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sheepwithspecs · 3 months ago

Text

Movie Night:

|| DP Coco (2017) || Rated E ||

Ao3

One of my few remaining Disney-Pixar Coco fanfics from 2018. In the novel, it's mentioned that Héctor never really had a reason to watch movies after he died; maybe he'll find a new appreciation for them now... 😏 Summary: Before coming to stay at the Rivera household, Héctor never cared to watch movies. However, Imelda's newest DVD has him seeing the appeal of a private movie date.

The Rivera household had almost always been a place of shoes. Only a few blustering old men—Imelda's papá and tíos—ever bothered remembering when the Rivera name meant a stone quarry in Santa Cecelia. Imelda and her progeny had changed it into a shoe business, an empire that spanned both the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead. Perhaps it was just a modest shop in a nobody's neighborhood; what did that matter, when the Riveras had crafted shoes to fit some of the Land of the Dead's most influential celebrities?

After Día de Muertos, however, the nature of the household had begun a metamorphosis. Not only a house of shoes, it was now stretching to accommodate the striking sounds and rhythms that it had been long denied. No one, not even the stringent Victoria, could say that the addition of music to the family was unwelcome. It had always seemed just out of reach, riding on the coattails of a man whose face was a cryptic mystery to all but the apex generation. Now, with the inclusion of that man—that musician—into their lives, things had changed.

For the most part, things went on as they'd always been. One night hadn't been enough to fully change the shape of a lifestyle, despite being its catalyst. There were still orders to finish, designs to create, shoes enough to fill up the week from Monday to Friday. Even with it's inclusion, music hadn't torn the family apart from their duty. In that, at least, Imelda's fears were thankfully unjustified.

The stools at the long workbench were the same as they'd always been. Julio, Oscar, and Felipe sat at the same places they had in life, hammering soles or cutting leather beneath the low hanging electric bulbs. The empty stools stood waiting for family members in the living world who had yet to join them. Julio kept the patch of bench next to his own workstation clean, the stool free, for when Coco joined them. He was a patient man, but a fastidious one; everything would be ready for when the love of his life arrived.

Victoria's table stood in the corner, her old sewing machine taking up most of the workspace while a basket of thread and supplies sat near the antique foot pedal. She refused any offers to buy her a new machine, insisting that changing from the one she'd used for so long would ruin her work. She was efficient, despite the machine's limitations, and her expert skills could handle everything from intricately embroidered slippers to plain-stitched work boots.

Rosita didn't have a station, but instead moved between all of them to help out wherever she was needed. She was the family jack of all trades, her size doing little to hinder her movements as she bustled around the zapatería. She could be at the workbench sewing tongues, running between shelves with a legal pad and pencil to take inventory, serving customers through the large window that doubled as a counter, or working the polisher at a steady pace. She was always brisk and smiling, though now her work was punctuated with clear, bright humming.

One corner of the southern wall had been saved for Mamá Imelda's workspace, which served as a type of office. Her brothers had bought her an antique secretary desk for her 100th birthday, the kind that had a curved wooden lid that folded down to keep off the dust. A more modern two-drawer filing cabinet had been fitted beneath one half of the desk, the other half free for her legs when the wooden chair wasn't tucked beneath it.

The window above the desk gave the best light no matter what time of day it was, and there she sat for hours settling figures and writing letters to customers. A gas lamp sat on one of the desk's upper shelves, ready for overtime when the sun went down. Imelda had never enjoyed the harsh buzzing of electric bulbs when trying to work, and even with the strain on her eyes she'd rather work in near darkness then with headache-inducing white noise.

There was one empty corner between the desk and the first shelf of leather rolls; it had once held a coatrack, but the twins had commandeered that for one of their experiments and, after the resulting fire, hadn't been able to return it. That was now where Héctor sat, cloaked in enough shadow that he sometimes startled customers by standing too quickly. He'd chosen it himself on his first visit after the holiday, dragging the proffered chair into the corner and, as he put it, "out of the way".

It hadn't taken long for the Riveras to notice that Héctor's idea of 'out of the way' was usually synonymous with 'as close to Imelda as possible'. Tortolitos, Rosita called them, ignoring the absurdity of the term. As if Mamá Imelda, shoe tycoon and a familial force to be reckoned with, could be stripped down to something so childlike. It was like pouring hot sauce instead of cream into tea; the very thought of it was just plain wrong.

And yet, Imelda warmed to the músico faster than anyone (except, perhaps, the twins) had thought possible. It was awkward the first few weeks; they were like two gears that had once fit together seamlessly, only to be disjointed by rust and time. They were both perfectly civil to the other, overly polite and nervously stepping around any topic beyond what was happening in the moment.

That had graduated to sly glances when they thought the other wasn't looking, apprehensive smiles, fidgeting hands. He'd started against the shelf, but slowly migrated across the gap a little further each day until the chair was flush to the desk. The family was reminded of the proverbial frog in the pot, heated so slowly that it never realized it was cooking. They couldn't decide who the frog was in this situation: Mamá Imelda, Héctor, or themselves.

He eventually took the smallest possible corner of her desk for himself, pilfering a few sheets of paper and a pencil. He wrote songs, as far as they could see, scribbling away between bouts of playing his guitar. He explained that he only worked on them when he had bursts of inspiration, and that he was a little out of practice besides; before Miguel's arrival, it had been years since he'd even looked at a guitar.

No one was allowed to look at his notes, and he refused—firmly, but not unkindly—to play any melody he hadn't finished. He begged leave to wait until he was entirely through, and then they could be the audience to his first concerto in the Land of the Dead. They didn't have it in them to argue, making do with curiously watching as he muttered under his breath, running hands through his hair and tapping tempos with his fingers and toes. Oscar and Felipe were the only ones not surprised by this; he had been the same as a living man. There was, as they later explained privately, only one exception to his rule.

"Tell me what you think." There was always an old, tricky gleam to his eye whenever he said the words, handing Imelda a half-crumpled sheet. She would read it over with a neutral frown, blinking slowly as she followed his tilted script along the page. Only once did she ever look to be on the brink of something, her mouth slowly pursing before she met his gaze steadily.

"I think your chorus is too fast," she replied stoically, handing him the paper back. The family had slowed their work, not meaning to eavesdrop but unused to hearing something that seemed like teasing from their matriarch.

"Only as fast as the pounding of my heart, m— 'Melda." He'd actually winked at her, a satisfied grin on his face as he'd picked up his guitar and began the first chords of Un Poco Loco. Imelda had turned back to her figures, but not before the family had seen her lips twitch up into a smile. Moments like those only increased as their long, muted conversations after supper slowly turned towards lighthearted banter, often sounding suspiciously like flirting.

When Mamá Imelda wasn't around he still played to them, old favorites or requests. Today it was a cavatina he'd heard in the plaza, his fingers sliding along the strings as he plucked the notes from his memory and made the men—and Rosita, who'd stayed behind to watch the counter—a song.

The twins had subconsciously slowed their hammers to match it, the harmonic tempo trundling along as they worked in perfect sync with both each other and their cuñado. Rosita's polisher stuttered along, dipping in and out of rhythm as she sanded soles to a smooth finish. Julio's knife slid cleanly through leather, water dripping its own additions to their strange symphony as he wrung the sponge to dampen his work. The only things missing were the coarse scratching of Imelda's expensive pen, and the rapid-fire ticka-ticka-ticka of sewing machine's needle.

"We're home." Everyone halted as the door banged open, heads twisting to see what was the reason for such a violent entry. Victoria inched sideways through the door, both arms loaded down with plastic sacks from a number of stores. Imelda followed her, her face hidden behind more purchases.

"What on earth?!" Rosita's jaw dropped, her eyes darting as she took a quick inventory of the number of bags. Julio slid from his stool, knife dropping to the table as he rushed to help his mother in law. Victoria took the easier route, letting her arms separate from her shoulders. The sacks slid to the ground and she called them back, bones rattling as they flew up to snap into place. She gingerly rubbed one forearm, wincing.

"Mamá Imelda, what is all this?" Julio grunted as he took the brunt of her load, stacking them by the door. Some of them were heavy, his bones visibly separating from each other as the tension pulled them downwards. He made a face, hidden by his thick mustache. "I thought you two were just going on a supply run."

