Summary: Back in the past, Héctor is just trying to settle in and focus on his family. It doesn't work out. Then an almost-familiar face shows up.

Warning: contains references to sexual assault and homophobia.

Big thank you to my betareaders, TomatoSoupful and BabyCharmander!

Chapter 11: Terror and Fury

December 1925

Mi Querida,

Happy Nochebuena!

Héctor grinned, leaning back and looking at the freshly-penciled words, idly drawing a few small stars around them as he thought about the last Christmas Eve he had celebrated with his family. Coco had walked from door to door for Las Posadas, but in the end he carried her to the last few houses, with Imelda by his side.

I hope you and Coco are celebrating with your brothers and your family, and you're all together. Did you light a candle for—Héctor scratched that out—I'm spending the evening with frien—another scratch—the men I live with and we're keeping cheerful.

Looking up, he caught the dying refrain of a drunken song that was overtaken by a conversation on the other side of the room. There he saw Paolo, a young, energetic man who bragged about the men he had killed in the Revolution ("I kept shooting prisoners until my hand got tired, so I switched hands. Eighty-seven between me and two others!").

Héctor grimaced a little before focusing his attention back to the page before him.

Oh yeah, good news! I have a job with a mariachi group, first gig is next Friday. If things go well I might be able to get consistent work. If not then I'm going to try and find some work at that furniture maker. They always say they like good, young folk to help carry the heavy stuff, and the pay's all right.

Yeah, things would work out, he reminded himself. A new job, and he had earned a little money that day playing festive music near one of the grander churches. During the holiday season it was one of the better places to be with skeletons going to pray for the souls of the living and that they would hopefully move on to a better place after their Final Death. Héctor was good at knowing when to play cheerful or when to play somber, and it reminded him of past posadas when he was alive. The good ones, not the ones of his childhood.

It wasn't all that bad. He was surviving, and little by little he was saving up. When Coco or Imelda arrived, he wanted to be ready.

If he worked hard and was careful, maybe he could earn enough to buy a real home in the upper land—his family deserved that, at least. Then they could be together again, he was sure of it. He would get someplace with plenty of space so Coco could have her own room, and a nice big kitchen and a good view. Someplace where he didn't have to feel on edge all the time, where he could be himself.

A new song began from the corner of the room, lead by a too-strong baritone, that quickly tapered off to laughter.

Did you and Coco sing together at mass? I may try to go tonight, but it's not the same. I miss your voice, your touch.

His music helped. Every night he went to the same old dock and sang his song to Coco, and it was a comfort and a penance. It was lonely, however. The strange girl never showed up again. Once he had gone to her little shack to apologize, but she had shouted through the door that she never wanted to see him, and he was never—never—to go there again. She had screamed that he leave her alone.

So he left her alone after that.

It was lonelier without her, and he tapped his pencil as he sighed at that thought. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe she had only been a distraction from more important things, and it wasn't fair for him to try and be happy.

Give Coco a big kiss and an extra hug tonight. Please tell her how much her Papá loves her and misses her every day. Both of you.

Take care, mi am-

The book was yanked from his hands, a long pencil streak marring the words he had just written.

"Hey!"

"What's this? Your diary?" Gerardo said, grinning wide as he held the book up before his eyes. He was one of the more dangerous men there, burly and quick to anger, but at that moment Héctor didn't care.

"Give that back!" Héctor said loudly, struggling to his feet.

But Gerardo stepped back and held it high, facing the room at large.

"Who here can read?"

The conversation from earlier had stopped, and a crowd was gathering to watch as they tossed his notebook around until finally it got into the hands of someone who knew his letters. He began to read aloud to jeers.

"'Imelda, mi vida, I miss you,'" he said in a high, false voice, while Héctor could only stand there and listen to the laughter all around him. "'I hope you were happy today.' What is this? You serious, man? Writing letters to your puta?"

"Ha! What are you, some prissy maricón?"

Héctor flinched at that, and felt himself shaking. "That's for my wife. Now give it back."

There were hoots and hollers to that, and Héctor felt his fingers grating against each other as he curled them into fists.

"So what? She ain't here, right?" one man called out.

"Ay, where's she at, then?" Gerardo said with a great laugh. "Bring her over, we'd love to meet her, eh?"

