Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 There was a legend that surrounded the sleepy little village of Santa Cecilia.

Not the normal kind of legend, of course. Everyone knew about the traditions of Dia de los Muertos, La Muerte, and the stories that had been passed down from the generations of long ago- Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca, the two feuding brothers, the rain god Tlaloc, Xipe Totec. Even the most ragged of men who made their home within Santa Cecilia would affirm their knowledge of such tales if asked, and would relate them with a twinkle in their eyes and a note of respect in their voice. They were tales that had been lovingly preserved through the years, after all, tales that told of Mexican heritage, the people they had come from and the places that had once been. They were told with pride, with respect, and with no small amount of fondness towards one’s ancestors for keeping said memories alive.

But then there were other tales, tales that would make even the boldest man shiver and eye the shadows a bit more carefully on his walk home that evening, tales that were told in hushed voices or not at all.  And none was more terrifying than the tale of El Lobo Marrón, told only to naughty children or those who had not seen the creature’s deeds to be able to confirm the authenticity of the tale. Long ago, the townspeople would tell you, a curse had fallen upon the village. It came in the form of a creature- no, a monster, a being so dreadful that to even say its name would strike a bolt of fear through your heart. The first signs were the mutilated sheep carcasses that would appear at the edge of the village, the giant footprints that would appear along the banks of the local river, the howls sounding over the hills at night that would chill the blood and churn the stomach. Then people would start disappearing, showing up either dead or mutilated (Look at old Señor Ramirez, can hardly walk anymore after El Lobo was done with him-), tearing families apart and leaving wives without husbands, children without parents, lovers without the other piece of their heart.

It would always go into hiding eventually. El Lobo liked to vary its hunting grounds, it seemed, for no sooner would it disappear from Santa Cecilia then the next town over would report the same strange occurrences. But it would always return to its home, sooner or later. And when the howls started to sound over the hills again, when the townspeople reported seeing glowing yellow eyes when they looked out of their windows at night, everyone knew that they would be wise to increase their pace when walking home from the plaza or the local tavern that night.

Everyone knew that El Lobo Marrón had returned.

Miguel had never taken the legends surrounding the town seriously. Having grown up in the comfortable atmosphere of his family’s ancestral home and largely being confined to its premises- though he would never pass up the opportunity to sneak away and listen to the mariachis in the plaza, when he was sure that nobody was looking- meant that he had not strayed outside the boundaries of the town very often, had not seen the signs of the creature that everyone seemed to constantly babble about. To him, it was just another story that parents told their children in order to scare them into obedience, another bogeyman that terrified someone until they were old enough to realize that the tale held no truth to it whatsoever.

Chicas! Come to bed, or El Lobo Marr ón will snatch you up!

Don’t walk home along the river banks. I’ve seen El Lobo Marr ón’s footprints, amigo, and he would snatch you up and then pick your bones clean.

Close that window! Haven’t you heard the howling?

He had heard it all about a thousand times over throughout his life, especially during recent months. The townspeople claimed they had heard the signature howling ringing over the hills, that livestock had already gone missing- even his own padre had warned him against staying out too late at night. It had almost been enough to make Miguel run an exasperated hand through his hair, and even now the thought of his family’s warnings was enough to fill him with embarrassment. Did they honestly think that he still believed in that old fable? He was twelve now, mature enough to start working in his family’s workshop and contribute to the way that they chose to make a living. Maybe once, he would have been frightened over the tales of El Lobo Marrón, choosing to latch his windows a bit more tightly that night or huddle under the covers of his small bed until morning came. But not now. He wasn’t some frightened child who was going to be swayed by fairytales anymore.

Miguel was old enough to know that there were more frightening things in life than some raggedy old wolf wandering the countryside.

His mother had sent him off to gather groceries and cempasúchil flowers in preparation for Dia de los Muertos earlier that morning, with a strict command to be back by sundown and to not let anything distract him- mijo, you have no reason to be out after dark, you know of the dangers! Miguel hadn’t taken the warning seriously enough then, still living under the childish impression that his family didn’t truly know what was good for him, that they were too wrapped up in stupid old legends and superstitions (including the ban on music that they had instated, something which he had always turned his nose up at) to understand that he didn’t need extra protection to make his way through life. Besides, he knew to be careful, which streets to stick to in the evening hours and which to avoid. He’d like to think that he had enough street smarts to make it home before the time limit he had been given. But there had been a local band of mariachis playing in the plaza that evening, and Miguel had been so distracted by the lively music drifting over the area that he hadn’t noticed the sun slowly setting lower and lower on the horizon.

And when he had tried to rush his way home down one of the back streets that made up Santa Cecilia, that was when Diego and his gang had caught him.

Diego was one of the schoolchildren living within the village, coming from a rather influential family whose proud lineage apparently dated back to centuries before Santa Cecilia had even earned its name. He was, in a way, everything that Miguel wasn’t- tall and thin as a rake, with an unruly tangle of brown hair and a perpetual sneer always pinned to his face. He had the disposition of someone who was constantly looking down on others, wondering if they were worth wasting his precious time on, whether he could benefit from their friendship in some way or else leave them lying in the dust. Diego had evidently decided that Miguel was not included among his list of close acquaintances, for it seemed that ever since the elder boy had laid eyes on the youngest Rivera he had decided that the two of them should be mortal enemies. Whether it was because he saw a family of shoe-makers as the lowest rung on the social ladder, or because something about Miguel personally rubbed him the wrong way, Diego had gone out of his way to torment the other boy ever since.

So it was that they found each other upon this day, two of Diego’s lackeys- Alejandro, was it, and Mateo?- pinning Miguel down while Diego paced in front of them like some agitated jungle cat, sneering down at Miguel. “Got caught outside after dark, amigo?” The word was spat out as if to further indicate that Miguel was anything but, the elder boy’s already intimidating glare somehow becoming even sharper in that moment. “Don’t you know El Lobo is out tonight, cabrón? Surprised your mamá let you be out this late, with how you’re always glued to her side like a little oveja.”

Miguel’s only reaction was to send a venomous glare in Diego’s direction- had he dared to speak in that moment, he was sure he would have thrown out oaths that would have made his mother gasp to hear them. Instead he simply renewed his struggles, desperate in his attempts to get free. Size wasn’t entirely on his side in this scenario, but if he could just hook his leg the right way, maybe he could unbalance one of his captors and manage to get enough of a head start that they wouldn’t easily be able to catch up to him. They wouldn’t dare to try anything once he was actually back on the premises of his family home. The challenge was just in getting there.

“-think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Diego was hissing, promptly snapping Miguel back to the present. “You’re just some tonto shoemaker. No eres nada especial.”

“I’m not tonto!” Miguel finally spoke up, twisting his head to glare in the other child’s direction. “And if being better than you means treating people with actual respect, then I guess I am. You’re just some…some jerk!”

Diego’s face only seemed to darken at the words, and for a split-second Miguel feared that he’d finally said the wrong thing, that his remark would be the straw that broke the camel’s back and lead to his bully taking more drastic measures to keep him quiet. His presumption seemed to be correct as Diego leaned in, an unpleasant smile that didn’t quite manage to reach his eyes pinned to his face. “The pequeña oveja has a mouth on him, ay? I say we punish him for that.” With alarm, Miguel realized Diego was balling his fists as he stood there, looking as though he had every intention of slamming them into his captive’s stomach. “We’ll take the bread and the flores, maybe rough him up a little, sí? That’ll teach him to mouth off.”

Miguel renewed his struggles then- he couldn’t tell exactly what Diego had in mind as far as “roughing him up” went, but he was willing to bet it was nothing good- determined to get free. If only he hadn’t tried running down one of the alleys to get home. If only he’d paid more attention to his mother’s warnings, and not allowed himself to be distracted by the music he loved so much. His mother…was he going to be able to even make it back home to her, once Diego and his goons were through with him? Or would be forced to cower somewhere until morning and then return home, leaving her worried sick about him all night? Even despite his exasperation over her and the rest of his family continuing to baby him despite his age, Miguel wouldn’t be able to face himself if he brought that kind of turmoil down on her head. He had to make it home to his familia. He had to-

“Ay, chamacos.”

Four heads swiveled at the same time as the soft voice rang out from the end of the alley, three expressions showing disgust and one showing disbelief, fear- but perhaps a bit of hope. The voice didn’t sound like anybody in his family (that Miguel knew of, at least), but certainly a responsible adult could try to sway the tides in his favor. He couldn’t see the stranger’s face from where he was pinned against the dirty brick wall lining the street, or make out any defining features, but Miguel could at least hope that this stranger was on his side. If not, he was about to be vastly outnumbered, and perhaps in an even more dangerous situation than what he had already gotten himself into. It was not an appealing thought, to say the least.

“Go away, anciano,” he heard Diego hiss, having clearly decided that this stranger wasn’t an adult worth showing respect towards. “This doesn’t concern you.”

A dry chuckle sounded from the end of the alley, a sound which made Miguel shiver in spite of himself- there was no warmth in the noise, only disbelief and thinly-veiled anger. It was the sound of a man who wasn’t afraid of what consequences he could bring upon himself for daring to stand up to three boys who were more than capable of giving him a run for his money. It was the sound of a man that could potentially be more dangerous than any of his captors, and that alone was enough to make Miguel wonder if this man truly was on his side.

“Forgive me, niño. I’m just un anciano, after all, my memory may be going-“ There was a pause, then, and another set of soft words. “-but last time I checked, three against one wasn’t a very fair fight, no?” The stranger’s words had become soft and almost joking as he spoke, but now they became sharper again, much less carefully controlled. “Now leave the boy alone.”

“You can’t tell us what to do, rata callejera-“

“I won’t ask again.” The voice was calm, but dangerously so, like the way the air swelled before a clap of thunder. “Leave the boy alone.” There was a drop in pitch at the end of the sentence, more like a growl than actual human speech, and from what little Miguel could see of the street entrance something glinted in the darkness- a weapon? Was this man actually willing to threaten three schoolchildren in order to keep a complete stranger safe? If that was the kid of man he was trusting with his life at the moment, Miguel prayed that he wouldn’t feel like turning the weapon on him after he was done with those being subjected to his ire. 

Whatever it was, it seemed sufficient enough to startle Diego and his gang, twin gasps coming from his captors as Diego himself shuffled backwards a step or two. When the older boy spoke again, his voice seemed taut with barely suppressed nervousness, no longer sounding as cocky as he had been a scarce moment or so earlier. “Ay, no need for that, señor. Me and my amigos were just going.” Diego jerked his head back towards his two companions then, hissing a command towards them in the same taut voice. “¡Vamonos!” The pressure on Miguel was released in that moment, the two boys who had been holding him almost slamming him back into the wall in their haste to let go of him as they scurried back in the direction they had come. Miguel almost wanted to laugh at the thought of his bully being so quick to run off after he had tormented him for most of the evening- and they called him a frightened sheep!- but any jubilant thoughts quickly went out the window as he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching him, huddling slightly in an attempt to draw less attention to himself. That voice had been almost indiscernible, intimidating in the amount of thinly-veiled anger that it had held, and it was enough to make Miguel wonder if he was the next target of that anger. Had the stranger chased Diego and the others off just so he could have his way with some defenseless boy?

“Cobardes,” he heard the voice mutter, shuffling noises coming to his hears to indicate that the owner of the voice had knelt down beside him. For a moment Miguel wanted to protest, wanted to curl even tighter into a ball in some futile act of self-defense, but in the next instant words came to his ears that were vastly different from the ones he had heard before.  “Ay, chamaco. Talk to me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Did they do anything to you?” 

After a moment of hesitation, Miguel was finally able to raise his head and meet the stranger’s gaze- and what he saw surprised him. Instead of the intimidating visage he had been expecting to see, he instead came face to face with a relatively normal-looking man, one who seemed old enough to be an adult worth showing respect to but not quite as experienced with the world as the elder members of his family were. He took in the notable physical features- high cheekbones, messy mop of black hair, and the rather ragged clothes that the stranger was wearing (it made Miguel’s heart clench again, thinking that Diego had so thoughtlessly called a man who had rescued him a street rat)- before flicking his gaze upwards to meet two of the most kind and gentle brown eyes that he had ever seen. Seeing the care and compassion reflected there gave him the courage to speak, nodding slightly as he willed his voice to remain steady. “No, they didn’t hurt me. I…I think they were going to, but you stopped them. Gracias, señor.”

The man seemed embarrassed over the praise, smiling crookedly as he knelt next to Miguel. “Ah, de nada. Never could stand seeing kids being picked on, you know? Figured I might lend a little help.”

Miguel let a smile of his own slide onto his face at that, giggling under his breath despite how shaken up he still was. “Yeah, you showed them! You sounded muy rudo.”

