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pensoluv · 3 years ago

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Hello Mod yyxandere passing by your blog💗💗👋👋 How are you today mod bamboowrites how are you today?♡ I hope that your having such wonderful day :DD

Is it okay if I req for yandere (if you write them, if you dont want to it's perfectly okay) ningguang, visiting mondstadt favourite flower girl and falling inlove with her, please🙏

Thank you<3<3<3

Hiii! A wonderful day to you as well! This idea sounds amazing, and I’ll try my best to do this! This could become a series if y’all like this first one! (Not me writing way more than I should again ehe~)

TW: yandere behaviour (unhealthy infatuation)

female y/n as requested, gay panic go brr

long post ahead! yea i sure hope it does- vine reference go brr

��Twas another busy day. This isn’t new to Ningguang, but today, she’s been invited by the owner of the Dawn Winery to visit Mondstadt, as well as for their business negotiations.

While waiting for Diluc Ragnvindr in the city, she decides to visit the flower shop that their guide mentioned. It should be open by now, and the displayed flowers are pretty too. It’d be nice to bring local Cecilias back to her office desk in Liyue, she mused.

“Welcome to Floral Whisper.” The woman behind the floras greeted with a warm smile. “How may I help you? Is this your friend, Moco?”

The woman’s smooth voice and smile made Ning’s heart skip a beat. Not to mention that the woman’s her type. It didn’t help that the afternoon sunlight was highlighting her beautiful features.

Maybe she’s the one Ningguang’s been looking for. The perfect darling. Maybe that’s why she felt a tinge of jealousy, when the florist first addressed the winery’s maid. She’d rather have the flourish beauty focus on her, and only her.

Feigning a calm composure, Ning tries to calm her heart down as Moco helped to answer the question. “Hi y/n! This is Lady Ningguang. We’re looking for some local specialties. Are there any flowers that you’d recommend?”

Upon knowing who the elegant guest is, y/n’as brows lifted in awe and her eyes lit up as she tries to find the suitable flowers Ning’d want. Ning found it adorable.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Ningguang. We have flowers that suit different occasions, so may I ask what purpose your flowers would have? We have a fine selecti-”

Before Ningguang could answer, y/n was cut off by Moco again. “Omg y/n! Just give your suggestions based on your own opinions! You always ramble on about the flowers and get scolded by Flora. Lady Ningguang is a busy businesswoman, you know. Unless… ehehe~”

Moco’s reprimands and teasing further fueled Ningguang’s inner irritation, of this unworthy host, standing in between her and her future darling. Not to mention the disrespect. It only became worse when she noticed y/n’s dejected face.

“Oh… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your precious time, Miss Ningguang. You’re right, Moco.” Y/n’s gaze drooped to the ground, and bowed slightly as she apologised. Ning wished that she could bring back the light in her darling’s eyes, like when she was talking about her precious florals.

Maybe if she brings her back to Liyue, she could spoil y/n and always keep that spark of bliss in her eyes. This dangerous yet tantalising thought creeps into her deeper thoughts and takes root. But for now, she’ll have to lock this idea away, to respond as nicely as she should to y/n.

“No, it’s alright. I’d love to hear more about the flowers, if you’d like to. I’m still considering if I need bouquets for other occasions other than for my office.” Gently, Ningguang finally gets the chance to reply to y/n.

‘It’s not a waste of time if it’s you.’ she thinks.

As she wanted, the florist’s face brightened once more.

“Thank you,” she said meekly, then began to continue her suggestions passionately.

“If you’re looking for flowers for your office, I’d suggest Cecilias, as they are beautiful and resilient. It gives me the same impression that I get from you.”

Y/n blushed as red as a Silk Flower at Ningguang. She quickly continued after clearing her throat, before her maid friend teases her again.

“Calla Lillies would be nice, if you’d like to keep them with Liyue’s Water Lillies. They thrive in waters, and look really pleasant!

I’d also recommend Small Lamp Grasses, Sweet Flowers and Windwheel Asters, if you’re looking for a bouquet for your Mondstadt business partners. They have good symbolisms, and popularity with our locals!”

“These are truly suitable suggestions.” Ningguang says with a thoughtful expression. Her head raises back up. “I’ll take three bouquets arranged as you see fit. Mora isn’t a problem, but I’d like to see what you decide to do.” She smiles more genuinely. Her cordial smile becomes softer than usual, but not that the commonfolks would notice. Especially not when the florist is still being too gay-panicked to notice.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll get them ready in 50 minutes. Would you like me to deliver them to specific places or people?” Y/n nods as she notices the half-adepti assistant come back towards Ningguang, with Amber on her side. “Hello! Amber, your sweet flowers are ready! I see you have a new friend?”

“Hello y/n! Did we miss anything?” Amber piqued. Both her and Ganyu were slightly sweating from their archery competition. Ganyu tilts her head at Ningguang as a silent inquiry, if the Tianquan needs her help to get away or assist her in other ways. Ningguang shook her head lightly in response, while Moco helps Amber carry a chunk of their bows. “Oh, and this is Ganyu!” “Hello. I’m Lady Ningguang’s assistant. Nice to meet you.” Y/n waved happily in response. “Hello Ganyu. I hope you and Lady Ningguang have a great time here! Oh and Amber, I’ve asked Noelle to bring your sweet flowers to your home. You guys live near, yes?” “Yea! Thank you!” “No problem.” Smiling, y/n starts to make the bouquets as she’s talking with her friend.

As they converse, Ningguang’s mind trails away. If she was to bring her back to Liyue, maybe she could get her darling her own flower store, or a greenhouse. She’d get jealous if her darling gets flirted with, or if people lead her attention away from Ningguang. Maybe it’ll be better if she keeps y/n at the Jade Chamber, with her adored flowers and various plants… perhaps she could take advantage of y/n’s personal delivery to her mansion, when both her and Ganyu would have returned from her trade with Mr. Ragnvindr…She’ll finally get to observe her darling right down to her very core, in private.

‘Buying those bouquets were truly great investments.’

“Y/n, it would be great if you could deliver my bouquets to the Jade Chamber. Ganyu and I would be busy in negotiations in Mondstadt, so we wouldn’t be available to collect them in time. Though, I’d have to have you deliver the third bouquet to Sir Diluc’s Winery before going to Liyue. I could arrange for someone to collect you.”

“Thank you, Lady Ningguang. Best of luck to you and Miss Ganyu with your trades! I’ll be waiting for my guide at the front gates.”

This would be the last time y/n is truly free in the City of Freedom. The last time she sees the Mondstadt sun on her leisure without unwanted companions. Or as a single person, at least.

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wcrriorhearts · 11 months ago

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"Well, you can try to fight without weapons, but I'd say it wouldn't make a lot of sense when faced with swords and machetes", Vests pointed out and shrugged slightly. She was by no means a fan of the fight training, but at least this times they allowed the tributes to familiarize themselves with the weapons, before they would be thrown into the arena and had to use them. Didn't mean it gave anyone a true advantage, but perhaps it would teach Cecilia what to go for at the cornucopia, instead of randomly picking something. "Though I would advice against picking anything", she mused, cocking her head to the side. "While everyone makes a run for the weapons, you could make a run for shelter. There will be enough corpses lying about to take knives and such from later on."

Vesta had only watched a couple of games, because she had been too young and was plainly uninterested in the bloodshed, but it seemed like a good idea to run first and collect resources later. Nonetheless, all of that was ultimately up to Cecilia. All she could do was give theoretical advise, because to be fair, Vesta would not last half an hour in the arena. Given her heart condition, she would not even be able to run away from her enemies, let alone fight them. "They're just going to ask you questions. Answer them, throw in a joke or two and try to appear interesting, likeable even. That is the first step to getting sponsors."

Lucky Flickerman was going to do the shows surrounding the Hunger Games again and he loved an interesting talk show guest. Either way, his questions were usually easy to answer and he wasn't too hard to deal with. At the request to bring wool Vesta frowned. "Wool? Okay....what are you going to do with it?" Hopefully not knitting, because that was frowned upon at the Capitol. An alarm rang through the hall and Vesta rose from her seat, knowing the time with her tribute was up now. "Any particular color you'd like?" She wasn't sure HOW to get wool, given their financial restraints, but maybe Tigris had some flying around. With Coryo away doing his time in 12, their family life had dissolved into chaos lately.

Cecilia wasn’t sure if it was a relief or not that her mentor didn’t know everything either. At least they were in this together in a way – though some more information sure would have been nice. While she didn’t like to be so dependent on anyone, Vesta was proving herself to be trustworthy so far; as trustworthy as someone from the Capitol could be anyway.

“Fight training? With weapons, really?” The idea seemed insane, teaching children how to fight, but given the circumstances, maybe they were just bored of children who didn’t know what they were doing. One more step towards turning them into killers. “What am I supposed to do on TV?” She had no performing talents like that girl from Twelve had years ago and she doubted that she was good material for an interview. This couldn’t possibly be in her favor.

At the question, she had to think for a moment. Apart from the obvious needs of food and water, she wasn’t so sure if there was anything she needed. Except … “If you can get me some wool, that would be great. I could probably make something out of it.” Maybe even something she could use in the arena – though that would depend entirely on what the arena would be like this year.

#ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ( The Hunger Games ) - Vesta Snow #ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ ʙᴏɴᴇs ɢʀᴏᴡɴ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴀʙsᴇɴᴄᴇ ( queue )

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maswritingblog · 4 years ago

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Unexpected - an Oberyn Martell oneshot

Summary: After spending one night with Prince Oberyn Martell, Cecilia returned to her father’s castle with every intention of pretending she hadn’t had the best night of her life. That is until she discovers she is with child, just in time for Oberyn Martell to pay her family a visit.

Warnings: None, really. Just a feeling a worthlessness, pregnancy if you are triggered by that.

{A/N: I got the idea for this from a dream I had, figured I should write it out. It is VERY long, I apologize. This could also potentially become a series if people want it to.}

It had been a bad idea, of course it had. On the list of bad decisions she’d made in her life, this one may have just beat them all. But she had been mistreated her entire life, made to feel like she was nothing and would always be nothing…and he had treated her like she was something so precious. Gods, she had felt so much better in his presence for one night than she had felt with her family her entire life.

But it had only been one night, and she had returned to being nothing the next morning, her little secret tucked away in her mind to think about only when she was in her chambers late at night.

Secrets found a way of coming to light, though, and hers decided it would make itself known in such a cruel fashion.

