Ernesto fucks up. What else is new? Oh yeah, Héctor realised it and tells everyone in the Land of the Dead AU

Apologies for any mistakes. Don't own Coco, etc. etc. Already on AO3 but I'm a slut for validation so it's here too. Still got some loyalty for too

~ 1921 ~

"We'll do it together," Héctor had promised him.

When they were nothing more than small boys bursting with massive ambition. When they had only themselves to rely on after their confident proclamations of fame were drowned out by laughter. Naïve, Ernesto had often been called. But at least he and Héctor had been naïve together…

Ernesto flipped through his newly acquired songbook. It was like peeking through a treasure trove. The guitar case bumped against his leg as the train rumbled along the tracks.

Whenever a young impatient Ernesto had miserably wondered if Santa Cecilia was all he was destined for, the trains passing by reminded him that there was a world out there for the taking. An even younger Héctor had said they would catch a train one day and never return…

The bright lights of México City gradually dimmed as Ernesto left it behind. The two of them had arrived there a few days ago. He had remained true to their childhood dream more so than Héctor but that hadn't mattered then, because at least they were together.

Now, the space between them was growing every second that ticked by. It was the furthest apart they had ever been. Ernesto supposed the physical distance was irrelevant when death was a one-way train.

He shut the songbook with a sense of finality. Héctor had done the same back in their hotel room, packing his bags, choosing to walk away.

"We'll do it together," Héctor had lied to him.

But Ernesto would be damned before he let Héctor walk away first.

~ 1922 ~

Día de los Muertos had begun. Over the week leading up to the holiday, branches had emerged from the dark canyon between the Land of the Dead and the Land of the Living. They crawled up the rocky walls, then slowly reached out to meet at the middle to form a bridge. Upon the day when the veil separating the two worlds was at its weakest, the buds on the branches blossomed into thousands of marigold flowers. It was a sight to behold and some theorised the warmth and glow radiating from the petals were designed to comfort new spirits into their afterlife. Like wrapping one's self in blankets and going to bed for the night. However, not all spirits were easily comforted.

That was where staff members like Coleta came in.

Her job was to monitor just one bridge, but it was the bridge that called forth spirits torn away from life unexpectedly. Those drawing close to the end by the pull of illness or old age crossed over immediately, the transition smooth due to the soul balancing between the two worlds before finally tipping over. But for souls that were suddenly taken before they could process the change, the transition took much longer. They could only cross on Día de los Muertos.

Tonight, Coleta had already guided three newcomers. One, a little girl thrown off her horse. Two, a woman lost to childbirth and thirdly, a man who had been shot down while attempting a robbery.

It was protocol that the staff worked with only four people a night due to the exhausting emotional and mental labour. Coleta kicked the petals at her feet, waiting for her fourth and final person. Once done, she could visit her family in the Living world and drive the haunting words and tragic stories out of her mind.

It was at that moment that Coleta faintly heard something. Someone was crying.

By no means an unusual sound considering the nature of this bridge. However, Coleta couldn't spot the person responsible and therefore concluded that no one was around to guide them. Following her ears, she chased after the sound until it brought her around a corner and into a narrow alleyway lodged between two arrival stations. To her relief, hidden away in the alley's shadows, was the crier. As she carefully approached the distraught individual, she made a note to remind her boss that more staff was required so moments like this didn't happen. The thought of a traumatised newcomer stumbling into the Land of the Dead without proper guidance made her shiver.

Her boots clicked loudly on the cobble ground. The newcomer gasped wetly and scrambled back until they met the brick wall.

"Pardon, I didn't mean to frighten you," Coleta said soothingly. She stayed where she was and shifted to standard script. "My name is Coleta. I'm here to help. What is your name?"

The newcomer didn't answer. They curled into themselves as tears continued to fall. Patience was required for this occupation however Coleta was conscious of her duty of care. Her fourth person needed a warm drink and soft couches, not a cold isolated alleyway.

"I am here to help you in any way I can. May I please have your name?" she pressed again, hoping her friendlier tone would do the trick.

Coleta ran over her training as the arrival's sobs dissolved into wet hiccups. Quietly, she took a few steps forward as though approaching a wild injured animal. She could see the arrival better now. His living form was visible but rapidly fading away, leaving behind a skeleton. Coleta still remembered her first day dead, tracing her bones visible underneath her skin as though it was see-through. Starting from her fingertips, her body has disappeared like lifting fog. She had accepted her new skeletal body better than most. However, her death had been peaceful and expected.