"Awww, you miss your wife!" someone called out in a sing-song voice, reaching forward as if to pinch his cheekbone, and Héctor slapped the hand away.

He stepped forward to forcibly take the book but was held back, and was shocked to see Alvaro gripping his arm.

"Come on, they're just having a little fun," Alvaro said, grinning a lazy grin. "Don't take it so seriously."

Héctor felt himself go cold at those words.

Don't worry, muchacho... we're just going to have a little fun.

"Let go!" he shouted, violently yanking his arm, the bone nearly separating from his shoulder with a wrenching pain.

Alvaro frowned, his eyes darkening. "Hey, relax. What's your problem?"

"God, this is some faggy stuff you've got written here," one man said with a sneer, and it was like ripping the air from his lungs.

"I wrote that for my wife," Héctor said, feeling increasingly small, even as he forced himself to stand straight and glare hard. "Now give that back!"

Everything about this reeked of danger, and the laughter and the yells were increasingly pounding in his head.

"Eh músico, aqui!" Javier said, stepping up and plucking the book out of the other man's hands, and holding it out.

"Thank you," Héctor said, suddenly aware how breathless he was, and unsure if it was simply anger making him tremble.

Javier patted him on the shoulder. "Of course! We're all amigos here, eh?"

Héctor only nodded, needing desperately to be alone, but couldn't move. The noise around him shifted, moved, and some far-off part of his mind registered that Gerardo had gathered everyone's attention with some story or other. It didn't matter; what mattered was it allowed him to escape, holding the thin leather cover with an iron grip before tucking it away into the pouch at his hip. He would never bring it out in the open again. Not there.

"Fucking hell, Héctor," Alvaro said. following him into a dark hallway as the crowd dispersed. "What were you thinking?"

"Leave me alone," Héctor snapped, glaring at him and feeling betrayed. In any case he didn't want to talk to anyone. Especially not with how much he was shaking.

"Oy, listen." Alvaro gripped his arm, tight. When Héctor tried to wrench it away he only held tighter and stepped close, backing him against a wall and speaking in a low, dark voice. "Don't let that happen again, all right? You freaking out—"

"I didn't—"

"You damn well did," Alvaro said, cutting him off and yanking him closer, his fingers grinding against his arm. It was starting to hurt, and all Héctor wanted to do was run. "You show that kind of weakness again and they'll eat you alive. You have no idea—no idea—who you're dealing with."

"I… j-just back off! I can take care of myself!" Héctor said, hating how his voice almost trembled.

"Not like that, you won't. You have no fucking idea what they can do. If you want to survive, you can't be weak. That shit you just pulled? That stupid little diary? If you don't want anyone to think you're some little maricón wanting to be fucked, then you need to stop acting like it."

"I'm not…" He was cut off by a familiar voice in his head.

Just some fucking little puto…

"T-the hell do you know!" Héctor said fiercely, struggling to keep his voice low and yanking his arm back. "Now let go!"

"I'm serious, Héctor." Alvaro let go, but the hardness in his eyes didn't waver. "Be careful."

Héctor hesitated a moment, trapped under the other man's gaze, before he turned away and left, keeping his head down and hands clutched tight at his sides.

He wasn't weak. He wasn't... he wouldn't let that happen again. Not again, never fucking again. No one would know. He would survive this damn place and these men and he would find his way out.

He left and walked fast, past the dark houses and the usual glares, the suspicious looks from the rest of the world that told him you're not welcome here. His feet carried him through the stone gateway, up the great steps, and away from the whole, rotten world of theirs. As he climbed higher a breeze brushed against the edges of his jacket, slipping through his bones like cracked glass. Once he reached the top, gasping and shivering, he turned and stared down at the half-sunken land, dotted with sickly yellow lights and interspersed with raucous, off-key music.

He didn't belong there. This place could never be his home.

But there was nowhere for him to go. No one he could turn to.

No family, no friends… no one who wanted him.

Somewhere, in an empty street he didn't recognize, he stopped, gasping for breath, hunched over and shaking.

He was alone.

Alvaro was right. They were just teasing him, he told himself furiously, running a hand through his hair and then down his face. Despite the lack of skin, he felt uncomfortably hot, yet shivering uncontrollably. The faint noise he had been hearing was, in fact, his bones rattling against each other, a faint buzz that he didn't want to hear. Or maybe the roaring, rhythmic sound in his mind was something else.

