#splat_dragon

“‘sit true?”

 Arthur paused, sighing as he swallowed his beer and set it down. “That depends on what the ‘it’ is, Bill.”

 Bill’s eyes darted back-and-forth as though expecting something to pop out at him, leaning in close to Arthur conspiratorially. “That, that they’re well… you know, that kinda way.”

 The ‘they’ he was referring to, could only be the twins Hosea had brought back to camp some two months gone. They - well, they could be a bit much, putting it kindly, mischievous and playful as a skulk of fox kits. Hosea, Dutch and Susan had, through combined effort, had gotten them to calm it down, at least in camp - now you just had to check your chair for wood chips if you got up where before you’d have to check for ants or be suspicious if one struck up a conversation with you; more likely than not, the other was robbing you blind.

 Though they’d been made to return everything Arthur still wasn’t sure where his dried wolf heart had gone or, even, why they’d felt the need to take it.

 They were well-meaning enough, though, even if they could be pains in the ass. Their names showed up often on the ledger, and they were more than happy to pass on their own beers and go retrieve another for themselves, the same with the stew even if it meant they scraped the bottom of the pot.

 Though the ‘that kinda way’ could be taken in several ways. There was a joke - well, had been a joke, the twins had found out and been furious, only a quick thinking Dutch soothing their raised hackles kept them from leaving and Hosea had torn them all a new one, made them all apologize, and even then they’d still been getting the cold shoulder for the better part of a week - that they were closer than twins should be, started up when they’d pushed their bedrolls together and fallen asleep tangled together like a pile of pups, and with how close they were otherwise, always on the other’s heels, mocking each other relentlessly but quickly leaping to their sibling’s defense if anyone else dared try, it still hadn’t quite died out.

 “What kinda way,” Arthur grunted because he did not follow that way of thinking in the least and if Bill was thinking that he was going to up and walk away, it had been a bit funny at first but after seeing how upset they’d got it hadn’t been funny in the least.

 There was another ‘kinda way’ that was starting to get rumblings in camp though, and Arthur was starting to believe it, too. It was a rare sorta way, a sorta way that was almost impossible, and to have two of them? Some folk believed it ran in the blood but there was no proof of it, to have two siblings be of that way would be insanity, would be downright impossible.

 Then again, Arthur was no scientist, maybe twins were different?

 “Y’know,” Bill looked over his shoulders like he expected them to materialize which, knowing them, wouldn’t surprise him, they could go from across camp to right beside him in seconds, seemed to find making people jump a grand pastime. “Skinslippers,”

 Oh. Oh, the second sort of way then. Skinslippers was an old-fashioned way to refer to it - an army sort of way, Pearson’s sort of way from his time in the Navy, and to the traditional sorts they were monsters, horrible luck, the descendents of someone who’d been cursed for vile acts with a beast and been made to roam as one, her offspring stuck neither man nor beast.

 Arthur wasn’t sure what to think. He’d met some, in his years as an outlaw. An elderly contact of Hosea’s, a dear friend, had been a bear-shifter (a shapeshifter, as many called them now), and had been just a regular old man in Arthur’s eyes, except he’d been able to turn into a bear at will. Had been nice enough, had even slipped him caramel candies when Dutch and Hosea weren’t looking.

 There’d even been a damn bear pelt on the wall.

All the color went from Bill’s face as Thomas dropped down on the log next to him, chirping “Y’know, you could just ask!”

 And Arthur’d thought all the color had drained from Bill’s face but apparently not as somehow even more managed to as he turned his head, coming face to face with a calico cat, familiar hazel eyes peering back at him as its whiskers twitched in amusement.

 “It is only polite,” Thomas purred in response to Bill’s choked sounds, only grinning wider when the man, the cat on his shoulder purring loudly and butting her head against his, hollered and leaped up, bolting from the campfire.

 “Well,” Marie said, shaking herself off once she found her feet, wiping the remaining fur off her shirt, “That was rude.” 

As the twins bickered, as if the girl hadn’t just turned from a cat into a human in front of him, Arthur chugged his beer.

Arthur was hard as a rock.