She had thought she could put it behind her, go back to living a meaningless life as if it had only been a fantasy, but then she realized she had missed two of her cycles. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with a child, or how she would even manage; her family would surely use this as more reason to torment her. Worst of all, they probably wouldn’t even attempt to marry her off to save her honor because she just wasn’t worth it.

Her already insignificant name would mean even less once it got out.

So, she hid it away, just like that night, and for another missed cycle it seemed like a decent plan, but she knew there would come a time when she would not be able to hide it anymore. She needed to do something, needed to help herself the way no one else would help her.

She planned to run away to a place where no one knew her. At least if she was on her own, she could lie and say her husband had perished and left her to raise the child alone; on her own she could attempt to save her reputation.

The morning of the day she planned to leave, he arrived.

Her father had announced as they were breaking their fast that they would be hosting the Prince of Dorne and some of his people as they passed through on their way back home. She had nearly choked on her food when she heard.

She had never thought about seeing him again, never imagined that was a possibility. The racing of her heart was not enough for her to give up on her plan of escape, however, she would never assume a prince would want anything to do with a child he had sired one night in a city that had not been either of their own.

There was to be a feast in honor of the prince’s arrival, she would simply slip out while her family was distracted.

~~~~~~~

That evening, the festivities had begun. She had already packed a small bag of only the things she thought she could not live without and stashed it somewhere close to the servants’ entrance; she would wait until the right moment and slip out through the many passageways she had played in as a child. She knew the castle like the back of her hand, it would be easy.

She had not expected how seeing him again would make her feel. As she stood with her family waiting to greet the prince and those traveling with him, her heart was pounding in her chest. When she spotted him, walking forward with a beautiful woman on his arm, she felt her knees might buckle.

Oberyn was still as handsome as he had been that night, more beautiful than anything that deserved to be within the walls of a home she had grown to hate so much. Her father was first to greet him, but she could hardly hear the words he was saying with the rushing in her ears. It wasn’t until her father began to present her sisters that she focused.

As he introduced the oldest, Rosalia, and the middle child, Emilia, he boasted about each of their talents in whichever hobbies they had taken up as Oberyn simply nodded in acknowledgment from where he stood.

“And, finally, my youngest, Cecilia.”

Her father didn’t brag on any of her accomplishments, though she had just as many as her sisters, and it didn’t surprise her in the least.

The prince’s deep, brown eyes, eyes she could remember above her so clearly, were on hers, and if he remembered her, he did not indicate it in any way. His expression flickered briefly at her father’s lack of words following her name, and the lips she knew too well parted.

“I’m sure this one has talents of her own, as well.” He said simply, that accent washing over her.

She hoped he wouldn’t notice her blush, but naturally he did.

“We have prepared your rooms, as well as a feast for this evening.” Her father ignored the comment.

Oberyn nodded. “Ellaria and I should like to settle in after a long journey, but a feast sounds wonderful.”

Servants were ushered forward to lead them away, and Cecilia tried not to think too much about how his eyes lingered on hers as he moved passed her, Ellaria’s eyes also studying her curiously.

She wondered if she knew about that night.

~~~~~~~

The festivities were in full swing, and Cecilia found herself nervous. She watched people dancing from her seat at the end of the table, far away from her father and their royal guests, and waited for her moment.

She hoped nobody would notice, that she could escape before she had to look Oberyn in the eyes again. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to do it if he approached her.

The time came once her sisters were asked to dance by two men from a neighboring family that had come for the feast. With the two older women away from the table, it was acceptable for her to stand as well. She moved slowly, skirting around people in the room until she reached the doors.

The final glance she took wasn’t hesitance to leave this place, she had left it a long time ago, but to make sure there were no eyes on her. As usual, she was forgotten by everyone.

At least that’s what she believed.

The hallway was dark, the torches not having been lit yet since everyone was in the great hall. She didn’t need light to find her way, though.

There was a large portrait hanging on the wall that looked like an ordinary painting of one of her three times great-grandfather, but behind it was a passageway that had been used long ago for allowing servants to navigate the castle easier. It hadn’t been used for that purpose in many years, but she had found herself in it several times.

Before she could so much as slide the portrait aside, a voice stopped her.

“I thought you might save me a dance.”

She stiffened, heart suddenly racing in her chest at his voice. It had haunted her dreams in the best way for many moons. She faced him, knowing this would either delay her escape or stop it all together.

“Your Highness.” She addressed him, dropping into a curtsy quickly.

Even in the hallway only lit by moonlight, he was beautiful.

He stepped forward, a playful smirk on his lips. “I thought I told you to call me Oberyn?” he mused. “Your Highness is so formal, especially for someone who has known me so closely.”

Gods, he must know what his voice did to her, there was no way he didn’t.

Cecilia took a steadying breath. “I did not think you would remember someone like me. I thought it best to pretend formalities were still necessary.”

He was still moving towards her slowly, eyes raking her frame in a way that almost made her shiver.

When he reached her, his hand lifted to brush her hair off her shoulder, the tips of his fingers ghosting against the skin of her neck and setting her on fire. “How could I forget someone like you?”

He said ‘someone’ differently than she did. She did not put much value in it, while he seemed to make the one word seem like everything.

“Will you join me for a dance?” He asked, those haunting eyes flickering over her face before locking on hers.

Her father would certainly love to see his least favorite child dancing with a prince instead of her older sisters, he would be most displeased with her. If only he knew how she had done much more than dance when she had met him, that she carried the proof of that inside her.

As much as she longed to show her family up by dancing with him, she knew she couldn’t if she wanted to leave. Fortunately, she had spent her entire life saying just the right words to placate those around her, to keep them happy enough to leave her be.

“I would love to,” she told him with a small smile. “I just need a moment alone, away from all the noise.”

Unfortunately, he had more to say. “Your father has spent the entire night trying to push your sisters on a prince, and yet he has not said a word of his youngest.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, instead offering him a small smile. She was sure it didn’t meet her eyes. “My father would never wish to push me on anyone, least of all a prince.”

Oberyn frowned, brows furrowing at her words. He looked confused, even a bit concerned, and he glanced back towards the great hall for a moment before his eyes were on her again. “And why is that?”

Cecilia shrugged one shoulder, trying to fight back the sudden nausea; whether it had anything to do with her condition or with the thought that she had just exposed her father’s hatred towards her to Oberyn wasn’t clear.

“Ask him yourself and I am sure he would have plenty to say about it.” She replied quietly, feeling small even under his warm gaze.

He seemed to notice her change in mood, the frown on his face deepening with worry, and he opened his mouth to speak. “Cecilia—"

She needed to leave, she didn’t have much time and her window was closing. She interrupted him, even though it would be improper in any other setting. “I would very much like to dance with you, Your Highness. Would you wait for me in the great hall?”

Though he had more to say, and still appeared concern about her words, he seemed to understand she wished to be alone. And maybe he sensed something else, because his hand slipped into hers and he brought her knuckles up to brush his lips against them.

“I will wait all night if I have to.” He told her softly, accent lilting and warm eyes caressing the features of her face once more before he backed away. His eyes stayed on hers a moment longer, and then he turned and disappeared back into the party.

