Entonces

"So, what do you think?" Héctor asked as he finished playing. Imelda, perched beside him on a bench in her courtyard, took her time pondering the question; he knew well enough to let her consider an answer, and watched her patiently as he absently plucked at the guitar.

Héctor had kept to his word - as the months passed and his little songbook filled up he had brought each work-in-progress and completed song to Imelda, singing and playing in her courtyard or a corner of the market or wherever he happened to find her, teaching her each song to sing with her and listening attentively to her every suggestion.

"Try a faster tempo," she said after a moment. "Do you have lyrics yet?"

"No - I can fit them once this is perfect." He was noting her suggestion diligently, marking it in minute, surprisingly neat lettering; Imelda leaned over to peek as he finished and started flipping pages, humming absently under his breath.

"What about the other one, the one you were writing the day you started?" She prodded at the book, urging him to flip back to the front. "Do you know the lyrics to that one yet?"

"No," he said slowly. "That one is… something special. I have to take care with that one."

Imelda sat back a bit, giving him a skeptical look.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Well…." Héctor looked up, giving her long, soft-eyed look. "We really worked on that one together, didn't we? So I'm taking care with it." He shrugged. "Maybe I'm writing it for you."

She stared, the tip of the lace fan she'd been holding coming to rest against her heart.

"I… what for?"

He blinked at her, looking startled at the question.

"You should have songs just for you. Shouldn't you?"

"Why do you say that?" Under his earnest gaze she could feel a flush creeping up her neck; Imelda had never in her life hidden behind a fan like some of the girls she knew, but the temptation was undeniable.

"Because I love you!"

He said it both as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and as if it had been blurted on impulse - in fact, he did look surprised at himself, and they stared wide-eyed at each other a long, silent moment.

Imelda had heard it from men before, but never with such sudden earnestness - always smooth and rehearsed and from men not nearly so near and dear to her as this ludicrous gangling clown of a musician currently seated in her courtyard. This was something else, something she knew already, something altogether different from the suitors she rebuffed or ignored or threatened if they pushed too hard, and she looked more closely at Héctor as she struggled to proceed.

His surprised look gave way to a sweet, almost bashful smile, cheeks dimpling, and Imelda thought her heart might well stop then and there.

She didn't know what to do about that, so she scoffed and turned away as the heat rose in her cheeks.

"A-and the sky is red!"

She regretted the words as soon as they were out; she didn't want to hurt Héctor, she wanted to… to….

Héctor was laughing. Imelda turned back to him to find him gazing at her, starry-eyed, and realized with delight and dismay that he saw right through her.

And then he lifted his guitar, starting in on the song she'd been critiquing, bringing it up to the faster tempo she'd suggested.

"What color is the sky? ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!"

Oh no .

"Héctor, don't you dare-"

"You tell me that it's red! ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!"

"Are you making fun of me?!"

Héctor shook his head, laughter creeping into his voice as he sang; Imelda, torn between appalled and charmed, could only listen as he made his way through a verse.

"I'll count it as a blessing… that I'm only un poco loco!"

He finished with a flourish and looked at her expectantly, slightly disheveled by his own enthusiasm, and Imelda stared back at him, struggling to hold in her laughter. A lost cause: he tilted his head, wiggling his eyebrows at her and looking so absurd she all but exploded with mirth, laughing until she was sore-sided and teary-eyed.

Héctor, of course, looked all too pleased with himself as he laughed with her.

"Oh, Héctor ," she said at last, striving for her usual unimpressed dryness but unable to hide the tenderness in her voice, "I don't think you're just 'un poco loco'."

Héctor only smiled at her, picking out the notes as an echo to her words.

"So what if that's true? Whose fault is it?"

He made the statement with such earnest warmth that she could feel her cheeks flushing again, any protests fizzling and dying at the sight of his sweet, almost giddy smile.

Imelda was already smiling back. She'd be furious if she weren't so enchanted - because really, how dare he?

Obviously, there was only one way to handle this - so she touched the point of his jaw with the tip of her folded fan, beckoning him closer. He leaned in, eyes impossibly soft and bright, and she pressed a gentle thumb into one of his dimples as she whispered her reply.

"You know something… I think I'll accept your blame."

She closed the remaining distance between them in a smooth, decisive movement. Héctor stiffened briefly and she nearly pulled away - but then he leaned into the kiss, guitar falling forgotten as he carefully captured her face between his palms, rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones before sliding one hand to rest butterfly-light on her back and the other at the nape of her neck. She could feel his balance shift to accommodate her and she sighed softly, settling her weight against him as his fingers twined gently into the soft, short curls at the nape of her neck and...

And then she heard the distinct sound of someone loudly clearing his throat.

They both startled, and it proved too much for Héctor's precarious balance: he slid backwards off the bench and Imelda went down with him, both of them yelping as he landed on his back, she landed heavily atop him, and her forehead and his chin cracked against each other hard enough to click her teeth sharply together.

All told, it was several seconds before they recovered themselves enough to look for the source of the sound.

