So I came out of Book of Life wanting fic, and this 22,000 word fic of feelings is what happened. I'll be uploading the chapters on a regular basis. Hope you enjoy!

The title comes from Kris Delmhorst's "Damn Love Song."

The celebration seemed like it would go on forever.

All around Joaquin there was laughter and song and enough food to put all other feasts to shame. He ate turkey legs slathered with mole sauce, and shared bread and a bowl of queso fundido with Maria's father. At one point, a child darted past him, her dark eyes shining, her face stained with hot chocolate, and he thought, wonderingly, She'll tell her grandchildren of this day, when the dead broke bread and danced with the living at Manolo and Maria's wedding.

He danced, clumsy and wrong-footed from the loss of his eye, but no one seemed to mind. The women laughed as he lifted them into the air, their gazes just as admiring as before. The empty spot beneath his eyelid ached with every spin, though the pain was bearable now, thanks to La Muerte.

Joaquin inspected his mustache in the mirror. He wanted to look his best for the wedding, even though everyone, himself included, would be watching Manolo and Maria. He smoothed a hand down the front of his uniform one more time, tried to focus on his happiness for his friends and not on his own heartache. His fingers stilled among the medals, feeling the absence of the one that had been with him the longest.

Pain dizzied him, a sharp reminder of what he'd given up, and he closed his remaining eye, laughing a little. What was an eye compared to the decades Manolo and Maria would now have together? He would've given up his very life for Manolo and Maria. An eye seemed a small price to pay.

There was the rustle of fabric, and he looked up into La Muerte's considering smile. Her finger was cool against the bloodied bandage as she touched his face. His breath escaped him in a gasp as the agony sharpened, so intense that his knees nearly buckled. Then the pain receded to a dull, manageable discomfort.

He stared at La Muerte, amazed and bewildered. Her smile warmed. "That medal could have done much evil if it had remained among the living, even in the hands of a good man," she said. "And you returned it to my husband without hesitation." She touched his cheek again, gently, as he thought his mother might have, if she'd lived past his birth. "Well done."

"Dance with me next, Joaquin!" demanded Sofia, the baker's daughter, bolder than he remembered. She seized his hands and beamed at him. He shook off the memory, smiled as she drew him further into the crowd.

The Rodriguez brothers performed as they never had before. The music crashed over Joaquin like a wave of sound, sweeping him along. He danced until his feet hurt and his breath was labored. Then he danced some more. A pair of dancers moved too close; the woman's elbow bumped against his hip. When he stepped out of their way, releasing Sofia to avoid a collision, he crashed into another couple instead. He turned, stammering out a flustered apology.

Maria and Manolo smiled at him with matching looks of amusement.

Maria's curls were dark with sweat, her face aglow with happiness. "I'm sorry, Joaquin! That was my fault," she said. Then she laughed and nudged at Manolo with an affectionate bump of her hips, pursing her mouth at him. "Well, and yours, Manolo."

Her voice was sweeter than any music. Joaquin smiled helplessly back. Her laughter caught hold of him as it always did, winding like ropes around his heart. He stood there, ensnared.

Then Manolo, smiling so broadly that his face must hurt, tugged at Joaquin's arm. Joaquin obediently shuffled forward until they stood in a small circle, so close that he almost bumped his head against Manolo's as they bent their heads together. "It was mostly my fault," Manolo agreed cheerfully, half-shouting to be heard over the music and conversation. His hand rested on Joaquin's arm.

Joaquin welcomed the warm touch, grateful for Manolo and Maria's nearness. He remembered, like a bad dream, staring down at Manolo's face, made strange and unfamiliar by its unnatural stillness, touching that cold, dead hand and thinking, horrified, I didn't mean it, Manolo! I didn't want to lose either of you! But here was Manolo, alive and grinning at him as though they'd never fought over Maria or came to blows, as though Joaquin had never told him that he wished him dead instead of Maria.

Joaquin gave in to the impulse that had bloomed in him at that first touch of Manolo's hand. He swept both Manolo and Maria into his arms, hugged them both with all his strength. He ignored their startled shouts of laughter, the way Maria's chin bumped awkwardly against his chest and Manolo's jaw dug into his shoulder. He just held on tight.

"I'm so happy for you both," he said, and it was true. The small, niggling lonely feeling was easy to ignore when he was faced with their obvious joy. He hugged them one more time, savoring the sound of their laughter, and then carefully lowered them back to the ground.

The corners of Manolo's eyes crinkled. The hugs had mussed his hair; Maria laughed and smoothed his curl back into place. Manolo attempted a serious look, though it was ruined by the way his mouth kept twitching. He said, mock-solemn, "Joaquin, if you wanted a dance, you should have said!"

