing we need’ even if it wasn’t

Finally, they were almost done with the list but, Miguel still didn’t get the ribbon.

Miguel started to look at something walking to it thinking he finally found it but, it was just a flag. So he turn to go back to Hector but, he wasn’t there.

“Hector? Papa Hector?” He called but, no one responded.

He walked to the outer edge of the market where there weren’t that many people thinking maybe he could find a create or box to stand on to spot his Papa.

“It’s you?!” a voice from the shadow.

“Sorry? Who are you?” Miguel asked backing away from the shadow

A tall man and build man in stained and tattered clothes that were once well taken care of and expensive looking. He had a mustache and a grey hair line.

“Are you serious? You don’t know me?!” He asked somewhat annoyed.

“I’m sorry are we related too?” He asked, hoping this was the case.

“YOUR family ruined my life, took away my home!!!” He yelled.

Some of the crowed turned and gasped. “Look it’s him.”

“Why is HE here?”

He turned to Miguel.

“w-what??” Miguel asked shocked that his family hurt this man

“I lost EVERYTHING because of you!!!” He yelled and ran to tackles him but, another skeleton beat him to it.

“Papa Hector!!!” Miguel cried, he was trying to keep him down. He knew this man had more muscle… er bone then him so he just cried to tire him out and eventually the man gave in not having the strength to care on.

“Stay away from him!” He said spiting near him

“Come on Miguel” he goes to place a hand on his back but, Miguel brushes it off.

“No… no you stay away from me!" He yells. Not believing his family could do something so cruel as ruining a man’s life. He ran as fast as his legs could caring him. He could hear his Papa’s cries but, he didn’t care. His head just screamed to run and not look back.

“MIGUEL!!!! COME BACK!!!! I’M SORRY!!!!!” he heard is getting closer and closer away. But, wasn’t able to follow when he jumped on a trolley taking him away from the market leaving a confused and worried mess.

#forgetau #pixar coco #pixarcoco #coco

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feadae · 6 years

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RULES: List ten of your favorite characters (male versions bc i’ve already done the female one) in ten different fandoms (in no particular order), and then tag ten people.

I was tagged by @frosttrix!

Favorites are so haaaaaaarrrrrd... And in ten different fandoms? Do I have favorite male characters in that many fandoms? Only one way to find out, I guess. Let’s see...

1. Very nearly any of the Caretakers from Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica by James A. Owen would easily make a favorites list, but I think Fred the Badger edges out just ahead of the rest of them. He’s just so sweet, and so eager to help in any way he can, and I love him. Fred Protection Squad. 2. Marco Alisdair from The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. He’s that reserved kind of intelligent, but no less capable than a louder person of kicking ass. Except he doesn’t kick ass physically--he does it with magic. Get you a boy who will build a magical circus for/with you. 3. Samwise Gamgee from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. Literally nothing against Frodo--I love him, too--but Sam did everything Frodo did and wasn’t corrupted by the Ring, despite his proximity to it for so long. And the whole time, he did his best to keep Frodo’s spirits up by reminding him of the home that he believed would be waiting for them when they finished their task. Also, the whole Shelob thing. Sort of important. Read: if it weren’t for Samwise Gamgee, Frodo Baggins would definitely have died before getting to Mordor. 4. Remus Lupin from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Listen. Give a character a tragic backstory, and I’m immediately drawn to them and want to protect them. Give a character self-loathing issues and the resulting angst, and that protective instinct multiplies a hundredfold. Give that character a child they love who outlives them, and you’ve hit the Sympathetic Character Trifecta. Also, even if Lupin didn’t have all/any of those things, he’d still be the best DADA professor Harry’s ever had, and just an all-around cool guy. Remus Lupin Protection Squad. 5. Héctor [last name??] from Coco (dir. Lee Unkrich). So, Coco’s still relatively new, so I’m gonna avoid spoilers as much as I can, but Héctor’s got a tragic backstory, too, and it’s fucking heartbreaking. But it’s all the more heartbreaking because he manages to put on a cheerful, playful, lovable-scamp façade for almost the whole movie, and when the backstory is revealed, the façade drops, and my soul shatters. Aside from the tragic backstory, Héctor’s just such an endearing character. He’s so funny, and clever, and sweet, and don’t think I missed when he went from calling Miguel gordito, chamaco, etc. to m’ijo. Don’t think I missed it, Disney. 6. Giles Corey from The Crucible by Arthur Miller. So this one’s kind of cheating, since Giles Corey was a real person, but I have no idea what he was like in real life. I know what he’s like in the play, and it’s amazing. He’s a bit bumbling, but he’s still got his wits about him, and he’s contentious as all hell, but it’s understandable in his situation (as he says, “I know my rights, and I’ll have them”). He’s another Comic Relief Turned Tragic type, and it’s super impactful when he turns tragic. You see this can-do, independent, cantankerous old man break down and weep on stage because of a mistake he made, and that decision affects his choices for the rest of the show, and it’s so fucking sad, guys. 7. Neil Perry from Dead Poets Society (dir. Peter Weir). I love the whole cast of Dead Poets Society, but I’m drawn to Neil in particular because he wants desperately to be an actor (rather like someone we all know--nudge nudge wink wink), but his father won’t let him (thankfully unlike that same someone). So what does Neil do? He forges a permission letter from his father to let him audition for a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where he ends up being cast as Puck. And on top of that, he does well in school but also breaks rules and is a large part of the driving force behind the Dead Poets Society being (re)started. He’s got huge amounts of wit and spirit and he (SPOILER) gets a sad ending, and my heart cries. Also, he’s played (expertly) by Robert Sean Leonard, which means he’s not exactly hard on the eyes. 8. Mercutio from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Listen. Listen. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve read/seen R&J, so forgive me if I don’t remember most of Mercutio’s characterization, but his wit is my favorite thing about that whole Godforsaken play. His last words are a pun, people. He gets stabbed in the chest, and as he lies dying, he says, “If you look for me tomorrow, you shall find me a grave man.” A grave man. Fucking--Mercutio, y’all. 9. Again with the whole male cast being awesome (the female cast kicks ass, too, but unfortunately that’s not the question): The West Wing (written by Aaron Sorkin). It’s really tough to choose from among these guys, too, but I think I’m going to go with Charlie Young. This boy (I’m allowed to say boy--he’s, like, my age) is personal aide to President Bartlet, and he’s the quintessential Hufflepuff. The hardest worker you’ve ever met in your life, loyal as all hell to his loved ones (including his boss and the rest of the White House staff), and incredibly humble. Plus, he’s one of, like, two people in the country who gets to sass the President with minor to no repercussions. And he does it spectacularly, maintaining a polite facial expression and tone of voice the whole time. 10. Christopher Belling from Curtains (book: Rupert Holmes, music: John Kander, lyrics: Fred Ebb). Most of the guys in Curtains are guys I’d love to play, but Christopher Belling, British Sass Master, wins this time. He’s the director of the show-within-the-show, and literally the only thing he cares about is his show. Case in point: Curtains is a murder mystery, and when asked about how he feels about being in the same building as a murderer, his response? Oscar: “You can’t sleep either? Belling: “Knowing that someone in this company is going to change my blocking?!” This man. Completely and utterly shallow, but it’s hilarious. Another golden line is when he first learns that his leading lady (who wasn’t very good, nor was she popular with--well--anyone) has been murdered, his knee-jerk reaction is to ask, “And what are they going to do with her killer? Does he get some sort of trophy, or a Pontiac convertible?”

Are you sensing a few trends? I’m sensing a few trends. Oh, well.

I’ll tag @alienjack, @sublimegentlemanalpaca, @teabooksandsweets, @ofbadgersandblueberries, @fluffybishenanigans, @onedragontorulethemall, and anybody else who wants to fill this out!

#thanks for thinking of me frost!#get to know me

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 16

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: I mean if Ernesto doesn’t get stuck under a bell what’s the point. Art by @swanpit and @senoraluna (plus art by @appatary8523 in the end notes!)

***

For the days that followed, Héctor felt like he was walking on clouds. And he smiled, a lot. To everyone. And to anything.

“All right, is there something especially amazing about your egg this morning? Because you’ve been smiling at it for five solid minutes and it’s starting to concern me.”

Héctor looked up from the dish, still smiling widely. Ernesto shifted a little on the seat.

“... On second thought, you can keep smiling at your egg.”

His smile only widened. “She told me to ask her again once the war is over.”

“Yes, you told me. Let us hope it will be over soon, then.”

“And she’s going to say yes.”

“Well, would make her kind of a sadist if she made you wait just to say no. You, uh… might want to do something for that missing tooth, though.” Ah. The remark caused Héctor’s smile to fade, and his tongue instinctively went to feel the empty space where one of his front teeth had been. “I like to think it gives me a roguish charm,” he said. Ernesto didn’t seem to agree.

“No, not really,” he said, causing Héctor to shrink a little. He’d gotten used to it being missing by now, and had never really minded - a small loss to get to punch the daylights out of a wife beater - but the remarks just now were making him feel suddenly self-conscious.

“Is it that bad?”

“No, no. I’ve seen worse,” Ernesto reassured him. “And I’m sure we can get you a brand new tooth to replace it. Silver or gold, even. Maybe Chicharrón has some to spare.”

“Why would Cheech have teeth to spare?”

“He’s the gravedigger and the dead have no use for gold teeth.”

“Ernesto!”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me he wouldn’t.”

Truth be told, he… wouldn’t put it past Cheech to do that: he was a hoarder, and a pragmatic one at that. But admitting as much would have felt a bit too much like snitching on him, so he didn’t. “He’s a gravedigger, not a graverobber.”

“No need to rob a grave, you just take them before they go in it.” “Ugh--” Héctor rubbed his forehead, unable to hold back a laugh. “You make the worst priest.”

“You still fell for the act,” Ernesto muttered, gaining himself a swift kick to the shin, and laughed. “Hah! Come on, I only have your best interest in mind. You’ll look and feel better without that empty spot in your mouth.”

That was… not a bad point. “I guess I could try asking Cheech if he’s got anything, er, just lying around,” he muttered, and stood. “Imelda doesn’t… need to know where they came from, right?”

Ernesto shrugged, leaning back on his seat and folding his hands behind his head. “Your call. But I know I wouldn’t look forward to kissing someone with teeth taken out of a corpse’s mouth.”

“Eugh,” Héctor muttered, suddenly a lot less keen on the idea. Still, maybe he would pay Cheech a visit. Just in case. “I am supposed to pay him a visit soon, though, so I suppose--”

The door opened suddenly, and Miguel was in the doorway, grinning widely. “Héctor! Padre Ernesto! Come, we just got something! A cart from Oaxaca full of food! Lots of food!”

Oh, Héctor thought. Oh thank God, Father John’s letters and photos had been for something, after all. He ran after Miguel with a sigh of relief, the last bit of weight finally off his shoulders.

They had food, and they would be all right. It would be all right.

***

“Look at that, the gringo is actually smiling…”

“Well, this is new…”

There was some laughter, likely directed at him, but for once John couldn’t even begin to care. As he watched crates of food - canned food, salt beef, sacks of rice and dry beans, made to last - being unloaded, along with some medical supplies, he felt… better than he had in months, perhaps in years. He had accomplished something, something good, truly helped the town.

He had feared that the sudden hostilities between the United States and Mexico would make it impossible for them to receive help, but a way around it had been found. His letter and photos had reached his Archdiocese in the States - paying extra for fast delivery had been worth it - and in turn they had sent a telegram to Archbishop Eulogio Gillow y Zavalza, who had taken refuge in the States. He had sent a telegram as well, to the Archdiocese of Antequera, requiring that they sent Santa Cecilia the supplies needed.

It had been quite convoluted, but it got things done. The Archdiocese of Antequera may have been deaf to their calls, but they couldn’t possibly ignore a direct order from their Archbishop. And now no one would go hungry for a good while. It was good. He’d done good.

“You sure you don’t need help with that, Padre?”

“No, no, I’m good. What else are these muscles for? Come on, unload the other crates!”

Against his better judgment, John - who had spent the past few days avoiding Father Ernest as much as he could, as though it could possibly help him ignore the fact that oh God he still wanted him, he wanted to sin again - turned to glance over. He was unloading the crates, talking and laughing, clearly relieved to see there would be more than enough to keep people fed until the next harvest. His smile seemed brighter than the sun.

Ah, God, what have I done? “You’re welcome, you’re welcome. I helped but, you have to thank- ah, there he is. Padre Juan!”

John recoiled when Father Ernest called out for him - not using his proper name, but he had long since given up trying to make that stop. “Ah-- yes?”

The crate in Father Ernest’s hands looked heavy, but he grinned and lifted it up above his head like it was nothing. There was probably an element of showing off in that, and John made an effort not to think of the broad chest beneath the cassock.

“Thanks for the help,” he exclaimed. “Those photos really did the trick!”

With plenty of eyes suddenly on him, John instinctively reached up to grasp the crucifix at his neck and glanced around. He’d grown accustomed to mistrust, mockery and occasionally open hostility - someone had muttered once that being a priest was all that saved him from a good beating - but now there was no hostility, no mockery, and the mistrust was… toned down. Some were even smiling at him.

I did good.

“Ah, er… you’re quite welcome, I… I did my duty,” he murmured, looking down, something warm and pleasant settling in his ribcage. A few people passing by even patted him his shoulder or back - the wounds healed, there was no pain - and even if a few pats were perhaps slightly harder than strictly necessary, he found he didn’t mind.

He watched them go pick up the crates to take them to the parish for a few moments, then recoiled when it suddenly hit him that he was probably supposed, and expected, to help. He let go of the crucifix he’d been holding onto, and took a step forward.

Except that something - someone - tugged at his sleeve. “Father John?”

His name sounded funny out of Miguel’s mouth, but John didn’t mind that either: he appreciated well enough that the boy tried in the first place. He smiled, looking down.

“Hola, Miguel. Is something the matter?”

The boy smiled back at him. “No, I just wanted to thank you. This is amazing. The sister will be relieved that there’s enough food for all of us now,” he said. “Full stomach, happy heart, no?”

Unaware of the fact that Miguel had seen him while unconscious - had seen his back, guessed he was struggling with something dark and dangerous he knew nothing of and really wanted to make him feel better - John found himself moved by the open admiration in his gaze.

He’d seen that gaze before, in the little brother who clung to him and followed him everywhere he went. Michael had been younger than Miguel was, fair-skinned and blond-haired and blue-eyed, but that look was the same and ah, it hurt.

I want to be able to go home. That’s why came here. To teach these people, make a name for myself, perhaps become a Bishop. A holy man. Then even Father would see that I deserve a chance, that I-- I’m--

A sodomite, a cold voice whispered from a dark, cold corner of his mind.

“... Father John? Is everything all right?”

Miguel’s gaze had turned attentive, concerned, and John was snapped out of his thoughts, brought back to the present - in a plaza warmed by the sun, among smiling, laughing people unloading crates and sacks of food he had helped provide.