"We did," Imelda answered curtly, toeing one of Victoria's sacks back into place as it started to sag to the side. "We bought groceries, the sawmill and the tanner have their usual orders, and we even managed to get a few odds and ends knocked off the list."

"A few?" Oscar laughed.

"That looks a full shopping spree," Felipe agreed, browbones rising. It wasn't like their sister to waste money on what she considered to be frivolous expenses, but they couldn't believe the family needed everything that was in those bags. There was just too much; even if they were a larger household, they went to market at least once a week and never fell behind on groceries.

"It is," Victoria admitted, her mouth pursed in clear disapproval. "There was a sale at the fabric store, and someone just had to go inside and look at every single thing in every department." Julio's brow furrowed, and he opened one of the sacks to peer inside.

"Fabric… yarn…a quilting hoop?"

"She would have bought a loom, if they had one." Victoria shook her head, frowning. "As if we can't go to the store and just buy our clothes like anyone else."

"You don't waste a sale like that," Imelda scolded, hands on her hips. "Fabric doesn't go bad. You can use it whenever. And besides," she added, "store-bought clothes are a waste of money! You say all the time that nothing ever fits you right. If you let me make your clothes, they'd always be a perfect fit."

"Not everyone in this house wants to walk around in dresses that went out of style a century ago, Abuelita." Victoria crossed her arms. "And anyway, I can agree that getting one or two yards of fabric is fine. But ten yards of lawn in three different colors is excessive!"

"It was a good bargain." Imelda reached into another sack, pulling out the end of a bolt of wrapped cloth. "Lawn is good for Sunday best. We all need new dresses, and you said yourself the purple pattern looked very nice."

"If you're a grandmother."

"I am a grandmother, mija." Imelda squinted at her, letting the cloth drop. "Besides, you're leaving out the part where we visited the bookstore. That certainly wasn't my idea. Which reminds me." She turned to Julio. "You need to speak with your daughter about her excessive habits! She spent who knows how much on two bags' worth of those awful novelas románticas!"

"Ah… oh…." Julio chuckled nervously, fingering the edge of his collar. "I mean… if it's her money…."

"It was." Victoria held her ground, scowling. Héctor crept around her to listen in, fingers brushing his goatee as he curiously looked over the loot. "It's not anyone's business what I do and don't buy with my own savings." She lowered her voice, addressing Rosita. "I bought the one Doña Lara told us about the other day… Antes del Amanecer."

"Ooh!" Rosita giggled. Imelda set her jaw, glaring at the two younger women.

"In my day," she began, ignoring the way Victoria rolled her eyes, "In my day, a young woman would have been mortified to be caught dead with those vulgar novels! Why, I'm a married woman and I'm embarrassed to even look at them. If you wouldn't bring it into a church, you shouldn't bring it under my roof."

"Who said I wouldn't bring it into church?" Victoria retorted, barely hiding a smile as her grandmother gasped in horror.

"Victoria!"

"Oh, what does it matter?" she groaned. "You're the one who picked up that movie everyone was talking about not too long ago."

"What?" Imelda looked confused. "The Dove's Last Cry? Why were they talking? I saw it in the theaters, and I certainly don't remember there being anything wrong."

"It's suggestive," she quoted, fingers embellishing her words. "Every entertainment magazine was saying how the rating went up just because of one certain scene."

"What are you—oh!" Imelda's eyes lit up, and then she clicked her tongue dismissively. "That scene. That was nothing. Why, unless you have a dirty mind, you wouldn't know what it was about."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

"You doubt as you please." Imelda smiled at Héctor. "You and I can watch it tonight. I bought it on deev'd."

"Eh?" Héctor tilted his head. "A what?"

"A deev'd," she repeated patiently. Héctor had little experience with movies, and even she was puzzled when it came to newer terminology.

"A what?" Oscar exclaimed, baffled. He looked at Felipe, who shrugged.

"A deev'd! De-e-e-v'd!" She made a gesture with her hand. "You know! One of those little diskey-things! That's what they call it, it's on the box." She dug around in the bags, sifting through the reams of fabric before coming up with a flimsy case wrapped in plastic. "See?" she said, pointing to the letters over the title. Victoria peered at the case before sighing, rubbing her temple with the flat of her hand.

"It's DVD," she corrected, making a face. "You say the letters."

"Dee—what? Why?" Imelda scowled at the case. "What does Dee Vee Dee mean? That means nothing."

"It's an abbreviation," Felipe replied. "It's—"

"—Some English phrase, I think."

"Dee vee—tch!" Imelda threw up her hands. "First the Vee-Ech-Es, then the Dee-Vee-Dee. Next… what? A-B-C?"

"I'm going upstairs," Victoria muttered, pressing her palms against her head. "I've got a headache; I need to be alone for a bit."

"DVD." Imelda frowned at the back cover. "No matter what it's called," she vowed to Héctor, "we're watching it. Tonight!"

Héctor had never gotten into the whole movie craze.

For starters, there hadn't been any spare money. He and Imelda had scraped by for years on 'just enough', using eggs from her pet hen and vegetables from the garden to supplement scantier meals. Imelda had a knack for making something from almost nothing, the two of them silently scraping most of their share onto Coco's plate while ignoring their grumbling stomachs as best they could. Any money he managed to earn went towards their needs, and there had always been too many of those: the leaking roof needed to be fixed, Imelda needed cloth to make them clothes, the cupboards needed to be filled, Coco needed new shoes.

Besides, there hadn't been a theater in Santa Cecelia anyway.

On the road he'd been chasing dreams, not premieres. He and Ernesto moved on as soon as they finished shows, breaking their backs to get into one more club, to make their names known before moving on to something bigger, brighter, better. Even if they'd had the time, any money he could spare was sent home. He barely kept enough for his own needs, scrimping and saving anywhere he could for one more crumpled bill to send back with his love-filled letters.

After his death, he was too busy in different aspects to worry with movies. For the first year everything was fine—well, he was dead, but other than that—and he even managed to get odd jobs here and there to support his meager existence. And then… Día de Muertos.

Didn't you want to go back, amigo?

Was there home trouble? Is that why you're here now?

You can go back… can't you?

To let anyone know that he couldn't cross over was a death sentence… figuratively. No one wanted to hire someone that could be forgotten at any time. Los Olvidados were hinderances on the job—not that they tried to be, of course. Glowing bones, falling apart, losing strength and being unable to stand: it spelled disaster on a jobsite, and disasters were expensive. It was less costly to pay for advertising and turn away those who didn't have loving families putting up their photos. A person could hide it temporarily, but word always got around in the end.

No job meant no money, no money meant no house, no food, no nothing. There was nowhere to go but down, to live in dark squalor at the base of the river, in a place where no one wanted to be. Those who made it to Shantytown had no dead family to care for them, to hold their hands as they passed into the Final Death. They didn't even have living family who cared enough to make sure they were remembered. He became a charity case. Charity cases didn't get recreation, at least not the kind that costs money.

And so, he'd never really understood much of the appeal of the cinema. Oh, he'd seen clips here and there, of course. He'd even done a few years as a tour guide, showing excited skeletons famous actors' houses while spouting canned jokes that made his insides crawl. The Land of the Dead's entertainment industry was a cinephile's dream come true, newer actors and actresses staring alongside some of history's most famous movie stars in new features exclusive to the dead city.

But he'd never watched a full movie until after moving into the Rivera house. His first movie had been one of Imelda's favorites: La Diosa Arrodillada. The novelty of it had been cut by the sheer amount of living people on the screen; he wasn't used to seeing so much skin, and he'd honestly forgotten a little too much about what people looked like when they weren't bones.

He'd enjoyed it enough, but his real attention had been on his wife. It was actually more fun to watch her watch the movie, shaking her head at times in disapproval of Raquel's actions. I'd have never been as stupid as that girl, her expression had told him. I'd have never looked twice at that idiot of a man. His amusement was second to the excitement of just being close to her, close enough that the fabric of her skirts tickled the back of his hand when she moved. He would have gladly sat through twenty movies full of hapless Antonios, just to have her near him.

