Author Notes:

This took longer than expected! (Last update was in July? Really?)
I got stuck on this one. It was almost competely written but nothing was feeling right. I ended up rewriting 4/5 of it but it was well worth it! It meant fundamentally changing some future stuff.. well actually I ended up going back to my original idea that I thought I couldn't use, but it worked!
So.. remember what happened in chapter four? That whole thing? Yeah, I haven't forgotten about that. Neither has Héctor.
Warning: Homophobic attitudes and language (including f- slur). For reference, joto, puto, maricon and many more are homophobic slurs (there's really no good word for a gay man, not until recently). This chapter also has references to sexual assualt and rape.
Big thank you to BabyCharmander and TomatoSoupful for betaing!

Chapter 10: The Forty One

December 1925

Even after more than four years after his death, there were still surprises in the Land of the Dead. One of them being the angry skeleton running away from him.

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

"Ay, ay, ay, hombre! Just hold up a bit, you dropped this," Héctor called out, chasing after the man through the rocky, half-fallen ruins on the edge of Shantytown. He turned a corner, caught a glimpse of white bones, and so kept following.

"Fuck off!" the man shouted over his shoulder.

"Just wait up! Where you going?"

The man abruptly stopped running, and Héctor realized it was only because they were at a dead end surrounded by high rocky walls, one of many such to be found in the ruins. Héctor slowed and watched as the man looked around at the impassable cliffs, before turning and facing him.

"The hell do you want?" he snarled, curling his bony hands into fists.

"Hey, relax!" Héctor said, and then held out the bright piece of fabric. "I just wanted to return this—"

"It's not mine! That- that damn bastardo gave it to me as a joke," the man spat, his face twisted in anger. "I don't want it. So back off!"

Héctor flinched back at the harshness of his voice, feeling a familiar twinge of anger at the 'bastard' insult. Frowning, he held up the dropped thing and saw it was a woman's blouse. A rather nice looking one, at that.

"What kind of a joke—"

The man smacked his hand down, making Héctor jump back in shock, not realizing he had gotten so close.

"Don't hold it up, dammit!" he hissed.

"Ay, ay, I'm just trying to be friendly here," Héctor said, raising his hands high and grinning at him. "You're not going to make many friends around here if you just keep shouting at everyone who tries to help. Come on, no reason to hold a grudge, right?"

The man squinted at Héctor, breathing hard. His fury gave way to confusion, then to mild wariness. "You… you don't know who I am, do you?"

"Ahhh… no. No, I don't. Why, should I? You famous around here or something?"

The man let out a humorless breath of laughter. "Yeah, something like that. Listen, you shouldn't be talking to me."

"What? Why?"

"Doesn't matter. Just... leave me alone, all right?"

With that, the skeleton lowered his head and walked past him, and Héctor stood aside and watched him go. Frowning, he held up the colorful blouse, shrugged, and wrapped it through his belt before he walked out and made his way to the Drunk Agave, one of many crusty little cantinas of the Land of the Dead. The men he lived with often went there, and for once he had allowed himself to be dragged along for an evening. Maybe he could actually make some friends with them, away from the imposing house they lived in.

Initially he had always been on edge in that house, a vague feeling of something off. But he was beginning to think that that feeling had less to do with who he lived with, and more with the where, buried as it was in the depths of Shantytown. Thinking of that, he held up his hand as he walked and peered at it closely, wondering if it was any more yellow than before. Perhaps the rumors were true and things faded more quickly there in the land of the almost-Forgotten; that things turned rotten. He wasn't sure.

Soon enough he arrived at the cantina and made his way through the smoke and chatter. He slipped past Pablo, a broad-shouldered man nicknamed el Matador—the Killer—and finally sank down at a crowded little table beside Alvaro, looking forward to an evening to relax and have some fun. If he could.

"Where the hell did you go?" Alvaro asked immediately, breaking off from his conversation with his neighbor and frowning at him from behind the thin smoke of his cigarette.

"Oh, ahh… nowhere," Héctor said with a shrug. "My guitar string broke again just after we left the house and I didn't want to carry it like that, so I went back to drop it off. Then I ran into this angry guy and, well, kinda lost track of you."