He pulled out the soft-leather journal, making sure it was in his hands, that it was real. From within the pages he pulled forth a photo and breathed a great sigh of relief. It was his greatest treasure, one of the only things to have crossed over with him. In silence he stared at the familiar scene, Imelda with Coco laughing and looking up towards him. Imelda had thought the second photo had been better, more respectable, but Héctor had cherished this one, of his daughter looking so happy.

He let his head fall back and his hand go limp over his knee. Was it wrong to love his wife and daughter? Was it really so pathetic? He set the photo back and held the book close to his chest, and remembered to breathe. And then remembered he didn't need to. He was dead.

He was dead, and his wife and daughter were alive, and… and he couldn't be with them.

Shivering and cold, he pulled his arms tight around himself, and it didn't help. God, he missed them. Closing his eyes, he imagined Imelda—his determined, wonderful wife. He imagined what she would do if she could see him like this.

But she didn't seem to care about him. No one did.

If he disappeared, would anyone notice?

As that question rose to his mind, he let out a shuddered breath and realized he already knew the answer to that question.

No one, not one person living or dead, gave a damn about him. He bowed his head close and tried not to think about them, or of white bones, or of laughter or hands running hot and cold down his body, or of the pain-

No! His eyes flew open. Why was he thinking about that? He gripped his head tight and pressed hard. Stop, stop, don't think about it.

It was in the past, and it would stay there, buried in his heart, in his bones.

He was fine. He was safe.

No, he was dead. He was alone. He was… he was…

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

As time passed the trembling stopped until he was simply exhausted, like his muscles had seized up, his heart having beaten too fast and leaving him weak. But that was impossible because he was dead. No pulsing blood or beating heart. Less than himself. Incomplete. Empty.

In the distance he heard the tolling of a bell, and then, faintly, another from further away. It must be from a midnight mass, and told him that it was late. Maybe families were going home.

He wished he knew where to go.

He must have fallen asleep, and might very well had stayed there until morning, except soon there were shouts jerking him awake.

"Ay, get out of here! ¡Fuera!"

"Huh?" Héctor wearily lifted his head, seeing a well-dressed man standing before him on the street. "Ah… perdon—"

"Piss off!" the man cried, waving his hand. "Go sleep somewhere else, ya bum!"

"Sorry," Héctor said slowly, heaving himself up and backing away from the furious man, aware of the woman in a nightgown peering from the doorway, as lights began to flicker in windows overhead. "Sorry, I didn't mean any trouble."

The man made a throaty noise and jerked his chin, and Héctor left, feeling as worthless as the dirt he walked on. But he hadn't done anything wrong; he was just tired. He just wanted to sleep. When he came to the main road, he paused, not knowing where he was or where he should go. Maybe it didn't matter.

He didn't belong in Shantytown. He didn't belong with those men. He wasn't being forgotten, he had family. Just… not there.

He wished he could go home. He wished he knew where that was anymore.

When he finally found the familiar entrance that descended into Shantytown, he stopped in the middle of the road and felt even more exhausted. Directly before him, blocking the whole space, were a great many skeletons shouting at each other. As he watched a fight nearly break out between the two sides, one man lunging forward as if to grab one of the others. He could only catch a few of the words and insults hurled about, but it was enough to get the gist of it, and he knew he wanted nothing to do with them. At least one man seemed to really like shouting 'bastardo' twice a minute. Another's preference was 'puto.'

Héctor just wanted to sleep.

How long were they going to be standing there? If it was longer than five minutes, it would be too long. Could he slip around? Not likely. Not without getting involved in the soon-to-be brawl, it seemed. Maybe he could find somewhere else to just sleep for the night.

A slight noise behind him made him turn to see another man walking up and then stopping, apparently in the same dilemma, stuck on the wrong side. Héctor sighed and looked back to the quarrel. At least he wasn't the only one suffering, he thought dismally. Then to his surprise there was the faint sound of fading footsteps. He straightened and saw the other skeleton walk away, going left down a dark little street. Did he know another way? As far as he knew, this was the only place to get in or out.