The stranger’s smile seemed to falter for a moment, but it quickly came back with just as much force as before, leaving Miguel to wonder if he could have possibly imagined the whole thing. “Ay, well, I try my best, gordito. Muy atemorizante, no?” The thought of this stranger who made a bean stalk look positively enormous appearing scary in any way was enough to make a snort of laughter escape Miguel’s mouth as he sat there, and the stranger soon joined in, ruffling a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I’m Héctor. You got a name, chamaco?”

“Miguel.” A pause lapsed between the two of them for a moment before he continued, his voice playful. “Aren’t you gonna walk me home or something? You know, with El Lobo being out and everything?”

Héctor seemed to stiffen for a moment, almost as if the breath had been knocked out of him in one fell swoop, and when he spoke again his voice seemed filled with trepidation. “El…El Lobo?”

Miguel couldn’t for the life of him figure out why this man who seemingly oozed confidence was suddenly so terrified over the mention of one of the local legends, but he suspected he’d found one more adult who actually believed in the old tale, one more adult who would try to tell him that it wasn’t safe to stay outside after the moon rose- or at least, not in Santa Cecilia. Or, due to his rugged clothes, Héctor wasn’t actually from around here, simply a traveler passing through the area that had not heard of the legend before. That might explain why he was one of the few grown men daring to wander the backstreets of the village at this hour, and if that was the case Miguel felt that it was his responsibility to enlighten his current company. “Yeah, El Lobo Marrón. It’s a legend that everybody here knows. About a giant wolf that stalks through here and kills the sheep, or people. But…I never believed it. It’s just some stupid kid story.”

For a moment Héctor remained deathly still, to the point where Miguel started to wonder if he’d perhaps said the wrong thing and had scared the older man into silence. But in the next instant that crooked smile was pinning its way back onto his company’s lips, a loud laugh escaping from his lips as he shook his head. “Ay, kids these days. They’ll believe anything, no? Tan dramático.” It was such a dramatic change in personality that Miguel was left mentally reeling from what he had witnessed, too thoroughly bewildered to format a response as Héctor spoke up again. “Look, Miguel, it’s…eh, probably not the best idea for me to walk you home. Your familia might not take kindly to an anciano like me strolling through the front door with you.”

“But if I just tell them that you helped me-“ Miguel scrambled to his feet then, desperate to think of some way to repay this stranger who had saved him from being beaten and bruised out of the kindness of his heart. “They’d understand! And mi madre would make you all the tamales you could eat!” After she’s done chewing my ear off for being home so late, he thought, but chose not to disclose. “Home’s not that far away, but if you-“

“No, kid.” Héctor’s voice had turned sharp again, making Miguel’s words shrivel and die on the tip of his tongue. “Here’s what you’re going to do, sí? You’re going to go home to your familia, you’re not going to tell anyone that you saw me, and you’re going to forget about me. Alright?”

For a moment, Miguel wanted to protest. How could this man who had saved him and been so gentle and caring possibly not want anyone to know about his deeds? How could he want to be forgotten by anyone, much less a child who he had saved from being mugged in some back alley? If it had been him, he certainly wouldn’t have minded the attention that would be gained by someone relating his good deed to others, or what kind of other consequences that sprang from it. But something made him stop and reconsider in that moment, made him look more critically at the situation and see things from Héctor’s point of view. If the older man really was just passing through the area, he most likely didn’t want people who he barely even knew- and would most likely never see again- to think of him as some kind of celebrity. Or perhaps he was just the kind of person who didn’t feel comfortable in the spotlight. Either way, Miguel could at least opt to respect his wishes and not tell his family about what had transpired tonight, as much as a part of him longed to.

So it was that he simply dipped his head after a few moments of silence, his voice soft. “Entiendo, Héctor.”

“Ay, don’t look so sad, chamaco. You’ll thank me for this later, trust me.” Before Miguel could even question what he meant, Héctor was rising to his feet and quickly walking back in the direction he had come from, with a speed that seemed unfit for a man who appeared so gangly. Miguel stared after him for a moment, debating going after him to ask him just what he had to be thankful about in this situation- ay, but what good would it do? His new-found companion seemed like the type who was not exactly quick to share personal information with a complete stranger, and trying to prod the information out of him was not bound to be met with promising results.

Instead Miguel let out an exasperated breath, taking a moment to adjust his red hoodie before heading off in the direction of his family home, all the while wondering if he was going to see Héctor again. The other man’s elusive nature had raised numerous questions in the boy’s mind, after all, and having inherited his family’s stubbornness meant that he would not rest until he had sufficient answers to said questions. Whether he actually got an opportunity to have them answered or not, only time itself could tell.  

Chapter Text

As predicted, his mamá had all but ripped his head off his shoulders for being home so late, pelting him with questions about just where he had been and what he had been thinking for daring to go home through the backstreets of Santa Cecilia. Miguel had tried his best to stretch the truth a bit- his mother would have had a heart attack if she’d found out how close he had been to getting mugged on top of everything else, and the whole family would likely give him a piece of their mind if he mentioned listening to the musicians in the plaza- but he had the feeling that half of his family knew precisely where he had been, if the thinly-veiled looks of disappointment they sent his way were any indication.

For some time afterwards, Miguel had stewed over it. It wasn’t his fault that Diego disliked him so much, after all (well, maybe it was, but he’d stopped caring about the reasoning behind the bullying long ago), and he could hardly be blamed for liking music so much when it was practically played everywhere that he went. Never in his family home, however- he hadn’t heard so much as the tiniest hint of something that could be called a tune within its walls since the moment he was born. He had tried asking about the music ban many times as a child, but the only one who had ever hinted at the reasoning behind it was his Abuelita Coco. She had told him that her father had been a musician, that he had been a loving and devoted family man- but he had been acting strange and antsy one night, and after that night had seemingly disappeared without a trace. His Mamá Imelda had been quick to banish anything that reminded her of her long-lost husband from her life, and the rest was supposedly history.

Whenever he tried to listen to the mariachis in the plaza, his family dragged him away and gave him disapproving looks for the rest of the evening. Whenever he so much as whistled into a bottle to create a tune, they would snatch it away from him, the harsh statement of no music ringing in his head like a twisted mantra. He would always get over his anger towards such a thing eventually, but the fact that his family was so quick to reject something he loved would always burn a hole deep down inside of him, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

More than anything, however, his thoughts kept going back to Héctor. Miguel had to wonder what the man was doing now, if he was passing through Santa Cecilia or planning to stay indefinitely, and just why he wanted to be forgotten so badly. Very few adults outside of his immediate family had ever looked at him with such compassion and worry in their gaze before, after all, and even less of them would have intervened had they seen him being tormented by his peers. The fact that someone would go out of their way to help him in his time of aid, even if they looked to be a bit down on their luck themselves, was nothing short of miraculous to the boy, and it still pained him to think that Diego had so carelessly thrown out the remark that his savior was nothing more than some street rat. He’d felt connected to the man from the beginning, somehow, and he found himself wishing that there was some way to repay Héctor for his kindness.

He got his chance sooner than he might have hoped. His family had finally permitted him to go outside the grounds of the shop after a rather tense night spent trying his best to stay in their good graces, but had instructed his prima Rosa to keep a close eye on him. Given that they were around the same age, his familia clearly expected her to be able to keep him in line should he try to stray too far, and he had to admit that she was doing a decent job of it- when she wasn’t talking his ear off about the latest gossip that she had heard through the grapevine, anyway. Miguel had to fight to keep an irritated sigh from escaping his mouth as Rosa launched into yet another tale that he was sure was at least partially exaggerated, hoisting the basket full of assorted groceries that he was carrying.

Once again, he stewed over the thought that his family didn’t trust him enough to leave him without a chaperone. He was twelve years old, not some trouble-making toddler who would run off towards the nearest distraction-

“You’re not even listening to me, estúpido!” Rosa’s harsh words brought him out of his funk, his head snapping up in order to pay as close of attention to his cousin as he could. “Look at that man over there. Dios mío, you’d think he’d never learned how to sew his clothing properly.”

Miguel followed her gaze, and both rage and sadness filled him in equal measure as he saw the familiar form of Héctor weaving through the crowd at the marketplace. Now that it was daylight, he could see just how thin and haggard the other man looked, how tattered his clothes were, how he kept casting quick glances to either side as if he were uncomfortable to be among so many unfamiliar people. It was little wonder that the older man didn’t want attention drawn to himself, if he both felt and looked so out of place in large crowds, and the fact that Rosa could have so thoughtlessly joined in the teasing of his savior made him angrier than he could have ever imagined.

“Probably some tramp that strolled into town-“ Rosa was saying, cutting her words off as Miguel shot her an annoyed glare. “Ay, cálmese! I was just joking!”

“You can only say you’re joking if it’s actually funny, Rosa,” Miguel shot back, craning his neck in order to get a better glimpse of Héctor. “Don’t call him a tramp! His name is Héctor, and he’s the nicest man I’ve ever met!”

“Oh yeah? And how exactly do you know his name, chico?” Rosa asked, reaching out with one arm to playfully elbow Miguel in the stomach.

“I…met him at the market the other day. He said he’s…new to town, so I showed him around a little. And he was really nice to me!” Miguel stuttered out, inwardly hoping that his words sounded more convincing than they felt.

Rosa clearly wasn’t buying it, however, as she was quick to push her glasses farther up onto her nose and shoot him a knowing smirk. “You are a terrible liar, Miguel. Your mamá would kill you if she found out that you’ve been hanging out with some homeless guy! Or maybe feed you to El Lobo Marrón.”

“I don’t believe in that stupid legend anyway!” Miguel snapped, resisting the sudden urge to chuck the basket of groceries at his cousin’s head. “Besides, he probably has a home somewhere-“

“Ay, I have a casa. Maybe not as fancy as some, pero it gets the job done.” Miguel jolted upright at the sound of the joking voice, looking up to see that familiar crooked smile that he had become acquainted with just a day prior. Héctor stood in front of the two, his head lowered slightly so that his gaze could meet their own, a teasing glimmer in his eyes as he looked them over. “You two are awfully loud for people having a conversation, no? I could hear you halfway across the market!”

Miguel couldn’t help but still feel ashamed over the older man’s gentle scolding, ducking his head slightly. “We didn’t mean to be so loud-“

Rosa, however, was having none of it. Raising herself on her toes so that she could try to match Héctor’s height, a fierce glimmer entered her eyes as she snapped out her words. “Oh yeah? Well, you shouldn’t be listening to private conversations between familia, anciano!”

For a moment Miguel wanted to clamp his hand over Rosa’s mouth and drag her away from the situation, and as it was he still settled for letting his mouth fall open in shock that his cousin would dare to speak to an adult figure in such a way. Judging by how Héctor had reacted to Diego’s remarks last night, Miguel couldn’t imagine that he would take very kindly to barbed words being thrown at him, whether they were meant in jest or not. The young Rivera opened his mouth, fully prepared to issue a frantic apology for Rosa’s remarks- only to be cut off by a loud guffaw from Héctor, who was covering his mouth as though he were trying very hard to keep an amused smile from springing onto his face.

“The chica has fire, no? Muy intimidante!” Héctor reached a hand up to ruffle through his hair then, another chuckle leaving his mouth. “And you’re related to her, chamaco? Que Dios te ayude.” The older man had let the amused smile spring onto his face, but it quickly vanished at the sight of Rosa’s indignant glare, and it almost seemed as though he swallowed nervously before continuing. “Not such a bad thing, though, eh? Keeps you on your toes. Reminds me of mi hija.” An almost wistful look had entered Héctor’s eyes as he stood there, a soft sigh leaving his lips. “Ah, she was muy joven when I last saw her, but she was always so stubborn! Took after her mother. Those two used to drive me absolutely loco.”  

“You had familia?” Miguel asked, his tone careful after seeing just how strangely morose Héctor seemed over the subject. “What…what happened to them? Why aren’t they with you now?”

For a moment Héctor seemed to draw into himself, his gaze lowered and his voice soft. “I…I made a mistake. And I had to leave them.” His voice seemed to tremble at the end of the sentence, and it filled Miguel with such hurt that he couldn’t help but speak up again.

“My abuelita always told me that if you make a mistake, you should apologize for it and try to learn from it,” he said, gazing up at Héctor. “Maybe if you apologize to them, they’ll let you come back!”

“Yeah, don’t let some stupid mistake keep you from your familia!” Miguel was surprised that Rosa had decided to pipe up, but when he turned to bring her into his line of vision she seemed strangely remorseful in the midst of her conviction. Perhaps she was regretting saying that this man who was clearly in so much pain was nothing more than just another tramp- or perhaps she was just trying to suck up in order to stay within yet another adult’s good graces, but Miguel would bet anything on it being the first possibility. Even Rosa knew when she had pushed someone too far, after all.