"Ah, guess that's all right, then," Alvaro said. "I was afraid you might have ditched. You could have gotten in some real trouble if you had."

"Trouble?" Héctor asked, frowning. Alvaro merely shrugged and took a long pull of his cigarette, saying no more.

One of the other men they lived with—an old, weather-beaten skeleton who claimed he fought against the Americans in 1847—came and leaned against the table before immediately talking with the others seated there. Hector lost any interest once he picked up the gist of the conversation. With half an ear he heard something about a "pinchefaggot," and then laughter at, "should have seen him squirm!"

Holding back a sigh, he was reminded once again that he didn't belong there. He had known early on that he was in a rough crowd. They reminded him fiercely of the Revolutionaries from when he and Ernesto had run away to join the fighting, and there was an odd familiarity with the vulgar, sometimes alarming, talk he would overhear. But many had been good men, had looked out for him, and besides, he had survived that and this would be no different. Except, well… survive wasn't the right word. He would make it through this. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Without a word he rose and headed to the bar at the back, finding space beside a man with a red-checkered serape around his shoulders, his head flat on the countertop and his snores just barely audible beneath the din. Héctor let his mind drift as he looked around the cantina, one he had never been in before, yet felt familiar all the same. The place was dark and weathered, stained with smoke and spilled drinks, and had the familiar sweet-sour smell that clung to the back of the throat and mingled with the clouds of smoke and reek of rancid sawdust beneath their feet. Like all the other cantinas in the Land of the Dead it was busy and packed with men, all women forbidden. And, like all the rest, it had the familiar hum of a dozen conversations going on at once, even as many sat quietly by themselves, looking nowhere but the bottom of their glass.

Despite the easygoing vibe, a fresh chill overcame him, a familiar sorrow. A reminder of what he had done when he had first died and arrived there, alone and unwanted and entirely lost. He had taken a loan from some men that he later learned was a bad, bad idea. Then he had used that money to numb himself with drink. Also a bad, bad idea.

Those first few months of his death were little more than a hazy, sour dream, or perhaps a nightmare. He couldn't stop thinking about Imelda and Coco, had often imagined the pain he must have caused them when they learned about his death. When those thoughts became too overwhelming, or when he gave a passing glance into a window and saw sunken eyes staring back out of a skull, he bought a bottle and hid himself away from the world. Or sometimes, when his mind decided to be cruel, it would remind him of other things he wished to forget.

The thrum of the bar seemed to fall quiet around him, and for a long moment he raised his hand and turned it, staring at the bony wrists against the wood of the bar. He imagined the rope-stained bruises from that terrible night so soon before his death—the noises and thepain and the taste of salt and copper on his lips-

"Ay, amigo!"

Héctor jerked out of that thought, blinking and jumping a little as Javier, the leader of all these men, sat beside him with a hard clap on his back.

"You look like you need a drink," he said cheerfully. "What do you want?"

"Eh?"

Before he could speak or argue, Javier was calling over the cantinero and ordering a mescal for both of them. Javier waved off his muddled thanks with a grin.

"Ah, it's nothing! Glad you finally joined us out here, eh?" Javier said, leaning on the bar, and turning to better look at him, one eye squinting. "I hardly ever see you except a little odd playing at night. And don't get me wrong! It's good, real good. You're a real hand with that guitar of yours. Bet you could perform with the big shots if you put your mind to it. So, I figure we'd best enjoy what we got while we got it. Ha! One thing you learn here: nothing matters, so might as well make the best of it. Ah, finally!"

The two glasses of mescal arrived and Javier handed one to Héctor with a grin.

"Here, amigo. May you continue to live all the days of your life," he said before tipping the drink back.

With an unpleasant, almost sickening twinge of guilt Héctor stared down into his own glass, thinking back to his days and nights trying to drown himself with alcohol. He would rather toss it out the nearest window, but there was nothing for it. So he closed his eyes and raised the glass. The smoky taste of the mescal would have turned his stomach if he had one, but as it was he only blinked away the harsh burn, and hoped it might take away some of the sharp edge, those terrible memories.

"Heard you singing a corrido the other night about Venustiano Carranza," Javier said. "You fought in the Revolution too, didn't you? You seem to know the songs of it, sure enough."