She moved quickly, slipping through the opening behind the portrait and letting it fall back into place behind her, a tear slipping down her face as she realized she would never see his beautiful face again.

~~~~~~~

Many moons later, Cecilia was settled into a village a long journey by sea from her own home. She found herself happier around the people in the village than she had ever been at home, and they treated her better than she probably deserved.

The story she had spun, of a husband who had passed and left her with nothing more than the child growing in her womb, was believed by everyone she had told it to. The elderly man and woman she lived next to took good care of her, doting on her the way she had always dreamed her family would. The only thing she hated was the looks her swollen stomach received from those around her, the pity for a woman alone with child. She was close to having the baby, it would only be two more moons if her calculations were correct.

One day, she was returning from the river with a wooden basket of linens when her neighbor approached. The elderly woman gripped her arm firmly, leaning in close to whisper to her.

“There’s a man in your home.” She told her, causing Cecilia’s heart to drop. “I offered him tea at our home while he waited, but he insisted. He seems awfully important.”

Her first thought was that it was her father. While he would not care she was gone, he might care about the way her disappearance had no doubt tarnished his reputation. If he had come to collect her, she was not sure what she would do. Or what he would do when he saw she was with child.

She thanked the woman and waited until she disappeared into her home before she looked down at her stomach. Her dress was a little loose, but not loose enough to hide the roundness there. She held the basket in front of her and hoped it would be enough to conceal it.

But when she entered the house, she was surprised to find it was not her father who had come for her.

Her shock at seeing a prince of all people sitting on the old furniture that he been gifted to her by her neighbors was almost enough to make her drop the basket, but the idea of him knowing was enough for her to tighten her grip.

“Your H-Highness?” she choked out. “What are you doing here?”

Oberyn motioned for the guard that stood on the other side of the room to leave them. Once the man had stepped outside, Oberyn’s eyes were on her. “I waited for our dance, but you never came back.”

She felt only a slight hint of shame. “Is that why you are here? To dance?”

He stood from the dusty lounge and stepped towards her. “I am here because I heard some rumors that concerned me.”

Cecilia gripped the basket tighter.

“The servants at your father’s castle have a hard time keeping their mouths from running. Ellaria heard something quite interesting about you.”

He was stepping closer, and she moved backwards for every step until her back hit the wall and she felt trapped. He knew, how could he know? How could anyone back home have known?

“Your handmaid mentioned that you had not had your cycles in several months. That you had returned from your trip to a neighboring country with something more than what you were supposed to.”

Gods. Why had she not thought of that? She should have pricked her finger and smeared blood on her sheets to hide it. How had she been so stupid? And now what? Would he be angry at her? Would he want to hide her away so nobody would know of his indiscretions?

Her throat was tight, she could not even bring herself to respond, not even to try and deny it.

“If that is true, then you have taken something very important to me, and hidden it away.”

Important?

He was in front of her now, and he reached forward to grasp the basket, pulling it from her arms despite her reluctance to release it. As he placed it on the floor, his eyes were trained on her stomach, where his suspicions had been confirmed. His face didn’t appear to be angry, but perhaps he was just good at hiding his emotions.

“Did you know that night? Is that why you left?” he finally asked, eyes meeting hers once more.

She blinked her burning eyes, a couple of tears dropping down her cheeks as she swallowed. “Yes.”

He studied her for a long while, his face remaining the same as it had been when he had begun speaking. Finally, his hands raised towards her face, causing her to flinch hard. He froze.

“I would not harm you.” He assured her, eyes softening before he brushed the tears off her face gently and cupped her face in his hands. “Why did you run?”

His gentleness was startling and unexpected. “My-My father, he would have been angry. He would have hid me away in some far tower, at least if I hid myself away I could be free.”

Oberyn’s thumb brushed the apple of her cheek before his hands dropped from her face. “I am sorry you had to leave your home because of me. Why did you not tell me that night that you were with child?”

She swallowed, and found her face felt cold and lonely without his hands there. “You are a prince and I am…nobody important. I did not want to ruin your reputation. And I did not think you would care.” She said honestly.

There was a small grin on his face. “You do not know much about me, do you?” he wondered in amusement, turning to wander back to the lounge, although he did not sit. “In Dorne, bastards are cherished as much as those who are born within wedlock. In fact, I have eight bastard daughters of my own, and I love them each very dearly.”

Cecilia tried not to show her shock too much, for fear he might mistake it for something else. Eight daughters? And he genuinely loved them and cared for them? Raised them and acknowledged them as his own? Maybe she had been really wrong about her idea of him.

“I would like for you to come back to Dorne with me.” Oberyn continued.

She finally found her voice. “Y-You want me to go to Dorne?”

He nodded. “I will care for you and the child. A new baby would be very welcome, my youngest is already on her fifth name day.”

“Y-You want me to go to Dorne?” she repeated, still in shock.

Oberyn offered her a gentle smile, returning to stand in front of her and taking her hands in his. His eyes were warm and welcoming. “I would never force you to join me, but believe me when I say that I would very much like to know you. And to know our child.”

It wasn’t what she was expecting when she had found him in her home. She expected anger, expected him to disown the child immediately and never wish to see her again. She did not expect him to clearly love the child so much already, to want them in his life.

She stopped thinking about it and nodded. “O-Okay. I’ll go to Dorne with you.”

#oberyn martell #oberyn martell imagine #pedro pascal imagine #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell x oc #oberyn martell smut #pedro pascal smut #mywriting #pedro pascal

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hlupdate · 5 years ago

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So what does a young superstar spend his time thinking about? Classic rock, mostly, along with the occasional movie or TV show. Harry Styles has always been a voracious scholar of pop history — the kind of guy who obsesses over John and Yoko album covers and Fleetwood Mac deep cuts. “We’re all just fans,” he says. “I’m just a music fan who happens to make some.” These are just a few of Harry’s favorite things — some influences, some inspirations, some heroes.

Listen along to our Harry Styles playlist here.

Van Morrison The Irish blues bard was down and out in Boston when he wrote his brooding 1968 song cycle Astral Weeks. “It’s my favorite album ever,” Harry says. “Completely perfect.” Harry recently posed with his idol for a backstage photo — inspiring Van to smile, which doesn’t happen too often. The grin is so out of character for Van, Harry jokes, “I was tickling him behind his back.” (He’s kidding, obviously.) On his first tour, before going onstage, he played “Madame George” over the speakers — the epic ballad of a Belfast drag queen. “‘Madame George’ is one of my favorites — nine minutes. I’ve got some long songs but not my nine-minute one — it hasn’t quite come through yet.”

Joni Mitchell Harry got so obsessed with her 1971 classic Blue, he went on a quest. “I was in a big Joni hole,” he says. “I kept hearing the dulcimer all over Blue. So I tracked down the lady who built Joni’s dulcimers in the Sixties. She still lives around here.” He not only found her, she invited him over. “I went to her house and she gave me a little lesson — we sat around and played dulcimers.” She built the dulcimer Harry plays on his new album. “Blue and Astral Weeks, that’s just the ultimate in terms of songwriting. Melody-wise, they’re in their own lane. Joni and Van, their freedom with melodies — it’s never quite what you thought was coming, yet it’s always so great.”

Etta James The hard-living R&B legend could do it all, from raw Chess blues to pop-soul torch ballads. Harry is a devotee of her 1960 debut album At Last! “This whole album is perfect. On that record you have ‘I Just Want to Make Love to You’ going right into ‘At Last,’ which has to be one of the greatest one-twos ever. Her ad libs are so intense. It’s like, ‘Come on, Etta — tell us how you really feel.’”

Wings Paul McCartney’s 1970s band left behind a slew of shaggy art-pop oddities. Harry swears by London Town and Back to the Egg. “While I was in Tokyo I used to go to a vinyl bar, but the bartender didn’t have Wings records. So I brought him Back to the Egg. ‘Arrow Through Me,’ that was the song I had to hear every day when I was in Japan.” The 1971 suite Ram was divisive for Beatles fans at the time, but for Harry it was a psychedelic experience: while making the album, he and his band enjoyed it while lying out in the sunshine on mushrooms. “I love Ram so much — I used to think it was a mixed bag, but that’s part of its beauty. And the one that’s just called McCartney, with the cherries on the cover and ‘The Lovely Linda’ on it.”

John & Yoko: Above Us Only Sky Documentary A deep dive into the world of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, during the making of Imagine. “I watched Above Us Only Sky on Netflix,” Harry says. “Seeing him play ‘Imagine’ on piano made me want to take piano lessons.” One of his favorite Lennon songs: “Jealous Guy,” especially the Donnie Hathaway cover. “Have you ever heard the original version of ‘Jealous Guy’? It was called ‘Child of Nature.’ Every time I play ‘Jealous Guy,’ I can’t help singing ‘Child of Nature.’ I really like Mind Games too. My favorite-ever album cover is the John and Yoko Live Peace in Toronto. So beautiful: it’s blue sky with one cloud, and that’s it.”

Carole King For a playback of his new music, Harry arranges to listen at Henson Studios in Hollywood, which used to be the old A&M Studios, in Studio B. Why? “It’s the room where Carole King recorded Tapestry.” Obsessive pop scholar that he is, Harry reveres King as both a singer and songwriter. His favorite: “So Far Away.” “How do people make shit like this?”

Crosby, Stills and Nash These three hippie balladeers summed up the mellow West Coast soft-rock vibe, despite their chemical wreckage. (For the full story, see the great new band bio by Rolling Stone’s David Browne.) “Those harmonies, man,” Harry says. “‘Helplessly Hoping’ is the song I would play if I had three minutes to live. It’s one of my ‘one more time before I go’–type songs.”

The Other Two TV Series He’s a big fan of the Comedy Central series. “It’s a brother and a sister — they’re the Two — and their younger brother becomes a viral YouTube sensation. He’s a Justin Bieber–type thing. He’s 13, and it’s basically those two dealing with that. It’s really funny.” (He’s got a thing for absurdist pop scenes like this — he also recommends the documentary When the Screaming Stops, about a bizarre reunion gig from the Eighties twin-brother duo Bros.)

Paul Simon “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,’ that’s the greatest verse melody ever written, in my opinion,” Harry says. “So minimal, but so good — that drum roll. ‘The Boxer’ is a perfect lyric, especially that first verse.” Paul Simon was one of his childhood soundtracks, with or without Art Garfunkel. “I grew up in a pub for a few years when I was a kid and Simon and Garfunkel were just constantly playing, always. Every time ‘Cecilia’ started, I’d be like, ‘I think I’ve heard this a hundred times today.’”

Hall and Oates “For my 21st birthday, I had a big party, and I convinced myself I really wanted Hall and Oates to play. I knew it wasn’t going to happen — I just had to ask. But just a few months before, they went into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, so whatever it was, it was now three times as much as it used to be. Their rate just tripled — ah, fuck.”