Óscar was standing in the doorway; his eyebrows seemed to be in danger of escaping into his hairline and he looked both scandalized and as if he badly wanted to laugh. Imelda groaned, shifting her weight to try to rise and only succeeding in tangling herself in her own skirts and Héctor's unreasonably long legs.

Damn him. Both of them!

"Really Imelda? In the courtyard?" Óscar said at last. Héctor laughed, a brief helpless chortle as he tucked an arm about Imelda's waist and rolled up to his knees, pulling her to her feet as he stood.

"Hello, Óscar!" he said cheerfully, not a trace of shame in his bright, delighted voice. His arm was still resting comfortably around her waist; Imelda shifted closer to wrap her arm around his waist in turn as she fixed Óscar with her most defiant stare. "It's just such a lovely day, isn't it? So we thought it'd be nice to sit outside for a bit."

"Oh?" Amusement seemed to be winning out as Óscar stepped out into the sun, shading his eyes as he looked up. "So it is. Perhaps I'll join you… I wonder where Felipe's gotten to, he'll probably like it too."

"Go away , Óscar," Imelda growled. Óscar snorted out a laugh and shook his head.

"Propriety, Imelda," he said primly. "Propriety forbids it." He looked them over a long moment and laughed again. "You're just going to have to find better hiding places."

Imelda groaned again. Just like her brothers to make a game of this; once Felipe was informed she'd never get a moment's peace.

"Actually," Héctor said, voice shaded with regret, "I should be going." He glanced over at Óscar, quirking a brow questioningly; under Héctor's unabashed smile and Imelda's hot glare Óscar sighed and chuckled and obligingly turned his back, and Héctor leaned down to kiss her forehead where it had struck his chin.

"Later, mi amor," he murmured against her brow, the endearment given shyly, "if you're still willing to put up with me by then."

"And why wouldn't I, you clown?" she mumbled. "At this rate it's them I'll disown, not you." She tipped her face up to kiss him properly and he chuckled against her, drawing gentle fingers along her cheekbone to the wisps of hair in front of her ear before pulling back. Imelda caught his hand briefly and Héctor pressed a kiss to her knuckles, peering at her with those large lovestruck eyes, and Imelda absently wondered if she looked anything close to that soppy as she watched him go.

Then he was out of sight, and Imelda turned to deal with her terrible, meddlesome brother.

Ahora

"So – this is your office, eh?"

Imelda looks up as Héctor steps into the only area of the shop he hasn't seen in his visits, hat in his hand and guitar across his back; if he weren't a skeleton, he'd look just as he had a hundred years ago. She sighs, settling back in her chair with hands resting on her desk, and addresses him in a slow, careful tone.

"Yes. Do you need something, Héctor?"

"Only to see where you work." He peers around the room, taking in her broad desk, her sewing machine and neat row of tools, the mirror stored behind the desk and ready be brought out to allow clients to see how they looked in their new shoes. Then he looks back at her, smiling, the expression something close to shy. "I... if you'll let me, I'd like to learn all about what I missed."

He does look like he did back then. Imelda ponders, not for the first time, just how young he'd been when he died; it's not a pleasant train of thought, and she pushes it away with a noncommittal shrug.

"Well, it's not something you'll find terribly interesting. Today is a bookkeeping day."

"Hm." Héctor nods slowly. "Business was never my strong point. It was always-"

He breaks off, frowning, but Imelda knows what he'd been about to say.

It was always Ernesto who handled business .

Her feelings about Héctor might be uncertain, but even obliquely thinking about that man brings rage bubbling up inside her, remembering what his idea of business had cost her in life and almost cost her in death. Just the memory of Miguel's tears and terror and Héctor's weak, fading form has her trembling with anger and grief; she can't work on her books like this, so instead she snatches up a worn shoe and begins wrenching tacks from leather with ardent ferocity.

Her attack on the shoe, accompanied by bitter muttering, has Héctor backing away; he coughs and turns toward the door, speaking up meekly.

"Perhaps I'm out of turn. I'll just-"

"I'm not angry at you , Héctor." She looks up at his worried, plaintive face and softens her own expression with an act of supreme will. "Sit down."

He nods again and obeys, pulling the guitar from his back so he can settle into a chair without harming it. It's not his guitar, but the one Miguel had been carrying that night; Imelda isn't sure where it came from, exactly, but it looks quite old and she's gathered that it had belonged to a friend of Héctor's. When asked about it he had only shrugged sadly, and Imelda had let the subject drop.

If she had to guess by his reaction, his friend is likely truly gone. It isn't something Imelda wants to dwell on – uncertain or no, she is certain she doesn't want Héctor to fade, and the fact that he almost had isn't something she's willing to touch on just yet.

She isn't certain what she wants to say at all just yet, so she goes back to her work as Héctor sits quietly on the other side of the desk, awkward silence stretching between them.