"Y-yeah… a little bit," Héctor muttered uncomfortably. He had been thirteen and terrified when he joined, and while he had been there, he had never been a soldier unlike all those men. The two times—precisely two times—he had been handed a gun and told to shoot, he didn't. Couldn't. Perhaps he had been too weak.

Héctor knew well enough that Javier had fought in the Revolution, and before that in the Caste War in 1901 in the Yucatán. A soldier. A fighter. The thought made him uneasy, but that was soon softened with the flow of talk and the smooth burn of alcohol. In fact, Héctor even began to enjoy himself as they began to chat about music and songs, and it was far easier talking about that than thinking of everything else.

Javier asked if he knew some song or another, often war-time corridos, and if Hector had ever heard of a pretty little love ballad that a whore had created one night. They had a surprising amount in common, and he even played a little guitar himself. Javier had been intimidating before, certainly, yet he had always seemed frank and approachable, prone to laughter and broad grins. Maybe Héctor had misjudged him.

"Heard you got a wife," Javier said eventually. "If you're here so soon, she must have been one hell of a bitch—"

"Don't call her that!" Héctor shouted, alarmed to find himself on his feet. A moment later he realized that others were also rising, and there was danger hidden amidst the smoke and sudden quiet.

"Ah, okay, easy there!" Javier said with a faint laugh, waving Héctor down and giving a signal that made the other men relax. "Just figured with how you can't cross, you and the wife must not have been all that close. And you know Flavio's only here cause his wife poisoned him—he can't cross either, no surprise. Or did your girl remarry?"

"I…" He paused, felt himself sink back and look away. "I don't know. I don't know why I can't cross over."

"That so? Ah man, that's rough. S'all right though, at least you're in good company. A lot of these hombres can't cross either; many got no families that want them, that's why they're all here."

"What about you?" Héctor asked, keen to move the conversation off of himself. "Do you not have family here?"

"Me? Ha, I'm good," he said, leaning back and grinning. "I've got family in the upper Land, and I'm lucky enough to walk over that Bridge every year thanks to my son, but I prefer being here with the rest of them. These men, I could never just abandon them—they need a leader, someone to hold everything together. Besides, it's a hell lot more fun here than up there. Here you can do whatever the hell you want and no one will stop you. That's freedom."

Héctor rolled his eyes, yet found himself warming to the man nonetheless. He was rough around the edges, sure, but Hector could appreciate that kind of loyalty. If he had a chance to be in the upper Land, he'd never step foot in Shantytown again.

"Oy… what's that you got there?" Javier said, frowning and jutting his chin towards the fabric looped through Héctor's belt.

"What, this? Just something I picked up," Héctor said, rubbing a bit of the fabric between his bony fingers. "I tried to give it back to the guy who dropped it but he didn't want it, so I was thinking to give it to this girl I know. A friend, I mean! Just a girl who's a friend," he was quick to clarify, sick of hearing the jeers and comments about his supposed amante. It was ridiculous, especially considering he didn't even know her name.

Javier, however, did no such thing.

"Got it off a guy, huh?" he said, squinting at him with an almost calculating air. "What? About this tall, white shirt, pissed off?"

"Yeah, that's him!" Héctor said, snapping his fingers. "You know him?"

Javier let out a sharp laugh. "Ha! Yeah, I know that guy. Listen here, amigo." Javier leaned closer, and despite all he had drunk his eyes were clear and sharp. "Little word of advice? Stay away from him."

Héctor felt an odd chill at those words, a sense of danger lurking beneath the false casualness.

"Why? What's wrong with him? Who is he?"

"Well you see, that fellow? The man you just met?" Javier said, his voice sinking lower. "He's one of the original Forty-One."

"He's... wait, what?" Héctor puzzled over that as Javier called out to the bartender for a cerveza.

Héctor knew what he was referring to, but that didn't make any sense. The Dance of the Forty-One had been an infamous scandal from he was just a baby, when forty-one men were arrested at a dance in Mexico City. It had only been big news because half of the high-class, wealthy men had been dressed as women, complete in skirts, wigs and false breasts. If nothing else, Héctor couldn't imagine the furious man he had just met parading around in women's clothing at some elegant ball.

