A/N: My OCs from So Different are mentioned in this chapter. Just in case you are wondering where I got the reference.
Imelda didn't know what to say to him as they stood in the middle of the town cemetary, the gates squeaking in the background as the soft breeze worked its way past them, his parents' graves at their feet colored in an ashen gray.
Unlike every other part of Santa Cecilia, this place had no occupants for the time being. People usually never visited this place unless it was Día de los Muertos or a deceased family member's birthday, so it was just her and Héctor, hands held, mute, each staring at the ground in front of them. His hand squeezed hers tightly as a sudden gust of wind blew by.
Imelda stared at their names engraved on the stones, still wondering why Héctor insisted they take a break on writing their song to come here of all places. One grave had the name of Héctor's mother, Isla, and the other had Héctor's father, Renaldo. The years that they had been alive for were listed as well.
Imelda tried to picture Isla's wispy black hair and deep laugh and high, chirpy voice. She also thought of her first meeting with the woman, all the ways Imelda thought she was a bit strange. Along with those thoughts came thoughts of Renaldo and his sandpaper voice and fancy suits and slicked back hair like Ernesto's, the slightest strands of white barely noticeable in his thick mop.
She thought of how she would often walk up to their front door to be greeted by the sound of Isla's humming to Héctor's guitar playing and, if he was home, Renaldo's friendly arguments with Ernesto, their voices dissolving into silences and laughter as their conversations continued.
Glancing at Héctor out of the corner of her eye, she realized that Héctor must be thinking some of the same things, and maybe more.
"I'm sorry, Héctor," she said as she took a few steps closer to him, her voice shaking with the images still fresh in her mind.
He just shook his head and let go of her hand, both of his own becoming fists. "I've gotten used to it. I don't think Ernesto has."
A twinge of disgusting sympathy curled through Imelda at those words, remebering how close Ernesto, too, had been to his parents. And how that bond must've grown stronger while he was healing from the wounds Imelda had given him, since he obviously didn't step out of the mansion much when recovering-- or even after that.
She stared at him some more, trying to push the feeling away. "Is that part of why you stay by his side sometimes?" She didn't know if she would be more saddened or frightened after receiving the answer.
Héctor's gaze tilted skyward, his left hand squeezing to a fist and the other reaching up to rub his neck. "That's not why." His eyes closed. "I've always liked being around him."
"Of course you have."
Héctor stared at her. "Not funny, Imelda."
Imelda swallowed and went quiet again. She looked out at the rest of the graves in front of them, lost in thoughts of if she would be doing this with her parents when they died, visiting them early just like Héctor obviously had been doing before this moment. Maybe she would be dragging him along just like he did this time.
After a few more seconds went by, Imelda felt Héctor's blank stare on her neck, the heat of his palm suddenly connecting with hers again.
"Let's go, Imelda." His voice had never sounded more bland.
"Are you sure?" Imelda raised her eyebrows at him, not wanting to go with him or let him leave until she was sure he wasn't about to cry.
He fixed his eyes squarely on hers. They were as stricken as ever, though he was clearly trying to hide it from her like usual. "We have to finish the song, remember?"
Imelda couldn't argue with him there. She didn't have the heart. Héctor soon turned around and dashed away, Imelda holding on tightly to his hand as he lead her back to their original spot.
Thoughts of Isla and Renaldo wouldn't leave her, though, even as her and Héctor debated over the lyrics for his song. And every time a silence of pencil to notebook paper filled the air around them, Imelda stopped to look at Héctor, never again that day questioning the twitch and tremble of his lips or the lines of welling tears in his eyes.