#'why did you swallow down my poison now im your number one fan'

[helianthus21]

you know what, adding toxic, beautiful madness and mamma mia to the DM playlist

[imnottiredofgettingoveryou]

What about number 20 drinking hot cocoa and cuddling together on a cold night with Elliot that leads to smut? ❤️

Stop 1 on my apology tour! Sorry again that this took so long but I hope you enjoy :) This takes place around Decemberish.

Warnings: I listen to my requests: here, there be smut. Back to the Future/Donnie Darko discourse (that’s almost more offensive)

Word Count: about 2300 

Elliot was needier around the holidays.

He tried to pretend that all the Hallmark-style movies and Christmas ads showing smiling families filled with warmth didn't get to him. He knew it was the time of year when billionaires beefed up their coffers by exploiting those warm fuzzy feelings for profit, and he tried to focus on that- the rage.

Often, though, it was the loneliness at the forefront of his mind, his alienation stark against endless images of supposed normalcy.

You had snuck past his normal defenses and become a steady presence in his life over the last few months. Something about you made him feel comfortable, like he could talk to you about anything.

And Elliot had guts to spill, no doubt about it. But he rarely did so. He was still treading lightly with you, not wanting you to learn anything about him that would make you think of him as broken.

But some things were harder for him to resist. And once that unforgiving chill had settled over the city, it just felt way too natural for him to seek out your warmth.

Even on days when you don't see each other, you feel connected. You text here and there, or sometimes Elliot will just send you a picture of some nearby scenery he thinks is pretty, or whatever he's doing at the moment. Just to say "hey, it's me, I'm okay." Maybe a little bit of "I'm thinking about you." And sometimes, usually hidden a bit more deeply between the lines, "I'm not okay."

Like today, for example. It was a picturesque winter day outside, straight out of a painting. It was snowing but not too cold, the snowflakes on your face feeling more like heaven than hypothermia. Couples interlinked their bemittened hands, the approving 'beep' of credit card scanners echoed out across the city, and you knew - you just fucking knew - that somewhere, Elliot was curled up like a burned spider, depressed as shit.

It was only confirmation, really, when he texted you a picture of a single packet of Swiss Miss slumped against a styrofoam cup that looked like it had been stolen from an AA meeting. The text under the picture stated simply:

fEsTiVe

Oof. Yeah, he knew how you felt about that. He was fishing for a response, which meant he needed some company. You couldn't help but smile a little as you texted him back.

You: Don't tell me...

Elliot: im gonna make it with water : )

You: ASKLDJLKDFJ

You rolled your eyes. Yeah, that just wouldn't do.

You: I'm coming over & we're making hot chocolate like grownups

You headed in the direction to do just that, and thankfully he didn't leave you in limbo for very long before your phone lit up with an 'okay : )'

└[∵┌]└[ ∵ ]┘[┐∵]┘

When you got to his apartment, he opened his door just enough to look you up and down with one eye and scrutinize the contents of your shopping bag.

"You really bought hot chocolate mix in a mason jar?"

"Mhmmmm," you confirmed, raising an eyebrow at him.

"How much was it? Fifty bucks or something?"

"Don't worry about it, smartass."

He smiled and opened his door all the way for you, and you gleefully stepped in, took your coat off, and sat your supplies down in his kitchen.

You dug around the chaotic mess of his cupboards and found a lone saucepan, pouring in a mixture of cream and milk and setting it over low heat. You criss-crossed your body with your arms and tried to rub some heat into them. You were dressed appropriately in a sweater and thick leggings, but could still feel the chill in his apartment.

Behind you, Elliot sat on the couch queueing up the torrent player on his laptop. He looked up as you were trying to warm yourself up.

"Cold?" he asked.