Héctor smiled at the words, but Miguel could tell that it didn’t quite manage to reach his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was still painfully soft. “Ah, chamacos, I wish it was that easy. Pero I’ve probably been away for so long that they’ve forgotten about me. Besides, no one wants an anciano like me around.” A pause, and then Héctor seemed to straighten again, the smile once again meeting his eyes as though nothing had even happened. “Ah, but that’s life, you know?” He reached down to ruffle the hair on both of their heads affectionately, seemingly ignoring Rosa’s indignant exclamation over such a gesture. “Now, you two better get back to your shopping, ay? Especially you, chamaco,” he said, pointing a thin finger at Miguel. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were following me around for no good reason!”

Miguel, still left reeling from the sudden change in the older man’s personality, could only stammer out a vain attempt at making his new friend stay. “But…but are you sure you’re-“

“What did I just say, chamaco?” Héctor spoke up again, his voice turning slightly sharper with what might have been annoyance. “Go on, shoo. And keep a tight leash on that chica, eh? She’ll bite your cabeza off if you’re not careful!” With a jaunty wave, the frail-looking man was disappearing into the crowd, leaving Miguel to huff in frustration and turn back towards Rosa.

His cousin was staring in the direction Héctor had left from, a frown on her face that looked just as puzzled as Miguel felt. “Well, that was…interesting,” she said after a moment, brows furrowing as she glanced at Miguel. “You didn’t tell me your amigo was so weird.”

“He’s not-“ Miguel broke off, remembering the sudden transitions in mood that Héctor had shown both last night and this morning, the way he seemed strangely distant when talking about family, the way he didn’t think he was worth remembering. Suddenly, everything made a horrifying amount of sense. Héctor wasn’t weird in any sense of the term. He was broken. Every mannerism of his was that of a broken man trying desperately to hold the jagged pieces of himself together, silently calling out for help and hoping that someone would answer. And it pained the young Rivera to see the depth of that sorrow, the way Héctor was trying to hide it from those that were able to help him. “He’s not weird. Rosa, he…he needs our help.”

“Maybe he does, Miguel.” Rosa’s voice was uncharacteristically soft as she stepped up beside Miguel, putting a comforting hand on her cousin’s shoulder and leaning down to meet his gaze. “But we can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. That’s what Abuelita always says.” Her expression seemed to soften for a moment as she gazed at Miguel, and when she spoke again there was no trace of any dry wit in her voice that normally would have been present. “Ah, primo, you have a big heart, sí? Pero you can’t help everyone. Now come on, your mamá wants those groceries back, and I’m not gonna be the one who has to bail you out this time.” With that, she gently shoved Miguel back in the direction of their family home, cocking an eyebrow at him until he finally started walking.

Miguel couldn’t get the way Héctor had looked so dejected over the mention of his family out of his head, however, or the way the older man had talked about his daughter with such fondness and pain in his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t reunite his newfound friend with his family again, and maybe he couldn’t convince Héctor to apologize for whatever wrong-doing he felt like he had committed. But he could at least try to help the run-down stranger, as repayment for the kindness Héctor had shown him. He could at least try to make the older man understand that at least one person in his life was looking out for him, and was concerned about his well-being.

Maybe he did have too big of a heart. Maybe he did care too much about the fate of a person he had only met a day or so ago. But consequences be damned, Miguel felt a connection with Héctor that he had seldom felt with any other adult before, and that alone made him want to extend an olive branch to the strange man that had seemingly blown into Santa Cecilia. Whether it would lead to anything remained yet to be seen- but there was no harm in trying, was there? It was like Ernesto de la Cruz always said, in all the old movies of him that Miguel had watched. When you see your moment, you mustn’t let it pass you by. You must seize it.

Here was his moment to make a difference in the life of another. And Miguel would not let it slip through his fingers so easily.

“You’re wrong, Rosa,” he muttered, his voice pitched low so that his cousin wouldn’t overhear. “I am going to help Héctor.  And I’m going to make sure he’s happy again.”     

Chapter Text

Different objects had started disappearing or otherwise being misplaced from the Rivera household, as of late. Abuelita Coco would put down a spoon to take a brief recess from her cooking duties, and when she turned around again it would be gone. Flowers would go missing from vases perched upon the tables in the house, papers that were meant for jotting down specifics of a customer’s order would suddenly be more depleted than usual by the end of the day. The Riveras had paid rapt attention to such a thing at first, believing it to only be a matter of time before items of greater value started disappearing too, but as the days passed and nothing of great importance disappeared the adults simply shrugged and went about their business. It was possible that the items were being misplaced, after all, not stolen, and no thief would be bold enough to sneak into a heavily populated family home to try stealing something of value, no matter how desperate they were.  

No one considered the thievery coming from within.

Of course, Miguel had been careful not to take items of value- only small things, things that would most likely be overlooked or else not missed if someone was to notice they had gone missing, but as his family had grown appropriately suspicious over the missing items the young Rivera had been forced to be more cautious than usual in his taking of trinkets. He didn’t know if it truly counted as stealing if he was just going to bring the items back in the event that Héctor didn’t want them (which in his young mind made his acts perfectly excusable), but Miguel figured that it was better to be on the safer side either way. He was already in enough trouble with his family for sneaking out to the plaza on occasion- they’d probably tan his hide if they found out that he was resorting to stealing just to find things that might cheer up a ragged old man that he had only met a few scarce days ago.

He hadn’t meant to take quite so many things, as the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself- but Miguel hadn’t been able to decide just what Héctor would like, what the older man would see as useful objects and what would be tossed to the side. So he’d taken anything that might have been of use to a person down on his luck. Small journals to record his travels in, little bouquets of flowers that looked cheery enough to bring joy to someone, utensils and other small commodities that could be used in a household (that also had the added bonus of being able to be packed easily). Miguel had cleverly hidden the stash in his rooftop hideaway, right next to the supplies for building his own guitar and the shrine to Ernesto de la Cruz that he had lovingly constructed. Out of all the locations within his family home, that was the only one where it was guaranteed that none of his family members would go looking, and it was therefore where he felt the most comfortable storing his stash.

He had slipped off the roof that afternoon with Dante by his side, the Xolo dog landing in an unruly tangle of limbs at the same time that Miguel lightly touched down upon the dirt of the street. Hoisting the small bag of goods that he had procured over his shoulder- containing some small trinkets, a guitar (who knew, maybe a good song or two would cheer Héctor up a bit!), and various other knickknacks- Miguel pirouetted on one foot, fully prepared to march down the side street and try to find Héctor at the market again while staying out of sight of his family-

Only to come face to face with Rosa.

“Ay!” Scrambling in panic, Miguel almost dropped the bundle, hastily catching it at the last minute to avoid breaking any of the more fragile items stored inside. “Don’t do that, Rosa! Dios mío, you’re even sneakier than Mamá Imelda is-“

His cousin simply glanced him over briefly, a knowing smirk decorating her features as she leaned back against the wall of the house. “I know where you’re going. You’re going to go sneak out for the third time to give that anciano some free gifts. Because you care about him so much.” Leaving Miguel to sputter in indignation, she peered into the bag of goods, her smirk slowly turning into a frown. “So that’s where Abuelita’s favorite stirring spoon went! You little ladrón!”

“Callate, Rosa!” Miguel hissed out, carefully peering around the open doorframe to ensure that none of his adult relatives were listening in. “You’re gonna get me in trouble!”

“I’m not the one who’s been stealing things!” Rosa snapped, at least having the courtesy to lower her voice as she argued with her cousin. “I know you care about your amigo, but this is ridiculous!”

“I’m going to bring them right back if he doesn’t want them!” It was a childish protest at best, but Miguel was determined to try and hold the upper hand in this conversation for as long as he possibly could. “I just…I don’t want him going to the marketplace if he doesn’t have any money, and I thought I’d bring him some things? But just…little things?” The reasoning sounded weak even to his ears, and Rosa clearly thought so too, judging by the way she had raised an exasperated hand to ruffle through her hair.

“Dios mío, Miguel. Your mamá is going to hang your cabeza on the wall if she finds out about this. Stealing is still stealing, primo! You can’t just excuse it away because of some anciano that you found at the market!” Rosa pushed her glasses farther up onto the ridge of her nose then, tapping her foot upon the cobblestones as if she were debating whether to press the matter further or not. “You’re lucky that I found you instead of Mamá Imelda, at least. And you’re lucky that I don’t march in there right now and tell her you’ve been stealing-“

In a panic, Miguel grabbed his cousin’s shoulders then, his expression frantic. “No, Rosa! Please don’t tell Mamá Imelda. She’ll make me shine shoes for…probably the rest of my life!” It was not only fear of just what kind of wrath he would bring down upon his head, but fear that he wouldn’t be able to help Héctor, wouldn’t be able to help the man that he had already grown to see as a friend no matter how little time they had spent together. He had seen just how ragged Héctor looked in the marketplace, after all, the way his posture was stooped and his clothes were tattered, the way he kept flinching away from passerby as if he were afraid of what kind of consequences encountering them would have. If someone had heard this man who had helped him so much, and was continuing to hurt him- Miguel had to do something. His heart (which contained so much compassion for others, even at such a young age) wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t, Miguel!” Rosa was saying, sighing in exasperation. “Do you know how much you’ve slowed shoe orders down because we can’t find papel to write specifics down on? Ay, how many times have we told you that you’ve got to start actually contributing-“

“Because I know you care about him too, Rosa!” That statement was at least enough to shock Rosa into silence, enough for Miguel to forge onward no matter how much part of him still quailed at the thought of Mamá Imelda’s wrath. “You saw how sad he looked in the market! He misses his familia, he misses his daughter. He’s got no one else! And if no one else is gonna help him, then I will.” He squared his shoulders then, finally gaining the courage to straighten his posture and stare at his cousin defiantly. “Maybe stealing things was wrong. But I’m still going to help him, whether Mamá Imelda likes it or not. Whether you like it or not.”

Rosa stared at him in silence for a moment, her eyes narrowed as if she were contemplating her next course of action, and when she spoke again her voice was slow and deliberate, giving no hint as to the motive behind the words. “Well. Then I guess I’ll just have to tell your mamá-“

Miguel’s heart sank at the words, his mind racing as it tried to plot out just how he was going to get himself out of this situation. Rosa didn’t truly understand, then- she was going to tell Mamá Imelda and the rest of the family that he’d been hanging out with a stranger (who was most likely homeless, to boot), that he’d been stealing on top of that, and then he would feel the sting of that famed Rivera boot. He would likely be confined to the workshop for the rest of his life at best, surrounded by the smells of shoe polish and wet leather, unable to help a man who so desperately needed some kindness in his life. He was about to open his mouth, about to quietly accept the punishment that was undoubtedly coming his way within the next several minutes-

“-that you’re spending a few hours with one of your amigos to go over some tarea. Who’s that butcher’s son that you like so much? Juan?” Before Miguel could even begin to comprehend the words coming out of his cousin’s mouth, Rosa was shoving him forwards, seemingly ignoring Dante’s indignant whine over having the boy he had bonded with so roughly handled. “Eh, I’ll work out the details later. Now go! ¡Muevete! I’ll cover for you. But only because you’re my primo. Not because I care about that anciano or anything.”

Sending a knowing smirk in Rosa’s direction, Miguel hoisted his pack over one shoulder and started off again, shooting one last comment over his shoulder. “Gracias, Rosa!”

“And get him some churros from the market! Even a rata like him should enjoy those.”

***

It had taken quite some time for Miguel to navigate through the busy plaza- especially with Dante in tow, as the Xolo seemed determined to be distracted by either an unattended piece of food or another person that he decided was worth socializing with every five minutes- but he had eventually found Héctor lounging under the shade of a veranda in order to get out of the harsh rays of the afternoon sunlight, humming a tune that had sounded suspiciously like one of Ernesto de la Cruz’s hits under his breath as he picked at the fraying strands of an old straw hat that was now clenched in his hands. He hadn’t seemed very interested in entertaining the idea of company, judging from how he had chosen a veranda that was away from the center of foot traffic, and if Miguel used enough of his imagination he thought that the older man looked even more nervous about being around the large crowds than he had the other day at the market. Other than sending a glance that looked somewhat similar to an irritated scowl over at the tour group that had stopped at the statue decorating the center of the plaza, Héctor hadn’t seemed interested in moving from his position, and Miguel had been forced to play the waiting game as he hid behind a stack of crates at the end of the street.