I just wanted to thank you.

The stab of pain dulled, John smiled at the boy and rested his hand on top of his head in a silent blessing. “All is well. I believe we should help carry the supplies. Think you can help me lift a sack?” he asked, and, while he was mindful not to be too close to Father Ernest, by the time they were done he was both tired and satisfied, his lips curled in a faint smile as he observed the stacked supplies.

He may be a sinner, lust towards a fellow man still in him, but he had done something good and, at least for now, maybe it was enough.

***

“That was a lot of supplies to send out to one parish. If we sent so much to every village in need, what would even be left here for the people in Oaxaca?”

“Not every village gets the personal interest of our Archbishop, thankfully. I wonder what strings that gringo even pulled. Ay, I knew he would turn out to be a headache.”

“Tell me about it. Some time back he sent a nonsensical letter - he’d clearly mistaken a novice for the parish priest. I had to write a response to it without being insult-- ah, the letter!” A groan. “I forgot to post the letter. I was going to give it to the driver of the cart we sent, and then--”

“Hah! You entirely forgot to do it as well, huh? You’ll forget your head sooner or later.”

A sigh. “My memory worsens each day, I swear. Well, I suppose I’ll post it at the next chance.”

“Why don’t you hand it to Brother Raul? He’s got some mail to send out soon, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Besides, while I agree we should do him the courtesy to answer, I doubt it’s urgent. He’s been there for a while now, hasn’t he? If the issue is that he took a novice for the parish priest, by now he must have realized his mistake and felt quite foolish about it.”

“Yes. Yes, he must have.” A chuckle. “I wish I’d been there to see his face when he did.”

***

“Look at her, Ernesto.”

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“No you’re not!”

Halfway beneath the church bell, old pliers in his hand and sweat trickling into his eyes, Ernesto scoffed. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

Héctor - who had been staring all the way down in the courtyard with heart-shaped eyes - didn’t seem to hear him. “Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?”

“Honestly, no.”

“You must be blind, mi amigo.”

“Or I’ve just known more women than you have. Biblically and not. But if we get more specific, I can concede that she’s the prettiest nun I have ever seen,” he said, causing Héctor to stammer.

“Hey, er, Sofía is standing right he-”

“No, no, that’s fair,” Sofía cut him off, waving a hand. She glanced under the bell. “How’s it going?”

“Almost done,” Ernesto grunted, trying once again to loosen the rusted iron link that held the clapper in place. Well, half the clapper: the other half had fallen off while Gustavo rang the bell and landed in the courtyard, narrowly missing a group of old widows who, in Ernesto’s opinion, had vastly overstayed their welcome in the world of the living.

But, as that was apparently not a priestly line of thought, he was now up in the bell tower to survey the damage and possibly make sure no such accident happened again. Which involved trying to pry off the remains of the old clapper in near total darkness, because taking a torch with him under the bell would fill his eyes with smoke, make him cough, and accomplish little else. He’d considered taking down the bell, but he would need the help of more people to do that and honestly, by the looks of it, the old wooden beam the bell hung from was best left alone.

“Try not to make that land on your foot,” Sofía was saying. “I suspect it would hurt.”

“Noted, thanks. Ugh-- shouldn’t this be Gustavo’s job?”

“He went off somewhere muttering about getting a blacksmith from the next village over to make a new clapper.”

“What, don’t we have one of our own?”

“He had that terrible bout of bad luck where you beat him to a pulp, kicked him out of town and then came telling us he had a bout of bad luck, remember?”

“Ah. Right.”

“Regrets?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then put those muscles to work, come on. Or are they just for show?”

“I can do this, thank you so much. I’m just saying we we really could use a--”

“Father Ernest! What in God’s name are you doing in there?”

Ah, there he is.

“Hola, Padre Juan,” Ernesto called out, as cheerfully as he could manage through gritted teeth and perched on a stool on top of a stool on top of a belltower. He closed the pliers tighter around the ring, and pulled. Slowly, it began to give in. About time, he was sweating like an animal. It was hot as hell in there, the sun beating down on the bell. “What brings you here?”

“You being beneath a clearly unstable bell does!”

“Just getting rid of the clapper. Well, what’s left of it.”

“You should have something propping up the bell, in case the support gives in - those beams look like they’re rotten through!”

They did, but now that he’d pointed it out Ernesto was ready to claim those were the newest, most solid beams he’d ever seen, just out of spite. “What, are you a carpenter now?”

“I am simply someone with the barest amount of common sense!”

Ernesto wasn’t precisely convinced the gringo had any common sense to speak of, but then again he was a Federal army deserter who had decided to try passing off as a parish priest without knowing the first thing on how to be one, so perhaps he should keep his mouth shut. In the end, he shrugged and tugged harder on the link, which finally snapped.

Clang.

What was left of the clapper fell on the floor, and Ernesto grinned as it rolled across the boards.

“There,” he said, and climbed down the stools. He took a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “That wasn’t too hard, was i--”

CRACK.

Oh, for fuck’s--

CLANG.

The noise was deafening, the floor shook, and Ernesto very nearly had a heart attack. He found himself on the floor - had it been higher up, maybe the bell would have smashed the boards and wouldn’t that have been fun - in total darkness, mind reeling. Still, two thoughts in his mind were clear as day: first of all, had the clapper been in, he would have been turned into a wet spot on the boards. The second was that Padre Juan was going to be insufferable.

“Ern-- Padre!”

“Father Ernest!”

The voices outside sounded muffled, and more than slightly panicked. There was a banging sound - several, really - as they knocked on the bell. Ernesto sat up, tried to brush some dust off himself, and called out. “I… I’m fine!” he exclaimed, trying to sound like he hadn’t just nearly pissed himself. Outside, there were sounds that might have been heavy sighs of relief.

“I told him this was dangerous,” Padre Juan muttered, because of course he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “We… we have to get him out.”

“Do we?” Sofía asked.

“It’s almost lunch time,” Héctor echoed. “Maybe, after a siesta...”

Ernesto rolled his eyes and knocked on the bell. “Oye, cabrón! I can hear you!”

“Father Ernest! Language!”

Chingate.

“Just get me out of here!”

“All right, all right,” Héctor called out. “We’re getting help, all right? You stay where you are!”

“Hilarious,” Ernesto said dryly, listening to their hurried steps. He sighed and sat, back to the bell, and resigned himself to wait in darkness, heat, and silen--

“Is there anything I can do?”

Ah, no silence, then: it looked like Padre Juan had stayed behind. He… didn’t mind that, really. Better than being alone. “Water would be nice, but I doubt you can manage to lift this thing.”

“I’m certain Brother Hector and Sister Sophie will be back with enough help - perhaps with the right tools. We’ll take the bell apart if need be, but we’ll get you out.”

Well, that was… nice to hear. “I’m sure it won’t be needed. We still need this bell.”

“We’ll need to have it fixed.”

“We don’t have that kind of money. We’ll just send Gustavo up here to hit it with a hammer.”

“We have received the supplies I requested, so we can spare something, and… certainly, a God-fearing man would be willing to fix it free of charge. It is for the parish, after all.”

“God-fearing men still need to eat.”

“I’m certain something can be arranged.”

There was a brief silence, and ah, it occurred to Ernesto that was… the longest conversation they had had since the night they’d spent in Juan’s room. The gringo had been avoiding him for the past couple of weeks - he’d avoided confrontation, too, surprising everyone in the parish by being… oddly agreeable. Héctor had made no comment on that, while Sofía may or may not have muttered something about the wonders getting an itch scratched can do for one’s attitude.

That was the closest they’d been since, despite the several inches of solid bronze between them. Ernesto couldn’t say he minded the lack of constant arguing, but it was odd, to no longer have the gringo around. Plus, a part of him had been half-expecting to find him at his door one night or the other, red-faced and asking for more. The fact he hadn’t was… just a little disappointing. A little insulting.

Not that it really mattered. Having someone in his bed helped him sleep, but he could do without, or… or he could find someone else. There would be no lack of volunteers. He might just have a look around to find some, one of those days.

“... Father Ernest?” Pade Juan called out, a little hesitantly. “Would you keep talking to me? To make sure all is well and you’re not injured.”

“Yes, yes, I’m still here. No injuries, just getting this thing off me.”

“This thing?”

“The cassock.”

Juan sputtered. “What-- you-- you can’t!”

“Watch me,” Ernesto muttered. I seemed to be getting warmer by the second in there; it was almost midday, and the sun was beating down mercilessly. If they took too long to pull him out of there, chances were they wouldn’t find him there at all anymore: just a puddle on the floor boards. What an inglorious way to go.

“I can’t! I mean, first of all you are hidden from sight, and-- and thank God you are! You are not supposed to disrobe like this!”

“Look, it’s hot as hell in here. I’m sweating like a sinner in chur-- er, like an animal, I’m already thirsty, and I might be stuck here for another while.”

“You’re exaggerating, surely.”

“Want to come in and try?” Ernesto asked, and this time he didn’t bother to even try sounding innocent. He was rewarded with more sputtering noises.

“You-- you shouldn't be suggesting a such thing!”

“Right, right. You’re cured now, aren’t you?”

“O-of course. Just as expected.”

God, you’re the worst liar I have ever met.

“Ah, well. I’m glad.”

Silence. There was a shuffling noise on the other side of the bell, and Ernesto could guess the gringo was sitting with his back against it, too; when he spoke again, he sounded closer. “I am… very grateful for the help you gave me,” he muttered.

“As you should.”

“Sorry?”

“Ah, nothing. It was my pleas-- duty. Yes. Let’s go with that. It was my duty to help.”

“Still… thank you.”

“No problem,” Ernesto said. He reached up to wipe some sweat off his forehead - ay, his hair would be a mess by the time they got him out - and waited. And waited. And waited, for a grand total of… well, he didn’t have a watch in there and he wouldn’t have been able to see the time even if he did, but he was sure it didn’t take more than a minute for Padre Juan to speak again.

“If… for argument’s sake, it… did not work… and if those urges return…”

“You think they will?”

“No, no!” Padre Juan exclaimed, far too hurriedly to be believable. “I just… hypothetically speaking, if they do, it means... they’re… never going away, are they?”

Ernesto’s eyebrows went up almost to his hairline. Well, that was not precisely what he had expected the gringo to say. Truth be told, he’d half-expected him to ask for his whip back to try beating it out of himself again, which of course Ernesto would have refused. That stupid priest had done enough damage, the full extent of which had become clear to Ernesto that night, when even to the touch he could feel the scars on his back, raised and rough where the rest of his skin was soft and--

“Father Ernest?” Juan called nervously, snapping him from his thoughts. He cleared his throat.

“Well, then I suppose they might be here to stay,” he said. “... Do you want to confess yourself?”

“No, I-- I have not sinned-- yet.” He choked out the words, shame obvious in his voice. “But if… if my willpower fails, will you--”

“I’ll help you take care of it, sure. But let’s use my room. Your bed is the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been onto and believe me, I have slept on uncomfortable places--”

“What-- no, no!” Padre Juan sputtered again. Ernesto sort of wished he’d been keeping count, because he was doing that a lot. “I would never ask that of you again!”

Oh come on, we both know it wasn’t bad at all.

Ignoring the sting - a very slight sting, he told himself - Ernesto shrugged, knowing full well he couldn’t actually see him shrug. “Your loss,” he muttered, voice too low for Juan to hear.

“What I meant to ask is… if, hypothetically, you would absolve me again.”

“Afterwards?”

“I…” a pause, because of course he may be dense but he had to know what Ernesto suggested may happen before that ‘afterwards’. “... Yes,” he murmured. “Afterwards. I… I would absolve you as well of course, if… if you...”

All right, he’d let him squirm enough. Grinning a little in the dark, Ernesto nodded. “Of course. We absolve each other,” he said.

He could hear the gringo’s sigh of relief as though he was beneath the bell with him. Which, really, Ernesto wouldn’t have minded too much. Or at all.

It definitely would have made the wait for rescue a lot more fun.

***

“Well, that was fun.”

Sofía’s comment was met with a mumbled suggestion to do something rather unbecoming with a cactus, which she entirely ignored as she did with about half the words that left Ernesto’s mouth.

“I think you failed to fully appreciate Padre Juan’s face when you crawled out from under the bell with your torso bare. Before he blabbed something about getting you some water and ran down the belltower, I mean.”

“I was too busy trying to breathe. Thanks for taking so long to come back and pull me out, by the way. I was only melting in there, no big deal,” Ernesto grumbled. Sofía rolled her eyes.

“Oh, stop whining. We had to get men and tools up in the belltower. I think we were pretty fast.”

“Mph.” Ernesto drank another mouthful of water, leaning back against his seat, then glanced over. “... What kind of face did he make?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you love to know,” she said, and stood. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay to talk. I need to go outside, find a cactus, and follow your instructions to stick it up my--”

“I’m not saying I’d love to know,” he grumbled. “I’m curious, is all.”

“How curious?”

“Mildly curious.”

“Then it can wait until after I perform impure acts with a cactus, no?”

Ernesto glared, and she grinned before holding up her hands. “All right, fine. He looked like he’d just seen Jesus Christ strolling out of his grave.”

“Oh?” The annoyed expression on Ernesto’s face faded into a pleased grin. Ay, that man’s ego; sometimes Sofía was amazed he could get off the bed in the morning, full of himself as he was.

“Yes. I’d say he was decidedly impressed.” He hadn’t been especially subtle, either, eyes wide and skin flushed, but with everyone’s attention on Ernesto and the bell, only Sofía had noticed.

“As he should be,” Ernest muttered, clearly pleased.

“Yes, not a bad sight. It does make up for your shortcomings in bed.”

The grin turned into a scowl again in less than a second. It was so easy, it was hardly even fun. “Well, he was plenty satisfied.”

“He has literally no other experience to compare it to. It’s an easy win there.”

“I don’t know exactly how funny you think you are, but I assure you, that’s not it,” he grumbled.

“Ay, such fragile ego. Don’t take it personally,” she grinned, poking his shoulder. “So, did he come back for more?”

“... Not yet. But soon.”

“Oh?”

“Clearly,” he almost snapped, even more defensive. She raised an eyebrow, and pressed on.

“He went on two weeks without. Not that utterly irresistible, are you?”

“He’s still in denial, that’s all. He already made clear he wants more. He’s not stupid not to know a blessing when it bites him in the ass, unlike someone I could name.”

Sofía - who was perfectly fine with Antonia now that she was done avoiding carnal relations for Lent, thank you very much - ignored the jab. “So, you want more of him?”

A scoff. “I’m not one to turn down some fun,” he replied. It didn’t escape her how he’d avoided really answering the question.

It didn’t escape her at all.

***

“Is everything all right, Padre Juan? Was the dinner too spicy?”

“Wha-- no, no. It was… it was all right.”

“Oh. I figured that was why you’re turning red.”

Oh. Oh God.

