Hiya folks. For those of you who read my other fic, don't worry! Still working on it. I actually wrote this fic like... two weeks ago, and didn't post it until now because I took forever to draw the cover, ahah.
Wrote this on a whim—was wondering how Héctor would handle a certain canon event that was alluded to, and wanted to write something with him and Cheech, and... this happened.
Anyway... thanks to Jaywings, Pengychan, and my sister for beta-reading this for me. On with the fic!
When he didn't come out of his shack for a day, no one could blame him.
When it had been a week since he'd stepped foot outside, even then, they could understand.
One week turned into two, and they wondered if he was even still there.
Three weeks rolled by with no sign of him, and while they worried, they would give him space. They knew he needed time to grieve.
But by the time a month had gone by, Chicharrón had decided he'd had enough.
People saw the old skeleton stomping a warpath around the rotten boardwalk, and there was no question as to where he was going.
"Chicharrón…" Prima Chelo stepped toward him, hands outstretched. "Leave him be. He's still—"
Chicharrón struck his cane against the board he stood on, knocking a chunk of the wood into the water below. "Grieving? A month later?"
"But his wife—"
"His wife, your husband, my sister—we've all been through the same thing," he growled, glaring at the old lady.
"You know what he's going through, then! We all do!" Her yellowed hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Exactly." And Chicharrón kept moving, his cane keeping a steady rhythm against the boardwalk.
"Don't do this to him, Cheech! It won't help him!"
He swung himself around, stomping his cane and splintering the wood beneath him. "And letting him sit and rot will?"
Chelo met his hardened gaze for a moment before hers finally softened. Her arms drooped down at her sides and she hung her head, ashamed.
After regarding her for a moment, he heaved a sigh, resuming his mission.
"Good luck, primo," Chelo called after him. He ignored her.
Finally he turned at a fork that led him to his destination. The shack looked as dilapidated as any of the others, but Chicharrón clicked his non-existent tongue when he noticed the water levels. Shantytown had flooded recently, and while everyone else had fixed up their own homes as much as they could, he couldn't imagine the resident of this one had done anything about it.
Someone could have at least stepped in to help him. Cowards.
He didn't stop to consider that he was one of the ones who had been neglecting his primo.
Stepping up to the doorframe (which had only a tattered cloth covering it), he decided he'd be polite.
For a moment.
Raising his cane, he struck it against the doorframe twice.
No response.
Striking the doorframe again, he lifted his head and raised his voice. "Héctor?"
No response.
Well, that was enough politeness for one day.
Grasping the curtain with his free hand, he yanked it aside, a few of the rings holding it in place popping loose. He stepped into the house, and immediately recoiled as his bare feet sank into two inches of water. The scent of mildew, not uncommon in any given place in Shantytown, was even more pronounced in here, the drawn curtains keeping the stench trapped inside.
Disgusted, but undeterred, his gaze swept around the shack.
The first thing he saw was the guitar.
It had never been a nice guitar—few items that were brought to Shantytown were—but it had been playable. There were times when the whole town would gather to listen to the music Héctor managed to coax from it. He would sometimes play with joy, sometimes with sorrow, but always, always grateful to play for others.
"When my wife gets here," he had told Chicharrón once, grinning as he tuned the strings, "I'll play 'Poco Loco' for her. Did I ever tell you I wrote it about her, when we were alive?"
He had. Enough times that Chicharrón had swung his cane at him and asked him to shut up about it, only half-jokingly. Héctor had never minded, always going right back to strumming the bouncy tune on the guitar's aging strings.
Said guitar had been smashed into roughly seven pieces, each of them equally waterlogged.
He tore his gaze away from the ruined instrument, still searching the shack. There were innumerable papers floating in the water, the writing on them too faded to read anymore. Bottles were scattered around, some sitting atop a worn table and chair, others smashed in the water below. In one corner hung a hammock with a threadbare blanket dangling into the water, and no sign that it had been used in some time.
After taking in the state of the little shack and not finding what he'd come for, Chicharrón's ribcage suddenly tightened.
Dios mio, had it actually happened? When no one was brave enough to check on him? When he was alone?
Anxiety hammering in his ribcage, Chicharrón walked around the shack, searching in the dim light for something he was all at once terrified he would not find. Water sloshed at his feet, and he nearly tripped over a broken bottle half-hidden in the murk. Just as he began to think that maybe he was too late, he paused, spotting something in the corner.