He hadn’t had to wait long. Eventually Héctor had glanced at the sky overhead, evidently deciding that he had stood in one place for long enough as he pushed himself off of the wall and started winding his way through the crowds, his rather gangly form making him easy to pick out from the rest of the passerby. With a muttered command of vamonos to Dante, Miguel had set off after him, trying his best to see where the older man was headed off to with such purpose while being careful to lag far enough behind that he wouldn’t be suspected of following Héctor. It wasn’t long before he realized that Héctor wasn’t heading anywhere within the limits of the town, however- in fact, he didn’t seem interested in lingering within Santa Cecilia at all. Instead his winding path took both of them to the outskirts of the town, where the brick and cobblestone buildings faded away to tall pine trees and sand underneath one’s feet. For a moment Miguel entertained the idea that Héctor was traveling to the train station- perhaps taking one of the rail systems to Mexico City- but then he remembered that the station was in the next town over, and they were headed in the wrong direction to catch the next one that was due to arrive. Perhaps the older man was just taking the long way home, to avoid the crowds-

Or perhaps his assumption was completely wrong. Not only was Héctor traveling deeper and deeper into the forest, but his path doubled back on itself and split in completely different directions, making Miguel utter oaths under his breath and have to dodge tree roots as he wove his way along. He’d thought that the older man was lost, at first, for there was no reason for someone to be following this aimless of a path of travel- but it became clear that Héctor was traveling this way on purpose after the first few times, and it filled Miguel with nothing short of bewilderment. Why would someone go through such an effort to double back and create such a confusing path to follow, unless they wanted to guarantee that nobody was going to follow them? Maybe Rosa was right- maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to trust a man he knew close to nothing about. What if Héctor was hiding something sinister deep within the forest, and he didn’t want anyone to know about it?

No. Héctor had saved him, when he had been cornered by Diego back in the alley, had shown him more kindness in that situation than any other adult likely would have. Surely he was a perfectly normal member of society who was a bit down on his luck, who happened to be heading deeper and deeper into the woods for perfectly innocent reasons-

Miguel stepped the wrong way in the midst of his musings, his foot landing upon a dry twig with a resounding snapping noise, and the young Rivera froze, holding up a hand to stop Dante as the Xolo trailed behind him. He’d like to think that he had been fairly quiet thus far, the pine needles and sand under his feet helping to conceal the sound of his footsteps, but now that he’d revealed his presence he was surely going to land himself in even more trouble than if Rosa had actually told his Mamá Imelda where he was heading. Sure enough, Héctor’s muscles stiffened as he stopped in his tracks, his eyes darting as he tried to pinpoint the source of the noise, and if Miguel hadn’t been able to know better he would have sworn that the older man’s nostrils flared for a split second as he turned to face the source of the disturbance.

When those deep brown eyes landed on him, the reaction was almost twice as comical- Héctor seemed to jump and curl in on himself like a startled caterpillar, his eyes widening. “Ay! Chamaco, what…what are you doing out here?” Realization seemed to slowly dawn on the older man as he glanced around the area, his expression slowly drifting into something bordering on suspicion. “You’re following me, aren’t you? Dios mío, even after I specifically told you not to-”

“I’m not following you! I’m just…admiring the forest!” Miguel stuttered out, pouting as one of Héctor’s eyebrows raised incredulously. “Fine, I’m following you. But only because I wanted to give you some things! Because I thought they would…cheer you up!”

Héctor’s eyes darted to the bag that Miguel was toting, then to Dante, an unreadable expression crossing his face as he eyed the Xolo. “And the perro, too? I don’t need pets, Miguel. Or handouts. I’m doing perfectly fine, see? Muy bien!” A somewhat strained smile sprang onto the older man’s face as he gestured to himself, seeming to notice for the first time just how tattered his clothing was and just how gaunt he looked. “…Más o menos. Now go back home, ay? Your familia is probably worried sick about you. That way, shoo-“

“Dante’s just a street dog! He follows me around, he’s my amigo. I don’t think he really belongs to anyone,” Miguel retorted, shifting his feet slightly. “And about going home-“ A crooked smile sprang onto his face then, the way it would when he was trying to explain to his family members why he had been so late in getting home from an errand. “I’m supposed to be hanging out at an amigo’s house for a few hours. You technically count as an amigo, right?”

Héctor clearly wasn’t buying it, judging from the incredulous look on his face. “We just met two days ago, chamaco. You don’t want to be friends with an anciano like me, trust me. Now go, muevete-”

“And I don’t actually remember which direction Santa Cecilia is in.” That was enough to get Héctor to pause, and Miguel forged bravely onward. “You don’t want some poor niño like me wandering all around the forest by himself, do you? Your way to get home is super confusing, by the way. How do you not get lost more often?”

“Because I just so happen to pay attention to the landmarks.” Héctor sighed then, reaching up to remove the straw hat from his head and fan himself with it. “Miguel, I am not a niñera, comprende? I don’t have the time to be watching you-“

“Why? Are you trying to hide something?” At the slight tense in Héctor’s muscles, Miguel dared to stand up a bit straighter, shooting a look that was full of childish defiance in the older man’s direction. “Ha! I knew it-“

“Alright, kid, alright. I’ll take you to mi casa.” Héctor ran an exasperated hand down his face then, his voice muffled behind his fingers. “But no touching anything, and you keep that perro close by. And you’ve got to listen when I tell you something. Dios mío, you’re almost as bad as my daughter.”

“Gracias, Héctor!” Miguel said, almost sprinting ahead of the older man in his excitement before Hector’s yelled command of and stay where I can see you! came to his ears, forcing him to double back and cast a sheepish smile in Héctor’s direction. With a heavy sigh from the other man and a promise that he hadn’t been followed here, they were off again, winding their way through the assorted pines and scrub. Miguel had to marvel over just how cautiously Héctor proceeded through the environment, stepping over tree roots and small rocks alike as if they weren’t even in his direct path of travel, his footsteps almost eerily silent as they traversed the terrain. At one point, they had been forced to stop mid-stride because a bird had flown out onto the path, and Miguel hadn’t missed the way Héctor’s eyes had zeroed in on the small creature, his head turning to follow its flight path as he stood in silence for a moment- but when Miguel had dared to ask him about it, the older man had simply muttered out something about not wanting to startle it before continuing onwards.

It was only when they came to a clearing that Héctor bothered to slow his pace, pushing the vegetation in front of them aside as he stepped through. “Ah, here we are. Home sweet home, eh?”

Miguel raced ahead of the gangly man then, his eyes brightening at the thought of seeing just where Héctor had bothered to settle down- and that light was promptly dimmed at the sight of just what his elder considered to be proper shelter. A small shack that was leaning heavily on its foundation took up the majority of the clearing, the wood that made up the structure rotted in places and sagging dangerously in others, the tin making up the roof looking as though a sudden windstorm could have transformed it into a flying ball of sheet metal. Random bits of junk lay scattered here and there around the shack, as if acting as bizarre landmarks, and the area was choked with weeds (Miguel did not want to dwell on the fact that such thick vegetation could hide the potential hazards lurking within) that had been allowed to grow up over the years. Even the trees around the shack seemed more scraggly than their counterparts further into the forest, as if nature itself had given up on trying to make the clearing seem more attractive to the eye and had settled into a glum kind of acceptance towards its ugliness.

Miguel stared. He couldn’t help it. Part of him wanted to be mortified that his hero lived in such rough conditions, part of him wanted to be disappointed, and a larger part of him still wanted to berate himself for thinking that a man who looked so tattered could secure a luxurious home. The tangled thoughts scattering around his head made coherent speech impossible for the span of a few moments, and when the young Rivera spoke again it was in the tone of a child who couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing, who was trying to make their words sound delicate but failing miserably. “This…this is your house?”

Héctor seemed to bristle momentarily as he turned towards Miguel, placing his hands on his hips in a mockingly stern gesture. “Ay, chamaco, cool it with the judgement, sí?  I may not have some fancy palacio like a celebridad, but home is home, eh? When you’re old like me, you can’t afford to be picky.”

“It’s just…a little rough-looking, isn’t it?” Miguel asked, trying in vain to defend himself as he carefully picked his way through the long grass, following Héctor as closely as he could while trying not to trip on the spare bits of rubbish that were strewn about.

“Ay, it’s not all bad, gordito. Before you ask, I like not having vencinos. No one around to bother me, you know? Especially so close to-“ Héctor seemed to pause then, a borderline panicked look entering his eyes as if he’d come too close to revealing information that he would rather keep hidden. Miguel wisely kept his desire to ask about such a thing to himself- he’d accepted that his newfound friend had certain strange quirks that he was better off not questioning, and peppering Héctor with unfounded questions was bound to make the older man only become more closed off. If he wanted to know anything about this strange wanderer and the reason for why he seemed so absurdly careful around others, Miguel had to learn when to give Héctor space and when to dig his claws in and not let go.

Sure enough, Héctor seemed to give himself the shake that he always did when it seemed that his thoughts were getting the best of him, his tone a bit softer when he spoke up again. “Ah, never mind. Come on, we’ll get you set up in casa Héctor, eh?” A quick shove was all it took for the door of the shack- which looked more like a rotting plank of wood than the object in question- to open and permit the two to step inside, revealing an interior that was somehow even more shabby than the outside of the structure. The floor of the shack was nothing but wooden planks, some completely rotted through in areas to expose the dirt and grass beneath, and from the looks of things the walls of the structure weren’t faring much better, as the local burrowing insects seemed to have taken a shine to the free meal that they were now earning without any kind of intervention. A bare table and chairs were the only furnishing within the house that was still in one piece- the couch was threadbare and the cushions appeared shredded, as if some great animal had torn through them in a fit of rage, with scratch marks along the wall and fur littering the floor. Various bits of junk littered the premises- old phonographs, playing cards, discarded tins of canned food- and a threadbare hammock was hung up in the corner, as if the owner had made some vain effort to make the shack look more homely.

It was a sad sight, to say the least, and Miguel felt his sense of bewilderment only growing as he glanced at his surroundings. As Héctor busied himself with clearing a space upon the table to place items, the young Rivera turned to watch him, noticing that the older man seemed rather tense around Dante- Héctor’s eyes kept darting from his surroundings to the Xolo dog and back again, almost as if he were hesitant to take his gaze off of the creature for any longer than he had to, and if Miguel hadn’t known any better he would have said that the look on the wanderer’s face was suspiciously similar to an irritated glare as he watched Dante stick his nose into one of the discarded cans. Could it be that Héctor had had bad experiences with street canines before? Not all of the strays wandering the streets of Santa Cecilia were as friendly or willing to share their space with humans as Dante was, after all, and if Héctor had had to resort to rummaging for his food he likely would have made at least a few of them defensive over the fact that he was edging so far into their territory. Was he afraid that Dante would snap and turn out to be the same?

“You don’t have to worry about Dante,” he piped up, trying to reassure the older man and only receiving a quizzical glance in return. “I mean…he isn’t a bad dog. No agresivo. He doesn’t even bite!”

“It’s not that I’m worried about.” Héctor sighed, glancing at Dante as the Xolo dog vainly tried to paw off the tin can that was now stuck upon his snout. “I, eh…just don’t like having perros in the house, sí? Always trying to get into things they shouldn’t.”

“He’s just curious!” Miguel exclaimed, automatically leaping to the defense of his companion as he moved to help the Xolo dog. As hilarious as seeing Dante struggle to free himself from the can was, the last thing he wanted was to see the stray suffocate himself just because he lacked the brain power necessary to get himself out of danger, as the Xolo dog had become one of the few individuals willing to lend an ear whenever he went to them with concerns about his family life. He’d never be able to forgive himself should Dante get injured or killed on his watch.   

“Curioso or not, he chews or marks his territory on anything and he’s out of here, chamaco. I’m not going to have my terr…my house ruined because of some perro callejero.” Héctor narrowed his eyes for a moment before seeming to soften slightly, chuckling a bit as he watched Miguel vainly try to hold Dante still enough to remove the offending tin can. “Not very bright for a pelón dog, is he?”

“He’s learning,” Miguel weakly protested, letting out a small oof as Dante finally wriggled free of his clutches- sans can around his muzzle- and proceeded to sniff through yet another pile of rubbish. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Your dog apparently shredded through half of your furniture!”

Héctor stiffened again then, taking his straw hat off and setting it upon the table as he twisted to look at Miguel. “¿Qué?”

“Don’t you have a dog? I mean…the cushions on the couch are all shredded up, and there’s scratch marks everywhere on the walls,” Miguel said, gesturing as if he honestly couldn’t believe that the older man hadn’t noticed these details. “Maybe your perro’s the one that could use some manners! Dante looks like an angel compared to them!”   