“Ah, maybe… maybe it was just a little spicy,” he stammered, feeling as though his face was about to burst in flames. He’d wondered many times how hot the fires of Hell would burn on his skin should he ever fall into sin, but he’d never for a moment considered embarrassment could burn hotter than anything he could imagine.

“Ah, I see. I’ll be more careful next time.”

Had he looked up at Sister Sophie, John may have noticed the sly smile that had curled the corners of her lips, but he did not. He glanced over at Father Ernest instead, who was laughing with Brother Hector over something some children had done in the plaza that seemed to involve a chicken, a fruit stand, and a bucket.

It was probably something John wouldn’t have approved of, and he might have objected to making light of bad behaviour in children rather than striving to correct it, but at the moment he couldn’t focus enough on their words to even begin to understand what precisely transpired, let alone care. He was focusing on Father Ernest, and on what he’d told him the previous day.

“If my willpower fails, will you--”

“I’ll help you take care of it, sure.”

God, was he really thinking of it - entertaining the thought of committing the sin again? The mere thought made his face burn even more… and before he could turn away, or leave with an excuse, Father Ernest glanced over at him. He stared a moment, pausing mid-sentence, then blinked… and smiled, a quirk of his lips before he turned back to Brother Hector and gave a rather spectacular yawn.

“You know what, I’m tired. Sorry to cut off the conversation, but I really need to lie down. I’ll be in my room,” he added, and John knew - he just knew - that the last sentence was meant for him. That it was an invitation.

“Let’s use my room. Your bed is the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been onto.”

Busy as he was wondering if it was possible to simply die of shame, he didn’t notice how Sister Sophie rolled her eyes behind him. Brother Hector seemed to notice nothing, thank God; he just seemed a bit surprised at the abrupt end of the conversation, since Father Ernest had showed no sign of tiredness up to that moment. “Ah, sure. Good night, then.”

A smile. “Good night,” Father Ernest said, standing up, and glanced over at him.

John somehow found his voice to respond, so that he wouldn’t come across as rude in front of the other two. “Night,” he croaked, Father Ernest’s voice echoing in his mind.

“We absolve each other.”

He entirely missed the look Sister Sophie and Brother Hector exchanged when, a few minutes later, he excused himself with a murmur and left the kitchen to retire in the sleeping quarters. He went towards his room, reached the door… and walked past it, mind in turmoil, all thoughts muddled and distant except for one thing, the desire that made his skin burn. He reached Father Ernest’s room with unsteady steps and knocked with a shaky hand, blood rushing in his ears and heart beating in his throat.

“Come in,” his voice called out, and he did.

***

“Teeth.”

“Er, yes.”

“You came here to ask if I have teeth, really? Can’t you see for yourself that I have four teeth and a half left?”

“Not-- I don’t mean the teeth in your mouth!”

“... Where else am I supposed to have teeth, muchacho? Because I can only think of one other option and honestly--”

“I mean, maybe in a drawer or something?” Héctor blurted out, resigning himself to the fact that there was simply no polite way to ask someone if, by any chance, he happened to have taken some golden teeth from corpses he was given to bury.

Chicharrón looked at him like he’d gone loco. “You think I put every tooth I lost in a drawer?”

“Not your teeth!” Héctor groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Agh, just-- forget about it. I’ll see if maybe doctor Sanchéz can spare--”

“Oh. Oooh, you mean, not real teeth!” Chicharrón threw back his head with a raucous laugh, slapping a hand on his thigh and causing Juanita - who was snoozing on his lap - to lift his head with a noise of protest. “Right, right - to fix that gap in your mouth. Why didn’t you say so?”

Héctor cleared his throat. “Well, it didn’t seem polite to come in and ask you if you just so happen to be robbing graves.”

“Nonsense, of course I’m not. It’s not grave robbing if they’re not in the grave yet.”

“... You and Padre Ernesto have more in common than I thought.”

Cheech made a face. “Ah, don’t say that. I don’t much like him, I really don’t.”

“Why? He’s helped the town a lot,” Héctor argued. Cheech had no idea that Ernesto was not a real priest, nor he’d be terribly shaken if he did, so Héctor was a little confused over the hostility.

“I don’t like him because Juanita doesn’t, of course. He’s never wrong on people.”

“Juanita hardly likes anyone.”

“And rightly so. Now, do you want those teeth or not?” Cheech grabbed the cane he’d left against the wall and pointed towards a corner of the room, in a heap of things he’d hoarded over the years. “There’s a box over there, red wood…”

It took some digging to get the box out, and when he did - and blew off some dust from the top - Héctor could tell it was full some many small, hard things that rattled when he shook the box. His eyebrows going up to almost his hairline, he turned to Cheech. “How many--”

“I’ve been the gravedigger for some forty years. You do the math. Give it here.”

“But why? You’re not even using them yourself, and as you said you only have four teeth--”

“Four and a half. Use your brain, people would question how I got a full mouth of gold teeth,” Cheech scoffed, taking the box. “Best to keep the gold for retirement. Teeth are overrated, anyway. Juanita gets on just fine without a single one.”

“... Juanita is a rooster.”

“Your point? Come on, pick one. I suggest you wash it well before you get someone to put it in.”

Well, that went without saying. “Not afraid stealing from the dead will get you... cursed?”

“Not in May, it won't. It already happened, and I came back. Now shut up and pick a tooth.”

Old Chicharrón, getting cursed? Now that was a tale he’d never shared, decidedly more unbelievable than his usual ones. Héctor chuckled at the notion and turned his attention back to the box, silencing his conscience to pick out a good one.

***

There was something deeply soothing about awakening - or rather, slowly drifting into a state closer to awareness without quite getting there yet - with the warmth of skin on skin, the weight of a body against his own.

In that state between sleep and awareness, John’s mind was wonderfully empty of anything but sensation; the dozens of reasons why he ought not to be there - why he ought to be ashamed and penitent - were entirely beyond his reach. And it was fine, it really was, until reality settled in.

That particular morning, reality came as a knock on the door.

“Padre Ernesto?” Sister Sophie called out through the wooden door, causing John to bolt upright, elbowing Father Ernest in the ribs as he scrambled to get off the bed and entirely ignoring the mumbled curse that got out of him. A decidedly unpriestly curse at that, which John would have been extremely cross about if he weren’t a little busy feeling surprise, confusion, terror and a huge relief for having locked the door the previous evening, in quick succession.

At least it spared him the indignity of having to hide under the bed.

Father Ernest sat up on the bed and stretched, naked as the day he’d been born and apparently unbothered by the fact he had a fellow priest in his room and a nun at the door. “Sister,” he muttered, yawning. “What is it?”

“I am so very sorry to bother you, Padre,” Sister Sophie was saying, sounding incredibly contrite. “I was sent to let you know that Gustavo has found someone to fix the bell.”

“Has he? Ah, great. But I don’t know if we can spare the expense--”

“They said they would do it for free, in exchange for a blessing. God-fearing men.”

“... Oh?”

So he’d been right, John thought, there were still God-fearing men around who put God and His Church before material gain. He turned to Father Ernest with no small amount of triumph, still tangled in the sheet. “I told you so!” he exclaimed.

“What was that?” Sister Sophie asked through the door, and John slapped a hand on his mouth, realizing moments too late what he’d just done. Father Ernest, from his part, turned his laugh into the least convincing fit of coughing John had ever heard.

If they made it through that morning without being found out, then John would light a candle to Virgin Mary, because it would be nothing short of a miracle. He would find out only much, much later that the nun outside had been perfectly aware of his presence in the room.

“Nothing, nothing,” Father Ernest called out, and cleared his throat. “That’s… really good. I’ll go thank them personally.”

“Of course.”

Sister Sophie left, thank God, and John let out a long sigh of relief while Father Ernesto dropped back on the mattress, laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

“Will-- will you keep it down!” John protested, face flushed crimson. “Someone might hear!”

“Hahahahah! Look who’s talking,” he retorted, the laugh dying down to a snicker. “You just couldn’t resist announcing you were right, huh?”

“Well, I was!” John protested, his face hot. “We ought to dress and… and absolve each other.”

“Right, right. Ego te absolvo…”

John bowed his head and gratefully received the absolution, choosing not to comment on the fact the man giving it was still naked as the day he was born.

***

“What’s that?”

“Some men, they’re fixing the bell. Said they’re blacksmiths and carpenters.”

“Well, that was quick. We have carpenters too, though? Only missing the blacksmith.”

“Gustavo says he found them in San Luz, and that they’re willing to do it for free...”

There was some talk as bystanders gathered to look up towards the belltower, if from a safe distance, muttering amongst themselves. Shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand, Imelda squinted to look better. Beside her, Héctor - who seemed to have just awakened, hair ruffled - frowned. “How good a job can they do for free?” he muttered.

Imelda shrugged. “Can’t really go checking the teeth of a gifted horse, can we?”

“Right, right. Oh, er, speaking of teeth, I don’t know if you noticed--” he began, but someone talked over him, causing him to trail off.

“Well, we can if the clapper breaks again and turns someone into a tortilla,” doctor Sanchéz muttered. A woman guwaffed.

“With some luck, it will be the gringo.”

There was laughter, and a few disapproving glances. Very few.

“Show some respect,” another woman protested. “He’s a priest.”

“He’s a gringo,” the seamstress, Ceci, muttered back.

“... Eh, fair.”

“Get off his back, why don’t you?” Héctor muttered, his tone defensive. “He’s been… not as bad lately. And he means well - he got us food.”

A couple of people had the good grace to look ashamed, a few others rolled their eyes - Ceci especially, no wonder considering she was still bitter over how he’d handled things with Fernanda when she sought help to escape her husband’s beatings - but Imelda was no longer paying attention to them: all she could stare at was one of the men Gustavo had returned with standing on the church’s steps, talking with Ernesto, who was probably thanking them for their help and whatnot.

Everything normal, except for one thing: Imelda was almost certain she knew that man. Or at the very least she had seen him before but when… where…

“The next one who even thinks of laying a hand on a nun will lose it.”

Wait. Wait just a moment.

“José,” Imelda murmured. Beside her, Héctor - the only one close enough to her to hear - turned to glance at her.

“What?”

“That man. We met him in the basement of the orphanage,” she whispered. He followed her gaze, stared a few moments, squinted… and then he blinked, clearly taken aback.

“It’s him! What… what is he doing here?”

“Apparently, fixing our bell.”

“I mean, what is he really doing here?”

Ah well, Imelda thought, one way to find out. As soon as Ernesto stepped away to go back inside the church, Imelda went up the steps as quickly as she could manage without running. The man noticed her coming and paused at the church door, smiling faintly.

“Sister,” he said politely, tilting his head. Imelda smiled, so that anyone watching would think she was thanking him for the help, maybe offering him and his men water, and spoke in a low voice.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and his smile widened.

“Fixing your bell, Sister.”

“No, what are you really doing--”

“Fixing your bell. Really. Ah, Brother Héctor, buenas días.”

“Buenas días! How are you-- wait, I mean-- are we really supposed to believe you and your men really came over to fix the bell?”

“Of course. It is quite important that it remains in working order.”

Héctor and Imelda exchanged a perplexed glance before looking back at José, if that was truly his name at all. “I don’t understand,” Imelda said, and her words were met with a small smile.

“I pray to God you never do,” José said, and with that he turned and walked into the church, up the belltower, leaving them to stand on the stone steps, even more confused than before.

***

“Are you telling me he refused a discharge?”

“I know, right? He could be home right now, and instead he requested to join our battalion.”

“This one specifically? He can’t be right in the head.”

“Or maybe he’s really passionate about the cause.”

“Not right in the head, then. No one is passionate about any cause anymore. We fight. It’s what we do. Fight and drink and get some fun when we can.”

There was laughter, some coughing, the sound of clinking bottles. Santiago faintly wondered whether they were too drunk to realize he was well within earshot, but either way it made no matter. He was exactly where he was meant to be: part of a battalion heading south towards Oaxaca and Chiapas, and then east towards Yucatán.

Unless Ernesto de la Cruz had crossed the southern border - and he refused to think of that possibility, refused to entertain the thought that murderer may be beyond his reach - chances were he would be hiding somewhere around there, as the coward he was. And with some luck, he might just cross paths with him.

If there was any justice to be had in that wretched world he would, and then God help him and whoever stood between them.

***

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In case you missed it, here’s some art based on this fic by @appatary8523!

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Coco] Best Man

Title: Best Man Summary: Ernesto couldn't understand what was it about Imelda that his best friend found so amazing. By the time he could, it was too late. [Modern setting, written for @appatary8523] Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Imelda Rivera, Héctor Rivera. Imector, onesided Ernesto/Imelda. Rating: K

A/N: Appa asked for a serving of one-sided pining with some she's-about-to-marry-my-best-friend sprinkled on top, and I complied. Had a lot of fun with it, too.

***

“Food poisoning.”

“Yes, I heard you the first seven times. I was actually the one who told you--”

“One time you go out of town on your own since last year, one time, and my husband winds up in the hospital with food poisoning!”

“Look, I tried to tell him that chorizo didn’t look all that great, but he was hungry and--”

“And so you just let him eat it while you steered well clear of it!”

“What, since when is it my responsibility to watch what he eats?” Ernesto huffs, throwing up his arms with dramatic flair. A guy sitting on the other end of the waiting room blinks blearily at him, clearly hungover. “Am I my brother's keeper?”

Imelda rolls her eyes, but her lips curl upwards for the briefest moment, and Ernesto mentally marks it as a victory. “I’m not sure what made you think quoting Cain would come off as perfectly innocent.”

“All right, you got me. I tried to poison him. My plan was to leave him in a ditch and run off with his iPad and all the songs in it. So I could make it big, be a star, never think of him again.”

“Very funny.” A pause. “... Do you have it? The iPad? Because the last thing Héctor is gonna need is getting out of here to find out it’s gone.”

“Yes, yes, I have it. And the guitar. All in the car. Which might have a couple of new bumps...”

“What?”

“He was all green in the face, I panicked that he’d throw up again and hurried to the hospital.”

“Like cleaning our car would have been your problem.”

“No, but if he’d thrown up then I would have thrown up and probably crashed.”

“... Fair,” Imelda condedes with a sigh, and leans back on her seat. Ernesto leans back on his own, reaching up to fix his hair with a hand, turning to glance at the mute TV screen in the corner - anything to avoid looking at her.

It’s better this way.

***

When he and Imelda met, Ernesto took slightly less than two minutes and a half to decide she was a dumb girl and he didn’t like her.

To be fair, at age twelve he still found all girls to be dumb girls he didn’t like. That would partly change in the next several years - some girls were dumb, he’d declare then, but not in their face he did like them very much - but right there and then, there was nothing about Imelda he liked. And that was, he’d insist, in no way related to the fact she’d shown up out of nowhere, three years younger, and shattered his record by making a rock skip across the stream sixteen times.

