#i swear my chest is getting bigger too I’m like hello I’m literally a grown ass man why is my body still changing

[xxxvomitboyxxx]

The gender is not gendering right now boys and it’s driving me fucking bonkers

[possiblypeachy]

tea & schemes. (9)

―; summary: Jacob introduces Florence to her soon-to-be favourite pub.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 3.3k

―; warnings: light swearing.

―; A/N: they’re literally so baby together my heart cannot handle like?? i genuinely adore them and writing for them and sometimes i worry that i’m making this too long but then i remember that this makes me happy so ??? sucks to be someone who doesn’t like long fics i guess??

please coo with me about them!! i need to know i’m not weird for being so emotionally attached

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

― ❊ ―

The pub that Jacob had taken her to-- The Maiden’s Crown-- was far too busy for it only being early afternoon. Though, Florence did have to admit, a smile came to her face when she heard the haggard and out-of-tune singing of the patrons. There was something almost endearing in watching a crowd of grown men sing at the top of their lungs along to near-operatic songs but, on the other spin of the coin, Florence could-- with confidence-- say that Duncan could yowl the lyrics better than that.

It was a nice enough place, if one were to disregard the obvious disrepair. Green accents painted the pub and there was a rather lovely painting of the Thames of the far wall behind the bar; if you squinted your eyes, you could barely see the stain on the canvas, which was good, she supposed. All things considered, while it wasn’t as high-end as the one in Westminster that she and her brother frequented, it wasn’t the worst place for Jacob to have taken her. At least it wasn’t in Whitechapel.

She’d never been a lover of beer or ale on the account of it tasting like piss so she could only hope that this pub served a particularly flavourful sherry or sloe gin. Even the putrid smell of ale made Florence’s nose crinkle as herself and Jacob weaved through the mass of drinkers; she’d never understood how Freddy could stomach it when they drank together.

“Why does it seem like everyone here knows you, Jacob?” She asked just as they got to the bar. He squeezed between a few men, one of whom he said a brief ‘hello’ to, before shuffling her in alongside him. The barman, obviously pleased to see a lady who had at least washed in the past week, promptly swept over to them, to which Florence muttered that she’d like a glass of sloe gin and he went away to prepare it before Jacob could even open his mouth to ask for anything.

Despite that little problem, Jacob, now leaning against the bar, still shot Florence a grin. “Pubs are the best place to recruit. Or, to soften someone up so they’re easier to get information out of.”

“Oh, conniving-- I like it.” Florence gave him a playful side-eye before nodding a thank you to the bartender and taking a small sip of her drink. Her face soured slightly at the strength of her drink but the sweet aftertaste made up for it, making for an altogether amusing expression, to which Jacob’s lips tugged upwards.

“You like me for my schemes but not my devilish good looks? Or, my superb sense of humour?” He raised a brow, a smirk gracing his expression. Briefly, he pointed to a bottle on the back shelf and the bartender set it down before him.

Florence took another sip of her gin, holding the glass just beside her mouth, then replied with a simple: “Why can I not like you for all three?”. Her smile was small and amused but her eyes told of perhaps a larger confession. Jacob’s expression softened, melting from a cocky grin to a glint in his eyes that declared fondness. Did she still want to kiss him? For a moment that Jacob barely had time to pick up on, her eyes flickered down to his lips. Yes, she most certainly did still want to kiss him. The stammering in her chest told her, if the romance novels she always read had taught her anything, that perhaps now was the moment to make up for her hesitation the other night.

Their gazes remained locked for a moment then Florence, heart pounding, went to move forward to grab his hands. However, in an unfortunate turn of events, a hand-- that wasn’t hers-- clapped to Jacob’s shoulder, making his bottle of beer slosh dangerously. There was a half-shout of “Jacob, my boy!” before he could even turn to look at the offending bloke. “The lads and I haven’t had a chat with you for too long, son. You have to come over--”

“I’m a bit--” Hazel eyes flickered to Florence, who was staring into her sloe gin and scratching her nose in an effort to not draw the attention of the hulking man beside Jacob, “--occupied at the moment--”

“Nonsense! Come on, son.” The grip on his shoulder tightened and Jacob was tugged from his spot. He shot her an apologetic look but, before he could actually open his mouth to say anything, the bigger man began to ramble about… something or another; truthfully, Jacob’s mind was elsewhere.

Florence watched after him for a few moments before focusing her attention on her drink again, swirling the reddish liquid about in its glass. She took a bigger gulp than perhaps was usual for a woman of her stature, hissed through her teeth at the taste, and turned herself slightly so she wouldn’t be tempted to stare endlessly at Jacob across the room.

Damn whatever God had decided to put a stop in the cogs of her plan. Well, it was hardly a fully-fledged plan but, nevertheless, it would’ve been nice to have seen its outcome. Or, would it have been? Anxiety bubbled up within her; there was always the chance that she’d read Jacob all wrong and he didn’t actually like her. Then, as if she was watching a puppet show in her mind, a little image of Lissie popped up and pulled a stern face at her. Florence laughed to herself, sipping at her drink again.

In fact, she continued to sip at her drink until a body squeezed in beside her. Expecting it to be Jacob again, Florence turned with a smile. The smile continued to hold out of pure discomfort when she realised it wasn’t Jacob and was actually a man whose breath smelt quite terribly of beer. He was grinning down at her-- no doubt trying to be charming-- but the only thing Florence took from that was that she’d need to ask Lissie to wash her dress later on.

“Hello, beautiful.”

Oh, God.

Florence sipped her drink, using it as a few moments to switch her mind into ‘presentable lady’ mode, then placed her glass on the bar beside her. Her smile was sweet but her eyes screamed of annoyance. “Good afternoon, sir.”

The man, in an attempt to get closer to her without her noticing, pointed over her shoulder toward a bottle on the shelf, ordering the bartender to throw it to him. He did so, to which Florence had to duck, lest a bottle smash against the side of her face. Then, he popped the cork out of it with his teeth and spat it elsewhere. She suppressed a sigh.

