#Imelda is not innocent but she isn’t entirely to blame either

[rogue205]

Re-watched Coco because why not and cried at the end with Miguel and Coco because why not. I love that movie.

Looked up some stuff here on tumblr and actually found a few posts claiming that Imelda is not at all responsible for what nearly befell Hector in the Land of the Dead. I disagree. She IS partially responsible but not entirely like some others claim.

The one who is directly responsible for what happened is actually Ernesto de la Cruz and we all need to remember that but Hector himself and Imelda also hold blame for the events leading up to the film. Hector freely admits he was wrong and states he is at fault because he left that day with Ernesto. He willingly walked out that door. And this is true. However that does not mean he deserved what happened to him. Or how rough his afterlife was until Miguel showed up.

Imelda on the other hand…. I guess I can kinda understand where she’s coming from because she is suddenly a single mother raising a young daughter in the 20s and that’s hard especially since it’s right on the heels of WWI and the Spanish Flu. Some argue that it was because she loved Hector so much and was so hurt by his perceived abandonment which led to the music ban and ripping him out of the Rivera family tree. And okay, I can see that.

BUT!!! From what the film shows us of Hector, what precisely led Imelda to lose faith and believe that he would ever just abandon her and their daughter? I mean all communication suddenly stops and suddenly Ernesto is singing Hector’s songs and using his guitar, even mangling and disrespecting a special song that Hector wrote for his young daughter. And Imelda apparently never gets suspicious about any of this? She just believes that her husband decided to run off and leave them instead of at least tracking him down to find out “wtf?!” and follows this by forbidding ANY and ALL mention of him in the family because she ASSUMED he’d appear on someone else’s ofrenda. Yes she was hurt and angry so that explains the music ban and the throwing herself into her new business but not how she treated her husband in the Land of the Dead.

And all of these actions led to Hectors near permanent death at the climax of the film because no one even knew of him in the living family except Coco. And all they did know of him was stories created through Imelda’s incorrect assumptions. Yes, she didn’t know they were incorrect at the time but she could’ve found out at any point during her afterlife. Only she carried her assumptions there with her and never let him explain himself even though it should have been obvious that something strange was going on given how he was just 21 when he died. She also never thought that was just a bit suspicious? She also never really takes any responsibility for what her actions nearly did to him even when he takes full responsibility for what HE did. And given what we saw of Hectors personality, she probably never had to.

But I reiterate that the TRUE bad guy here is Ernesto.

This is just my stance on the movie. You don’t have to agree but I am also not wrong because you don’t agree with me. Just because I disagree with those who try to completely exonerate Imelda of her own choices and actions regarding Hector doesn’t mean they are wrong either. I’m just putting my own opinion out there.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Best Man

Title: Best Man Summary: Ernesto couldn't understand what was it about Imelda that his best friend found so amazing. By the time he could, it was too late. [Modern setting, written for @appatary8523​] Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Imelda Rivera, Héctor Rivera. Imector, onesided Ernesto/Imelda. Rating: K

A/N: Appa asked for a serving of one-sided pining with some she's-about-to-marry-my-best-friend sprinkled on top, and I complied. Had a lot of fun with it, too. 

***

“Food poisoning.”

“Yes, I heard you the first seven times. I was actually the one who told you--”

“One time you go out of town on your own since last year, one time, and my husband winds up in the hospital with food poisoning!”

“Look, I tried to tell him that chorizo didn’t look all that great, but he was hungry and--”

“And so you just let him eat it while you steered well clear of it!”

“What, since when is it my responsibility to watch what he eats?” Ernesto huffs, throwing up his arms with dramatic flair. A guy sitting on the other end of the waiting room blinks blearily at him, clearly hungover. “Am I my brother's keeper?” 

Imelda rolls her eyes, but her lips curl upwards for the briefest moment, and Ernesto mentally marks it as a victory. “I’m not sure what made you think quoting Cain would come off as perfectly innocent.”

“All right, you got me. I tried to poison him. My plan was to leave him in a ditch and run off with his iPad and all the songs in it. So I could make it big, be a star, never think of him again.”

“Very funny.” A pause. “... Do you have it? The iPad? Because the last thing Héctor is gonna need is getting out of here to find out it’s gone.”

“Yes, yes, I have it. And the guitar. All in the car. Which might have a couple of new bumps...”

“What?”

“He was all green in the face, I panicked that he’d throw up again and hurried to the hospital.”

“Like cleaning our car would have been your problem.”

