A/N: (8/12/18) I managed to put accents everywhere I think they should go. If you find something wrong, feel free to correct me.
Héctor Rivera was born into a large family. His father had seven siblings, and his mother had three. Before his Papá and his Mamá began arguing so often, they all lived with his Papá's family. With so many cousins, Hector had lots of friends. His childhood had been almost idyllic, but his paradise would end too soon.
One night, his Mamá woke him up and hurried them away from the Rivera family home. Hector noticed she had a bruised cheek and a black eye as she rode them to Santa Cecilia, where his tía Carmen lived alone. They moved in with her permanently, and his Mamá refused to answer Héctor when asked why they didn't live with the Rivera's anymore.
Despite how easily he got along with his cousins, Héctor had trouble making friends in Santa Cecilia. The other children were suspicious of him, the lanky boy with the crooked nose. They were especially suspicious of his relation to his strange tía, who was rumored to be a witch. Héctor may have thought this too if he hadn't known that his tía's facial hair was a medical condition.
After a while, though, there was one village kid who was brave enough to befriend the witch's nephew. Ernesto de la Cruz. He was a well-built, handsome teenager, four years Héctor's elder. All Héctor knew about him when Ernesto started talking to him was that his father was a drunk, according to his tía. Ernesto's Mamá had died from an illness years ago.
They became friends quickly, bonding over silly songs and their respective unfortunate situations. In the whole village they only had eachother, and the music they made together. Years go on, and Héctor is sixteen when he firsts notices Imelda. All the other boys in the village were afraid of her, but her resolve reminded Héctor of his Mamá. With some help from Ernesto, Hector managed to secure a date with her, and then another, and then another. At eighteen, Héctor asked Imelda's father for his blessing, and the two were soon engaged, and even sooner married.
Imelda loved Héctor's music and his spirit, and Héctor loved Imelda's voice and her soul. Together with Ernesto, they performed for their friends and families in Santa Cecilia, getting work where they could find it. Soon, Imelda was pregnant with their first child, and Héctor was ecstatic. There was nothing he wanted more than a proper family since he was a little boy. When Coco was born, he finally achieved his dream.
Ernesto, however, was becoming anxious. He couldn't bear to stay in Santa Cecilia anymore. He hated living with his father and mooching off of Héctor's family, despite how many times they said it was no issue. More than anything, Ernesto wanted to live his own life, not living on the tailcoats of his friend's happiness and success. But he couldn't do it alone.
Try as he could, Ernesto never wrote songs like Héctor's, despite how well he performed. And, though he would never admit it to himself, he didn't want to leave his best friend. In the end, the pull of ambition was stronger than his love for his friend. Over the course of years, he convinced Héctor to perform with him, not just play for his family. They could send money back to Imelda and Coco while they toured, and, if they became popular enough, the money would be good.
Héctor didn't want to leave, but his family needed the money. The old rumors about the Rivera's hung around in Santa Cecilia like a curse, and despite how hard Héctor worked to overturn them, he still caught a glare now and then. He was the bearded lady's nephew, and Imelda was his wife, Coco his daughter, and Ernesto his best friend. Touring was an opportunity he couldn't afford to deny.
Héctor and Ernesto left for the road when Coco was only four, playing from town to town and making what money they could. The experience brought them closer together than ever before, and Héctor soon felt a shift in their relationship. Before the tour, they had been as close as brothers. Now that he and Ernesto spent every waking moment in each other's company, Héctor began to see things in a different light. His best friend had passion and drive unlike anyone he'd met before. His optimism and cheeriness were infectious, as well as his undeniable charm.
Another part of Héctor refused to let one of Ernesto's better qualities, his good looks, out of his mind. For some reason, the taller man noticed more of his friend than before. The way Ernesto's chest swelled as he sang, his strong bone structure, even the way his mariachi suit fit him so snuggly. Héctor had never before been so affected by his friend's handsomeness. Maybe it was his friend's newfound happiness that made him glow wherever they went. He thrived with the adoration of their listeners.
