A/N: Hey so this is the chapter where it gets weird because I am writing this purely for my own enjoyment. If it seems like a crack fic to you at this point, please feel free to enjoy it as such. I'm just having fun.

TW for blood

The weeks passed as the tension between the two generally lifted. Héctor caught himself admiring Ernesto once or twice more, but was quick to look away. Ernesto, likewise, couldn't stop thinking about their night together. He knew he wanted more, but aimed to respect Héctor's boundaries.

Eventually, what they both anticipated happened. They had one to many drinks in their hotel room in another town. Ernesto began by massaging Héctor's shoulder, sore from the guitar strap.

The massage gradually became more sensual. Ernesto pressed his fingers into Héctor's neck, slowly wrapped around to his chest and his collarbone. The younger man knew what his friend was up to, but held his tongue. He couldn't place his feelings on what was being done to him.

He wanted the contact, he knew that, but the context was wrong. Héctor wanted sex to mean more than a simple release of tension. It's not that he wanted to be more than friends with Ernesto; Héctor didn't want to entertain the idea of falling in love with his best friend. His heart belonged to Imelda, and he felt that sex should be romantic like it was with her, not platonic, or whatever else he and Ernesto did could be called.

"Stop," he told the other man once Ernesto began to fiddle with the first button on his shirt. Thankfully, he did so, glancing up at Héctor to see his conflicted expression.

"What is it?" Ernesto asked innocently.

The songwriter sighed, pulling his friend's eager hands off of his body. "How are you so at ease with all of this?"

Ernesto took a moment to understand Héctor's meaning.

"We both want pleasure, and this is how we can get it," the older man said.

"But doesn't it bother you at all?" asked Héctor. "Wouldn't you rather make love to a lady friend- er, or a gentleman friend? A lover?"

"You know I'm not one for romance, Héctor," said Ernesto, wandering off to find a cigarette in his discarded coat pocket.

"Those girls at the concert would beg to differ. Did you hear those three? They were all, 'Oooh, Señor de la Cruz! He's so handsome!'" the songwriter mimicked the lovesick fans at their last venue, batting his lashes mockingly.

Ernesto chuckled at the imitation as he lit a cigarette and took a long drag, blowing smoke across the room. "They're just swayed by your lyrics."

"Maybe," Héctor conceded. "But you can't deny that you could have anyone you wanted, if you wanted to have a real special someone."

The well-built musician shook his head at the praise, a small smile creeping onto his face at his friend's antics.

A thought crossed Héctor's lips before he could think twice, and he joked, "You don't love me, do you?"

Ernesto's features twitched at the suggestion, and he glanced away from his best friend. Héctor suspected that he crossed a line.

"Hey, forget I said anything," he tried, waving the idea away. Ernesto still seemed disturbed by something, his brow furrowed in some internalized struggle.

"I don't love you. Not like the way you're thinking of," the buffer man took a calming drag of his cigarette. "You're my best friend, and I enjoy everything we do together, sexual or otherwise."

The songwriter watched Ernesto breathe in and out smoke, dissatisfied with his answer. How could this all be so simple to him? Never before had Héctor tried to separate making love with actual love. But, he supposed, he and Ernesto had never "made love" before. It was only sex.

"But why me? There's plenty of people who'd be glad to have a quick lay with you," Héctor said, motioning to their window overlooking the village below. Ernesto regarded the view with distaste after his friend's suggestion.

"You're my best friend, Héctor," Ernesto said, returning to the bedside. "I trust you more than anyone. I'd trust you with my life, my soul, and my body, in this case."

He offered Héctor a drag of his cigarette. The seated man accepted it, his eyes never leaving Ernesto's as he took a short drag and blew his smoke away from the man in front of him.

So Ernesto wanted to do these things with him because he trusted him? It seemed reasonable now that Héctor thought about it. Ernesto had never been a very trusting person to begin with, always needing to have some sort of barrier between himself and others, whether it be his usual charming facade or something else. Héctor knew that his friend was too defensive to make friends other than himself. That being true, building a romantic relationship would be difficult for the other man, nevermind finding a quick lay. But what did that mean for Héctor?

"I trust you too," he said truthfully, handing the cigarette back to his friend, who put the half-finished smoke in an ashtray on the nearby dresser.

"While we're on the subject," Ernesto laid a heavy hand on Héctor's shoulder, an ambitious spark in his eye. "Do you want to try something new?"

Héctor froze, an anxious excitement creeping down his spine. Did he actually want this? Would he ever know for sure?

