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whattimeisitintokyo · 2 years

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Chapter 47: La Fiesta de la Cruz

Héctor felt so… overexposed. Like all his senses were stripped and left raw out in the open. One touch seemed to be all it would take to set him off. He really didn’t know how much more he could take after tonight. Getting cursed to the Land of the Dead, his skin slowly dissolving, reuniting with his beloved daughter and finding his mother after wondering what she was like for years. Héctor didn’t know how he was still functioning.

But here he was, back on Frangipani’s massive form while pressing his new straw hat down on his head lest it fly off. It was best to keep moving forward and focus on the now or he would just be overwhelmed again. So right now he was concentrating on the solid weight of the guitar case on his back, the warmth of Dante’s skin as the dog lay against him, and Leti’s animated chatter.

She told him about all the children she had befriended in the hospital that had tragically died too young, just like she did soon after. But now they were able to reconnect as friends and Héctor was so glad that those sweet kids now had a somewhat normal existence free from pain and misery.

“…Martha’s in the baking business with her grandparents. She’s always super busy but she always makes time on Saturday to have coffee with me and play cards. Let’s see… Arturo works in the Department of Alebrije Registration, so he gets to see lots of different alebrijes. And Gerardo…” Leti trailed off, and she coyly looked over her shoulder to Héctor. “Gerardo’s special.”

That got Héctor’s attention, and he smirked at her. “What, is he your boyfriend or something?”

If Leti had skin she’d be blushing, but she still placed her hands on her cheekbones as if they actually were burning red. “Ahh! I don’t know! I know that look he’s always giving me means he likes me, but he just won’t say anything.” Leti sighed dramatically and laid back onto Héctor’s chest. “Boys are so immature. Do you think I should make the first move?”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t make the first move.” Héctor said warmly. “But I’d wait a few more decades if I was you. I’m not quite ready for you to be dating just yet.”

“Papá!”

“Okay, okay, how about just one decade-”

“No Papá, look!” Leti said pointing in the distance. “There’s Tio Nesto’s tower! We’re here!”

Looking to where Leti was pointing, Héctor let out disgusted sigh. “Of course that’s where he lives.”

Ernesto had always been… grandiose in life, to put it mildly. But it seemed that death had released those Earthly restraints and let him go full out to express just how much he loved to announce his presence to the world. Ernesto’s tower shimmered like a golden beacon shooting up tall into the sky, with what looked like moving trams circling it on its sides. On top of this humongous pillar sat an equally impressive mansion with tall palm trees and dozens of party guests scattered around the expansive lawn dressed in their finest garb.

All in all a typical party at Ernesto de la Cruz’s, with the theme of the party being ‘me’.

But Héctor was startled to feel Frangipani begin to descend instead of head towards the top. “Wait, we’re not going to the mansion?”

“Oh…” Leti giggled nervously. “No, we are. We just have to go in through the front entrance. Tio Nesto is still kind of… sore that Frangipani left in the middle of their movie shoot to become my alebrije. So he’s forbidden Frangipani from coming anywhere near his tower.”

“Ah.”

Héctor did remember Ernesto having to scramble around just to finish his big circus movie, and the unfinished scenes with the elephant were replaced with a mixture of Claymation and a huge papier mache head with a hose for the trunk. They were decent effects at the time, but they had upped the cost of production and severely hurt the profit margin. Ernesto had never stopped complaining about it until the day he died, and it seemed he still was after death.

As they settled into a nearby alley, Frangipani once again shrunk to a smaller size to let those on top of her get off with ease and once again left Héctor wincing from sore leg muscles. “Ow, ow… Hopefully this is the last stop, mija.”

“Yep! All we need to do is to get you to Tío Nesto, give him his guitar and he’ll send you home with his blessing. No hay bronca!” Turning to her alebrije, who had shrunk all the way down to her cute little mouse size, she petted her with a coo. “And you get to rest your ears now, Frangipani. Thank you for all you’ve done tonight. Aw, you’re such a good girl.”

As Leti kissed and heaped more praise on her little elephant, Héctor smiled taking in the scene. He had enjoyed his time immensely with his little girl, so grateful for the chance to see and hold her again. To talk to her. Before tonight he never thought he would ever have the chance again.

He had to soak in every last second of it, because it was about to come to an end.

“Hey, woah!” Leti squeaked out as Héctor pulled her into a big bear hug, her shock quickly disappearing as she returned it gladly. Frangipani fluttered over to land on Héctor’s shoulder and wrap her trunk gently around his ear, effectively joining in on the hug. Dante rested his head on Héctor’s knee with a soft whine. Squeezing her father just as hard as he was, it seemed as if she was reading his mind. “You’ll be home in no time.”

“… Without you.”

Leti sighed sadly and closed her eyes. “I wish I could go with you, too. But I can’t. My time is over.”

“It’s not fair, I just got you back!” Héctor whispered harshly, fighting hard against the tears behind his eyes. “My baby…”

Sniffling Leti nodded in agreement before pulling back. “But now you know for sure, right? That I’ve been with you every year for the holiday, and I’ll keep seeing you as long as you put my foto up. And now you know what awaits you when it’s your time to join me again. I’ll be waiting for you Papá.”

Héctor smiled warmly, cupping her cheekbone and brushing a thumb over her golden streaks. “Thank you, Leti. For everything you’ve done tonight. Especially with my m… Nieve.”

Leti shrugged shyly. “Well, she always wondered about you. Sorry if I made you waste too much time, I just wanted to help her while I had the chance.”

“… I think it helped both of us.”

Beaming at the praise she broke from the hug and helped Héctor back up to his feet. Brushing her dress down she also brushed down Héctor’s jacket too. “Gotta look nice when we go to Tío Nesto’s party. It’s black tie, you know.”

Héctor laughed. “When was it never black tie?”

Satisfied by their appearance, Leti gave a short nod. “All right, let’s go to the-.”

“Héctor Rivera!”

A deep voice travelled from down the depths of the alleyway, putting Héctor and Leti on high alert. The tumbling of trashcans and the screeching of teeny alebrijes skittering away showed a dark shadow emerging from behind. The figure held its hands forward in a welcoming manner, and as it drew closer the stench of cheap cigars became apparent. With hoarse, unhinged laughter a skeleton came in full view, staring at Héctor like its life depended on it. Dante was immediately on the offensive, growling deep in his throat and hunching slightly at the new intruder. He had not acted like this to anyone yet.

“Héctor, my dear boy!” the skeleton, a short man dressed in rags and devoid of any markings on his skull, limped closer to them with a sleazy grin. “It has been too long! Oh, but I have heard of your accomplishments, yes. Your movie and music studios, philanthropy, entrepreneurism. Why, you’ve expanded your named far greater than Ernesto could ever dream of. That’s because you’ve always had the bigger heart, the need to care for others.”

Despite the sweet talk Héctor was exceedingly unnerved by this skeleton compared to all the others he had met, and he warily placed himself in front of Leti to shield her. She was dead, yes, but he still felt that he needed to protect her from this stranger. “I’m sorry… Do I know you?”

There seemed to be a crack in the skeleton’s mask of friendliness, a flash of desperation and anger, before that eerie giggling bubbled up again. “Know me?! Wh-why, yes you do! Oh, my apologies, I guess it has been too long, and my good looks have faded away. But Héctor, dear boy, it’s me Fredo! Your manager, remember?!”

Fredo.

Fredo Barrerra.

The name was a slap to the face in the worst possible way. With a strangled gasp Héctor’s wariness turned to twisted panic as he fully blocked Fredo away from his daughter. He remembered this man-this monster- from so long ago. He had practically put he and Ernesto on the rise to stardom, yes, but he was also an unapologetic pervert who preyed on the little girls under his contract and countless others. The last he had heard of him he was rotting away in a cell never to see the outside world again. He had so put him out of his life that Héctor hadn’t even received word about his apparent death. But he must have, with him being here.

Glaring viciously at the little man, Héctor gritted out. “What do you want?”

“Oh please, don’t look at me like that!” Fredo cried out in desperation, holding his hands out pleading. “I just want a moment of your time! After all, it was I who made you a star! I haven’t even gotten close to Ernesto in all my years here! The guards won’t let me! If you could just put a word in, get him to give me just a small portion of his offerings so I wouldn’t be forced to scrounge for a living! I’m owed that much!”

Héctor sneered. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Barely stifling his panicked breaths, Fredo made an attempt to peak around Héctor. “You’re his daughter, yes?! You can convince your papá to help out a poor soul in need! Sweet girl. Pretty little girl!”