He'd overlooked it more than a few times—it may have just been a pile of clothes and broken junk—but now that he looked closer, he could barely pick up on a hint of yellow bone in the dim light.
Oh, he was going to punch him in his stupid face when this was over.
Héctor was huddled in the corner, curled up in as tight of a ball as his gangly limbs would allow. His face was buried in his knees, his arms folded tightly along his chest, and he was sitting in the water. If he'd moved at some point, Chicharrón hadn't noticed. In fact, Chicharrón wouldn't have been surprised if Héctor hadn't moved at all for some time now.
He was still here, though. Chicharrón could work with that.
Stepping in front of the young man, he nudged him in the side with his cane. "Héctor."
Héctor did not move.
"Héctor," he said again, jabbing him in the ribs.
This time Héctor flinched, but did not respond otherwise.
Chicharrón frowned, lifting his cane and tapping it against Héctor's jaw (or as close as he could manage). "Héctor, if you wanna keep the rest of your teeth, answer me."
Slowly, slowly the young man lifted his head, finally meeting Chicharrón's gaze. His eyes were barely open, exhaustion and grief etched into his features, making him look much older than he actually was. For someone who had been doing nothing but sitting around for an entire month, it didn't look like he'd gotten much sleep, if any.
Héctor stared at him, blinked wearily, and let his head drop back onto his knees.
Oh, that did it.
In a few quick movements uncharacteristic of his age, Chicharrón thrust his arm out, seized Héctor by the collar, yanked him forward, and struck him across the face. "Knock it off!" he growled. "You've been mopin' around for a whole month now. Get up."
He looked more alert now, at least, blinking a few times as his vision came to more of a focus. Once Chicharrón was sure he wasn't going to just slump over again, he let him go.
It took Héctor a moment to start moving. His bones creaked audibly as he rose to his feet, and his legs were shaking. When he began to wobble, he braced himself against the wall with his left hand, his right arm hanging limp at his side. Water dripped from his soaked, musty clothing—what had once been passable-quality blush charro suit.
"Where did you even get that thing?"
"Oh, you know… I just… let's just say I owe someone a few dozen favors."
"What'd'you need a fancy thing like that for?"
He'd hesitated. "I've… been counting the years, and… Imelda's in her seventies, now…"
"Sí. And?"
"If… if I can make this last a few years… I-I want something nice to wear. For her. When she gets here."
He'd been true to his word—he'd kept the suit in as nice a condition as anyone without access to a washer could manage.
Well, until now, apparently.
Chicharrón stepped back to appraise him—the suit was a wreck, and Héctor himself wasn't looking much better. He then looked around the shack, at the standing water surrounding them and the ruined items littering what had once been the floor. Both the house and its resident would need fixing up, but one was more important than the other.
Sighing, he hobbled toward the doorway, gazing out at the overcast sky past the doorframe. When he didn't hear anyone following, he glanced over his shoulder. Héctor was still braced against the wall, watching him.
Chicharrón struck his cane against the doorway. "Get over here, idiota."
It took a moment as Héctor glanced between the wall and the doorframe a few times, but finally he moved his hand from the wall and stepped forward—
—and immediately faceplanted, splashing water onto part of Chicharrón's outfit. Chicharrón gave a cry of disgust while a few miserable bubbles rose up around Héctor's head.
Rolling his eyes, Chicharrón yanked Héctor up by the hair as the other skeleton coughed and spat. "You forget how to walk, amigo?" he asked, cocking an eye ridge. Underneath his exhaustion, Héctor seemed to have the hints of a sheepish smile on his face. "Don't gimme that. You don't got any muscles that can atrophy any more."
Once Héctor had braced his arm against the floor, Chicharrón let him go, and watched as the younger man shakily rose to his feet. He didn't look like he trusted himself to try walking again.
"You fall over again and I'm draggin' you through town by the heel."
Héctor drooped at that, looking helplessly at Chicharrón for a moment before tentatively reaching out to wrap his left arm around the shorter man's shoulders.
"What, you wanna ruin my shirt, too?" Chicharrón grumbled, but made no other protest. Instead he switched his cane to his left hand so he could wrap his right arm around Héctor, easily supporting his meager weight.
Héctor was trembling, he noticed, and he wasn't surprised. At the tail end of winter, the water wasn't exactly warm.
Once they were both sure Héctor's legs weren't going to give out beneath him, they finally stepped out of the house, Héctor blinking in the overcast light.