Then again, it could just be the alcohol. Héctor had rarely been more drunk than he was after a good show. He and Ernesto played and drank from bar to bar, collecting tabs and new friends and more fans. They staggered to their hotel, each supporting the other from falling over. When they arrived to their room, they both collapsed on Ernesto's bed, laughing at a joke that had been told half an hour ago.
Héctor hadn't notice that he was lying on his best friend's chest until he met his eyes. They were wet from tears of laughter, and hazy from smoking whatever had been rolled for them a couple bars back. Ernesto noticed the same about Héctor. Despite his height, his friend felt so light on top of him. His hot breath against his face smelled like shots, and his face was red from laughing, and possibly something else.
The room was suddenly too quiet for Héctor.
"Hey," he whispered dumbly, still staring into Ernesto's eyes.
His friend took a minute to respond, enraptured by the connotations of the moment.
"Héctor . . . ." Ernesto breathed his name, sending a spark of something Héctor couldn't recognize down his spine. A thought lingered on his tongue, an idea on the edge of his best friend's mind that the Rivera needed to know.
"Ernesto?" he encouraged slowly, unaware that his friend shared his confused feelings.
A few tantalizing seconds of stillness went by as the eye of the storm passed. In a flurry of heated emotions and confused desires, Ernesto pulled Héctor pink face to his and kissed him.
In his shock, Héctor allowed the exchange to continue, feeling his friend's full lips stick to his. Ernesto eyes shut and he moaned lowly as if tasting the flavor of life for the first time. This is what the he wanted, he knew that now. His Papá had tried so hard to beat it out of him, tried to forget about his unholy son by ignoring him in favor of the bottle. The satisfaction of knowing his father failed as he parted Héctor's lips with his tongue was powerful, urging him to go further.
The feeling was short-lived. Héctor broke away from the kiss, taking a gasping breath as he pushed Ernesto away from him. The larger man's confused expression faded when he noticed the frightened look on his friend's face.
"Héctor, I-" he tried, his mind searching for an explanation, hoping it wasn't too late to forget this ever happened.
His best friend ignored his unspoken plea. "What did you do to me?" he demanded, hand grasping the clothing over his fluttering heart.
Ernesto couldn't respond, reeling in the aftermath of his mistake. He'd ruined everything. His best chance to live his dream was falling through his fingertips. He felt despair like he hadn't felt in years, not since his Mamá died.
"What did you do to me?" Héctor repeated, frustration seeping angrily into his voice as he struggled to express what he was trying to say. "Why did you do that? Why did you- you make me- made me . . . ."
He trailed off, his tired, inebriated brain struggling to find the words. Ernesto held his breath as his world seemingly collapsed around him.
"Why do I, did I . . . did I like that?" Héctor managed finally, surprising both himself and his best friend.
"What?" Ernesto said, confused. A thin light of hope sparked in his heart.
Héctor ran a distressed hand through his hair, and continued panickedly, "You, you're a man - I'm not, we shouldn't. Why did that make me feel so-" he stopped himself, suddenly scared of the answer.
Ernesto leaned forward, his soul begging to know, "Feel so . . . ?"
The Héctor swallowed, refusing to meet his best friend's gaze and instead staring at the bedsheets.
After a few, heart-stopping seconds, he murmured, " . . . . good."
The confession made Ernesto's heart soar, and there was no suppressing the small smile than inched its way onto his lips. On the other side of the bed, his friend had a very different feeling overtake him. His face contorted with dread and shame.
"Imelda," he lamented. "Dios mió, I'm a married man. What have I done?"
"She doesn't have to know," Ernesto suggested immediately, reaching to place a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.
Héctor saw the gesture approaching and jumped off the bed away from Ernesto.
"What are you saying?" he asked. His head was telling him to be angry, to run out of the room and back to Santa Cecilia. If only he wasn't so drunk.