A roll of nausea clenched Héctor’s stomach and his teeth ground painfully, his rage stoked to a burning flame. “Don’t you dare talk to her, you disgusting-”

“All right, I’ve heard enough. Frangipani? Puerco.”

With a pink flash Frangipani zipped over to hover above Fredo’s skull and, in the blink of an eye, changed to the size of a robust sow. Fredo barely had time to realize what was happening before the elephant flopped down on top of him, crushing his body and popping off his skull at the same time. With a strangled scream and barely decipherable swears, Fredo’s skull came to rest at Héctor’s feet.

Héctor was stunned as Leti stepped out from behind him, humming a little ditty and wiping her hands together after a job well done. As she bent down to pick up the skull, Héctor panicked once again. “Leti, don’t go near him! He’s dangerous.”

“Was.” Leti corrected, examining the still swearing skull from every angle. “Sí, I know all about him Papá. Fredo Barrera, your manager who was a dirty little old man that Tío Nesto had locked away for good. It’s a really good story, Tío Nesto tells it all the time at his parties. He’s also been trying to sneak into every party or concert for the last nine years, to no avail. This is my first time actually seeing him though. Gotta say, I’m a little disappointed.”

Catching his breath, Fredo gritted out painfully, “Please… let me talk to Ernesto. I deserve that much. He left me to die in that prison. And now I live this pitiful existence… No ofrenda, no loved ones.”

Leti harrumphed at that. “You should have been forgotten long ago, but unfortunately you’ve burned your way into the memories of your victims. Every bit of suffering is from your own doing. And I’ve heard enough of you. Frangipani? Take him to the cenote to cool off until the police come and get him.”

“No no NO!” Fredo’s head zipped back to connect with his body, now coiled in Frangipani’s trunk as she had grown full sized. As the mighty elephant took off in flight the last pitiful screams of Fredo Barrera echoed into the night until all was silent.

Héctor stared at Leti in awe as she kept looking until her alebrije was out of sight, her faced hardened, and for the first time tonight Héctor felt like he was looking at his adult daughter instead of a little girl. She had held her own against a man who could have been a nightmare for her and had trashed him body and soul. With a low calming breath Leti paused to compose herself, and then gave an adorable pout. “Well that spoiled the mood, huh?”

Héctor couldn’t help it. With a laugh he swung his daughter up into another hug, twirling her in a couple of circles as she screamed and giggled with glee. Dante jumped happily and barked alongside them, one of Fredo’s broken off rib bones sticking out of his muzzle as he chewed on it. “I love you, Letica Rivera! You are just so amazing!”

“Of course I am!” Leti said proudly. “I am your daughter, after all!”

-------------------------

Getting to the mansion was relatively easy after that. At the first sight of the Héctor Rivera in the flesh he was quickly escorted to the front of the line past enamored and astonished guests. The security guards clumsily tripped over themselves, some even losing a few bones in the process, to make sure that he and Leti were given good seats in the cable car that would take them to the top. Time being of the essence they had even sent the car up despite only being a quarter full and Héctor was sure that it was going at max speed. When they reached to the top they were greeted by waiting personnel.

“Bienvenidos, Señor Rivera. It is an honor to have you here with us tonight! And you too, Leticia, you’re always a delight at el Señor de la Cruz’s parties!” The tall skeleton bowed deeply with a grand hand gesture. “I am the head of the concierge this evening and I was just informed of your arrival by security. We will try to find el Señor de la Cruz immediately so you may receive your blessing, but it might take a little time. I’m afraid he tends to bop to and fro while entertaining his guests.”

“Right.” Héctor agreed.

“In the meantime please help yourselves to some of our appetizers and refreshments. We will be on the lookout for Señor de la Cruz. Vamos!” With a snap of his fingers the staff behind him quickly dispersed and headed off in different directions, leaving Héctor and Leti to wander the grounds alone.

Now that he was able to properly see the lawn up close he could tell that the tall palm trees were actually just statues lit up with golden light bulbs, and what little grass and bushes he could see were also made of plastic fibers. The stonework, once again, had the same skull and bone motif that seemed to make itself known wherever he went. Leaning down he asked, “Hey, does anyone ever count how many skulls there are in the architecture?”

“Uh huh!” Leti nodded. “There are actually books and fan clubs who go around finding hidden skulls. I wouldn’t want to join them though; those guys are a little odd.”

The inside of the mansion was just as glamourous, with high ceilings and archways, stone staircases and beautiful paintings of Ernesto displayed proudly. Lights of pink, green and gold sent a wash of color throughout ballroom area. A string quartet played soft, beautiful music as guests mingled with each other sipping champaign and eating tiny snacks brought to them by servants and, bizarrely, alebrijes. With a short yip Dante set his sights on the lavish buffet table and hopped over before Héctor could restrain him.

“Dante, stop! Heel!” Héctor shouted but to no avail as Dante quickly helped himself to bite-sized portions of cooked meat.

Grabbing the dog by the hind quarters he tried to drag him off the table, but Dante kept a firm grip on the tablecloth trying to get just a few more bites. As Héctor pulled so did Dante, and with a loud ripping sound the cloth was pulled back carrying everything with it. Pans and plates clattered and smashed to the ground, and with a startled gasp the crowd backed away from the mess.

There sat Héctor, hat askew with a dog in his lap, and the crowd suddenly realized who they were looking at. A living man, and a famous one to boot, was a de la Cruz’s party. People whispered amongst each other and there were a few blinding flashes from cameras. Dante hopped off of Héctor and continued to eat the spilled food, while Leti came over to shield her father from the cameras.

“No pictures! Please, we need to get him to Ernesto de la Cruz!” she pleaded.

“It’s him! Héctor Rivera!” One of the musicians from the string quartet shouted out with glee. “Maestro, you’re our hero! Okay amigos, lets show him what he got! With gusto!”

And with just two taps of their feet, barely enough time to react, the band started to play again.

Playing that song.

Just like last time, like any other time, Héctor’s blood immediately turned to ice and fire all at once. His insides clenched, heart raced, breath stilled until it came back in short, hoarse pants. Being already on the floor he curled in on himself and pressed his hands painfully hard against his ears to block out that retched song.

But it wasn’t enough, he could still hear it, if not from his memories.

Memories of blood and gore. Of heart-wrenching loss and grief. It still hurt so much he couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stop it.

I should have stopped it.

Remember me….

I don’t want to remember!

“No no, damn it!” Leti cursed out. “Does nobody here keep up with the times! Don’t play that song! Stop it, all right?! He doesn’t like it!” With a few slaps and shoves Leti managed to knock the instruments out of the musicians’ hands and put a stop to the music. But the damage was done, and as the musicians grumbled about their fallen instruments Leti was quickly back at her father’s side. “It’s okay, Papá. I made them stop. It’s all right.”

“Ernesto…” Héctor ground out, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands still on his ears. “I need Ernesto!”

“He’ll be here soon!” Leti assured, but Héctor was lost to her.

“Por favor… Ernesto.” Héctor whimpered out, trembling, not caring that people were still staring at him, still whispering and pointing. He didn’t care about anything. Just that smear on the ground that used to be his brother, the one constant in his life. Torn from him without warning and left him gaping and bleeding out. No one understanding that his loss was just too great for him to bear.

Ernesto de la Cruz’s biggest shunner was also his biggest mourner.

“Ernesto!” Héctor whispered hoarsely. “I need Ernesto! ERNESTO!”

“Yes?”

The smooth, deep voice broke through every painful memory that was overwhelming Héctor and with a gasp his eyes flew open. The first thing he saw were chihuahuas. Three bright green chihuahuas that were also eating all the spilled food that littered the ground with Dante, one even snatching away a morsel that Dante was about to eat. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Large and heavy, but still comforting and strong.

Just like it had always been.

“Are you all right, señor?” the voice behind him asked sincerely.

Nine years. It had been exactly nine years to the day since he had heard that voice so clearly. Not from the old scratchy recordings that he honestly avoided like the plague. But here. Right here in person. Not realizing he was holding his breath he slowly turned around and glanced up.

And there he was.

Holding another green chihuahua in his arm, Ernesto was dressed relatively modestly for the evening. No tuxedo, no fancy charro suit. Just a pair of comfortable slacks, shirt and tie with suspenders. And Héctor was begrudging to admit that even as a skeleton that Ernesto was still dashingly handsome. His skull markings looked like that had been painted with actual gold that shimmered in the lights. But it was the same thin mustache, same perfectly coifed hair, same chiseled jawline.

And those same golden-brown eyes, staring at Héctor in shock as if he was the ghost.

“Héc-… Héctor?”