Joaquin started to laugh. It caught in his throat as Manolo took his hand and Maria took the other. Both of their hands were callused, and Joaquin remembered, dizzily, how Maria had held the sword aloft like she was born to wield it, of Manolo's fingers certain and deft upon the guitar. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips and tried to laugh again, but the sound wouldn't escape his throat. "I didn't-"

Maria tugged at his hand, stepping sideways and giving a twist of her hips that made her dress flare. She was always beautiful, but Joaquin thought she looked especially so by firelight, the flames casting a warm, ruddy glow to her cheeks. Her teeth gleamed as she laughed at them both and shook her head.

"Less talking, more dancing, please."

She tugged at Joaquin's hand again. He couldn't resist her, though he felt off balance, dizzy and overheated, his uniform restrictive and too tight. He was suddenly aware of how long he had been dancing, that his mustache must be wilted and ridiculous-looking from the heat. He wondered if they would let him go find a mirror first, make himself presentable. Maria's grip tensed, like she could guess his thoughts. Pinned beneath Maria's expectant look, he sighed and tapped his foot in the dirt, struggling to find the rhythm of the latest song. His boot stirred up a cloud of dust and he stopped, flushing.

Beside him, Manolo laughed. His lashes dipped low, and his warm gaze was contrite as he said, "Whatever you want, Maria." His hand tightened on Joaquin's. The smile he wore now was full of the old mischief Joaquin remembered from childhood, when it had been the three of them rescuing pigs from slaughter and turning the town upside down with their latest adventure. "Let's show San Angel how to dance."

And so they did, Manolo and Maria's hands warm and alive in his, their feet stomping out a lively rhythm as they danced in a small circle. The world blurred around him as they spun, Maria laughing breathlessly and Manolo joining in, their joy infectious, until Joaquin closed his eye and laughed as well. His heart felt so light that it was a wonder that he wasn't floating and dancing on air.

"Manolo!"

Carlos Sanchez's voice rose above the rest. The musicians halted with a suddenness that was almost shocking, the guitar giving out a protesting twang before falling silent. Joaquin stumbled a little, laughter caught in his chest. The world, which had narrowed to just Manolo and Maria and the music, expanded once more as the conversations paused, the dancers slowed and stilled. It felt as though everyone watched Manolo step forward to meet his father, his hand slipping from both Joaquin and Maria's.

Carlos clapped a bony hand to Manolo's shoulder. A smile touched that skeletal jaw.

For a second Joaquin remembered Carlos as he had been before, with his large, fleshy face, how he would purse his lips in disapproval whenever he caught Manolo playing his guitar, the way pride chased the furrow from his brow whenever Manolo proved his skill in the ring. It would be strange, he thought with a sudden pang, to bury the man tomorrow.

"Manolo," Carlos said again. There was a new note in his voice, something like regret. Carmen stepped closer as well, raising white-boned fingers to Manolo's cheek and smiling. "It's almost dawn."

With a start, Joaquin realized Carlos was right. Somehow the hours had flown by. The stars were fading, consumed by the lightening sky. Colors crept in at the edges of the horizon, dawn stretching out its fingers. Soon the Day of the Dead would be over, and even La Muerte and Xibalba would have to obey the laws and return the dead to the Land of the Remembered.

Manolo said nothing. He looked stricken, as though somehow he'd forgotten in his happiness that his parents couldn't stay.

Joaquin found himself stepping forward, not certain what he was going to say, but wanting to say something to ease the pain in Manolo's face. Then he hesitated, because surely Maria should say something instead. But when he looked for her, realizing belatedly that he no longer held her hand, Maria was shoving her way through the crowd with a purposeful stride and a judiciously applied elbow to anyone who moved too slowly out of her way.

In another second she'd returned to Manolo's side. She gripped Manolo's guitar in one hand; the other gently stroked Manolo's shoulder. She and Manolo's parents surrounded him then, Carlos and Maria at either shoulder, Carmen in front of him.

Joaquin took a step back, feeling silly. What could he have said that would've helped? He imagined saying something stupid, like, Well, you'll see them in a couple decades! And then you'll all enjoy each other's company in the Land of the Remembered forever. It could be worse! and grimaced.

Maria smiled at Manolo so tenderly that Joaquin's chest ached. "One last song, then," she said. "As a goodbye."

Manolo blinked. The strain left his face slowly, like someone coming out of a bad dream. Color returned to his face. He stared at Maria for a moment, as though drawing strength from her smile. Then he smiled back, the gesture half-lost beneath his mother's hand. "A song?"