 Charles didn’t know why he was so worked up - although, perhaps, it was because he’d been away for three weeks on a job Dutch had sent him on, that had probably done it - he’d been eyeing him from the moment he got back, clearly more focused on Charles than on Dutch and his debriefing, and when he’d made his way to where he’d been whittling arrowheads Charles had hurried to set it all aside and follow him.

Arthur hadn’t even bothered to take their clothes off. He’d shoved Charles down onto a stump and clambered into his lap - one of the many times Charles was glad to be taller than him - and began to rut frantically against his own quickly rising erection. Charles growled and grabbed his hips, trying to stop the motions, it was too close but not enough, the angle not quite right, and Arthur seemed to agree though he snarled his own frustration when Charles stopped him, lunging to nip at his lip but he began to participate quite enthusiastically when Charles pulled him into a kiss as he shifted Arthur so he was straddling his thigh, beginning to tug on the man and setting a comfortable pace, swallowing his gasp as he ground his cock against his leg, his own cock sliding against Arthur’s leg, and then they were moving together, Charles digging his heels into the ground so he could press up against Arthur while Arthur grunted and groaned into Charles’ mouth, letting the man take most of his weight as he ground down against him, things would be so much easier without their clothes, they can’t get the friction they want with their layers on, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as Charles wrapped his arms around him, clinging tightly to each other as they rutted and ground and sought completion, muffling their sounds with the kiss for fear of being caught.

 Though there would be no punishment for a homosexual relationship (there would, of course, be teasing - Micah’s cruelest of all), no one wanted to be caught in such a weak moment.

 Arthur was beginning to stutter in his movements, digging his nails into Charles’ back as he ground as hard as he could, his movements slowing, eyes rolling back as finally the knot in his lower stomach released and he came, bucking his hips frantically, spilling cum into his union suit. That was enough to set Charles enough, the man pulling Arthur in close, kissing him desperately as he jostled Arthur with each buck of his hips, messing his breeches until finally he dropped his head against Arthur’s shoulder, the man resting his head against his chest, turning his head to kiss at his neck.

The first thing She clearly remembers is warmth and wriggling bodies.

 She’d been one of them, She could say that now. But they’d been beside Her, under Her, all around Her. Whining and wriggling, twisting and sobbing. Some had wailed instead, and She hadn’t been able to speak but She’d wanted to if only it could make them shut up. Others had made some horrible amalgamation of the sounds, wailing whimpers that turned into squeaking whines.

 Those were usually the ones She woke up to find limp and cold, and then gone, lifted away by The Hands. The Ones That Wailed followed, until only Those That Whined were left.

 As She grew, even with only Those That Whined left behind, they became packed in. Piled on top of each other, with them under Her, above Her, around Her, as they’d been when Those That Wailed and Those That Squeaked were still there. She didn’t know where they’d gone, or why The Hands had taken them, but a few of Those That Whined went cold and still and were taken too.

 She didn’t know what it meant to want, but She didn’t want to be packed in anymore. It was uncomfortable, too warm and too tight. So though She didn’t know where The Hands took them, sometimes She wished She would wake cold and limp to be taken somewhere Not Warm and Not Tight.

Her gums hurt, and She discovered pain. It was the same day She discovered Her teeth, when one of Those That Whined slammed their arms into Her face and She bit. There was an awful squeal, and She had space. It wasn’t much, but it was some, so She stretched out and enjoyed it, basking in not having to curl into a ball.

 She tasted metal on Her tongue.

The One She Bit went cold and limp while She slept, and She watched as The Hands removed it. For the first time, She could see beyond Them, and tilted Her head, squinting and taking Them in. White, so much white, white glistening off something black, and as She watched They stepped back, holding The One She Bit and dropping It on something loud. She flinched, then growled as They reached for Her, prying Her mouth open and feeling along Her gums, nodding as They felt Her teeth. Nonsensical sounds came from Their mouths, and They put something in Her mouth that flashed brightly, and She whined as it hurt Her eyes.

None of the others went cold or limp. They grew and they grew, and so did She. They learned to give Her space, for fear of Her teeth drawing red-metal from their skin. If She thought they were too close, all She had to do was growl, and they would whine and squirm away.