Thankfully, he didn't have to do that. Imelda had a small collection of movies, one of her rare 'modern' hobbies. She had died just before VHS tapes became popular, and so her movies were mostly Land of the Dead exclusives with a few living flicks thrown in after they'd been able to make their way—late, as with most things—to the other side of the bridge. This wasn't a problem for him; he found it easier to watch skeletons. There was less living flesh to distract him from the movie's plot, and there were certain situations that only people with exposed bones can empathize with. He thought he was dying of laughter when watching El Conductor, his wheezing drowning out the onscreen screams as the driver's skull bounced down a steep incline, the headless body working the streetcar controls to chase after it.

He even began to develop favorite genres. Mysteries were interesting, especially the ones full of twists where nothing, and no one, was exactly as they seemed. Comedies were lots of fun; the more slapstick, the better. Romances were okay; he didn't care much about sordid affairs or star-crossed lovers, but Imelda liked them. It was enough for him that she unconsciously snuggled up against his side during the mushy scenes, her fingers biting into his arm or his thigh during dramatic moments.

But his favorites were the action movies, the adventures with lots of treasure and daring heroes, the spy thrillers full of dapper men and glittering women, the western sharpshooter cowboys, the musketeers, peril at every corner and nail-biting tension that left him on the edge of his seat—he was spellbound every time. He could feel Imelda's eyes on him, watching him the same way he watched her during all those climatic lovey-dovey scenes, but he didn't care. She seemed content with the fact that he was enjoying himself.

The only ones he couldn't stand to watch were horror movies. To their credit, not a single one he'd seen had poisoning, or the Final Death, or anything like that. Horror movies in the Land of the Dead were full of chop shops selling body parts for profit, prolonged tortures where the unfortunate victims couldn't, wouldn't die, seedy gang members dismantling children in front of the parents' eyes and grinding them to dust piece by piece in the name of debt collection. Nothing he'd ever personally come across, and things he almost certainly… hoped… didn't exist in the real world.

Nevertheless, something about them unsettled him. He could be fine during the movie, jerking with shock whenever a jump scare flashed on the screen. He could be fine after the movie, chatting with Imelda before heading up to bed. But for weeks afterwards he would find himself waking from forgotten nightmares, his heart pounding as he frantically tried to piece together the darkness and remember where he was. His stomach ached every morning from these attacks, and he was exhausted from waking up multiple times each night. It was easier to just forgo the movies, to watch something else and leave the bony horrors behind.

From the pictures on the case, tonight's movie was another romance. He was fine with that; the week had tired him out a little. He'd hit a roadblock on his newest piece, the tricky chorus he was aiming for eluding him to the point of frustration. He wasn't in the mood to focus on a heavy plot; thankfully most of his wife's favorite romances were standard fare, from what he could tell. At least, she seemed to choose the ones that followed a certain pattern, and he'd only ever watched what she put before him.

There was a real reason for this: he didn't know how to work any of the equipment. The television was an old CRT, usually kept hidden in a cabinet until anyone wanted to watch something. It was bulky, heavy, filled with static and an entire row of buttons that he had no idea what to do with. If someone wanted to change the channels, another person (usually one of the twins) had to stand at the cabinet and twist the metal prong-antenna-thingies until the pictures showed clearly… or rather, clear enough that everyone could put up with it.

He tried not to even look at the black movie box. It sat on its own shelf: slim, sleek black plastic with even more buttons, flashing lights, and a clock with no hands. There were trays that popped out for the discs, or if the movie was another black plastic thing it had to be put into the rectangle holder door. And then if the movie started bouncing Imelda had to take it back out and wind the shiny tape back into the plastic thing and—it was too much, and looked too easy to break, so he didn't dare lay a finger on it.

Thankfully you didn't have to. There were other little boxes called remote controls (finally, a name that made sense) that you could do almost everything with. There were still too many buttons but he knew how to make the sound louder or softer, and that was all he cared about. Imelda gladly did the rest, which left him breathing a sigh of relief. If something broke, it wouldn't be his fault.

He half-reclined in his corner of the sofa, spine cradled in the gap between the back cushions and the right arm. Imelda had this weird thing on the back of the cushions; she called it an antimacassar, but it looked like a giant lace handkerchief. Whatever it was, it was scratchy and rubbed uncomfortably against his shoulder blades. She didn't like him moving it, but while her back was turned he stealthily folded it until the corner was just past his shoulder; any more and it would look uneven, any less and he'd have to sit as still as a statue to keep from feeling it against his scapula.

He looked around as he waited for her to finish up, taking a moment to appreciate the calm. After supper they usually went into the family room together, since the women liked to watch primetime television and the men often had nothing better to do. But whenever he and Imelda watched movies, the rest of the family was suddenly busy with their own personal projects. In trying to be subtle, they always made it too clear that they were leaving the two of them downstairs for some alone time; it was one of those things that no one commented on, but everyone knew.

Even though he treasured every evening he could sit with them after mealtime—part of the family, something he thought he'd lost forever—he found that he loved these quiet times just as much. The Land of the Dead was loud, even if it wasn't a holiday. It couldn't be helped, with so many people crammed into one vertical space. There was always a party: weddings, birthdays, public dances, shows and plays. Not to mention the streetcars that ran twenty-four hours a day, their bells ringing and wheels scraping, wires buzzing as the air-trams flew overhead. Above all the rest of the noise there was the never-ending construction, always building more and more for the new arrivals.

He'd grown used to it, living on the streets. Even in Shantytown there was the pulse of the city above, the water below, and the muted conversations trickling from thin walls. But here, in an actual neighborhood of houses and family-owned businesses, nighttime was nighttime again. It was peaceful, quiet enough to hear his thoughts, the windows covered with shades and curtains to block out the city lights.

It was cozy, he decided. Cozy didn't always exist everywhere you went, but movie nights were cozy. The dining area, visible through the open entryway, was dark. A single florescent bulb over the kitchen sink remained lit constantly, but from the family room its light was a pale reflection off the dining table. The tableside lamp cast the room in a warm glow through its cream-colored shade, a muted newsreel flickering on the TV screen. In the absence of sound, he could hear it prickling with static fuzz.

"There, now." The newsreel flashed, changing to a menu. He straightened as Imelda came to join him on the sofa, creating what he hoped was an inviting space between his ribcage and his arm. She ignored it, taking her usual spot in the center cushion with her skirts folded demurely around her legs. He didn't let it deter him; this was a normal occurrence. He wasn't sure if it was her personal pride, a sense of modesty, or some other lingering emotion that had her putting space between them. It was a fruitless effort, no matter the reason; she always managed to gravitate towards him as the movie went on.

"A ver—" She squinted at the remote, finding the arrow keys and moving through the menu. He watched her with a sense of pride, a warmth that swelled to fill his ribcage. Mi esposa inteligente…. He smiled to himself; it was only recently that he let himself start thinking of her as his wife again. Before the holiday she had been Imelda: a woman he loved, but was entirely detached from. She'd wanted nothing to do with him, and he'd tried his best to honor her wishes no matter how much it hurt.

But she'd called him the love of her life, her love—hers. He was possessed, and could possess in return. He could call her his, now, without guilt or pain. At least, he could in the back of his mind. It was still too early to make those kinds of sentiments known… wasn't it? After all, they'd only recently graduated to goodnight kisses: one peck before separating, her to her bedroom and he to the guest room. For some that single kiss might have been little more than a tease, but he cherished it. Even that was more then he'd dared to dream of, living apart from her. He'd grown so disillusioned with his life that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to hope.

"I'm excited to see this movie again," Imelda admitted, pulling him from his thoughts as the first preview began to play. She settled against the cushion, the remote on the empty seat next to her and her hands in her lap. "Suggestive," she snorted, allowing herself to be derisive while they were alone. He'd noticed that while she played the maternal figure, she kept back many of the emotions he knew she was capable of. "I need to tell that to Lucía when I call her. We saw this on one of our ladies nights; I'm sure she'd have liked it a lot more if it had been suggestive."