"You don't mean like one of the actual dancers?" Héctor said, frowning at Javier. "That guy? No way… Really?"

"¡Claro que sí!" Javier said cheerfully, slapping his hand on the bar. "I'm serious. He was thrown in Lecumberri Prison with the rest of them."

Héctor frowned, an uncomfortable feeling settling over him. Lecumberri was an infamous federal prison. "But he's not actually, you know… dangerous or anything, right?"

Javier squinted at him, considering for a long while before he shook his head with a faint grin.

"You really don't know, huh? Yeah, man, that guy's a dangerous criminal. Knew him during the Caste War, fighting against the Indians in '01. I've seen him attack someone for looking at him the wrong way. Heh, vicious fucker." He shook his head and took another drink.

Héctor felt himself grow increasingly cold, hunching his shoulders and staring at the worn wood without truly seeing it. A dangerous criminal? One of the Forty-One?

"Oh yeah!" Javier said, grinning broadly and slapping his hand on the bar. "I didn't tell you: he was in the army under Huerta."

"What?" Héctor said in a hushed voice. That man was a Huertista? That was damning. Victoriano Huerta was perhaps the most reviled people of the Revolution, a brutish, violent drunkard who had ruled Mexico with an Iron Hand. Even President Diaz was not so detested. It was under Huerta that the army began conscripting men like mad, and it was only with luck and a passing train that Héctor and Ernesto had managed to avoid being pulled into the army. So this man—the one Héctor had tried to help—was one of his fighters. That made sense in a way. Many of the men who fought under Huerta had been criminals pulled from prison, especially in the south of Mexico. They were those kind of federal soldiers who had burned and razed villages, and who had murdered civilians, raping and abducting women.

Héctor knew better than most. He had seen the blackened, empty villages, the fly-covered corpses littering the streets, the crying of girls. He knew what those soldier could do. Had that man been one of them? And then to be one of the Forty-One… A sickness seemed to be spreading through him. For some horrible reason, he remembered the sound of the girl, Maris, as she sobbed against his chest that terrible night.

Don't think about it.

Javier gave a short, humorless laugh into his cup, before turning and clapping Héctor on the back. "Just be careful. Wouldn't want you getting in trouble with him, eh?"

"Uhh… right. Yeah. Thanks," he muttered, tense and trying not to seem so. He had to get away. Something was wrong with him.

"Ay, ay, Javier!" A man came up from behind them, his voice slurred. "Oiga, some of the other guys were talking about heading over to Henriqua's casa de putas. You in?"

"Hell yeah! What about you, amigo," Javier said, turning to Héctor. "We could get you a nice girl, maybe get some motivation for to write some new songs!"

"Ahh, no, I'm uh, just going to, um…" He hesitated, his foot restlessly tapping against the floor as he gazed about, aware of the group of men surrounding them, waiting. "I'm going to stay here for a bit longer."

There were some glares and mutters at that, but Javier merely shrugged and stood, leaving him alone to his relief. After a few moments he also stood and left, weaving his way through the tight pack of men. As if he'd ever find himself at a whorehouse, he thought irritably. Frankly he was almost surprised such places existed when they were all just empty bones.

Even when he was alive he had never shown interest in women like that, and he had even less interest in the afterlife, if that were possible. No other woman could ever compare to Imelda, and he would never stoop so low as to be unfaithful to her. But besides that was a deeper, darker reason. What had once been something wonderfully intimate and loving with his wife had grown twisted and dirty. The press of bodies, the rhythmic thrusts, the grunts and pants…

No, he couldn't think of it. Why was he thinking about it? Maybe it was the alcohol making him lose the tight grip he kept over those emotions. Stumbling a little, he made his way back to a small group of worn-down skeletons that he recognized as those he lived with. The smoke and the reek of alcohol was beginning to make his head spin.

Something was wrong within him, a growing tension that he couldn't quite hide. Around him, the circle of men began to sing through Puentes a Chihuahua, and he kept quiet, numbly wondering why he was so bothered by what he had learned. So what if he had met one of the Forty-One? What did he care? Although it was odd: he had always just thought of the maricons in dresses—that was the real scandal. He had forgotten about the other half of the men. And the man he had met, a violent criminal, a Huertista, a…

Hardly breathing, Héctor held up his hand, and saw that it was trembling. He clapped his other hand around the bony gap of his wrist, the place where he knew the bruises had been, and forced his hand down, hoping no one had noticed. The chill of that night seemed to breathe over him, and he realized- he knew why he felt so wrong.

