Chapter 2: Friends and Friends Alike
A/N: You know how I said this would update in 2 weeks? That… was a lie. And I apologize for doing that.
And despite 6 months of not even touching this fic, I promise that I have not forgotten it, I've just been very, very, very negligent. There will not be a schedule for this fic (not that I can ever keep one), it will just update whenever.
The skeletons here were all very nice to him, pityingly sympathetic upon learning that he had no dead family to be with, and happy to explain the rules of the Land of the Dead to someone new like him. He managed to befriend a handful of tailors who were nice enough to make him an extra set of clothes so he wasn't in his charro suit all the time.
Just as well, Héctor found it was easy to make friends in the Land of the Dead, everyone was incredibly friendly here. Being the social person that he was, it wasn't difficult to find someone new to chat with, and everyone was happy to chat as well. In the Land of the Living, there was always work to be done, reasons to keep moving along, but here, that wasn't necessary. Sure, people worked, but that was mostly out of want for something to do, it was fulfilling to make, even if you didn't need it to survive.
Along with friends came many invitations to have dinner with their family, particularly when they learned he had only recently died, and therefor didn't have any offerings of his own. He always felt bad, eating their offerings, but everyone insisted, the offerings were theirs to share. The joke of "you need to eat, look at how skinny you are" came up many a time and never ceased to make a room of skeletons fall into piles upon piles of bones in laughter.
Friends and family of friends certainly made it less lonely for Héctor without his own family here, but it didn't distract from the nights he was without company. The nights he found himself singing song after song to quell his aching heart.
While skeletons could sleep, they didn't necessarily need as much sleep as they did when alive, it made the nights on his own even longer. He'd watch the never-ending glitter of lights from his window, singing his songs and letting them echo throughout the ally way behind the building that housed him, he couldn't bring himself to call it home yet. The neighbors never complained, luckily, and occasionally he would catch a young neighbor girl singing along with him.
It wasn't until a few weeks after his arrival that he finally spotter her from where she was hiding, from a couple levels down, there was a window, or technically a balcony, lined by pretty orange curtains that she partially hid behind and a simple wrought iron fence. She was far younger than him, the poor girl, but still older than his Coco. When he finally found her and looked at her, she giggled and made a face at him, hiding further behind her curtains, he laughed and made a face back, so much like his Coco despite how much older she was.
A little spirit to make him less lonely.
The change in atmosphere in the Land of the Dead as Día de los Muertos approached was intoxicating. More colored lights were put out on people's homes, roman candles and sporadic fireworks were everywhere, and everyone was filled with an excitement that Héctor couldn't help but join.
He was going to see his family again!
It was sad, he wouldn't be alive to see them again, they wouldn't know he was right exactly there, but he was going to see them again, and that was enough.
His tailor friends were nice enough to dry clean his suit so he could look his best for his first Día de los Muertos. There were many others who were also happy to help explain the rules of the holiday to a first-timer such as himself and help him along to where he needed to go.
The station that he had been registered at was even busier on Día de los Muertos. In the Department of Family Reunions, lines of skeletons stood waiting for booths to help them get to where they needed, desks covered in their own piles of papers and blocky typewriters were scattered around the area each dealing with a skeleton having problems for the holiday. Héctor waited in line for one of the booths, hoping they could tell him where to go. With so many bridges and gates he wasn't sure which one was the right one. When he reached the booth, he explained to the uniformed skeleton behind it that he didn't have any family with him, it was his first Día de los Muertos, and he needed to get to Santa Cecelia. They happily gave him a small map and told him how to get to the proper gate, they explained about having any offerings he got from the Land of the Living ready for re-entry so they could be recorded.
He hung out the back of the trolley, letting the breeze flow through him as he excitedly watched the gate and marigold bridge for Santa Cecelia come into view. He got off the trolley with a bounce and walked over to the short line of skeletons also trying to get to Santa Cecelia. He watched the front of the line in fascination as a picture would be taken of the skeleton up front, with a nicer camera than he had even seen for his family photo with Imelda and Coco. A piece of glossy paper used for photos sitting before the uniformed skeleton taking it would then change into a picture or an occasional drawing of the skeleton from when they were alive, their picture on the ofrenda. They were told where the picture was, usually a family member's or maybe sometimes a friend's ofrenda, and led to go on their way across the bright marigold bridge. The process was all very magical and Héctor couldn't help but stare in wonder, until he was at the front of the line. He was taken out of his daze and looked up at the camera, nervous about the process.