"She really hasn't changed at all, then." He knew Lucía from his Santa Cecelia days. She was Imelda's oldest and closest friend, both in life and in death. He hadn't reunited with her since coming to live at the house, and was a little afraid to meet her again; from what he could remember she hit harder than Imelda, and wasn't afraid to wield whatever was closest as a makeshift weapon. She was sure to have a few words about his leaving town, no matter how happy she might be to see him again afterwards.

"Oh, you know her." Imelda shook her head. "She'd stand in the street, in broad daylight, and watch…" she hesitated, looking to the entryway before lowering her voice, "pornografía, if she knew she'd get a good laugh out of it. And we both know Fernando wouldn't lift a finger to stop her, either." Héctor had to agree; he hadn't seen Fernando in a century, but the man had always been more than lenient towards his wife.

"You wouldn't?" he asked, unable to help teasing her just a little. After all, it wasn't as though anyone was around to hear them talking…. "Watch, I mean." Still, moment he said it he realized that it sounded risqué. Her resulting expression was unreadable; she was shocked, but he couldn't tell whether it was from the nature of the question itself, or the fact that he'd asked it.

"I—of course not!" she hissed. Even without flesh, he could still tell that she blushed. "I'd never watch someone… watch them… do…" she struggled, caught between the modesty she was taught and the words that she knew. She gave up after a moment, switching gears.

"And besides, those books are bad enough, aren't they? Writing it all out, as if they want you to imagine it happening; why anyone would want to read something like that I'll never understand. They lure you in with an honest romance, and then you have to wade through acts that are better left behind closed doors. Why, in our day a woman didn't know about that until her wedding night; we were probably better off for it, in my opinion."

"Hmm." His jaw worked as he tried to decide whether or not to say what was on his mind. Oh, what the hell. "You seem to know an awful lot about what's in those books," he pointed out. She glared at him and he held it, waiting; she broke eye contact first, clearing her throat guiltily.

"I might have looked in one or two… but with good reason! After all, my granddaughter is reading them. I wanted to make sure there was nothing too inappropriate. What I saw shocked me, but Julio is bound and determined that she can do as she pleases. I just hope Coco has more sense."

"You didn't like any of them?"

"Shh." She turned her head, focusing squarely on the television. "The movie's starting." He grinned, obediently falling silent as she turned up the volume. It was one of the newer movies, shot in brilliant color and full of both old and new faces. He prided himself on being able to pick out stars from other movies she'd shown him, even recognizing one he'd only seen in living pictures. And, as he'd predicated, it was the usual spiel.

The plot centered around two families. In the Land of the Living they're business partners and good friends, united by the young love of Jonas and Edita. However, in the Land of the Dead they're bitter enemies, and have been for countless generations. The night before their wedding, the opening credits announced, the two swerved off the road in a terrible storm and fell to their untimely deaths. They awoke in the Land of the Dead, startled and confused, only to learn of the terrible past history of their families. Torn apart, they're told to renounce their love for the sake of family, duty, and honor.

Héctor watched their plight with his usual detached interest, chuckling under his breath at some of the youngsters' dramatics. Jonas was ridiculous and Edita absurd, but it was to be expected. After all, they were young and in love; when the two were combined, intelligence might as well be nonexistent.

Even though they were the same age as him physically, he couldn't help but watch with the mentality of his hundred-plus years. But he couldn't really blame them, either; he remembered that euphoric high, the near-obsessive passion that blocked out all common sense. Young lovers were reckless, which was why parents were expected to stand in and stop them from making life-altering mistakes. Not that true love was a life-altering mistake… they were just going about it in the wrong way. If they'd all—adults and kids—sat down to talk it over, there wouldn't be any conflict. But then, he considered, there also wouldn't be any movie.

Imelda rested her head against his shoulder, a sigh brushing across his ribs. Her focus was on the screen, but she'd already managed to work her way across the cushion and into the crook of his arm. He draped it across her shoulders, welcoming her touch and wondering if the sigh meant she was tired. She had fallen asleep on him before, during other movies; he stayed still until well after the credits had rolled, holding her against him for as long as she slept. He would have gladly remained there all night, the cadence of her breathing reminding him of the old days. She did wake up, however; he always pretended to sleep too, just to keep from embarrassing her.

Just as he began to lose interest there was a fight scene between the two families. The movie began to resemble a telenovela as the mothers argued and spat insults, relatives from both sides coming close to engaging in a public fistfight while the two lovers looked on helplessly. It came to a head when Jonas and Edita announced their decision to marry despite what the families thought, reminding them that if the living could bury the hatchet, the dead should be able to as well.

Good sentiment, bad timing, he thought as the altercation escalated even more. Kids really don't know when to keep their bright ideas to themselves, do they? The plot thickened even further as the two made plans to elope in the dead of night, sneaking out of their houses and running away together. Jonas made it alright, but Edita had to scale the side of her family's cliffside hacienda. It was a straight drop to the river, countless stories below; halfway down the outer wall her heel snapped off in a brick, leaving her dangling in the air until Jonas came to save her.

"She should have never chosen old heels for climbing," Imelda mumbled, shifting even closer to him. "Pobrecita… stupid girl." He glanced down at her, unable to see her face. The light caught the pouf of her wig, drawing his attention to it. He had the sudden urge to pat it down, to see how far it would compress. Or, even better, to run his fingers through it until the hair came loose, sliding to fall over the back of her neck.

He resisted, knowing she'd protest, and contented himself with resting his head there instead of his hand. It was thick and soft beneath his cheekbone, the way he could barely remember her real hair being in life. Who gave the dead such detailed instructions about something as nonchalant as hair? Who, he wondered, had told the powers that be to make sure his hair was wiry and untamable? The wigs had to have come from somewhere… some sub department of the city's sprawling bureau?

He nearly burst into laughter as the two lovers, penniless but married and determined, descended into Shantytown. That was the most un-Shantytown he'd ever seen in his life; it was absolutely ridiculous! Clean, perfectly built docks lined by neat, shabby buildings that clearly had floor plans, and weren't cobbled together from whatever could be found floating down the river.

Whoever had made the set had clearly never set foot in the actual neighborhood. Where were the houses built from little more than empty canvas and metal ridgepoles? Where were the gaping holes in the walkways? The strings of lights and scanty decorations where the Forgotten tried to make their houses as personalized as possible? The empty bottles, the crushed tin cans? The clotheslines?

And the people. No one in Shantytown looked so glum and gray, not like these actors and actresses shuffling around sadly in the background. They lived their lives the best they could, with laughter, games, music, and friends. They were a family, not a bunch of funeral-goers. He wished, somewhat sadly, that his old forgotten friends could be here to see this. They'd all get a real kick out of what the Remembered thought their underworld looked like. Chicharrón, especially, would have had a laugh; he could almost hear the old codger now.

Why the hell are they even in Shantytown? They're just poor, not Forgotten! Don't they realize they can just pawn off their offerings like anyone else? Or were they too stupid to bring more than the clothes on their backs?

At least the newlyweds acted the way most Remembered did when seeing Shantytown up close for the first time. They crept along the docks, jumping at the slightest sound and nearly falling in the water in an effort to keep from touching anyone or anything. As if being Forgotten was something catching, spread like a plague from person to person once they passed the graffitied gates. They found a woman—her bones not the right shade of yellow, and her markings still too bright—that rented them a room for the night. Another discrepancy; there was no renting what was always freely given. Folks helped others in need in the slums, they usually didn't ask for money. There was no telling if they'd be around long enough to spend it.

"Relájate, mi amor. It's our wedding night, after all." Yeah, Jonas. Lighten up. He was acting like they were going to be jumped and mugged at any minute. What a joke. He let a breath sputter across Imelda's hair, rolling his eyes at the theatrics. At least Edita was more realistic, trying to relax and make the best of things. That was the real Shantytown way.

He nearly lost it when the camera panned to a bed in the room, holding his breath to keep from startling Imelda with helpless peals of laughter. No one in Shantytown would bother with owning a bed; the mattress would mold with the first flood! Everyone slept in hammocks: a cocoon made from an old tent or even a quilt was easy to raise along with floodwaters. Besides, if the water rose high enough the bed might be carried away entirely.