"Yeah - good thing I brought hot chocolate to this fucking igloo and not popsicles." You gave the milk a quick stir, making sure it didn't boil, and unscrewed the jar of cocoa mix. You had started adding it little by little to the warm milk, watching the little pieces of chocolate melt, when Elliot approached you from behind and reached around your waist. Careful not to interrupt what you were doing, he drug his fingers lightly across the fabric that covered your belly and nuzzled into your hair.

"Is this okay?" he purred into your ear. "Are you gonna get distracted if I..."

"No," you breathed, continuing to stir.

At that, Elliot's hands splayed out on your stomach and he pulled you against him, his warm embrace smoothing your goosebumps as his chest pressed into your back. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and let his eyes fall closed.

You stayed like that for a few moments, just enjoying the closeness, before his hands slipped under your shirt. His fingertips teased the soft skin around your navel, and he trailed one finger slowly along the waistband of your leggings. When it dipped just underneath to graze your hip bone, you gasped and reached for his wrist.

"Okay, that's getting distracting babe."

Shit. You didn't mean to call him that, but when you turned your head and met the warm gleam of his luminous eyes, you thought he had probably been caught up in the moment too. Pretending to be normal.

The cocoa was well-mixed now, and you hoped it would taste as good as it looked. Elliot backed up and gave you some room to maneuver around the kitchen. You found two mismatched mugs and carefully filled them up over the sink.

"Better wait a few minutes unless we wanna scald our tastebuds off," you said as you added mini marshmallows to the mugs. "What do you want to do while we partake?"

"You wanna watch Donnie Darko?" he asked.

"Why? So I get scared and cuddle up to you? You're gonna have to try harder than that."

"No," he said, rolling his eyes. "Because it's Back to the Future fanfiction."

You stared at him, blinking twice before saying anything. "Excuse me?"

"I didn't stutter."

You lifted your eyebrows slightly, a little surpised that he was already teasing you back so early in the evening. "Okay, I'll bite. Let's watch it."

You grabbed the mugs and headed toward his couch, and Elliot went to pull the blanket off his bed. Then he stopped and turned to look at you.

"Do you just want to sit over here?"

You nodded and sat the mugs on the floor at the foot of his bed, then laid down on your stomach and got comfortable while he retrieved the laptop. Once all was situated, he laid next to you, matching your position, and pulled his blanket up over your backs.

"So tell me how this is BTTF fanfiction, exactly?" You scooted just barely closer to him, your body almost subconsciously seeking out his warmth.

"Well, there's a fan theory that Doc convinced Marty to sacrifice himself in the time jump so he could save the world. Sound familiar?"

"Elliot, I know downers are your poison, but you sound like a real crackhead right now."

"Then there's the Delorean reference..." You could see his little smirk in your periphery as he rested his hand on your lower back beneath the blanket.

"That's reaching."

"No such thing as coincidence."

You reached out and felt around the edges of your mug, testing the temperature. "I think we can drink these now." You handed Elliot his hot chocolate and brought your own to your lips carefully.

You were right, it was just hot enough and sweet and rich and-

"Good," Elliot confirmed.

"What can I say? Call me Gordon Ramsay." After you had both sat your mugs back down, letting your palettes recover from the rich taste, Elliot discarded his hoodie and laid down on his side, then pulled you against him so that his chest was pressed against your back. Your legs slotted together and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, making you melt into him as you settled in to finish the movie.

Between the hot drinks and your shared body heat, the temperature underneath Elliot's blanket warmed up quickly, and clothes slipped off until you were down to your leggings and undershirt and he was in his black t-shirt and boxer briefs. Once all unnecessary layers were shed, he resumed his position spooned snugly behind you, and it was only a matter of time before you grew comfortable enough to fall asleep.

You passed out for a spell, waking up to face a closed laptop and feel Elliot's steady breathing in your ear, his arms still wrapped securely around you.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, just relaxing against him, before his hands started to roam over your body in his sleep. You smiled as his fingers clumsily traced along your curves, until you felt them dig into your hips to pull you flush against him. Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden roughness; his hands didn't hesitate as they traveled back up your body, and you yelped when they found your breasts and squeezed hard.