Finally releasing his breath Héctor slowly got up from his position on the floor, swaying a little bit still in shock. Ernesto backed away a little to give him some space, and after staring at Héctor for a few more seconds he broke out into a shaky grin.

“My friend!” Ernesto choked out finally. “I… I can’t believe it! I mean there were rumors floating around about a living person in the Land of the Dead tonight, but no one told me it was you! Por Dios, I’m going to have a talk with some people responsible about this, I should have been the first one to know. Well, second I guess, after dear Leti. I see you’re with her, that must have been a joy for you. Have you been visiting with her all this time. Well you should, as her father. But I mean… This is so surprising, I’m shocked! How the hell are you?”

As Ernesto rambled on and on Héctor was filled with mixed emotions at seeing his older brother, after trying not to think about him for nine years. Intense sadness and horror as he relived the last time he saw his dead body underneath that bell. Anger for how he recalled their last talk, how he wouldn’t listen to him when he was only trying to help him. Helplessness. Hopelessness.

And as his confusion and turmoil brewed and bubbled up to unbearable levels, finally one emotion came to him like a soothing balm: Relief. Ernesto was not a crumbled, ruined body decaying in a cold mausoleum all alone. He was here, tall and proud as ever, hosting parties and singing in concerts like always. His older brother was back!

The chihuahua in Ernesto’s arm squealed in surprise and then hopped away in disgruntlement as Héctor had slammed his body against Ernesto. Ernesto grunted and his slick white bones jostled for a bit until Héctor crushed them back into place with a tight, desperate hug. He stood alarmed for a moment until returned the hug in an equal amount of force, neither of them caring if bruises were formed or bones were dislocated.

“Ernesto.” Héctor whispered. “I’ve missed you so much!”

Ernesto sighed and patted Héctor’s back comfortingly. “I’ve missed you too, hermanito.”

The crowd gathered closely as the two men hugged each other, some giving soft awws and some even sniffling a little bit at the display of affection. Leti stood quietly next to her father and godfather, smiling a little wobbly herself. Dante just continued eating.

Pulling back from the hug, Ernesto grinned good-naturedly at Héctor and placed a hand on his cheek. Thumb smoothing out a cheek wrinkle, Ernesto laughed. “You’ve gotten old, Héctor.”

Héctor scoffed and batted Ernesto’s hand away. “I knew you’d say something like that. First time you’ve seen me in nine years and you’re still commenting on my looks!”

Ernesto squinted as he looked his indignant brother over. “I think your ears got bigger. Or more saggy, at least. I hear that’s what happens when you age. Your nose looks bigger, too.”

“You wanna experience your Final Death tonight, amigo?”

“I’m glad though.” Ernesto said somberly, his smile faltering a little. “I’m glad you got to grow old…”

His ire abated at that, and once again Héctor felt glad that Ernesto was really here: Ribbing him just like he always did. He smiled a little at that. Some things never changed. Leaning forward he whispered softly. “I need your help, Ernesto. There’s a lot I need to tell you.”

“I’m sure you do.” Ernesto acknowledged, then turned a bright smile towards his awaiting audience. “But this is a big deal! A living man comes to the Land of the Dead, and it’s Héctor Rivera! It’s actually not as surprising once you think about it, he was always getting himself into scraps like this!”

The crowd laughed at that, Ernesto soaking in all the attention with grace. “Let’s make this little mishap a joyous occasion. Héctor Rivera and Ernesto de la Cruz together again! Let’s get this party started!”

As the crowd cheered and the band started back up, Héctor pulled onto Ernesto sharply. “Ernesto, this is urgent! I need to get your blessing to go home, now!”

“Amigo, you just got here!” Ernesto implored. “I’ve missed you, Héctor! I want to spend some time with you before you leave!”

“Ernesto…”

“Thirty minutes.” Ernesto pleaded. “Thirty minutes and then I’ll do what ever you ask. Just please, let’s talk for a bit, okay? Please.”

Héctor glared hard at Ernesto for a moment, trying to stay strong and ignore the skeleton’s sad puppy-dog eyes. But his will was always so weak when it came to Ernesto. With a groan and an eye roll he conceded. “Ugh, fine! Thirty minutes starting now. But I don’t want to spend it out here cavorting with your party guests. I want to talk to you, alone and in private. Deal?”

Héctor couldn’t help but notice the way Ernesto’s smile twitched a little, or the bobbing of his spine where his throat would have been. But Ernesto, ever the gentleman, bowed his head in agreement.

“Deal. Let’s carry on elsewhere, old friend.”

#coco #coco fanfiction #somos familia #pixar coco

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foramomentonly · 3 years

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Stoner Malex Ficlet--12/12

Author’s Note:. Third of a collection of ficlets within the Stoner Malex AU, each one based on a promo photo from Vlambase IG. The title of each ficlet will be the date the picture that inspired it was posted.

For my sweet anon, who had a bad day.

Inspo photo

Read on AO3

They head straight to Michael’s room at the Evans house after school, a rarity considering Alex normally has a shift at the Emporium or works relief for Arturo at the Crashdown on weekday afternoons. But the museum is closed for fumigation and Rosa is more reliable than ever thanks to rehab and, Alex suspects, the alluring distraction of Isobel Evans. And so, just as Michael is sweet talking his truck’s ancient engine into turning over in the student lot, eager to run out the tedious hours between final bell and Alex’s inevitable appearance at his door, he hears a heavy thunk behind him and a moment later Alex wrenches open the passenger side door and hauls himself inside, grinning casually and setting his heavy boot on the dash like Michael secretly hates, murmuring, “Take me for a ride, sweetheart?”

But why drive out to the desert to shiver in the harsh wind that blows over the wide, open expanse, the cold metal of Michael’s truck bed an unwelcome shock to their bare skin as they fool around, when they have the option of an empty house, a soft bed, and Michael’s stash at their disposal? So “take me for a ride” turns quickly into “take me home,” and they end up sprawled across Michael’s messy bed, Alex propped up against a pillow at the foot, Michael lounging against the headboard, both in sweatshirts to fight off the chill coming from the patio door, wide open to let the smoke and the stench out.

“I’m soooo hungry,” Michael groans into his sleeve, arm thrown across his face, but instead of sympathy he gets Alex’s bare foot creeping up his side, toes wiggling under his sweatshirt to dig playfully into his ribs. Alex had learned Michael is ticklish on this same cramped bed under very different circumstances the week before. Since that discovery, he’s been relentless.

“Stop!” Michael laughs breathlessly, reaching out and capturing Alex’s foot, holding it captive against his stomach. "I'm too high and too hungry for that right now."

“So get up, then,” Alex laughs, crosses his arms behind his head and makes no move to pull his foot back. “And get me some water, I’m thirsty as fuck.”

“But I don’t want to,” Michael whines, and though his eyes are hazy and heavy lidded, they soften when he looks at Alex spread out across his bed, the length of his body pressed against Michael's with a hand wrapped loose around his calf, and adds softly, “It’s so cozy here.”

“Then I guess you aren’t eating,” Alex shrugs, and though his returning smile is something private and warm, he’s clearly unmoved by Michael’s plight.

“You could get it for me,” Michael purrs, rubbing Alex’s in step idly with his thumb and smiling suggestively down his own body. ”I’ll trade you a blow job for a frozen burrito.”

Alex snorts.

“Like I’m not probably getting one today anyway,” he laughs, and Michael grins, digs hard into Alex’s arch with his fingers and bites his lip when Alex groans softly.

“You have a point,” he replies lazily, and begins working Alex’s foot, sore from a day trapped in heavy, constricting boots, with both hands.

“You trying to butter me up, Guerin?” Alex breathes, burrowing into his pillow, eyes slipping closed.

“Yup,” Michael answers with an exaggerated pop of his lips, and suddenly he’s rolling to a stand, turning Alex sideways across the bed by his ankle as he grunts in protest and pulling Alex gently up by his wrists. He leans in close, nose brushing Alex’s, and whispers against his lips, “If I have to go all the way to the kitchen, I’m taking you with me.”

In the bright, open plan kitchen and formal living room space, Michael heads straight for the pantry, cursing the time it would take to heat up anything from the freezer. He dumps the entire contents of the snack shelf on the large, central island and pulls a glass out of the dishwasher below, handing it over to Alex and pointing to the fridge.

“There’s filtered water in there,” he says, and rips open a container of Pringles, shoving a thick stack into his mouth and moaning loud as the salt hits his tongue. He's sorting one-handed through the rest of the haul spilled out artlessly across the counter when he hears Alex wail dramatically behind him.