They stood together by the bed, hands locked as they renewed their vow of everlasting love. More sweet sentiments, but who was there to hear them? They were all alone in a dusty shanty. Perhaps that was the point, but a part of him couldn't be bothered to care. It would have been different if Shantytown was some hellish existence. He'd seen worse, sitting in the holding cells of prisons on Día de Muertos and waiting for daybreak. Those people—the murderers, the drug lords, rapists and thieves—had their own communities, nestled in the crooks and crannies of the city. If they'd wanted a sympathetic reaction from him, they'd have sent the lovebirds there instead.

He lost interest when they started to kiss, wrapped in the sweet caress of young love. His mind was still absorbed over the bed detail, wondering if he should start advocating for proper Shantytown exposure in film. Who would he send a complaint to? The studio? They could at least do proper research if they wanted to include it in their movies. People did live there, even if they'd never see the film they were being portrayed in.

And wasn't it false advertising? Why, if that's what everyone thought the shanties looked like, wouldn't they be in for a surprise when—

His mind blanked at the sound of a sudden, sharp, obvious feminine moan. That was a sound he hadn't heard in quite some time, but still knew exactly what it was. His head jerked, his attention instantly back on the movie. What on earth?!

"I never want this dream to end," Edita said, laying back on the bed. The faded quilt and overstuffed pillow did little to mar her beauty, brown hair spread just so to frame the adoration in her eyes. Ah, so that's what they had to put the bed in there for? Maybe he hadn't seen that many movies, but that was just a little… cheap.

"It doesn't have to." Jonas had lost his shirt between cuts, it seemed. Héctor's browbones rose, along with a bubble of laughter in his throat. The two began to kiss passionately, limbs tangled as they lay together on top of the quilt. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, not wanting to sound immature. This must be the scene they were talking about earlier. Well, all things considered… it wasn't so bad. He didn't know much about movie ratings, but this didn't seem to warrant a—

Oh.

Could—Could they really show that on TV? What if there were children present in the audience?! That was a very creaky bed, and certainly some loud breathing, and those shadows on the wall were—ay, Jonas! Think of your back, amigo! He could certainly understand now why others had called it indecent; anyone with a brain and two ears could tell what was clearly going on in that shanty!

Imelda, this is highly suggestive! Even you can't say no one would realize what's happening!

Imelda didn't seem very shocked by the scene at all. She wasn't even paying much attention; she shifted on the cushion, trying to yank her skirts out from under her leg without standing up. She managed to untangle her feet, adjusting the fabric to rest on her knees before leaning back against him. Her hand landed on his thigh and he froze, eyes widening. It was an innocent gesture, one she'd done plenty of times during movie night. But right now….

He swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware of her body. She was close; why had he never noticed how close they were? He could feel the curving rise of her ribcage, expanding to press into his with every breath. Her fingers felt absently along the outline of his femur through his pants, tracing the pinstripes. She rested her cheek on his shoulder again, the top of her head nestling beneath his jaw. Another little breath ghosted over his ribs; this one seemed to linger, highlighting the edges of every bone.

Oh. His mind slowed to a crawl, unable to move past the one word. A spark slipped down his spine, tickling the vertebrae before settling into his lower pelvis. Oh. He blushed, the heat radiating in the place where his ears used to be. He barely had time to brace himself before a shiver ran through him, tingling like the shock from an exposed telegraph wire. Every part of him was on fire with something he could almost name, centered around the parts where their bodies rested against each other. He hadn't felt this way in years, decades.

He closed his eyes, trying to get some semblance of control. Memories flashed in the back of his mind, as if waiting for him to let his guard down: Imelda. The Imelda he'd known, the Imelda he'd dreamed about, coveted, delighted in. Memories he'd pleasured himself to, alone in the hotel room while Ernesto was out finding his own entertainment. He could still recall the sweat on the back of his neck, muscles clenching as he gasped out her name, her latest letter pressed against his heart.

Imelda, her skin warm and supple—soft, perhaps. He thought he could remember it being soft. Her dark hair, so long that it seemed to go on forever and ever when he wound it in his hands. He loved burying his face in it, hiding in it, breathing in the fragrance of kitchen and sunshine and woman. The freckles along the rise of her breast, darker where her dress exposed them to the sun. The sharp angle of her collarbone, tracing out a premade line for him to kiss. Her eyes, shining up at him in the dark from their bed, her gown glowing in the moonlight, his hands two dark splotches that smoothed the fabric up her legs.

There was no sense in thinking about that, he tried to assure himself. It's not like he could have that again. His traitorous mind obeyed, changing the scene and sweeping the rug from beneath his proverbial feet. Imelda, her skin replaced by gleaming bone, silver trails highlighting her hair. The same smiling eyes, the same angled clavicle; her body bared for him, only for him. In his mind he bent over her, their ribcages sliding without the soft friction of clothing to separate them. It shouldn't have been as arousing an image as it was; maybe he'd just forgotten the joys of flesh, trading them for touches he could imagine more easily after a hundred years in a bonier body.

Want. He wanted her.

He glanced automatically to his trousers, but of course there was nothing amiss. He didn't have the anatomy to give himself away anymore; everything was as shapeless as ever, cinched around his hipbones by the rope he'd won in a card game. The heat in his stomach clenched, a delicious ache; he set his jaw, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. Ay, dios… he needed to move. But there was no excuse to try and adjust himself; he didn't even have anything to adjust!

It shouldn't have surprised him. He should have been ready for this. He wasn't some innocent, bumbling teenager on his first foray into the adult world. He'd known good and well that sex didn't die with flesh. He was a man, after all; he'd heard plenty of braggarts embellishing their exploits in the local bar. And his Shantytown neighbors had sometimes been the frisky sort; thin walls had given him plenty of reasons to visit primos on the other end of the docks.

But in those situations, sex was an avoidance. He hadn't wanted to hear about how many women had been unlucky enough to lie with Anthony, and he certainly didn't want to hear the things Tía Kate screamed when her boyfriend had her up against the wall. How long had it been since he'd thought about pleasure for pleasure's sake? A hundred years, his body informed him, burning. A century without her, and now she's here—

Here in body, yes, but also watching a movie and completely oblivious to him. Physical urges in the Land of the Dead were a matter of conscious thought. They were just bones, at the end of the day, no matter if their soul or memories or… whatever they could be called resided with them. Bones didn't get hungry, thirsty, hot, or cold. Not on their own, anyway. It took a certain mentality to get in the mood, as it were. When it was summertime they felt hot, because they expected to feel hot. When there was food in front of their faces, they became hungry.

Apparently, the same could be said for desire as well.

Imelda was clearly not in the same boat, or if she was she hid it a little too well. There was a strong possibility that even if he did tell her about his feelings she would be puzzled, or at least not in the mood… quite literally. And it was a little embarrassing, to admit that a movie scene was what got him into this state—he'd been the one teasing her about watching dirty films. Not to mention they were still taking things slow. It was a big leap to go from one kiss per day to lovemaking, and she probably wouldn't be willing to skip so many other, equally important steps. It would be like… oh, what did the kids call it nowadays? A fling?

He consulted his options, no longer the least bit interested in the movie. The kids could both go to their Final Deaths and he wouldn't shed a tear. He had more important matters to consider. He could continue to do nothing, but to do that was to suffer. He could tell her outright—no, bad option. He could make an excuse to get up, leave the room, cool off. A better option, but still bad. What excuse? There was no restroom to excuse himself to. A drink of water? The kitchen was too close to walk off these urges.

What if he… indulged?

He glanced at her, looking up and down her body. She looked so tiny; even her feet dangled above the floor, her legs not long enough to reach the ground. It was so cute, how itty-bitty she was. Even her tiny hands, the perfect little fingerbones that could run through his hair or trace the designs on his face, or slide in the gaps between—

Focus, Héctor.

He needed something mild: enticing, but enough to sate his hunger. The trick would be picking something that would keep her in the dark; he didn't want to bother her or make her move away. A voice, small but imploring, piped up in the back of his mind. This is a bad idea…. True, but he'd had worse. Besides, he was the king of bad ideas. One more wasn't going to put him in the grave… again.