Elliot rustled behind you at the noise and suddenly his hands were gone. "Fuck, sorry."

You reached around to find his hand and squeezed reassuringly. "It's okay. Good dream?" You couldn't resist grinding back against him a little, the answer to your question becoming quickly apparent.

Elliot's hand was back on your hip, his grip on you tightening as you rubbed against his arousal. "Yeah."

"Tell me about it."

"No," he stated simply. His lips grazed the outside of your ear, and when you shivered, he caught the lobe between his teeth. "I could... show you."

A pang of arousal shot through you at his words, vivid snapshots flashing in your mind of what he might want to do to you that had made him so hard.

You answered him by pulling off the rest of your clothes; he swallowed hard enough that you could hear it, then followed suit. His blankets rustled as the two of you scrambled to discard your clothing.

Elliot didn't miss a beat, pulling you back against his chest as soon as the two of you were naked, and he was still so warm from having been cocooned up with you that you couldn't help but relax into him. You pulled your hair to the side so he could suck on your neck while his hands roamed over your breasts, stomach, hips.

There must not have been much foreplay in his dream, you thought as he pulled your leg up your body for access. Not that you minded; the ache you felt for him was becoming hard to ignore, at any rate.

Elliot wrapped a hand around himself and rubbed the head of his cock against you until it was coated with your wetness. He teased the tip through your folds, grinding against you once he found your clit, but the stimulation quickly became too much for you and for him. He couldn't deny your pleas to fucking do something already and you felt him start to push in.

He was so much more patient than you when it came to this, and he never got tired of using it to his advantage.

He took his time working his cock into you, and once every inch of him was seated inside you, he didn’t move; he wasn't giving in to you completely just yet. You whined and squirmed and dug your fingers into the arm that he had wrapped around your waist, but he held fast. You had no control with him behind you - couldn't wrap your legs around him, couldn't pull him closer, pull him deeper - and you knew he liked it that way.

The thought made you clench around him hard. That got him moving.

You sighed in relief at finally feeling that sweet push and pull of him inside you. Closing your eyes, you relaxed and relinquished control to him, trusting him to take care of you. You were trying to be quiet, trying to tamp down your responses to the ripples of pleasure that washed over you each time he filled you; you wanted to hear him. Your efforts were rewarded as his little huffs and sighs against your shoulder escalated into soft moans.

Volume control became futile once Elliot adjusted his angle to hit your g-spot, your mouth falling open enough for broken moans to spill from your throat. Elliot lifted a hand up to your face to trace his middle and index fingers over your parted lips, then pushed them into your mouth. You sucked his digits hard, and he groaned in appreciation before he removed them and began a wet trail down the front of your body. Upon reaching his destination, he massaged your clit between his still-warm, still-wet fingers until your toes were curling against his calf.

"Elliot," you whined, "I'm--"

Coherence fell away as easily as quiet had as your orgasm overtook you, but you managed to cry out Elliot's name a few more times as you shook in his arms.

When he came, he bit your shoulder hard, and you were still too high on endorphins to notice it hurt before he was peppering the spot with sweet, soft kisses of apology.

Elliot gingerly removed himself from you, flinching at the lingering sensitivity from his orgasm. You gave each other space to breathe and cool down, and as your chest heaved you realized you hadn't even kissed him properly yet tonight.

Intent on remedying this, you rolled over and crawled towards him as soon as you were physically able, pressing your lips against his and not caring that he tasted like over-priced chocolate.

[omgkatsudonplease]

rainfall confessions

for @wangxianweek day 7 “promises”: a completely and utterly self-indulgent au set to jay chou’s rhythm of the rain. im so sorry. no i’m not

“Let’s make a wish, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, looking up at the stars.