 They were less awkward, now. Their arms and legs were longer, less chubby, and so were their bodies. She could see outside of their cage, and She woke up one day to sit up, looking around and taking in Her surroundings. Those That Whined laid around Her, and She’d known them Her whole short life, so She took them in first.

 They were four, though She couldn’t count yet, and with Her they made five. One had tufted ears sticking out of its head, and when it cried it had a mouthful of sharp needle-teeth. It was bald, though the rest had hair, and its eyes were as grey as its ears. Another was covered in blond hair, She couldn’t see any skin, and when it blinked at Her it had blue-blue eyes. She growled, and it opened its mouth to whimper (it didn’t have any teeth), and looked at the one besides it, with fluffy red hair and green-grey eyes, furry brown ears on the sides of its head where the first had them on the top. One laid at her feet, whining weakly, and She dismissed it even as She looked it over, taking in its too-long face and lack of ears, bushy white tail and silver eyes that blinked at Her lazily.

 It went limp as She watched, and was cold before They came.

They grew, and they grew, and She grew and grew. They were bigger than Her, but they feared Her. One tried to bite Her, only once, the one with red hair, and She’d bit it so hard They had had to tend it to stop the bleeding. 

 The Ones That Whined left her be after that. As they became more mobile, all She had to do was growl or bare Her teeth, and they’d settle down.

The day She first tried to stand, everything changed.

 She braced Her hands against the ground—it wasn’t the ground, not really, but Her whole world had been the cradle so to Her it was. She stood, wobbling on Her feet, and braced Her palms against the glass walls of the cradle as She looked around. Everything was so big, and so bright, it was all white and grey and shiny, and She saw another one that She’d never seen before, brown hair with grey-brown ears and green-brown-grey-yellow eyes—there was probably a better word for it, but She didn’t know it. She snarled, and it snarled back. Its grey-brown ears flattened down, vanishing into its brown hair, and She growled, and it growled too.

She yelped as A Hand clasped tight around the back of her neck, and scooped her up like All The Ones That Went Limp. She squirmed and struggled and growled, but they didn’t react at all, and before She could nip they dumped Her into a strange cradle, one that was grey and shiny and, She discovered, big, as She could reach out and put Her hands through the shiny grey things.

 And then the world began to move, The Ones That Whined getting further and further away.

It had taken nearly four years, but finally they were coming home.

 Not without a lot of concessions, granted, but they were going home. Stark had finally gotten over himself and let Bucky use B.A.R.F (Steve was certain that the man had had the technology for longer than he’d said he had, but in the end Bucky had finally had his triggers removed and had come out of Cryo, so he’d put that as one of the lowest priority things he needed to talk to Tony about), worked to get them pardoned and brought back.

 The UN had seen their mistakes, had locked up Ross in the very prison he’d locked them up in, though sadly hadn’t collared him as he’d done to Wanda—considering he had no powers to mute, there was no point to it. Still, though Steve didn’t usually care for revenge, he wished nothing more than to see Ross restrained and collared like he deserved.

 They’d been made to sign the Accords, though, and he chafed for it. The UN, despite seeing their mistakes, hadn’t been willing to tear them up completely, not after having already had so many superhumans sign them, having so many already under their thumbs. He’d tried to read them really, he had, but they’d been written to confuse them, so full of legalese, and though he’d asked his legal representative, Tony had assigned him one who wasn’t willing to work with him, the woman had only confused him further. But he’d understood enough, that they weren’t as bad as the ones he’d fought so hard against, and the one thing he had understood was that it was still possible to make changes, so along with the others he had signed and been allowed onto the Quinjet headed back to New York.

“Where the hell is Stark?” Clint grumbled, crossing his arms, and out of habit Steve said

 “Language,”

 though he’d gotten more than used to the language Clint and, to some extent, Wanda, tended to spit when it came to Tony. It was something they’d need to work on, now that they were a team again, but he did agree with them, though he didn’t have a chance to say anything before Wanda was providing her own two cents, “We’re not worth his time, don’t you know that Clint? Mr. High and Mighty can’t be bothered to pick us up himself.”