The look of pure wonder Héctor had given her, the one that was usually reserved to him when he pulled out something, had been the last straw. Ernesto had immediately declared her a dumb girl and made sure Héctor promised not to talk to her, ever, lest he wanted to catch dumb girl cooties. His friend, who was eight and not especially bright - Ernesto would deny thinking that later on - had seemed a bit saddened, but he hadn’t argued, because he never argued with him.

And, at least officially, he’d kept his word for a few years, until they were all older and even Ernesto had to grudgingly concede that it was a stupid promise and dumb girls cooties were not a thing. In truth, he’d actually been talking with her without him knowing, because he found her amazing for some reason Ernesto couldn’t comprehend.

By the time he could, it was too late.

***

“Ay, Imelda, mi amor, mi vida. Come close to hear my last words--”

“Your next words had better be ‘sorry for being that idiota who gets food poisoning a week before the wedding, I will be back on my feet by then’.”

On the hospital bed, his skin still a rather unhealthy ashen shade, Héctor grins like a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. “I’ll marry on my deathbed if I must.”

A roll of her eyes, a smile she can barely hide. “Ay, you’re so dramatic.”

“Ernesto’s fault,” Héctor’s declares, causing Ernesto, still standing in the doorway - he let Imelda have the chair beside the bed, ever the gentleman - to protest.

“Wait, what?”

“You rubbed off me!” Héctor declares, dramatically.

Ernesto throws up his arms. Dramatically. “Oh, sure. Blame me for everything, why don’t you,” he huffs. “Maybe I’m too dramatic to be your best man, too.”

Héctor laughs. “Ah, never. There is no one else I’d ever pick to be my best man at the wedding.”

Lucky me.

The thought is bitter as bile and maybe something shows on his face; Héctor’s expression doesn’t change, but Imelda’s does. She doesn’t quite scowl, but her gaze is more attentive, and it is enough to make Ernesto feel like he’s under a spotlight… and not the kind he enjoys.

“... I’ll go get a drink,” he mutters, leaving quickly and realizing just a bit too late that a hospital is not the right place to go looking for alcohol. At least, not the kind you’re supposed to drink.

All right then, coffee. Coffee it is.

There is a café at least, and the coffee is halfway decent. He sits, takes out his phone, checks his emails and notifications-- ah, looks like a few people showed interest in his profile across a couple of dating apps. Three women, one man. Not bad at all when what you need is a boost to your ego. Two are nothing to write home about, the other two are… worth considering. Maybe later, after the end of next week once the wedding is done, Héctor and Imelda will be off to their honeymoon in Guatemala, and he will probably need some pleasurable company. And alcohol.

Large amounts of it.

***

“I really don’t get what you see in her.”

Ernesto’s grumble was met with a dreamy smile, a slow strum of a guitar’s strings. “Well, first of all, she-- hey!” he yelped when a tangerine smacked against his forehead and then fell back down on the floor with a sound that was more like a splat then a thud.

“That wasn’t a real question, cabrón,” Ernesto grumbled again. He sat back against an empty crate, watching as the vendors began to dismantle around them, another market day over. Soon enough the plaza would be mostly empty, before it filled again with people after dark. “And anyway, she��s not your type.”

“She is exactly my type!”

“And what is, pray tell, your type?”

The question caused Héctor to turn deep red and stammer, as though entirely out of words despite the fact he could always find all the right ones when sitting alone in a quiet room, a blank piece of paper in front of him. “W-well… she is smart, and… and beautiful…”

“That’s everyone’s type,” Ernesto snorted. “No one likes women dumb and ugly. Just dumb, maybe, but not ugly, unless you’re really that desperate and the lights are out...”

“That’s not-- ugh. If Sofía could hear you, she’d smack you over the head and you’d deserve it.”

“I’m just telling it how it is.”

“She’s… not like other girls!”

Ernesto made a face. “That line, really? Now you’re the one who’d be getting a smacking while being asked what’s wrong with other girls.”

Héctor’s face flushed crimson. “That’s not what I meant! I-- all right, that was-- not what I meant,” he repeated lamely. “She’s not like… anyone else. To me.”

“Oh?”

“She has this thing, like a… a spark, like--”

“Drive,” Ernesto muttered, without thinking. His fingers went to better tune his guitar, while Héctor nodded, brightening up.

“Yes, exactly! She wants to accomplish something - start her own business someday - and she’s ready to work for it, and--”

And she won’t let anyone tell her she can’t do it.

“-- and I’m sure she can do anything she wants to do, she’s just like that, you know?”

“... Guess I know someone a bit like that,” Ernesto conceded, and tuned out any further gushing from Héctor’s part. All right, so maybe he could sort of see Héctor’s point with Imelda; she had ambition and drive and wouldn’t let anybody dictate what she could or could not do, and he could admire that. Plus she had turned out beautiful, which in his not-so-humble opinion helped.

There was hardly any pretty girl in Santa Cecilia Ernesto hadn’t hit on, often with some success, but not her. He had the uncomfortable feeling it would result in rejection; while he’d been rejected before, it was never a big deal because to each their own and some just have no taste.

With Imelda, he suspected it might be different. He suspected it might actually hurt, and maybe it would be best to just… not find out whether or not it would be the case.

It was just stupid. He would make a point to ignore her until it went away, that was all. Not that Héctor behaving like a crushing puppy helped, but that would pass, too; she was not his type. He’d either let go of his crush, or be burned, whine a little, and then move on. Simple as that.

Héctor couldn’t possibly be her type.

***

“What’s eating you?”

“Gah!”

Ernesto recoils, the phone flying out of his hands. It slides across the table, and Imelda catches it before it falls off. Ernesto has precisely half a second to hope she didn’t get a look at the screen before she hands it back to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Who’s María del Carmen?”

“A potential date,” Ernesto mutters, snatching the phone from her hand. He hopes Imelda isn’t going to press the matter, but of course she does.

“You can invite her to the wedding. You can still pick a guest to come with you.”

Yes, great first date idea. Sitting there with a stranger to watch you marry my best friend.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but Ernesto manages to fake a laugh convincingly enough. “Hah! Not my idea of a first date,” he says, swiping left as discreetly as possible before he locks the screen. “How’s Héctor?”

“Better, I think. Contrite enough. They’re keeping him under observation for the night.”

“Ugh. Here goes the plan to drive back this evening.” Ernesto makes a face. “How did you get here, anyway? We had the car.”

“I got a taxi.”

“How much did it cost--”

“Don’t ask. I’m doing my best not to think of that,” Imelda says, and they both chuckle.

“Heh. Fair,” Ernesto concedes. “There is a motel right by. I’ll pay for two rooms. Before we go, can I offer you a--” he pauses, and turns to glance at what the small café has to offer. He makes a face. “... A coke, I guess?”

“I’d like that. With ice and lemon, thanks,” Imelda says, then leans forward. “Are you all right? You looked odd back there. Not food poisoning odd, but--”

“I’m fine,” Ernesto says, waving his hand dismissively. “Worried about the idiota I got myself as my best friend, I guess. I’ll get you that coke, and then we go get some sleep.”

They drink their cokes under the franky depressing neon lights of the hospital’s café, making small talk about the weather and music and whatnot; to Ernesto’s relief, no mention is made of the upcoming wedding. They drive-- well, Imelda drives them to the motel, all without incident.

Then, of course, the universe just has to make a big fat joke at his expense.

“Only one room left, I’m afraid.”

Ah, for fuck’s sake.

“I’ll take that for her. I’ll go sleep in the car,” he adds, holding out his hand for the key. She hesitates, glancing at guy behind the desk.

“No other rooms at all?”

“I’m afraid not. But it does have twin beds, if that suits you…?”

“Absolutely not,” Ernesto snaps at him. “The keys. I’ll sleep on the backseat, plenty of space.”

“It’s two separate beds, I think I can put up with it for a few hour--”

Well, I can’t. Not for one minute.

“Share a room with the future bride of my best friend?” Ernesto tries to grin like he finds the thought funny. “No can do, señorita. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Oh, come on,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You’ve seen too many movies. Héctor wouldn’t think for a second anything unbecoming happened.”

I know. That makes it worse.

“I’d really rather sleep in the car,” Ernesto insists. “Good form, no?”

A sigh, but she eventually relents and hands him the keys. “If you insist. But I won’t sit through endless complaints about your aching back during the drive back to Santa Cecilia, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Ernesto says; somehow he manages to keep up the smile. He puts his card down to pay for the room and after a quick ‘goodnight’ he heads outside, breathing in the cool night air.

There is a bottle of beer beneath the passenger seat, much too warm to be really enjoyable, but he opens it and gulps it all down anyway, sprawled on the backseat of Héctor’s car. Within a week, the car will take the bride to church - bumps and scrapes and all - and then drive off the newlyweds towards their honeymoon, leaving him behind to watch them go. They will be back, eventually, but they will be man and wife and Ernesto will need to live with that.

They’ve been an item for years. He ought to be used to it. It shouldn’t keep him awake.

We would never work, he thinks, we'd drive each other insane within months.

That's probably true, he knows, and thinking like that usually helps. Not tonight.

He wishes he had another beer or two or twenty at hand.

***

“Are you drunk?”

“Drunk with happiness, yes!”

“A date, you.”

“Yes!”

“With Imelda.”

“Yes!!”

Ignoring the sting of what he refused to identify as jealousy, Ernesto frowned. “You’re joking.”

“I would never!” Héctor laughed and did a half-twirl that almost ended in a tumble. “On Saturday! There is this movie that came out on Día de los Muertos, according to the critics Hollywood didn’t butcher the whole thing too much, and she wants to see it and I want to see it and so--”

“I wanted to see it too! You said we’d--” Ernesto tried to protest, despite the fact no such thing was discussed and he wasn’t very interested in the movie anyway. But this time, maybe for the very first time, Héctor entirely ignored Ernesto’s words.

In the end, Ernesto just zoned out, telling himself it would be their only date, anyway. It would not last. It couldn’t last, and Ernesto would just let it run his course, only showing up at the end to help Héctor with his heartbreak, as any good amigo would do.

It was not their only date. Many more dates followed, then a relationship that, despite all the ups and downs, never caused the heartbreak Ernesto had expected. When Héctor decided to propose, his advice to wait fell to deaf ears; when he returned with a smile from ear to ear to let him know she had said yes, his words of congratulations and jabs about marriage being the end of carefree life sounded dull to his own ears.

But he said them anyway and, when Héctor asked him to be his best man, he immediately accepted. He had to.

It was what any good amigo would do.

***

“I think I’ll write a song about the past two days.”

“Oh?”

“El Chorizo Envenenado!”

“It doesn’t sound especially promising.”

Sitting on the couch with a book in his hands while Ernesto stays sprawled on the armchair - his back is killing him and he’s exhausted after barely sleeping, so he’ll take some time to recover at Héctor’s place before he goes home - Héctor pouts.

“And that is why I’m the songwriter,” he mutters, gaining himself a scoff and little else. Ernesto is half-considering a nap when the door opens and Imelda walks in, fresh out of the shower, wet hair covered with a towel and wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe that is too large to belong to anyone but Héctor. It should be the most unflattering attire imaginable, but she looks beautiful in it because of course she does.

It would be a good time to leave, but Ernesto finds he cannot tear his eyes away as she sits next to his best friend - the love of her life, he can see it so clearly now, in the soft look she gives him and the way she rests her head on his shoulder.

“What are you reading?”

“Marriage for dummies,” Héctor replies, and she laughs softly, a sound Ernesto cannot quite recall hearing before. Héctor must have heard it many times, will hear it many more times.

This is meant to last, he can tell it now. His best friend, and the woman he finds himself loving against all good judgment. And he’ll keep a smile on, be his best man and toast to their union, because that’s what a good amigo does and the show must go on even if something in his chest hurts so much he fears it might break. But he stays, pretending to be snoozing, watching them through eyelids barely cracked open, an intruder trying to get a glimpse of that beauty, to hear more of that secret laugh.

Maybe he should have tried, Ernesto thinks, seized his moment and asked her out first - but a voice in the back of his mind, much more practical, reminds him it would have made no difference; that even if he’d tried, the almost certain outcome would have been a no. There was never a moment to seize, and he isn’t sure whether that is supposed to make him feel better or hurt worse.

Somehow, it cuts both ways.

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #coco

35 notes · View notes

pengychan · 5 years

Text

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 11

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: On one hand I'm sorry for the delay of this chapter, but on the other hand I got to post an Easter-centric chapter on Good Friday and I'm not that sorry. So, uh, happy Easter? Art is by Dara and @senoraluna!

***

“Why is the dog here?”

“Because Miguel wanted to help and he follows Miguel everywhere.”

“We’re in a church!”

“This is an attic.”

“Of a church!”

“Look, it’s not like we let the dog do his business in the chapel,” Ernesto pointed out. Padre Juan made a face that he supposed meant he was conceding the point, and made sure to stay several steps away from the dog, who was sniffing enthusiastically the floor, only to sneeze out clouds of dust. That place was going to need a serious clean-up, Ernesto thought, gaze pausing on the table on the far end. He could see some empty basins, and bottles. “Not fond on dogs?”

“Not especially,” the gringo said a bit pointedly, walking up to the table. “They’re boisterous, unhygienic, and they carry--” he trailed off, stilling. “Good God, a Brownie!”

“A what?”

“An Eastman Kodak Brownie!”

“Can you go back to speaking Spanish?”

Padre Juan turned, and Ernesto was so startled by his expression - he was grinning like a child, he really was - that at first he didn’t notice the aluminium box he was holding. “This camera,” the gringo said, holding it up. It caused Miguel, who was still struggling to contain Dante, to light up.

“Oh! Yes, that’s Padre Edmundo’s camera! Everyone was curious about it because it doesn’t have a tripod like his old one.”

“It’s far better than I was expecting. This will make everything much easier,” Padre Juan said. He looked down at it, wiping the dust off it with his sleeve. “I had a camera much like this, Father bought it as a gift when I turned--” he trailed off suddenly, and his gaze turned oddly blank. It was such a stark contrast to his unexpected giddiness it made something in Ernesto’s stomach clench. Beside him, Miguel looked confused.

“So, uh. These are commonplace in the States?” Ernesto asked, not really caring to know but wanting to say something to snap him out of it. Luckily, it worked: the question seemed to shake Padre Juan out of whatever thoughts crossed his mind. He nodded, the smile back on his face.

“Yes, quite. These were a huge commercial success - it’s the No. 2 Brownie, see? An improvement on the original I used to have, that one was made of cardboard with artificial leather. Still, it served me well - astonishing in its simplicity. It uses a simple meniscus lens, the shutter is integrated-- see? And the viewfinder! My old one did not--”

“I think we get the picture,” Ernesto, who knew precisely nothing about cameras aside from the fact you’re supposed to pose in front of them, cut him off. It seemed a better thing to say than ‘it’s all Greek to me and I really don’t care’.

“What do you need to get it to work?” Miguel asked.