That man had been the same as his attacker.

The thought made him sick. But beneath that there was also something like anger, and it was strange and foreign. He couldn't stay there. The familiar space was quickly too much to handle: too loud, too pungent, and the men laughed too loud and stood too close.

No one noticed when he slipped away, just as they began a familiar song…

My ungrateful love went away with another."

The grating slur of words followed him, his head down, praying no one would stop him.

"Oh God take away this sickness,

I feel as if I were surely going to die-

The Virgin of pulque and whiskey must save me."

He left with only a few odd glances, and passed a man lingering outside the door who was whittling something long and white, and Héctor saw that it was one of the man's own bones. The sight unnerved him.

Something was struggling within him, dark and gray, and he kept his eyes straight ahead and let the numbness take hold. He knew what it was, but knowing it couldn't stop the growing sensations. Anger and terror and pain, and a paranoia that would come and go like a storm on the horizon, yet always there in the back of his mind. A shiver went through him as memories of that night in Mexico City pressed against his mind. Memories that he'd rather leave locked and buried.

That's it, don't fight...

He jerked his head, trying to force out the voice, before curling his arms around his ribs. He had fought back, he argued to himself. He hadn't wanted that. He wasn't like those men, those jotos. He had fought back! Until I didn't.

He winced, holding himself closer as he staggered down a quiet street in the darkening gloom. Despite the passing years, he couldn't forget it, although he had long since forgotten the face of the man. Much of that night had blurred and distorted until he sometimes wondered if it had been real, or simply a terrible dream that wouldn't let him rest.

Maybe if he kept quiet, it couldn't hurt him anymore. It was a secret he had kept to his grave, and would continue holding well beyond it. He never wished for another soul to ever know what had happened to him. No one could know what had been done—what he had become. No… no, that wasn't quite true.

Looking up at the bright, pale moon, his mind drifted to Imelda. One day he would have to tell her. It was only fair. Hopefully it would not be for many, many years, and she would have the long life he could only dream of. Surely by then the pain would have gone away. Maybe it would finally stop aching. Maybe he could forget.

But how could he share a bed with her again, knowing how dirtied he was? Less than a man, unworthy of being her husband. Would she still even want him?

Do you ever miss me, Imelda?

He forced out a low, deep breath, shutting his eyes tight. There was always a pain when he thought about her and Coco, but it was a pain he deserved.

With nothing better to do, and with those cold questions filling his head, his feet took him to the waterlogged edge of Shantytown. The best thing to do would be to head back to his place and try to sleep and hope there wouldn't be nightmares. But before he had fully decided upon that route a new distraction, a slight sound, caught his attention. He looked up to see a figure stepping out of one of the dingy shacks; she was in a skirt, alone, and just familiar enough for him to grin.

"Hey! Hey there, Señorita! " he called out, waving his hand high overhead. She jumped and then sank into a half-crouch, looking skittish as he half-ran toward her. "Hey, it's just me, Héctor! The músico."

"Oh," she said curiously, straightening. They weren't exactly friends, but he had grown accustomed to her in the weeks since he had caught her listening to him. Night after night she would come out and listen to him. It was like befriending a stray cat that let you get a little closer every day, but if one tried to pet or approach it would turn skittish. She made the nights less lonely.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, squinting at him in the darkness. "You never come by here."

"Eh, that's cause I'm coming from a cantina down that way," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Huh… this where you live?" he said, gesturing to the tiny, slumped shack they stood outside.

"Y-yeah," she muttered, either nervous or embarrassed, he wasn't quite sure. She always was reluctant to give out any sort of information about herself. Even when he had introduced himself a while back, she hadn't said anything in response, or when he had mentioned his family, she had quite resolutely said nothing. Looking at the dark little building, listening to the silence, he figured she must live alone, which was remarkable in itself.

"Were you going to go play tonight?" she said, distracting him. "I was about to walk over."