Unlike this poor soul.

He shuddered as he caught the state of his hands. All skeleton but outlined by an orange glow that was once his skin. Coleta cleared her throat to get his attention. "Señor, am I allowed to come closer?"

His eyes were glassy, but he managed to nod. Coleta was careful to prevent sudden movements and noise as she joined him. It was cold, damp and the distant scent of tequila hung in the air. Coleta realised it was coming from the newcomer. The circumstance behind this man's death became apparent. She bent down so she was eye-level with him. He had lowered his head to his chest and fallen back into his misery.

"Señor, please, what is your name? I can properly help you if I know it."

He seemed so lost to his mourning that Coleta took a moment to realise he wasn't muttering nonsense through quivering lips but actually attempting to answer.

"Hé – Héctor. It's …Héctor." A wet sniff. His hands were trembling.

Pleased with one box ticked, Coleta's next aim was to lead Héctor inside the station to a private room. "I can help you better señor, if you come with me please. I-I know this isn't easy," she hastily added when her arrival flinched. "But we need to get you comfortable. After that, I can lead you through all the procedures. We can connect you with your family here. Doesn't that sound nice?"

He shook his head, refusing to look at her.

"I want to go home. My family – I – I was going home."

Coleta worriedly considered her other options as the man sobbed. Security was dismissed from her mind as soon as it entered. Unless the newcomer, Héctor, decided to make a run for it in an emotionally charged bid to escape the truth, security was unnecessary and would most likely make things worse. For now, Coleta committed to repeating the same calming words until they finally slipped through and reached him. "I know you do. I know …I know this is hard," she whispered. "But everyone comes here eventually. And one day, some day soon, you'll see your family again –"

"– that's not fair."

Coleta closed her mouth. That was a common complaint of many arrivals regardless of how they passed away. The want and need to see their living family and friends was so powerful and strong sometimes that it hurt more to have connections than to go without.

"This isn't … this isn't fair," Héctor insisted, his voice croaky and shaky. Yet also firm and bitter.

Frowning at the odd tone, Coleta said, "It's not fair, yes. But things happen and it's not your fault –"

"– I know it wasn't my fault."

Héctor unravelled himself and faced her. The tear tracks running down his face glistened behind the fading skin. Colourful markings decorating his forehead, cheeks and chin were bright and exuberant but overshadowed by the miserable but also furious expression marring what would otherwise be an open and charming face. Coleta's frown deepened. "Señor?"

"It wasn't my fault," Héctor hissed, wiping another tear rolling down his cheek. "I was …It was his. I heard him. I – I heard him. He said he'd – He said – I can't believe he would …would do this. I can't – I can't…"

Coleta felt a sickening feeling chill her bones. She had heeded the warnings from her colleagues and read the statistics, but all of her training meant nothing now that she was facing a case she had feared confronting from day one. Taking a deep breath, Coleta asked the important question, forgoing comfort in favour of professionalism: "Señor, how did you die?"

He stiffened. The blush pink mariachi suit sat loosely on his skeleton body, the ends of the jacket bundled up in fists. The fading skin had reached his hairline leaving behind a skull still brimming with afterlife yet empty as though an important piece of him had been ripped out and stolen.

"I was murdered."

~ 1943 ~

Ernesto knew from an early age he was destined for fame.

So, he was never surprised by the riches celebrity life gave him. Adoring fans that screamed his name, national tours that expanded to all four corners of the globe, record sales that marked significant moments in musical historical, and featuring in some of the first talking pictures. All of this was expected.

Ernesto hadn't counted on a falling bell ending his life.

It was the Día de los Muertos of 1943 when he woke up in a mausoleum. His mausoleum. Once the initial shock passed, he admired the care put into crafting his resting place. His guitar rested upon hooks above his crypt like a crown to a king and alongside it was an appropriately dashing portrait of himself, and that was without appreciating the artistry.

Ernesto's pleasant mood was quashed when he realised his resting place was located in Santa Cecilia. Someone was getting fired. Luckily, he never had to step foot beyond the walls of the graveyard. At the back end of the cemetery, an orange glow beamed like a sun over the horizon. Something in Ernesto compelled him to investigate.