He watched the last tendrils of hazy smoke rise from the ashtray.

"Sure," he answered at last, unable to shake the unease from his soul, but wanting the pleasure. Ernesto smiled, satisfied he got his way as he began to undress Héctor.

Four months of music, alcohol, and confused passion passed. Héctor wrote letters home to Imelda and Coco to fill them in on how the tour was going and sent them more money. He missed them dearly, but he didn't feel ready to go home yet. He and Ernesto were more popular than he could ever have hoped for. Word traveled fast of the amazing young musicians touring the country, and they were greeted with a crowd everywhere they went.

Their popularity thrilled Ernesto, and for the first time in his life, Héctor saw his friend as close to true happiness as he'd ever been. The tour was worth it for that authentic beaming smile alone, as much as it pained Héctor to be away from his family.

They indulged in each other more and more often as the months wore on, done things together that Héctor hadn't even done with his wife. It was exciting, and it felt fantastic, but every morning after sent Héctor running to find somewhere to vomit. At first Héctor thought it was the guilt and the hangover, but as the sickness drew on, he began to suspect otherwise.

"Do you think I should see a doctor?" Héctor asked one morning as he made coffee for him and Ernesto. His partner shrugged in response as he took the steaming cup presented to him.

"It could be the stress of the road," the older man took a sip of his drink.

"We've been on tour for months, I think I'm used to that 'stress' by now," said Héctor in lighthearted annoyance, taking a seat across from Ernesto. The early morning sunlight streamed through their hotel window.

"You have been eating a lot of bar food," said Ernesto cryptically.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the songwriter quipped.

"Well, you have gained a little pouch, mi amigo."

"What?" Héctor exclaimed. "I have not! I'm as fit as an ox!"

Ernesto made a drawn out noise of disagreement, gesturing at his friend's middle. Hèctor looked down at himself and was taken by surprise to see the little belly that almost sat in his lap. He let out a shrill scream as he bolted out of his chair in shock, Ernesto slapping his knee in laughter at his friend's expense.

"You really didn't know?" the older man snorted.

"No! Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Héctor exclaimed as he ran to the bathroom to find a mirror.

"I thought you knew!" Ernesto yelled after him.

Pulling up the hem of his pajama shirt, Héctor's jaw fell open as he took in the changes in his body. His stomach used to be completely flat, almost worryingly so. Now it bulged from his body. Even his chest looked fatter. How hadn't he noticed it before?

Ernesto suddenly appeared behind his reflection in the mirror. Héctor quickly tugged his shirt down and swung around to his friend, an accusatory finger already pointing at his smug face.

"You! You knew about this, you didn't tell me!" Héctor said, poking his finger into Ernesto's muscular chest.

"I didn't think you'd appreciate the news," his friend shrugged, knowing his excuse was cheap. "I was right."

"You bastard! We've been eating the same food for months, so how come I'm the one to gain weight?" the songwriter asked angrily, pouting at his best friend.

"You are much thinner than me," Ernesto offered. "Or, were."

Héctor punched Ernesto's stomach hard.

The following week was tortuous for Héctor now that he knew how much he'd gained. He noticed his mariachi suit was too snug around his middle, and he started deliberately using his guitar to hide his stomach during performances. Héctor began to try to eat better and drink less, but his efforts were all in vain. He couldn't escape the bar, its food, and its drink.

At least Ernesto didn't mind his belly. After the first day of light teasing, Ernesto let the subject go. He even offered to run to a store to find something healthier for them to eat. However, they found that Héctor couldn't keep any vegetables down. He always found himself running for the bathroom to hurl after a healthy meal. The two musicians were both puzzled by his condition, but decided to try to let it pass on its own.

Days later, Héctor's health became impossible to ignore.

It began as Ernesto tugged off his friend's pants. There was a faint pain in his middle that Héctor wrote off as indigestion. Another pain struck as Ernesto prepared him, but the older man couldn't tell the groan of pain from pleasure. Finally, right before they both properly finished, the pain struck so harshly that it broke Héctor from his blissed-out unawareness.

"Ernesto- Ernesto, stop," he panted, reaching a hand to wrap around his stomach.

"I'm almost there . . ." the older man drawled, focused on himself.

The pain climaxed as Ernesto did, urging a yell from both men before Héctor kicked his friend off of him. The sudden action brought Ernesto back to reality.

Seeing the younger man curl up on himself, he asked, "What happened? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," the songwriter tried to breathe through the cramp, but ended up yelping in pain. He'd never felt anything like this before.