Their exit didn't go unnoticed.
"Cousin Héctor!"
"Héctor, you're back!"
"Good to see you again, cousin!"
"What happened to you guys?"
A weary smile managed to cross Héctor's face as he walked, but Chicharrón met the cries of greeting and concern with a glare, which eventually silenced them. Some primos seemed to take note of their condition, and Chicharrón watched with no small amount of satisfaction when they crept around him carrying buckets and a towel, among other things.
About time.
Finally they reached the bungalow, and Chicharrón reached behind him with his cane to pull the door shut. That accomplished, he shrugged Héctor off of his shoulders, letting the younger man stumble as he hobbled over to one of his cluttered shelves. "Now get that wrecked suit off of ya," he said. "I got spare clothes 'round here somewhere. We'll see if someone can salvage somethin' from that suit of yours later."
He didn't hear any sign that Héctor was disrobing, but he did hear a loud sneeze somewhere behind him. The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. "Heh, well, a handkerchief wouldn't be a bad idea, but you might wanna wait 'til it's dry first." He rifled around the shelves, shoving aside a stack of newspapers. "That's what you get for sittin' in cold water for a week."
A sniffle and a moan answered him. That was some amount of progress, at least, but not enough.
"Hurry it up," he said, catching a glimpse of fabric sticking out from under a pile of empty bottles. He yanked it out, sending several of the bottles crashing to the floor, only to find that it was an old dishrag. Eh.
Still keeping a metaphorical ear out for what Héctor was doing, Chicharrón resumed rifling through his shelves until he heard the pop of a disconnecting bone behind him. Frowning, he turned around.
Héctor was sitting on the floor, wincing badly as he carefully pulled on his right hand, his forearm sliding out from under its soaked sleeve. Confused, Chicharrón watched as the younger man finally removed his arm and set it on a nearby table.
The ulna was cracked through.
It wasn't exactly unheard of for Héctor to return to Shantytown with broken bones. Several years back he'd cracked a rib, and only a year ago he'd lost one entirely. But those had both been on Dia de Muertos, each after one of his ridiculous yearly stunts.
It was March.
Chicharrón glanced from the arm back to Héctor, who was staring at the floor and looking ready to curl up on himself again.
Scowling, he limped over to Héctor and struck him in the side with his cane, eliciting a startled yelp from the young man. "Get up and get that sopping wet mess offa' you!" he growled. When Héctor scrambled to his feet, Chicharrón looked him in the eye, and jerked his head back to where the disconnected arm was sitting. "And get outta the way. I think I still got some tape in that cupboard behind you."
He had barely seven inches of duct tape left, but he found a leather strip he could use for the rest. Incidentally, said leather was sitting by a bundle of old (but clean) clothing, which he tossed back to Héctor with the dishtowel he'd found earlier as he set to work on the arm.
The break was close to the end of the bone, where it would connect to the humerus. If the broken end got lost, he wouldn't be losing much of the bone, but he also wouldn't be able to keep the arm bones connected properly. Working carefully, Chicharrón began wrapping both the leather and the duct tape around the bone simultaneously and from different ends. If he could wrap them over each other, it would decrease the chances of either falling off.
Every so often he'd hear a whimper or a stuttering gasp behind him, but otherwise Héctor managed to keep fairly quiet during the whole procedure. As well, he finally did hear the sound of heavy, wet material getting tossed to the floor.
He let the silence hang over them for a moment, and waited until heard cloth wiping over bone before he spoke.
"You knew there was no point in gettin' that suit."
Silence again.
Chicharrón rubbed his thumb over the duct tape, making sure the tape was smooth. "No fancy suit or bouncy song was gonna change her opinion of you."
"H-how…" His voice was a hoarse croak. "How d-did you know she—"
"People don't get left off their family's ofrendas by accident." He took the disconnected arm by the hand, holding it back to Héctor without looking. "I know it, and you know it."
Héctor wordlessly accepted his arm back, and Chicharrón gave him a moment to slip into the clothing he'd tossed him earlier. When he turned around, Héctor was sitting, wearing a too-big unbuttoned shirt with a pair of worn capris, and looking over the patch job on his arm. A few seconds later he covered up the duct tape with his hand and stared at the floor.
"Well?" Chicharrón rested both hands on his cane.
Héctor's face twisted. The difficulty he had in getting the words out had nothing to do with how long it'd been since he'd last talked.
"...She h-hates me," he said, and hung his head.
