There was no love greater than what Ernesto was experiencing now. Having lived in Santa Cecelia with Héctor ever since he was a boy, he saw every milestone the other's family went through, feeling them like he was a Rivera son himself. The deaths of his friends' grandparents, their wedding, the arrival of their firstborn all these years later... he hated to be tied to any one group. The World Es Mi Familia, the song Héctor wrote for him, was called, and Ernesto swore that his amigo knew him better than he knew himself. If not the world, then the Riveras were the closest thing to a familia Ernesto had.
But they were Héctor's, not his, and he could never understand how high his partner held them in his heart. They were a duo for as long as Ernesto could remember, and becoming a trio as Héctor fell for the woman in town the most out of his league was one thing Ernesto never could have predicted. Close as he was to his best friend, there were differences in how they thought — there was more to Héctor's life than music, and with his marriage to Imelda and the birth of Coco, Ernesto feared they were drifting apart by the day.
Imelda loved music just as much as they did. One of Héctor's songs, even, Un Poco Loco, had been co-written by her. He would always grab Ernesto's shoulders and shake him as Imelda sang, "Her voice is so beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered with a wide grin, so full of love for his wife. Ernesto had to admit that he was right, and while his own relationship with Imelda was one full of arguments, there was the budding hope that things wouldn't change too much after all.
That hope was dashed almost immediately. Tired of having Héctor caught in the middle, unsure of if to listen to his wife or his best friend, Imelda once marched up to Ernesto in the plaza herself. She spoke harshly, with a hardened glare and dress balled into a fist — "My husband has a familia now, Ernesto. You're not teenagers anymore, and you will not keep feeding him these delusions of performing like a monkey all over the country when he has a child to care for." Ernesto felt as if he was going to strike her then and there — didn't their family need all the money they could get? What harm did performing do?
Eventually, though, he won his friend over, and they would travel Mexico in a two-month tour. Héctor would send a sum of the money back to his family in the post, alongside constant letters. The thrill and excitement of being on the road led to them extending the trip far more times than Imelda would have liked, but for Ernesto, it was all worth it. He hoped Héctor thought the same way, but it became clear over the five months that staying in shabby places in beds without his wife was taking its toll.
It always came back to the family for Héctor. He used to confide in Ernesto about fights with his wife, over how she worried he'd become a deadbeat musician who would never take being the head of a household seriously. Ernesto knew for himself that it wasn't true — family had changed Héctor, and it was becoming more apparent that what they did was no longer a passion for him, but a pastime. Everything they had worked for was falling apart, all because Héctor was being brainwashed into giving up on his biggest dream.
Ernesto couldn't let that happen. It was fine, at first, so long as they had Héctor's songs — they had to stand out amongst the countless other street musicians in Mexico, and while Ernesto de la Cruz was one of the best in the country, the writing was all his partner's; Héctor could make poetry and a tune out of anything — but there was the clawing in the back of his mind that it wouldn't last forever. Héctor would go home to Santa Cecelia, leaving Ernesto a shell of a man who threw everything away for a dream that could never come true.
The conclusion that Imelda Rivera had to go was not a pleasant one to come to. Sure, their relationship was a rocky one, as Ernesto's love for the spotlight and Imelda's hatred for anyone trying to be better than her clashed often, but they grew to respect one another, and Ernesto would be lying if he didn't envy his best friend for scoring such an attractive and beautiful-voiced woman. They should have valued one another, became friends however begrudgingly, but her hold on Héctor was too strong.
Ernesto cared for her, he truly did, and he was no senseless sadist, but she was the only tie between Héctor and his dreams. The dreams that would change both of their lives for good — the musical duo had true talent; they could etch their names into the history books for centuries to come! How couldn't he understand that? — and Héctor's family was a liability.
A tragic widower with a guitar turned more heads than the average amateur musician, and the grief would only make his songs more soulful. When the thought first planted itself into his head, Ernesto brushed it off as an odd impulse, but it became harder to ignore with every time Héctor shoved a poem for Coco into his face, or went on a tangent about how his precioso media naranja was waiting for him back home.