Peter Gabriel, “Sledgehammer” Video “The greatest music video ever. I also love that Eighties synth pan-whistle sound — it basically just exists in this song and ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

Elvis Presley “The first music I ever heard was Elvis Presley. When I was little, we got a karaoke machine and I sang Elvis, because that’s what my grandparents listened to. I made my grandfather a tape of me doing Elvis songs on one side and all Eminem on the other side. Unfortunately, I accidentally played him the wrong side.”

Harry Nilsson The legendary L.A. eccentric could croon middle-of-the-road hit ballads like “Without You,” but also a crazed weirdo who caroused with John Lennon and pursued his own lunatic pop fantasies. In other words, Harry Styles’ type of guy. “I think of all the great songwriters I love — but they all had their pop songs. Joni Mitchell with ‘Help Me,’ Paul Simon with ‘You Can Call Me Al,’ Harry Nilsson with ‘Coconut.’ You have to conquer the fear of pop.”

Stevie Nicks The Gold Dust Woman and her “little muse” are everybody’s favorite rock friendship. At the Hall of Fame ceremony in March, the sight of Harry dropping to one knee as he hands the award to a radiant Stevie — one of the iconic cross-generational images of our time. They first sang together in L.A. two years ago, when she made a surprise guest appearance at one of his first solo shows. “One of my favorite-ever musical memories. We sang ‘Landslide’ as a soundcheck, and that was even cooler for me than the show — just me and her, in an empty Troubadour.”

They just sang “Landslide” at a Gucci event in Rome, with Harry hitting impossible high notes on the final “snooooow-covered hills.” “We practiced in the dressing room,” he says. He’s got the rehearsal footage on his phone — when he hits that note, guitarist Waddy Wachtel is too stunned to keep playing. “That’s my favorite bit,” Harry says. “Practicing the song together. Just the two of us.”

#harry styles #rs #290819

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crimsoncityhq · 5 years ago

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The Washington Gala: Chicago Day of Giving Part II

The night winds down, and the guests gather up their belongings for the long trek home when a voice rings out from the stage, presenting the winner of the door prize. Everyone holds their breath in hopes they’ll be presented with the Bugatti parked out front, draped in a bright red bow and the object of every patron’s desire. The speaker sucks in a breath as he tears into the envelope, just wrapping his lips around a name when a high-pitched, technical beep shrieks from under the stage. The platform bursts into flame, blowing debris, blood, and entrails into the first few rows of tables—and the panic sets in. The guests turn on their heels and find the exits blocked by burly Vasiles cradling machine guns in their arms and wolfish grins on their lips. There’s only one escape, and that’s to the maze garden, but anyone can guess it’s a mouse trap with its winding walls and dead ends. Still, choices are limited and adrenaline is rushing, so the crowd takes the bait, scurrying past the threshold and into the garden. The Vasiles are locked and loaded, hidden in the shadows and thirsty for victims.

In part II, your character has a choice. You may stay with your group and work together—even with your enemies—to survive, or you can search for a familiar face and pray you all make it out alive. Only the Vasiles and police officers have weapons, save for the tableware your muse may have swiped up before fleeing to the maze garden. Avoid the fountain in the center of the maze; there will be someone waiting for you. No matter how you choose to go about it, there’s one rule of thumb to abide by: don’t get c a u g h t.

The Washington Gala: Chicago Day of Giving Part II begins now and ends on Monday, June 1st, at 11:59 p.m. EST. You’re welcome to have your characters injured ( or injure others, with permission from the mun ), just please let us know beforehand. Again, you may opt to stay in your groups, or your character can find their respective families/connections and work in tandem to escape.

As a reminder, your groups are under the cut—sans the Vasiles, of course.

GROUP 1 — Audric Noire, Fletcher Hargrave, Rosalie ‘Rosie’ Halliday, Jacob ‘Thorne’ Louthorne

GROUP 2 — Christopher ‘Chris’ Evans, Kitty O’Shea, Xavier Harris

GROUP 3 — Daniel Adler, Gerald O’Shea, Nova Devereaux, Allegra Cooper, Darren Murphy, Joel Maddison

GROUP 4 — Esmeray Demir, Hana Faust, Koa Naihe, Sebastian Hargrave, Cassandra Harris

GROUP 5— Adrian Brooks, Davut Demir, Juliet Leon, Levi Bohan, August Brooks, Julianna Hellthorpe

GROUP 6 — Audrey Rousseau, Oliver Faust, Chaeyoung Moon

GROUP 7 — Amelia O’Shea, Effie Faust, Ophelia O’Shea, Veronica Pierce, Logan Washington

GROUP 8 — Angelique Calore, Hayden Dixon, Kian Hannigan, Peyton Bridges

GROUP 9 — Angelo Madden, Clara Davila, Isaak Peters, Tia Valentine, Tyson Kane, Milena Washington

GROUP 10 — Ingrid Vasile, Autumn Dawson, Cecilia 'Cee’ Cavendish,

GROUP 11 — Amara Ricci, Summer Moore

GROUP 12 — Caleb Duval, Eva Clarke, Faith Williams, Leslie Adal Galahad, Richie O’Shea

GROUP 13 — Calhoun O'Farrell, Erin Cerci, Gemma Faust, Nathan Anderson,

GROUP 14 — Asli Demur, Charlotte O'Day, Gabriel Hill, Maisie Kane, Samuel O’Shea

GROUP 15 — Arielle Hernandez, Diamond Washington, Penelope 'Poppy’ Levenberg, Ren Daae, Teagan Michaels

GROUP 16 — Blair Faust, Edgar Ortega, Giovanni Rossi, Holden Mercer, Zoe Washington

GROUP 17 — Brayden Adler, Darcy Faust, Liam O’Shea, Maggie Lee, Isabella Rossi

GROUP 18 — Evander 'Evan’ Montague, Wynter Ellis, Christian Yi, Edith Cohen

GROUP 19 — Rylin Dixon, Harley Kincaid, Maeve O’Connell, Teddy Cohen, Sawyer Nichols

GROUP 20 — Alexander Washington, Dawn Montgomery, Andromeda O’Shea

GROUP 21 — David Sharpe, Jace Dubois, Lenny Navarro, Rahi Kumar

GROUP 22 — Dominic Murphy, Sloan Washington, Wesley ‘Wes’ Ahn

GROUP 23 — Aurora O’Shea, Caroline Shepherd, Jesse Valencia, Rosalia Leon

GROUP 24 — Avery Simmons, Genevieve Bisset, Monika Adler, Andrew Whitmore

GROUP 25 — Birdie Mendoza, Zane Washington, Andrea Reed

GROUP 26 — Blue Daniels, Marizia di Greco, Violet Madden

#crimson.event

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usagienforcer · 5 years ago

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It’s an odd thing, but it feels like it’s very rare for me to generally lose a muse.

There are at least one or two characters on my current muse list that, by most others’ definitions, should be dropped for various reasons. Some haven’t seen even a passing mention in more than half a year. I don’t currently have any ideas for them, there have been little in the way of ideas with them in the past, few show interest in them (particularly if offered along other muses of mine), and I’ve no idea how to start moving forward with them. But I still feel that, given the chance, I can still write them, and I can still write them well. I think that stems from how earnest I was in their creation.

It is the same with muses I’ve dropped over time, as I’ve stopped RPing in certain fandoms or consolidated to focus on other muses. Though it has only recently come over to this blog, I have a currently running thread under the tag ;;Guest Muse: Baker. That is a retired character of mine, Corporal Cecilia Baker, originally an OC I made up in the Halo universe. She is a normal marine, rather than a supersoldier or elite trooper, or an alien; I credit that as being largely the reason few ever showed interest in her, but I wrote thousands of words while creating her. Though I am unlikely to revisit any other old muses, I think if it was the case, I’d genuinely be happy to at least try with them.

If asked, I think I very well could revisit RFA Ohio, Atlantic Conveyor, Averra, Rebecca Moore. I think I could even take a stab at RPing characters like Ruler, who I wrote outside of RP. Sidenote, while writing this post I compiled a list of every muse I’ve written, even for just one thread, and it totals exactly fifty (of which I still write twelve).

I think when it comes to muses I’ve genuinely dropped due to disinterest, it’s because I find something lacking in their creation, after the fact. I’d point to Houston and Chava for that. Houston was just a bad character concept. Chava I had very little interest in the first place. I was half-hearted in their creations and I was half-hearted in writing them, seeing little value in their stories. In rare cases like Alexandra Avrimidis, it was realising that my planned route for them would just be retreading a path I’d already taken before, with little to no change in the character’s personality.

The above is not the case with the muses I still hold onto on this blog, despite their dormancy; I see potential and I definitely tried while making them.

This having all been said, there are still a few characters who I think deserve to rest. They had their moment on the stage, and their stories continue. Those like Trench Café, and Fort Drum. Their stories had a beginning, and they had a definite ending, good endings, wonderful one and at least an improvement for the other. I can look back fondly on Café for being my first RP character.

I’m getting a little reflective. I think that’s because on the 26th, it’ll be the fourth year anniversary of beginning to RP Trench Café, starting on this wild foray into roleplay writing.

#ooc #out of character #Bunbun Mun Speaks

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orthographewrites · 5 years ago

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🌙 oliver

SEND A SYMBOL FOR…🌙 a time my muse told the truth:

It was Tuesday. Ten days had passed since their departure from his homecity. The nights had grown chilly, but not to the point of needing an excess ofcover to keep yourself warm – something neither of them possessed any problemswith at current time. There was a silence that had run deep for the past hour,with nothing but the crackling of an almost fizzed out fire (barely showcasingthe area around it) and the late night’s humble winds to keep them company.Fatigue ran clear through them both, but one more so than the other and foronce in his own life he preyed for the opportunity to close his eyes and lurehimself to sleep to skip past the antagonizing reasons for him to turn backhome again.

Why was he here, fighting someone else’s hardships? It was a question thathad jumped back and forth, with no clear answer to be heard and leaving hishead in stirred up place; nor was it one he was allowed to dwell on for long,as the faint sounds of clothes and leaves shifting across the fire forced hisattention and senses elsewhere. His head turned in its direction right on timeto catch Caden push herself off the ground and into a seated position, her noseletting out a huff of boredom. ( @alicemorganwrites )

“I can’t sleep and I know you’re awake as well.” Caden’s voice brokethrough like an unwanted guest, leaving much to be desired in terms ofregaining the previous silence he had enjoyed to its fullest. “Let’s do something.”

“Like what?” The words came with a spoken frown, but even so Oliver choseto follow in Caden’s step and remove himself from the harshness of the dirtbelow him. He casually shrugged off a leaf dangling from his sleeve, eyes sharpas they traveled in the direction of his company.

“Hm… let’s talk. How about it?” Unlike him, Caden’s own stare held somethingcurious, if not mischievous to it. Her hand reached for a stick next to herfeet, twirling it between her fingers as she calculated her next step. “I mean…all and all I have been exposing quite a lot about myself this past month withyou and I only think it’s fair if you gave me something back. We could just aswell be dead by the end of the week, so why not?”

Why not? Oh, he could think of at least a hundred reasons as to why not butdecided to bite his tongue, far from being in the shape to verbally argue withsomeone. “I think you know enough about me – I’m not all that interesting.”

Throwing the stick into the fire, Caden quickly shook her head to dismisshis words. “And I think there’s more to it. I’ve seen some of it, yes but there’salso quite a lot about your whole situation which doesn’t make sense to me.”

“And that is?” Oliver felt his body stiffen the further Caden spoke, a distastetaking place inside his mouth as he braced for the next section of theirconversation – not impressed by the direction they were heading at.