"Is it your stomach? Do you feel nauseous?"

The mention of nausea brought bile rising up Héctor's throat, and he made a mad dash towards the bathroom with Ernesto close behind. He almost didn't make it to the toilet before he began dry-heaving into it, his stomach feeling worse than before. He heard Ernesto come up behind him.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Héctor turned his head to the doorway and whispered hoarsely, "Could you get me some water, por favor?"

Ernesto seemed to have not heard him. He only stared down at Héctor, an unusual frightened expression overtaking his face.

"Dios mio," he heard Ernesto murmur before he took a step closer. "You're bleeding."

"What?" Héctor said, alarmed.

"You- your thighs," Ernesto pointed, the color draining from his face.

Héctor looked down at his legs and saw the streams of blood that rolled down his thighs to his calves. The sight was so shocking that he couldn't react, frozen in fear. Another pain in his stomach snapped him back to reality.

"I did this," the older man whispered under his breath, afraid of what was happening to his best friend. "You told me to stop, I didn't listen. Mi amigo, I'm so sorry, I-"

"I need a doctor," Héctor interrupted Ernesto before he began to panic. "I need you to bring me to a doctor."

"Dios mio, dios mio, dios mio," the other man repeated over and over as he rushed to throw on some clothes and wrap Héctor in a blanket before heaving him into his arms.

Ernesto ran out of the hotel, trying to ignore the moans of pain from his best friend and the blood seeping through the cheap blanket. He asked the first person he came across to direct him to a doctor. The woman, frazzled by the sight of the bleeding young man, showed them the way to the village's medical center. There Ernesto bust into the waiting room, begging the receptionist for someone to treat Héctor.

She brought them to the town's doctor, an middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his dark hair. His eyes popped wide open at the sight of Héctor.

"Put him on the table!" he ordered Ernesto, whose arms were shaking so bad from panic that he nearly dropped Héctor onto the metal surface.

The doctor unraveled the young man from the blood-soaked blanket and saw that he was completely naked. He soon found the source of the bleeding, and swore under his breath. Ernesto watched in alarm as the doctor began to pull bottles of medicine and surgery instruments from shelves. He hardly noticed the tiny receptionist pulling on his sleeve.

"Señor, please, you need to wait outside," she begged him to move. "You can't be in here during an operation."

"Operation?" Ernesto wailed, wanting to run to Héctor's side and comfort him.

"You have to go!" the nurse repeated, finally managing to push the larger man out of the room and shutting the door in his face.

Ernesto stared at the grain of the wood blankly, his thoughts racing to a dark place in his mind. What would he do if his best friend died because of him? How would he continue the tour?

Terrible scenarios ran through Ernesto's troubled mind as Héctor's blood dried on his clothes.


Héctor hissed when another sharp cramp ravaged his body. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes as he watched the doctor scramble for rubber gloves. He could feel the warmth of his blood cover his backside. For the first time, Héctor feared for his life.

"What's happening to me?" he bit out before another wave of pain hit. He groaned and tried to curl in on himself, but was stopped by the doctor.

"Internal bleeding, I think," the doctor diagnosed hastily, forcing Héctor to lie flat on the table. "I need you to answer some questions. Do you have any medical conditions?"

"No, no," Héctor said through clenched teeth. He kept thinking about Coco and Imelda, and what they'd do without him. A tear rolled down his cheek.

The doctor prepared a syringe, flicking the needle before asking, "Any allergies?"

"No- AYY!" the songwriter yelped as the needle was jabbed into his arm, the doctor administering a painkiller.

"Were you hit by something? Punched, got into a fight?"

The pain in his stomach began to dull as the morphine took effect.

"No," said Héctor, glad to have some relief. Despite no longer being able to feel their full effect, the cramps continued to wreak havoc on Héctor's body. Even the doctor seemed to pale as he watched the blood pool on his exam table.

With the pain reduced, Héctor was now fully aware of his nudity in front of the stranger. He tried to cover himself with his hands.

"I'm sorry, Señor, but I need you to move your hands," the doctor said, pulling a stool to the end of the table.

"Must you? I feel a lot-" he groaned as the pain rolled through his stomach again. Oof, that was a strong one.

The doctor ignored Héctor's plea. He wasn't going to let this young man bleed out on his watch, and he was a professional. Nudity was nothing new to him. The older man parted Héctor's trembling legs and began to work. Héctor's hand flew to cover his mouth as the doctor pressed his fingers into him, afraid of accidentally moaning. His cheeks flushed red from embarrassment.