“Noooooo!” Alex cries as he pulls out the empty Brita pitcher from the fridge, waving it in Michael's direction. “How could you do this to me?!”

“Uh-oh,” Michael says, searching the room with wide, wild eyes for a solution. He looks out the sliding glass doors, so large they take up half the back wall, and he lets out a sudden crow of triumph as he takes in the spacious green of the backyard. He turns and grins slowly over his shoulder at Alex.

“I got it, baby. Come on.”

Alex follows Michael through the living room and out the sliding doors into the yard, neither bothering with shoes; the grass tickles Alex's toes and he giggles, cheeks warming in embarrassment, but the next moment Michael trips over a twig and makes a show of taking Alex's hand to guide him over the "treacherous pass," and it's becoming clear to them both that underneath the combat boots and the snark, the irreverent beanie and the burnout persona, they are two boys falling in love for the first time. And they're really, really high.

"Do you guys have a cooler out here or something?" Alex asks, looking around the small section of the yard Michael's led him to. It's surprisingly unpolished, mostly out of the living room's line of sight; sparse, boasting only a thin tree and overgrown brush along the property line.

Michael grins and bends over, picking up a thin hose and holding it loosely at his waist, an arc of water spurting from the nozzle after only a moment of Michael seeming to glare at it in concentration. Alex steps back to avoid the spray.

"How'd you do that?" he asks.

Michael pauses, stares a beat at Alex, then the hose, and back again.

"Timer!" he finally exclaims, and Alex shrugs.

Michael grins again, biting his lip, and gestures with his empty hand to the free-flowing stream.

"Go on," he says excitedly, and Alex would think he's fucking with him if Michael didn't look so proud. Taking in the full image of Michael holding an inescapably suggestive object, shooting a steam stream of liquid no less, at hip level and encouraging his boyfriend to lean in for a taste, Alex's shoulders shake with laughter, even more so when Michael leans into it, jutting his hips out and lowering the hose another half inch.

"Come on," Michael says, voice uneven as he begins to lose his own composure. "Like you weren't probably gonna be doing this today anyway."

Alex snorts at his own words echoing back at him, but he bends his knees, folding in half and resting his palms atop his thighs for balance. He opens his mouth comically wide, his tongue flat as he extends it towards the stream of water. He's still laughing, nose scrunched and eyebrows high, and Michael mimes anticipation, jaw dropping open and lips pulling into an exaggerated O, tears bright in the corners of his unfocused eyes from laughter.

Alex is about to drink in earnest, his laughter turning into hoarse barks in his dry throat, when they hear a low voice behind them.

“You know water comes out of all the faucets, right?” Isobel says, arms crossed and hip cocked. She’d be the perfect picture of condemnation if she weren’t biting her lip to stop the spread of a broad smile across her face.

Alex and Michael lock eyes, twin looks of disbelief and amusement on their faces, and they collapse onto the rough ground in breathless laughter, Michael snorting into Alex's shoulder as Alex lies flat on his back, fist in his mouth to preserve what dignity he might still have as tears stream down his temples and his entire core shakes.

Isobel rolls her eyes and turns back toward the house.

"I think I liked it better when you two were sneaking around," she mutters under her breath.

Their shrieks and snorts finally dying out, Michael props himself up on an elbow over Alex's chest, a soft, dopey smile on his lips, and Alex lifts his hand to run his fingertips softly across Michael's cheekbone and into his hair, pushing an unruly curl out of his eyes.

Almost in unison, they breathe, "I didn't."

#malex fic #malex #stoner malex au #alex manes #michael guerin #cw: weed #roswell new mexico #roswell nm fic #my fic

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years

Photo

Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo!

I AM NO LONGER ACCEPTING PROMPTS! The single-bone marks on the card indicate which prompts I have received and am going to write, and I finally have prompts that will earn me a bingo once they’ve been written. (But they’re not written yet!)

This fic has also been posted to FFN and AO3, so you can check it out on my Assortment of Broken Bones collection on there if you like!

This prompt is for @the-lunatic-of-your-dreams (HI YES I KNOW YOU SENT THIS OVER A YEAR AGO, SORRY!! I’M STILL WORKING ON THESE!). I followed your prompt pretty closely, though I also added a little fancharacter of mine (Héctor’s alebrije)--hope you don’t mind!

Prompt: Hiding an Injury Characters: Héctor and Chicharrón, pre-movie

---

Dia de Muertos was certainly a… time in Shantytown.

Some residents—usually the new ones who were still upset over their situation—sulked indoors all day, though some folks coaxed them to come out. Those residents—which made up the annoying vast majority of the town—stayed out all night partying and trying to make the best of things. Playing loud music, singing, playing games… and drinking. Lots of drinking.

And then there was Héctor.

Every Dia de Muertos, he was almost always nowhere to be found—at least, not in Shantytown, anyway. He was always doing something or other in the upper towers, usually spending the entire night trying scheme after scheme to cross the blasted marigold bridge.

Idiota.

As for Chicharrón, he’d long since given up attempting to sleep through the noise, and would usually spend the night in the quietest place he could find that wasn’t his bungalow. Right now, that happened to be out on the steps leading down into the town, where he could see and listen to the nonsense transpiring below while keeping a safe distance. For company, he’d brought a few friends: a bottle of tequila and a couple shot glasses (just in case one broke, he told himself).

He’d expected this year to be a peaceful one. No one would come up here to bother him, he hoped, and Héctor would be out all night. Maybe he could even get a bit of rest out here—not that the steps were terribly comfortable, but it was at least quiet.

Yet a few hours into the night, as Chicharrón found himself dozing, he was startled awake by the sound of feet creaking against the rickety stairs. Great. Of course he wasn’t gonna get a break.

But there was no one coming up the stairs. Then that would mean…

Turning around, he spotted someone descending the stairs, a small alebrije fluttering over their head. He knew a few people here with small spirit guides, but only one with a flying one.

Héctor was carefully stepping down the stairs, his arms clenched around his sides and his head hanging. His weird bat alebrije, Pizzicato, was hovering around him like a concerned mother hen. What on earth were they doing back so early?

“Down on your luck there, chamaco?” Chicharrón grunted, and Héctor staggered backward, nearly toppling over. “What’re you doin’ back so early for?”

“I, uh…” Héctor shrugged, a nervous grin showing his golden tooth. “Didn’t look like it was gonna be a good time this year. Figured I’d throw in the towel early.”

The bat alebrije made a squeaking sound that managed the impressive feat of making his non-existent ears hurt. She probably knew, he guessed.

It was some lie, but Chicharrón didn’t care enough to find the truth of it. Instead, he gestured next to himself, and Héctor hesitantly took a seat, the bat hooking herself to the back of his shoulder. It was when the young man reached his arms down to steady himself that Cheech noticed he had his jacket buttoned. That stood out to him—Héctor was one of the many male skeletons who always went shirtless. More than that, he’d even told Chicharrón the reason he did so: it had been a suggestion from his father when he’d first arrived in the Land of the Dead, so he could more quickly get used to his skeletal form, and he’d never dropped the habit.

So to see him with his jacket buttoned was… weird.

Chicharrón wouldn’t ask him the real reason why he was back early; he’d probably butchered his latest attempt at crossing the bridge, and he wasn’t particularly keen on listening to Héctor cry all night. The jacket thing was different. If he were to wager a guess, he’d say that Héctor had pilfered something from the upper towers, and was hiding it in his rib cage. Wouldn’t be the first time Héctor had swiped something, to be sure, though he certainly wasn’t going to outright ask him about it. Too easy.

He poured Héctor a drink, and the two clinked their glasses together and knocked back their shots. Héctor seemed grateful for the drink, but was eyeing the rest of the bottle. Chicharrón picked it up and set it on his other side, so it wasn’t between them. While Héctor pouted exaggeratedly, Chicharrón gestured to him. “That jacket of yours is looking a bit worn.”

Héctor blinked, looking back to exchange a glance with his alebrije. “Yeah? In case you haven’t noticed, Cheech, everyone’s clothes are a bit rough here.”

“Just sayin’. I got a new shirt recently. Not my style, but it may work for you.”

Raising his brows, Héctor sat back. “¿En serio?”

“Sure. You could stop by my place and try it on—”

The bat squeaked, and Héctor laughed, shaking his head. “I think I’ll pass on that one.”

Ha, that was easy. Héctor had no reason to reject an offer like that if he didn’t have something to hide.

“You and I both know you’d charge me for it later, Cheech.”