"She doesn't have to know," the other man repeated coolly, disguising his desperation under a facade of charm as he stood to look his best friend in the eye. "Héctor, you are only twenty-two years old. You have your whole life to be with the same woman over and over. Don't you want to experience life to its fullest?"
Ernesto gestured to Héctor's discarded guitar. "The freedom this tour allows us won't last forever," he reminded. "Why can't we enjoy ourselves?"
"I'm married," Héctor rebutted, glancing off at the door. His sense told him it would be best if he left now.
Ernesto grabbed Héctor's shoulders and forced him to meet his eyes. "Your wife doesn't define who you are. You can be someone beyond your marriage, beyond Santa Cecilia. Héctor, you can be who you are now, standing in front of me. You said that what we were doing felt good."
The sensible part of Héctor wanted to break away from Ernesto and get on the next train home. Usually, his sense led him in every decision. Now, though, with the alcohol in his veins and Ernesto begging in front of him, something that Héctor had never felt before overpowered him.
Placing his hands on top of Ernesto's, Héctor gently held onto his friend. He took a deep, yet shaky breath, and let it out slowly. His best friend waited eagerly for his answer.
Héctor thought over the proposition as much as his intoxicated brain allowed him. Imelda was the love of his life. He knew that for a fact. What he felt for Ernesto was different. It was passionate and desperate, thick and suffocating, deep and primal.
Meeting Ernesto's eyes in earnest, Héctor made his decision.
With some hesitation, the taller man leaned down to meet his friend's lips. The kiss was soft and tame, but willing to continue despite the consequences. Ernesto nearly weeped in relief and joy as he returned the kiss, mindful to match Héctor's pace.
Their movements were timid and gentle. Ernesto took the lead, wrapping an arm around Héctor's lower back and he pulling him closer. Allowing the closeness, Héctor held onto his friend as he sucked on the other man's lower lip. He felt himself being pulled to the bed and laid below Ernesto. The bulkier man encouraged him to kiss harder, deeper, and Héctor did.
Soon the songwriter was running his hands through his friend's well-kept hair, and Ernesto was sucking on his neck. A soft gasp escaped Héctor's lips as Ernesto traced his teeth over his skin, his hands searching for the clasps on his jacket. Héctor's mind raced as he was disrobed, only having enough coherent thought to do the same for Ernesto. They flung their jackets onto the floor carelessly. Ernesto's kisses trailed down his neck onto his chest, his hands working fast to unbutton his shirt.
Héctor moaned as Ernesto's fingers splayed across his body, touching his chest, his back, his face. The stimulation was far more intense than anything he'd experienced before. He felt as if a fire were ignited in the pit of his stomach as Ernesto's kisses trailed lower and lower down his torso. When his best friend kissed just below his belly button, Ernesto hurriedly unclasped his belt and tugged his pants and underwear to his ankles.
The warm breath against his crotch sent Héctor wild. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a pleasured gasp.
"Don't," Ernesto reprimanded softly, looking up to meet Héctor's unsure eyes. "I want to hear you."
Héctor slowly removed his hand, watching Ernesto's every movement. His friend's face was inches away from his erect member, a sight he'd never thought he'd see.
Ernesto smiled. His voice deep and rolling, he murmured, "Good."
He then ducked his head lower and gradually took Héctor into his mouth, sucking and rolling his tongue along his length. The Rivera shivered with pleasure and bucked softly into his best friend's mouth, seeking more than what he was being given. Ernesto took notice and moved faster. His hands grasped Héctor's hips hard enough to bruise. Héctor wrapped his legs around Ernesto's back, giving him better leverage.
The pace slowly grew more intense as Héctor became desperate, mewling and gasping as he bordered on sweet release. Ernesto nearly choked when the other man bucked too roughly, and a burst of hot cum flooded into his mouth. Thinking quickly, he swallowed as much as he could, not wanting to leave a suspicious mess for the hotel's maid. Héctor relaxed completely on the bed, his legs falling off of Ernesto's back as he reveled in the afterwaves of his orgasm. His eyes were glassy and glazed with bliss.