“No, but if he’d thrown up then I would have thrown up and probably crashed.”

“... Fair,” Imelda condedes with a sigh, and leans back on her seat. Ernesto leans back on his own, reaching up to fix his hair with a hand, turning to glance at the mute TV screen in the corner - anything to avoid looking at her. 

It’s better this way.

***

When he and Imelda met, Ernesto took slightly less than two minutes and a half to decide she was a dumb girl and he didn’t like her. 

To be fair, at age twelve he still found all girls to be dumb girls he didn’t like. That would partly change in the next several years - some girls were dumb, he’d declare then, but not in their face he did like them very much - but right there and then, there was nothing about Imelda he liked. And that was, he’d insist, in no way related to the fact she’d shown up out of nowhere, three years younger, and shattered his record by making a rock skip across the stream sixteen times.

The look of pure wonder Héctor had given her, the one that was usually reserved to him when he pulled out something, had been the last straw. Ernesto had immediately declared her a dumb girl and made sure Héctor promised not to talk to her, ever, lest he wanted to catch dumb girl cooties. His friend, who was eight and not especially bright - Ernesto would deny thinking that later on - had seemed a bit saddened, but he hadn’t argued, because he never argued with him. 

And, at least officially, he’d kept his word for a few years, until they were all older and even Ernesto had to grudgingly concede that it was a stupid promise and dumb girls cooties were not a thing. In truth, he’d actually been talking with her without him knowing, because he found her amazing for some reason Ernesto couldn’t comprehend. 

By the time he could, it was too late.

***

“Ay, Imelda, mi amor, mi vida. Come close to hear my last words--”

“Your next words had better be ‘sorry for being that idiota who gets food poisoning a week before the wedding, I will be back on my feet by then’.”

On the hospital bed, his skin still a rather unhealthy ashen shade, Héctor grins like a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. “I’ll marry on my deathbed if I must.”

A roll of her eyes, a smile she can barely hide. “Ay, you’re so dramatic.”

“Ernesto’s fault,” Héctor’s declares, causing Ernesto, still standing in the doorway - he let Imelda have the chair beside the bed, ever the gentleman - to protest.

“Wait, what?”

“You rubbed off me!” Héctor declares, dramatically.

Ernesto throws up his arms. Dramatically. “Oh, sure. Blame me for everything, why don’t you,” he huffs. “Maybe I’m too dramatic to be your best man, too.”

Héctor laughs. “Ah, never. There is no one else I’d ever pick to be my best man at the wedding.”

Lucky me.

The thought is bitter as bile and maybe something shows on his face; Héctor’s expression doesn’t change, but Imelda’s does. She doesn’t quite scowl, but her gaze is more attentive, and it is enough to make Ernesto feel like he’s under a spotlight… and not the kind he enjoys.

“... I’ll go get a drink,” he mutters, leaving quickly and realizing just a bit too late that a hospital is not the right place to go looking for alcohol. At least, not the kind you’re supposed to drink.

All right then, coffee. Coffee it is.

There is a café at least, and the coffee is halfway decent. He sits, takes out his phone, checks his emails and notifications-- ah, looks like a few people showed interest in his profile across a couple of dating apps. Three women, one man. Not bad at all when what you need is a boost to your ego. Two are nothing to write home about, the other two are… worth considering. Maybe later, after the end of next week once the wedding is done, Héctor and Imelda will be off to their honeymoon in Guatemala, and he will probably need some pleasurable company. And alcohol.

Large amounts of it.

***

“I really don’t get what you see in her.”

Ernesto’s grumble was met with a dreamy smile, a slow strum of a guitar’s strings. “Well, first of all, she-- hey!” he yelped when a tangerine smacked against his forehead and then fell back down on the floor with a sound that was more like a splat then a thud.

“That wasn’t a real question, cabrón,” Ernesto grumbled again. He sat back against an empty crate, watching as the vendors began to dismantle around them, another market day over. Soon enough the plaza would be mostly empty, before it filled again with people after dark. “And anyway, she’s not your type.”

“She is exactly my type!”

“And what is, pray tell, your type?”

The question caused Héctor to turn deep red and stammer, as though entirely out of words despite the fact he could always find all the right ones when sitting alone in a quiet room, a blank piece of paper in front of him. “W-well… she is smart, and… and beautiful…”

“That’s everyone’s type,” Ernesto snorted. “No one likes women dumb and ugly. Just dumb, maybe, but not ugly, unless you’re really that desperate and the lights are out...”