Chicharrón paused, then rolled his eyes. Yes, he was telling the truth, but that didn’t make it less annoying. “Eh,” he grunted, and poured himself another shot of tequila before refilling Héctor’s glass. So he’d concede defeat for now; it probably wasn’t anything that interesting anyway.

The rest of the night passed on without much event. Héctor eventually excused himself to take his alebrije home and feed her, and wished Chicharrón goodnight. Chicharrón himself stayed only a little while longer before deciding to return home and go to bed; the creaky old steps were making his back ache, and the parties in town seemed to have died down to a more reasonable level anyway.

He thought nothing of his and Héctor’s conversation that night until the next day, when he was making his way to Arturo’s house to see if he’d gathered any new items to trade. As he walked across town, however, he spotted Héctor and his alebrije heading in the same direction.

Héctor’s jacket was still buttoned.

Well, so much for the theory that he’d stolen something, unless he’d gotten it stuck between his ribs. He wouldn’t put it past him. On top of that, he’d seen that alebrije enough to know when she was relaxed and when she wasn’t, and right now, she had an anxious flutter to her, so there probably was something wrong.

Still, Chicharrón wouldn’t say anything just yet. He nodded to Héctor as they both headed to Arturo’s to see if he had any new wares. Héctor came away with a new pen, while Chicharrón was happy to get another partial deck of cards.

“Not bad,” Héctor remarked, twirling the pen around between his fingers. “Maybe you’ll have a full deck now between the three sets you have.”

“Maybe.” He glanced at the young man out of the corner of his eye. “So what’d you do, anyway?”

“Wh—” The pen dropped out of his hand, and Pizzicato swooped down to grab it in her mouth. Embarrassed, he snatched it away from her, wiping it on his pant leg. “Come again?”

“Last night,” Chicharrón said, turning to face him. “What really happened?”

Face falling, Héctor gripped his wrist. “Ah, well… thing is, the, um, security caught onto what I was trying to do before I could really… do anything.” He heaved a deep sigh again, and winced. “They came after me first, and when I ran, the police came next. Still managed to outrun them, but I imagine they’re still not happy. So… I’m stuck here for a while, until this blows over.” He shrugged helplessly. “G… great way to spend the night, huh?” he stammered, and Pizzicato landed on his shoulder, licking his cheekbone.

Well that… had not been the answer Chicharrón expected, or even really wanted, but it did explain why he was back so early.

But not why he was wearing his jacket like that.

Still, he’d clearly upset Héctor enough with his question, and he wasn’t about to make the guy cry right now. “Eh. Well, guess you’re better off stuck here with the rest of us than stuck in a jail cell for the next week, huh.”

“Heh, yeah.” Héctor managed a smile, then turned to head back to his own shack, while Chicharrón turned toward his bungalow. “Let me know when you’re up for a game of cards.”

“Not with you,” Chicharrón grunted. “You cheat.”

“Not hard if you’re gonna be playing with decks that are three different colors!”

Chicharrón did not invite him to play cards regardless, since it turned out he was still missing a four of diamonds.

He did, however, keep an eye on Héctor over the next few days since, sure enough, he still kept his ribs covered. Part of him wondered if he’d broken something, but several years back he had broken a rib, though he never hid it. He seemed pretty open about it, in fact, as to prevent people from hugging him and subsequently hurting him. So that was probably not what was going on here.

It could just be that he was trying something new, but… no, knowing Héctor, he’d definitely done something stupid like get something stuck in his ribs, and was too embarrassed to admit it. He’d figure it out at some point.

Later he invited Héctor over for drinks (and to ask him for help in moving a heavy box down from the top shelf), and as they sat around talking, Chicharrón decided to be more direct.

“So wha’d you get stuck in your ribs?”

Héctor had been mid-drink when the question had been asked, and immediately he began coughing, the alcohol spilling out of his mouth and nasal cavity. “Don’t do that!” he cried, rubbing frantically at his face. “Ay! That burned.” His alebrije was quick to land on his shoulder and lick at his face, only to jump backward, tongue lolling in disgust.

Chicharrón rolled his eyes. “That’s what you get for doin’ something dumb like hiding something in your ribs and getting it stuck there.”

“Wait… wait wait. You think I—?” Héctor thought it over for a moment before he started to laugh. Immediately he cried out in pain, but that didn’t make him stop. “Ay! That’s—ha—the dumbest—ouch!—y-you think all this time I’ve—ow!—had something stuck in my ribs?”

“Why not?” Chicharrón leaned back in his chair. “Seems like the sort of dumb thing you’d wind up doing.”

“No! Haha—uuugh…” Héctor leaned back as well, wrapping both of his arms around his chest. “I wish that’s all it was, amigo. No, I… hurt a rib.”

“Wait—that’s it?” Scratching his head, he eyed Héctor suspiciously. “What’ve you got it covered up for, then?”

“It hurts,” he insisted, frowning. “Worse than that last time I broke a rib. That was bad enough… don’t want to see this one.”

Chicharrón quirked a brow. “Ain’t gonna try to fix it?”

Héctor’s frown deepened. “Very funny. I learned my lesson last time, okay?”

“Still owe me for that duct tape.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll get it back to you.”

“It’s been three years, Héctor.”

“I’ll get it back!”

He wouldn’t. But still, that solved that mystery, and it was as dumb as he’d predicted.

Or so he thought.

Héctor’s bat was still fluttering over his head and whimpering. He’d taken it to mean she was worried over his pain, nothing more.

Should’ve known better than that.

It was a few days later when he’d decided to join Héctor and several other citizens to sit and play music. Chicharrón and Héctor both had their guitars, and a few other primos were joining in with an accordion and a violin. It… wasn’t bad to get out every once in a while to play music like this. Once in a while.

Except Héctor’s dumb bat was being annoying, fluttering around his head as he played, occasionally tugging at his hat. He waved her off repeatedly, but she kept coming back, eventually taking to bugging the others who had gathered around.

“Héctor,” Manuel said suddenly, and the music faltered. “Stop your spirit guide, she’s driving us nuts!”

Héctor whistled, and Pizzicato fluttered back over to him, only to continue whining and tugging at his bandanna. “Hey, stop it,” he said, trying to wave her away. She hopped off of his shoulder, only to flutter lower and tug at the bottom of his jacket. “Don’t pull on that, Pizzicato! You’re gonna hurt—uh…” He trailed off, and Pizzicato let go, fluttering back with a prolonged whimper.

Frowning, Chicharrón leaned closer. “You okay there, chamaco?”

“Uh… yeah.” There was a tone of mild surprise in his voice. “I… am okay.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“My rib doesn’t… hurt.” Staring down, Héctor set his guitar aside, and hesitantly began to unbutton the jacket. When he pulled either side away, a few of the others made sounds of surprise or disgust, while Héctor himself blanched. “…W-w-wait, wait, um, that’s not… supposed to happen…”

Leaning a bit closer to get a better look, Chicharrón finally noticed what the problem was:

Héctor’s rib didn’t hurt, because it wasn’t there.

The floating rib on his left side was missing almost entirely, only a small bit of it still connected to his spine. Chicharrón’s face twisted into a scowl. “¡Idiota! Why didn’t you tell us you’d lost it?!”

Pizzicato whined loudly, settling atop Héctor’s head while the young man tugged the left side of his jacket over his ribs self-consciously. “I didn’t know I’d lost it,” he said. “When I was running, I clipped a fence. All I knew was that it hurt and I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t have time to stop with the police after me!”

“Oh, primo!” Manuel cried. “If you’d told us, we could’ve helped you find it.”

Héctor blinked. “What’s stopping you now?”

Chicharrón waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t matter. That bone’s long gone by now, if you can’t feel it. You’re lucky it was just a rib.” Very lucky. A rib he’d be able to live without. But if it had been something more vital—an arm bone, a shoulder blade, a vertebra—that would’ve been another story.

“I guess so…” He shrugged helplessly, picking his guitar up again. “‘Least it doesn’t hurt.”

Even though Héctor seemed to get over the whole thing quickly, Chicharrón couldn’t help but notice that bat alebrije staring at him. He glanced away, pretending to tune his guitar. Okay, so maybe he should have been a bit more attentive. Héctor was still young and didn’t know everything about the Land of the Dead yet. Not that it was his job to watch out for him, but…

He turned back to Héctor, his gaze softening a fraction. “Just tell us next time, chamaco.”

“It’s just a rib,” Héctor said, an embarrassed grin crossing his features. “Nothing to worry about.”

Chicharrón went back to strumming his guitar. “May not be just a rib next time, at the rate you’re going.”

That seemed enough to settle the conversation for now, and eventually the group broke up as everyone began to turn in for the night.