Ernesto crawled to lay beside him and played with Héctor's hair as he came down from the high. The contented expression on his face was beautiful, and Ernesto took pleasure in knowing that it was he who made him feel that way. After a few minutes of comfortable silence between the two, Héctor's contentedness began to fade and was replaced by concern.
Meeting Ernesto's gaze, the songwriter said, "Listen to me, Ernesto."
"Of course," the other man replied smoothly, running his thumb soothingly over Héctor's forehead.
"What we just did, we won't ever speak of again," he pressed seriously.
"I'll never tell a soul," Ernesto agreed, settling in beside Héctor. "What happens on the road stays on the road."
"Yes," said Héctor drozily.
The two fell asleep before they could worry about the consequences of their actions.
The next morning Héctor's guilt had him stumbling out of bed and sprinting to the bathroom. Ernesto woke to the sound of retching. He fetched his friend of a glass of water before joining him in the bathroom, watching Héctor hurl into the toilet.
"Perhaps we did drink a little much last night," Ernesto offered as an explanation, setting the water on the floor within Héctor's reach. "I have such a headache."
Héctor, finished vomiting for now, took a swig of water to rinse out the acidic taste from his mouth and spit into the toilet bowl.
"I can't believe I did that with you," he muttered afterwards, flushing the toilet and rising to his feet. His expression was sour from sickness and shame.
"I can't either," Ernesto admitted honestly, though with a different meaning.
"Have you . . ." Héctor searched for the right words. " . . . always felt that way towards me?"
Ernesto thought the question over, glancing off to the side.
"Not when we were kids, no," he said finally, turning towards the bedroom to dress and avoid the conversation. Despite the nature of what they did last night, Ernesto felt exposed having revealed such an important secret to his friend. He hated feeling vulnerable.
"But now? What do you feel for me now?" Héctor pressed, following him into the main area. The discarded jackets and crumpled sheets stood as monument to what they did. He almost couldn't bear to be in the same room as them.
Ernesto let out a tired sigh, grabbing his mariachi jacket and slipping it on.
"I don't know," he admitted, his frustrated tone warning his friend not to ask any further.
"You don't know?" the songwriter exclaimed, throwing his arms up. "I cheated on wife with you last night, and when I ask you why, you say you don't know?"
Ernesto turned violently to Héctor and yelled, "I don't know! If you knew you were going to be this upset about it, why did you even do it?"
"I don't know! Why did you do it?"
"Goddammit, because I wanted to!" Ernesto roared, facing Héctor with hot-headed fury. "I don't know what I feel towards you! I just know that I wanted you- I wanted to have you. Is that what you want from me?"
"No - I don't know!" Héctor seethed, glaring down at his friend. "I just - I don't-" he sighed in defeat and exhaustion, letting his posture sag, "I don't want us to fight."
Ernesto breathed heavily, his anger dissolving slower than Héctor's. In honesty, he didn't want to argue either. There were other rooms besides their own whose occupants were probably upset over the noise. The last thing they needed was to have strangers bothering them with unwelcomed questions.
"What do we do now?" asked the taller man, his forlorn expression breaking the last thread of Ernesto's anger. De la Cruz sighed in defeat.
"I think we should continue the tour," said Ernesto. They needed the money anyways, and despite what had happened (and perhaps also because of what happened) between them, he still wanted to chase his dream. The thought of being a famous musician made his head spin with possibilities, and this tour was still his best chance to achieve his goal.
After a moment of thought, Héctor nodded in agreement.
"I don't think I can go home so soon after . . . what we did," he said.
Ernesto nodded. He bent and picked his friend's jacket off of the floor.
"Then it's decided," he acknowledged, handing Héctor's jacket to him like a peace offering.
"Yeah," Héctor conceded, taking his jacket and pulling it on.
It was going to be a long tour.