“What’s your name, love?” He took a swig of beer and leant on the bar. “Benjamin Treadway, myself. Lovely to make your acquaintance.” He held a palm out and she placed her hand it in. This Ben fellow then kissed her hand, trying to maintain a sultry eye contact but, as soon as she could, Florence was taking a sip from her drink again. She wondered if she could ask the bartender to make the gin any stronger.

“I’m Florence Abberline.” Her joy was dissipating by the minute and, by chance, when her gaze trailed to the table Jacob had been dragged to, their eyes met and she shot him a small frown that pleaded for help.

A certain recognition crossed Ben’s face. “Right! You’re the sister of that bobby-- what’s his name? Frank, is it? Francis--”

“Frederick. His name is Frederick.”

“Ah, yes, that’s the one! I’m surprised, is all; never expected shared genes with him would make for a pretty lady.”

Florence furrowed her brows, quite visibly displeased at this. What was he implying? That Freddy was ugly? It was a wonder, really, how he expected to woo a lady by insulting her brother first. “My brother is handsome enough, thank you. Nor is he here to defend himself.” She tried hard not to spit this and, to quell her frustration, she covered her mouth with her glass.

A crooked little smirk pulled his lips upwards. “Oh, she’s a feisty one. Don’t usually find those about.” He took a swig of beer and set it down on the bar beside him, beady little eyes inspecting her features. “What brings such a posh bird to these premises? Don’t your type like to stay at home and… sew or summin’?”

As Florence tried to muster up a half-sensible answer, she could feel someone watching her; with luck, it was Jacob. To assume this would be correct. He, over his bottle of beer, was carefully studying how close the bloke was stood to Florence, where his hands would inch as their conversation continued, how he kept glancing down to the gap between the top of her bodice and her collar. He had a distinct look in his eyes-- one that tipped the other men off around the table to his growing concern. The man that had dragged him over, Richard, followed his gaze upon realising how Jacob had leant back in his chair, slumped and rubbing the top of the bottle against his bottom lip.

“You alright, son?” He asked, the clap on his shoulder gentler now but still enough to draw Jacob’s attention away from Florence for a few moments. “That bloke bothering you?”

“No.” He took a swig of his drink and gestured loosely to the pair on the other side of the pub. “He’s bothering the lady.” Just as Jacob said this, Ben went to play with a tassel on her shawl and Florence slapped his hand away, clenching her jaw and turning to ask the bartender to fill her drink up again.

Richard pursed his lips. “You fancy her?”

“You could say that.”

The boys around the table shared a laugh and Richard shook Jacob’s arm, amused. “Well,” His other hand pointed to Florence and Benjamin, “what’re you doing letting that scumbag chat her up?”

Jacob sighed, eyes flickering between the man at his side and the pair at the bar, trying to muster up an answer. “She’s not the type to want to be saved; I don’t want her to think that I think she’s incapable.”

They both looked back toward Florence, who necked half of her gin and raised her eyebrows at whatever the bloke was saying. He let out one of those idiotic fake laughs and placed a hand on her arm, to which her lips twisted into an uncomfortable smile and she threw her gaze in the direction of Jacob, silently asking him to hurry the fuck up with his business.

“That’s the look of a woman who’ll start scrapping in a minute if you don’t help her.” The boys chuckled, murmuring their agreement. “I don’t think she needs to be saved-- more so… distracted.” Richard gave Jacob a push and the younger of the pair set his bottle down on the table and stood up. A little nod gave thanks to Richard and the men sat around the table gave a quiet cheer, causing Jacob to huff out a laugh on his way toward Florence.

There were a few mutters of “excuse me” and “sorry” before she noticed Jacob behind Ben. A light tap came to the lankier’s shoulder. “Hello, mate. Sorry to be a bother but you appear to be stood in the only available spot next to my wife.” Jacob glanced down to Florence’s fingers-- her rings-- and she rather nimbly moved one to her wedding finger.

This would be fun.

Ben glanced back to her, down to her hands, then up to her face. His eyes narrowed. “Haven’t heard of the bobby’s sister getting married.”

“Small ceremony.” Florence mentioned, taking a sip of her gin to hide her growing smile. Jacob had to refrain from laughing but the way he exhaled sounded dangerously close to it. “We wedded in spring; it was just with my family and his. Beautiful occasion, really.”

“Indeed.” Jacob mentioned, pushing the bloke aside with a hand to stand just in front of Florence. To conserve space-- or perhaps to keep their act up-- he snuck an arm around her back, making sure that his hand was seen at the curve of her waist. “Lovely affair. Her bouquet had tulips in it; they contrasted quite nicely against her dress.”

Florence couldn’t hold back a grin so she used it to look up at Jacob and act like she was in love. However, when he mirrored her gaze, huffing out a quiet laugh, she wasn’t quite sure if it was entirely acting. Would now be okay to kiss him? It would simply be a part of the act if all went wrong. Oh, goodness--

“How lovely.” Ben’s voice was mocking, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a tight line. He gave her another look up and down. “Why’s her name still Abberline then?” He pointed loosely to her. It was almost like he was grasping at straws to try to win her back as if she was some kind of prize to be had.

She felt Jacob squeeze her side briefly, as if to tell her that he’d handle it. “I’m a Frye-- Jacob Frye.” Hazel eyes had a certain darkness to them and his smile held a challenge. Ben’s focus seemed to have finally pulled away from her, now staring quite dumbly at Jacob. His gaze flickered from the scars Jacob had to the gun that peeked out from behind his coat and he visibly shrunk back into himself. “It’s dangerous to have a name like mine in London these days so we decided that she’d keep to ‘Abberline’.” Jacob tilted his head briefly, narrowing his eyes and smiling, “For her own safety.”