Beside him in this moonlit field, Lan Wangji hums in agreement. “What do you wish for?” he asks.

Wei Wuxian considers it, tucking himself closer to Lan Wangji with a small smile. “Forever,” he says, his fingers seeking out Lan Wangji’s and holding on tight. “Just think — the two of us, waking each day to one another. Spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Mm.” Lan Wangji’s expression is placid when Wei Wuxian looks over at him. There’s going to be mud and grass stains all over his designer coat, and there’s no doubt his stuck-up of an uncle is going to give him a verbal lashing for it. But the slight upturn of Lan Wangji’s lips makes this moment of rebelliousness all worth it.

Wei Wuxian sighs dreamily, squeezing his fingers. “Let’s make it happen, shall we?” he asks.

Lan Wangji squeezes back. “Mm,” he repeats, and turns to kiss Wei Wuxian’s cheek.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

on books

love is not in books, I know; I’ve read each one cover-to-cover, and there are still no words to describe the way you make me feel.

From the very beginning, Wei Wuxian had known he was out of Lan Wangji’s league. The man’s every move speaks of refined upbringing; every article of clothing speaks of money and prestige. Wei Wuxian’s just a kid waiting tables and manning the bar at his shijie’s restaurant to get by for grad school; he really doesn’t bring much to the table in comparison.

Lan Wangji still shows up during his shifts anyway, ordering him drinks once in a while yet never nursing anything stronger than an Arnold Palmer. He tips handsomely, too, and completely in cash, folded into napkins with little poems or drawings. The first napkin Wei Wuxian had returned to him had his number on the back. Lan Wangji had texted him an invitation to coffee shortly after.

With every meeting, Wei Wuxian cracks through more of the ice to find the heart within. Lan Wangji writes poems, plays piano, draws still lifes and landscapes. He’s the quiet second son of a media mogul family, chock-full of entertainers and influencers all around the world. He’s won awards for his art; his chapbooks are bestsellers.

Wei Wuxian has nothing to offer, but Lan Wangji takes what he gives anyway — his heart.

Tonight, however, Lan Wangji is already at the restaurant when Wei Wuxian enters. His austere grump of an uncle sits beside him. They’re not in Wei Wuxian’s section, but he tries to go over and bring them water anyway.

“Three,” says the uncle. “We are waiting on one more.”

Lan Wangji looks down at his napkin, refusing to meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes.

Wei Wuxian has just returned with the water when he sees why. A young woman has arrived, her coat draped over the chair beside her. She sits across from Lan Wangji, arrayed in pale pink.

Wei Wuxian’s hands tremble when he sets down the glasses, and then he immediately finds the section’s server and shoves her towards them for the rest of the night.

He’d known Lan Wangji was out of his league, but even after candlelit dinners, and stargazing out in the park, and all the other clandestine meetings they’d shared, it still stings a little to see proof of just how impossible their forever is.

Lan Wangji texts him an hour later. It was a business meeting, he says. It means nothing.

Wei Wuxian suspects he’s lying, but he sends a heart anyway.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

qixi

in this last rainstorm, I wished you were beside me, stranded like a maiden for whom the magpies could not fly.

The next meeting is repentance. Lan Wangji worships him the instant the doors to his bedroom closes, sinking to his knees in penitence before a deity. Somewhere far off in Wei Wuxian’s heart, a storm slowly gathers.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, brushing his lips against Lan Wangji’s ears. “Please be honest with me: a business meeting?”

“Mm,” replies Lan Wangji, his voice steady, his fingers shaking as he unbuttons Wei Wuxian’s shirt.

“I suppose it’s not weird if your uncle is there. But it did seem a bit… I don’t know. I just know your uncle hates me.”

Lan Wangji’s lips pause just above Wei Wuxian’s collarbone. “She has a publishing empire. We are an entertainment company. The merger is logical.”