A minute passed of uncomfortable silence as the doctor examined him. Héctor tried to pretend that he wasn't bleeding out, and that a stranger wasn't rummaging through his anus. The dulled pain returned in uncomfortable waves. The young musician watched the doctor's concentrated expression with bated breath, needing to know what was happening to him.

Suddenly, Héctor felt the doctor remove his fingers, tugging on something Héctor felt move deep inside his middle. A bolt of fear shot through the young man as the doctor pulled something large out of him. The thing slipped out of his body and onto the table with an audible squelch. Héctor trembled, terrified of what was happening.

The unreadable look on the doctor's face revealed nothing to him, only making his heart race faster in fear.

"What is it?" he said at last, not daring to look down at himself. "What's wrong with me?"

The doctor shook his head, not meeting Héctor's eyes. "That's not . . . ." he muttered, staring at the shocking sight before him.

The older man's brow furrowed as his mind raced, struggling to find an answer for his patient.

"Have you- are you," the doctor stammered, finally looking up to face Héctor with a disturbed expression. "Are you a homosexual?"

"What?" Héctor exclaimed, the question catching him off guard. Why did he think that? Ernesto was always careful not to leave any marks. What did the doctor find?

Against the pain in his middle, Héctor hissed as he sat up and saw the bloody mess between his legs. The sheer amount almost made him pass out, but that wasn't all. Lying in the doctor's hand was the thing Héctor felt pulled out of him.

At first, he couldn't make sense of it. The thing was covered in blood and mucus, and it looked distinctly like muscle tissue. Then Héctor noticed how part of the thing almost resembled a disgusting, bulbous head, set with spots for eyes and a nose and -

The realization had the songwriter bending over the table just in time to vomit onto the tiled floor. He gasped for breath between hurling and began to cry in earnest.

Between his legs laid a tiny, underdeveloped baby. The fetus already had little arms and legs, it almost had fingers and toes. Héctor placed a hand over his stomach when the true nature of his distended belly dawned on him. The connection made him hurl again.

"Are you a homosexual?" the doctor asked again, unbothered by the mess Héctor made on his floor.

The songwriter shook his head, and through sobs managed, "I have a wife!"

The doctor glanced down at the dead fetus, and then back to Héctor. The incredulous look he sent the younger man brought another cry to his lips.

"How-how did this happen? I'm not a woman, dios mio, how did this happen?" Héctor wailed, horrified. He couldn't look away from the little thing below him.

That tiny baby grew inside him. That was his baby. His and Ernesto's.

The doctor stared at the trembling man and the tears streaming down his face. Despite his revulsion, his patient's question intrigued him, and he took another glance at Héctor's genitals.

After a moment, the doctor offered, "It may be a birth defect. Male organs on the outside, and female organs on the inside."

Héctor's head swam.

"Do you have any relatives with birth defects?"

An old memory flashed to the front of his mind. He remembered his Mamá comforting his tía Carmen, who was upset by the teasing of some young men in Santa Cecilia. Tears rolled down her cheeks and into her thick, dark beard.

Héctor subconsciously wiped the tears from his face.

"My tía," he answered shakily.

The doctor nodded to himself, expecting the confirmation. He stared at the mess before him and the traumatized man on his table. His bleeding was slowing, and he thankfully hadn't lost enough blood to require a transfusion. However, the horrible truth of the situation was plain to the doctor.

His patient cheated on his wife with another man, somehow conceived his lover's child, and miscarried the baby. The thought reminded the doctor of the other man who placed his patient onto the table.

His morals battled against the promises he made as a doctor for a moment before he made a decision.

"The bleeding may continue for another week," he informed Héctor before carefully picking up the small fetus and placing it on a medical tray by the sink. "It shouldn't be too heavy of a flow, but if it gets worse than what happened today, come back to see me for a reevaluation."

The songwriter couldn't tear his gaze away from the little thing, barely hearing the doctor over the screaming thoughts in his head.

The doctor stripped off his bloody gloves and threw them into the waste bin, "I'll prescribe you something for the discomfort, and you'll need cloth to catch the blood."

He rummaged through a cabinet to Héctor's right and found a small bottle of pills.

"These are for you," he rattled the bottle to grab the younger man's attention. "One a day. I'd also recommend you abstain from sex until the bleeding stops completely."

Héctor nodded, trying to keep up with the instructions. He turned back to the discarded fetus on the countertop.

"Can y-you," he tried, having to force the question out. "Can you tell what- what it is? Was?"