The gingo looked around. “Film-- number 120, I believe. Kodak produces specific film for each specific camera. Hopefully there will be some of that around here, too. Not much point in having a camera you have no film for. I am amazed to see one of these here.”

“We don’t live on the moon, you know,” Ernesto grumbled, but he was still too taken aback by the absolute glee on the gringo’s face to be too annoyed. He hadn’t seen him that excited over anything before. And really, a weirdly excited Father John was easier to deal with than the sanctimonious ass he generally was. So, no complaints.

For now.

***

“Run this by me again - we’re supposed to pose and look holy for the gringo.”

“Sister Sofía! Padre Ju-- John has a name and you’ll be using it! Have you learned nothi--”

“... Did you almost call him Juan, Madre?”

“A-absolutely not! I have enough respect--”

“He keeps calling you Mother Gretchen.”

The remark caused Madre Gregoria’s wrinkled face to twist for a moment in the darkest scowl Imelda had ever seen on her - and that was saying… a lot. “Well, he’s a priest and--”

“An insufferable ass,” Padre Ernesto supplied, causing the old bruja to nod.

“Yes, accurate.”

Héctor smiled a little. Behind la Madre Superiora, several nuns covered their mouths to hide a smirk, or coughed. “Really now, Madre?”

A shrug. “Well, he is the parish priest. Who am to argue his judgment?”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “Your trust moves me. To answer So-- Sister Sofía’s question, yes. He thinks some photographs would help convince… whoever there is to convince that we’re really deserving of some support. Which we need. Like, a lot. No objections there, right?”

No, of course, none at all; Imelda wasn’t surprised. Their situation was not yet desperate - donations had helped them buy some more food - but it was serious, and they needed funds to ensure a steady supply of food until… well, until harvest, at least. Or until that war was over.

“So, he’s going to take pictures during Mass?”

“Among other things, yes. So, let’s all act like good Catholics and--”

“We are good Catholics,” Imelda said, maybe a bit more pointedly than she should have, and entirely ignored the glare from the Mother Superior. Padre Ernesto, however, didn’t seem fazed. Considering that their first proper introduction had happened while they both turned up at a guy’s place to beat the crap out of him, Imelda would have been surprised if he were.

“Yes, of course, but you know how the gringo is. Let’s keep him happy.”

“He’s impossible to make happy,” Gustavo muttered sourly from his corner. It was the only contribution he’d given to the meeting up to that point, and Imelda barely held back from rolling her eyes. She noticed that Héctor’s own eyes twitched upwards for a moment before turning to her, sharing with her an exasperated look. Look who’s talking.

“This is still worth a try,” Padre Ernesto was saying, his voice calm but devoid of the usual warmth. “Let’s pose for nice pictures, so that he can argue for us and get us the money.”

“You mean charity,” Héctor said, causing Padre Ernesto to raise an eyebrow.

“Was that such an important distinction to make?”

“Makes us sound better.”

“... Point taken. We need charity, so let’s all behave and watch--”

“I’m not gonna watch my mouth,” Chicharrón loudly informed them all, despite having never been spoken to once. The old gravedigger seemed entirely unaffected by the looks he got from all nuns present, herself, and Héctor. He shrugged, leaning back on his seat, peg leg stretched before him. Imelda sort of liked him, but right there and then she’d have happily strangled him with a rosary. “Words aren’t going to show on photos, no?”

“... Fair enough,” Padre Ernesto replied. It was the voice of a man who’d decided to pick his battles, and that the one at hand was not worth fighting. “Not to worry though, I don’t think he will want to photograph you specifica--"

“Padre Ernesto should be in the photos,” la Madre Superiora spoke up suddenly. As everyone fell quiet and turned slowly to look at her, she had the good grace to look embarrassed and shrugged. “Well, he’s… appealing.”

“He is,” the Delgado window - who was mainly there due to the fact telling her anything was the quickest way to make sure the entire village would know it by dusk - nodded in agreement.

As all nuns suddenly looked down as though very interested in their shoes, some of them coughing again, Imelda shot a quick glance to her left. Sofía was staring at the Mother Superior like she’d never seen her before, while Padre Ernesto looked unfazed. If anything, he seemed flattered: the smile that followed was much more of a grin.

“Well, as the parish priest, I suppose that cannot be helped,” he said. “He will want to take pictures of the children at Mass, so make sure all those in your care look at their best.”

“Well, not too much at their best,” Héctor muttered. “Last thing we need is for some Bishop in the States to decide we don’t look like we’re in enough trouble to get the money.”

“Charity,” Padre Ernesto corrected him, elbowing his side with a grin. “Makes us sound better, I think you said.”

Héctor laughed, and it was… nice to hear. All their meetings had been about such serious matters lately, Imelda had found she missed his laugh. “Right. Charity.”

“Also, he will take pictures of the Palm Sunday procession tomorrow, so you better be the best Jesus you can be,” Padre Ernesto added, and Héctor smiled.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Get ready to do the same for el Vía Crucis, too.”

Héctor’s smile faded in a confused look. “... What? Who decided I’m going to--”

Padre Ernesto waved his hand, putting an arm over his shoulders. “I did, just now. I’m sure you’ll do great. Can someone ask Prospero to get to work with the cross?”

“I already did, Padre,” Gustavo said magnanimously, and grinned in Héctor’s direction. “I told him to make it as heavy as the one our Lord had to carry,” he added, gaining himself a blank look from Héctor. It took all of Imelda’s self-control not to grab her crucifix and hurl it to his face.

“Oh, how generous,” Héctor said drily. Gustavo shrugged.

“For realism.”

“Of course.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Padre Ernesto said, smiling at Gustavo as he let go of Héctor’s shoulders. “Great thinking. You should be given a part, too.”

That caused Gustavo’s own smirk to waver. “A-ah, that would be kind of you, but--”

“Oh, I insist! You earned it, after all. You’ll be Simon of Cyrene, helping out Lord carry the heavy cross,” he added, and Héctor had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh; Imelda could see that even from a distance. She almost smirked herself… until Padre Ernesto spoke again. “And Ime-- Sister Gisela, you’ll be Verónica.”

Santa Verónica, the woman who wiped Jesus’ face clean on his way to crucifixion. The thought made her falter a little - it seemed something too… too intimate to be doing. As she opened her mouth to protest, she didn’t notice Héctor’s foot suddenly landing on Padre Ernesto’s, causing him smile to become forced. “I’m… touched, but maybe someone else-- la Madre Superiora--”

“Ay, la Madre Superiora should be Holy Mary, I’d say,” he cut her off, and tilted his head towards Madre Gregoria, whose cheeks were quickly reddening.

“Oh-- that would be-- a honor, but--”

“No buts, you’d be amazing,” Padre Ernesto replied with a wave of his hand and a wide, charming smile. Imelda could distinctly see Sofía rolling her eyes. “The other Sisters can be the women of Jerusalem. Would that be all good with you?”

As the sisters in questions nodded - several of them glancing in Imelda’s direction with knowing smirks and making her wish to kill Padre Ernesto, all of them and herself in quick succession - Padre Ernesto smiled.

“All settled, then,” he exclaimed. “Just act at your best starting tomorrow, and Padre Ju-- John will immortalize it. Any questions?” “Juanita doesn’t like cameras,” Chicharrón declared.

It took Padre Ernesto a clear effort not to roll his eyes. “We won’t involve your rooster more than strictly necessary - just make it crow three times before el Vía Crucis starts, for drama. Anything else? No? Wonderful. Now go and spread the word. And most of all, smile for the camera.”

***

“Are you ready or not?”

“Yes, yes. Just… give me a minute.”

“It’s an old donkey, Héctor. Are you seriously afraid to climb on a donkey?”

“It’s not that, it’s… Ceci did a great job on this tunic, but it doesn’t help and the wig keeps getti-”

“Por Dios, just get on this damn burro!”

“Hey! Careful how you speak to Jesus!” Héctor grumbled, finally sitting on the saddle. He wasn’t a good rider, be it on a donkey or a horse, and it sure wouldn’t kill Gustavo to be a bit more patient. As a response, Gustavo scoffed.

“You’re just playing a part, cabrón.”

“Do you kiss you mamá with that mouth?” Héctor snapped back, only to of course regret it the second it left his mouth, as Gustavo’s frame stiffened. He remembered suddenly of all the times, when they’d been kids, when Gustavo had repeated over and over that he was not an orphan like them, that his mamá was alive and would be back for him soon, any day now, any day now.

Mierda.

“I-- lo siento. I didn’t mean--”

“Just get going,” Gustavo snapped, and suddenly smacked the rear of the donkey, which bolted forward. All right, it didn’t quite bolt, but it set out at a quicker pace than Héctor would have liked, heading towards the main road where, he knew, all of Santa Cecilia was waiting with palm branches… and, in Padre Juan’s case, with a camera.

Make us look good, Padre Ernesto had said, but it was easier said than done, clinging as he was to a trotting donkey. Maybe if he pulled just a little on the bridles, he could make it slow down before he made the entrance and--

“Woof! Woof!”

“Wha-- Dante?” Under Héctor’s stunned gaze, Miguel’s dog appeared - seemingly out of thin air - in front of the donkey, who abruptly slowed down, clearly taken aback by the dog walking ahead of it, head turned back to Héctor rather than towards the path ahead. With a sigh of relief, Héctor smiled.

“Gracias,” he called out. He straightened himself on the saddle, made sure the long wig was still in place, and headed down the main road and into the town.

***

The whole arrangement was… picturesque, John had to admit.

People stood on both sides of the road, waving blessed palm branches, dressed up in their best clothes - which were… quite colorful, but he could allow that. After all, Jesus’ arrival to Jerusalem was a day of celebration; he would talk to Father Ernest about having people wear something slightly more subdued during the Via Crucis procession on Good Friday, later.

For now, he would take pictures.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Father Ernest said, his voice smug as it could be. Normally, John would have reminded that pride is the root of all other deadly sins-- but right now, he was too focused on capturing what was happening before his eyes. Father Edmund had left behind a good amount of film, but it wasn’t infinite, so he had to make each shot count.

The parishioners with the palm branches - the people of Jerusalem celebrating Jesus’ arrival in their holy city, less than a week before turning on him, choosing the life of a criminal over his and sending him to his death. Click.

Brother Hector - a slightly unconvincing Jesus, though no for lack of trying - waving at the crowd as his donkey kept going, over the palm branches thrown in its path, towards the main square and then the church. Click.

“Maybe he should have cried.”

“... What?” Father Ernest blinked. “Why?”

“In the Gospel according to Luke-- never mind. The other three didn’t mention it, anyway.”

John moved along the road, taking more pictures - a child on his father’s shoulders holding up a branch, a little girl throwing hers right before the donkey, a woman crossing herself, the twin boys who had organised everything smiling so widely, Mich-- Miguel with them; there was chatter and cheering and laughed, none of which the camera could capture.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

By the time they reached the parish, John was smiling, holding tightly onto the camera. He took another shot as Brother Hector dismounted, the church in the background; a couple more as Father Ernesto joined him, smiled, patted his shoulder. Another one as they smiled at the children from the orphanage, crouching to take something - flowers? - from a few of the little girls. They both looked so at ease, making the children laugh, and John took more pictures.

Click. Click.

Father Ernest laughed at something a boy had said, and he turned towards him, the smile still on his face. He looked positively delighted, and John’s finger froze on the shutter, heart leaping in his throat. To his relief - and a pang of something that wasn’t relief at all - Father Ernest’s eyes moved to his left, where Miguel was holding up a basket full of donations. He hadn’t been smiling at him, after all. His heart sank from his throat down to his stomach. What he felt now was not quite lust, but something similar and yet different, and even more terrifying.

Focus, focus, focus. A few more pictures, just a few more. Do your duty.

He took several more pictures, trying to keep himself from turning the camera towards Father Ernest - but of course, when he developed them in the attic, he found he appeared in most of the shots. He told himself that was normal - he was the parish priest, he was there, that couldn’t be helped. He could almost convince himself of that, really. Just almost.

That day’s photos developed, John forced himself to tear his gaze away. He excused himself from dinner and went to his room, to deal with his affliction in the only way he knew.

***

“All right, we’re good to go.”

“We look nothing like women of Jerusalem,” Imelda muttered, adjusting her headdress. Of course they couldn’t change in different clothing - as nuns, they had to keep wearing their robes - which made including them in the Via Crucis procession especially stupid.

“Well, neither will anyone else,” Sofía reasoned, and handed her a piece of linen with a smile. “Here you go, Verónica. Make sure to wipe our Lord’s face nicely.”

Imelda took the linen with a scoff and a suggestion as to where to put it that was unbecoming of a novice, or any kind of lady in the first place. Sofía just grinned.

“With Lent almost over with, I’m really hoping to have Antonia see to that.”

“You’re the worst nun I have ever met.”

“And I want to keep the title, which is why I’ve been trying to get you out of here since day one.”

Wait, what? “You have some nerve, trying to imply I’d somehow be worse--”

“Assuming you’d be better? That’s pride.”

“That is common sense!” Imelda snapped, only to get an angelic smile and a pat on the hand.

“Temper, novice. A good nun holds her temper,” she said, all sweetness and light. Madre Gregoria’s voice was the only thing that kept Imelda from using the linen cloth to strangle her.

“Let’s get going, everyone-- you chattered enough! Silence is virtue!”

“Yes, Holy Mary,” Sofía muttered with a roll of her eyes, and Imelda felt like strangling her a little less. Maybe she’d settle for a smack, later, away from witnesses. Right now, she would just focus on the procession and getting that nonsense over with.

She really hoped the gringo would get them some funding from his church in the United States as he said he would, because it was the only reason why she put up with any of it.

***

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“What kind of Jesus can’t endure a bit flagellation?”

“The kind that’s just pretending to be Jesus, Cheech. And that’s unnecessary, anyway. No one’s gonna see a thing until I step out.”

“Was trying to get you into the character,” Chicharrón muttered, but there was a smirk on his face when he left the sacristy, leaving him standing there with the cross - it was really heavy, dammit - across his shoulder. Of course he was smirking, Héctor thought, adjusting the crown of thorns - not real thorns, thank God, which was what he’d have gotten if Gustavo had a say in it. Why had he let himself be talked into it?

“You’re looking good,” Padre Ernesto muttered, and grinned, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, heading off to steal hearts.”

“That’s… not exactly what this procession is about,” Héctor pointed out, only to be ignored.

“Now, when you come across Verónica, make sure to look as tired and suffering as you can. And put those eyelashes to work. Don’t make my perfect casting go to waste.”

“Hijo de puta.”

“What?”

“... Praise the Lord,” Héctor muttered. Padre Ernesto laughed.

“That’s just what I thought you’d said.”

***

This is so stupid.

The thought kept circling in Imelda’s head as her hands clenched on the linen cloth she was supposed to use to dry Héctor’s face. Jesus’ face, really - that was how she should think of it. For as long as the procession went, Héctor was meant to be symbolically represent the son of God, so it wasn’t his face she’d be wiping, not really. In a way, it made sense.