Florence had never realised how much influence he had on others, though she supposed she’d never given him reason to be anything but kind to her-- mostly. By the way that his broadness all of a sudden seemed imposing and how the hand that wasn’t holding her curled into a fist, Florence could tell that Jacob was more than experienced at this. God, how she wished she had the same effect on people that she didn’t like.

“Now, mate,” Jacob hissed through his teeth, pointing a finger at a now very small-looking Ben, “I suggest you leave my wife alone. We don’t want any blood on her lovely dress, do we?”

Ben gave a little nod and, much like the rat he was, scurried away. Florence watched him with a pleased grin, nose upturned slightly and a happy hum beginning in her chest. The dimple was there again, which brought great joy to Jacob when he tore his gaze from the back of Ben’s head and finally looked at her.

“Good work, dear husband.” She was still smiling when she turned to him. He chuckled lightly, the sound pushed out by an exhale, and raised a brow. Florence, however, continued before he could say anything. “I hadn’t realised you could add any poison to your words; you’re always so… soft for me.”

Jacob rolled his eyes, though there was a little smile painted across his features that told her that she’d figured him out, and spun so that he was facing her. He replied with a simple “What? You want me to be hard for you?” and, when they locked eyes and he muttered a “wait--”, Florence began that dreadful laugh of hers.

“Certainly not in public, Jacob.” She, through a dirty little smirk, took a sip of her gin, though was having quite some trouble keeping it in her mouth.

Unfortunately for her, when Jacob began to chuckle-- a bottom-of-the-stomach laugh that made his head loll backwards, she had to cover her mouth lest the deep red of her gin spray all over him. Finally, she swallowed and took a deep inhale, trying to calm down her terrible giggling. Both her hands came to Jacob’s arms to keep herself steady and he could feel the remnants of her laugh shaking through her body. When Florence was able to straighten herself again, cheeks hurting from grinning, honey melded with hazel as their eyes met and both their smiles softened, her grip on his arms becoming gentler. Her gaze flickered across his face and a certain, sudden sense of worry sparked within her.

“Jacob, can I kiss you?”

His eyes searched hers, struck speechless for a few moments. Florence looked like she’d just taken a leap from the tallest building in the world and was bracing for the inevitable, messy impact. Was she even breathing? She wasn’t sure she could.

“What?” was the only word he could muster, though it was mostly because his brain was racing to catch up with the real world again. Jacob stumbled over his own thoughts, distracted by the growing redness to her face and the mere idea that she might even like him.

Florence cursed herself and the world. She’d fucked it. She took a shaky breath and let go of his arms. “I simply asked if you’d perhaps like to kiss me but I--”

Lips stopped her, calloused hands on either cheek. The sudden journey from shock to happiness happened so quickly that Florence worried that she might start crying. That feeling that began to bloom in her chest was something that no romance novel could have prepared her for. It felt like the rest of the world had suddenly ceased to exist and it was only him and his lips and his hands and his smell and--

Fingers weaved into Jacob’s dark hair in a selfish attempt to prolong the kiss, though he seemed to have no qualms with appeasing her. She could feel her heartbeat in her chest, in her ears, in her thumbs and neck. The fall was not so terrible; he had caught her just before she hit the cold, hard ground.

It was her who pulled away first-- the singing and chatter about the pub returning to her ears. Jacob could hardly complain when he saw the light of her smile and saw her shoulders shaking with the beginnings of a breathless laugh. The hands on her cheeks squeezed a little bit, squishing her grin back in on itself, so that Jacob could make sure that it was real and not a tormenting daydream. Fingers wrapped around his wrists, giggling only getting louder, to ask what he was doing without words. He mirrored her smile, pulling her forward so that their foreheads might touch, and muttered a “You have no idea how often I’ve thought about that.”

Perhaps her ego had danced a little at those words-- how long had he liked her for?-- but, even so, she felt this little worried, shaking part of her being click into its place for the first time in years. “I’d never realised.”

“You must be blind then.”

Florence moved forward to kiss him again, smiling against his lips. It was shorter than the other-- he barely had time to rest his hands on the curve of her skirts-- but it was so achingly sweet and normal that he didn’t mind that it ended when it did. Then, her fingers came to play with the collar of his shirt, straightening it and pursing her lips. There was such a distinct sense of contentment that he would be happy to watch her do that for the rest of his days. Her eyes seemed golden, melting under the pressure of her newfound feelings, when she looked up to him.

“Well, I’m not blind anymore.”

[pengychan]

[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch. 12

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: Complete [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: here's the epilogue. Hope you guys enjoy it because a) it would suck if you'd read this far only to be let down and b) I think I gave myself a cavity writing it.

***

Día de los Muertos, 1947

“Ow!”

“Hey!”

“What’s the rush, idiota?”

“Watch where you’re going!”

There are yells and protests, and Héctor hears precisely none of them. He’s been running since the instant he made it through the checks, across the entire bridge, through the small cemetery of Santa Cecilia and now through its streets.

His hometown has changed in the twenty-six years he’s been dead, but not enough not to be recognizable, or so it looks like to him at a glance; it will have to do, because a glace is precisely all the spares to his surroundings. The streets are still familiar, but even if they were not it wouldn’t matter: there is a path of shimmering marigold petals to lead him home and he follows it – faster, faster, he can’t waste one minute, he needs to be with them every second he can, he needs to see them and hear their voices.

And then, suddenly, he’s home.

It’s bigger than he remembered; Imelda must have expanded it to accommodate the business, and the growing family. There is music and light and laughter coming from the yard, and the gate is just ajar. From up the wall, a gray cat is staring intently down at him. An alebrije, maybe? Just a random cat being both perceptive and creepy as cats can be?

Héctor wonders about it briefly, but he finds he doesn’t really care. He hasn’t come this far to watch a cat, after all: he’s here to see his family. So he draws in a deep breath, and steps in.