“Ay, no, I don’t…I don’t have-“  Héctor seemed to stumble over his words for a moment, his posture noticeably stiff as he inhaled a deep breath, running his hands through his tangled mop of hair as if he were stabilizing himself before speaking again. “That was, eh…one of those coyotes that came through here! Probably before I lived here, too. Tons of people have lived in this little casa before me. I promise, chamaco, there’s no perros around here!” The older man’s laugh seemed to hold a nervous edge to it as he stood there, enough so that the oddities of the situation swirling in Miguel’s mind- the size of the scratch marks, the extent of the damage, the way the ripped cushions and frayed wood looked to be fairly recent- wisely chose not to materialize in the form of questions directed towards Héctor. His newfound friend was not unlike some scared wild animal, after all. If you showed him kindness and compassion, and went along with his rather odd quirks, he would open himself up to you, but the minute you asked too personal of a question or moved too fast Héctor would retreat back into hiding, much the same as the stray dogs within the town limits would. And Miguel was not keen on burning the rather shaky bridge he had formed between himself and Héctor when it had barely even finished being built. Perhaps it was best to not question the occurrence of the damage for now.

Instead he simply shrugged as if to say if you say so, hoisting his small bag of goods and rummaging through it in an attempt to find any items that might be of use to Héctor. “Well, I brought you some stuff that I found. Y-you don’t have to take any of it! I just thought it might be useful, and I wanted to thank you for helping me the other day-“ Miguel paused, sensing that he was beginning to ramble and clearing his throat in an attempt to get back on track. “Umm, there’s some napkins, flores, journals…because you travel a lot? I thought you might like to write things down.” Fumbling around for a moment, the young Rivera produced one of his abuelita’s spare stirring spoons, holding the gleaming piece of silver up to the light with a triumphant flourish. “Ooh, this is my…I mean, a spoon that I found at the market!” Miguel pinned his trademark sideways smile to his face then, hoping that Héctor wouldn’t catch him in the lie and give a lecture to him as other adults were prone to do. “I didn’t know if you had any spoons, so-“

He broke off as he noticed Héctor staring at the piece of silverware as if it were a venomous snake that would lash out at him at any moment, and he could have sworn a slight tremor ran through the older man’s body as he spoke up. “That’s not pure silver, is it, chamaco?”

“I...don’t actually know?” Miguel peered at the utensil a bit more closely, trying his best to ignore the borderline panicked tone in Héctor’s voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, de nada, Miguel. Just…I have a little bit of a silver allergy, you know?” And there was that crooked smile again, the kind of look that Miguel had associated with the times when Héctor wasn’t telling the entire truth about one of the many quirks that he was quick to show off. Had he been in a more daring state of mind, Miguel would have challenged it, asked just what the older man was so intent on hiding- but instead he simply watched as Héctor shook his head slightly, crooked smile still staying firmly pinned to his lips. “So if it has any in it, afraid this anciano can’t use it.” Héctor appeared to clap a hand over his face in a show of mock dramatics then, sighing theatrically. “It’s so very tragic, chamaco. I guess I’ll just have to use my wooden spoons to get anything done, like some barbarian-“

 “Alright, anciano, we get it,” Miguel deadpanned, though he still chuckled under his breath at the theatrics. “I…think you’re better off not having flores, actually. Those…might have been a bad idea.” He glanced over at the wilted houseplants that he’d seen in a corner then, all in varying stages of succumbing to neglect, studying them even as Héctor seemed to bristle slightly.

“Ay, Miguel, those were dead before I did anything to them, claro? Besides, they’re not all bad. Pedro here-“ He plucked a pot which contained a small cactus from the corner then, holding it up as if it was his proudest accomplishment. “Pedro here is doing muy bien!”

Miguel peered at the plant then, scrutinizing it in much the same way he’d seen his family members study their stitches on the leather of shoes, trying to memorize the patterns and discern how they could improve upon them for next time. “It’s wilted. How did you…how did you manage to make a cactus look ugly?”

With an offended gasp, Héctor withdrew the pot, holding it as close to his chest as he supposedly dared as he pointed one long finger at Miguel accusingly. “I’ll have you know that Pedro is muy guapo, Miguel. Dios mío, how could you say such things? I thought kids like you were raised better these days.”

“It’s feo, Héctor!” Miguel tried to protest, but was cut off with a half-hearted glare from Héctor as the older man turned to place the cactus back in the corner, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like don’t worry, Pedro, you’ll always be guapo to me before busying himself with tidying off more of the table’s surface. Sighing softly, Miguel stepped back over to the table, keeping a careful eye on Dante to ensure that the Xolo didn’t get into more mischief while reaching a hand in to ruffle around the contents of the bag again. “Well, what about the journals?”

“I don’t know about those. The chamaco who had them before me said some very rude things about my houseplants-“ Héctor cut himself off at the look of Miguel’s offended glare, laughing loudly while reaching one hand down to ruffle the child’s hair affectionately. “Hey, cool off, alright? I’m joking. And hey, they could always be useful, no? I’ll take them.” Smiling crookedly as the young Rivera handed the journals over, Héctor thumbed through the blank pages, almost looking wistful before he glanced over at Miguel again. “So, what else you got in that bag of wonders, ay?” 

“Oh! Well, I got some churros from the market.” Miguel produced two of the pastries from the bag then, setting them upon the table. “Señora Martinez makes them and they’re delicioso, so I…kinda thought you’d appreciate them? I got two so we could share!”

Héctor surveyed the churros for a moment, his pupils seeming to dilate strangely as he spoke. “D-does that have water, butter, salt, flour, three eggs, vegetable oil, sugar and ground cinnamon in it, chamaco?”

For a moment, all Miguel could do was stare, unable to react to the strangely specific information that he was being met with- and when he finally found his voice again, it was all he could do to get a coherent sentence out, all he could do to gather his thoughts in the wake of the rather strange sentence Héctor had spat out. “That’s…weirdly specific, but probably?”

Héctor glanced away quickly, the nervous half-smile springing back onto his face as he chuckled softly. “Ah, it’s nothing, Miguel. I just ask because…because it’s Señora Martinez’s signature recipe, sí? Wanted to make sure I still remembered it.” The older man plopped into one of the ramshackle chairs surrounding the table then, kicking his legs up and flashing a much more genuine grin in Miguel’s direction. “I guess she’s still going at it, no?”

That wasn’t the entire truth, somehow, and Miguel knew it- but his utter lack of a confrontational nature meant that he didn’t have the energy to pursue just what had transpired a few minutes previous any further, or formulate enough evidence to prove that Héctor was lying. Instead he simply leaned forward a bit, eyes brightening. “You know Señora Martinez? No manches! I thought you were just passing through.”

“Ay, chamaco, how do you think I know my way around here so well? I grew up in Santa Cecilia. I’ve lived here practically my whole life, you know?” Héctor leaned to stare out the window for a moment, his expression somewhere between reminiscing and strangely regretful. “Mi hija has her birthday around this time too. I come back every year, even if I can’t see her. Even if her mamá won’t let me. I can at least let her know that I’m thinking of her, even if I can’t come home. Let her know that her papá still loves her, with all his heart-“

The same look of pain that had entered Héctor’s eyes in the marketplace was back, and before Miguel could even think about what he was saying- before he could even try to connect the pieces and find out that his Abuelita Coco’s birthday was around the same time as well, that his own family had a relative who had left a child behind and who had never returned- he was speaking. “Why can’t you go back to your familia? What did you do that was…so bad?” Bad enough to keep his own wife from allowing him to return, bad enough that the older man apparently felt the need to isolate himself from the majority of society and live in a house that was slowly falling apart around him?

Héctor glanced at Miguel in surprise, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting Miguel to comment on his musings, or as if he’d been lost in thought and had suddenly been snapped back to the present by the boy’s words. “What did I do? Ay, chamaco, that’s…that’s a long story.” His eyes darted away then as he let out a heavy sigh, his entire lanky form visibly sagging. “A, uh…complicated story.”

“You can tell me. I won’t judge,” Miguel said mildly, reaching across the table to snag one of the churros. Part of him so desperately wanted to know the reason behind all of Héctor’s odd tics, after all, wanted to know the reason why the man was so nervous around large crowds and lived in the middle of the wilderness for seemingly no reason. The situation wasn’t enough to raise any red flags within the boy’s mind (or at least, he didn’t know if it should have), but it was definitely odd, and the tiny bits of Héctor’s backstory that he’d been allowed to glimpse weren’t matching up very well. And Miguel’s need to know things, his distaste of being treated like a child and having information kept from him, left him from simply leaving the matter be. If he didn’t know what the source of his newfound friend’s trauma was, he couldn’t go about helping him in the way that he’d envisioned, and it was nothing short of frustrating to have to acknowledge that fact.

But he knew that forcing Héctor to speak wouldn’t do both of them any good. So when Héctor simply shook his head, muttering out something about not today and maybe I’ll tell you someday, Miguel, the young Rivera simply decided to leave the matter be, both of them eating the churros he’d provided in silence for several minutes before he dared to actually voice his thoughts once again. “So…I did bring one last thing. My family…doesn’t really like music very much, but I keep some records in this crawlspace I found, so I thought you might like them!” Miguel fumbled through the bag then, placing the assorted records he’d collected upon the table while gingerly setting the hand-made guitar that he’d finally completed off to the side. But it was the guitar that Héctor seemed more interested in, leaning forward with an unreadable expression in his gaze as he surveyed the somewhat shoddy instrument.

“You made that all on your own, muchacho?” Héctor was staring at the guitar with awe, yes, and a bit of pride- but under that Miguel could see something that was eerily similar to longing of some kind, and some tiny trace of resentment.

“Y-yeah, I made it! It’s an exact replica of De la Cruz’s guitar,” Miguel said, his turning to retrieve the instrument preventing him from seeing the pained wince that Héctor showed for a split second. “It looks a little rough, but it does actually play pretty well, so I think I did a good job-“

“No, no, it’s…muy buen, by all accounts,” Héctor murmured quietly, reaching one hand out to stroke against the strings before withdrawing it just as rapidly. “You should be proud of it. You said you play it, huh? How do you that without your familia noticing if they’re so against music, eh?”

“W-well, I mostly just learned from old tapes and stuff,” Miguel said, bashfully ducking his head. “It’s…not exactly like I can play music in front of my family.” That was the understatement of the week- just the other day he’d had a bottle quite literally snatched out of his hands by his Tía Elena for daring to blow on it and produce something resembling a tune, and after she’d put an end to his music-making she’d stared at the bottle as though it was the devil quite literally materializing in her home. Miguel had known better than to argue about it with that particular family member, anyway- his tía could have just as sharp of a tongue and could be just as hard-headed as Mamá Imelda if you dared to challenge her on something, and years spent dodging out of the way of a thrown chancla had made him smart enough to know better than to try and pick a fight with her.

“Self-taught, eh? We have a little genio on our hands!” Héctor clapped his hands together in mock exuberance then, scooting forward to lay his arms upon the back of the ramshackle chair. “I…dabbled a bit in the guitarra myself, when I was your age. Why don’t you show me what you got, chamaco? I can give you pointers.”  

Miguel gaped at him for a moment, not only because of the offer- he’d rarely if ever had an adult figure in his life actually be interested in hearing his music, after all- but because he honestly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Out of all the possible occupations he’d expected this scruffy newcomer to Santa Cecilia to be holding down, musician was definitely not one of them, and the utter lack of musical instruments that came into view as he glanced around the shack made him incredulous enough to squint at Héctor in suspicion. “No manches. You, a musician?”

“Hey, chamaco, let me clarify, sí? Musicians spend their lives preforming like monkeys for complete strangers. I just partake in the art, claro? Not a musician, no. I play for myself or my family, not for big crowds.” Héctor shook his head then, seemingly ignoring how bangs of his messy hair were quick to fall into his face. “Besides, most musicians are a bunch of self-important jerks. I don’t get wrapped up in that mess.”

“Hey, I want to be a musician!” Miguel weakly protested, glaring up at Héctor with all the indignation that he could possibly muster in the moment. “And I don’t think I’m a jerk!”

“Miguel, I said most musicians. The good ones, I mean the really good ones, play from the heart. They don’t do it to become some celebridad, or to make people listen to them, they play to bring people together. They have passion and heart. That’s the kind of musician you want to be, chamaco.”  He leaned back then, surveying the young Rivera with a sideways smile. “Now show me what you got, sí? What’s the plan? What’re you gonna play?”

“Um…probably Remember Me. It’s my favorite De La Cruz song,” Miguel began, starting into the opening cords of the song- but he was only able to get about five notes out before Héctor’s hand clamped down over the headboard, causing the boy to swivel his head and glance quizzically at his companion. “Hey, what gives-“

“Not that song, no.” The darker tone that Miguel had first heard back in the alleyway had crept back into Héctor’s voice, and it was almost enough to make the boy shudder slightly before the older man’s voice warped back into something slightly more pleasant. “Come on, kid, give me something else to critique on if you want me to hear you play that badly.”

“But it’s only his most popular song!” Unable to see what the problem was, Miguel scooted closer with a pleading look in his eyes, almost breaking out the wobbling lip that he had often pinned onto his face to bribe his cousins in his younger years before restraining himself. “What’s the problem?”