"This is my first time so…" He explained to the uniformed skeleton before him, trailing off.
She smiled sympathetically and instructed him to look at the camera, he did and heard it make a noisy snap. She then looked down at the perpetually changing picture before her and waited, it seemed to take longer than the others for the image to change, but when it did, she frowned,
"I'm sorry Señor, your picture isn't on the ofrenda," She sadly explained.
Hector felt himself deflate, he remembered someone explaining that without your picture being put up on the ofrenda, you wouldn't be able to cross over into the Land of the Living. He wouldn't be able to see Imelda and Coco.
"A-are you sure?" He asked, looking over the booth wall and seeing the photo paper.
It was an inky black.
"I'm sorry Señor, if your picture isn't up on the ofrenda, then you can't cross over," She explained, worriedly, "You can go to the Department of Family Reunions and talk with them about it, they should be able to help you figure out what is happening."
Héctor felt a little bubble of anger, he was just there. He sighed and shuffled past those in line behind him, heading to wait for the next trolley.
Back at the station, he was guided back to the Department of Family Reunions to an open desk after asking a uniformed skeleton where he could go to help with his picture not being on the ofrenda.
The skeleton sitting behind the desk looked tired, like she had been dealing with problems for most of his night, but she easily pulled out Héctor's file when given his name without looking and opened it to glance through.
"You said your picture's not on any ofrenda?" She asked looking over the file and repeating what the uniformed skeleton said when they brought Héctor over.
"Yes, that's what they told me at the gate," Héctor answered.
"And that's what your file says as well," She confirmed, looking intently through the file, "All of your family is living," She mumbled to herself.
"Yes, my wife, she should have put my picture up," Héctor elaborated.
She snapped the file closed and looked Héctor in the eye, "I understand this is your first year being dead?"
"Yes? I've only been dead for a few months."
"Tell me did you die away from home? Was there a way for your family to know that you're dead?" She asked calmly, Héctor was a bit taken aback, he hadn't considered that.
"I- yes, I was traveling, but I was with my friend, he was with me when I died," Héctor confirmed, but couldn't help but be bothered when it then occurred to him that not even Ernesto put his picture up, "They should know that I'm dead, he must have told them."
"Listen sir, I know this is hard for your first Día de los Muertos, but this happens for a lot of veterans whe-"
"I am not a veteran!" Héctor snapped, jumping up and gesturing to his outfit, "I am a musician!"
The skeleton shrank into her desk, afraid of Héctor's little outburst, but the recognitions in her eyes told Héctor that this was not the first time she had seen this. Héctor sat back down, immeDíately regretting it, and sighed.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, this isn't your fault," He quickly apologized, and the skeleton behind the desk relaxed.
"I'm sorry Señor, this is just something that typically happens with veterans," She elaborated, "There's a chance that your amigo might not have been able to reach your family in time to tell them. You'll have to try next year, I'm sorry."
"Is there nothing you can do?" Héctor asked pleadingly, "Please I just want to see my family."
"I'm sorry amigo," She repeated, his voice softer, "I know this is hard, but your photo isn't on the ofrenda. There's nothing we can do to help you cross over. You'll have to wait until next year."
Héctor deflated, slumping in the chair at the heavy weight suddenly pushing down on his chest, his loosened the bow around his neck.
"I… okay." He said, pulling himself up with agonizingly slow movements.
A few months, he could manage, though they were lonely even with the friends he made, but a year? That was too long.
…It wouldn't hurt if he just went over, would it? It's not like anyone here would care, and he needed to see his family, just for a moment.
The ride back to Santa Cecelia's bridge was tense as Héctor planned for how he would sneak past the gate and across the marigold bridge. There were a greater number of skeletons at the gate now, all crowded around and animatedly chatting with one another. All distracted, not noticing when Héctor went over to the far end of the gate and just… slipped through.