As he headed back to his bungalow, however, the image of that missing rib was still stuck in his mind, and he decided he really did not like seeing someone like Héctor becoming as battered and bruised as the rest of the people here in Shantytown. An old man like him? Sure. But a young man like Héctor had a rough enough time as a soul whose life was cut short.

Maybe he’d try to be better about helping the dumb kid.

He deserved a better afterlife than this.

#chicharron #hector rivera #coco #pixar coco #bad things happen bingo #coco spoilers #my writing #fanfic #the lunatic of your dreams

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girlablaze · 4 years

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HURT MEME .

for @pocmuzings ! i simply shan’t tolerate tumblr’s Dumb ask formatting so here we ARE . also trigger warnings for : violence mention , injury / bruise !

fingertips press against her cheekbone & she winches frowns at the tenderness she finds there : like bruises against rotten fruit , sinking deeper & deeper into the flesh ━ the skin there has reddened already , raw & angry against fair skin , and oh so blatantly obvious beneath a scrape that has already dried . it’ll swell , and it’ll bruise , and people will stare & wonder : what has odelia rosenberg gotten herself into this time ? the girl who attracts trouble like stray moths to a flame , the girl who can’t help but try to fix things that aren’t hers to fix , the girl who is always pulling away with bite marks & scars ━ it looks WORSE than it felt at the time , than what actually happened : too much testosterone in too small a space , and odelia in the middle , trying to prevent a battle before they had swung the first sword ; she’s clipped by an elbow poised to deliver a blow & loses a fight against a coffee table in the midst of the tussle , in the midst of her attempts to play - pretend saviour ━ it’s not like she’s never taken a punch , or the back - end of one . contrary to many’s belief , she is not something ornamental & untouched : she’s also the girl raised in the slums between siblings who thought a clenched fist provided better outcomes than spoken words or grand gestures ━ rosenberg family mantra was this : if you don’t rise your fists , you’ll just take the hit . and there is no room for grace or clemency or kindness , and the world will not thank you for trying to place bandages over bullet holes or duct - tape over clean breaks . ( and maybe , just maybe , she was beginning to see truth to that . afterall , she seems to always be turning away with some sort of affliction : either on the exterior or the interior ━ odelia rosenberg is always hurting . )

in the mirrored reflection of her phone screen she adjusts her hair to hide it beneath a curtain of blonde , but she’s sure beneath the neon laser lights & thump , thump , thump of bodies grinding to the tunes of LIKE A G6 no one is going to notice , least of all him ━ because he doesn’t care , he’s not in love with her , and he doesn’t care . so why is he here now ? suddenly there , fingers pressing into her jaw to examine the damage & fingers brushing away any attempts at concealment . there and suddenly she’s hyper - aware of everything : she’s aware of the closeness , she’s aware of the way her skin burns beneath his finger - tips , she’s aware of the weakness in her knees ━ and she’s very much aware of how he just ruined all her progress in moving on , with a single touch , again . ❛ no one , it was ━ it was an accident . ❜ she tries not to let the uneasiness show , she tries to remind herself to breath . odelia is not one to hold grudges , therefor she decides it’s best not to point fingers or name names ; especially - especially - when she meets his gaze and finds concern there , just lightly scattered beneath a rippled surface , but still there . she’s never seen concern there before , she doesn’t know what his concern looks like , but she’s got a hunch it’s not the pretty kind . ❛ don’t start anything , art , please ? ❜ her palm comes to rest against his , still idle against her jaw , fingers tracing half - moons across his knuckles : light , delicate & and hopefully alleviating ━ arturo is not one to be handled with a softness , but she’ll try anyway : attempt to coax stillness from his shell , attempt to smooth out any edges of harshness before they appear . ( turns out : she never learns her lesson . doesn’t matter if she takes a bruise or a broken heart ━ she’ll try , she’ll always try . )

pain is inconsistent & contradictory , she’s discovered : you often forget about such things as paper - cuts or bitten tongues when you’re met with something more painful in comparison . right now ? she can hardly feel the light throb across her cheek - bone ━ this will always be bittersweet to her : the way she wishes chemistry & compatibility were the same thing instead of two opposites on a scale . she could say ‘ hey , at least we can be FRIENDS . ’ like every other fleeting romance that faded out before it’s prime ━ but that won’t work either . ( she is too much herself and he’s too much himself ; together they only know how to tolerate in extremities : always a roaring tornado , and never a soft summer breeze . ) it’s that pang of sadness that urges her to drop her arm & shake free from his touch with a strained and awkward exhale of laughter ; because it doesn’t matter how many times she fights the urge to call , or how many times she convinces herself she has moved on from the walking pandemonium that is arturo lopez ━ she’ll always wait , and ponder the ‘ what - ifs ’ and if given the option : she’ll choose him again and again until she has nothing burn torn up insides . ( how could her own heart be so cruel to her ? ) ❛ just . . . don’t worry about it . ❜ pale hues are already searching the crowds for a familiar face , like gwen or adam , someone to provide an excuse , someone to save her from herself , because suddenly the room is suddenly too small and the neon laser lights are too distracting and the terrible music is too loud , and it’s not because of the tenderness flowering on her cheek ━ she attempts nonchalance , attempts coolness , makes a gesture of flexing an arm in an attempt at some weak humor . ( and she wants to hate him , she does , but the truth of it all is this : even now , her body feels alight with endearment for arturo lopez , and turns out she can’t even muster hatred for the boy who keeps breaking her heart . ) ❛ honestly you should see the other gu ━ person . i’m a big girl , i can take care of myself . ❜

#written stuff.#arturo & odelia.#i ━ hm ...#before we continue im ... not ? sorr Y ? muse said : fuk it .. we RAMBLE

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haloud · 5 years

Text

a bookend to the weirdest of weeks

ao3

On the anniversary of his father’s death, Kyle wakes up with an alien at his back and a Manes sleeping six inches away. In the delicate early-morning light, it could be any other day. Kyle is usually up first; he shimmies out of bed and lets Michael roll into the warm spot he leaves behind. He’d slouch into the kitchen and smack the coffeemaker awake before he even truly wakes up himself and down a cup or two black and scalding before the aroma lures Alex out of bed. The two of them would drift in companionable silence, sometimes leaning against each other, sometimes not, while Alex caffeinates himself and Kyle digs around for breakfast. Michael usually skips breakfast and goes straight to his lab, so Alex—or Kyle on his days off—will bring him something before heading out for the day. It’s a sweet routine, painfully normal, so blissfully domestic it feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. But it’s real, and it’s theirs.

But this isn’t any other day.

After all the revelations of the past months, all the shattering and rebuilding his world has undergone, Kyle had been trying even harder than usual to forget this day was looming on the horizon. Hadn’t know how the grief, for all it fades and swells throughout the year, would hit him new now that he’s got two Jim Valentis living side by side in his mind to grieve—for all that it seems he never actually knew either of them.

It turns out the grief comes on the same as always after all. Like he’s been treading water for hours and his muscles are about to give out. Like he’s been running a marathon with a hundred pounds strapped to his back. It’s something he lives with, that builds within him, and today is just the day he allows himself to let go.

He stares up at the ceiling, breathes in for five, and breathes out for ten. Remembers lying in bed pretending to be asleep on Christmas mornings so his dad would sneak in, lift him carefully up, then throw him back down while Kyle cackled with laughter. The kitchen would smell like cinnamon hot chocolate; he’d lay on his back beneath the tree in a nest of discarded paper and ribbons and cross his eyes so the world melted into a glittering rainbow blur. It was so easy to make the world magical back then.

Alex’s breathing shifts and, careful and quiet, he turns on his side to look at Kyle. When he sees Kyle looking back at him, a hesitant smile tugs at his lips. “Hey,” he whispers, and he reaches out to cup Kyle’s jaw.

“Hey,” Kyle mouths back. Silence follows, the only sound the gentle rasp of Alex’s thumb against Kyle’s stubbled cheek. Kyle touches that hand and stills it, presses it fully to his face, leans into that hot, steady touch.

In Alex’s dark eyes, Kyle sees the little boys they used to be, running around the Manes’s backyard, all skinned knees and dirty clothes, hiding under the deck. Kyle’s dad came out of the house just as the sky started fading lavender, periwinkle, and gray, softening all the edges of the world. He stood facing away from the house with his fists on his hips declaring in his deep, booming voice: ‘Well, I guess the coyotes ate well tonight! No little ones left out here, that’s for sure!’ And Alex and Kyle held their hands over each other’s mouths but their giggling gave them away anyway. Dad chased them out and around the yard with jets of water from the garden hose until they laughed and ran themselves to exhaustion; then he scooped them both up, one on each shoulder, and dumped them into the backseat of his car—wet, dirty and all—and brought them both home for a sleepover and marshmallows toasted over the living room fire.