“Agh, it’s too popular. I hear that cheesy love ballad practically everywhere I go, chamaco. If it’s not him singing it, it’s someone else, and trust me, I know enough to know that that song’s been butchered enough for a lifetime.” There was some emotion in Héctor’s voice then that Miguel couldn’t quite pinpoint, but in the next second it was gone as the older man clapped a hand over his face in mock frustration, letting out another heavy sigh. “Come on, you gotta have some other song to play.”

“I…really only know how to play De la Cruz’s songs so far,” Miguel stammered out, trying his best to ignore Héctor’s exaggerated groan of despair at such news. Wracking his brain for any other acceptable De la Cruz songs, the boy’s mind immediately turned to his next favorite song of his idol’s- one that was not played very often in old footage, due to the excuse that the fast tempo had been a bit too strenuous for Ernesto to accurately preform it at every concert, but one that was challenging enough and had catchy enough lyrics that it just might work. “Oh, I know! What about, um…Un Poco Loco?”

To Miguel’s great relief, Héctor brightened considerably at the suggestion, clapping one hand against Miguel’s shoulder in his excitement. “Epa! Now that’s a song, chamaco.” The older man adopted a more serious tone as he leaned back again, putting one hand under his chin in an exaggerated “thinking” pose. “Well, I’ll let you get to it, no? No pressure!”

After a brief period of silence in which Miguel glanced towards Héctor to ensure that it was safe for him to launch into the opening cords- he’d never had any adult bother to entertain his musical fantasies, let alone bother to judge him on his technique, and after hearing no music ringing in his ears like a twisted mantra enough times, it was enough to make him slightly afraid to try it even in front of this complete stranger- the boy shifted into the proper stance, his hands poised to strike the jaunty opening that led into the song proper-

-only to be stopped by Héctor holding one hand up. “Hey, un minuto, chamaco. You’re holding yourself all wrong, come on, you’ve got to loosen up a little if you want to perform.”  The older man scooted his chair a bit closer then, smiling widely (and if some of his teeth suddenly happened to look a bit sharper than normal, Miguel either didn’t notice or didn’t feel like pressing the matter). “Come on, shake it off a little. Like this, see?” Héctor did an awkward sort of shimmy then that had Miguel clapping his hand over his mouth to try and stifle the amused chuckle that threatened to escape, pointing one of his long fingers at the boy. “Mira, mira! The chico has a sense of humor after all. I promise it works, Miguel, no matter how estúpido it looks. Try it out!”  

Miguel tried his best to go along with the motions despite how childish they seemed, wiggling his limbs in a half-hearted attempt to appease the older man. “There you go!” Héctor grinned then, sitting upright a bit straighter. “Now, give me your best grito!”  

“My best…grito?” the young Rivera asked, quirking his eyebrow in obvious confusion. “What’s a grito got to do with anything?”

“Hey, when I used to preform it helped me out. You gotta release all that energy somehow, chamaco. Like this, see?” Héctor let out a thunderous whoop then that almost seemed to shake the walls of the rickety structure, and if Miguel hadn’t known any better he almost would have equated it to a howl rather than the traditional yell he’d heard the mariachis in the plaza let out before. “Heh…this place has stronger acoustics than I thought, no? Come on, your turn.”  

Miguel tried to straighten up as Héctor had, tried to open his mouth and let out a yell that had just as much energy as he could muster put into it- but what came out was more akin to the squeak of a mouse that was slowly being strangled, making Héctor wince back and causing Dante to let out a low whine as he snuck beneath the table. The boy cast an annoyed glance towards the Xolo, sighing heavily. Great. Even my dog thinks I’m terrible at this.

“Eh…we’ll work on it, sí?” Héctor said quietly, giving Miguel a quick glance-over as one hand was placed on his chin in thought. “I think I can see the problem, chamaco. Here, straighten up a little, like this, puff your chest out-“ Making the adjustments to his own posture while being sure that Miguel was watching him closely, Héctor peered over at the boy then, the grin sliding back onto his face. “Deep breath in, and then just let it out!”

Miguel followed along as best as he could, determined to do well- surely if he could learn how to play all of his favorite songs just from extensive study of old videotapes and a good ear, he could learn how to pull off something as simple as a grito, especially when he was trying so hard to impress his current company. Puffing out his chest, Miguel opened his mouth, preparing to expel the air from his lungs but not expecting anything to happen- and instead he let out a grito that rivaled Héctor’s own in its jubilance and volume, staring in astonishment at his own achievement as Héctor let out a joyful whoop of his own in the background. Unable to help himself in the midst of his pride, the boy took up the homemade guitar that he had brought along with him, hurriedly strumming the opening cords to Un Poco Loco while launching into song.

“What color is the sky? 
Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor
You tell me that it’s red
Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor-“

Ignoring or simply not seeing Héctor’s gape of astonishment and wonder, Miguel continued, going so far as to stand up from the chair he had been sitting in and do an improvised shimmy around the room as he sang.

“Where should I put my shoes?
Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor
You say “put them on your head!”
Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor!”

He was momentarily startled into silence by another loud grito from Héctor, who had jumped up from his seat and was staring at Miguel with nothing short of pride in his gaze. “That’s it, chamaco, that’s a song! Canta canta canta, come on!” Watching in amazement as the older man began to do a dance of his own along to the music- it wasn’t hard to get a glimpse of what Héctor could have been like as a musician, so eagerly playing to the crowd, so caught up in the joy of his art- and spurred on by the encouragement he had received, Miguel launched back into the song, smiling widely as he let his body spin and sway to the beat.

“You make me un poco loco,
Un poqui-ti-ti-to loco,
The way you keep me guessing,
I’m nodding and I’m yessing
I’ll count it as a blessing
That I’m only un poco loco!”

Watching as Héctor shimmied around him, almost seeming to tap-dance along to the rhythm, Miguel was quick to cast a crooked grin in the older man’s direction, his eyes sparkling with childish mirth. “Not bad for some old guy who lives in the woods!”

“Ay, you’re not so bad yourself, gordito!” Héctor shouted back playfully, reaching one hand over to ruffle Miguel’s hair affectionately before doing something that Miguel had not been expecting at all- for all that Héctor had talked about disliking the majority of musicians, disliking Ernesto de la Cruz’s songs, he hadn’t expected to hear the older man actually singing along in a deep but melodious voice, matching the mood and tempo of the song perfectly even as he continued to dance around Miguel.

“The loco that you make me,
it is just un poco crazy!
The sense that you’re not making-“

Héctor cast a raised eyebrow towards Miguel then, almost as if challenging him to finish the verse, and Miguel was more than happy to comply.

“The liberties you’re taking!
Leaves my cabeza shaking
You are just
un poco loco!”

The two of them were harmonizing perfectly, spinning around each other and singing, their enthusiastic gritos practically echoing off the walls of the shack. Héctor made a small motion with his hand, and then they were both side-stepping and spinning- there was a loud howl that might have been Dante adding his own contribution to the song, as Miguel could not see with his back to them both- launching into the end of the song with a few more gritos thrown in for good measure before collapsing back into their respective chairs again, breathing heavily and grinning widely. Miguel turned to gaze at Héctor, a cocky smirk pinned to his lips as he looked at the older man. “I guess I tired you out, anciano.”

“Callate,” Héctor sputtered, reaching over to give a playful shove to Miguel’s shoulder. “You’re lucky I’m not as young as I used to be, chamaco. I would have danced circles around you.” A beat and a heavy intake of breath, and then Héctor was continuing. “For what it’s worth, kid, you have talent. You put heart into your music, no? That’s what matters the most. I think you could make something out of this if you wanted to, Miguel.”

“If my family didn’t hate music so much, maybe,” Miguel said, slapping a hand over his face with an exaggerated groan. “Sorry I couldn’t think of anything other than a De la Cruz song to play. I mean, I still don’t know what you have against his music, but I could’ve picked something else if I just-“

“Ay, chamaco, you did good either way, alright? I’m proud of you. And a little impressed. You reminded me just how much fun that used to be, eh?” Before Miguel could get a word in edgewise- perhaps responding with immense gratitude towards Héctor’s pride, the first time such an emotion had been shown towards his music, or saying that Héctor wasn’t so bad himself for having implied that he hadn’t performed in quite some time- the older man was glancing out towards the dusty window, studying the sun’s rays with a keen eye. “Speaking of your familia, you’d better be getting back to them, ay? Sun’s getting low out there, and trust me, I know enough about these woods to know you don’t want to get stuck in them after dark.”

“Because of that stupid legend, right?” Miguel said, rolling his eyes but standing up and gathering the items that Héctor hadn’t wanted to place back into his sack. “Don’t worry, I’m going. But maybe I’ll see you tomorrow? I mean, it’s Dia de los Muertos, and you said you have family in town, so-“

“We’ll see, chamaco,” Héctor said, giving a small smile in Miguel’s direction. “Now go. You know how to get back home from here, sí? Just follow the path that I’ve made back to Santa Cecilia, you can’t miss it. And…don’t be an idiota like me and go off of it, claro?”

“Got it,” Miguel replied with a small nod, whistling to summon Dante to his side before nudging the door aside with one shoulder, casting one last set of words back over his shoulder before he departed. “Buenas noches, Héctor!”

Thoughts of Héctor’s seeming nervousness over the coming day, or the way his smile hadn’t quite managed to reach his eyes a moment earlier, were rather far from Miguel’s mind as he walked, Dante’s keen scent helping to guide them through the trees as they wound their way back to the town- but if he had bothered to linger a while longer, he perhaps would have noticed Héctor scowling at the De la Cruz records before sweeping them carelessly off of the table, seemingly not caring whether they were damaged or not as he sat there. He perhaps would have noticed the older man picking up one of the blank journals and staring at it wistfully, a nostalgic look on his face as he thumbed through the pages.

But even if he’d managed to miss those signs, he definitely would have noticed the way Héctor looked out the window at the fading sunlight with something resembling dread in his eyes, a quiet mutter escaping his mouth as his body trembled slightly.

Perhaps such signs would have clued him in to what was to come.   

Chapter Text

Thankfully, Miguel had been able to find his way back to the town and slip back into the family house with none of his family members (sans Rosa) being any the wiser as to his true whereabouts- though of course he’d immediately been roped into shoe-shining duty, something which he honestly shouldn’t have been surprised over but had to resist the urge to let out an exasperated groan at anyway. Rosa had been quick to reassure him later that most of the family members had been too preoccupied with preparations for Dia de los Muertos to inquire as to just why he’d spent so long at a classmate’s house, at least, so that was one bright spot in the dark reality that he could never enjoy music around his family the same way that he had with Héctor, could never tell them the real reason he’d snuck away or just who he had been with. If any of them caught wind that he’d been spending time with a homeless man, much less a homeless man who had once been a musician- especially Mamá Imelda- he could only wonder at what the potential consequences would be. Even though it still pained him to keep Héctor’s heroics a secret, he was going to keep his mouth shut until further notice, trying to find ways around their watchful eyes so that he might be able to further assist the older man.

Having not noticed any of the signs that Héctor was nervous about the coming day of festivities the evening before, Miguel had looked forward to seeing the older man around the plaza that day as he shone shoes-though he was careful to stay away from the mariachis, as Tía Elena was always watching, and even if she hadn’t been the threat of a thrown chancla was enough to scare all but the most iron-willed of potential mentors off- at least until there was a break in the clients that came to him at one point, until he gathered his supplies up and went to see if he couldn’t possibly find some form of shade from the hot sun for at least a few minutes. Until he heard sounds of coughing and retching coming from a nearby alleyway, causing him to hurriedly walk towards its entrance until he found the bent-over and strangely familiar lanky form. “Héctor!” he cried out, his cleaning supplies left to clatter to the ground as he raced forward, trying to discern what was wrong, trying to aid the older man in any way that he possibly could. Héctor had aided him despite having no good reason to do so, after all, and it was only fair that he do the same in his newfound friend’s hour of need.

Héctor moved as though he was going to put an arm up to impede Miguel’s process and keep the boy away from him, but another wave of nausea seemed to hit him as he bent and dry-heaved, saliva pooling at the corners of his lips as he wheezed and coughed. Miguel instinctively reached to put a hand on the small of Héctor’s back, trying to rub comforting circles as he’d often seen his mamá or Abuelita do when one of the younger family members had been sick- and immediately flinched back at the sheer amount of sickly heat that seemed to be rolling off of Héctor’s body, terrified over the knowledge that this could very well be more than just another stomach bug that the older man had caught. Dios, the older man was practically burning up, and Miguel at least knew enough about illnesses to know that that was never a good sign, that Héctor was going to need urgent medical care if such a high fever didn’t fade soon. But part of him realized that he couldn’t very well drag the older man to the nearest hospital without some form of permission, couldn’t force Héctor to seek out medical care against his will. That was what made him simply speak up to ask one question in a wavering voice after some time, what kept him from dragging the older man to someone who could help him as any other member of his family likely would have. “Héctor? Are…are you okay?”