“That’s not-- ugh. If Sofía could hear you, she’d smack you over the head and you’d deserve it.”

“I’m just telling it how it is.”

“She’s… not like other girls!”

Ernesto made a face. “That line, really? Now you’re the one who’d be getting a smacking while being asked what’s wrong with other girls.”

Héctor’s face flushed crimson. “That’s not what I meant! I-- all right, that was-- not what I meant,” he repeated lamely. “She’s not like… anyone else. To me.”

“Oh?”

“She has this thing, like a… a spark, like--”

“Drive,” Ernesto muttered, without thinking. His fingers went to better tune his guitar, while Héctor nodded, brightening up. 

“Yes, exactly! She wants to accomplish something - start her own business someday - and she’s ready to work for it, and--”

And she won’t let anyone tell her she can’t do it.

“-- and I’m sure she can do anything she wants to do, she’s just like that, you know?”

“... Guess I know someone a bit like that,” Ernesto conceded, and tuned out any further gushing from Héctor’s part. All right, so maybe he could sort of see Héctor’s point with Imelda; she had ambition and drive and wouldn’t let anybody dictate what she could or could not do, and he could admire that. Plus she had turned out beautiful, which in his not-so-humble opinion helped.

There was hardly any pretty girl in Santa Cecilia Ernesto hadn’t hit on, often with some success, but not her. He had the uncomfortable feeling it would result in rejection; while he’d been rejected before, it was never a big deal because to each their own and some just have no taste. 

With Imelda, he suspected it might be different. He suspected it might actually hurt, and maybe it would be best to just… not find out whether or not it would be the case. 

It was just stupid. He would make a point to ignore her until it went away, that was all. Not that Héctor behaving like a crushing puppy helped, but that would pass, too; she was not his type. He’d either let go of his crush, or be burned, whine a little, and then move on. Simple as that.

Héctor couldn’t possibly be her type.

***

“What’s eating you?”

“Gah!” 

Ernesto recoils, the phone flying out of his hands. It slides across the table, and Imelda catches it before it falls off. Ernesto has precisely half a second to hope she didn’t get a look at the screen before she hands it back to him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Who’s María del Carmen?”

“A potential date,” Ernesto mutters, snatching the phone from her hand. He hopes Imelda isn’t going to press the matter, but of course she does.

“You can invite her to the wedding. You can still pick a guest to come with you.”

Yes, great first date idea. Sitting there with a stranger to watch you marry my best friend.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but Ernesto manages to fake a laugh convincingly enough. “Hah! Not my idea of a first date,” he says, swiping left as discreetly as possible before he locks the screen. “How’s Héctor?”

“Better, I think. Contrite enough. They’re keeping him under observation for the night.”

“Ugh. Here goes the plan to drive back this evening.” Ernesto makes a face. “How did you get here, anyway? We had the car.”

“I got a taxi.”

“How much did it cost--”

“Don’t ask. I’m doing my best not to think of that,” Imelda says, and they both chuckle. 

“Heh. Fair,” Ernesto concedes. “There is a motel right by. I’ll pay for two rooms. Before we go, can I offer you a--” he pauses, and turns to glance at what the small café has to offer. He makes a face. “... A coke, I guess?”

“I’d like that. With ice and lemon, thanks,” Imelda says, then leans forward. “Are you all right? You looked odd back there. Not food poisoning odd, but--”

“I’m fine,” Ernesto says, waving his hand dismissively. “Worried about the idiota I got myself as my best friend, I guess. I’ll get you that coke, and then we go get some sleep.”

They drink their cokes under the franky depressing neon lights of the hospital’s café, making small talk about the weather and music and whatnot; to Ernesto’s relief, no mention is made of the upcoming wedding. They drive-- well, Imelda drives them to the motel, all without incident.

Then, of course, the universe just has to make a big fat joke at his expense. 

“Only one room left, I’m afraid.”

Ah, for fuck’s sake. 

“I’ll take that for her. I’ll go sleep in the car,” he adds, holding out his hand for the key. She hesitates, glancing at guy behind the desk.

“No other rooms at all?”

“I’m afraid not. But it does have twin beds, if that suits you…?”

“Absolutely not,” Ernesto snaps at him. “The keys. I’ll sleep on the backseat, plenty of space.”

“It’s two separate beds, I think I can put up with it for a few hour--”

Well, I can’t. Not for one minute.