The doctor arched an eyebrow, not understanding what Héctor meant.

"Was it a girl or a boy?" he clarified shakily.

"Oh," the doctor said. He went to inspect the tiny body once more.

"A girl," the doctor said. Héctor shut his eyes, another tear escaping down his cheek.

He thought of his Coco. Could that baby on the tray have become a little girl like his own, if it survived? Able to run and play, able to sing with him? He wanted to curl up in some dark place and sob.

Héctor hadn't even known about her until now. Why was he so upset over her loss? He hated feeling like this, he hated himself. Why did his body betray him so horribly?

"What's your name, young man?" asked the doctor. He now worked on cleaning the blood off of his patient's legs.

"Héctor," the songwriter answered quietly. "Hector Rivera."

"Who was that who brought you in?"

"Ernesto de la Cruz," he said. The thought of Ernesto knowing everything that happened here made him sick. Ernesto never cared for children, as much as he tried to get along with Coco. How would he react knowing about the . . . .

The word miscarriage hurt Héctor to think about now.

"Is he . . . ?" the doctor trailed off. Héctor understood his meaning.

"Yes," he answered. The doctor acknowledged what he already suspected and continued cleaning.

Once he was down wiping the blood off of Héctor and the table, the doctor threw the dirty towels into the sink. Héctor watched him grab a mop and a pail from another cabinet.

As the doctor filled the pail with water from the sink, a terrifying question occurred to him.

"This can't happen again, can it?" Héctor asked, hoping the answer was no.

He was wrong. "I can't promise you anything," the doctor said, mopping up Héctor's vomit. "However, I can guarantee you this: if you don't have relations with other men, you can't get pregnant."

The fact that he'd been pregnant, and could get pregnant again, sent Héctor reeling.

"Dios mió," he whimpered.

He could feel the presence of the tiny baby on the counter, still and silent. Héctor never wanted to go through this again.

Soon, the room was clean, and Héctor was covered by a clean blanket the doctor had fetched for him.

"Gracias," said the songwriter. "For everything. Not just the blanket."

The doctor only nodded in response. He only did what he had to.

His eye caught the sight of the fetus he'd left on the counter. Usually, he'd allow the grieving parents to take the remains home with them, so that they could hold a proper funeral. The exhausted young man on his table was not the mourning mother he was used to.

"Would you like to keep it?" he offered finally, gesturing to the still tiny body. Héctor starred, his emotions heavy in his heart. For once, he knew for certain what he wanted.

"Yes, please," he answered, his voice trembling. The doctor nodded and set to work wrapped the baby in a clean towel. He dug a small cardboard box from the cabinet under the counter and placed the bundle inside of it.

Héctor began to slide off of the table, and placed some of his weight on his legs experimentally. Finding himself strong enough to stand, he slid of the table completely and walked slowly to take the box from the doctor's hands. The older man handed it to the grieving songwriter.

The box weighed almost nothing, despite its contents. A dark wave washed over Héctor as he brought the box to his chest.

The doctor pressed another parcel into Héctor's hands. "This is your medicine and some cloth. For the blood," he said.

"Thank you," said the songwriter. The recovery was going to be hell, physically and emotionally.

The doctor, noticing Héctor's dark, blank expression, offered, "Would you like me to inform Señor de la Cruz-?"

"No," Héctor cut him off. "No, please don't. I'll tell him everything."

With that, the doctor led Héctor into the waiting room with a hand on his shoulder. Pacing amongst the row of chairs was Ernesto, anxiously biting his nails, an old habit from when they were young. When he saw Héctor enter the room, appearing forlorn and tired, but healthy, a small weight lifted off his shoulders.

"Héctor!" he ran to his best friend, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Oh, gracias a Dios, you're alright."

The songwriter's frown deepened at the comment. He was sure he wouldn't be alright for a long time.

Ernesto turned to the doctor and asked, "What was wrong with him?"

The doctor paused. "He'll be fine," was all he could say.

"But what was wrong with him?" Ernesto pressed, desperate to know.

"I'll tell you when we get back at the hotel," Héctor spoke up, the meekness and exhaustion in his voice catching Ernesto off guard. At once, he knew something dreadful had happened.

He looked back to the doctor, and began, "But-"

"Please, Ernesto. I want to go home," Héctor begged, tears threatening to fall again. He couldn't stay here any longer. All he wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep forever.

Ernesto, caught off guard by the glassy eyed, pleading look his best friend gave him, gave in.