Once the tacks are dealt with she turns back to her bookkeeping, and gradually, she realizes the office isn't silent anymore. Héctor is humming under his breath, shooting her furtive glances; she looks back at him the third time, expression carefully neutral, and he pauses a long moment. Imelda looks away, and Héctor seems to take the lack of rebuke as tacit approval: when he starts again, it's noticeably louder, and after a point it can't really be called humming anymore.

She doesn't recognize the tune and there are no lyrics to speak of - Héctor is singing in that wordless, rambling fashion he always had when he was trying to pull a new song together, and Imelda lays her hands on her desk to brace against a wave of warm nostalgia.

Just for a moment she's seventeen years old and a gangly clown is promising her a song, even his speech rising and falling in lyrical cadences, and she scoffs to hide how charmed she is...

" Stop that!" she snaps. It's too much of something she can't decide if she even wants, and she's both relieved and disappointed when he immediately, obediently falls silent, contrite and crestfallen.

They're silent for a moment, neither looking at the other; Héctor shifts as if he might get up and leave, and Imelda sighs and waves a hand.

"If you must sing, then sing something sensible."

Héctor blinks at her, hesitant; she leans back slightly in her chair, crossing her arms, and he gives her a small, nervous smile as he settles back in his seat and picks out a flurry of quick, bright notes on the old guitar.

"What color is the sky? ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!"

"I said something sensible !" Imelda grumbles. Unfortunately Héctor – ever mercurial – has gone from contrite to incorrigible.

"You tell me that it's red! ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!"

She rolls her eyes and turns away. It doesn't help - Héctor is a fool and an idiot and a clown but he isn't stupid, so it takes him all of two seconds to realize she can still see him in the mirror. He grins and does a horrible ridiculous brow-wiggle at her, and Imelda rolls her eyes again.

It is most certainly not endearing.

"Where should I put my shoes?" As he sings the line he lifts a foot and wiggles bare bony toes at her too, and Imelda purses her lips grimly.

She will not laugh. She will not .

"¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!"

He's still grinning at her in the mirror, the cad, and she takes a sudden deep breath as she turns to him.

"You can put them on your head!"

Héctor jolts upright when Imelda blurts out the next line; truth be told she'd had no intention of speaking at all, let alone encouraging his nonsense, and they stare at each other a long moment before Imelda turns away with a huff.

"Ay mi amor, ay mi amor," she sings after another moment, low as she can manage. She isn't certain whether she intends for Héctor to hear, but a glance at his reflection tells her he most assuredly did: he's staring at her, smiling at her in that marvelously besotted way she remembers so well, and she can't decide who she's more exasperated with.

"Well," she says at last, waving a dismissive hand. "You might as well go on."

His smile widens, and he nods before diving back into the song with the joyous chortle she also remembers.

"You make me un poco loco, un poquititito loco! The way you keep me guessing, I'm nodding and I'm yessing!"

Imelda is tapping a foot in spite of herself, watching him in the mirror despite all her intentions of going back to work, and she's entirely incapable of resisting joining him on the last line.

"I'll count it as a blessing... that I'm only un poco loco!"

Their voices ring together just like old times, filling the room and Imelda's heart, and she turns to face Héctor almost shyly. He's leaning forward just a bit, giving her the same dazzled look he had on the stage at the Sunrise Spectacular, and she clears her throat and drops her gaze.

"My voice... it's out of practice."

"It isn't," Héctor says softly. Imelda shakes her head, looking away.

"It had been... a very long time, Héctor." She takes a slow, shaky breath. "For a very long time, I couldn't stand it."

There's a long silence, filled only by Héctor playing a slow string of melancholy notes.

"You know," he says, "I, ah... stopped too. For a very long time. I didn't want to, I didn't have a reason anymore. Until..."

"Miguel." Imelda's voice grows soft and warm at the mention of their great-great-grandson; Héctor smiles, nodding slowly.

"Sí." His voice and expression are distant and fond as he plucks at the guitar, absentmindedly falling into the wandering tune-composing mode he'd been in moments ago; Imelda watches him a moment before nodding meaningfully toward the instrument.

"And how long since you wrote something?"

The guitar playing stops on a jangled chord - he must think he's annoying her after the scolding she'd given before, however brief.

"Even longer," he says slowly. "I... didn't really have any... any drive, any inspiration."

"Isn't that what you left to find? Inspiration?" Her tone is frostier than she intends. Héctor flinches; somehow the guilt rippling through his expression and posture isn't as satisfying as it might have been not so long ago, instead bringing on the slightest sting of guilt in Imelda.

"Yes," he says at last. "But instead I left it behind."

The wistfulness in his voice tugs at something wistful in her, and once again she speaks without fully intending to.

"Well... if it's been so long then I suppose you'd better get back work, don't you think?"

He gives her a startled look that swiftly melts into beaming delight, and this time she doesn't bother trying to hide her smile when their eyes meet. Héctor plucks experimentally at the guitar; Imelda turns to sorting through the scrap leather in her desk, listening more closely than she's willing to let on.

And as the tune starts to come together, she catches herself humming along.