Several moments passed before Héctor was able to speak up and answer, and when he did it was in such a gravely and cracking voice that Miguel could hardly understand it at first. “J-just fine, chamaco. I…I think one of the chorizos in the market disagreed with me, sí? I…I’ll just be-“ The lanky man tried to fully stand then, but he seemed to stumble over his own feet, having to lean heavily against the brick wall lining the alley as a slight tremble ran through his body. “Un minuto, that’s…all I need. One-“

Miguel watched him with a growing sense of dread gnawing a hole in his stomach, afraid to speak up but feeling the need to in the midst of his concern. “A-are you sure? You…you don’t look okay. M-maybe you should go to the hospital or something-“

“Doctores wouldn’t be able to help with this,” Héctor wheezed out between gritted teeth as he pushed himself off of the wall, swaying dangerously but by some miracle managing to keep himself upright. “It’s a stomach bug, Miguel, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

“B-but you have a fever and everything! At least come with me, my family can give you…tea or something? My abuelita is great at helping with sick people, she’d set you up in one of our spare rooms, we could take care of you until-“

“No!” The word came out sharp, tinged with something that might have been panic, and it was so sudden and explosive that Miguel instinctively took a step backward, even as Héctor spoke up again in a much milder tone. “I mean…I don’t…I don’t want anyone seeing me like this, claro? It’s bad enough that you had to-“  Héctor paused, taking a moment to swipe the corner of one tattered sleeve against his mouth in an effort to clean it before continuing. “T-They won’t be able to help. This is something I have to deal with on my own, sí? I…I know how to-“ Another round of coughing escaped from the older man’s mouth, but to his credit Héctor seemed to recover from the fit much more quickly, waving off Miguel as he tried to step forward again. “J…just leave it, Miguel.”

“But you’re sick! You’ve gotta know somebody who can help-“

“I said leave it, Miguel.” Héctor had whirled on Miguel with such unnatural speed that Miguel instinctively flinched backwards, reacting not just to the way Héctor’s voice had dropped at least two octaves in the middle of the sentence but also the fact that the older man’s lips had curled back in something that might have been a sneer (in fact, if Miguel hadn’t known any better he would have equated it to a snarl), his pupils dilated strangely as they had when he had listed off a rather specific list of ingredients in the churro back at his shack- and was it just him, or did some of Héctor’s front teeth suddenly look sharper than normal, sharper than any human’s teeth had a right to be?  “Dios, all these questions. Let an anciano like me have some privacy, alright? Why can’t you just leave me alone-“

Miguel flinched back, half-afraid that he was going to be subjected to the same wrath that Diego and his lackies had been treated to back when he and Héctor had first met, unsure of what to say in the midst of the anger that he was suddenly being faced with- but to his relief, Héctor seemed to soften after a moment, reaching one hand up to smooth through his hair awkwardly as his angry expression warped into a pained wince. “S-sorry, chamaco. I…I don’t really…know what came over me.” Before Miguel even had time to question the sudden mood swing, or be bewildered over the fact that this seemed like much more than just a simple stomach bug, Héctor was taking shaky steps away from him and towards the entrance to the alley, his voice still wavering as he spoke. “Maybe today isn’t the best day for us to be having some fiesta together, eh? I’m going to go…take a little walk. You can go back to your familia and enjoy the day. D-don’t worry about some idiota like me. I’ll be fine.”

“Are…are you sure you don’t want help?”  Miguel asked after a moment, his voice cracking in much the same way as he tried to stifle his worry over just why his newfound friend was acting so strangely. Héctor had seemed so sure of himself last night, had seemed to be just fine, so how could something have set in so suddenly, how could it all have gone downhill so quickly-

Héctor’s only response was to send a small, sad smile in Miguel’s direction, an expression that somehow didn’t manage to meet his eyes. “I don’t…think anyone can help with this, chamaco,” he said softly, already beginning to turn again to presumably limp his way back to his shelter within the woods. “Go back to your family, eh? We’ll talk tomorrow.”  

Miguel had gone home, in the end, as he knew that his Tía Elena would have his head if he happened to get back to the family residence after Dia de los Muertos had begun- but worry about Héctor had kept his thoughts preoccupied, to the point where he had completely forgotten to ask about playing in the music competition at the plaza that night, and when the family had proudly announced that he was old enough to be entrusted with making shoes rather than shining them he’d scarcely been able to feel even a smidgen of disappointment over the news. He knew something had to be terribly wrong with his friend, for him to develop symptoms of a serious illness so quickly, and despite Héctor’s insistence that he could deal with whatever was ailing him without any kind of medical care, Miguel was at least old and wise enough to know better than that. He hadn’t seen anything in the way of medical supplies when he’d been inside Héctor’s shack, after all, and that was enough to fill him with dread- what if Héctor was in very real danger of succumbing to his illness and had no one there to help him, no one there who could possibly alleviate even a fraction of his suffering? Héctor had come to him when he had needed aid, had bothered to stand up for him when no one else had, so surely Miguel could find some way to do the same. All he needed was a convenient excuse to sneak out of the house again and get away from his family, and after hearing passing rumors of a music competition in the plaza that evening, he knew that now was as good of a time as any.

That had been on his mind, at least, until he’d knocked over one of the portraits lining the mantle trying to put the flowers that he had pilfered back within its jar. Until he’d seen the hidden folded part of the picture, the one that had so cleverly hidden most of the body of the figure standing beside his Mamá Imelda and Abuelita Coco. Until he’d unfolded it to bring a guitar that looked startlingly similar to De la Cruz’s into view- and from there, his mind had drawn its own conclusions, leaving him to race outside to where most of the family was gathered, throwing off his leather apron while hoisting his homemade guitar over his head and loudly announcing that Ernesto de la Cruz had been his abuelita’s long lost father, that he was going to be a musician, that he’d known it was his calling all along. How could he have been so blind? He’d felt connected to Ernesto and his songs ever since he had grown old enough to comprehend them, so it came as no surprise to learn that they had a high possibility of being related, that it was in his blood to be a musician. He didn’t know why this knowledge had been kept from him for so long, didn’t know why the man had been ripped out of any photograph that might feature him, but the joy that filled him at the thought of having a relative that was famous had kept him from dwelling on either question for very long.

Abuelita Coco had been the first to try and break the silence, the first to put an end to the panicked babbling of his other family members as she leaned in to glance at the picture. “Mijo, Ernesto was not my papá. I know it appears that way, but I always thought of him as Tío ‘Nesto. And dios, I would be the first to tell you that he was simply dreadful around children!” A slight chuckle came from the older woman’s mouth before her gaze turned sad and wistful, her eyes downcast. “Ay, no. My papá was-“

“Certainly not that tonto of a man.” A hush fell over the family as the form of Mamá Imelda came into view, just as stern and foreboding as she had ever been. Though a slight unsteadiness in her hands had kept her out of the workshop for quite a few years, Imelda was still just as determined to run the family business the way she saw fit, just as eager to enforce the rules that she had laid down decades ago in an effort to protect her family members from making the same mistakes that her long-lost husband had. Normally she was a stern but loving individual, giving advice to her family members whenever she could and always being there to lend a listening ear to anyone who wanted to come to her with their troubles, but there was no sign of such compassion in her gaze now as she strode forward, her age-lined face and grey hairs somehow making her look even more intimidating as she bent to survey Miguel. “Miguel, do I hear you implying that I ever would have wedded that dullard of a man, even in my wildest dreams?”

Miguel had to fight the urge to flinch back from her gaze, as bold as he was feeling in that moment- he knew as well as the rest of the family that Mamá Imelda’s anger was not something to treat lightly, and that she could unleash her ire with all the force of a summer thunderstorm if you provoked her enough. While Imelda was usually careful to not take the brunt of her anger out on her family members, Miguel’s rebellious nature combined with her need for perfection in all matters of life often caused them to butt heads, and he didn’t imagine this scenario to turn out much differently. Instead of shying away, however, he simply lifted the photo as if he could solidify his evidence, waving it in the Rivera matriarch’s face. “B-but de la Cruz’s guitar is in the photo! See?”

Imelda’s lip seemed to curl in disgust as she surveyed the photo, her gaze still sharp as her eyes flitted to Miguel. “Miguel, I will be the first to tell you that that man is not Ernesto de la Cruz. Nor would it ever be. Dios, I would rather bed a buitre than ever lay with that waste of air.” Ignoring the stifled gasps of her family- including someone who might have been his father muttering there is a CHILD present, Imelda under his breath- the older woman continued, her voice carrying a dark and brooding undertone. “No, Coco’s padre was a good for nothing músico, who chose to abandon his family without so much as a word to me about where he was heading off to. He wanted to go off and play with his coward of an amigo, I wanted to put down roots, and look where it got us. He left his family!”

His abuelita looked as though she was about to say something in her father’s defense, but quickly turned away once Imelda’s gaze landed on her, as though she was just as afraid to challenge the matriarch of the family as anyone else was. Instead of questioning such a thing, however, Miguel simply pressed forward, trying his best to make sense of the situation. “B-but Abuelita said her papá was a good man, she…she’s told me stories about him. So I don’t think he would have just walked out on his family! Not without a reason!” Coco had often said that her father had been acting strange, worried about something the night that he had disappeared- could it be that outside forces had driven whoever this man was away from his family, rather than an ambition to spread his fame like Mamá Imelda seemed to think? “Maybe I can find someone who knew de la Cruz, who knew Abuelita’s papá. I can find out what happened, and then maybe we could…play music again?”

It was a long shot. Miguel had known that it was a long shot, so he shouldn’t have been disappointed when the family gasped and began to mutter among themselves, when Imelda’s expression turned into an odd mixture of sternness and sadness. “Absolutely not, mijo. Besides, it’s Día de los Muertos. No one is going anywhere tonight. Tonight is about family.” A pause, and then her voice was softer, more wistful. “Miguel, I know it is hard. Heaven knows, I had to make sacrifices in my life as well, ones that I sometimes wish I could go back on. I remember what it was like to love music so much, I felt as though my corazón would burst. My husband would often play, and I would sing…and it was like nothing else mattered,” she murmured, a sad smile dancing at the corners of her lips before she continued. “But in the end, music was not what benefited my family. Hard work and dedication, devoting myself to the zapateria, was. Now you must make the same choice. I don’t want you going down the same path that he did-“

“That happened years ago, though!” Miguel butted in, ignoring the gasps from the rest of the gathered family members. “We shouldn’t let someone else’s mistakes be the reason we just keep doing the same thing forever! I don’t want to pick sides, why…why can’t you be on my side? I’m not going to leave like Abuelita’s papá did, but…but shoes don’t make me happy! Music does! And it’s what I’m good at!” Angry tears had started to prick at the corners of his eyes, but the young Rivera stubbornly ignored them, still childishly trying to drive his point home. “You don’t understand. You can work hard and make shoes, but I can’t-“

“Miguel. You will apologize to your Mamá Imelda for saying such things!” His Tía Elena had stepped forward then, an intimidating glare fixed to her face as she stared him down. “Dios, I thought you had better manners than this-“

“It’s all that time he spends in the plaza that made him like this, I’ll bet you anything,” Tía Gloria piped up in turn, shaking her head back and forth as a few stray strands of hair were quick to escape from her perfectly stylized bob cut and fall into her face. “Fills his head with crazy musical fantasies-“

“What Elena and Gloria mean to say, mijo,” Coco said, cutting into both woman’s speeches before Miguel could even think of a proper rebuttal, “is that Mamá Imelda is only trying to look out for you. She doesn’t want you doing something that you’ll regret. Come now, you’ll feel better after you eat dinner with your family.” She reached out as though to cradle Miguel’s cheek, as she would often do as a comforting gesture when the boy was distraught over something, but this time Miguel shied away from her touch. A kind hand wasn’t going to be enough to soften the bruise that his pride had taken tonight. Not at the moment, anyway.

“I thought family was supposed to support you, too. Not just look out for you,” he muttered sullenly, turning to flounce in the direction of the gate to the courtyard before a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see Rosa standing there, a silent question in her eyes as she watched him- seemingly pleading him to not run out on his family on such an important night, to not follow in the footsteps that their ancestor had. “It’s…it’s okay, Rosa. I’m just gonna…take a walk for a little while. I’ll be back,” he said, loudly enough that the other family members could hear him. He desperately needed to cool his head for a while, but he wasn’t foolish enough to not heed Mamá Imelda’s words about this being a special night that was meant to be spent with family. He was going to take a short walk around the town to cool his head, avoiding the back alleys and sticking to the streets where most of the foot traffic was, and then he would be sure to journey home soon enough that the rest of the family wouldn’t have cause for concern.