… Except that it didn’t, who was she kidding? She got stuck into that stupid role because Padre Ernesto didn’t know any better - she refused to consider he had known about the implications because he was the parish priest, por Dios, for all his eccentricities he wouldn’t do a such thing - and now she would have to wipe Héctor’s face.

Which wasn’t supposed to be a big deal at all, but it was and she rather resented that.

This is ridiculous. It will take a moment. I’ll do it, and it will be over with.

The cheering went up, and Imelda looked down the road to see that Héctor was staggering forward, rather good at feigning exhaustion despite the fact he wasn’t carrying the cross: that was currently being dragged by Gustavo, as the angriest Simon of Cyrene Imelda had ever witnessed. Despite everything, it made her smirk a little.

Serves him right.

Of course, all too soon he had done his part and he quite literally dropped the wooden cross right back on Héctor. He staggered - Imelda suspected it wasn’t an act at all now - and kept walking, dragging the cross… until, of course, he paused before her.

He looked… awful, really: his exhaustion hadn’t been an act. Panting, all sweaty and wig askew, with hair stuck to his face and neck, he sure looked the part of the suffering man condemned to death. Nothing especially pleasant to look at, and yet…

… And yet.

Héctor looked back at her, and he seemed to freeze for a moment. There was nothing unusual about her appearance, she was sure, but his eyes were wide and fixed, jaw slack like he was looking at something incredible. He looked mesmerized-- something in her stomach twisted-- oh God, she had to do something.

Imelda leaned forward and went to wipe his face - gently, carefully. To her relief, his eyes closed a moment. One more moment of that gaze, and… she didn’t know what she’d do or say, and she she was glad she didn’t have to find out. When he opened his eyes to look at her again, he looked oddly lost - then he recoiled when Imelda sharply tilted her head - go ahead.

He staggered away, wavering a little more than he had before. She watched him go on for a time, dragging the cross. Some distance ahead were the other sisters, as the women of Jerusalem, but Imelda refused to look their way, keeping her gaze fixed on the cross. Any moment now he would have the second fall, then… then… wasn’t he supposed to fall about now, before reaching her sisters?

“Fall, Héctor,” she heard Miguel muttering, perfectly audible somewhere the left. “You must fall!”

Something that looked suspiciously like Chicharrón’s peg leg shot shead from somewhere in the crowd, hitting Héctor behind a knee and causing him to finally fall for the second time. Only a couple more stations, and then he would get to the point where Jesus would stripped of his clothes aaand no, no, she had to turn her thoughts to something else entirely just about now.

Imelda looked down at the linen cloth in her hands, face aflame and all to aware of several pairs of eyes fixed on her.

***

“Everything hurts.”

“I think you did great.”

“Everything hurts everywhere. I was not supposed to fall off the cross. ”

“But you absolutely nailed it the second time. Heh, nailed, get i--”

“Suffering is the meaning of the Good Friday, Brother Héctor. Certainly your pain is nothing compared to what our Lord went through.”

Padre Juan’s voice seemed to lower the temperature in the chapel by several degrees, causing Héctor to still, hand halfway to his aching back, and Ernesto to roll his eyes. Whatever magic finding that camera had worked on the gringo, it clearly had ran its course: he was even more standoffish than usual, lately, and ate his meals in his room rather than joining them.

He spoke little with anyone, and with him even less; he was stiff even in the way he stood, and when he sat he hardly even touched the backrest. It made Ernesto wonder what exactly had crawled up the guy’s ass and died, but he decided to try being civil.

“Taken good pictures?” he asked.

A sharp nod. “Quite,” was the curt reply. No more details, no giddy talk about the photos he’d taken and how good the camera was. “No, I’d like to use this chapel for its purpose and pray.”

Héctor and Ernesto glanced at each other with one clear, shared thought - the hell is wrong with him now? - and it was Héctor to try again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us--”

“You’re welcome to join me in prayer, if you can be bothered,” Padre Juan snapped, kneeling. He did so slowly and stiffly, and maybe Ernesto should have wondered, but he did not: he was just too annoyed. Padre Culo Blanco could be an ass all he wanted: Ernesto was done worrying for him. He had no idea when or why he’d even started worrying in the first place.

“Maybe later,” he muttered, and turned to talk out of the chapel, gesturing for Héctor to follow him so that they could talk more about the very obvious look he and Imelda had exchanged during the procession.

Neither of them noticed the way Father John’s features twisted in a pained grimace as he braced his elbows, leaned his forehead on his joined hands, and prayed in silence.

***

“You know, you were close enough to kiss.”

“I am not hearing this.”

“I’m sure you thought of it.”

“I did not!”

“You were turning red, Imelda.”

Oh, damn her. She couldn’t deny that, could she? “... I wasn’t thinking of kissing him,” she finally muttered. After all, it was not a lie. She’d been thinking of him nearly naked.

Far from discouraged, Sofía raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what were you imagining?”

“None of your business. Are we done now? We have priorities here,” Imelda snapped, putting some more rolls of clean bandages and disinfectant - she could even get her hand on some morphine, in case someone needed to dull the pain - in what had been a fruit crate long ago.

“Yes, yes, the medical supplies. Viva la Revolución. We can still talk while we do this.”

Imelda groaned. “And do we absolutely have to?”

Sofía grinned. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, we do.”

***

“This is awfully unnecessary.”

“First time seeing la quema de Judas?”

“The-- the hanging and burning of some puppet is-- unbecoming of such a solemn occasion!”

“I’m pretty sure they do that somewhere in Europe, too. Feliz Sabado de Gloria.”

“That doesn’t make it appropriate!”

“Look, we’re burning Judas. We’ve got more than a few reasons to be sort of pissed at Judas.”

“That thing doesn’t even look like him.”

“... What, you knew him personally now?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Padre Juan grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the scene before him. The effigy of Judas was hanging high, on a rope stretched between two houses at the opposite sides of the plaza. Truth be told, it looked an awful lot like Victoriano Huerta; it was clear to everyone as it was clear to the gringo, but of course none of them said as much aloud.

Plus, at least they hadn’t made him white as someone had suggested only half-jokingly at one point. Ernesto felt the gringo had no reason to complain there. “Not taking any pictures?” he asked, lightly elbowing him as he kept watching the crowd all around the effigy parting to allow Miguel to walk up to it, head held high and all solemn-eyed, holding a burning torch.

Padre Juan scoffed, stepping aside. “I’m supposed to try making the lot of you look virtuous.”

“Burning evil is virtuous. I think. The Church did that a lot.”

“Dark and ignorant times,” was the sour reply. “Evil is to be vanquished from our lives each day, every day. There is no need nor point to make a… a spectacle out of it.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes and turned to retort, but words died in his mouth when he noticed one of Padre Juan’s hands had slipped under his sleeve where, he knew, this fingers were now running over a thin raised scar. His mouth was pulled in a tight line, skin even paler than usual; Ernesto paid no mind to that. Only minutes later, he’d wish he had.

I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment. They did the right thing.

“... Well, you know. It’s a bit of a distraction for what’s going on,” he muttered in the end.

“Comfort should be sought in prayer, not with these-- fetishes,” he pointed out stiffly, but he let the matter drop. Not that Ernesto would have heard him either way, because the next moment two very familiar voices reached him.

“Hola, Padre!”

“Like our Judas?”

Ernesto glanced down at Imelda’s brothers, and grinned. “Love it,” he said. It was true: he liked the idea of watching the face of the bastard who’d had him drafted in that damn army go up in flames. He liked it a lot. “Padre Juan here was just saying how impressed he is,” he added. The gringo stiffened, but the boys paid him no mind.

“Thank you for letting us put fireworks in the effigy!”

“Ah, you’re wel--” Ernesto trailed off, brain finally catching up. By his side, Padre Juan looked extremely alarmed. “Wait-- I didn’t give you permission to stuff fireworks in it!”

The boys gave him two wide, identical grins.

“But you didn’t tell us not to.”

“Ah. Mierda.”

“Father Ernest! Langua--”

The rest of the tirade never happened, because Miguel had set fire to the effigy of Judas and that was it. A loud crackling noise, followed my whistles and smoke, caused the crowd in the plaza to back away from the effigy - but none of them seemed scared, or even particularly surprised, which Ernesto supposed could be put down to the fact most of them knew what to expect from the twins.

Flames enveloped the effigy, and more bangs rang out, greeted with cheers and laughter. Judas, aflame, rocked on one side and then the other before yet another bang caused it to jolt; the rope holding it up gave in, and the remains fell on the ground, jolting with each subsequent crackle to roaring laughter - including Ernesto’s own.

“That was great!” Miguel exclaimed, seemingly having popped by him out of nowhere after setting Judas on fire and dropping the torch. “Wait, where is Dante? Aw, I think he got scared…”

“There was-- nothing great about it!” Padre Juan snapped. People around them were already rolling their eyes and muttering to one another, bright smiles fading. “That was an awfully irresponsible and-- and blasphemous--”

All right, enough. He wasn’t going to let him sour the mood for everyone, so Ernesto forced himself to smile. “Hah! Come on, it was funny. Lighten up,” he laughed, and slapped a hand on his back.

John screamed.

It was unexpected, and loud enough to make everyone fall into a stunned silence. Ernesto stepped back, struggling to understand what the hell had just happened, just as the gringo took a staggering step forward and then sank on his knees, trying and failing to hold back something that sounded much like a sob. His skin, already even paler than usual, was now chalk white; he wheezed like all air had been used up for his cry.

“Pad-- Father John?”

“What is it?”

“Is he all right?”

“Come on, it was just a pat!”

“Is he pretending?”

“He’s got to be, it was nothing!”

“What is it with gringos…”

“Ju-- John?” Ernesto called out, still taken aback, and crouched. Father John Johnson was hunched over as though in immense pain - eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched and face reddened. It was alarming as it was, but seeing tears escaping the corner of his eyes made it worse. “What is it? That wasn’t me, I didn’t-- can you stand up, or…?”

“Make way,” someone spoke, and suddenly Sofía was there, crouching next to him. “What did you do?” she hissed.

Ernesto blinked. “Nothing! You saw it, it was just a--”

“I'm not talking to you,” she cut him off, giving Padre Juan an exasperated look before glancing back, at the crowd around them. Miguel and the twins looked completely lost, and a few men were moving closer, Héctor first of all.

“What happened? Is he ill?” he asked, eyes shifting to Ernesto like he thought he had an explanation. And he didn’t… but someone else did, or so it sounded like.

“It's nothing serious,” Sofía replied. “Call doctor Sanchez to the parish, we’ll take it from here.”

“N-no, I don’t need--” Padre Juan mumbled, but no one bothered to listen. Sofía glanced at Ernesto, who nodded and grabbed the gringo’s arm, passing over his shoulders before he stood. The idea was to help him walk, but he was so limp he pretty much had to carry him.

Only once they got to the parish, with no one else around and Padre Juan seemingly semi-conscious, did he speak again. “So, what is the deal with him? You sound like you know what the hell is going on and I’d really appreciate being filled in, because--”

Sofía sighed. “I think this idiota whipped himself raw.”

“What??”

“Explains the shriek when you gave him a pat. Don’t ask why, I have no clue whatsoever,” she added, entirely unaware that Ernesto did, in fact, have a clue. More than just a clue, really.

I need penance, he’d said. Prayer is not enough, he’d said.

“Crazy gringo,” he muttered under his breath as he carried him inside, hoping he hadn’t fucked himself up too badly.

***

“Not a bad place to be, huh? God, I was never in Veracruz before and I already love it.”

“Mph.”

“Oh, come on. It’s much better than marching under the sun all day. Getting stationed to Veracruz is the best thing that happened to any of us since this damn war started.”

“It’s the best thing that happened to me since your wife, Sergio!”

“Shut up, cabrón! At least I have a wife!”

“And who knows who else has her now!”

There was laughter, a couple of glasses thrown on a background of drunken singing. It made Santiago scoff, and he finished his own glass, sitting on the stone steps a little outside the cantina where half of his battalion spent much of their time, drinking and boasting and doing little else. He stared down towards the harbor and the sea, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Discipline had never been all that great, with so many of his comrades having been picked up from the streets or out of prisons; however, it was quickly getting out of hand now that they were there - supposedly to defend Veracruz in case the Constitutional Army decided to attack.

What a joke. Most of the men here couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.

Not that anyone really expected to fight, with Carranza’s forces far enough not to be an imminent threat; by all accounts, they had little to nothing to worry about, and yet… and yet.

“A peso for your thoughts,” Nando spoke somewhere behind him, and then he was sitting on the steps by him, a shot glass in each hand. He handed one to him. “As long as it’s not something on how we should be down south looking for de la Cruz, in which case I don’t want to hear it.”

Santiago let out another scoff, but he did accept the glass. “I’m thinking a bunch of children in a wooden cart could overpower us if they show up right now with all men drunk.”

“Oh, come now. They’re away from their families and celebrating Easter, and no one is coming.”

“We’re getting too comfortable.”

“And you’re too uptight. Come on, drink-- ah, look, midnight! Feliz Domingo de Pascua.”

They toasted, drank, and Santiago made an effort enjoy the uneventful Easter in Veracruz as much as he could, trying not to think of of how wrong it was, not having Beto there to enjoy the relative peace with him.

And trying to ignore the gut feeling that it wouldn’t last.

***

[Back to Part 10]

[On to Part 12]

***

A bit of extra art by Dara:

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

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pengychan · 5 years

Text

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 8

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Ernesto isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Also, art in this chapter is by Dara.

***

“He said he loves her!”

“That he did.”

With a shout, Miguel jumped up on the chair and threw up his arms. Ernesto and Sofía exchanged a quick, amused glance when he gave a drum-shattering grito of triumph. “I knew it!”

“I think we all did,” Sofía said, but Miguel had his full attention back on Ernesto.

“And you told him to tell her? Did you really?”

“No, I told him to write his confession on a piece of paper, roll it up and stick it up-- agh!” he yelped when Sofía suddenly pinched his side, hard, and immediately pasted a smile on his face. “I mean-- of course I told him to tell her. That’s what I said I’d do, no?”

Miguel jumped from the chair to the table to be at his same eye level, smile impossibly wide. “And he said he would?”

“When the time is right.”

Just like that, Miguel’s face fell. “What?? Oh, no. That means he’s never going to do it. I know him, he just says that when he’s not going to do anything!”

“Oh, I think I will eventually. It’s just that this has better odds to work if done at the right time,” Ernesto reassured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know something of this kind of thing.”

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “You’re a priest,” he quipped, gaining himself an unimpressed glance.

“Not for lack of women willing to throw themselves at me, I assure you,” he said, and pretended not to have heard Sofía’s absolutely fake cough. “Trust me, he’ll just wait for the right moment, and seize it.”