The first person he sees is a man he doesn’t recognize, meticulously arranging the food on the table. He’s tall and lanky, with a mustache and glasses; Héctor has just enough time to wonder if this is Coco’s husband when another man steps out of a door into the yard – an identical man, and Héctor suddenly knows who he’s looking at.

“Óscar! Felipe! Should have known from the glasses,” he exclaims, laughing. Last he saw them they were only boys, just turned sixteen, and now he’s looking at grown men… and with thinning hair to boot. Héctor wonders if they still like to mess with people by pretending to be each other – they used to confuse the crap out of him, too, and they did the same with little Coco. He wonders how many times she fell for it.

“Red sauce!” Óscar - or is it Felipe? - announces, passing right through him. It feels uncomfortably like stepping through a very cold shower, but Héctor is too elated to be there to care. “Your favorite!”

That causes his twin to roll his eyes. “You know my favorite is the black one,” he protests.

“Nu-uh, definitely the red one. Everyone says so.”

“Because you keep pretending to be me and tell them that. I swear that if someday I die--”

“ If.”

“Oh, right. Well, when I die, if I get red sauce on the ofrenda I will blame it on you personally and haunt you from beyond the grave!”

“Assuming you’re going to die first.”

“Of course. I was born first, after all.”

“By ten minutes.”

“Then by all accounts I should die ten minutes earlier.”

“That’s not a lot of haunting from beyond the grave...”

“Now, now, stop arguing!” Someone chides them, and Héctor turns to see a woman walking up to them, a tray with yet more food in her hand.

Must be Coco’s sister-in-law, the one Ernesto – the mere thought of him leaves a bitter taste in his mouth – has mentioned. There is a man as well, in his thirties, with a thick mustache and a meek smile… and, at his arm, there’s Coco.

Héctor’s jaw drops, and he needs to catch it in mid-air before it hits the ground, fumbling so much that it almost flies out of his hands. He reattaches it, and it stays hanging open for several moments. He left behind a beautiful little girl; he’s not looking at a grown woman with his same smile, the same cheekbones, the same tilt of the head as she laughs.

If it’s a girl, I hope she takes after her mother, Ernesto had taunted him with a laugh so many years ago, when he’d quite literally tackled him on the ground in the plaza to give him the news he was going to be a father. And there is something of Imelda, yes; to Héctor, she seems just as stunning… but she looks like him. How could his features be arranged to make something so beautiful, he’ll never know. Héctor reaches to bring a hand to her cheek and there it is, that sensation that is almost like touch. It will have to do, until her time comes.

Until you’re in my arms again.

“Hello, pequeñita,” he manages, his voice shaking. “Papá is home.”

Coco pauses mid-sentence and turns; for one long, heart-stopping moment, Héctor can almost believe she’s looking straight at him… but of course she isn’t. She’s looking through him, towards--

“I’ll see if mamá needs help with the ofrenda,” she says, and lets go of her husband’s arm – not without giving him a kiss on the cheek, something Héctor wishes more than anything he could steal right now – to walk past him, towards the ofrenda room. He follows her slowly, follows the path of marigold petals that shine at his passage, guiding him to his picture.

Guiding him to Imelda.

She’s as beautiful as the day he left her, that accursed day he would take back a million times over. The passage of time has marked her, but taken nothing away from the woman who could make his heart leap in his throat and his legs weak as jelly. She’s placing an envelope among the flowers and offerings in front of a picture on the ofrenda, Héctor’s own, the one he had on when he-- was murdered -- died. It is not the only one, either: he sees another envelope there.

“Did you write to him, too?” Coco asks, quietly, and Imelda nods. It is a small, dignified, almost regal movement; Héctor remembers it so well. He aches to take those letters and read them, and he will, but not right now. He has time to do so when it’s time to leave; he can read those letters in the Land of the Dead. For as long as he can be here, he will not lose sight of them for a moment.

Coco reaches to put a hand around Imelda’s shoulders, and they lean on each other. “I miss him,” Coco murmurs, and Imelda sighs.

“Me too.”

Something in Héctor’s chest cavity aches terribly, and he almost steps forward to hold them both, but he has no time to: suddenly something – someone – barrels into the room and through him, her voice shrill.  “Mamá! Mamá! Come dance with me and papá!”

Victoria, his granddaughter. The notion that he knew of her existence from Ernesto of all people – he should have been there when her existence was first announced, when Coco needed as much support as she could get as a new mother – leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but that his quickly forgotten when he looks at the little girl pulling at her mother’s dress. He can see both himself and Imelda in her, and his face splits in a grin.

“Please? We can dance now, right, abuelita?”

Imelda gives a faint smile. “Yes,” she says. “You can dance.”

With a cry of triumph, Victoria drags a laughing Coco out of the ofrenda room, leaving it empty save from Imelda, and himself. Imelda’s smile fades the same moment Héctor’s does, and she turns back to the photo on the ofrenda, wrapping her arms around herself as though cold. Héctor catches sight of the wedding ring at her finger; it causes something between his ribs to hurt, and he reaches to wrap his arms around her the best way he can, leaning his chin over her head as he used to do when they were alive.

I love you, I thinks, hoping more than anything that she can somehow feel his touch, the unspoken words hanging between them, all of the love he’s capable of feeling. I’m so sorry, I should have never left. Te amo, te amo, te amo.

Her frame seems to relax, and she lets out a long breath – as well as a murmur that would make Héctor’s heart skip a beat, if he still had one.

“… I love you too, idiota.”

The night is over soon, too soon. When dawn approaches, he has to do the one thing he would never wish to do again: he leaves, with the letters they left for him on the ofrenda tight against his ribcage, to cross back to the Land of the Dead. But every moment of that night is seared into his mind, to be treasured and dreamed about for months to come, when he’ll read the letters over and over and think of home.

Until next year.

***

Día de los Muertos, 1948

Coco is holding a baby girl.