"Oh, ah… I don't have my guitar." He frowned, not having thought of that when he had walked there. Initially he hadn't planned on playing at all, but he was suddenly, desperately in need of company. "Hey, what do you say we go and get it? It's not that far."

Héctor watched quietly as she hesitated and demurred, but ultimately agreed. They set off, side-by-side, and made their way out of the boardwalk maze. A fresh breeze blew off the water and Héctor felt himself settle as they walked, often in an amiable silence. They came to a rotten gap in the wood and he offered a hand to her which she happily ignored as she bounded across the gap. He quickly caught up and as they walked Héctor became aware of brushing against something at his side. He was almost surprised to look down and see the blouse still tucked into his belt. He pulled it out and glared at it, the bright woven fabric ugly and muted in the darkness. Without thinking he bunched it up and threw it far over the water, hating that he had kept hold of anything that had belonged to that other man. Without it in his hands, he felt just a little lighter.

"What was that?" the girl asked, rather shocked. Héctor blinked, realizing too late how odd that might have looked.

"Nothing, just... nothing, it's fine!" He gave an unconvincing grin, a lousy attempt at a laugh. Glancing over, he caught the woman's mistrustful look and grimaced. "Yeah, all right, so it was a woman's blouse I'd picked up earlier and uh, didn't realize who I had taken it from. Normally I wouldn't just throw something away like that," he said quickly, wondering if that had been rude. Generally things held more value in the Land of the Dead, especially there amongst the almost-Forgotten.

"Oh…" she said, and he could almost hear the frown in her voice.

For a dozen paces he kept quiet, working his jaw as he thought about what to tell her. In the distance he heard a harsh, ringing cry of an alebrije, and passed row upon row of squat little houses, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the silence between them, but it couldn't disguise the growing tension. Finally he let out a great sigh and hung his head.

"All right, fine!" he said, waving his hand in defeat. "So it's because the guy I got it from was one of the Forty-One."

He watched her as they walked, hoping she would nod her head and understand. Instead, she seemed to ponder a minute and then tentatively asked, "What's the Forty-One?"

"Oh, right. Well uh… you might not have heard of it. It's not exactly polite conversation."

"Can you tell me anyway?" she said, looking at him, her curiosity perhaps overriding her usual wariness. "Were they bandits? Soldiers?"

"Nah, no nothing like that," he said, shaking his head before pointing left at a small juncture in the narrow road. He hadn't meant to talk about any of that, but somehow it felt easier to talk with her out there in the open. "So basically the Dance of the Forty-One was this big scandal in Mexico City, when a bunch of men got arrested for dancing and dressing like women."

"Why were they arrested?"

""Uh, public indecency? Wait, no, it wasn't public, it was… an attack on morality or something. I don't know all the details, but I think they were associated with Diaz, a bunch of wealthy hacienda owners and stuff. Pretty sure most of them got off with a slap of the wrist."

"Of course they did," she muttered.

"Yeah. Anyway, point is one of them must have died, because he's here. I guess that shouldn't be too surprising." He hadn't thought of that before. When bad men died and their family didn't want them, it made sense that many would find their way into the murky depths of Shantytown.

"Oh," she said again, her voice quiet, almost nervous. "So you don't like him… because he's a joto?"

"What? Oh, no, I... no, that's not quite…" He paused, frowning, unsure what to say or feel. If the man had just been a dancer in a dress he wouldn't care so much. But that didn't seem to be the case— quite the opposite, it seemed. Glancing over to the girl, living alone in Shantytown, he had to at least give her some warning.

"Just be careful," he said, and held back from reaching out to touch her. "He's dangerous— a criminal who fought under Huerta. I guess he helped fight against the Mayans."

"A Huertista?" she repeated after a long pause, a sudden darkness in her voice, a low storm of anger. "Those were the men who took me from my family. Who took…"

"They took you?" Héctor said when her words faded, having a sinking feeling what she was talking about.

"Bastardos. They didn't have anyone to make food and care for them, so they came to our village and took all the young women they could find. And so they got me." Silence, broken only by their muffled footsteps, and then a sigh. "I couldn't go home after that."

Héctor looked to her, the way she held herself, and thought how young she seemed. A woman, certainly, yet too young to have that weight on her narrow shoulders.