What about a kiss? That could work. Imelda liked kisses, mostly. Sure, she complained when he covered her face in enthusiastic smooches, but this would be smaller scale. Something simple, chaste, indulging himself without frightening her away. Now, what was the most unsexual place to kiss her? He glanced her over once more, unable to trust himself with anything below her neck. He knew his own limits.

Her cheek? No, that wouldn't work; it was too close to her mouth. Ditto for her nose and chin. The forehead was a viable option, but too hard to reach. He needed something he could aim for without moving from his spot. The patch of bone between her hair and forehead seemed to call out to him. ¡La sien! Of course! He bit back a smile, leaning down to plant one firm peck to the side of her head.

Never had a simple kiss been so difficult.

It became a hands-on test of his restraint from the start. The warmth inside of him sputtered, startled, and then flared even brighter. He had to resist the urge to nuzzle into her hair, or squeeze her, or prolong the contact in any way. It seemed natural, almost instinctive, for him to seek her out. She was taunting him without knowing it, her body so close and yet off limits. He couldn't ask her to cuddle, not like this; he was barely keeping control as it was.

He forced himself away, putting the same distance between them as he tried in vain to watch the movie. He was utterly baffled at himself, not sure why he felt so… hot. He couldn't remember being like this as a living man. Was it just because it had been so long? Or was it that after he started thinking about it, it was the only thing he could think about? A vicious circle, that's what it was. The more he thought about it, the worse he felt, and the worse he felt the more he thought about it.

Imelda stirred, the kiss enough to take her attention away from the movie. He nearly whined, his body protesting as she pulled away just enough to look up at him. Her eyes softened in a smile, accepting his affectionate gesture for what it was. He tried to return it, not wanting to startle her. His heart pounded in his throat—at least it felt that way, even if he didn't have a heart—and the discomfort of it must have shown somewhere on his face.

"Héctor?" The smile faltered, wavering at the edges as her browbone creased. "Is something wrong?"

"N-no!" he assured her, only to wilt at the hoarse rasp. That was not the voice of someone at ease, trying to enjoy a movie. Her eyes widened, blinking and uncertain, before narrowing into a familiar expression he'd seen countless times before. What's going on? Her mouth pursed, forming a thoughtful frown as she studied him. He tried again to smile, a nervous chuckle spilling out of his throat.

Shit. She knew that laugh, just as well as he knew her expressions. He all but trembled on the cushion, his heart sinking as he waited for the hammer to fall. She was going to find him out, and then what? Laugh? Oh, if only that was all he had to worry about. What if she was repulsed with him? Or even worse, angry? That would probably be it. She'd get angry, and kick him out with instructions to never come back to sully her doorstep again. That'd be the end of it.

Good going, Héctor. You ruined everything again.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that when she moved, he automatically flinched away. His eyes scrunched, preparing for the first wallop of her boot against his undeserving head, but it never came. Instead, he felt something lukewarm and familiar against his chin. Wait. Wait, wait, wait… wait. No boot? Not anger, or disgust, but… reciprocation? He cracked one eye to see her smiling again, one hand resting lightly on his sternum.

"Uhm…" he managed to croak, as eloquent as ever. Their eyes met and it was her turn to laugh awkwardly, her hand jerking from his chest as though her fingers had been scalded by the inferno melting his nonexistent guts. She looked away first, trying to smooth hair behind an ear that didn't exist.

He choked, overwhelmed with how adorable she could be. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't resist her charms; what man would be unmoved by something so sweet and lovely? There wasn't enough resolve in the world, much less his own bones, that could keep him away so long as she was happy to have him there. It took everything he had in him to keep from pinning her to the cushions, swallowing her startled gasps and reminding her of what they could accomplish together.

"I didn't…" she trailed off uncertainly. His mind was still spinning its wheels on the fact that she wanted to kiss him; before he knew it, they were both mumbling over each other.

"I'm sorry! I didn't realize—"

"I guess I should have asked—"

"You don't have to—"

"I just thought—"

"We can, still." Bad idea! The little voice in his mind was stomping its feet, but it was quickly being overrode by another, louder one. Do it again, that voice chanted. Do it again, do it again please, I won't mess up this time, do it again, Imelda— "Imelda. I-If you want to." They stared at each other, his hand squeezing the life out of his right wrist. He pressed until the bones protested, waiting as patiently as he could muster for an answer.

There was a sharp pop of gunfire and he jumped in his seat, gasping; he'd forgotten entirely about the movie. Shooting a gun at a dead person? He turned without thinking, wondering who would be dumb enough to do something so pointless, and then froze as her fingers brushed the side of his face. She turned his head back, her poignant little frown scolding him for taking his attention away from her.

"I want to." Her voice was just above a whisper, barely audible over the movie. He didn't have the sense to reply, mouth falling open at the words. The way she was looking at him, the lamp behind her illuminating a halo around her head… oh, mi diosa. He was at her mercy, surely she knew that. He could only nod dumbly, forcing his fingers apart and opening his arms to welcome her back into his embrace. She leaned up to meet him, head tilting automatically even though there wasn't any danger of bumping noses, not anymore.

He completely melted at the first touch of her lips, mind blanking as her fingers traced the prominent yellow designs on his cheek. His eyes slid shut, leaning drunkenly into the touch as ripples ran up and down his spine. It was hardly more than their usual nightly kiss, only on the sofa instead of in the hallway. He'd been content with it—should be content with it now—but it wasn't enough. He wanted to press into her, to caress her, move against her, experience her.

He wanted more.

She rested her forehead against his, their breath mingling. For the first time, the thought hit him that she might, just might be interested in more than a little kiss. Her hands smoothed over the rumpled collar of his shirt, her eyes opening to see him watching her closely. She leaned back and he followed unthinkingly, not wanting to separate after just one kiss. He didn't want to stop, not now that he'd had a taste of what he'd been missing for the better part of a century. Was she rethinking her earlier statement? Had she changed her mind, or was she giving him the chance to say no?

"Imelda, más—" He hadn't meant to say it aloud, the imperative dying with a whine in the back of his throat. He felt the sting of embarrassment, not enough to stop the desire curling at his bones. It was sprinkling water on a raging fire, producing nothing but a bit of steam that manifested in a hot blush she couldn't even see.

An apology stood ready, but before he could voice it he fell back against the arm of the sofa, hands fumbling to find purchase on the faded upholstery. He'd been worried about losing control and pinning her, but now she was trying her hardest to pin him. He hadn't expected her to jump on him, her weight nothing compared to a flesh body but still substantial enough that he could enjoy her, kinetic energy and cloth warming what would otherwise be solid, cool bone.

"Imelda?!" he managed to sputter, twisted sideways on the sofa. She made a desperate little noise in return, her arms looping around his neck as she kissed him fiercely. It wasn't the kind of kisses he was used to from her, the pressure of her mouth hard enough to hurt if it hadn't felt so damn good. The sound she made vibrated through his jaw, and he gladly surrendered the fight against his conscience. Everything in him was finally on the same page: don't stop.

He found his bearings, settling against the back of the sofa. He managed to find her hips, dragging her halfway onto his lap before giving up when she made a protesting noise. He instead cradled her jaw with both hands, taking control as he deepened the kiss. They battled for a brief moment, she trying to regain power while he sought to keep it. Her frustrated hands grabbed at his vest, distracting him as he tried to find the right angle; it was hard without a tongue or noses to guide him, but he somehow managed. Her answering moan was a white flag, fingers digging into his upper arms.

"No," she muttered irritably when he broke the kiss, his hand guiding her jaw. He ignored her, running on autopilot as he turned his attention to her bodice. He hadn't thought much about it before now, but he wanted… he wanted to…. He watched his hands as they slid over her shoulders, tracing the outline of her collar. She looked down as well, eyes slightly dazed as his fingers began counting the ribs exposed by the low cut of the cloth. He smoothed the patterned fabric, following its curve to the flat ribbon cinching the dress at her waist.

"I don't… not anymore…." Her mouth twisted, lipstick smudged at the edges. He wondered if some of it had rubbed off onto him; a thrill ran through him at the thought, still able to mark his body even if he didn't have skin to tease.

"Who cares?" Who needed breasts, when the sloping curves of her ribcage were his to explore?