Kyle also remembers the shuttered disappointment on his father’s face when he came home from prom with a bruise on his cheekbone and blood on his collar.

His hand drops back to the bed limp and cold. He’s too full up today; there’s no room left in him for the space Alex’s forgiveness deserves. Even now, no anger crosses his perfect face. He just sits up, stretches, and starts preparing for the day.

“Take all the time you need,” he says. “If you’re not up, I’ll bring you some coffee when it’s ready,” and he kisses Kyle on the forehead then the lips before leveraging himself off the bed.

As one might imagine, it’s a morning for melancholies. How many times has Michael lured Kyle, Alex, or both of them into lazy mornings with his hot hands or spread thighs or parted, waiting pink mouth? The birds sing outside the same; the same sun creeps through the curtains and has him seeing scarlet through his eyelids. But Kyle lays still with his arm thrown over his eyes and tries to block out the sounds of Alex moving around in the kitchen. God let him get out of bed before Alex brings him breakfast in it like he deserves being waited on. God let him escape from the feverishly warm wash of Michael snuggling against his side before he blinks those sunlight eyes like—

He doesn’t want Michael to have to look at him. Not today.

Time to get up, Valenti. Get up.

Kyle scrubs his hand over his face. Michael’s arm tightens around him like he can sense Kyle trying to slide out from under him and wants to keep him close. He’s the most tactile lover Kyle has ever had, sprawled out and clinging in turns, always taking up space, always making room for everyone else beside him. During sex, he’s so sensitive and starved it sometimes hurts to watch. In his sleep, he’s clingier than an octopus. Kyle usually doesn’t like to leave him.

But today…

They’ve never talked about it. About Caulfield. About the Valentis’ part in the horrors there. With Jesse Manes looming so large in all their lives, the old sheriff who suddenly got sick just fades into the background. But Kyle knows. He feels it in his bones, that legacy. It dogs his steps. It haunts him at night. Once a week, he wakes choking from dreams where Michael slams his shattered hand against a locked quarantine door and screams at him and Alex to go. Dreams where it was Kyle who put him in there, and the door slammed shut behind him. Dreams where he’s surrounded by grimy hospital walls, and it’s Michael sliced open on his table, and all he can hear over the flatlining in his ears is I don’t need an airman, I need a Valenti…

Kyle makes it to the bathroom before his stomach rebels, but it’s a close thing.

He meets Alex in the kitchen with mouthwash still burning at the back of his throat.

“You…look terrible.” Alex pours him a mug of coffee, adds just a little cream and sugar, and slips it directly into Kyle’s hands. Their hands curl together around the mug, and Alex leans in to kiss him lightly. “Do you have any plans for today?”

“No.” Kyle’s voice catches on that single syllable, and he clears his throat. “Have dinner with my mom. Other than that, she, uh, prefers to treat this like any other day.”

Alex rests his forehead in the crook of Kyle’s neck and kisses him there, right where the slope of his shoulder begins. He says, “Okay. Well, I have the day off, and Michael said he could make himself available too, so…we’re here, for whatever you need, even if it’s just silence and space.”

Every muscle in Kyle’s body freezes and locks. Alex stiffens too when he feels it, pulling back just enough to look Kyle in the eye.

“How much does Michael know?” Kyle asks through numb lips. Alex looks him up and down, his eyes flicking across Kyle’s features like he’s a problem that needs solving.

“Not…much, I guess. Just that today is the anniversary of your father’s death. He never had any reason to be close to Jim, so he wouldn’t know the date already, and I thought he should know you might need space today. What else is there to know?”

Kyle drops into a chair at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands. When? When did Alex tell him; how did Kyle not notice? How long has Michael been going to bed with them, knowing how deeply Kyle still mourns one of the men who—who—

“Kyle, what’s wrong? Talk to me, please.”

“I didn’t want him to know.”

“What? Kyle, he cares about you, he—”

Kyle shakes his head in wordless denial. He’d thought about leaving for the day. Making his excuses. Taking his mom somewhere nice, maybe. But she wouldn’t have wanted that, and Kyle would have no idea how to explain, and…in the end Kyle hadn’t had the energy even to take himself away, just for a little while, just so he could work his shit out. So he stayed, like a coward.

And it would be one thing—it would be shameful enough already—if Alex was the only one to witness this. Alex at least understands the burden of this legacy—understands it even better than Kyle. But Michael? How can he even look Michael in the eye after this?

Caulfield shattered Michael. Broke him in ways that can never be repaired. He’s done a lot of healing over the past months; he’s stitched himself back up in new patterns, ones that work with the pieces he’s got left. But when those seams come unraveled and Kyle gets a peek at the emptiness he’s covering up, he…

Kyle would rather die than pull on those strings. Ever.

But here he is.

Jim Valenti made family breakfasts at this kitchen table. He was a terrible cook, something Kyle never really recognized until that one time he got to taste Arturo Ortecho’s churro pancakes. But those Saturday mornings with his dad fumbling around in the kitchen are some of Kyle’s earliest memories.

His parents also fought at this kitchen table. In screaming whispers, late at night when they thought Kyle was asleep. Kyle knows now that they were probably fighting over his dad’s affairs. That realization falls to Kyle’s stomach to join the other stones settled there.

A hand wraps gently around Kyle’s wrist to pull his hand away from his face.

“Look at me,” Alex says, his voice both firm and gentle and leaving no room for Kyle to disobey. Those dark eyes pull him in, like they always do. “Kyle, you don’t have to be ashamed for grieving your father. Remember what I told you. He was a good man. Whatever else he was—whatever else he did—he was your father to you. That’s what you’re grieving. Not some other, monstrous version of the man you never met. You never knew that man. It’s not fair to yourself to take on the blame for the things he did.”

“You told me those things before Caulfield. Before we saw that place, the things that were done there.” Kyle spits out the words. His stomach rolls with nausea for the second time.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Alex pulls Kyle forward to rest against his chest, in the circle of his arms. Kyle wants to pull away, but it’s so much easier to breathe there. “But we can’t turn back time. We can’t fix it. All we can do is be better than they were. And pushing Michael away out of guilt isn’t going to make things any better.”

Kyle shakes his head again, burrowing into Alex.

“I mean it. He doesn’t blame you—us—not really. There are moments when it hits him, but…I think we all have that. He knows you’re a good man. Trust me. Talk to him.”

“I can’t,” Kyle croaks. God, he’s done so much crying since he learned aliens were real. A little thing like getting weepy feels less monumental when your scale of reality has been busted open that exponentially.

“You can. You have to.” Alex runs his fingers over Kyle’s scalp in soothing strokes. “I’ll see if he’s awake. I’m not going to let this fester, Kyle. Today is hard enough. Our lives are hard enough. You don’t have to feel this way.”

And Alex steps away with a parting kiss to Kyle’s temple. He goes back into the bedroom, taking all warmth in the house with him. Kyle hunches around his now-lukewarm coffee, just trying to hold off the chill in his bones.

Two quiet voices hover at the edge of Kyle’s hearing. Michael must have already been awake. How much might he have heard? Kyle stands up, but even taking a step feels like moving through molasses.

“Hey, Doc, get in here,” Michael calls. His voice is still rough with sleep, that languid drawl he has when he’s teasing, or when he wakes up wanting to be held down. A flush of heat raises goosebumps all over Kyle’s skin, but he still can’t make himself move. Until, that is, Alex appears in the doorway with his hand outstretched and beckoning, a little smile on his face.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” Alex says. “I told you it will be okay.”

Forcing every motion, every lift and fall of every step, it feels like it takes hours just to make it the few feet of the hall. When he gets close enough, Alex grabs his shoulders and guides him forward to see—

Michael, naked and sprawled out on the twisted sheets, watching them through slitted eyes, one hand slowly stroking himself, the other working further back between his legs.

“Wh—” Kyle splutters, the sight and the arousal it floods through him completely at odds with the dam of dread inside his chest.

“Use your words, Michael,” Alex says, but he’s amused, close to laughter.

“Can’t help it. I woke up like this, with no one waiting around to help me out. So I’ve just been getting ready to take care of things myself…”

A drawer to Kyle’s right opens up, and Kyle, blushing from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears, jumps and slams it shut before Michael can get anything out of it.

Turns out you can get used to telekinesis being a part of your life pretty quickly. Dildos floating across the room, on the other hand, take a little more time to accept.