It had never made Ernesto angry before. He would laugh at his friends' sappy tendencies, or make a snide comment about how he and his wife couldn't go five months keeping their hands off each other, but he was always happy for his friend.
Not anymore.
It felt as if a candle had been blown out, or a switch had been flipped. All he saw when Héctor wrote to his family or murmured that lullaby for Coco was wasted time. Part of Ernesto knew he would never understand the Riveras' closeness, having given up his own family long ago, but that made the feeling that Héctor's were sapping away his potential, and taking Ernesto's career with them, no easier.
His partner was homesick. He always was, Ernesto noticed with annoyance. The longer they spent on the road, the more he heard Héctor whine about how much he missed his family, and his reassurances that he wasn't having second thoughts at all were insulting at best. There were times Ernesto thought Héctor knew his head better than he did, but then he had the audacity to pretend he wouldn't rather be anywhere but here.
His worst fears would be confirmed sooner or later, like a bullet he could see a mile away, and Ernesto knew that as much as Héctor cared for his best friend and their dream, he cared for his family more. On the surface, he was his wife's opposite, but both Riveras had a stubborn streak, and the moment their heart was set on something, not even the promise of worldwide love and fame could change it.
Eventually, saying he couldn't bear one more week of extending the tour, Héctor had packed up his songs and made a final decision.
With that, so had Ernesto. The arsenic in his pocket wasn't for his partner — there was only so much longevity in that thin red songbook of his. Ernesto had a different plan in mind, and was almost disturbed at how easily it came to him.
True art came from a place of suffering, and Héctor would have known this better than anyone.
He swallowed down the anger at his friend's betrayal in favor of walking him to the train station, and then offering to join — he hadn't spoken to little Coco in so long, after all, and even he got a little homesick on occasion. It wasn't his best acting job, Ernesto had to admit, but the relief in Héctor's face that his best amigo didn't hate him for his decision seemed to overshadow any doubts.
The train to Santa Cecelia was nearly vacant, save for the two performers and a small handful of others. Ernesto gave his friend a knowing smirk when one of them turned out to be a fan, asking for a song to keep himself and the other passengers occupied. He could tell Héctor's heart wasn't in it when they put on their impromptu show, but Ernesto loved every performance like it was his first.
It didn't make him forget the growing uneasiness he felt, but it told him that it would all be worth it. He would get his partner back, and they would play for the world — no matter the cost.
—
The sun was rising by the time the two returned home, and a warm wind was beginning to whistle from the pale blue sky. The small town hadn't changed much in their five month absence, but it still relaxed Ernesto to see after so long. What didn't relax him was seeing Imelda's expression sour the moment they greeted her at the door.
"Is that what you call dos meses, Héctor?" Her hands were on her hips, an eyebrow raised at her husband as she leaned her elbow against the doorway. Her usual stone-faced expression was accentuated by dark circles beneath her eyes, that Ernesto knew hadn't been there when they left. A black-stained brown apron was tied around her waist, and the same black stains were visible on her knuckles and fingernails. The five month separation seemed to take a greater toll on her than it had them.
Whatever he expected of the reunion, this wasn't it — and he figured this wasn't it for Héctor, either. He likely thought they'd toss that door open and Imelda would fall into his arms, all of her anger melting away at the sight of her amado.
Needless to say, that didn't happen.
"Well, ah... time flies, so they say?" Héctor laughed sheepishly, adjusting his ascot. When Imelda didn't appear the least bit amused, he dropped his hands as his smile faded. "Look, I... I'm sorry... Imelda." He spoke slowly, carefully, like a scolded child, and Imelda's gaze softened ever-so-slightly at her husband's rare wordlessness. "...I wanted to come home. I couldn't have gone another day without you."
He gave a small shake of his head, and Imelda scoffed, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "And it took you five months to realize, ay, Dios mío..."
For once, Ernesto kept quiet, though he thought bitterly that this exact reaction was why Héctor continued to postpone his return. This was a Rivera matter, and if it weren't for what he needed to do the moment Imelda invited him in, he would've wished his friend well and wandered back to the station from the door.