He met the marigold bridge.

He met others who had also unexpectedly died. Like him, their bodies were fading away to skeleton.

Unlike him, many were following colourful animals. There was a warmth between them that reminded Ernesto of the chihuahuas he had loved across his life. A longing to see them had him turn in all directions with an annoyed frown on his face. What was he supposed to do, walk alone?

The answer was yes. As Ernesto traversed the bridge he decided he didn't need any of those animals anyway. He could hardly get lost on a bridge that only went one way and that was to… to …

Ernesto had travelled to many major cities, but none could compare in size and spectacle to the massive city before him. Towers carrying houses stacked on top of houses climbed high into the misty night sky. Thousands of lights blended with bursts of colour, putting all those modernist artworks he never cared for, but was told to like, to shame. Although every aspect of the city was beautiful in its design, Ernesto knew right away that he had to see it from above every time he looked out the window.

It invigorated him, made him feel like he was about to walk onto a stage. At the end of the bridge, there was his audience. With a confident stride, Ernesto approached the nearest skeleton. Her – was it a her? – eye's widened inside the sockets. That was going to take some getting used to.

It had been a long time since he had needed to introduce himself. So, like all benefits that came with fame, it came as no surprise when the skeleton gasped, "You're –! You're Ernesto de la Cruz!"

He winked. "Are who might you be señorita?" Nothing about a moving skeleton was attractive but girls melted like butter and offered him everything if he made them feel like the most important person in the universe.

"Coleta…" she muttered. Maybe it was the bone, but her expression was stiff and uninviting. (So tempted to add, "He figured she must be a lesbian." But that probably wouldn't work with the current tone)

"Beautiful name," he said with a dazzling smile. He'd heard better. "Coleta then, would you –?"

The next thing Ernesto knew, he was staring at the skeleton's shoes and his chest hurt. His increasingly exposed ribcage was shoved further against the ground as more and more weight landed on top of him. Disorientated, he tried struggling out of the tight grip that had latched onto his wrists and pressed them to his back. He would never admit it but a small part of him born from a childhood nightmare shrieked at the thought of skeletons grabbing him as though trying to tear him apart and devour him. He heard Coleta calling for help and the forces caging him doubled. Ernesto should have stopped fighting them, but he couldn't get past the utter audacity of these people. Finally regaining his voice after the chaos of confusion rattling his brain, Ernesto glared Coleta and spat, "What is this?! Who do you think you are?! Let me go or –!"

"– de la Cruz."

A new skeleton moved to stand in front of Coleta, as though trying to protect her. He was wearing a uniform and showed off a badge like it meant something important. Ernesto couldn't give a damn who this man was.

"What?!" Ernesto barked. The groups of guards roughly hauled him to his feet.

The badge-carrying skeleton looked at him like he was garbage. Ernesto gritted his teeth at the foreign yet somehow familiar gaze.

"Ernesto de la Cruz, you are under arrest for the theft, and murder of Héctor Rivera under the Land of the Dead's laws of …"

Whatever was said afterwards was unheard. Ernesto froze where he stood, his knees suddenly weak. It felt like the ground beneath him had opened up and was swallowing him whole. Gazing up at the beautiful city again, Ernesto saw it for what it was: the Land of the Dead. All who Death had taken was here.

Héctor was here. Héctor was here.

And he'd –

"No!" Ernesto's voice cracked. He saw the skeletons surrounding them. Some giving him the cold shoulder, some showing their fury, others shaking their head in disappointment or horror. They knew, they all knew. "No, no, no. I didn't – I didn't!"

They were dragging him away. Seized by his panic, Ernesto tried escaping the guards, scratching their bones and ripping tears into their sleeves. The skeleton – a police officer – took the lead, directing Ernesto's captors.

"I didn't – I didn't do it!" Ernesto yelled desperately. "He's lying! Please! He's always lied!"

"Save it for court," the officer answered without looking at him.

"No – stop! Let me go! I didn't – I would never! He's lying to you!"

Ernesto screamed his innocence till his throat went raw and he lost his voice but still, no one believed him.

From then on, Día de los Muertos of 1943 was remembered for the arrival of Ernesto de la Cruz, one of the most beloved men in the Land of the Living but most despised in the Land of the Dead for his crimes against Héctor Rivera.

~o0o~

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