"I'm so sorry."

She wrapped her arms around herself. "I hate those kind of men, soldiers and the rest, and there's so many of them here. Who knows what they'd do if they found me. It's why I have to be careful. No one... no one can know where I live. All right?"

"I... all right. I won't tell anyone. But I mean… not all soldiers are bad," he said, unsure what to say. Would she be afraid of him, if she knew? It sounded like a terrifying life. He wasn't sure how he could help.

She shook her head. "You can't understand. You have no idea… some men deserve hell."

He remembered that cold night, copper and salt, and instinctively curled his hands and held them tight at his side. Maybe he understood better than she might think. Some men did deserve hell.

They came to the grand house where he lived, looking bright and impressive amidst the other nearby shacks, gaily lit with candles in the windows. But as they got closer, Héctor noticed the woman had stopped. He turned to see her a few paces back, staring up at the house, her face unreadable.

"Señorita? You okay?"

"This is where you live?" she asked in a breathless whisper.

"Uh, yeah." He glanced up at the two-story building, and thought perhaps it seemed excessive compared to the shabby shacks she lived around, including her own. "Don't let it fool you. There's a bunch of us who live here, not just me. I'm just the guitar-player."

In the darkness, he just barely saw her shake her head and take a step back. He frowned and moved closer, putting a light hand on her shoulder.

"Señorita?"

The tramp of approaching feet made them both turn and look to see a half dozen men coming around a corner, talking and laughing.

"Ay, músico!" a familiar voice called out. "Where did you slip off to?"

He opened his mouth to shout back a reply, but all that came out was a grunt as the woman shoved him hard in the chest, knocking him back so he stumbled and fell to the ground. When he looked up it was to see her sprinting away.

"Ah- wait!" Héctor cried out, reaching out to her, but his voice was quickly overtaken by others shouting.

"What the hell?"

"Someone stop her!"

Suddenly men were racing towards her, and they were fast.

"Hey, stop!" Héctor began to call out, staggering to his knees. No one seemed to hear him. "What are you—"

"You okay?"

Héctor looked up to see Alvaro stepping forward and pulling him up by the elbow.

"Wha- yeah, I'm- hey ! Leave her alone!"

He heard a strangled shriek from her, and could barely see as she kicked and squirmed in the arms of the taller of the two men who had caught up to her.

"Get off me!" she shouted, plus other words and swears he could barely catch.

"Let her go!" Héctor shouted, beginning to run towards them. "Stop! She didn't do anything!"

There was a whirl of skirt and then the man holding her was on the ground, and so was she. In a blink she was up and running again, and Héctor lunged forward, just barely able to catch the arm of the shorter man who made as if to pursue.

"Leave her be," Héctor said, gasping and staring at the shrinking figure.

"Who was she?" the man said, shrugging off his hand and stooping to help his friend up. "Did she steal from you? Some puta?"

"No! No, she…" He shook his head, almost dizzy from the sharp turn of events. What had just happened?

"Ugh, the bitch kicked me right in my bad knee," the fallen man said, shaking his leg for a moment before standing normally. "You all right then, hombre?" He said, turning to Héctor.

"Huh? Y-yeah. I'm fine." That was a lie.

"Ah, forget her," the taller man said, dusting off the seat of his pants. "Come on, let's head back."Héctor nodded mutely, more shaken than he would have cared to admit.

"The hell was that about?" Alvaro said mildly as they approached, easily walking in step beside him into the house. For a moment Héctor paused and stared down the empty, shadowed street, aware of the faint tremor in his bones. A lingering sickness.

"I don't know."

Author Notes:

This is based on actual history, the infamous 'Dance of the Forty-One' in 1901. Although the government tried to hush it up, it became well-publicized, especially since the men were affluent, high-society members associated with the Porfirio Diaz administration (that the Revolution was fought against).
This scandal is considered "the invention of homosexuality in Mexico." (Carlos Monsiváis)
By the way, homosexuality wasn't officially illegal, but the 1871 Penal Code included the vague "attack on morality and proper customs," that was used to persecute homosexuals.

The song lyrics are from "Insurgent Mexico" by John Reed, 1914.

Next chapter: Héctor has a panic attack, and reacts badly.