“Is a wedding logical, too?” wonders Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji kisses him silent. In spite of himself, Wei Wuxian swallows down his remaining misgivings. He flips their positions, fingers tangling themselves into his boyfriend’s hair. Lan Wangji arches into him, and the world falls away.

Hours later, as Lan Wangji sleeps silver and beautiful beside him, Wei Wuxian lies awake and traces the curve of his face. Perhaps this is the last time Lan Wangji’s dark hair will fan across his pillows. Perhaps this is the last time Wei Wuxian will be able to kiss those soft lips.

He commits Lan Wangji to memory with fingers and lips, and wishes he couldn’t see where this is going.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

in bed

you tap a rhythm against my skin that matches the pattern of the rain, the erratic breaths drawn from my lungs, and the frantic dancing of my heart.

Wei Wuxian first sees the ring in a windowsill.

It’s the stupidest impulse purchase he’s ever made. It’s a gamble on the possibility of forever, a hopeful investment in the business of love. Despite all his misgivings, all his fears, there’s still the possibility Lan Wangji is his forever.

The ring is a happy weight in his pockets from there on, a box of possibility waiting to be presented. He spends weeks trying to figure out the timing — it can’t be during work, as much as he’d love to slip it into one of Lan Wangji’s drinks. They’re both so busy it’s hard to find time after, and no place in the city feels like the right place to go.

Until he remembers the field where they had watched the stars, and he resolves to invite Lan Wangji there that night.

He’s just pulled out his mobile to text him when he sees a crowd gathered in the park. Curious, he joins them, pushed forward by the brisk pre-storm breeze. It stabs at him, but the bitterness isn’t half as acute as what he sees in the centre of the crowd.

For there stands Lan Wangji, staring down at a bouquet of roses offered to him by that woman in pastel pink. Amid the roses, there’s the faintest glint of a golden ring.

The ring in Wei Wuxian’s own pocket now sinks like his heart. Without a second thought, he turns and runs. “Wei Ying!” he hears from behind as he pushes back out of the crowd, the first hints of drizzle streaking across his vision. “Wei Ying — wait!”

But Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat is echoing too hard in his ears for him stop and listen now.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

for want of envy

dear reader, i lost you — the sheets are cold where you used to lie, the rain obscures you from my sight, and the heart within me is stretched for want of you.

dear reader, i was never taught how quickly someone can become your world and how quickly you can lose them.

“What’s your poison, handsome?” the young man behind the bar had teased, and in that fateful moment Lan Wangji’s world had tilted on the axis of his smile. Wei Wuxian was sunlight and warmth, a happy contrast against the spring rain thundering against the windowpane outside the store.

He’d remembered his manners just in time, choking out a request for water in between heartbeats. Wei Wuxian had remarked something about it being strange he’d sit at the bar to order water, but Lan Wangji wasn’t nearly stupid enough to confess it was him that drew him there.

As the second son, he’d never been expected to inherit the family business. Still, his every connection was scrutinised, every friend carefully vetted. Uncle Qiren’s adherence to tradition had protected him all his life, considering the scandals raised by his parents’ marriage, but the minute Wei Wuxian stepped into his life, Lan Wangji had never wanted to rebel so badly.

The instant Uncle Qiren noticed Wei Wuxian in his life, he’d pushed Luo Qingyang at him. The merger was transparent. But then, so was her distaste.

“I cannot accept this,” Lan Wangji tells her now, even after he takes the bouquet.

She looks almost relieved. “I know there is someone else,” she says. The crowd had vanished with the oncoming storm, but neither of them have moved from their spot. Lan Wangji opens his umbrella, hands it to her with the flowers and the ring.

“There is someone else for you, too,” he says.

“Good luck,” she replies. Lan Wangji nods, as the rain slowly seeps into his white suit.

Its rhythm is a metronome for the beating of his heart as he turns and races out of the park.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

promises

he promised me forever and a day, and all the years to come in lifetimes after. “with you beside me, come whatever may I’ll face it all in sadness and in laughter.”