Miguel gave him a long look. “The right moment,” he muttered, then he suddenly gave a bright smile and nodded. “Of course! He just needs the right moment to tell her,” he exclaimed, and jumped off the table, bolting out of the room the next moment. “I need to speak to Óscar and Felipe! Thanks for your help!” he yelled over his shoulder, causing Ernesto to blink at his retreating back.

“You’re... welcome?” he called out after him, and shrugged. “Who are Óscar and Felipe again?”

“Imelda’s brothers.”

“Oh, right.” A pause. “You don’t think they’re going to do something stupid, do you?”

“You know they probably will.”

“As long as they don’t let Héctor know his confession didn’t stay a secret,” Ernesto grumbled. Last thing he needed was useless drama and additional headache.

Sofía shrugged. “I’m sure he won’t. Well, I hope he won’t, but it’s too late to take that back anyway. Now, Padre,” she added, poking his chest, “it’s time for you to get into the confessional.”

“Uugh. Do I have to?”

“Are you or are you not the parish priest?”

No. “All right,” Ernesto grumbled, standing up. Maybe he’d get to hear something interesting and, if not, at least he would keep Padre Juan from holding confession and causing more trouble. Speaking of which… “Where’s the gringo? I haven’t seen him all day. Or yesterday. Or-”

“What, do you miss him?”

Ernesto snorted. “Like I miss lice,” he muttered. That man was such an absolute pain in the ass, it was no wonder his own family had written him off. Ernesto was ready to bet that his conversion to Catholicism - lucky them, huh? - had only been an excuse to finally get him out of their hair. “Doubt even his mother misses him.”

Sofía rolled her eyes. “Careful there. You’re not supposed to know that, I am not supposed to know about Héctor’s confession--”

“And neither of us is supposed to know Miguel caught the gringo smoking in the grove,” Ernesto cut her off, holding back a chuckle. Amazing, how no secret seemed to stay such in that parish. Except for his own, of course. That one had to be protected - whatever the cost.

Unaware of his thoughts, Sofía was shrugging. “No worries, I know when to keep my mouth shut. Didn’t go around telling anyone about that blessing at the Marques household, did I? Unlike a certain someone who went and boasted the second he returned,” she added.

All right, fine,so maybe he shouldn’t have told her that, but it wasn’t every day you went to someone’s house to give a blessing and end up bedding the woman who asked for it while her husband is in the fields.

“Por favor, Padre - my husband and I have been trying for children for years. If you could come bless our bed, I would be so grateful. I don’t know what else to do,” Mónica Marques had implored, her voice trembling, and of course he couldn’t really say no.

He’d picked up the holy water to spray - he supposed a generic blessing for fertility in plain Spanish would do, without Padre Culo Blanco breathing down his neck - and showed up at her place. He’d expected it to be a quick job; he hadn’t expected to turn to the woman to have her say a prayer with him or something, and realize that she’d taken off her shawl. And blouse.

And was halfway out of her gown.

Honestly, some women clearly had a thing for priests and well, he was only flesh. What was a man to do if not accept the offer?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ernesto finally said, shrugging off the memory. “She was asking for a blessing, and I gave one.”

"Padre. What you described sounded just about nothing like a blessing."

"It does when I'm involved."

"As if."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Ernesto frowned. “I’m pretty sure you said something, sister.”

“Well. If I may speak freely--”

“You always do,” he grumbled, only for Sofía to entirely ignore him.

“-- You and I have different opinions on what’s good enough to be considered a blessing.”

“Hey!”

Sofía shrugged. “Told you I’d speak freely. Now go and confess sinners, Padre. Did you at least give her absolution, by the way?”

“Of course!”

“Did you bother to get dressed first?”

“That’s entirely irrelevant,” Ernesto scoffed, but he finally sighed and stood. “Ah, well, back to my duties. Maybe I’ll get to hear something interesting,” he added, but of course he highly doubted anything he may hear would be quite as surprising as the blessing the previous day.

He was so, so wrong.

***

“He loves her!”

“Duh.”

“We already knew.”

“Everyone did.”

“... What are the three of you doing in my shack again?”

Chicharrón’s grumble caused Miguel, Óscar and Felipe to turn to look at him. He was sitting on an old chair, scowling and massaging his stump, peg leg on the floor next to him.

“We’re not in your shack,” Felipe pointed out.

“We’re right outside it,” his brother echoed.

“On the porch. That’s still my property,” Chicharrón snorted, and turned his attention back to Miguel. “Run this by me again. Padre Ernesto told Héctor it may be best if both he and Imelda dropped the vows and got married?”

“Yes. I mean…” Miguel raked his brain for an explanation that did not boil down to ‘if he’s a priest you’re Emiliano Zapata’. “He said that if you’re not sure you want to take the vows you shouldn’t do it, you know?”

“Well, I’ll be. A priest with half a brain,” Cheech muttered, and started pressing fresh tobacco in his old pipe. “Not sure Héctor will ask. The boy turns into a complete chicken in front of Imelda.”

“Bwaaak!”

“Lo siento, Juanita. I didn’t mean you,” Cheech said, entirely ignoring the glance the boys exchanged as he reassuringly patted the rooster’s head. “What I’m saying is, I wouldn’t put money on Héctor telling her a thing, even with Padre Ernesto telling him to.”

Miguel grinned. “He needs to find the right moment, so this is the time to act!” he exclaimed, jumped on the porch before he reached to pull both Óscar and Felipe closer. “We must make the right moment happen!”

Both twins’ face lit up like candles. “Oooh, is it a mission?”

“A secret mission!” Miguel grinned. “To get him to confess! And propose!”

“She’ll say yes!”

“She’s got to!”

“This is the best idea you ever had!”

“This is the recipe for trouble, but at this point anything goes,” Chicharrón muttered, putting the pipe in his mouth. “All reasonable attempts failed, so may as well-- what the-- give it back!”

His yell caused Miguel to blink and turn where Cheech was pointing an accusing finger. A few feet from them, was his peg leg - in the mouth of a scrawny, hairless dog with a furiously wagging tail. “Oooh, a Xolo!”

“A thief, more like! Get it to give me my leg back!” Cheech barked, causing Juanita to squawk - that was odd, he was usually so aggressive but hadn’t made a peep while the dog approached - and the dog to wag its tail even more furiously before he barked through the wooden limb and darted off, away from the cemetery. “AH, PINCHE-- don’t stand there, go get it back!”

“Sí, señor!”

“Right away!”

“You wait here!” Miguel yelled over his shoulder as they ran after the dog, leaving behind a very disgruntled man wondering aloud how roasted Xoloitzcuintli would taste as he lit his pipe and took a long drag.

***

“So he’s a convert - is that all?”

Contrary to popular belief, Héctor could make a very good liar; the fact alone it was contrary to popular belief was testament to that. Still, with Imelda’s gaze on him, Héctor found it very difficult not to squirm. She could read him better than most back when they were kids, on the few occasions when she was allowed to play with an orphan like him, and all of his acting skills seemed to disappear whenever around her.

He hated having to lie to her, but this time, he had to. Father John’s inclination was clearly a source of great turmoil to him, and it could destroy him if word came out. Not that he thought Imelda would go around talking about it, but it was his secret to keep, and… well, it was of no relevance to them, none at all. There was no point in spreading it.

“Yes, that is all - I already told Sofía,” he finally said. “And his family disowned him.”

Something in Imelda’s gaze softened for a moment in a look of pity. It was gone quickly, behind a somewhat guarded expression, but it wasn’t lost to him and oh God, she loved her all the more for those glimpses. He should tell her that, for sure. He had to tell her.

“At worst, she says no and all stays as it is,” Padre Ernesto had said, and Héctor knew he was right… but what he couldn’t admit was that a no would have felt like a knife between his ribs.

Not yet. When the time is right.

“So, that’s what the letter is about?”

“Yes.” That, at least, was not a lie. By itself, the letter could very well have been about the different religious stance or… anything, really. It was only the underlined passage from the Leviticus that had given Héctor the context he needed to understand. “I don’t know why he kept it all this time, but… it’s an entirely personal matter. Nothing to do with us, or what is going on here. You can tell them that we have nothing to fear from him.”

“Except for the usual headache,” Imelda muttered, a half smile on her face. “I can’t pretend I didn’t wish we had an excuse to be rid of him for good, but I wasn’t looking forward to sign his death warrant. Maybe he’ll grow tired and move on,” she added, her tone hopeful. She glanced back at the group of children playing swords with a bunch of sticks, perched on each other’s shoulders like knights on their horse as they had a go at each other in the middle of the church’s courtyard. “At least I never had to deal with him personally. If I had to, I don’t know if I could--”

“Ah, Brother Hector! And… Sister Giselle, is it?”

Héctor cringed inwardly at the expression that crossed Imelda’s face when Father John’s voice rang out. She was able to wipe it away before turning, but she was unable to keep some coldness out of her voice. The sun still shone, but Héctor had the distinct feeling the temperature around them had dropped by several degrees.

“Sister Gisela,” Imelda pointed out, only for Father John to nod absentmindedly and turn his full attention on Héctor, like she were a potted plant rather than a person who had just sharply corrected him. He was even paler than usual, and seemed shaken, fidgeting with his sleeve.

His smile looked forced, and it didn’t take a genius to realize he was trying, and failing, to strike up a conversation to distract himself from whatever bothered him.“I was just passing by, and… well, I observed the children wasting their time on such brutish games, and--”

“Play fighting,” Imelda said, her voice a few degrees colder. “I am certain that is something children have in common everywhere.”

This time, Father John couldn’t ignore her, and turned to her with a rather septic smile. “Children everywhere need guidance,” he conceded. He turned back him. “I had an idea,” he added, and Héctor had to suppress a shudder. “As these unfortunate children can’t read or write--”

“We do teach them, in the orphanage,” Imelda interjected.

“I am certain you do. But I was thinking Brother Hector and I may teach them some Latin, as well as some English. They only speak Spanish, after all,” he added. He said it in a tone that made it obvious he had very little regard for the language, and Héctor could almost picture thunderclouds forming above Imelda’s head when she opened her mouth to speak.

Luckily for all of them, she never got to. “Ruff! Ruff!”

“Hey, come back! Someone stop him!”

“Imelda!”

“Héctor, watch out!”

“Wha--”

He didn’t get to see what hit him. One moment he was standing and the next something had slammed into him, knocking him off his legs and all air out of his lungs; he got an instant to stare up at the sky before the ground rushed up to meet him, and something - someone - landed on top of him. “Oof!”

“Ow…!”

“Sorry, Héctor!”

“Lo siento, hermana!”

“WOOF!”

“I got him! I got him!”

“Come on, give me the leg, give it-- oh, good! Good boy!”

Héctor groaned, lifting himself on his elbows and blinking, trying to regain bearing of his surroundings. He blinked fast, and looked up to find himself staring very closely at Imelda’s face as she grimaced and rubbed her head, the headdress askew to let a few locks of hair fall out.

“Uh,” he managed, realizing very suddenly it was her weight keeping him pinned to the ground. She didn’t seem to take notice, and reached to fix the headdress.

“What just happened?” she asked, and looked down at him. And stilled. And fell silent.

“Ah,” she said, and after another few moments she quickly pulled back and stood. The weight gone, Héctor stood somewhat shakily, clearing his throat. His eyes darted around, and he found himself blinking when they found the cause of all that mess: a hairless dog standing in the middle of the yard, tail wagging and tongue flailing as children ran to pet it and Miguel stood by it, panting, something in his hand that looked an awful lot like Cheech’s peg leg.

“What. Is. That,” Imelda all but snarled, causing her brothers - both still trying to catch their breath - to recoil. They made a rather brave attempt at a smile.

“A dog?”

“He took Chicharrón’s leg, and we chased him, and--”

“Can we keep him?” Miguel was calling out. “Héctor, look! He likes me! Can he stay? We’ll feed him and look after him and--”

As he kept pleading and half the orphanage joined in, none of them saw Father John - who had become even more deathly pale at the sight of a dog - recoiling as the town clock chimed, and leaving quietly to head inside the church, doing his utmost to go unnoticed.

***

“Bless me, Padre for I have sinned.”

“Something something, the Lord, something. Go on.”

Outside the confessional, Sofía gave a small chuckle. “I have committed sins of the flesh.”

“You don’t say,” Ernesto muttered, grinning a little. He knew it already, of course - he’d been there. Still, it was a reprieve from what a series of very full confessions. “And with whom?”

“Do you want the short list, or the long one?”

“... Never mind.” Ernesto rolled his eyes. Way to kill the mood, he thought, glancing at the wall. “You don’t sound very contrite. Why should I absolve you?”

“Oh, shall I repent and promise to never do it again?”

Ernesto held back a guffawing laugh. “I don’t think you can.”

“I mean, never with you aga--”

“Absolved,” Ernesto cut her off, and they shared a snicker. He took another swig from the bottle. “You know, you could get in here with me if no one else is waiting for confession.”

“Isn’t that a too harsh penance?”

“You’re hilarious,” Ernest said flatly. He didn’t see her shrug, but he could picture it so well from her tone alone.

“I know. Also, no. Someone else is waiting for confession, so have fun. See you at dinner.”

The next person turned out to be an old guy with a tendency to cheat people in the market out of small change. Ernesto listened, gave a penance of three Hail Mary, blessed the guy, and waited for the next one to kneel at the confessional… except that nothing happened for a while.

Well, that’s it. I’m done for the day, Ernesto thought, and he was just about to get out when suddenly there were steps, and creaking wood as someone knelt. All right, so he wasn’t done at all. With an inward sigh, Ernesto sat again.

There were a couple more moments of silence, a long sigh, before a male voice finally reached him - low, slow, little more than a whisper. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but it wasn’t one he recognized, either. Either the guy had a bad sore throat, or he was trying pretty hard not to make his identity known. “Pordóneme, Padre, porque he pecado,” he whispered. “It’s been… a while since my last confession.”

“Uh… speak freely, my child.”

Maybe the old gravedigger? No, he sounds more like he swallowed a porcupine. Can’t picture that guy coming to confession, anyway.

“I was…” the voice got even lower. Something was off about it, but it was too muffed for Ernesto to put his finger on it. “I sinned in thought, Padre. I have been having… lustful thoughts.”

All right, now Ernesto really hoped that was not old Chicharrón, because that wasn’t a mental image he needed… although, to be fair, he may or may not have cracked a couple of crass jokes about that demonic rooster the old man insisted on calling Juanita. It had stopped being funny when some guy whose identity he hadn’t wanted to guess had come in with a confession that involve a donkey.

“I see,” Ernesto said slowly, reaching to pick up the bottle of mass wine from the floor. Still half full, thank God, in case he needed it urgently. Whoever was on the other side sounded too anguished for a plain old confession of lust towards some pretty girl. “What sort of thoughts?”

Another brief silence, a shaky breath, an unintelligible mumble.

Ernesto frowned. “I couldn’t hear you,” he said, faintly wondering if he wanted to hear in the first place. There was a sharp intake of air, and something not too far away from a sob.