Visibly guilted by his wife's words, Héctor nodded. After a stretch of silence, nervously rubbing his hands, he added, "I missed you. I don't want to leave again."
The cogs were turning in Imelda's head. While the fire in her eyes didn't fade, she finally took her gaze off of Héctor, and Ernesto could tell she was battling whether or not to keep scolding him. Her jaw, ever-so-slightly, quivered.
"I can't believe I married a man so stupid." She shook her head, but the venom on her voice was lacking. There was a sniffle, then another, as the dam seemed to crack and Imelda pulled her husband in for a hug. "I missed you, too."
Ernesto hoped the couple was too preoccupied by each other to notice the way his expression darkened. He looked at Imelda and didn't see the woman he was practically the brother-in-law of, having a loving reunion with the man Ernesto took from her, but a corpse waiting to be bound in rags and buried. She was a burden, and admitting that to himself was the only thing keeping him from seizing his moment. Sharp as he knew she was, she didn't seem to notice the emptiness behind his eyes even when she greeted him with a glare — just as Héctor didn't notice the rat poison for a home with no rats.
"And you." Imelda continued to hold her husband, though the gesture was now protective as her grasp tightened, as if Ernesto's mere presence would take Héctor away again. "You're why he's spent three whole months longer than he promised, aren't you?"
Ernesto let out a sigh, slipping into his down-to-earth common man persona. "That's my fault, Imelda." It wasn't, and he knew that, but blaming her or Héctor would only damage them further. "Don't blame him for my mistakes."
"Mistakes," echoed Imelda with a sneer and roll of her eyes. "You don't just trip and fall and live on the road for five months, Ernesto. We aren't street rats like you."
"'melda..." Héctor murmured as he pulled away, giving Ernesto a sympathetic look. The man himself felt like he was going to snap any moment, but he had to remain calm. He'd known Imelda for long enough to not be stirred by her insults, but she'd known him long enough to hit where it hurt.
"I want to make it up to you both." Ernesto began, shaking it off. "Might I help with lunch, or looking after Coco?" He managed a polite smile — Imelda was a hard woman to earn the trust of once it had been broken, but he hoped it wasn't that point yet. "I know she'll be excited to see her Papá and Tío Ernesto again."
Héctor's face lit up, and he gave his wife a hopeful grin. She didn't look quite convinced, holding her ground even as she rubbed her face of forming tears, before giving in with a huff. "Ay, I'm not going to hear the end of this, am I? You two are children."
She rolled her eyes, stepping aside to let the pair of musicians inside. "No touching the shoes, either of you." She stated with a glare, Ernesto noticing several pairs of shoes boxed and neatly arranged by the doorway. They appeared homemade, with visible seams and uneven patterns, but they looked sturdy. He stopped to peer over at them, only to get a light smack in the chest from Imelda.
"...shoes?" Héctor asked, as Imelda snapped her fingers to get the two away from her products, a mannerism she no doubt picked up from her husband. "That's new."
"I had to feed Coco without you, didn't I?" She carefully nudged one of the pairs of shoes into place, before closing their lid and pulling a label from her apron's pocket to place atop it. "I first made her a pair because the closest shop was far, and far too expensive." She procured a pen from the same pocket, scribbling something onto the label that Ernesto couldn't quite make out. "The business only grew."
Héctor grinned in admiration, and something in Ernesto twisted to know what he was going to put his friend through. It wasn't enough to deter him; he wasn't a coward like Héctor, but it wasn't a feeling he liked. "That's amazing, 'melda. You didn't turn the house into a sweatshop while I was gone, did you?"
Trying to force down the odd feeling looking at those handmade shoes gave him, thankful Imelda was boxing them up, Ernesto laughed. "She would've turned your old bedroom into one if we extended the tour again."
"Oh, no, I already did."
"'melda...!"
—
To Ernesto's surprise, Coco seemed just as happy to see him as she was Héctor. She always was, of course — he'd practically been her godfather, but he assumed that she would've been too focused on Héctor's return to even notice his. He was grateful - the little girl was one of the sweetest he'd ever seen, and even when music became a greater priority, he always appreciated his friends' family.