The sight alone is enough for Héctor’s face to split in a huge grin. He knew, from the letters, that Coco was expecting a baby, but seeing her is another matter entirely. Elena, they called her, and she’s by far the most perfect baby he’s seen since Coco. It stings a bit to think that he never got to see Victoria that age – Victoria, who’s serious and solemn-eyed, now wearing comically tiny round glasses, holding onto her mother’s dress, pointing at the picture on the ofrenda.

“And that is Abuelito Héctor. He died far away but mamá found him and brought him back, and he can visit us every year,” she’s saying. Elena follows her gaze to the picture, gargles at it, and then turns to look over Coco’s shoulder – right at him.

And she giggles.

Héctor has heard tales that little babies can see the visiting dead, and lose that ability as they grow into toddlers, but he’s never been sure whether there is any truth to it. Now, as he makes a face and watches Elena burst in another fit of giggles, a tiny pink hand reaching out for him, he is. He’s absolutely sure.

“Hola, nenita,” he says, reaching back for that hand. It passes through his fingers, of course, but there is a lingering sensation that is almost like touch. “Welcome to the family. Be good for your mamá and abuelita, sí?” he adds, and grins back at her toothless smile.

Next year she won’t see him, but he’ll make that smile be enough until her time comes to cross the bridge.

On his way back – leaving is just as painful as it was last year, but those who are caught at the wrong end of the bridge when the sun rises are destined to fade away, and Héctor has no intention to risk it; he’ll never get to be with his family again if he lets himself disappear – he pauses at the cemetery.

He didn’t stop to look for his grave the first year he visited, but he does now. It’s hard to find at first: there are so many flowers and tokens on it the tombstone is almost entirely covered. It feels odd, looking at it. Since getting credit for his songs, his standing in the Land of the Dead has definitely improved; he’s even gotten a few apologies for people who mocked him when he insisted he used to play with Ernesto de la Cruz.

He also began feeling more alive, so to speak, than he had in years – something he could put down to millions of people knowing about him; his bones have never been whiter.

Still, this is the first time he sees how much respect he’s getting from the living outside his own family, and it is staggering. There is something bitter about it – he’d give it all away in a heartbeat just to have his life back – but he has seen the fate of those forgotten, and he’s only recently realized how very close he was to end up down the same path.

He never wished for fame, but at least it means he’ll be remembered, and will get to be with his family for a long time once they die as well; there is so much they’ll need to catch up with. That, at least, is something Ernesto wasn’t able to take from him. In an ironic twist of fate, his last act as a living man was granting him as much.

The thought feels like a stab in his non-existent gut. Héctor finds himself turning without thinking, gaze scanning the small cemetery. And, not too far away, he finds Ernesto’s grave.

It is not the grandiose thing he may have gotten if truth hadn’t come out - if he hadn’t made the truth known - but it’s still a nice one. There are marigold flowers on it, too, tokens and offerings; not as many as on Héctor’s, but still a pretty good amount.

His reputation took a hit when the truth about the songs was made public, of course: that much had quickly filtered in the Land of the Dead, too. In other circumstances, or had the entire truth become known, it would have meant a truly disastrous fall from grace; but the awful circumstances of his last few years, along with the fact he’d told the truth from his deathbed, had gotten him plenty of sympathy and softened the blow.

It is more than he deserves, but Héctor finds he can’t bring himself to care; he can’t bring himself to waste a single minute thinking about him, let alone being mad about it. He doesn’t understand how could he come to do a such thing to him, and doesn’t want to understand.

It didn’t take too long for folks in the Land of the Dead to understand that he doesn’t want to talk about Ernesto de la Cruz - and oh, isn’t everyone curious to find out where he’s gone. As more and more nearly deceased arrived, confirming that he was dead, the question of why had he never showed up was soon on everybody’s mouth.

There are conspiracy theories that he actually faked his death; others have guessed he might be hiding away and there have been a few sightings, but each time a brief description was enough to tell Héctor none of them was Ernesto. He is the only one, as far as he can tell, his old friend has shown himself to - the only one who knows what he looks like now.

Héctor could expose him, of course. He could say they have met, give a full description of what his facial markings look like, what kind of alebrijes follow him around. Revealing him to be a murderer would get authorities looking for him and he would be caught quickly, he's sure of it.

But he never does. He doesn’t care to see what he did exposed; he doesn’t want to deal with the subsequent mess. He just wants to forget all about him, so that maybe one day his betrayal will stop hurting.

Héctor turns away from the grave stiffly and, avoiding to look around - that cemetery had been their playground as kids; all of Santa Cecilia had been, and every corner of it except for his home feels tainted by those happy memories - he marches back towards the bridge.

***

Día de los Muertos, 1955

“Look, I’m not saying that I was right all along. But the fact stays, I was right all along.”

“Cut it out, Jorge.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of me being on the right side of the revolution.”

“That has nothing to do with getting to the wrong cemetery, and it was over forty years--”

“Right. Wrong. Right. Wrong. Repeat with me, hermanito. Right, wro--”

“Griselda, say something!”

“Cut it out. Both of you,” Griselda says, trying with all her might to sound annoyed, and she must sound convincing enough, for they both fall silent with  slight pout. Truth be told, she’s mostly amused; even though she did end up getting to grow older than either of them, she was their younger sister - and yet, much like in life, she has to be the one to show maturity.

Not that she minds: being with them again feels like a blessing, minor annoyances aside. This may not be the afterlife she had been expecting - there better be pearly gates beyond this mysterious final death, or else she may put in a claim to have back every single Sunday morning of her life - but as long as Jorge and Matías are there, she finds it’s good enough.

“What’s-- oh, there’s that basket by the door. Again.”

Griselda knows what Jorge is referring to before she even sees it; a basket full of tangerines, one of several they keep receiving from time to time. One of several she keeps receiving.

“There’s a note in here - your name, again.”

“No sender?” Griselda asks, but of course she already knows the answer. He hands it to her.