“Yeah like that whole ordeal with everyone hating you and all that crap.Don’t get me wrong, I can see why in certain angles, like you do haveone hell of a bad attitude but I wouldn’t say it’s enough of a reason for peopleto want you to basically… drop dead, or whatever.”

Of course it had to be that, of fucking course. And if his body hadn’t beentense before, it certainly was now as he pondered on his options – not enjoyinganything this topic implied, hardly the thing to get him into a chatty mood.Thus, he let out a snort, shaking his head slowly. “You really couldn’t havepicked something a bit more light-hearted? It’s a load of bullshit, that’s whatit is, people who can’t accept change in their lives but alas that’s what we arelike as a community. Witches are hard with their customs and traditions, and myfamily has kept them safe for as long as we can remember. I wasn’t part oftheir long-term plans and I guess I also have the power of getting on theirnerves by not playing by their rules. They can’t control me and I’m unpredictable,far from the type of person my sister seemed to be – and you already know someof the story behind her, don’t you? I won’t go into detail; it won’t do any ofus any good and I need to keep my head clear so… all I can say is that this isn’ta happy story nor does it come with a happy conclusion. But sure, ask and youshall receive.” Oliver’s tone was near mocking at the end of his sentence,a snarl of truth for what was about to leave his mouth.

A singular sigh was tofollow as he shuffled closer to the fire, a way for him to embrace the memoriesthat were about to crack through the surface and sort through the parts hewished to share.

“I’m not going to go into any deeper details, because trust me: you do notwant to deal with that.” The sharpness in his tone lingered on, but there wassomething more foreboding about the way he let the warning slip into the openair between them. A point of no return, asking Caden to be happy with what shewas given. He would tell her what he comfortable with sharing, no more or lessthan that. “But, I’ll try and give you enough so that you can understand why thingsmight have turned the way it have – at least in the way I see it and to start itall off I’ll have to make you understand one thing. Us witches are people who prideourselves on our heritage and most of us don’t enjoy change or a stir in ourordinary lives. Not all, but the majority will be found sharing the sameopinions and strive for a similar lifestyle; and having a bunch of people stuckinside the same walls for generations really isn’t a pointer for individualthinking.”

“Now, what you sort of found out about me is that I used to have a sister alittle older than myself – Cecilia, or Cilia as we called her.” His sister’sname forever tasted of something bitter these days, a bite into a dusty pieceof memory he wanted to spit out and leave behind; to dig down deep undergroundwhere it could stop haunting him. “Well, believe it or not but she was the onesupposed to take after my dad and I can hardly remember a soul who disliked herback home or was against the idea of finally getting another female Head ofMagic to watch over them. People were ecstatic, to be exact to know she wasnext in line and quite frankly I think she would have been perfect at the job.She enjoyed rules and order, excelled in school, had great manners and showedquite an interest with her future already as a fucking twelve-year-old. Now,compare that with me.” There was a pause, mentally sighing at the fact he hadto push on. “I mean, quite frankly I was seven at the time of, well, everything…and you can’t expect a seven-year-old to have their life in check, now can you?I was still playing with my crayons and making my sister’s life a living hellas brothers do – but no one saw it like that.”

There came that familiar gut-wrenching feeling again, it made him dizzy toa point of wanting to cut off the conversation and lay down for a bit. Heexhaled slowly, buying himself time to muster up the coming parts. “This iswhere us disliking change comes in, as in my sister falling out of the pictureand them getting stuck with me as their future. Sometimes I want to believethey simply glorified her too much, but at the same time – did they really? Ican’t remember. Anyway, people didn’t hold back on their opinions regarding me,about their distaste for their situation and what it could lead to in the longrun. No one said it straight to me, at least not at first, but it became quiteevident as school came around the corner and I became something of a dislikeamong children and adults equally – although I tend to give the kids a passthese days, they probably just went along with what their parents told them.Not that it hurt any less, of course, but I find school to have been the leastof my issues.”

“Eventually, as I grew older, people stopped tip-toeing around me – especiallysince they started to expect more out of me around this point. They wanted meto show some dedication to the town, to get further into politics, to mingleabout and make a good impression – whilst they also liked to put me down andremind me that I’d never be as good or important as my sister. Overall, they wouldhave preferred if I was my sister, you understand but sadly I haven’t figuredout a way to pull people back from the dead yet… maybe someday, huh.” Oliverscoffed, wincing his nose at the thought. “However, the full-on backlash youexperienced whilst in town didn’t really come my way until I moved to Rennes.I, uh, sort of had a bit of a meltdown you could say as I finally found myselftaking over the office. I wasn’t ready for it, at all, and I needed some timeaway to think things over but alas everyone took it the wrong way and startedto spread rumors about me abandoning my job – and them – to live life elsewhere.They started to call me a coward and how the fuck knows what behind my back, Idon’t really care these days.” Not the full truth.

“But yeah, can’t say it did a positive number on meand instead of giving the job a second try I, as you might have guessed, stayeddown in Rennes and began to work from a distance. I just feel… awful, like I want to vomit every time I’m supposed to head home. I can’t stay there for toolong nor do I feel welcome, anyway. It’s a situation that’s out of my hand atthis point, I do what I can to keep everyone afloat and out of disaster, but Ialso know that no matter what I try, it’ll never be enough. I’ll never be my sisterand they hate me sorely because of that.” What was he to say beyond this point? That he, deeply within, agreed with everyone? That he wished, above anything, that he could go back in time and reverse the roles somehow or at least attempt to save the life of his own sister? No, he wasn’t going to dive into that today, if ever. It was best left at the back of his head, where it could boil and root itself on its lonesome -- away from prying eyes. “That’s all I’m going to tell you, don’t ask me further questions. Now, we have a pretty long damned day in front of us tomorrow so we should try and get some rest. At least I know I am.”

#brotp: underneath it all we're all savages #soooooo this is basically just them bonding at a campfire #bc they deserve more of that #:))#verse: peculiar meetings and hidden aspects #also this is a long one im sorry #half was written like over a month ago so #if something doesnt make sense ill blame it on that im too lazy to reread it now

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pengychan · 6 years ago

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 6

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: sorry, no smut in this chapter - there will be in the next one, I promise! Meanwhile have some Uncomfortable Realizations About Being Far Too Comfortable, puppies, and something that I guess it might be fluff because come on. Puppies.

***

There are very few things about Mexico City that Ernesto doesn't love.

Of course, the main reason might just be that he's simply better equipped for life in a big city, rather than in some small, stifling town in buttfuck nowhere. Anything is better than that, and he'll take the maddening traffic every day for the rest of his life as long as it means he never has to set foot in Santa Cecilia.

A small voice in the back of his mind occasionally tries to remind him that the problem isn't the town itself, but he always does a good job at ignoring it, as he ignores the yells and insults and honks from the cars lining up in the road as he walks down the sidewalk.

Apparently, the cause of today's disruption is some ass who decided to park their car badly enough to block the way of the garbage truck, which of course is now stuck along with all cars behind it. Whenever the owner of that damn car shows up, Ernesto muses, they'll find plenty of angry motorists ready to tear them a new one.

He passes by the car, walking fast - he wants to be home before the drizzle turns into actual rain again - and, some twenty meters ahead, there the garbage bin the truck was clearly headed to. It seems that trash hasn't been collected in a bit, because it's overflowing and plenty of sacks and boxes have been left all around it. Once the obstruction clears, the garbage guys are going to be busy. It’s all wet, too. Sucks to be them.

With a shrug, Ernesto finishes the last of his beer, crushes the can in his fist, and throws it at the heap of garbage as he passes it by.

The garbage yelps.

“Huh?” Ernesto blinks, taken aback, and comes to a stop. There is more yelping, whining, and he takes a few steps closer, stepping over soaked cardboard to take a look. The can landed inside a soggy cardboard box, and inside there are three filthy, squirming things that look a lot like rats… except that he’s never heard rats yelping, or trying to let out the tiniest howls he’s ever heard.

Oh, Ernesto thinks. Oh.

He picks up the box, which stinks to high heavens, only to hear another, tiny yip. He looks down to see yet one more puppy trying to scramble towards him, stumbling over trash and then falling into a puddle. It stays there, shivering, and doesn’t move as Ernesto reaches down to pick it up and place it in the box with the other three. The water washed away some of the filth, so he can sort of guess he’s looking at four chihuahuas… probably too young to be away from their mother.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, glancing around to see if their mother is anywhere to be seen, but no; just those yelping, trembling pups in a wet cardboard box. Someone must have left them there and oh, Ernesto sure hopes that someone was hit by a truck as soon as the deed was done.

“Pinche cabrón,” he snarls, and blinks when one of the pups yaps. “No, not you! I’m sure you’re the best perrito. Or perrita, whichever you--”

“Señor? Do you need help?”

“Huh?” Ernesto looks up to see a woman with a blue umbrella looking at him, and it occurs to him he’s been standing in the middle of the sidewalk, talking to a cardboard box. “No, I--” he begins, and one of the puppies chooses that moment to start yelping, to be joined by the others quickly enough - thin, terrible cries. It makes something in his chest ache.

“... Actually, yes,” he finally says. “Do you know if there is a vet nearby?”

***

Héctor is helping Imelda preparing a few pair of shoes for shipping when his cell phone rings, and the tune - The World Es Mi Familia, the one he set for Ernesto’s number; Imelda’s ringtone is Un Poco Loco - causes Héctor to almost drop the roll of tape.

It wouldn’t be the only thing to drop, either. As usual he left his phone too close to the table’s edge, and the vibration very nearly sends it falling on the ground. He catches it just on time - the screen is already shattered, better not give it the final blow - and gives Imelda an apologetic look.

“Ernesto,” he says, and takes the call. He’ll just tell him to call back in five minutes, once the postage is sorted for the day. “Hey, amigo! I’m a bit busy right now, can you call ba--”

“Héctor!” Ernesto’s voice comes from the other side of the line, and Héctor’s own voice dies in his throat. He sounds anguished in a way Héctor only heard once years before, when he knocked at his door to ask if he could stay for a few nights, trying and failing to hide the darkening bruise on his jaw. But at least that time there was anger for him to cling to; now he only sounds so broken, it makes his blood run cold.

Did he have an accident? Was he hit by a car? Was he robbed? Is he okay?

“Ernesto? What is it, what happened?” he asks, his heart beating somewhere in his throat. He’s vaguely aware of the fact Imelda has paused and is looking at him, silent and attentive. The explanation that follows comes in that same broken up voice, and it’s not very long. Héctor has no idea what ‘parvovirus’ exactly is, but he can tell that it’s bad and Ernesto seems close to breaking down in a vet’s waiting room.