Wei Wuxian lets his feet take them to the field where he’d first made his wish for forever. The rain blurs his vision; splashes mud across his shoes and clothes as he digs out the ring he’d bought, preparing to throw it down the bank towards the rushing river below.

“Wei Ying!” he hears. Then there’s the solid warmth of Lan Wangji’s body, the familiar scent of his sandalwood aftershave. He closes his eyes, letting Lan Wangji bring him close.

“What are you doing here?” he asks nonetheless, his voice as bitter as he feels. He’s tired of this uncertainty, tired of untruths. Lan Wangji cups his cheek.

“I told her no.”

The ring is warm in Wei Wuxian’s hand. “But I thought —” he begins, but Lan Wangji puts a finger to his lips.

“It has always been you,” he says. “Even when I did not know… I was writing for you.”

The rain clears, almost as if on cue. The faintest hint of the sun peeks out behind the clouds. Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide, as Lan Wangji kneels in the muddied field at his feet.

“I have no ring to give just yet,” he says, “but I do have my promise.”

“I have a ring,” says Wei Wuxian, sinking down with him. Lan Wangji’s white suit is utterly ruined, and it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. “Forever, Lan Zhan. Please?” he asks, already leaning in.

“Yes,” breathes Lan Wangji, and meets him halfway.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

rainfall confessions

the frost has gathered forests on the sill; the rainstorm beats a rhythm in my heart; against the lake, a dragonfly’s wings are as fragile as this new-spun promise.

in every wound i dealt, you bled out love, until my hands ran crimson with your devotion. in every word, i heard your longing for forever, unenvious of the world around us.

hereafter only strengthens every promise, as we wake to one another every morn. run into my arms, out of the rain, and let the shelter of magpie wings protect us.

[dogbearinggifts]

His Guitar

A/N: So after reading up on some headcanons and theories regarding the guitar alebrije  by @im-fairly-whitty and others, I started thinking about why Ernesto didn’t have a copy of the skull guitar, despite it being his signature. The result was a drabble that turned into something more. So….yeah, here’s my take on Hector’s guitar alebrije.

*********

In life, Ernesto could always count on his fans. Thus far, death was no different.

His mausoleum was as grand as a mausoleum could be, all white marble and fluted columns, stretching up to the sky, towering over everything else in the graveyard. On sunny days, Ernesto liked to think it would act like a beacon, reflecting sunlight like the moon and drawing every eye in Santa Cecelia to its greatest treasure. It wasn’t what he’d expected to find when he returned to his place of burial.

It was more.

“Oh! Oh! It’s de la Cruz!”

Ernesto smiled as the cry was echoed across the graveyard, heads turning toward the bridge some distance behind him. He raised a hand in greeting, catching additional comments tossed like flowers at his feet.

“Señor de la Cruz! You must visit mi familia—they’ll have put your picture on their ofrenda!”

“Later, perhaps,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Ay, is there some special lady waiting for you?”

“Too many,” Ernesto said, returning the man’s sly grin with one of his own.

“Here to play in the plaza again?”

Ah, now there was an idea. “Once I have my guitar!”

The dead moved aside as he dodged graves on the way to his mausoleum, forming a path as clear as the cempasùchil guiding souls to their loved ones, though even less permanent. He returned smiles, offered waves, called out short greetings, but never slowed his pace. He could bask in their attention once he had his guitar again.

A set of steps led to the door, lined with candles and festooned, as the rest of the structure was, with cempasùchil. But he could enjoy the sight later, when the guitar was in his hands and he could glance fondly back at the final resting place his fans had built for him. Once he could relish the attention of his family, living and dead, as he played and sang for the latter before the thinning veil between them both.

Anticipation nearly made Ernesto step through the door the moment he reached it; but reason prevailed, and he turned around, gave the dead in the graveyard a grin and a wave, winked, and slipped through. Whistles and applause followed him in.