The two men paid the doctor for his services and the medicine. The walk back to the hotel took much longer than the trip to the medical center, now that Héctor couldn't walk without hissing and grasping at his stomach. The painkiller was starting to wear off, and his middle was unbearably sore from the trauma of the miscarriage. Ernesto and Héctor received concerned stares from everyone they passed. Héctor was only wearing a blanket, and Ernesto's shirt was stained with an ugly red smear.

When they finally returned to their room, Héctor set down the box and the bag of medicine before letting the blanket that covered him drop to the floor. Ignoring Ernesto's concerned stare, he carefully pressed his a finger into his bloated middle. Yesterday the small belly had been firm, and now it gave away easily, feeling loose and flabby.

"Héctor?" Ernesto said, placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.

Immediately, Héctor batted Ernesto's hand off of him.

"Don't touch me," he seethed weakly. Feeling too exposed in front of his best friend, he grabbed a bathrobe off the back of a nearby chair and slipped it on.

"Héctor," Ernesto tried again, somewhat taken aback by his friend's actions. "Are you alright?"

The songwriter didn't respond. Instead, he returned to the box sitting on the card table and picked it up. Its contents weighed heavy on his soul.

Héctor turned slowly to his best friend, keeping his eyes on the small package.

He took a deep breath.

"No, I'm not alright." he answered, his voice wavering. How was he supposed to tell his friend something so earth-shattering? He regretted not letting the doctor explain to Ernesto.

"I'm so sorry," the older man whispered, extending his arms and coming in to hug Héctor.

The taller man took a large step back and hugged the box closer to his body.

"Don't touch me," he repeated with more force. Ernesto stopped in his tracks, his expression crestfallen.

"Please, tell me what happened," the larger man pleaded quietly, giving Héctor some space.

"I . . . I'm like my tia," he said, trying to explain as best he could. "I'm different, like she was. I- oh, Dios mió!"

The songwriter began to cry freely. Ernesto, frightened by his friend's behavior, waited for him to continue.

"I wasn't getting fat, Ernesto!" he wailed in despair, tears rolling down his cheeks as he clutched the small cardboard box. "I was pregnant!"

Ernesto's eyes widened comically. In different circumstances, Héctor would have found the shell-shocked expression on his friend's face hysterical. Now there was no place for humor.

Another moment passed and the other man was shaking his head in denial.

"That's impossible," he said, trying to rationalize the tragedy away. "You're a man. I know you're a man."

The memory of Santa Cecilia's bearded woman, Héctor's tía, surfaced in Ernesto's mind. He recalled her hairy face and strange, deep voice with a growing sense of dread.

For the first time, he noticed the way Héctor was holding onto the box in his hands. The wording "I was pregnant" rang like an alarm in his head.

"Dios mió," he whispered, realizing what had happened. He remembered how sick Héctor had been every morning, and how strange the shape of his stomach was. The blood and the stomach pains from earlier . . .

"I lost the baby," Héctor sobbed, runny snot dripping from his nose. His shoulders shook from the force of his crying, and he breathed in choked gasps.

Ernesto stood in his place, expression draining from his face. He didn't want to accept the horrible truth. For a moment, he tried to deny it, to ignore the box in his grieving friend's hands, but it was impossible. There was nothing he could do to make this better.

Ernesto eyed the box again, guilt and building despair growing in his chest when he asked, "Can I see?"

The hand extended to him caught Héctor off guard. He brought his teary eyes to meet Ernesto's and saw he was serious. After little thought, he carefully placed the precious package into his best friend's waiting hand.

With an unreadable expression, Ernesto brought the little box closer to himself. He turned his back to Héctor so he didn't need to see what was inside again. With shaky hands, he opened the folds of the box and saw the tiny, blood-splotched bundle. Ernesto held his breath and he gradually unwrapped the towel from around its contents.

The musician almost gagged at the sight of the fetus. He was quick to cover it again with the towel and close the box. It was so inhuman looking that Ernesto had trouble connecting it to a real baby.

The knowledge that this tiny corpse was his child shook him to the core of his being.

Eager to get the box away from him, he set it back on the card table. Ernesto didn't need to see Héctor to know that the taller man was watching his every move.

He turned to face his best friend, taking in how terrible he looked after the ordeal he'd been through.

"You need rest," Ernesto said at last, leading Héctor to the fresh bed next to the one they used earlier that day.

Héctor nodded in agreement, sending one last meaningful glance to the box on the table before crawling under the covers. Unsurprisingly, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Ernesto watched his friend sleep for a minute, making sure he was alright before sighing and undressing for bed himself.