Héctor glanced at the enraged mob, saw someone throw a punch, heard a shrill shriek and more swearing, and decided to follow the man. As long as he kept his distance, he wouldn't even know Héctor was there. He lingered back, watching him turn and then travel along a tall stone wall that separated the upper world from the lower, too tall to go over. As far as he knew there were no paths down this way, yet he continued to follow the shadowy figure ahead. Twice the man paused and seemed to look back, but Héctor was careful to keep hidden, and the man kept going, if walking faster than before so Héctor had to almost run to keep up.

But when he came to a long open stretch between buildings and the stone wall, the man had disappeared. Héctor hesitated and then rushed forward, but he was apparently alone, and very possibly lost. A slight noise from the exact other side of the wall made him jump, and that was how he found the hidden opening, little more than a black gash in the wall. He ran his hand along the edge, and then slipped through to a narrow stone ledge overlooking the moonlit Land of the Forgotten, the far-off water gleaming black and white.

But he was still alone, the other skeleton nowhere to be seen. Héctor gazed about, looking left and right, peering all the way down, and even behind him at the tall stone wall, but there was no one. How could he have disappeared so fast?

Héctor shivered and clutched his arms around himself.

"Ay, ay, place gives me the creeps," he muttered, rubbing his arms and looking around again. Regardless of what others might say or do, he was becoming more and more sure that there really were ghosts lurking in the land of Los Olvidados.

Again he peered down from where he stood, wondering if he should risk it, or turn back and go through the usual archway. But he really wanted to go sleep, and this seemed faster, if far from easy.

He began to climb down the great stone steps, carefully lowering himself over each ledge one by one, slipping and falling hard on the fourth and feeling like he'd chipped something.

"Ugh, this was a terrible idea," he said, groaning as he picked himself up before crawling to the next. "Last time I follow a ghost, ay mi…"

Héctor glanced at the distance to go, and was glad to see it was only one more step of the pyramid, except this last one was twice as high. He leaned over, rubbing his chin and wondering the best way to go down without shattering something.

"Now how do I…"

A noise from above him made him look up, and there he saw was a figure standing far above, a pitch-black outline against faint stars. Héctor jumped, nearly falling off the ledge.

"Ay! What the—?"

"It is you," the man said in a low, shocked voice.

"Uhh… que?" Héctor said, squinting up. Was it someone he knew? Maybe someone he lived with? The voice almost sounded familiar.

"Wait. Just… wait right there." The man quickly moved towards him, jumping down each step with relative ease. But where had he come from? Had he been watching Héctor that whole time? Soon enough he came to the same broad ledge as him, straightening and stepping closer.

"If you're trying to get down, there's a path to the right. Look, see over there?" He pointed to a deep shadow by the point of the pyramid. "It's not much, just a break in the stone, but that's the best way to go if you don't want to jump."

"Oh, uh… thanks." Héctor glanced sideways at him. The voice definitely sounded a little familiar, but there wasn't enough light to truly see by. "Sorry, but, uh, do I know you?"

"N-no… not really." He turned to look around, as if checking to see if they were alone. Héctor did the same and found the place was entirely deserted, with not another soul in sight. The realization made him strangely nervous.

"Look," the man said, catching his attention again. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but I wanted to well… See, a few days ago I had dropped something and you were trying to be kind and I rather, um, snapped at you. I—"

"You!" Héctor said, a sudden terror, or perhaps fury, pulsing through him. "You're that Forty-One!"

The man jerked backwards, and for a moment his wide eyes caught the reflected light of the thin moon. Then his shoulders dropped. "Oh… so you found out."

"I did," Héctor bit out through gritted teeth. Dammit. How had he ended up alone with him again? Alone?

The way he saw it, he had two choices: run, or stand and fight. Something tightened in his chest.

I'm not going to be weak. I'm not going to let anyone else hurt me again. Not again. Never again.

"Right… of course," the man said bitterly, then let out a low breath. "Look, I just wanted to—"

"I don't want anything from you!" Héctor moved away from him and realized his hands were curled into fists. He took another step backwards, wondering if he could outrun him. Except there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

"Hey, careful!" The man lunged forward, grabbing his arm.