"Yes! Maria is right. You must sing us a song." Pride warmed Carlos's voice. "I told you a long time ago that you would do great things, son, things people would sing about, and I was right!" He paused. Joaquin had never imagined that a dead man could look embarrassed, but somehow Carlos managed it, his broad shoulders slumping, the bones of his face twisting into an apologetic look. Carlos continued, softer, yet the words still reached Joaquin's ears. "But you were right as well. You'll make your own songs. You are a musician, not a bullfighter. The song you sang before- I-" He paused. His hand half-lifted from his side, as though groping for words. "Please, sing us something before we go. Whatever song you wish."

Manolo and his father exchanged a long look, and Joaquin wondered what had passed between them in the Land of the Forgotten. He had heard only bits and pieces of the story, how Manolo had sacrificed himself for Maria and then won a wager against Xibalba to return to her, but there had to be more to the tale.

After a moment Manolo nodded. "All right." The smile he wore was unfamiliar, tinged with grief, but it was nevertheless a smile, and the sight of it eased something in Joaquin, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Joaquin bowed his head as Manolo coaxed the first note from the guitar. The song was bittersweet, the words filled with tender regret as he sang his goodbye to his ancestors, all gathered around to say farewell. The melody hurt. It touched a part of Joaquin he'd been trying to ignore all evening, that selfish lonely part. He was happy for Manolo and Maria, he was, and yet. And yet, he thought, pressing his fist to his chest where the ache was worst.

A hand touched his elbow. When he looked up, Carmen embraced him and said, "Joaquin! Oh, how you've grown!" She tugged at the corner of his mustache and smiled, somehow so like Manolo's mischievous grin that he had to smile back. "And what a nice mustache you have. Very impressive."

Joaquin blinked, startled but pleased. "Thank you," he said. He'd always liked Manolo's mother, though he had few memories of her. What he remembered most wasn't a memory about her at all, but of the time he and Maria had teased Manolo that he was going to go white early like his mother. Manolo had spent the next three weeks peering anxiously into every mirror he could find, checking for white hairs, before Carmen had caught him at it and laughed until she'd cried.

Manolo's song floundered mid-note, his fingers faltering on the strings, and Joaquin winced. He looked past Carmen, to where Manolo frowned down at his guitar. "You should be with him," he said, without thinking. His face warmed at her expression. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tell you what to do-"

"Joaquin," she said. He bit back the rest of his fumbling apology. The tips of her fingers felt strange against his cheek, cool and smooth, less like bone and more like polished wood. She looked at him for a long moment. "I wanted to thank you, for protecting Manolo."

"I-"

It was the right thing to do.

I didn't want Maria to suffer.

I'd already lost him once. I couldn't take losing him again.

He shook his head and tried to answer her. What came out, instead, was, "Have you seen my father in the Land of the Remembered?" When she nodded, looking puzzled, he cleared his throat. "Will you tell him that Chakal is dead? He'd...I think he'd want to know."

Understanding softened Carmen's voice. "Of course, Joaquin. I'm sure he'll be very proud of you when we tell him what you did."

"No, I-" Joaquin said, because that wasn't what he'd meant, but Carmen had already returned to Manolo's side. She stroked his hair out of his face and said something in a low whisper that made Manolo smile and take up the guitar again. This time the song was less melancholy and more hopeful, the notes drawing small smiles from his listeners.

Manolo was still playing when the sun rose. The sunlight spilled over the crowd and caught upon exposed white bones of the dead. The dead seemed to glow, the light catching upon the pale surfaces of their faces, the light growing so bright that Joaquin had to close his eye or be blinded. Manolo's guitar trailed off with one last lingering note.

When Joaquin opened his eye and the spots faded from his vision, Manolo and Maria were alone. Manolo was bent over his guitar, his eyes closed. He wore an unreadable expression, though he smiled and straightened when Maria touched his shoulder. He looked into her face, and his smile grew stronger. She lifted her face to his, said something that made Manolo laugh, and kissed him.

When the kiss ended, Manolo pressed his forehead to Maria's and grinned.

Joaquin watched them, trying to fix this picture of Manolo and Maria in his mind, how happy they looked, how content. The dawn painted them in warm light, catching in their hair, bringing out the color in their faces. They'd never looked more alive. Relief touched him, his heart so full that it felt close to bursting, at the knowledge that they were both safe. He remembered the way Carmen had looked at him, her voice as she'd thanked him for protecting Manolo. But there hadn't been any other choice, really, not one he could have lived with.

He looked at Manolo and Maria for another minute. Then he shook his head at himself and smoothed his hand over his mustache, exhaustion catching up with him. He retreated into the crowd, offering a good-night to Maria's father and then to Pancho Rodriguez.

The Day of the Dead was over, he thought as he walked towards his house. It was time for the living to sleep.