“He says they’re sick and they’re so tiny, I just know they’re not gonna make it!”

His wail - no other way to describe it - is loud enough to force Héctor to pull the phone away from his ear. Imelda raises an eyebrow.

“Is he crying?” she mouths.

“Naah, I don’t think--” Héctor begins, only for something that sounds a lot like a sob to come from the other end of the line, followed by a loud sniffle.

“So tiny…!”

“All right, all right. Try not to… I’m sure they’re in good hands. There is nothing more you can do and the vet will know how to help them. I’ll come pick you up, sí? As soon as I can. Send me your location and I’ll be there.”

He ends the call, and explains Imelda what’s going on as quickly as he can while reaching for his jacket, the car keys and his wallet, because with his luck someone will stop him for a traffic check today of all days and he doesn’t want to be caught without his driving licence. Imelda listens, and nods.

“Take him here for dinner. I made too much soup, anyway, and giving it to him is better than throwing it away.”

Héctor blinks, taken aback. “I thought we were going to go out for dinner tonight? We didn’t cook any--” he starts, and trails off when she rolls her eyes.

“I will make too much soup,” she says, slowly. “And I’d rather he eats it than having to throw food away. Is that clear?”

Oh. Ooooh, right. Despite his worries, Héctor grins. “I love you.”

“If you tell anything about this to your stupid friend, you’ll both pay.”

“I love you so much,” Héctor declares, and kisses her smiling lips. “Sorry I can’t help you finish.”

“I can manage, my hero,” she says with a dramatic sigh, and pats his cheek. “Now go. He needs a knight more than I do. And, Héctor?”

“Yes?”

“... Put your shoes on before you go.”

Oh, right. He just knew he was forgetting something.

***

Imelda has almost finished preparing all orders for shipping when her cell phone gives out a loud noise of breaking glass that heralds all messages from Felipe. Or maybe it’s Óscar; his message tune is the sound of wailing sirens, but the twins often use each other’s phone, so there is no telling.

Well, their punctuation usually gives them away, but this is a vocal message - what is the point, why don’t they just call? - and in such cases, she guesses who it's from in only about seventy-five percent of cases. This time, however, she doesn’t really need to guess: they’re both talking.

“Hola, hermana!”

“¿Qué pasa?”

“Is Héctor there?”

“Hi, Héctor!”

“We wanted to know when you’re coming next month!”

“So that we can make sure we de-clutter the guest room on time!”

“We’ve been working on projects!”

“So many projects!”

“We also got a driving licence!”

“Well, Felipe did, but we can share it.”

“That sounds like the worst possible idea,” Imelda mutters, and a purring sound answers her words, something soft pressing against her arm. She chuckles, and scratches Pepita behind the ears and down the back; the gray cat arches into her touch, looking up at her with those intelligent eyes of hers. Imelda didn’t hear her coming in, she never does, but Pepita never wastes time in making her presence known.

“I’ll feed you in a minute,” Imelda promises. She has a bag of cat kibble stored away for her, but she doesn’t go fetch it right away. She just stands there, and frowns slightly down at her phone.

“So that we can make sure we de-clutter the guest room on time!”

Right, it is almost that time of the year again. Time sure flies.

They go back in Santa Cecilia to visit old friends and her family pretty often, usually depending on when they both are free for a few days, but there are a few dates when they must be there: Día de los Muertos, Christmas, Easter… and the end of September, when a special Mass is held every year, and she and Héctor visit the cemetery together.

It will be ten years this time, she thinks. Ten years since his parents died.

She and Héctor weren’t that close when it happened, but she still remembers what a terrible blow it was for him - both his home and family gone in an instant. She remembers the grief that seemed to grip their entire town, the awful feeling of not knowing what she could possibly say to make it any better, any more bearable.

And she remembers - how odd to think about it now - being grateful for the fact Ernesto had stood by him throughout it, an arm around his shoulders. Sometimes she thinks that it was that memory, more than anything else, to lend her the her strength and patience to bear Ernesto’s presence in her life throughout her marriage.

… Although, come to think of it, he has never joined them on that yearly trip to Santa Cecilia, never came to any Mass in memory of Ricardo and Emilia. As far as Imelda can recall, he never returned to Santa Cecilia at all after leaving.

It didn’t bother her before - it was a welcomed break from his presence, and she hardly thought anything of it - but it does bother her now. Héctor will drop anything to help him out over some stray dogs he found, and Ernesto never bothered to even to pay his respects to Héctor’s parents, who were like a second family to him by all accounts. It is... wrong.

Her phone rings suddenly - La Cucaracha, which is not a ringtone she hears often: Ernesto doesn’t usually call her - and Imelda takes the call, still frowning but not precisely angered. This is not the right moment for it; she will find another time to tell Héctor he should really expect more from his best friend.

“Ernesto? What’s happening? Is Héctor th--”

“It’s me,” Héctor voice speaks up from the other side. “Sorry, mi amor - my phone sort of died.”

She sighs, but her lips twitch upwards. “You forgot to charge it.”

“I forgot to charge it.” She can almost hear the sheepish grin in his voice.

“Where is Ernesto?”

“I got him into a restroom. He’s splashing some water on his face, I think.” A pause. “If he doesn’t come back in five minutes, I’ll go looking.”

“Is it as bad as he made it sound?” Imelda asks, but she knows it is. After Héctor left, she may or may not have checked online what parvovirus is, and it’s not pretty. No cure for it but to treat the symptoms, try to keep the dog alive, and pray it makes it through.

“Yes, it is pretty bad,” Héctor sighs. “And they’re really tiny, the vet says they can’t be older than maybe five weeks. She doesn’t think their mother was vaccinated, so they got no antibodies.”

“And they’re too young to be away from her.”

“That too. They were probably dumped when they showed signs of being sick.”

“Can’t sell a sick puppy.” Imelda finds herself thinking that, somewhere, there is a still lactating bitch wondering where her pups went. It makes her unbelievably angry, and she looks down to see Pepita staring up at her from the worktable, yellow eyes wide open and knowing.

“Yes,” Héctor is saying, and there is a sharp edge of anger in his voice before he sighs. “Well, they’re in good hands and the vet will keep us posted. The odds aren’t good, but Ernesto wouldn’t hear of putting them to sleep.”

“Stubborn,” she mutters, like it’s not a trait they share. Héctor is quick to bring it up.

“Says the one who stayed up at night to bottle-feed a kitten. Am I hearing her just now?”

“Purring up a storm,” Imelda chuckles, and her hand goes back to scratching Pepita behind the ears. She found Pepita in a gutter as a kitten a couple of years ago, and in a bad way, with an eye infection, ticks and God knew what else.

She was a little fighter, and she pulled through, growing bigger and healthier before going back to her wandering ways - but when she feels like visiting she climbs on a tree nearby, and jumps in through the tiny window in the guest bathroom they always leave open for her. She is never gone for long without coming back for a cuddle, the occasional flea treatment or vaccination - she puts up a fight with everyone but her over those - and some food. Speaking of which…

“I’m done with the postage for today. I’ll get cooking something.”

“No, don’t bother, I’ll pick up something on our way back.”

“I said--”

“I’ll tell him it was my idea,” Héctor says quickly, and Imelda laughs.

All right, so maybe her denial is a little bit childish. Good thing she got herself a husband willing to cover for her. What a catch. “I love you,” she says, and Héctor sighs dramatically.

“Ay, mi vida,” he exclaims, and he seems about to add something else, but abruptly pauses. “Ah, Ernesto is coming back out. He looks okay… ish.”

It is a relief to hear, but Imelda sees no point in saying as much aloud. “If he looks like death--”

“Kinda.”

“--I won’t mention it.”

That gains her a chuckle and another whispered ‘love you’ before the call ends. Imelda puts down the phone with a sigh, and glances at Pepita. “Well, let’s get you fed and the table set,” she mutters, deciding to bring up next month’s trip to Santa Cecilia at a better time.

***

Dinner is… grim.

Héctor isn’t new to stubborn silences and a good deal of pouting when Ernesto is not happy, but of course this is different. He’s sullen, hardly speaks, and seems to be eating his food without actually tasting one single bite.

Imelda was perfectly civil - worried, even, though Héctor can only tell because he knows her so well - and while he said nothing vitriolic, Ernesto seems to be hardly aware of her presence. Or his. Or that of Pepita glaring at him from a nearby chair, making it abundantly clear that she dislikes the guest. There is no love lost between them, and after a scratched-up arm Ernesto always makes sure to give her a white berth if she happens to be in the house when he visits.

Now, however, he only seems to pay attention to his phone, continuously glancing at the screen.

“... You know that no news is good news right now, don’t you?” Imelda finally speaks, breaking the silence. Ernesto shrugs.

“You don’t know that,” he replies, his voice hollow.

“It the vet said she’d call in the morning if they passed the night, the only reason for her to call any earlier would be that they didn’t make it.”

“Hmm.”

It’s an acknowledgment, at least. “Oh, we need to think up names!” Héctor exclaims, forcing himself to smile and slapping a hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. He doesn’t even react. “So that we’ll know how to call them when they recover.”

“If they recover,” Ernesto says glumly, only to recoil when Imelda suddenly slams an empty dish down.

“When,” she says, a sharp edge to her voice. “When they recover, they are going to need names - or are you making up excuses because you have the imagination of an empty piñata?”

That causes Ernesto to scowl, and oh, it is a relief. “I can think of plenty of names for dogs!”

“Such as…?” she prods. Ernesto’s scowl deepens, and he opens his mouth. She gets there first. “If you say ‘Imelda’, you’re in for a trip to the emergency room.”

Ernesto shuts his mouth so abruptly that his teeth click together, but Héctor thinks he can see something vaguely resembling a smile almost, almost curling his lips before he scoffs.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good,” Imelda smiles and puts the fork down, leaning her chin on her hand. “So, what is your suggestion for a name?”

He hesitates, eyes darting towards Héctor for help. “... Uh,” he finally says, and Imelda raises an eyebrow.

“Uh,” she repeats. “A bit short, but if they’re as tiny as you say…”

“They are!” Héctor says brightly, opening the bag with the desserts. “It’s two boys and two girls, right? So we need to pick two of both. For a boy, I’d say… Héctor!”

“No.”

“Teto?”

“Nice try. No.”

“How about Ernestito?”

“Héctor.”

“That’s what I suggested!”

“Wha-- no! I said--”

“Or Tito. Hey, remember when everyone called us ‘Tito and Teto’?”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Oh, I know! Chamaco!”

“Basura,” Imelda quips, gaining herself a supremely offended look.

“Hey!”

“You did find them among rubbish…”

“Stop!”

There are some more protests, laughter and outlandish suggestions, but that dreadful silence doesn’t fall on them again and Ernesto’s phone doesn’t ring until early the next morning - which is a very abrupt awakening for all three of them, with Héctor very nearly jumping five feet up in the air. From her chair at the end of the room Pepita, who graced them with one of her rare overnight stays, gives a yowl of protest.

“Yes, yes, it’s… ah. Yes, that’s… as good as it gets, right? For now?” Ernesto gives a long sigh of obvious relief, and his shoulders slump some as he sits back on the edge of the bed. Héctor lifts himself up on his elbows; beside him, Imelda is listening in silence, absentmindedly adjusting a strap of her nightgown.

“I see. Which one-- the brown one? Right. Fine. What time? All right. I’ll be there. Gracias.”