“No sender, as usual. Are you sure you don’t have  secret admirer, hermana?”

The mere notion makes Griselda laugh as she picks up a tangerine and brings it closer to her face to breathe in its scent - something they can somehow still do, even or without nose.

“Oh, no. It’s no admirer. Just an old friend, I suppose,” she says, and picks up the basket. She doesn’t glance around: she knows that he must have left quickly, after leaving that gift at her door. She can’t imagine him lingering for long. “Letting me know he’s around.”

Her brothers will prod some more, but to no avail: she won’t tell them anything more. If he wants to keep anonymity, it is not her place to take it away. Should he ever decide to make himself seen she won’t hesitate to welcome him, share those tangerines with him, and listen.

But until then she just accepts his gift, and hopes he found the peace he was looking for.

***

Día de los Muertos, 1965

Every year when he crosses the bridge, Héctor is prepared to find out Imelda has married again. She is, after all, now officially a widow, and he can’t imagine any man in his right mind who wouldn’t want to be with her. He wouldn’t blame her at all if she found herself someone else – and yet she never does.

She grows older, the passage of time marking her face; at each visit, Héctor finds her more beautiful. Every year, she sees her wearing the wedding ring he put to her finger so many years ago and no other. She stays unmarried. Or, rather, married to him; her business is growing, the house is full of family, but the spot beside her in the bed remains empty.

It makes Héctor feel absurdly happy, and humbled and grateful because a tiny voice in his head keeps telling him she deserves better. When he returns to the Land of the Dead that year, he swears to himself he’ll learn how to make shoes, and make her a pair with his own hands to give her for when she passes on, to ask her if she wants to renew their vows.

He proposed with a ring once already, anyway. Time to up his game and propose with a pair of good shoes.

***

May 1971

That day so far had been nothing but a string of absurdities.

Waking up in some kind of bare room with a skeleton looking down at her, while she remembered very well falling asleep in her bed, had been absurd. Being restrained and reprimanded by more skeletons for hitting their ‘colleague’ had been absurd. Being told that she was dead, and asked for her name, had also been absurd; looking down at her hands to see bone had been even more absurd. Staring into a mirror to see that her face - her skull - looked like a child had scribbled on it with a crayon had been the peak of all absurdity… at least until she’s made to sit in a waiting room, and a woman calls out her name.

“Imelda Rivera? Your husband will be here in a few minutes.”

“... Qué?”

It takes a moment for Imelda to realize that confused croak has come from her own mouth, which is somehow capable of articulating words despite the complete lack of a tongue, or vocal chords, or anything that would normally be necessary to speak. Somehow, that notion - Héctor is coming for her - is what finally, truly drives the point home: she’s dead.

The realization is staggering, and something sinks in the emptiness of her chest cavity. Has her family already awakened for the working day? She’s usually the first one up, they will notice her absence right away. Who will go to knock at her door? Who’s going to find her lifeless in her bed? Coco, Victoria or Elena, most likely. The mere thought makes her shudder. This isn’t right, it can’t be right, she has to go back to her family somehow.

But Héctor. Héctor is here. Fifty years dead, and he’s here.

There is something gripping her where her throat should be, and it’s hope and dread at the same time. So many years have passed, he was barely a man when he left; she’s had a full life and he has not. What will he say? Has he visited them on Día de los Muertos? Has he read their letters, watched their family grow? Or had he given up long before then, after years without an ofrenda? What if--

“Sorry, sorry-- I’m in a rush, lo siento-- let me through, come on, move it!”

Imelda looks up just as the door is thrown open and a skeleton burst in, so fast that he skids across the floor. He tries to stop, but the momentum is working against him and, under her stunned gaze, he flies right past her and crashes against the opposite wall.

All right, so it is Héctor for sure. He always knew how to make an entrance.

She stands as the skeleton turns, rubbing his head; their gazes meet, and they both still.

God, even like this he looks so young - there’s no gray in his hair. The wide-eyed look he’s giving her makes him seem almost a boy… and so does his grin, the one she recalls so well.

“Imelda! Ay, mi amor!” he calls out, and next thing she knows she’d holding her in a tight embrace, causing her to stiffen. That is not how she remembered it; there is no flesh, no skin. There is warmth, but it is a different kind from anything she has experienced before.

“I’m so happy to see you! I mean, I’m so sorry you died! But I’m so happy to see you! I missed you so much! Coco, how is she?” Héctor pulls back, hands on both of her shoulders, that smile impossibly wide. “And Victoria, and… oh, and Elena! Has Franco proposed yet? I mean, he’s there all the time, he should just go for it - I’ve seen how he looks at her! I kept your letters, all of them! And I’ve been learning to make shoes, I’m not so good yet but I’m getting there! Oh, and I wrote so many songs for you! I’m so, so sorry I never made it ba--”

Imelda pulls back suddenly, a hand already reaching for her boot, and Héctor lets out a yelp when it cracks against his face, causing his skull to spin in place briefly before he grabs it.

“This,” Imelda hears herself saying, voice shaking already, “is for leaving in the first place.”

Héctor immediately nods, rubbing his head. “Sí, sí, you’re right. So right. I missed you so--”

Somehow, the plain adoration on his face cuts deeper than a scowl would have. There is something boyish about it, a reminder than he never grew any older than twenty-one. “Idiota,” she cuts him off. “I thought you’d-- we thought you’d--” she chokes out, and her voice breaks, and she hates how weak it makes her sound.

Héctor returns her gaze, and that is when she sees it - the sorrow etched in his features, the pain, the regret. She sees that no, she is not looking at the young man who left her with the promise of being back soon. Time has stopped for him in the Land of the Living, and the Land of the Living only. Here, on this side, he’s endured more loneliness than she has; she can see now that it aged him, too, well beyond his mortal years.