Truly, a shock to no one but Héctor.
Chicharrón sighed, tapping his phalanges against his cane rhythmically in thought. "Who else you got?"
Lifting his head, Héctor looked at the man in confusion.
"On the other side. Who else you got that remembers you?"
"...Óscar. Felipe. M-my brothers-in-law. A-and… my Coco."
"That it?" Chicharrón grunted. He'd never been great with math, but he was able to make a rough calculation. "So you got… what, twenty years? Thirty, if you're lucky."
Héctor moaned, covering his face.
Rolling his eyes, Chicharrón nudged the man with his cane again. "Stop it and listen. You are not gonna spend the rest of your afterlife grievin' over someone who'd rather give you a crack on the arm than a decent conversation."
Shakily Héctor raised his head, giving Chicharrón a look. "So… I should spend it… listening to someone who'd like to hit me with a cane…?" he croaked.
"As long as you're not sitting around and moping!"
Heaving a deep sigh, Héctor hunched forward, looking deep in thought. "…Coco," he muttered.
Ay, here we go. Chicharrón rubbed his forehead.
"I-I… can still try to see her," Héctor said, a smile crossing his face. A slightly-manic smile. "E-even if Imelda d-doesn't—" He choked, swallowing once, twice.
"Héctor—"
"You said you don't want me moping, Cheech!" he cried, his rough voice cracking. "S-so I'll just go back to plotting! Like always—" He broke off into a sneeze, and shuddered.
"Yeah, fine, get yourself sick n' busted up again." Chicharrón shrugged in exasperation. "Guess there're worse ways to waste your afterlife. But don't let me catch you huddled up in your shack again when it don't do any good."
"If, Cheech, not when." Reaching up, he grabbed the shelf behind him and used it to pull himself to his feet. His legs were still shaking, but not quite as badly as they had been before. "It'll work, eventually."
For as bad as he still looked, he was at least up and moving, and that was what Chicharrón had set out to fix in the first place. Mostly.
"Gracias for the help," Héctor said, rough voice turning a bit more gentle. "And… for the… clothes." He tugged at the edge of his shirt, which hung off of him like a paper bag.
"Mmmhmm." Chciharrón leaned on his cane again.
Héctor looked like he was going to say something else, only to give another loud sneeze. Grinning sheepishly, he began stumbling toward the door. "Well, I'd… better go fix my house." He opened the door and stepped outside. "And… figure out a plan for next Dia de Muertos."
This again. "You're loco, Héctor," Chicharrón called after him, hobbling toward the doorway.
Héctor stopped on the boardwalk. "Optimistic," he corrected without looking back.
"Denial." Chicharrón leaned against his doorframe. "Learn the difference. It's gonna wreck you."
Slowly Héctor turned to face him, giving him a sad smile. "We're all wrecks here, Cheech. Does it really make a difference?"
Chicharrón eyed him for a moment, and shrugged.
Seeming pleased he'd gotten the last word in, Héctor turned back toward his destination. "Buenas noches, Chicharrón."
"You owe me for those clothes, Héctor!" Chicharrón called back, and smirked when he saw the younger man flinch.
He watched as Héctor stumbled out of sight, and turned back into his bungalow.
The ruined charro suit was still sitting on the floor, and he gathered it into his arms, looking for a spot where he could hang it out to dry.
"I can't remember if it was exactly this color… but I think it's close enough to the one I wore when I… when I left."
"So what?"
"Maybe if I wear it, play her song… it'll feel like I haven't been gone at all."
"Pshaw. After what, fifty years?"
"...It's worth a shot?"
Chicharrón shook his head. A lot of good that did him. He tossed the worn fabric over the ropes that supported his hammock.
But… he stood back, looking over the suit again. Not an hour or so ago, Héctor had been wearing it, and sitting in standing water in his shack with no intention of moving. Now, he was out fixing his house and plotting his next bridge-crossing scheme. Both were futile efforts, surely—the town would flood again, as it always did, and Héctor would get hauled off to jail next Dia de Muertos, as he always did.
Denial couldn't keep a man going for fifty years, though. Maybe he did have something going for him.
...Or maybe he was just loco.
We're all wrecks here, Cheech. Does it make a difference?
Maybe, maybe not. They were all heading toward the Final Death anyway… might as well let 'em do what kept 'em going. But one thing he knew for sure…
Héctor wasn't going to find him huddled up alone in his house, in the end.