"Tch." She scowled, only to bite back a gasp when he pressed his fingers into the gaps between her ribs. The fabric pulled taunt against her bones, outlining them in dark shadows of purple as he counted them, all the way back up to her clavicle. She murmured something under her breath, panting softly as he leaned down to kiss the top of her sternum.

"Hmm?"

"N-nothing." She averted her gaze, chewing on the pliant bone that served for her lower lip. He waited, but she remained quiet. He went back to exploring her ribcage, running his long fingers over the bones offered up to him by her bodice. There were only three, not counting her collarbone, but he was more than happy with that. He followed their shape until he met the cloth, slipping through them to feel the undersides.

When even that wasn't enough he pulled her closer, his lips following the path his fingers had taken. He kissed over every rib, committing them to memory as his fingers traced them beneath her arms and around to her spine. She squirmed on his lap, her hands tangling in his hair to hold him still, or pull him back after he tried to move on to another spot. He tried to take note of what she seemed to like, but the friction of her hips though their clothing was driving him wild. He began to rock unconsciously, trying to prolong the contact even as he fought to keep still.

"Héctor, what—" Her voice was breathy now, sending a shudder through him.

"Te necesito." There was no point in beating around the bush now. "Quiero hacerte el amor." Her eyes bulged, mouth falling open. It took a lot to render Imelda Rivera speechless, and he took some pride in the fact that he'd managed it at all.

"Here?!" she managed to stammer, her eyes flitting nervously towards the entryway; its wide, curving arch offered a perfect view for anyone coming through the kitchen. "Héctor, w-we can't! Someone—they'll hear—"

He said nothing, leaning past her skirts to reach the remote. He barely glanced at it, his thumb finding the volume button. He turned up the movie to a louder, yet still acceptable level. With any luck, the others would think that they just couldn't hear the quieter bits. He glanced back at her, brows raising silently for her approval. She sighed, looking between him, the TV, and the entryway before shaking her head firmly.

"I—no. No, we can't." She gathered her restraint, both hands on his chest as she pushed him back against the cushion. "Someone's going to hear, or see, or—"

"They leave us alone for a reason," he pointed out blithely, his palms smoothing over the rise of her hips.

"Not this reason!" It was easy to tell that she was a blushing mess, even without the blood rushing to her cheeks. "For heaven's sake, Héctor: I'm a grandmother, I can't be—I'm not—"

"You're Imelda to me." He watched her in the lamplight, the flashing TV playing with the shadows on her skull. "Besides, I'm a grandfather. What does that matter?"

"W-what does it matter?! We're supposed to be… I don't know!" She threw up her hands. "Old, or something!"

"We are old." He hooked one finger under her clavicle, drawing her forward. She followed, protests dying in her throat as he kissed up towards her neck. "Please, Imelda." She groaned, eyes screwing shut, and then with an impatient growl she jerked the remote from his hand. Muting the TV, she turned her eyes to the ceiling. He mimicked her, the two of them listening to the marked silence. There wasn't a peep from upstairs, not even the creaking of floorboards.

"This isn't right." She unmuted the TV, jaw working as he settled her on his lap. Her knees dug into the cushion on either side of his bony hips. "We shouldn't." Her hands shoved at his vest, pushing it off his shoulders. He let go of her long enough to slide his arms through the sleeve holes, letting it pool behind him. She cupped his jaw in her hands, pressing kisses to his willing mouth. "We really shouldn't…."

"Then stop, mi amor."

"Hush." She grabbed the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp. "Don't… call me… that," she muttered around his frantic kisses, eyes fluttering shut. "Don't… Héctor—"

"That's what you are." He nipped at her collarbone, grinning when she squeaked. He'd missed all the sounds she used to make, wondering if she remembered them as well as he did. He'd gladly spend hours finding out, if she let him… "You said it yourself."

"I never—" She gulped, her breath ragged as she fisted handfuls of his hair. "I only said—"

"I know what you said." He rested his chin on her sternum, thumbs drawing circles on her hips. "The love of my life, that's what you said."

"I was just saying things!"

"I don't believe you." He gently tugged, drawing her down to kiss her neck, her cheek, her lips. "Tell me, Imelda."

"Hmph."

"Tell me." His hands reached down, searching for the hem of her dress. There wasn't time to undress properly, but he doubted she really cared about that right now. She'd probably complain more if he did try to take her clothes off. As if that would matter at this point; anyone walking by would know exactly what they were doing, with his shirt gone and his neckerchief wrapped in her questing fingers. "I can't do anything until you tell me what you want."

"You alre—"

"I can't have you saying things," he teased, taking his kerchief and tossing it onto the other side of the sofa. She huffed, pouting.

"I… you know."

"What if I don't?"

"H… hazme…" She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. "Hazme el amor."

"Sí." He gathered her skirts, reveling in how familiar the feeling was. "With pleasure."

"Shut up." She braced herself against him, boot scraping the side of the sofa as she lifted her legs to help free the cloth. He paused at her knees, reaching beneath the billowing fabric to feel her femurs. She shivered helplessly, the back of one hand pressed against her mouth to muffle the soft moan that escaped.

"More?" He looked up at her, asking permission both verbally and with his eyes. He'd never force her to do anything, not as long as it was in his power, but he'd forgotten just what she could do to him. She nodded, chest heaving. She was so beautiful, so fierce; he never understood why men said they wanted passive partners, when the real passion lay in her fiery responses. Maybe they were just made for each other, maybe that's why they worked so well.

He wished that he had a tongue, just to lick his lips and ease the tension. His hands gathered the fabric as neatly as possible, exposing more of her legs until he finally reached her pelvic bones. He stopped, awestruck and wide-eyed like a young boy experiencing his wedding night all over again. The shape of her was… perfect. He stared unblinking at the circular basin of her hips, wider than his own, their daughter's first cradle. Long before he'd ever known Coco she'd been here, resting in the embrace her mother's body made for her.

"What?" She craned her neck, trying to see over her skirts. "What is it?" She stared at her bones blankly; they were just another body part to her, like her limbs or her skull. She couldn't see the sweet, marvelous perfection that he could. Would she like his? Would she not care? He brushed those thoughts aside for the moment, focusing on her body.

They didn't have a lot of time; despite his objections, she hadn't been worried for nothing. They weren't alone, nor were they in the privacy of a bedroom. He couldn't linger the way he wanted, not if they were going to get done anytime soon.

"Can I touch…?" She gave a little shrug in reply, noncommittal.

"I suppose you'd want to, anyway." Well… she knows me, at least. He reached out and caressed the smooth plane of her right ilium, tracing the angled dip as it lowered to her ramus. He watched her face, letting the bones guide him down towards her center; her mouth twisted before parting, a broken moan slipping out as her hips rose to meet his hand.

"Does that hurt?" He ran his finger back and forth over her lowest point, stroking softly until she grabbed his wrist. He paused, waiting. "Should I stop?"

"No!" she cried, too loudly. "I—I mean, no, it's just…." She opened her eyes, her thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist. "It's been a long time for me, Héctor." She swallowed anxiously, her vertebrae jolting with the motion. "Longer than I've been dead," she admitted in a small voice.

"It has been for me, too."

"A hundred years…."

"Sí." He smiled reassuringly. "A hundred years." Her expression softened, overflowing with warmth and affection. He basked in it, happy to remain there forever; she had different plans, reaching down to the rope at his waist. Her hands brushed over his bone through his trousers and his earlier urgency returned, spurring him to hastily shove the suspenders off his shoulders. His hands joined hers, loosening the rope just enough to slide his pants down towards his knees.

"Oh." She stared at him, fingers pressed to her mouth. He winced, waiting for her judgement, but she didn't seem to notice. Her other hand faltered, reaching for him only to pull back at the last moment. Her mouth pursed and he suddenly imagined her kissing him down there, leaving purple imprints over every inch of his pubic bone. The thought was almost too much to bear, his toes curling into the throw rug as he pulled her towards him. Another time, perhaps….