The interior was just as opulent as the exterior, but Ernesto scarcely noticed the flowers, the oil painting of his likeness, the marble casket they’d buried him in. All he saw was the guitar. It rested on a set of metal hooks beneath his painting, gleaming faintly in the moonlight filtering through the wide windows.

Ernesto smiled. Once again, his family had taken care of him.

Perhaps he could have stepped through the casket, but the thought of standing inside his own remains made him shiver. He went around to the side instead, awkwardly placing one hand on top and the other beneath, hoping to gain a better grip once he’d lifted it off its hooks.

It didn’t move.

Ernesto stepped back and then hoisted himself atop his casket, kneeling before the guitar. He held it properly this time, one hand on the body and one on the neck, and lifted.

Again, the instrument did not budge.

Frowning, he slid off the casket and went to the front window. Departed spirits were everywhere, standing before this grave or that, fawning over loved ones or reaching for offerings. As he watched, a middle-aged woman grasped a bottle of wine, the bottle duplicating in her hand. The original remained where it had been set; the faintly glowing copy went into her basket. Ernesto turned his attention elsewhere and saw the same thing repeated with a young couple and a mildly unsettling number of churros, one of which they handed to the small boy who had accompanied them.

Returning to the casket, he climbed atop it and tried lifting again. Once more, nothing. The guitar might as well have been part of the wall. He sat back slightly, trying for another plan, and happened to glance at the instrument’s head and the gold-toothed skull painted there. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was smiling.

Ernesto had thought, upon seeing his skeletal form for the first time, that he might no longer feel fear. It was something that settled in the pit of your stomach, after all; how could one feel it when one lacked a stomach? He had learned quickly that this was not the case. Fear still existed in the Land of the Dead. It could still send a jolt through one’s very being—and when he saw that smile, that was exactly what shot through him.

No.

No. That was impossible. The guitar was just that—a guitar. His guitar. He’d taken it just as he’d taken Hèctor’s life; by rights it was his. There was no reason why it shouldn’t respond to his promptings. He lifted the guitar again.

Again, nothing but that smile. No, not a smile. A trick of the light—or darkness, rather. The skull’s face, the teeth, were the same as ever. They did not move, they had not moved, they would not move. It was his proximity to his own grave, he reasoned. Kneeling atop his own decaying remains had warped his perception. Emboldened with that thought, he grasped the guitar once again.

A jolt, like a shock of electricity, shot through his hands before traveling up his arms and down to his core. He yelped, yanking his hands back—and that was when he felt something else, radiating from the guitar like warmth from a fire.

Satisfaction.

All pretense of reason, all excuses and justifications, fled his mind. There was nothing else for it. There was only the jolt, the emotion that wasn’t his, and the guitar at the center of it all. Smiling.

Fear nearly drove him back to the graveyard, but it transformed quickly, fading to anger. “You’re my guitar,” he whispered. “And I need you for the next show.”  

He tried to lift it again, but a similar jolt made him yank his hands away. It was stronger this time, so strong that he needed a moment to shake the pain out. As he did, a memory came to his mind, unbidden: Hèctor, downing a glass of poisoned tequila in a single swallow.

“Yes, he’s dead,” Ernesto hissed. “For twenty-one years, if you haven’t noticed.”

Dios mio. He was arguing with a guitar. He had argued with some ridiculous people in the past, but never an instrument. He grasped it again, and the jolt was so strong this time that he staggered backward, tumbling awkwardly off the casket and onto the floor. His own words echoed through his mind: Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one years, if you haven’t noticed.

He stumbled to his feet, clenching his jaw as he stared down the guitar. That infernal smile was still there, a smile that somehow did not distort the painted teeth at all, but he could no longer dismiss it as an illusion.

“Twenty-one years,” Ernesto repeated. “That’s how long you’ve been mine.”