He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, walking by another group of skeletons and appearing like he belonged. The officers had yet to notice him as he approached the marigold bridge, he could just walk over and-
At the first step in the petals, Héctor's foot broke through their surface and sunk in up to his knee like he just stepped in water. Skeletons around him gasped and backed up, watching as he stumbled backwards away from the bridge and back onto the solid ground behind him. Petals covered his leg from where he sunk in as he scooted away from the bridge and watched it with terror.
He had just… sunk in.
Two guards were by him at a moment's notice.
"Señor, Señor, are you alright?" They asked, leaning down to his side.
"I… I just sunk in," Héctor mumbled disbelievingly.
"…Do you, do you have a picture on the ofrenda?" One guard asked, both looked at him with suspicion.
"I- No. They said I didn't, that maybe my family didn't know I was dead yet, but… that can't be right," He muttered, trying to hide the tight feeling growing in his chest.
The guards' expressions changed from suspicious to sympathetic.
"Is this your first Día de Muertos?" The other asked, Héctor nodded and they sighed, "I'm sorry Señor, but without a picture on the ofrenda, you can't cross the bridge."
There it was again, that cruel rule that seemed to be following him around all night. It made no sense, was it really so bad for him to go and see his family without a picture?
"Why?" He turned to one of the guards.
"…It's just… the rules," they shrugged.
Dull dissatisfaction flowed through him at the answer as he looked out at the expanding bridge before him, he couldn't make out the other end no matter how hard he focused. Santa Cecelia was far, too, too far away.
"Come on," The guards stood up, one of them offered their hand.
He grabbed it and they help pull him up, they turn back to the gate and lead him away from the bridge. He watched the marigolds longingly until the structure of the gate blocked his view, the guards shuffle in front of him and gave a warning.
"Now don't try that again Señor, it's dangerous," They said.
He blindly nodded back to them and they let him go, but he didn't move, he just stood there, his mind swimming.
"I need a drink," He mumbled.
Everyone had a dying story, because everyone had to die to come to the Land of the Dead.
Amongst most people, dying stories weren't very popular, there were only so many times someone could say "Spanish flu" before it got boring. But among veterans, street fighters, and bandits, sharing dying stories was like a game. They'd all gather in a circle often with a bottle of booze and a number of shot glasses, telling mighty tales of how they died in combat, fighting until their last breath. Each one would try to one up each other, over-embellishing their own stories.
"Oh that's nothing! I was-"
"And I saw the cannon-"
"-Right up until the last bullet landed right between my eyes."
They would gather small crowds of onlookers, curious about the stories, and the circle of sharers would ask those around them "Would you like to share you dying story too?" If they answered "no", and most did, it was left at that. Dying was a hard thing for people. Though some of those that did say "yes" often didn't know how to tell a good story like those who started the sharing did. There was a big difference between "I was shot in the war of so-and-so" and telling a long harboring story of fighting for your loved ones leading up to when you finally, actually died.
Héctor was drawn by them too, by some kind of irony that the officers had seen with him when he first died and during his issues with Día de Muertos, he did share some commonalities with them. While most stories were boisterous and grand, many others often would end on a solemn note, where they never saw their family, their loved ones, ever again. The circle would quiet down in a silent agreement before taking a round of drinks and diving right into another story.
Héctor had been listening to this particularly large group of what seemed to be mostly veterans share their stories for most of the day before they finally turned to him amongst the group of onlookers and asked if he had a dying story to share.
"Yeah, alright I have one," Héctor agreed, taking a step forward.
He had been thinking over how to properly embellish his story for some time should a group like this actually ask him, not wanting them to get bored by his admittedly humble story.
"Ay, ay, he's a músico!" One of the older and very drunk veterans said, noticing his charro suit.
"Play for us while you tell us our story!" Another cheered.
"Alright, but I need a guitar."
"Ay! Someone get him a guitar!" One shouted while they all leaned back for a moment looking around the crowd to see if anyone had a guitar to spare.
They pushed him into an open seat and a guitar managed to mysteriously make its way into his arms, though it wasn't all too unfamiliar. Many skeletons would ask him to play him some music when he went out in his suit, he happily agreed, for music was one of the few things that managed to keep him going through his time here. And when he told people that he didn't have a guitar, they happily would find and lend him one just to hear him play.
He gave it a quick tune before plucking out a little melody that he could tell his story with.