It was only when he went to lift her that he realized one small, but important thing: he'd never done this before. At least, not like this, with no anatomy to speak of and even less of an idea about how it might possibly work. He hesitated, staring at their bones like two halves of a puzzle. He let out a low hiss, cursing the damn movie, its actors, producers, directors, and anyone else involved. They give him the bright idea, but left it up to the viewer's imagination! How was he supposed to know what to do?!

"What?"

"It's just…" He tilted his head. "Do you know how?" He thankfully didn't have to explain, as she joined him in staring at their lower halves. "I never thought about it, but I don't have… you know."

"I never thought about it, either." She frowned, and he grimaced in return. He was just as inexperienced now as he'd been their first time together—no, more than that! At least back then he'd had a basic idea of what went where! Wasn't instinct supposed to take over at some point? Did the dead not have any innate sexuality? "No importa."

"What!?" She rolled her eyes at his exclamation, wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling into his hair.

"No importa," she repeated, her voice lowered to a purr. He ached at the sound, twisting beneath her. "Bésame." He obliged, a moan rumbling in his chest as he slid one hand up to trace her spine beneath the dress. She inched forward, teeth teasing his neck as she straddled him, her hips—

Her hips.

They broke apart with startled yelps, shocked as their hips collided with a dull clunk. Imelda's hands bit into his shoulders, her eyes darting from his face to his chest. Neither one moved, their torsos meeting with each breath.

"Did you?"

"Mhmm." She took a sharp breath. "I did." Their eyes met and she gingerly moved, rocking against him. His head hit the back of the sofa, a soft groan escaping as his hands found her hips. Yes, there… ay that's it— From her little mewl of pleasure, she had to have been feeling the same thing he was. He pushed up into her experimentally, increasing the pressure on their bones until he couldn't stand it.

It felt nothing like the living world, but he was beyond caring. After a few tries they found a rhythm that left them both breathless, gasping and grabbing at whatever they could get their hands on. Her arms cradled his skull, face buried in his hair as he peppered opened-mouth kisses along her bodice. The sound of their bones scraping and clacking seemed loud, even with the movie; some tiny semblance of clarity had him reaching for the remote, bumping the volume up another notch.

He knew they didn't have the time to prolong anything, but he should have realized he wouldn't have lasted long anyway. It had been far too long; even without the wet heat of her living body, the raw pleasure eating its way up his spine was too much to handle. He thrust up to meet her, trying to hold her hips still as she ground against him.

That thudding sound… was that the sofa? He hoped not, but it sounded a little too much like they were being very loud. He kept waiting for her to say something, to stop them, but she only held him tighter. She felt so good, her entire weight pressed against him, surrounding him, rocking into him until he couldn't think of anything else but her, her, her. Mi Imelda, mi amor, el amor de mi vida, qué… qué—

"Héctor…" He made a sound, almost a whimper, as she moved to speak right into his ear. Her arms slid up beneath his, grasping at his shoulders. No fair, no fair! She couldn't say his name like that and expect him to hold out any length of time. But she wasn't through, whispering as she rubbed her cheek tenderly against his. "Te extrañé mucho—soy tuya—más, mi amor—te amo—"

The heat in the base of his spine arced and he knew it was too late, too fast, too much. He tried to say her name, to—what, warn her? beg her? Her hand covered his mouth, muffling his hoarse cry as her breathy laughter echoed in his ear. She knew, she did this to him, she was the only one who could ever reduce him to this, she knew and she loved it, she loved him— His back bowed, hips stuttering as he rode the delicious wave of white-hot pleasure coursing through him from head to foot. His heels dug into the rug, head flung back as he fought to fill his lungs with one good breath of air.

He slumped back against the cushions, pulling her with him as one final moan escaped with a sigh. He'd forgotten… he thought he'd remembered, but he'd really forgotten just what it felt like to be utterly sated, the sunny warmth of an afterglow. The exhaustion of the Final Death had nothing on this. A part of his memory suggested sweat, exertion, sore muscles, but he felt only sleepy and satisfied.

"Good?" She sounded smug, and rightly so.

"Mmmm." He opened his eyes, returning her grin with a lazy smile of his own. What had he ever done to deserve her? Even now he didn't deserve this, but only because he was resting before the job was through. He stirred his weary hips back into motion, slower but with firmer strokes.

"Again?"

"For you," he mumbled, one hand holding her steady while the other traced up and down her femur. "You didn't."

"I don't have to."

"But you want to?"

"I—well—"

"Let me show you." He sat up, or tried to, his feet sliding on the gap of hardwood between the rug and the sofa. "Let me show you how good it is, 'Melda."

"…Alright." She leaned forward, grabbing him in a tight embrace. She buried her face in her arm, releasing a shaky breath across his collarbone. He moved his hand to her spine, holding her close as he gently rocked them both. She felt so small like this, something to be held delicately, protected.

He remembered something, the memory old and hazy but still there, still tangible in the back of his mind. Imelda used to like…. He moved from her femur to her pelvis, carefully stroking along the inside of her rami. He searched lazily, intent on finding a certain spot but in no hurry to do so. The longer he kept looking, the longer he had a reason to hold her this close.

"Ah!" She smothered her cries in the crook of her elbow, a shudder rolling down her spine. "Héctor!" Ah, there it is. He rubbed tentatively on the spot, delighting in her barely muffled squeal. She broke her own rhythm, wriggling as the flat of his palm rolled over the entire length of her bone. Her hips moved with a new vigor, pushing her face further into her sleeve.

"Imelda…." He tapped out his new song there, fingers drumming that same tricky chorus to the beat of her helpless moans. Mi música, mi esposa, mi vida... eres mío, mi amor. It didn't take as long as he thought it would at all, her body curling into his with a painful, raw sound. He caught her, kissing her shoulder, her neck, her hair, anywhere he could reach as he eased her down from her own high. She clung to him, her frantic breaths sounding dangerously close to sobbing.

"Héctor." She turned her face from her arm to his neck, burrowing in as far as she could. "No me dejas." Nothing could tear him from her now, save herself. Even then, she'd have to personally kick him to the curb.

"No," he promised. "Never."

"Stay." He squeezed her to his chest, rubbing her spine soothingly.

"I will. I'll stay."

"Don't go."

"I won't," he assured her, kissing the side of her head. "Shh. I won't go, I promise." She sighed in relief, going limp against him. He hummed under his breath, closing his eyes as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. She was so vulnerable under all that spitfire; how could he have ever forgotten that? He sat there, fighting sleep, one ear open for the sound of movement from upstairs. He'd stay here as long as she needed, but… it was getting a little chilly without his pants.

"Your hair is a mess." And there she is. She untangled herself from him, smoothing back her own frizzed locks and fixing her rumpled bodice. One final kiss: a peck to wrap things up, the bow on a gift. She crawled off of his lap, heading back for her middle cushion.

"It's always a mess." He reached down for his trousers, hiking them up his legs and sliding the suspenders back into place. They could hold his pants up for the moment; he was too tired to bother with the rope. The movie was relatively quiet now that they were through, and he had no clue what was even happening on the screen anymore. He winced, praying that it was just a mind trick. Surely they hadn't been that loud… right? He slumped in the seat with a grunt, feeling the last flickers of passion sliding right out of his bones and into the floor. Like all sensations, once he was filled the need went away, ready for the next time.

Hopefully there'd be a next time.

"Oye." He glanced over at her, seeing that she'd put herself to rights far more quickly than he had. "Sleep in my bed tonight." It was a command, not a request, and one he had no qualms with. He nodded once, drowsy. "And don't think this is going to be an everyday occurrence, either. Just because you did good once—"

"I did good?" he repeated sleepily, a happy note in his voice.

"I—I mean—" He didn't even have the strength to tease her, resolving to doze until she told him to go to bed. Maybe tomorrow she'd recant her statement, especially since they'd already be in bed. The thought of snuggling up to her beneath the sheets was nice; they could curl up the way they used to, her little body fitting perfectly within his larger one. Or even better, she might fit herself around him, her arms wrapped around his chest. Either way would be great, better than great. "Héctor, are you listening to me?!"

"Mmhmm," he mumbled, not listening at all. "You said I did good."

"Ay."

#coco #disney pixar coco #dp coco #imector #Imelda Rivera #Héctor Rivera #my writing #oldie but goodie #fanfiction

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