 They’d arrived on the tarmac to find a handful of nondescript black cars waiting for them, an unfamiliar woman in a grey pantsuit standing flanked by a handful of men and women, all in the same uniform. For a long moment, it had felt like a trap, and magic began to unfurl from Wanda’s hands in red flames, Clint had reached for a bow that wasn’t there, Natash for the empty holsters on her hips—they’d been made to hand in their weapons on the Quinjet—until she stepped forward and introduced herself as Henrietta Rask, their representative among the Avengers Counsel.

 “Representative?” Steve had asked, and she’d asked if he’d read the Accords, looking like she couldn’t decide if he was dumb or just plain stupid when he’d explained that he’d skimmed them, on account of them being too confusing, but that he understood the basic idea. So she’d said that she’d explain once they were in the car-it was a decent drive. Which was… strange, considering that the Tower wasn’t far from where they’d landed at all, but they just assumed the woman didn’t know what she was talking about, her identification had checked out after all.

 She was finishing up some paperwork with the people with her (S.W.O.R.D., the organization that was replacing SHIELDRA, agents), leaving them to talk. Natasha and Clint were going in one car, Scott and Wanda in the second, Sam and Bucky in another (Steve was not happy about that, but Henrietta had reminded him that he had needed some things clarified, so he’d acquiesced), and Steve with Henrietta in the last.

Steve was not a happy man, and Henrietta was not a happy woman. As it turned out, it was her job to be the go-between for them and the Avengers Counsel (as he should have guessed, really, what else would a ‘representative’ be?). Anything they needed, they told her, and she’d pass it on. Any complaints would be passed on, or requests. He’d nearly blown a gasket when he’d said ‘but that’s Tony’s job!’ because it was, when they needed something they told JARVIS, or whatever Tony had built now that JARVIS was the Vision, or Tony himself, and she’d told him again that it was no longer Tony’s job, but the Avengers Counsel’s.

 He wasn’t happy, but he shook his head and went along with it, adding that to the list of things he needed to talk to Tony about. It wasn’t the woman’s fault that Tony had her hoodwinked, too.

The drive led them to the parts of New York that were more open, sprawling, where they saw more trees than buildings, and at a red-light he caught Scott looking at him from his car’s rear-view mirror, his confusion echoed on the younger man’s face. Though Lang had never been to the Avenger’s Tower, it was impossible to miss, and the entire world knew where it was. And out here it was not.

 “Where are we going,” Steve demanded, turning to Henrietta—while the ‘Avengers Counsel’ wasn’t her fault, bringing them out into the middle of nowhere wasn’t funny, and if it was Tony’s idea of a prank, it wasn’t a funny one, was immature even for him, and she’d have to be in on it too.

 She looked up from the tablet she’d been fiddling with, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow, “To the Compound, Mr. Rogers, as you would know if you’d read the Accords,”

 “Captain,” he corrected, frowning, “we’re supposed to be going back to the tower!”

 “No, Mr. Rogers, you are not. The Avengers are being housed in the Avengers Compound. Once the term of your house arrest is over you are, of course, welcome to find lodging elsewhere.”

 His jaw clenched so tight he felt his teeth groan, “What about the tower?”

 Henrietta sighed, “Mr. Stark sold the tower, it no longer belongs to him, Stark Industries, or the Avengers Initiative. Even if you wished to return there after the term of your house arrest, you could not, it has been turned into an office building. Unless,” she grins, “you care to sleep in a cubicle.”

 He gapes at her, opens and shuts his mouth like a fish, “He… he can’t do that! The Tower… the Tower is our home!”

 “Home or not,” and from the way she said it, it was clear that she did not agree with him, “the Tower was Mr. Stark’s property. Not SI’s, not SHIELD’s, which no longer owns any property anyways, not the Avengers Initiative’s. It was his personal property, so it was his to do with as he wished.”

 “But,” he started, didn’t have another word, started again, “but,” and wasn’t sure if he should be relieved, caught flat-footed, when the car rolled to a stop, Henrietta slipping her tablet into her bag and stepping out of the car before he could get another word out. Without much of a choice, he followed, greeted by Clint’s exclamation of “What the fuck is this?”

 “This, Mr. Barton, is the Avengers Compound, as you would know if you’d read the Accords.” the man’s face went a rather impressive shade of puce, but she powered on, “Any current and future Avengers will be given the option to be housed here, although you seven will be living here for the duration of your house arrest, as was outlined in the contracts you all signed.