Another memory surfaced: Hèctor strumming the guitar in a rented room, singing “Remember Me” to his distant daughter.

“That isn’t how the song goes. Not anymore.”

The memory played in the back of his mind until the song concluded.

He exhaled, long and loud, casting a glance out one window and then another. No curious onlookers; nevertheless, the graveyard was full of fans. Of his family. And his family would want to know why he hadn’t yet emerged with the guitar in his hands. “You’ve traveled the country. You’ve been in movies. I’ve held you on every cover of every album I’ve made, and you want to stay here?”

Hèctor again came to mind, smiling as he kissed his wife, one hand on her arm and the other on the guitar.

It was Dìa de Muertos. The one time of the year he could return to his fans who still lived, the one day he could retrieve what belonged to him, and he was arguing with a guitar. A guitar that only wanted to reminisce about Hèctor. Not all the shows they’d played. Not the movies, the fans, the critics. A man who would have left his closest friend, his brother, to languish in obscurity two inches from fame.

“He isn’t coming back for you.” It came out closer to a growl than Ernesto had intended, but no one was around to hear him anyway. “You’ll never leave this place.”

A mixture of satisfaction and spite radiated from the guitar.

Ernesto wanted to tear that guitar from its hooks, but he’d only get another shock for his trouble. He’d have to leave, to go back out into that graveyard and face his fans emptyhanded. Show them all that he couldn’t take his prize, his signature. Show them that he’d lost.

To a guitar.

“If I were still living, you’d be in my hands. You wouldn’t have a choice.”

He turned on his heel, but another memory surfaced. Hèctor again, smiling on his birthday, not long before they’d left for their tour. “Twenty-one today, mi amigo!”  

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “What now?” 

Twenty-one. His own voice again. Twenty one. Twenty-one, if you haven’t noticed.

Then, another memory.

A crowd in love, gazing up at the stage from candlelit tables.

The final strains of “Remember Me,” as he sung it, as everyone now sung it.

The guitar, growing heavy in his hands. Slipping it off and passing it to a stagehand.

The bell.

Twenty-one. Twenty-one.

“Twenty-one today, mi amigo!”

Twenty-one, if you haven’t noticed.

“No,” he whispered. “No. That….no.” The bell was an accident. A tragedy. That his guitar had no longer been in his hands when it struck was a coincidence. A fortunate happenstance that such a valuable instrument had not been crushed alongside its owner. The number of years between the guitar’s survival and its transfer of ownership was simply another coincidence among many.

Against his better judgment, Ernesto turned back to the guitar. If he wasn’t mistaken—if he wasn’t seeing things, like he’d seen and heard and felt them since walking into his mausoleum—the guitar’s smile had widened.

“Ay, rough crowd.” Hèctor’s voice again. Another memory, from that tour, from a show that hadn’t gone well, to say the least. “Best not to go through this place again, I’d say.”

“I’m dead,” he snapped. “What more can anyone do to me?”

Hèctor’s voice, paired with a wry, mischievous sort of smile. “Do you want to find out?”

*******

The first Sunrise Spectacular followed a year later. 

People talked. They bemoaned the posters, the signs, the lack of the skull guitar on all of them. They accepted Ernesto’s excuses—”Ay, there’s only room for one beautiful skull onstage!” “It’s not the guitar that makes the music, mi familia, it’s the musician!”—with an air of resignation. They would have liked to see the guitar, would have liked to hear it played in more than a recording. 

But they accepted his excuses. That was what mattered to him. They accepted his excuses and didn’t push him to return to the Land of the Living. Ernesto  never would have said as much, but he was grateful. Even after he convinced himself that first Dìa de Muertos was imagination or a nightmare or a story he read long ago, his gratitude remained. 

In death, as in life, his family cared for him. 

******

Second A/N: I’d originally planned on making the guitar more sassy than scary, but then I started writing it and…well, the opposite happened.