Well. Not always, and especially not as of late.
Héctor was playing guitar for his daughter with more love and excitement in his eyes than performing on the streets had ever given him. It shouldn't have been a sour sight — a better friend would be grateful he was happy, but all Ernesto felt was a dull anger that that happiness didn't have anything to do with their goals. Héctor never considered his so-called best friend in the slightest, and seeing him around people he truly cared for only made it clearer.
Catching Imelda make her way into the kitchen to check on lunch, Ernesto excused himself from the father-daughter duet to follow. The bottle of rat poison in his blazer's pocket felt like concrete weighing him down, but it was a necessary evil. Héctor and Imelda drove him to this point, and had nobody to blame but themselves as Ernesto flaked the pesticide into the Rivera matriarch's dish. Héctor would return to the stage, where he belonged, and everything would be fine.
—
He was beginning to remember why he didn't visit the Riveras more often. Oscar and Felipe were somehow more loud and distracting than he remembered, and Imelda's scolding of "You could stand to set a better example for your niece and guest, boys" did nothing to deter them. They talked through most of the meal, and while Ernesto remembered being their age and just as annoying with Héctor, it made him think darkly that more poison might've been necessary.
He couldn't bring himself to eat, though he hid it under the pretense of not wanting to give Imelda any unneeded extra work. Waiting for signs of the arsenic kicking in, he watched her closely, which Héctor pointed out with a good-natured nudge. "Eyes off the goods, amigo." Ernesto just rolled his eyes with a snicker — if only it was that simple.
There was the abrupt clatter of a fork slipping out of Imelda's grasp and clanging against her plate. Though it was mostly drowned out by the table's chatter, the woman's sudden wince was harder to ignore.
Héctor frowned, visibly concerned. "You alright, amado?"
"Mm." She managed a nod. "I don't think my stomach's agreeing with me."
Oscar, or Felipe, Ernesto honestly stopped trying to tell them apart years ago, pushed his plate away with an overly dramatic shudder. "Best chef in Santa Cecelia, huh?"
"You gave yourself food poisoning?" His twin chided, and even through the pain, Imelda managed to silence them with a glare. Immediately after, though, another wave seemed to wrack her, and she leaned forward in her seat, holding her stomach as she shut her eyes tight.
"Hey, 'melda, you can go lie down if you have to." Hesitantly, Héctor reached a hand across the table to place over his wife's.
Visibly trying to fight the pain, Imelda pried an eye open, then lightly shook her head. Straightening in her seat, she reached for her silverware again, but there was no hiding her state from Héctor.
"Hey—"
"Finish your food. I'll be alright."
Nobody at the table was convinced, but Imelda had enough fight in her to keep them from asking. Lunch resumed, though an uncomfortable aura permeated the room. Ernesto wasn't sure if it was just a guilty conscience, or if the other Riveras felt it, too. Oscar and Felipe seemed to notice the gravitas of the situation, at least, and kept quiet for the rest of the meal.
Just as Imelda's state had been pushed to the back of their minds, her sudden violent heave cut through the air, Héctor scrambling out of his chair to assist her. She kept shaking her head, denying against all plausibility that she was ill, until another spike of pain hit and she nearly collapsed against her husband's chest.
There was no going back now. Ernesto had seen the movies, read the toxicology journals — that dose of arsenic would be debilitating at the least and fatal at the worst. Seeing his childhood friend's nauseated state was different from simply fantasizing about it, but at least it ensured some of his shock and concern was genuine. For a moment, her unfocused gaze caught his as Héctor insisted she rest in the bedroom, and something in Ernesto twisted. She didn't know — there was no way she could've, but it made his heart skip a beat nonetheless.
"The orders," Imelda croaked, her voice more pained and weak than Ernesto had ever heard it. "I can't miss work, Héctor."
"Oscar and Felipe can take care of that. You need to rest…"
"I will be fine, amado."