He sighs, and looks down, shoulders hunching. “I’m sorry, Imelda. I should have never left.” Imelda shakes her head, suddenly sorry for her outburst. “It wasn’t you. Ernesto, he--”

“I know what he did,” Héctor says, his voice beyond bitter. “He told me to my face.”

Anger rears up its head, boiling and bitter, and Imelda clings to it. It is comfortingly familiar. “Him! He’s here? Where? Once I get my hands on him, he--”

Héctor shakes his head. “No one knows where he went. I don’t care to know, either. I’m just happy you’re here. You’re right, I should have never left in the first place.”

Imelda sighs, her anger already sputtering out. There she is, looking at her husband for the first time in half a century, and what is she doing? Wasting time thinking about de la Cruz of all people, someone she’d be better off forgetting all about. “No. You shouldn’t have,” she agrees, and throws her arms around his neck. “You should have stayed.”

She feels him stiffening for a moment, then his arms are around her and his cheek is leaning on top of her head. “Lo siento. I am here now.”

“There was so much we should have done.”

“We can still do it,” Héctor says, and suddenly he pulls back, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Oh! Right! I meant to ask - will you marry me?”

Imelda blinks. “We’re. Already married,” she mutters. She’s not too sure, though - are they still married? How literal is that ‘till death do us part bit of the wedding vows?

“Yes, but I mean - again? We can renew our vows! A lot of people do when they reunite on this side,” he adds, and before Imelda can say anything he kneels, pulling something from under his jacket - a pair of shoes. Or rather, the saddest excuse of shoes she’s ever seen.

“As I said, I’ve been learning to make shoes! These need, huh. Some work? But you can teach me to do better,” he adds, and holds them up towards her like, a long time ago, he held up a ring. “Will you marry me? Again?”

“No,” Imelda says, and immediately corrects herself when he recoils. “I mean… not yet. It’s. It’s been a long time, Héctor,” she adds. They spent so much time apart, after being married only four years a lifetime ago. She cannot give him the answer he hopes for, not just yet. And he knows it: she can see his hurt expression melting away into comprehension.

“Right. It has been a while,” he says, and clears his throat. “So, uh… will you teach me how to make shoes, ‘till I can make a pair you’ll be happy to walk in for the rest of our non-lives?”

There is something aching in her chest cavity again, but it is a sweet ache. “Are you asking for permission to court me?”

Héctor grins up at her. She’ll have to ask about that golden tooth, later. “Yes!”

Imelda’s mouth curls in a smile. “Permission granted,” she says, and takes the shoes from his hands. She wears them as they walk to the home he's been preparing for them, limping all the way and categorically denying she’s uncomfortable in the slightest.

***

September 2018

Coco can’t breathe.

Not that she thinks she needs to breathe, with the complete lack of lungs and whatnot. But if she did try to draw in breath, she’s rather sure she wouldn’t be able to: her papá’s arms around her are too tight to let her ribcage expand even a fraction.

And she’s very much all right with that.

“Coco,” her papá is choking out, and his grip tightens. Something there is definitely creaking and, again, she doesn’t mind at all. “Oh Coco, Coco, Coco, I missed you! Your papá loves you so much, I’m so sorry. I tried to come home. I kept trying. I was there every year after you put my photo up, every year, always!”

Coco laughs, and reaches to hug him back, just as tight. She’s aware that the rest of her family is there, too - her mother and her uncles, Julio and Victoria and Rosita - and she hears more than a couple of sniffles, too. She will hold each of them just as tight as soon as she can, but this one hug has been ninety-six years coming, and she means to enjoy it.

“I know, papá,” she replies, her own voice tight. “I always knew.”

“I just wish I could have always been there for you. I really do.”

“But you were,” Coco says, and smiles. “Each time I heard a sad guitar.”

***

Día de los Muertos, 2018

“Rrrr! Ruff!”

“Wha-- oh, come on. Oye, Estéban! One of your dogs stole my taco. Again!”

There is some laughter from patrons as a tiny chihuahua alebrije trots across the cantina, back to the table his owner is sitting at, staggering a bit under the weight of its prize… which is, really, almost as big as the dog. As three other chihuahuas begin a scuffle to get a bite out of it – another familiar sight for patrons – there is a chuckle.

“My apologies,” Estéban says, shuffling a deck of cards. There is a still untouched glass of mezcal on the table in front of him, and he doesn’t even look up. “Alfonso, can you make him another and put it on my tab?”

“Sure, sure. Your mutts are always such a nuisance.”

Estéban shrugs, dealing the cards to the man sitting across him. “They’re purebred and you know it.”

“Purebred thieves, is what they are. I should kick you out of here, you know?” Alfonso adds.

“Ay, and deny yourself and your patrons the pleasure of my company?”

“Pah! Keep that up and I will kick you out,” he mutters, but of course it’s an empty threat. It’s no mystery that he likes the guy; all of the patrons do, too. He’s been a regular for a long time, and he’s good company, always up for a card game, a chat or a laugh over a drink. If he was like this in life, too, it’s not hard to see why plenty of people remember him well, making his bones whiter than almost any other skeleton Alfonso has ever seen.

He’s got his quirks, sure, but they’re the fun kind. Sometimes he has very long conversations with his dogs, and will come up with different tales on how he died, each more outlandish than the next; the first time Alfonso asked, he’d looked at him dead in the eye before quietly saying ‘pirañas’. There had been a brief horrified silence before he’d laughed uproariously at his own joke and said that no, actually he was hit in the head by a shoe.

Hardly a week goes by without someone asking him how he died, or what he did in life, and each time there is a new one. He was eaten alive by the same chihuahuas now napping at his feet, hit by a plane, fell off a pyramid, stabbed by a nun, fell off a window to escape a lover’s husband, stepped on a high-voltage cable, got into a drunken argument with a donkey and lost, got into a drunken argument with a train and lost really badly.

