Even though he hated thinking it, Lorenzo knew he had a better life than Héctor's. They had many other things in common, but along with their different personalities, this was where the similarities ended. Not to say that they both didn't know trauma-- in fact, the third thing they'd bonded over (other than their love for music and their disdain for any kind of chocolate) was the fact that they'd both had scarring childhoods. But at least Lorenzo had had a stable family and people who genuinely loved him. Héctor hadn't, and Lorenzo wondered how he was able to live like that.

And how he still found it in him to love the people who'd treated him so horribly.

Lorenzo always found himself comparing him and Héctor's families, and it was easy to put his own superior. Especially when Héctor's second version of his family included his best friend, wife, and daughter, three people who shouldn't have even been allowed to be in Héctor's life with how cruel they were to him.

In Lorenzo's case, his family hadn't been the best, but they weren't the worst, either. His mother loved him, but she loved her social life way more. His father was an arrogant idiota half the time, but he had moments of affection that made his neglect forgiveable. Lorenzo never had to worry about his family abandoning him, or leaving him to be raised by someone else. Maybe that was because he couldn't care less about what his parents thought, but regardless, it had never been a concern for him.

Lorenzo didn't have many amigos. That was another thing he shared with Héctor, though for a different reason. Héctor was hated because his own mother had abandoned him, so what other affection did he deserve? Everyone was just too intimidated by Lorenzo's temper and his blunt, standoffish ways to to want to be around him.

But both Lorenzo and Héctor found ways to avoid the lonliness. They made friends with the people who had no choice but to be around them, who tolerated their presence and only pretended to do more than that. They forced a bond with the people who couldn't turn them away no matter how much they wanted to.

For Héctor, that had been Ernesto. And for Lorenzo, that had been his sister.

He didn't remember much about his hermana now, because when she'd made the choice to forget about him, he decided he would do the same. It was his only course of revenge. He forgot what she looked like, her name, the sound of her voice (except the memories of when she yelled at him), and her mannerisms. But he could never forget how they'd been as children, how even their worst nights with their parents were bearable because of how close they were.

She didn't always act like it, but Lorenzo knew his sister loved him. She fought with her friends if they made fun of him, she took the blame for his mistakes when their parents yelled at him, and she at least pretended to enjoy listening to the music he played for her. And in return for these small moments of kindness, he included her in every conversation, he begged to go everywhere she went, and would practically stalk her when she went on dates to make sure she was treated the right way.

When he'd died somewhere in 1902, Lorenzo thought that, for sure, his devotion would pay off. Surely his sister would move past all the fights they'd had and all the times he'd been caught watching her and her novio when they went out. She would only remember the good things he'd done and honor his memory as her own way of thanking him. This mindset was what got him through the first ten years of his afterlife, and every time Día de los Muertos came around, he would wait in line with a feeling of anticipation in the air around him, wanting to catch a glimpse of what his sister looked like, if she had a family of her own.

But each year he tried, he was turned away. His sister never put his picture on her ofrenda. She never talked or shared stories about him. Lorenzo knew her love had a limit, but he'd hoped that, just for this one night, she would find it in her heart to at least acknowledge his memory. But he was wrong.

She'd forgotten him.

Lorenzo lost any cares with that realization. He stopped paying rent and lost his apartment. He lost his job because he started fights with everyone who talked to him. He moved down to Los Olvidados after that, owning nothing but a battered brass trumpet he'd bought a year after his death. He met Héctor in 1921 a few weeks after the man had died, when both of them had chosen to try and fight their depressions by playing music in the plaza and he helped Lorenzo escape the harassment and insults he faced from his unusually demanding audience.

Now, he felt just as hollowed out and betrayed as he had then, reeling from the aftermath of him and Héctor's fight. Only this time was different.

Because the one person who'd pulled him out of that dark place last time was now the one person he wanted to avoid.

"You're being dramatic."

From his position in front of Ramiro's window, Lorenzo turned to face him and frowned. "What do you mean? He had no right to say those things to me."