“Thoughts about-- another man,” he managed, causing Ernesto to still and blink.

Oh, he thought. Oh. Right. That made… more sense. With no small measure of relief, he cleared his throat. “I see. That is--”

“An abomination.” The man was weeping now, he could tell, the voice still as hushed. “I have tried so hard… I thought I was cured… I don’t know what else to do. I need…” a shuddering breath, a sniffle. “I need penance, and… and absolution… and advice… on how to fix...” the man’s voice faded, and he suddenly began to sob, harsh broken sounds that seemed to tear all air out of his lungs. Ernesto sighed.

Ay, you’re asking the wrong man. I’ve had more than thoughts, and like hell I told a priest.

Of course, saying that was out of question. “All right, all right,” he muttered, and took a quick swig from the bottle - don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks - just as the man began to downright sob. He raked his brain for something to say. “Don’t despair. It’s-- er…”

Not that bad? Can’t say that as a priest. Think of something else, tell him to pray it away.

“Well. Did you ever, er, act on such thoughts?”

“I-- no! Never!” the man exclaimed, his voice suddenly louder, cracking. “I would never-- I never! I always resisted! Only in my sleep, I rarely-- when I had no control-- over my… my…”

The voice faded into silence, but it was too late. In his rush to explain himself, its owner had neglected to muffle it quite as well, and it was impossible not to recognize. That accent that had come through couldn’t belong to anyone else, and to be honest Ernesto really should have recognized it sooner.

“Juan?” Ernesto heard himself blurting out, so surprised he didn’t even register the bottle slipping from his fingers, the dull thud of thick glass on the wooden floor and the sloshing of spilled contents. There was a gasp on the other side, a noise like that of a scared dog, and suddenly the creaking of old wood, hurried steps, a door being thrown open and closed again.

For a long time Ernesto just sat in the dim light inside the confessional, blinking, trying to come to terms with what he’d just heard.

***

“Absolutely not! This is a parish, not some kind of refuge for mangy coyotes!”

“He’s not a coyote! And-- and he’s not mangy! He’s meant to be hairless and you know it!”

“Could have fooled me,” Gustavo grumbled, glaring at the dog - who, in turn, growled at him from behind Miguel. Didn’t like him, huh? Well, the feeling was mutual.

Of course, that wasn’t enough to get the kid to relent. He was almost as annoying as Héctor, and twice as stubborn. “Héctor said we can feed him!” was the next, predictable retort. Gustavo snorted and glared at Héctor, who shrugged.

“It’s not like we’re taking him inside the church. If he sticks around, I see nothing wrong with leaving out a few scraps--”

“That’s not the point!” Gustavo snapped. Sure, the golden boy would tell those brats to keep the dog, of course - not like it would be a problem for him. Oh no, it would be Gustavo to have to pick up the pieces and clean up whatever disaster that beast caused. Well, he wasn’t going to let him get away with that crap now - and he didn’t care how much a bunch of stupid kids, or that damn nun who could never shut up, glared at him. He had enough work to do as it was, more than enough to worry about. “You don’t take decisions! You’re not even a priest yet!” Gustavo growled. “If I catch that mangy thing anywhere around here, I’m going to make sure it never comes back to bother anyone!”

“You don’t make the rules, either!” Miguel snapped. “You’re just the sexton!”

Three things happened quickly: Gustavo stepped forward, moving to raise his hand; Héctor stepped between him and the kid; and, most of all, a voice rose up like the crack of a whip.

“You won’t dare, Gustavo,” Imelda - or Sister Gisela or whatever the hell she should be called now - snapped, and it was that, more than anything, to make him still. He turned to glare at her, only to get a cold gaze right back. “Accidents happen,” she said, her voice oddly sweet. “So you better not get any ideas involving the rat poison you keep on the shed.”

Wait, was that-- was the threatening him now? All eyes on him, Gustavo scowled and opened his mouth to snap back - when suddenly he caught glimpse of Father John walking out of the church and across the yard, and smirked. “Well, let’s see what Padre Ju-- Father John says!”

Miguel scowled. “Padre Juan isn’t the parish priest! Padre Ernesto is! He gets to decide!” he exclaimed. The dog barked as though in agreement. “We’ll ask him and I’m sure he’ll say-- er… is he… is he all right?” the boy added, the tirade turning into somewhat hesitant stammering.

“Huh?” Gustavo blinked, and looked back. Now that Father John was closer, he could tell that he didn’t look good at all. He was walking away from the church as fast as one could without running, hand tightly clenched together on the crucifix at his neck, eyes wide and skin white as a sheet - which wasn’t a huge change from usual, but a change nonetheless.

“He looks upset,” one of Imelda’s brother, hell knew which one, muttered.

“He looks ill, ” the other echoed.

“... Father John?” Héctor called out, taking a step forward, and the gringo recoiled as though he’d heard a shout, stopping to look at them. His reddened eyes paused on all of them - the three adults, the kids, the ugly-ass dog - but didn’t seem to really take in any of them. “Are you… is everything all right?” he asked. Nothing was all right, very clearly, but of course that was not the answer. Father John gave them the emptiest smile Gustavo could recall ever seeing.

“Yes, I… my apologies. I do feel quite faint. A walk will do me good.”

“If you’re feeling faint, that is about the last thing you should do,” Héctor pointed out. “Would you like me to help you back in? Maybe Padre Ernesto can--”

“No, no. I-- just-- If you’ll excuse me,” the man mumbled, and just walked fast past them all, away from the yard and heading towards the outskirts of the town. The dog whined and Gustavo blinked, then turned slowly to look at Héctor, who seemed just as taken aback.

“Any idea what that was about?” Imelda asked, and they could only shake their head.

“No clue,” Héctor said. Gustavo scratched his head.

“Maybe he walked into Sister Sofía having fun,” he muttered. Miguel blinked up at him.

“What’s so wrong with having fun?” he asked, confused. Behind him the twins had slapped a hand on each other’s mouth not to laugh, Héctor frantically shook his head, and Imelda downright made a slashing motion across her throat with a finger. Gustavo swallowed.

“Ah, er... nothing at all. You-- were going to ask Padre Ernesto about keeping the dog, sí?”

To his relief, the kid didn’t press the matter: he just gave a grito before ran off towards the church, barking dog in tow, and no one tried to stop him.

***

“... And I wanted to call him Dante, like your horse! Oooh, look! He likes the name! Dante! Dante, sit!”

As the pup dropped on the ground, flopping like a fish out of water, Ernesto smiled and finished the wine. He’d always had a soft spot for dogs himself, so he couldn’t say he minded letting this one wander around the parish. And even if he did then it wouldn’t matter anyway, because he had something else entirely in his mind.

Padre Juan, a maricón. Now that was some news he hadn’t been expecting. Absolutely none of his business and he had no high ground to stand on - don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks - but still, it had sort of blindsided him. And now, to be honest, he was slightly worried over who may be the object of his lust. Not that he could think of many options: the guy ducked out of whatever room he was in the moment Ernesto walked in, but he had insisted to give Héctor English lesson, one on one. Therefore…

He wants Héctor. It’s obvious. Well, sorry, gringo, but he’ll be taken soon.

The thought was amusing, but he wasn’t that worried; given how anguished he’d sounded throughout the confession, good old Juan was more likely to cut off his right hand than to attempt anything. For a moment - all right, maybe a couple of moments - Ernesto even felt sorry for him. Seeing him again was going to be awkward as hell, no question, but once he told Sofía they could at least have a laugh and… and…

“... Hey, are you listening?’

“Huh?” Ernesto recoiled, and looked down to see Miguel raising an eyebrow at him, still scratching Dante’s back. The dog's hind leg twitched, tongue splayed out across the floor.

“You weren’t listening at all.”

“Not past the name,” he admitted with a shrug. “I was wondering where my Dante went.”

Miguel’s expression immediately turned sadder. “Maybe he’s fine and will come back,” he said, hopeful as only kids can be. Ernesto had strong doubts, but he smiled a little.

“Here’s hoping. What else can your dog do?”

That caused the boy to pause. “My dog?”

“Well, he seems to have picked you,” Ernesto replied, and as the kid seemed to glow a little at the thought - his dog! - he took another sip wine. No, he thought, better not tell Sofía a thing. She may know how to keep her mouth shut, but with the gringo universally despised as he was, Ernesto could only imagine how tempting it would be to say something if he stepped out of line.

But this was more than a funny story: it was something that could completely destroy Padre Juan, there in Mexico and back in his country as well. It was the heavy artillery, so to speak, it may be wise to keep it under wraps, for now. Unless he freaked out and revealed himself to everyone and their dog, of course, which was not beyond the realms of possibility.

“I wonder where he came from,” Miguel was saying, rubbing the ecstatic dog’s chest. “I have never seen him around here.”

“Well, stray dogs do wander. It’s what makes them strays.”

“But he’ll never have to stray anymore! He’s home now, isn’t he?”

Ernesto smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Dog was an insult he got often from civilians while in the army, because of course he would. It was fitting, after all. Huerta’s dogs, on a tight leash. Too tight, and so Huerta’s dog had turned stray - wandering all the way to Santa Cecilia.

He’s home now, isn’t he?

Something clenched in Ernesto’s chest. “I suppose he is,” he said slowly, and emptied the glass.

***

“No, no, no! Are they all drunk? We can’t got back!”

“Those are the orders, and you will obey as the rest of the Regiment.”

“We need to keep going south! We’re rooting out rebels in each and every village - at this rate we’ll leave none in all of Oaxaca! This is far more useful than going to Veracruz!”

“In case the Constitutional Army tries anything, the port must be protected--”

“Then someone else can do it, we’re already doing our part--”

“Enough, Santiago!”

Nando’s snarl caused Santiago to trail off, more out of surprise than actual fear, because Nando rarely raised his voice. But now he was scowling, and it was clear he wouldn’t listen to any of his reasons. “I’m not an idiot, boy. I know exactly why you want to keep searching Oaxaca. It has nothing to do with rebels and everything to do with one deserter.”

“Everything to do with a murderer.”

Beto’s blood on the sand. His body with his face to the ground. The carrion birds already descending on him. The letter to tell his mother, written and torn and rewritten so many times.

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps all too aware, Nando scoffed. “Find me one man of arms with clean hands these days.”

Something twisted in Santiago’s stomach. “He killed him like a dog!”

“You shot a woman in the face.”

And I see her every night. “That’s not the same thing! She threw herself at me--”

“On her knees, to beg you to spare her husband--”

“I had no time to think! She could have been armed!”

“... Or maybe you were just too angry to be lucid, because he was not there,” Nando replied.

Santiago fell silent for a few moments. It was true - he knew it to be true - but he refused to dwell on it. “Taking pity on rebels now?” he asked instead, coldly.

“No. You take pity on no one if you want to survive this.” Nando made a face that might, with some imagination, have been a bitter smile. “It’s you I’m worried about. The war comes first - then your personal vendetta.”

“He’s out there somewhere.”

“We don’t even know for sure he headed south. He might have gone west to Yucatán, or taken the long way around to go back north - hell, for all we know he may have crossed the border into Guatemala, and good luck getting him then.”

“I’ll follow him to the ends of Earth.”

“But you don’t know where he may be. You’re guessing he’s somewhere south of here, but--”

“I know it!”

“Oh, did you have a prophetic dream? Holy Mary told you? Can you tell me my fortune?” Nando snapped, only to sigh when Santiago scowled, clenching his fists. “Look. We don’t know where he is. If you’re meant to find him, you will and I promise I’ll be by your side to have him hanged, as Beto’s friend and yours. But until then, I am your superior. You are a soldier, you will do what you’re told, and you’re coming to Veracruz,” he added, and turned, walking away.

I could shoot him now and leave anyway, Santiago thought, and his fingers twitched by the gun at his hip. It was so very tempting, but then the thought struck him - is this what de la Cruz thought, too, before he shot? - and he let his hand fall down his side like a dead weight, head spinning and fingers limp.

***

Padre Juan showed his face again at dinner time, and it was enough for Ernesto to wonder if he’d hallucinated the entire confession that morning: he sure was acting like nothing at all had happened. He barely glanced in his direction but, well, that was the usual. He sat stiffly in the chair, back never touching the backrest, and spoke to Héctor only about some bullshit idea to teach kids Latin.

Yes, it almost made him wonder if he’d been wrong… but then Héctor asked good old Juan how he was feeling, that he’d seemed ill earlier, and that was all he needed to hear. The way the gringo winced when asked and quickly dismissed it as a headache only confirmed his thoughts.

That had been his voice, his accent; the confession had been his, Ernesto was sure of it. The gringo was a better actor than he gave him credit for, that was all, and he wasn’t the only one who could put up an act. So he acted like nothing was wrong, too - until dinner was over, Héctor stood to leave, and Ernesto spoke. “Padre Juan. May I have a word?”

And oh, that worked. The gringo stiffened like he’d just heard him uttering his death sentence, growing paler for a moment, and spoke in a tight voice. “It’s Father John. And yes. You may.”

Héctor gave him a somewhat curious gaze - did he seem slightly alarmed? - but left them alone, closing the door behind himself. Padre Juan folded his hands tightly, in what Ernesto guessed was a pitiful attempt at keeping them from shaking. “What is it?” he asked, voice more controlled. Did he really hope he could make him think he’d been mistaken?

Ernesto shrugged, and gave his most reassuring smile. “I simply wondered if you need any counsel. You seem upset,” he added. Funny thing to say to the guy he’d slammed against the wall only weeks earlier, but the whole situation was odd and the gringo did not remark on that.

“I-- I had a brief episode of vertigo earlier today,” he said, gaze resting on absolutely everything in the room except Ernesto. “I will be fine after a good night’s sleep, and I am-- quite tired.”

“... I understand. But surely, if something is bothering you, you’ll let me know. Won’t you?”

That caused the man to look up at him. For just a moment his expression twisted into something so painful it was gut-wrenching, but then it was gone, and he looked away. “... I will keep it in mind. Will that be all?”

Ernesto nodded. “That will be all,” he said, gaining himself a brief nod before Padre Juan left the room in silence. Not a bad actor overall, but it would take more to fool Ernesto de la Cruz. He knew what he was and he knew what he desired - Héctor, clearly.

“Can’t hide a thing from me,” Ernesto muttered to the empty room, and poured himself a glass.

***

“All right, time to--”

“Ow!”

“What?”

“Your elbow is in my ribs.”

“Sorry. Should have built this doghouse bigger.”

“Well, we’re not supposed to be in it.”

“And yet here we are.”

“... Why are you here?”

Sitting cross-legged with Dante leaning on him, Miguel grinned. “To make plans! We must create the right moment for Héctor and Imelda, so he can seize it!” he exclaimed, and put his arms around the twins’ necks, pulling them close. “Now, here’s my idea…”

***

[Back to Part 7]

#pixar coco #miguel rivera #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #felipe rivera #oscar rivera #chicharron #coco #fake priest au

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