“Share a room with the future bride of my best friend?” Ernesto tries to grin like he finds the thought funny. “No can do, señorita. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Oh, come on,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You’ve seen too many movies. Héctor wouldn’t think for a second anything unbecoming happened.”

I know. That makes it worse.

“I’d really rather sleep in the car,” Ernesto insists. “Good form, no?”

A sigh, but she eventually relents and hands him the keys. “If you insist. But I won’t sit through endless complaints about your aching back during the drive back to Santa Cecilia, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Ernesto says; somehow he manages to keep up the smile. He puts his card down to pay for the room and after a quick ‘goodnight’ he heads outside, breathing in the cool night air.

There is a bottle of beer beneath the passenger seat, much too warm to be really enjoyable, but he opens it and gulps it all down anyway, sprawled on the backseat of Héctor’s car. Within a week, the car will take the bride to church - bumps and scrapes and all - and then drive off the newlyweds towards their honeymoon, leaving him behind to watch them go. They will be back, eventually, but they will be man and wife and Ernesto will need to live with that.

They’ve been an item for years. He ought to be used to it. It shouldn’t keep him awake.

We would never work, he thinks, we'd drive each other insane within months.

That's probably true, he knows, and thinking like that usually helps. Not tonight.

He wishes he had another beer or two or twenty at hand.

***

“Are you drunk?”

“Drunk with happiness, yes!”

“A date, you.”

“Yes!”

“With Imelda.”

“Yes!!”

Ignoring the sting of what he refused to identify as jealousy, Ernesto frowned. “You’re joking.”

“I would never!” Héctor laughed and did a half-twirl that almost ended in a tumble. “On Saturday! There is this movie that came out on Día de los Muertos, according to the critics Hollywood didn’t butcher the whole thing too much, and she wants to see it and I want to see it and so--”

“I wanted to see it too! You said we’d--” Ernesto tried to protest, despite the fact no such thing was discussed and he wasn’t very interested in the movie anyway. But this time, maybe for the very first time, Héctor entirely ignored Ernesto’s words. 

In the end, Ernesto just zoned out, telling himself it would be their only date, anyway. It would not last. It couldn’t last, and Ernesto would just let it run his course, only showing up at the end to help Héctor with his heartbreak, as any good amigo would do.

It was not their only date. Many more dates followed, then a relationship that, despite all the ups and downs, never caused the heartbreak Ernesto had expected. When Héctor decided to propose, his advice to wait fell to deaf ears; when he returned with a smile from ear to ear to let him know she had said yes, his words of congratulations and jabs about marriage being the end of carefree life sounded dull to his own ears. 

But he said them anyway and, when Héctor asked him to be his best man, he immediately accepted. He had to.

It was what any good amigo would do.

***

“I think I’ll write a song about the past two days.”

“Oh?”

“El Chorizo Envenenado!”

“It doesn’t sound especially promising.”

Sitting on the couch with a book in his hands while Ernesto stays sprawled on the armchair - his back is killing him and he’s exhausted after barely sleeping, so he’ll take some time to recover at Héctor’s place before he goes home - Héctor pouts.

“And that is why I’m the songwriter,” he mutters, gaining himself a scoff and little else. Ernesto is half-considering a nap when the door opens and Imelda walks in, fresh out of the shower, wet hair covered with a towel and wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe that is too large to belong to anyone but Héctor. It should be the most unflattering attire imaginable, but she looks beautiful in it because of course she does.  

It would be a good time to leave, but Ernesto finds he cannot tear his eyes away as she sits next to his best friend - the love of her life, he can see it so clearly now, in the soft look she gives him and the way she rests her head on his shoulder. 

“What are you reading?”

“Marriage for dummies,” Héctor replies, and she laughs softly, a sound Ernesto cannot quite recall hearing before. Héctor must have heard it many times, will hear it many more times.

This is meant to last, he can tell it now. His best friend, and the woman he finds himself loving against all good judgment. And he’ll keep a smile on, be his best man and toast to their union, because that’s what a good amigo does and the show must go on even if something in his chest hurts so much he fears it might break. But he stays, pretending to be snoozing, watching them through eyelids barely cracked open, an intruder trying to get a glimpse of that beauty, to hear more of that secret laugh.

Maybe he should have tried, Ernesto thinks, seized his moment and asked her out first - but a voice in the back of his mind, much more practical, reminds him it would have made no difference; that even if he’d tried, the almost certain outcome would have been a no. There was never a moment to seize, and he isn’t sure whether that is supposed to make him feel better or hurt worse. 

Somehow, it cuts both ways.