Ramiro raised an eyebrow. He was sitting against the armrest of his couch, his hands clasped behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. It was near darkness in his house because all of the candles he'd lit earlier went out, but the window was wide enough to shine a slice of light where he was sitting, and his nonchalant expression was irkingly visible.

"You still shouldn't throw your entire day away. Normally, you'd be hanging out until at least midnight tonight. You guys are family. You can't end your relationship just because of some words Héctor said."

"He brought up my sister, Ramiro!" Lorenzo hissed, crossing his arms. "He knows how upset that makes me."

Ramiro shrugged. "And you slapped him. I'm sure he didn't take that very well, either."

Lorenzo groaned and turned away, catching sight of the lights and moving trolleys in the city above, the faint notes of music that floated through the air both from town and from the upper levels. The thought that he and Héctor should be up there, half-full drinks in hand, instruments by their sides, talking and joking around while time flew past them, sent a deep pang of bitterness through Lorenzo's non-existent heart.

And the reason why the fight had happened, that was even worse.

Lorenzo sighed, uncrossing his arms and making a fist at his side. "Héctor isn't the only one at fault for what happened earlier."

"So you admit that it's your fault, too?"

Lorenzo turned around and glared at Ramiro. "¿Qué? Of course not! I didn't mean me; it's Héctor's stupid 'Superhero' who's ruining everything."

Ramiro frowned, giving a small laugh. "He hasn't used that name in a long time."

"That's not the point. You know Ernesto's messing everyhting up for us." Lorenzo clenched his teeth as the memories rolled through his mind. He thought of Ernesto's air of distaste when Héctor first showed him around, the way Ernesto accused them for their familial attachment to one another, Ernesto singing the song Héctor chose for them like it was his own, how he'd tried to run away, how he showed off by saving Héctor that day they all went swimming.

Lorenzo didn't know what was worse: the fact that Ernesto so obviously broadcasted his hatred or the way Héctor acted like a shred of himself nowadays, bringing Ernesto everywhere and constantly sticking by his side.

Lorenzo considered Ramiro, his eyes fixed on the jagged crack in his skull that nearly split his face in two, even more vivid with the light shining over it. "You worked for him, didn't you?"

"What?"

Lorenzo rolled his eyes. "Pay attention, Ramiro. Did you have these moments with him when the two of you were alive?"

Ramiro sat up straight, his hand clenched around the chair's armrest as he nodded. "No one could complain about him, especially not me. No one listened when we tried to tell people what we went through. Not even when he attacked me did he get punished for it."

Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. "He... attacked you?"

Ramiro looked down into his lap darkly as he nodded, brushing back a strand of hair. "I told people what happened, and they said I was just being loco. That was confusing him for someone else. Like I said, Ernesto could do whatever he wanted, but he would always have fans to cover for him."

Lorenzo shuddered as Héctor's words from Ernesto's first day here came back to him:

The more you hang out with him, the more you see how nice he can be.

No. This fight certainly wasn't Lorenzo's fault, and it wasn't Héctor's either. There was something worse going on, and it had to end before everyone lost their minds and the last sliver of Héctor's personality disappeared.

Lorenzo shook his head and sighed, both of his hands clenched into fists this time. He came over to where Ramiro was and set next to him, lowering his voice. "We can't kick him out right now. But maybe if we tried to get Héctor on our side first, we'd be able to make Ernesto leave."

Ramiro veered back and cringed. "You know how hard it is for me to be around Héctor, especially with Ernesto here."

"Ay, Dios mío, try to get over it. It's simple: we get him alone, tell him all the reasons why he needs to kick his best friend out, and then Ernesto leaves forever."

Ramiro looked at Lorenzo, his eyes filled with fear and reluctance, his hands clasped in his lap tightly. "Are you sure this will work? If it doesn't--"

Lorenzo held up his hand. "It will. It has to. Ernesto has to go, ¿me entiendes?"

Ramiro stared at him a minute longer, but when Lorenzo hardened his gaze, Ramiro gave a resigned sigh. "Fine. What do we have to do?"

Lorenzo smirked and leaned in again, slinging an arm around Ramiro's shoulder to bring him closer. The next words he said filled him with both adrenaline and irritation: "First, we talk to Héctor."