"Don't touch me!" Héctor shouted, yanking his arm away. He took another step back and then, as if someone froze the hands of time, he was falling into nothing, facing the dark open sky overhead. He wasn't entirely sure if he was moving, or only in slow motion…

Then time jumped forward and hard stone slammed into him, his bones shattering all around with a horrible clatter, his world shuddering as his eyes rattled in his head. Everything was moving and then it all stilled, and he could only groan.

From somewhere not far away, he heard the man swear sharply and then sounds of movement.

Panic roiled through him as he looked around at his scattered bones, only just beginning to rattle and creep closer. He was defenseless, and the man was moving fast. Héctor willed his bones towards him, but he didn't know what he was doing; he didn't know how to control it. "Come on," he muttered, imagining his arms and his legs pulling together. "Come on, almost there…"

The man landed beside him, and Héctor was nearly together, his arms and feet all rattling into place, his left ankle the final piece to make him whole.

"Hey, are you all right?" the man said, just as Héctor managed to stagger onto trembling legs, avoiding the outstretched hand.

"Don't come any closer," Héctor said, gasping against the sense of everything feeling wrong. He couldn't think, he couldn't breath. There were hands running along his back, hot breath in his ear-

"Okay, okay!" the man said, a tinge of anger to his voice even as he took a small step back, putting up his hands. "I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't…" Héctor said through clenched teeth, terror and rage fighting within him. "Don't even get near me! You… Javier warned me about you."

There was a sharp intake of breath and then the man moved back as Héctor took another step towards him.

Don't be weak. Don't be weak.

He couldn't be afraid. He wouldn't let anyone take advantage of him again. A terrible fury rushed through him, strange and disorienting, while the man only backed up more, tripping and staggering into the shadow of the wall. Good. Let someone else be afraid for once.

Héctor stood tall, taller than the other man, and stepped forward.

"Wait—" the man began to say, but Héctor barely heard.

"You… if you ever come near me again, I swear... I swear to God…" His voice trailed away, and he found he was shaking. "Just stay the hell away from me!"

Unable to bear another moment near him, he backed away before turning and walking fast, his clenched hands tight at his side and his whole body tense. Once he reached the corner to the next street he dared to glance back, and thought he saw the man still there against the shadow of the wall, but it was hard to see. At least he hadn't been followed.

A few gray skeletons lingered around a fire and watched him warily as he passed. He was aware of the silence that followed in his wake, at the glares against his back. For once, he thought he deserved it.

He was alone when he finally found an empty place, an old carcass of a building, burnt and blackened from long before, and stopped there, breathing hard. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground, putting his arms around himself as he held back the waves of nausea.

Dammit. Dammit!

He didn't want to be near that man, or touched by him. It felt dirty, filthy… shameful. There was another feeling he didn't want to admit, but rose up his throat like sour bile… fear. He prayed no one would find him like that. He wished he could vanish, could disappear.

He wanted to go home.

But there was nowhere to go.

For a long time he lay curled up, the wall hard against his spine, and tried not to think, or feel, or sob. He kept the memory of his family far, far away as he struggled to not gag at the memory of a hand twisting in his hair and hot breath against his skin.

Bet you like it, you filthy little puto!

He curled in tighter on himself, and tried to forget.

Author Notes:

So… Héctor is not coping well. But this was something he was gonna have to deal with sooner or later (I know this isn't actually dealing with it but… progress?). Funny thing is that Héctor really does have a good afterlife in this, he's just working his way to it.

Interesting thing when I first started toeing down the path of Héctor being raped, one of my first thoughts was:

'I can't do that! It doesn't fit with his character, he's too happy and optimistic. If he'd been raped then he couldn't be hap-… oh.'

And I realized how messed up that line of thinking was. Rape doesn't define a person, and I had unconsciously came to the idea that all rape survivors would be miserable and traumatized their whole life, and that's fucked up of me. Honestly, that's probably the final thing that made me realize I could and should have this story arc for him, because while it does impact him, it doesn't fundamentally change who he is, and he's still the same, amazing man we all know. (also it became an important part of his story)

But at least for a while, he hasn't reached that mindset, and thinks that it has forever defiled him. He's determined to not be a victim.

This is going to backfire. Soon.

Next chapter: we're going to take a little break and check on Imelda in the present.
I know this was a pretty dark chapter, but hopefully you're all still enjoying it. Comments always appreciated 3