"My amigo Ernesto and I were like brothers. We had known each other since we were kids and played music together for years in our town plaza. We started traveling, wanting to share our music and play for everyone around us-"
"Ay! Ay! What's his name? His full name! Is he famous?" Someone interrupted, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence, but Héctor briefly lost his tune.
"Are you famous?" Another asked.
Héctor laughed lightly "His name was Ernesto de la Cruz," everyone looked amongst themselves curiously, they hadn't heard of him. Héctor picked up his tune again, "And no, we weren't famous, though my amigo really, really wanted to be. We were just starting out, setting up shows in towns all over Mexico, trying to get our names out, to be heard, and Ernesto was certain that we were about to hit our big break in Mexico City. But we had been on the road for months. I was losing my inspiration, my darling daughter, and my beautiful wife, my muses, were so far away. I was getting homesick."
There was a mumble of agreement amongst the group, having all been through their own share of homesickness.
"We got a bite to eat and spent the night singing in a bar, I had made up my mind by the end of the night to return home. I packed up my things, and Ernesto, he begged me not to leave. I was one who actually wrote our songs and taught him everything he knew about playing the guitar. We performed all kinds of known songs together, but the crowds really went wild for the songs I wrote. Ernesto told me he couldn't do this without my songs, I told him that I was going home. He could hate me if he wanted, but I needed to see my family."
The circled leaned forward in anticipation, expecting some kind of fight between him and Ernesto like so many of their stories would have, possibly expecting him to have killed Héctor. But Ernesto wouldn't do that.
"He was quick to calm down, like me he probably didn't want us to leave on a bad note, we had been friends far too long for that. He offered a toast just before I left, to our friendship. We drank and he walked me to the train station, but…" He slowed down the story, letting the tone of the story decline with the note of his guitar, the circle watched him curiously, "I felt a pain in my stomach, my suitcase and my guitar suddenly too heavy for me to hold. The last thing I remember hearing was my amigo's voice, asking if it was that chorizo I ate… And then I collapsed. …I woke up here, dead, never to see my wife and daughter again, just as I was returning to them."
His voice was nearly a whisper as he let the final note hang in the air. A solemn silence filled the circle, all knowing the feeling of never being able to return to loved ones. They each took a drink, handing a glass to Héctor as thanks for sharing his story. He downed it quickly, letting the burn calm his nerves at sharing something so personal. Evidentially it relaxed the other's nerves even quicker than his own as one person was quick to change the tone of the group and more embarrassingly the tone of his story.
"Wait, wait, so you died choking on a chorizo?" They asked, there was a wave of chuckles through the group.
Héctor frowned, "No. It was food poisoning, probably from the chorizo I ate."
It didn't help the round of laughs through the crowd, some mumbling of "Chorizo" under their breaths.
"How do you know your friend wasn't the one to poison you?" Someone asked, changing the mood once again to an admittedly darker one.
Héctor let out a laugh, "Ernesto wouldn't do that, we were like brothers, besides he wouldn't have me to write him more songs to play."
The circle seemed disappointed by that explanation, hoping for some grand rivalry between them. Still someone tried.
"Okay, but how do you know your amigo didn't go back to your home and seduce your beautiful lady?" They asked.
Héctor threw back his head and howled.
"Are you kidding me? My wife TERRIFIES him!" Héctor got out between his laughs, "My wife, she… She's fierce, like a jaguar, and Ernesto, in comparison he's like a little Chihuahua. Once-oh man, once Ernesto and I tried to cut my daughters hair, we had no idea what we were doing and ended up making a complete mess of her head. My wife, ooh, when Imelda found out she nearly killed us! She was fuming, scolding us to hell and back, hit us with her shoe a couple of time too. And oh man, Ernesto, he looked like he was ready to wet himself he was so scared of her!" The circle had burst out into howls of laughter at his story, Héctor couldn't help but laugh along with them.
"Ay, does your wife have a sister? She sounds just like my old lady!" A man yelled out, Héctor shook his head but they all continued their laughter.
They left their dying stories behind to listen to Héctor play and sing, goading songs out of him even after he insisted that he should go home for the night. It was an easy thing to do since his house was so lonely, and with a small crowd of listeners, it was easier to pretend that he had some family with him.