He was a postman, a carpenter, a farmer, a priest, a forger, a miner, a smuggler, a magician, a bartender, a bandit. One time, when a laughing man had told him he made up very convincing stories for such a chronic liar, Estéban had grinned.

“Oh,” he’d said, “maybe I was an actor.”

Alfonso doesn’t know if there is any truth to any of those claims, but if not an actor he certainly is a good entertainer; he’s fairly certain that a chat with Estéban is what keeps several people coming. A chat, and getting a shot at playing cards. So far no one has beaten him, and Alfonso hears variations of the same conversation on a weekly basis.

“You’re cheating.”

“Am not.”

“You’ve got to be cheating!”

“I’m just that good. Don’t be a sore loser.”

There’s some grumbling, but he’s too well-liked for it to turn into an argument. He’s good fun and always ready to lend a hand if needed, and offer a drink. Just not tequila, never that.

Estéban really hates tequila.

***

“Your photo is up! Enjoy your visit home!”

Coco lets out a small sigh of relief - of course she knew her family would never forget to put up her picture, but she was unable to ignore a stab of nervousness either way - and walks past the checks, into the busy departure station.

“Coco!”

“Over here, mamá!”

Julio and Victoria are only a short distance away, and Coco walks up to them quickly. She’s been dead a couple of months now, and she has gotten used to many things, but sometimes she still finds herself staring in wonder at her husband and daughter, lost to her years ago.

Losing Julio had been a terrible blow; Victoria’s own death only a few years later had almost torn her heart in two and if not for Elena, Franco and their children, she may have not survived her grief. She could bury her father, and her mother, and her uncles and sister-in-law and husband, but it isn’t right for a mother to bury her child. It isn’t fair.

But now she has everyone back.

“Where are the other… oh, there!”

Only a short distance away, her mamá and her papá are talking; or rather he’s doing the talking, probably describing how the two of them escaped a crowd begging for his autograph earlier that day, while her mother laughs. Coco saw her laughing like that only on special occasions in life. It is a common occurence, now.

“Ah, Coco!”

Her papá turns to hold her, and lifts her up in a clumsy twirl that almost sends them both tumbling. It makes her laugh.

“One of these days you’ll both fall down in pieces,” her mamá mutters, but she’s smiling. She turns to wave for Tío Óscar and Tío Felipe, who are just past the checks, to join them.

Rosita gives that giddy smile of hers Coco remembered so well. “Your first crossing! Ready?”

Coco smiles, a hand grasping her papá’s own. She left her living family behind only a short while ago and she already misses them all so, so much. She’s filled in the rest of her family on what happened since the previous Día de los Muertos - how Luisa gave birth to a beautiful baby girl they named Socorro after her, what a good big brother Miguel is, how he and Rosa and Abel make everyone so proud with their skills as shoemakers and musicians, and how Benny and Manny seem inclined to pick up trumpets and complete their little band.

It was amusing, seeing the reactions: her papá is partial to Miguel - “Just like me when I was his age!” - while Rosita has a soft spot for Rosa. Julio sees a lot of himself in Abel and her uncles are all over the twins. Her mamá claims to be neutral, but she did mostly ask after Miguel. Coco can’t wait for them all to meet little Coquito, too. He’s sure they’ll love her.

“Ready to go,” she says, and they step all together on the bridge towards home.

***

Halfway through the night, most patrons are drunk and singing.

Hardly a surprise, especially on Día de los Muertos, with most of them coming over after a visit to their ofrendas, bringing their offerings with them to eat and drink and trade. Alfonso usually has a very strict policy about bringing in one’s own food and drinks, but well, tonight is an exception. It always was, always will be.

And, speaking of exceptions, Estéban is not joining in. He never sings, even when everyone else is and someone yells for him to sing with them. He just holds up his hands, shrugs and says something on how he’s not so cruel he’d subject them to his singing.

“You don’t want to hear it. Trust me. It’s not an experience you would forget,” he says with a laugh, and that is it. When voices rise singing, Esteban’s never joins them - although, sometimes, Alfonso has heard him humming to himself. Now he’s putting his deck of cards away before stretching briefly in the chair. He gulps down the last of his mezcal, pushes the chair back, and stands. He walks up to Alfonso and puts down money to cover his tab - plus a generous tip.

“See you next week, Alfonso.”

“Sure, next week. You’ll be back by Friday. Like my company that much?”

“You’re almost my type, but no. I like your mezcal. And your patrons are terrible at cards.”

Alfonso snorts out a laugh. “Hah! Hope someone beats you sooner or later, I really do,” he mutters, taking the money. “Plans for the rest of the night?”

“I’ll be watching the firework display.”

“As every year. Have a good night, you cheat.”

That gets him a bright smile. “Every night is a good night,” Estéban says, and turns to leave, the usual spring in his step, calling his alebrijes to him with a brief whistle. They follow him like little soldiers, through the cantina and to the door.

“Hey, do I know you?”

A patron - someone fairly new to the place, Alfonso only saw her once or twice before - calls out suddenly, just as Estéban pushes the door open. It causes him to pause in the doorway and look back over his shoulder. He tilts his head as though considering the question.

“No, I don’t think so,” he finally says.

“You look kind of familiar. Are you… uuuuh… Nando’s brother, maybe?”

A shrug. “I’m afraid not. I had a brother, once, but that wasn’t his name.”

“Ah, sorry. Maybe...” the woman mutters, still frowning in thought, then she shrugs as well. “No, I got nothing. Sorry, amigo – I just thought I had seen you before.”

Estéban gives the good-natured laugh Alfonso knows well, and shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” he says, and walks out of the door, his alebrijes at his heels. His last words drift in just as the door closes behind him.

“I get that a lot.”

***

"A brief epilogue", I whisper as I get to 6,500 words. But at least it didn't get dramatically long and I'll count that as a win. Thanks a lot to everyone who read/liked/reblogged/commented this, I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did!

(All right, I'm going back to this thing now. For real, this time.)

***

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