“Get over here, Valenti,” Michael says. “Alex tells me there are some things you need taken off your mind.”

An invisible hand shoves him in the back, pushing him towards the bed until he’s standing at the foot of it, between Michael’s spread legs.

“Michael, I—” Kyle says. He doesn’t have the right words. Doesn’t even know where to begin. The invisible hand gives him another shove, until he’s on all fours above Michael’s prone body. Michael hooks an arm around his shoulders and pulls him down for a filthy, consuming kiss.

“It’s okay. Kyle.” Michael says. There’s something, something burning in those eyes. It sets Kyle’s muscles to shaking. It’s too much for today. It’s too much for the morning. It’s so much more than Kyle thinks he deserves. Alex moves to sit at the head of the bed, close enough to stroke Michael’s curls and carefully watch Kyle’s face for any hint of hesitation, and that’s too much too.

This has, historically, been the kind of day when Kyle runs away and hides. Buries himself in work, like chasing the things that made his father proud of him could bring him back. He doesn’t know how to handle affection breaking him open and pulling him into the light.

“It’s okay,” Michael repeats. “I don’t know what else to say. I think if I talk too much right now it’s going to get twisted. That maybe you won’t believe me. Let me show you.” Using his legs and the arm still around Kyle’s shoulders, he twists them until Kyle is the one pressed back against the sheets, and Michael is hovering over him.

“Let me show you,” he says, “I want you.” His rough-palmed hand scrapes the line of hair on Kyle’s stomach and dips past the waistband of his shorts to rub his swelling cock to full mast.

“Are you sure?” Kyle finally finds his voice. It comes out desperate, yearning. Can he still want this? With the specter of the past between them?

“You know me. I like to start the day off right.” Michael wiggles forward. His cock bobs against his stomach. Kyle licks his lips.

He leans forward. “We can talk tomorrow,” he rasps directly into Kyle’s ear. “We can talk when the day’s less shit. Let yourself have this. Make me feel good, Doc. It’ll make you feel good too.”

“Fuck!” Kyle shouts, hips jerking at the heat and tightness of the head of his cock slipping into Michael. His sudden movement forces a couple more inches in all at once, and Michael reacts with a shout of his own and a triumphant, feral grin. He sinks down quickly, already stretched and slicked, like he’s been getting ready ever since Kyle crawled out of bed feeling like nothing would ever be right again.

But this is right. This is easy. Always has been, no matter how new this thing still is. The rhythm of their bodies—the neediness in them both. It’s so goddamn right Kyle has to grit his teeth against the rush of his emotions.

Michael leans back, his core flexing, strong thighs gripping Kyle’s hips, body tightening scorching-hot around Kyle’s cock until Michael hits the angle he was looking for and lets out a grinning, shuddery gasp. Kyle reacts on instinct, reaching out his arm to support Michael’s lower back as he starts to roll his hips. Matching his rhythm, Kyle fucks him steady, easy, and Michael tips his head and lets every delicious grunt and moan and sigh fall from his lips and into the open air between them. Each and every one lights up Kyle’s nerves like the brush of his fingertips and he pants, open-mouth, trying with all his strength to hold on to control.

Desperation builds in him like a bomb, in the pumping of his hips, in the trembling muscles of his arms trying to keep them both upright. There’s not enough of him, not nearly enough to curl up around Michael Guerin and keep him grounded, keep him intact, keep him.

“Guerin,” he gasps, in ecstasy, in horror at the wet gash of his own voice, and he tumbles forward to rest his forehead against Michael’s solar plexus, burrowing closer, just trying to crawl inside him. Michael’s hips still, and Kyle clings on to him with both arms now, clutching their bodies together.

“Doc?” Michael rasps out the question, leaning sweetly into Kyle’s embrace.

“Kyle,” Alex’s voice trails off into soothing murmurs, and he cards his fingers through Kyle’s hair before grabbing his jaw firmly and tilting his head for a kiss. “You’re okay,” he whispers against Kyle’s lips, “It’s okay. We’re here. There’s nowhere you need to be but here. Just let Michael do all the work, baby, let him give you this.”

Michael moans in agreement, a warm and needy sound. He starts rolling his hips again, just the slightest suggestion of movement to test if Kyle’s still in the mood. Kyle digs his nails into that velvety skin and drags them down. He nods permission against the phantom throb of Michael’s pulse.

“Feels good,” Michael says, “love it when you scratch me, when you bite.” He arches his back. “Alex, Alex, God, his cock is perfect, feels so good, Kyle—”

“Hear that?” Alex strokes Kyle’s cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Feel him working around you? Feel how good you’re making him feel? Let it feel good, Kyle. It’s okay. Let go.”

Let go. Those two words, that permission, that benediction, wash through Kyle, fill up his lungs.

And let go he does. He fixes his teeth into the curve of Michael’s shoulder, fastens his fingertips into the wings of Michael’s hips, and takes. Michael throws his head back and rides it out with abandon, matching him for every thrust and buck with sweat making his curls go rich and dark and that cowboy grin lighting his face up with pleasure. And Alex stays steady, a fixed point, a north star, grounding them and holding them and completing them and—

Kyle comes with the tang of blood in his mouth and the splash of Michael’s own release against his stomach.

In the afterglow, Kyle waits in silence for the grief, the fear, the guilt. For the endorphins to wash out of him and leave the morning’s heavy numbness in its wake. But it doesn’t come. Face to face with his lovers, everything is so much clearer.

Michael may never be able to talk about Caulfield. It’s a pain too great, a loss too horrifying to even fathom, and the Manes and the Valentis are tied inextricably to that pain. But Kyle’s grief isn’t for the man who did those things, and even if he’s grieving a fiction…the fact is that Jim Valenti is dead. Kyle will never get the answers he needs to reconcile the two Jim Valentis in his mind, so he just has to live with them both fighting for space.

Kyle buries his face in Michael’s damp curls and just breathes him in. Alex rests his cheek between Kyle’s shoulder blades and sighs against the rhythm of his heartbeat. There are things that can never be made right. All anyone can do is grip tight in the wake of destruction; hold on to each other; hold on to their humanity.

And part of humanity is grief. Even for people who, in the end, might not deserve it.

“I can go get us booze if you wanna get wasted until this day is over,” Michael says, breaking the silence, and Kyle heaves out a huff of breathless laughter.

“Anything you need,” Alex adds. “Ice cream, a foot massage…”

“Hey, you never offer me a foot massage.”

“That’s because you’re so ticklish you’d probably kick me in the gut, Guerin.”

“Nuance.”

Kyle laughs for real this time, and he sits up, kissing first Michael then twisting to kiss Alex long and deep.

“Yeah, yeah, that. That sounds great. Let’s make a night of it. A new tradition.”

He slides off the bed. His feet hit the floor of his father’s cabin, and this time it doesn’t even hurt. He stands for a moment, scraping his toes against the grain of the old wood. Sense memory stirs the soles of his feet, of running down these halls as a child, of sneaking down these halls to go drink with his buddies out in the desert. His family came to this cabin less and less as the years went by, and Kyle wonders what other memories the wood might be able to tell. The sound of his father’s laughter; women’s voices. Mrs. Ortecho. Rosa. Kyle lets the emotions flow through him one after another—nostalgia, then grief, then resentment, then just deep, thudding sadness of the lies hiding in the dark corners of all his memories.

But he can hear Alex and Michael moving behind him, around him, into the next room. Alex, who understands him so deep down, so intimately, who centers him, who settles him, who came back into his life with unshakeable strength, flowed into every old crevice, and made this old shadowed monument to a dead man back into a home. Michael, who represents part of a future Kyle never thought would be his; Michael, with his genius and his anger and his constant buzzing motion and all the possibilities spinning on his fingertips—possibilities he’s somehow decided to share with Kyle, somehow deemed him worthy despite all that bad blood both between them and in Kyle’s veins.

So it’s okay to take this day. It’s okay to take this day for his mother, stoic and loyal and stronger than steel, who loved her husband in spite of him, in spite of herself. It’s okay to take this day for Rosa Ortecho and all her tangled threads, who died loved by two fathers, the sister he never got to have. It’s okay to take this day for Alex, who needed a man like Jim Valenti, and deserved better still. It’s okay to take this day for himself. To soak in his grief. To marvel in his memories. To rebreak, and to heal.

The past, the present, and the future—they’ll all still be there tomorrow.

#mylex #kylex #i...don't know if there's a specific ship name for michae/kyle but that's a big part of this too lol #kyle valenti #michael guerin #alex manes #Very Emotional Fucking: The Fic

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