Ernesto ends the call and, with a long sigh, he lets himself drop back on the bed - and his head falls right across Héctor’s stomach.

“Oof!”

“Sorry.”

“So, good news,” Imelda says, leaning forward, and Ernesto smiles weakly up at her.

“Not bad. They passed the night and the vet is slightly more optimistic for three of them.”

“And the fourth?”

“He’s… not doing as well,” Ernesto says, and frowns. “But he’s hanging on. I can go and see them in a couple of hours.”

“Time for breakfast, then,” Imelda mutters, and pokes Héctor in the ribs. “Your turn to make it.”

“Anything for you, mi amor,” Héctor grins up at her, and ignores Ernesto’s childish, disgusted noise.

***

He slept with them.

Realization hits Imelda while she’s halfway through making the bed. Of course that’s stating the obvious, and it happened before - but each of those times, sleep was not the reason why he got into their bed in the first place. Then he just was there, she felt too sated to bother kicking him out, so they may as well let him stay.

This time, sex hadn't crossed anyone's mind. They simply let him stay for the night, sharing their bed rather than leaving him the couch, and none of them thought anything of it, like it was the perfectly logical thing to do. That, more than the fact itself, was what caused her to pause with a pillow in her hands - how natural it had been, simply letting him settle down in their bed for the night.

And she wasn’t sure what to think of it, so she did the simplest thing and chose not to think about it at all.

***

“Of course, I’m not going to keep them,” Ernesto says.

He’s sitting at Héctor and Imelda’s kitchen table, an empty cup in front of him and the phone in his hands, showing off a whole gallery of pictures of the pups - who are now all out of the woods, according to the vet, and should get the all-clear within a couple of days. They’re the most adorable thing he has ever seen in his life, and he may or may not have squealed while filming them squabbling over some food.

But no one was there to hear him, so it doesn’t count.

Unaware of his thoughts, Imelda shrugs. “Obviously, given what happened to the last potted plant left in your care,” she says, causing Ernesto to frown. Amazing, how she manages to grate his nerves even when they’re agreeing on something.

“I’d like to remind you that your husband managed to kill a cactus.”

“It was an accident, pendejo!” Héctor protests, jabbing al elbow against his ribs. Ernesto grins.

“Oh, sorry. You accidentally drowned a cactus.”

“And I felt guilty for a month, all right?”

There is laughter, and the conversation moves back to the pups. No, of course Ernesto isn’t going to keep them. It would be ridiculous, four dogs in his apartment. Sure, tiny dogs, but still… it is a commitment he doesn’t want, a responsibility he doesn’t need, and he’s not going to be the next cabrón to dump them somewhere in a box.

Maybe just one, the tan pup who was the sickest of all… no, no. Better not. He’ll take them home for a few days, just long enough to find them new homes. It won’t be hard, once he shares the video he’s playing just now; he and Héctor may not be proper famous yet, but they have quite a bit of following, a familia spreading across the country and beyond. He’s sure plenty of them will squabble to adopt one of those puppies - he could even get some good publicity out of it.

Yes, they need to go to good homes. It is for the best, and he will not change his mind.

***

“Héctor?”

“Yes?”

“I changed my mind.”

“To absolutely no one’s surprise.”

Ernesto is sprawled on his couch with all four chihuahuas - Diablo, Clara, Lobo and Zita - napping across his chest. They are finally tired after scuffling, sniffing, bouncing, barking and running through the apartment, trying to eat furniture and all kinds of objects clearly too large for them to swallow.

“I can’t send them away,” he says. “When I was away a hour today, they barked and howled so much old Chicharrón threw a fit as soon as he saw me coming back. So, see, they need me.”

“Of course,” Héctor chuckles, taking a mental note to go and speak to Cheech about the situation, and reassure him the pups are going to settle and won’t, hopefully, stay this noisy. He knows him better than Ernesto and he knows he’s not a bad guy, just… a less than amicable neighbour. He’s one of those guy you need to know well before you learn to appreciate them, is all.

And at least, he keeps to himself. Gustavo, form the third floor, is the real ass - the one who just can’t resist pushing his stupid nose in everyone’s business. He’s not the apartment block’s administrator, but oh, does he like to act like he is.

“I need to get them more bowls,” Ernesto muses, and he reaches for his phone, careful not to disturb the napping pups on his chest. They all look different - one tan, one black, one white and one gray; are they even from the same litter? - but, Héctor has to admit, they are all awfully cute. “And they need collars. With tags.”

“Sounds about right,” Héctor says, leaning more comfortably against the chair. He’s got his guitar across his knees and they were supposed to play together, but right now the dogs have Ernesto’s undivided attention. “Maybe a dog bed?”

Ernesto nods. “A big one, yes. They’re never gonna sleep in a box again,” he mutters, and scowls, but it’s short lived when he glances back at his phone and scrolls some. “Oh, look at these shirts!”

“... Shirts?”

“For when they’re cold.”

“In Mexico City?”

“Oh, shut up. I’m getting them - Clara would look perfect in the pink one, and-- oh, look!” Ernesto exclaims, shoving his phone under Héctor's nose. There is a picture of something that looks like... Héctor isn't even sure what it looks like.

"What is it?"

"A spider costume!"

"It looks... tiny."

"They're for the dogs, pendejo."

"Aaah, right. Wait, are you seriously buying that?" Héctor asks, raising an eyebrow as Ernesto starts fumbling with his phone. It gets him a grin.

"Oh yes. Imagine, your wife looking down to see four giant black spiders bounding towards her. She's still afraid of them, isn't she? She was when we were kids."

A sigh. "Ernesto..."

"I'll take it as a yes."

"Ernesto. Is giving Imelda a scare really worth--"

"It is!"

"--the risk of have one or more of your dogs turned into a wet spot on the floor before she realizes they're not giant tarantulas?"

"Ah." Ernesto pauses, the grin disappearing like a lightbulb blowing out, phone still in his hands. He glances at the sleeping puppies on his chest. "I... guess not."

“See, you’re learning common sense,” Héctor says, and pulls back to avoid Ernesto’s half-hearted swipe.

***

Imelda always had a golden rule: no dogs in the house.

It used to be ‘no pets in the house’, really, until Pepita happened. However, Pepita is objectively the best cat there can be; clean, quiet, self-reliant. Aside from a couple of incidents when she brought in half a rat as a gift, she has never caused issues. She has Opinions, of course, and can be loud about them... but as long as you don't push her, she'll give you no issues whatsoever. So, the way she sees it, she didn't allow in pets: she just let in that one specific cat, and no others. Dogs are still very firmly on her Not Allowed list.

... Well. They were, at least. Damn Héctor's stupid grin, damn Ernesto's insistence, damn those huge puppy dog eyes... and damn Pepita, too, for apparently deciding to mother them.

Imelda has found herself completely, hopelessly outnumbered. Now three yapping pups are snuffling around her living room while the fourth - a little diva Ernesto called Clara - is very happily letting Pepita groom her, tail wagging. And, she has to admit, watching Ernesto downright cooing at dogs is amusing.

“If they even think of chewing a shoe, it’s on your head,” Imelda informed her husband before opening the door - and, at least, they haven’t tried to chew anything yet. There is a moment of alarm when a couple of them jump on on the couch, right by the hand-stitched pillows her mother gave her when she married, but rather than biting them, or humping them or doing whatever dogs do, they just curl up next to Héctor.

"Hah! Do you want to listen too, perritos?" he asks, and strums his guitar, causing all tails to wag - well, Pepita's aside - and Imelda to chuckle, sitting down.

He's been working on his new song for a while, the one she and Ernesto are supposed to practise singing as a duet - not something she especially looks forward to, but maybe it will be bearable - and now he decided to play and sing what he’s got so far. Apparently something is not working for him… and he cannot figure out what it is.

It’s not the first time it happens. Héctor is the best songwriter she'd ever known, but there is no telling how his songs will come to be. Some ideas hit him like a bolt of lighting and he gets scribbling in the middle of the night, a new song ready within a couple of hours; he then collapses, sleeps a few more hours, and pus in the final touches whenever he wakes up. Others can take weeks - in one memorable case, months - from conception to finished song.

This newest one definitely falls in the second category.

“You’ve got the best public. Doesn’t he? Oh yes, he does, he does,” Ernesto says in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, causing the dogs to wag their tails so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall off. Imelda’s attempt at masking her laugh as a coughing fit is nowhere near believable - God, this man is ridiculous, but she finds it more bearable than his stupid machismo - but Ernesto doesn’t even seem to notice. He sits next to her with a wide grin.

“Come on, amigo, let us hear what you’ve come up with!”

The song does need work, but it’s not the cobbled-up mess that Héctor made it out to be; sometimes, Imelda could swear her husband can be almost as dramatic as his stupid friend. No wonder they always got on so well.

Soon enough, of course, she’s no longer focusing on the song as much as she should. Héctor’s voice, the sounds he coaxes out of guitar strings, the way he closes his eyes and loses himself to it when he’s singing something gentle - all of it is very distracting. He may very well start uttering a string of obscenities rather than lyrics any moment, she would be none the wiser.

And she's not the only one: that much becomes clear the moment she glances aside and catches sight of Ernesto, who's leaning his cheek on the palm of his hand. He's looking at Héctor with eyes half-lidded and a faint smile that's words apart from the wide - and often frankly annoying - grins that are often on his face, the ones that feel about as genuine as a three pesos coin. It's much quieter, real, with a fondness that is impossible to miss.

There is a pang of something in Imelda's chest, and she gets the bizarre feeling that she's looking at something she shouldn't see. She turns her gaze away quickly, before Ernesto can realize she's been looking at all, and once again focuses on nothing but the tune of Héctor's guitar.

***

[Back to Part 5]

[On to Part 7]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #coco #mind the gap

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parttwotriestowrite · 7 years ago

Text

Formaldehyde Chapter: 1

Fandom: Coco

Rating: Teen and Up

Pairing: Héctor Rivera / Imelda Rivera

Summary: "I won’t tell him, and as long as he doesn’t know, you’re indebted to me.” He held out his hand for Ernesto to shake, the same mock-politeness he’d been feeding him the whole time, “¿Trato?” This wouldn't stop people from finding out anyways.

(In case you like Ao3 better)

Héctors breathing was shallow and quiet, as he lay in a stranger's bed. He slept like the dead - like he might have been the night before.

Ernesto fidgeted; these people made him nervous. The man, Andrés, watched him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. Next to him stood his wife, Rocío. Though she was quiet, her eyes seemed to stare into him, like she could read his mind.

The doctor left Héctor’s bedside after a conversation with Andrés comprised of hushed whispers and a relieved smile.

“I owe you,” Andrés said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “You saved this man's life. I’ll consider it a favor.”

“It’s my job,” the doctor replied, sighing in relief, “It’s good to finally be in your good graces.”

“You always have been.”

As soon as the door shut, Andrés, in a bastardization of hospitality, offered to let Ernesto stay the night. As he gestured broadly at the couch, his smile left no room for argument.

A strained cough and a groan sounded from the room Hector was sleeping in, and the sickly-sweet grin of the shorter man faded as he and his wife rushed back into the other room to check on their other guest.