Despite the sobriety of the situation, Ernesto could see Héctor's eyes shine at the name, but he quickly brushed it off. "No, you won't. You look like you're bent in half."
Imelda just let out a wordless moan, finally leaning into her husband's touch as he guided her to their room. Silence fell over the house as the couple vanished out of sight, and Ernesto began gathering the mostly-eaten plates to give himself something to do. He could hear Imelda beginning to heave again in the distance, reminding himself he only had to endure a little more while of this, and then the worst would be done with. The biggest roadblock would be disposed of, then from there, the road to their dream would be smooth sailing.
That didn't make it much easier to hear, though.
—
One upside to Imelda being out of commission for the night was that she couldn't kick him out. Héctor let Ernesto stay for the rest of the day as he attempted to make Imelda sleep off her sudden sickness. Ernesto had no interest in going upstairs to see her, and Héctor stuck to her side like glue. Occasionally, Ernesto could hear vomiting, but eventually it ceased, presumably because there was nothing left to come up.
The twins turned the store's sign from open to closed, and while they had been making jabs at dinner, the worry they felt for their older sister was evident. One of them had grabbed a pair of shoes from the workshop to continue tinkering with, only to lose focus almost immediately. Even little Coco could tell something was wrong, and as she nudged Ernesto's knee to ask if her Mamá was going to be okay, Ernesto was growing certain that it was some kind of test of faith. But he was Ernesto de la Cruz, and he could not afford to go back now, after everything he'd worked for.
The day was passing in a painful crawl, punctuated by Héctor rushing out of the room and into the kitchen every once in a while to grab Imelda towels, a bucket, or another pitcher of water. When Ernesto asked if she was getting any better, Héctor only shook his head and frantically shoved his friend aside to return to his wife, breathing somehow more shallow than hers.
The Rivera twins were, in Ernesto's honest opinion, insufferable and why he regretted ever being sixteen, but humoring them with conversation as they threatened to gnaw their fingernails bloody with anxiety wouldn't hurt. Mostly, they were obsessed with the idea of travelling the country like he did, despite his insistence that Imelda would be less than pleased if they left her, too. And as he did when life got him down, he picked up his guitar from the doorway to play for the three children, hoping to ease their nerves — for the time being, anyway. More fear was the last thing they needed, and it wasn't like it was warranted yet.
As the sky began to darken, neither of the couple had emerged from upstairs. Finally, Ernesto dared himself to venture up there and see what was going on for himself, excusing himself from Oscar and Felipe begging for an encore. He lightly knocked on the bedroom door, and upon receiving no response, carefully entered.
The room was silent, and for a moment Ernesto froze, before seeing Imelda's chest continued to rise and fall. She was asleep, or unconscious, he wasn't sure, but her condition had worsened over the hours. She was pale, with bile and what appeared to be blood staining her lower lip. Her breathing was a rattle, and this kind of vulnerability in Imelda Rivera was something Ernesto never expected to see, even through his plans to kill her. He pictured her kicking and screaming until the very end, her last words a furious snarl towards her attacker, maybe even taking him down with her, but that wasn't what he saw.
She was frail, and even when asleep, her face looked pained. She wouldn't last the night, Ernesto knew, and he glanced down to notice a bony hand clenching Imelda's clammy one. He followed it to find Héctor, slumped against the bed in a chair pulled up next to it, having run himself ragged in caring for Imelda and passing out at a point.
He was tempted to shake his friend awake, as his position looked awfully uncomfortable, but Ernesto stopped himself. It would only raise suspicion, no doubt, and so he carefully stepped away from the two. If all went smoothly from here, Imelda would pass in her sleep, and Héctor wouldn't know until morning at the latest.
That Ernesto was grateful for. He wouldn't have to be the one to tell Héctor his wife was cold and blue, and there were the precious few hours left he could hold her hand as she wasted away. After that, Héctor Rivera's life would never be the same, but he would recover and return to the spotlight better than ever.
As Ernesto shut the bedroom door behind him, leaving Imelda to die in her own vomit, he smiled to himself to picture the ballad Héctor would write about this.