At least, that was intended to be the plan as he exited the family household, until the weight upon his back reminded him of the encounter in the alley that morning, taking the small guitar off of his back and staring at the designs running across its surface while his abuelita’s words rang in his mind. You’ll feel better. With that one simple statement, his thoughts had turned to Héctor and how sick he had appeared this morning. Certainly there was a chance, however small, that the older man’s condition might have improved in the few hours that had lapsed between then and now- but the sickly heat that he had felt radiating off of Héctor’s body in the alleyway left him worried, uncertain whether he should leave his newfound friend be or try to push the point that medical care should be sought out as soon as possible. With the older man living utterly alone and having no readily apparent medical supplies nearby, it was a very real concern that his condition was only going to take a turn for the worse before it improved, and Miguel was not about to take the chance that Héctor didn’t how to tend to himself, that he would deteriorate without someone there to watch over him and ensure that the illness wasn’t life-threatening in any way.

His mind made up, Miguel hoisted the guitar higher up on his shoulders and turned for the path that would take him outside of town, seemingly unaware that the sun was beginning to set lower and lower in the sky as he made his way along.

Despite knowing in his heart that perhaps venturing into a darkening forest wasn’t the best of ideas- and Dante’s strange refusal to come with him this time, perhaps sensing something that he didn’t- Miguel was still determined, bravely forging his way onwards despite the confusing nature of the path towards where he knew the run-down shack was. He’d made up his mind, after all. He was going to get Héctor to some form of medical treatment, somewhere that the man might be able to recover from whatever strange illness he’d come down with, whether his newfound companion necessarily liked it or not. While Miguel couldn’t say that he was a fan of any option that involved more or less forcing Héctor into a hospital bed (or something similar), he knew that there was a very real possibility he’d have to take such drastic measures, if Héctor’s behavior this morning had been any indication. He may not have been the strongest of children in his family, but he would drag the older man to someone who could help if he had to. If it was between his friend dying or him living to see another day while holding a grudge towards whatever actions had been taken, Miguel gladly would have chosen the latter, no matter what the scenario was.

Reaching the shack in what seemed like record time, Miguel raised his hand to knock on the rotting wood of the door before quickly deciding against potentially injuring himself, instead shoving the plank aside with his shoulder as he stepped inside. “H- Héctor?” he called out softly, gingerly picking his way around the piles of rubbish in his way as he searched for any sign of the older man, worry gnawing at his insides. What if he was too late, and Héctor was already too far gone to respond, to even make some announcement of his presence? What if he’d delayed for far too long in arguing with his family, and the man’s condition had grown even worse, even more perilous than it had seemed that morning-

“C-chamaco?” Héctor’s hoarse voice came to his ears then, and he whirled in the direction of the noise, about to brighten at the sight that the older man was at least well enough to talk, well enough to apparently stand on his own- at least until he saw how wide and panicked the older man’s gaze was, and how Héctor’s entire thin frame was trembling as he stood there, his limbs twitching as he stared over at Miguel. “No, no, you…you can’t be here. Not when…not when it’s-“ Miguel watched as Héctor lurched forward then, moving as if his legs had become twin blocks of lead, his whole frame still shuddering violently. “G-go home, Miguel. You need to…you need to get away from here-“

“N-no! You’ve been acting weird all day, and I…I want to know why!” Miguel shouted, resisting the urge to stomp his foot in some childish show of defiance. “Plus you’re sick! We gotta…we gotta get you to a hospital, even if you don’t think it’ll help.”

“Hospitals-“ Héctor broke off as another shudder ran through him, this one seeming more violent than the last, and when he spoke again his voice sounded strained, his teeth gritted. “Hospitals won’t be able to help. I…I’m serious, Miguel. You n-need to leave. Right now. It’s…it’s not safe for you to be here.” He reached out one hand before withdrawing it as though he had suddenly been burned, as though he were afraid of what kind of consequences touching the young boy could bring. As if he were afraid of initiating human contact in the first place.

“But why? Why do I have to leave? You never…you never explain anything! About your familia, or why you left them, or why you live in some creepy shack in the woods…a-and I’m tired of people hiding stuff from me!” Miguel’s pent-up frustration over the events of the past few weeks- the unexplained ban on music that his family had instated, Héctor’s refusal to explain why he couldn’t go back to his family in addition to his strange habits- all of it came boiling to the surface then, making his patience fail, making him less wary of the potential consequences that came with mouthing off to an adult. “I…I’m not some stupid kid, I…I deserve to know these things! Especially why you won’t just let someone help you!”

“I swear, chamaco, I swear I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” Héctor said, in a voice so strained that it was almost inaudible. “Right now you need to leave. Please, please leave. I can’t…I can’t have you here when…” Another shudder interrupted him- this one seemed to take more out of the older man than the last, as he slumped over the table in the center of the room, chest heaving as he seemingly fought to catch his breath. “I…I’m not sick, I promise. I can tell you everything later, ay? Just go, just go, please, if…if you stay here you’ll get hurt, chamaco, I won’t…I won’t let that happen-“

“Why would I get hurt? Is…is someone after you? Is that why you can’t go home?” Miguel looked around then, trying to visualize the shape of shadowy attackers in the dark, some bogeyman that might be causing Héctor such distress. “Are they hurting you? I…I can fight them! I’m…I’m tougher than I look, honest!”

Héctor opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, but he never got the chance to- suddenly his body was snapping taut like a drawn bowstring, his spine rigid and his posture straight as his eyes dilated strangely, seemingly fixated on some point in the distance. Miguel turned, wondering what could have provoked such a visceral reaction in the older man, wondering if some newfound threat had appeared while his back was turned. When nothing came into view but the form of the full moon cresting over the trees, casting an eerily white glow upon the surrounding landscape, Miguel let an expression of bewilderment cross his features, about to turn back and ask Héctor just what was so interesting about a celestial body that was able to be seen every night-

And that was when Héctor started screaming.

It wasn’t the high, jubilant cry of a grito, or the exclamation of children having fun- no, it was the sound of a man who was being ripped apart from the inside, who was in nothing but sheer and utter agony. Miguel whipped around just in time to see Héctor falling to his knees and then to all fours, his muscles quivering as he convulsed, his breathing rapid and eyes screwed tightly shut. Panicked over this sudden and terrifying symptom, the young Rivera dared to run forward a few steps, thinking that it was a violent seizure of some kind, thinking that he could surely do something to help (what were the rules for seizures again? Turn the person on their side? Did you put something in their mouth or not?)- but gravely words forced out between gritted teeth quickly stopped him. “¡Aléjate! S-stay away from me-“ Héctor’s words were interrupted by another pained scream as his body continued to thrash about, and even as Miguel watched in horror it became apparent that this was no ordinary illness, no seizure or some other easily identifiable medical emergency.

Because Héctor, as impossible as it seemed, was changing.

The older man’s muscles were quivering, bulging, becoming larger than any human’s anatomy had a right to be as his entire body swelled and grew. His clothing was shredding apart as easily as papel picado, no longer being able to contain a figure that was rapidly growing too large and muscular, and as the skin continued to ripple and tremor what looked like thick hair- no, Miguel realized with a jolt, it was fur- began to sprout along Héctor’s body, dark brown and thick and growing just as rapidly as the rest of him was. There came a series of loud cracks as the back seemed to compress and grow all at once, the spine twisting and lengthening to fit this body’s new shape, and the screams reached such a new and frantic octave that Miguel was almost tempted to clap his hands over his ears to try and drown out the sounds of Héctor’s suffering, or at least cover his eyes to try and block out the horror of just what he was witnessing. And indeed, for a moment his hands did reflexively reach up to his face, panic building in his system at just what he was witnessing- but his mind wouldn’t allow him to look away, wouldn’t allow him to fully comprehend what he was seeing, he just knew that his friend was in pain and changing and that he had to go to him, he had to do something. But how could he possibly help, when he didn’t have the faintest idea of how to alleviate any of the pain Héctor was going through?

All he could do, as much as it pained him to do so, was watch.  

Even as Héctor’s body continued to shudder and grow, the older man seemed to still be making an effort to move- he lurched away from Miguel in that moment, hands frantically working at the wood floor of the shack as though he were trying to pull himself away from the boy- but in the next instant more cracks were resounding, forcing a pained scream out of Héctor’s throat again as his body jerked.  Although Miguel scarcely knew what was happening- had barely even begun to let the fact that his friend was the feared wolf of the countryside dawn on him- he could hear the pained gasps as broken ribs contracted around lungs that were desperate for air, could see the stark white glimmer of exposed bone before the skin would expand and swell to cover it. In order to accommodate the body’s new size and shape, the bones had to grow as well- but in order to grow, first they had to break, in what was seemingly the most agonizing manner possible. Miguel knew he shouldn’t have been watching, knew that he should have heeded Héctor’s advice to run out the door of the shack and get as far away as he possibly could, but fear over what he was seeing (as well as a morbid kind of fascination, and no small amount of worry) kept his feet firmly rooted to the ground, allowing him to witness every single agonizing detail of this apparent transformation that his friend was going through, even as his breaths became almost as ragged as Héctor’s were and his eyes widened in shock and fear.

Dios, what was happening-

Something in Héctor’s stance cracked and shifted then, forcing him even lower to the ground, and one look at his hands and feet showed that they were flexing and curling, muffled pops coming from the digits as the bones warped in order to form the shape of paws, claws being quick to sprout afterwards. It was only a moment later that Héctor was left gasping, his mouth working but no sound coming out- not even an intake of breath or a scream- and though Miguel stepped forward in shock, caught between helping or leaving the older man be, he still had no idea what was going on in the midst of his panic. The organs, all the major systems of the body, had to accommodate to the older man’s new body shape too. Héctor was by no means being silent because the pain had stopped, or because the transformation was coming to an end. It was because he literally couldn’t get enough breath into his lungs to make a sound in that moment, couldn’t force his organs to cooperate with his changing form. Without even being able to comprehend exactly what was happening in that moment, Miguel couldn’t even imagine the magnitude of pain that Héctor would have been feeling in that moment, burning him up from the inside out. Maybe he’d been warned away from this for a reason. This was something nobody should have to witness, especially not a young and impressionable boy-

It seemed like an eternity until Héctor was able to gasp and breathe again, but even then his suffering didn’t seem to be over- his screams were much deeper now, sounding more animalistic than human, but no less frantic and filled with agony as the bones and flesh of his face began to expand outward. Not only were his ears shifting position, becoming larger and pointier than they had been a moment previous, but the skin on his face was tearing and stretching in a manner that was almost nauseating to see, his teeth tearing at his gums to become longer, sharper, the teeth of a fearsome predator rather than a human’s. The screams had slowly warped into growls of pain, with the newly-formed ears flattened tight against the head and eyes squeezed shut- but even as Miguel watched the eyes opened to focus on him, still Héctor’s, still human and so filled with pain and fear that it almost brought tears to the young boy’s eyes to see it. It was almost as if this…thing that had been Héctor was apologizing for whatever was about to happen, apologizing for making Miguel have to witness such an utterly traumatizing change, and it pained Miguel to see it.

The eyes wrenched themselves closed again as the wolf tossed its head, growling and whining, and for a moment the massive body slumped to the floor, its breathing ragged and pained whimpers escaping its muzzle. It was only then that Miguel dared to try and approach, trembling and picking his way around the rubbish lining the floor as he spoke up in a voice that was so wavering it was almost incomprehensible. “H- Héctor? Are you…are you okay?” A moment of silence, and then he was continuing. “C-can you hear me? Héctor?”

For a moment he was almost hopeful that there was some speck of Héctor still left inside this beast, that everything would work out despite the horrifying sight that he had just witnessed- and then the wolf’s eyes snapped open. No longer Héctor’s comforting, warm shade of brown, they were now a bright and animalistic yellow, and when the wolf finally forced itself onto shaking feet, wrenching its head around to free the last shredded remnants of clothes from its shoulders before twisting to stare at Miguel, there was no ounce of compassion or recognition in those eyes. They were cold, angry, piercing in the way they held the boy’s gaze and refused to break eye contact, and as the wolf’s lips curled back to expose glimmering canines Miguel finally began to realize the magnitude of the situation.

Héctor was El Lobo Marrón.  His newfound friend was El Lobo Marrón, and he was in a shack with the massive beast, who was now staring at him as though it would like nothing more than to rip his head off his shoulders. All of the legends were true, and now he was in with El Lobo Marrón, completely at its mercy, all shreds of anything that had made it Héctor now gone.

Maybe venturing into the woods that night hadn’t been such a good idea after all.