~~~~

He woke up feeling like he had been stabbed, the pain coursing through him everywhere at once. Everything ached; his head, his muscles, Dios mío his stomach... That was the worst of it. To add to his confusion, now there were two strange people fussing over him..

“Here, I have some water for you,” one of the people said, bringing a cup up to Hector’s lips with the gentleness of a mother. “Come on - there we go, that’s it.” Whoever this was had the kindness of a mother too, something Hector was grateful for as they gently tipped the water into his mouth. The water felt like heaven, a rush of coolness into his dry, overheated body.

“Rocío, he’ll need something to eat.” The other stranger said, as he propped the pillows up behind Hector’s back, and helped him sit up.

When he was finally able to focus, Hector’s eyes fell on an odd looking man; short and lanky with soft eyes. He was looking at Hector with the same sort of concern that he’d seen in people watching stray kittens.

“How are you feeling? ¿Puedes hablar? ” The stranger crouched by Hector’s bedside and offered a placating smile.

“ Sí, sí. ” Héctors eyes scrunched up at the light from the hallway, spilling into the room, even as dim as it was, “ Mierda… Who are you?”

“My apologies,” The odd man said with a chuckle, “You’d think my Mamá would have bothered teaching me some manners before sending me off, but you’d be wrong! I’m Andrés, and the woman forcing you to drink was my wife Rocío. You’re Héctor, sí ?”

“ Sí, uh, how did you know?” He didn’t have the energy to be weary of the stranger who suddenly knew his name.

The phone rang, too loud, too bright, too present. Hector cringed, trying to recoil back from something that came from everywhere at once.

Andrés put a hand on his shoulder, “One moment, Héctor. Rocí will be back with something to eat. Then we’ll see how you’re feeling, okay?” Andrés didn’t wait for an answer, standing up sharply and shutting the door as he left, leaving Héctor in peaceful darkness.

~~~~

Rocío was steady and insistent, as she fed him spoonful after spoonful of thin broth that felt refreshing, however flavorless everything seemed to be. She was silent, and he couldn’t complain when even the clinking of the spoon against the edge of the bowl sounded as loud as thunder. It wasn’t until he was done, that she finally spoke to him, “Do you remember what happened?”

He was taken aback by the way her voice sounded. Unlike her husband, she was almost whispering, and he was grateful, head still pounding.

“Well…?” She asked, again, “I’m curious; do you even know what happened to you?” She handed him a glass of water absentmindedly.

“Bad chorizo, apparently.” He said, laughing awkwardly. He took a long sip of water and avoided eye contact at all costs.

“ Bad chorizo? No, no, that’s definitely wrong. It was formaldehyde, apparently. You ingested it,” she paused, “Somehow.”

He coughed, water dribbling down the front of his shirt, “ Formaldehyde? ”

She nodded, silently running a rag across his face. “Your friend has been up all night. He seems worried.” He had no time to respond as she gathered up the soup bowl and the empty pitcher. “I’ll go fetch you some more water, do you need anything else?”

~~~~

Andrés had a fair number of suspicions about this Ernesto. Hector ingesting formaldehyde by accident seemed like a stretch; what sort of idiota would intentionally drink that stuff? But then, there was the man’s “friend”. He’d seen men guilty of lesser crimes sit in his living room and squirm under the gaze of Rocío. Ernesto was no different.

But that wasn’t even the most incriminating bit. There was also the phone call.

He didn’t recognize the man on the other end of the phone, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the interesting details about how a bottle of formaldehyde had, indeed, been purchased outside a bar, two nights prior, by some machismo looking guy in mariachi clothes.

“How did you know?” The kid asked.

“Just keep going. What did he look like?” Andrés said dismissively.

When the kid described the man’s strong chin and mustache, Andrés’ suspicions were confirmed. “Thank you, amigo , I’ll consider this a favor.”

Back in the room, Rocío was still caring for Héctor. Poor bastard probably wouldn’t even believe that his friend had tried to kill him. Andres wondered idly what sob story she was going to hear from their newest guest.

He cracked each knuckle absentmindedly in thought, but nothing presented itself that seemed to have any real benefit. Sure, he felt bad for Héctor, but the poor man was already in his debt. Ernesto wasn’t, not yet at least.

He didn’t look up until there were three sharp knocks at the door. “André?” Rocío opened the door a crack, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“ ¿Qué es? ”

She stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her, and leaning against the wall. “Héctor told me something that may be relevant.”

“Oh? Go on.”

~~~~

It was early when Andrés woke up Ernesto, the sun only just above the horizon when Andrés informed Ernesto that they would be meeting in the kitchen.

Setting down two coffees, Andrés smiled disarmingly and took a long sip from his own cup. On his side of the table, Ernesto was looking suspiciously at the mug left between them.

“What? I wouldn’t poison it.” Andrés said casually.

Ernesto stiffened, and something behind his eyes shifted.

Andrés set his coffee down and stretched his arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair. “So, satisfy my curiosity. Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ernesto said as he shrunk back, shoulders hunched over.

Andrés rolled his eyes, “ Dios mío, are we really going to do this?” He counted his points on his fingers, “Héctor was poisoned by formaldehyde. You happened to have bought some from a friend of mine. I bet, if I shuffled through your bag, I’m certain I’ll find the very bottle you used to try to kill your-”

“I didn’t try to kill him!” Ernesto’s snapped, voice raised more than he intended.

“Shh, shh, quiet down. Héctor’s sleeping two rooms over and our walls are quite thin,” Andrés gestured towards the closed door, “And I’m certain that hearing you confess to trying to murder him wouldn’t bode well for your friendship.”

“I didn’t try to kill him.” Ernesto insisted again, voice dropping low, “I just needed him to stay . I needed his songs, I-”

“More than his friendship? More than he needed to live?” Andrés rocked forward on his chair, slamming his hands on the table, nearly knocking over a vase filled with violets.

“It wasn’t supposed to kill him!” Ernesto snarled, “Your friend, he told me it was only enough to make him ill, that way he’d be stuck here for awhile-”

“Only to leave afterwards? If what he told Rocío was true, then he was trying to go home to his family. Do you really think you could stop him forever?”

“Well yes, I mean no, but-”

It seemed Andrés wasn’t in the mood to hear Ernesto’s excuses as he cut the man off for a third time. “And you’re like a brother, to him.” He chuckled darkly. “My brothers were no example to live by, but from what I understand, you two are supposed to care for one another. How would nearly killing him help either of you?”

“It was supposed to just be us , she was never a part of the plan.”

“She?” Andrés paused, a series of emotions flying across his face. “... You mean his wife?”

“We were gonna become famous - I’ve been doing all of this for him - he owes me this much! I… I need his songs!” Ernesto said through clenched teeth as his hands balled up into fists on the table.

“You don’t seem to care much that you nearly killed him.” Rocío stood behind Ernesto, arms crossed and eyes accusatory. Ernesto startled, turning around to look at her.

“Rocí…”

She shot Andrés a sharp look and he fell silent. Joining her husband at his side of the table, she added, “I’m just wondering if the guilt has set in, yet.” A dreamy smile crossed her face, “How in love he is! With music, with his wife, with his child, and with you, my friend.” She said, disgust creeping into her voice, slightly. “He thinks the world and then some of you. Do you know why he wanted to go home?”

Ernesto remained silent, grasping the cup to hide the trembling in his hands.

“He said he couldn’t write, here. He thought the wider world may inspire him, but it didn’t. His muses are his loved ones in Santa Cecilia, and rightfully so.” Her gaze shifted wistfully out of the window, before snapping back harshly on Ernesto. “He came out here to support his family, but even that hasn’t been so successful. He thought you knew that. Apparently he was wrong. Some brother you are.”

“He was leaving me,” Ernesto said after a long break of silence. “I didn’t want him to.” He stared into the cup, coffee still untouched.

Rocío hummed in response. Andrés watched the way Ernesto scratched his fingernail along the mug and kept his eyes away from either of them.

“I don’t know if I want to tell Hector,” Andrés said to Rocío. “On one hand, Ernesto did try to kill him, he didn’t seem to mind that fact, and I have proof of those things.”

“But on the other,” Rocío cut in, “He seems to be reconsidering what he did. Every man deserves a second chance.”

Andrés thought for a second. “Consider this a favor, amigo, ” He smiled the same disarming smile he had given Ernesto the night before. It worked just as well as it had the first time. “But know that I take favors seriously. That which I give you, you must one day return. This is a big, big favor, no? I won’t tell him, and as long as he doesn’t know, you’re indebted to me.” His tone was light, conversational even, as he continued, “You could tell him the truth, and the whole truth on your own, and would no longer owe me anything. Don’t keep up your end of the deal? He’ll learn the truth.”

He held out his hand for Ernesto to shake, the same mock-politeness he’d been feeding him the whole time, “ ¿Trato? ”

Ernesto hesitated, shoulders still hunched and still defensively keeping the coffee between them.

And then he took Andrés’ hand, and Andrés grinned manically.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

~~~~

That night, the guilt started to weigh on Ernesto's shoulders. Dinner was a blur of forcing himself to laugh at jokes he wasn’t listening to, of watching Héctor from the corner of his eye, and of desperately avoiding eye contact with any of them.

The same thoughts kept running through his mind. Was the overdose really an accident? Was he really willing to kill Héctor? What would he have told Imelda if Héctor died? Would he have ever been able to go back to Santa Cecilia? What if Hector found ou-

“Something wrong, Ernesto?” Rocío asked sweetly. “Are you feeling ill? ¿Quieres dormir? ”

“ Sí, I think I’m falling sick, I’ll just go lie down, I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.”

Somehow, he managed to get up, and leave the table. His thoughts swirled, and he ended up stuck lying awake until the early hours of the morning as he went over what had happened. until he was forced to admit what he had done.

I nearly killed my best friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Big thanks to my friend who helped with Spanish and to @loracarol who edited my dumpster-fire of a fic. Critique is literally always appreciated, and feel more than free to ask any questions you may have :D

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