Ignoring any of their ‘comments’ (being polite, their head in the Counsel was going to be made well aware of the things they said—they still had many hoops to jump through, and while an attitude check wasn’t one of them, a psychological profile was ), she led them into the building and up to the front desk, where a kindly-faced old man sat behind a desk, offering them a smile as she handed them badges, “This is Stan, he’s one of our front desk employees. Any time you enter or leave the Compound, after informing and having received permission of course, you need to present them with your badge. Please try not to lose them, your first two replacements will be provided free of charge but after that each replacement will be provided at a cost of ten dollars.”

 “We’re not children!” Wanda snapped, despite how often Steve said she was ‘just a kid!’, “We’re not going to be wandering around losing these.”

 (She’d lost hers by Saturday.)

They rode in the elevator up onto the second floor, wherein Henrietta stepped out and they followed her. “You will be staying on this floor. The first floor contains meeting rooms as well as the hospital wings, so unless you are injured, visiting your doctors, or meeting with the Counsel, then you won’t be spending much time on it. The third and fifth floors are exactly the same in layout as this one, they will provide housing for future members of the Avengers Initiative. The fourth floor is the common floor, it contains the kitchen, the dining room, as well as the training room. As a courtesy, you have been given one week to rest and recuperate and get used to the Compound, but starting the Monday after that you will be expected in the training room every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 3pm to train.”

 She led them to the top line of the A, “This is the common room of your floor,” but she didn’t get out another word before Wanda burst out,

 “What is this?!” gesturing to the room, hands sparking red. “Where’s our stuff!?

 Henrietta frowned, “All of the things you purchased with your money were put away into storage units upon the sale of the Tower,” a slight lie, they’d been put into storage by Vision while Mr. Stark was in the hospital after Siberia, but tomayto tomahto. “If you wish to collect them, then please tell me once you have gathered the funds to pay the fees of your unit.”

 Wanda’s face turned colors to match her hair, “That’s not fair! ” she stamped her foot like the child she claimed, sometimes, to be, “That’s our stuff, he can’t just take it away!”

 Like she was speaking to a child, Henrietta said again, “Mr. Stark is not taking your things. When he sold the tower no one knew that you’d be getting pardons, storing your possessions in the Compound would have taken up unnecessary space.”

 The Witch puffed up, hair beginning to float around her, and Henrietta’s hand twitched towards her watch, but Clint crossed his arms, “Don’t bother Wanda, it’s just Stark throwing a tantrum. Steve’ll talk to him and sort this out.”

 Steve nodded—this was just one thing among a long list of things he nodded to straighten out with Tony. “Don’t worry Wanda, I’ll get your things back.”

 That settled her, some, and her hair laid back down along her shoulders, but still her face was a rather alarming shade of red as she gestured to the common room, “What are we supposed to do? We can’t leave the Compound!”

 Henrietta looked over the room—it wasn’t bad, if you asked her. A scattering of couches, sofas and armchairs, all aimed at a large tv, and more than a fair few bookcases with a decent selection of books. “There is plenty for you to do and, technically, Mr. Stark was not required to provide you any sources of entertainment. You have cable, as well as the internet and books. If you wish to purchase any more books you can have them delivered and they will be brought to your rooms or added to the bookshelves, and you are welcome to subscribe to any streaming services that you can afford.”

 Seeing the way Barton was turning colors (she was starting to become concerned for his blood pressure), she turned on her heel and began to lead them down one of the prongs of the A, before he could say something, probably offended by what he had clearly taken as an insult to his financial situation.

 “Men, you are housed in this hall, women on the other. Mr. Wilson is in room 1a, Mr. Barton is in 2a, Mr. Lang 3a, Mr. Barnes in 4a, and Mr. Rogers in 5a.,” she rattled off, “the rest of the rooms are empty for the time being. At the end of both hallways you will find a small kitchenette, as well as a supply room containing toiletries and other such necessities.”

 Nodding, she looked at the Rogues, “I am aware that you have had a long day, and a lot of information dumped on you at once. So for now I will be leaving you to get settled in, I’m sure you all want to get some sleep. If any of you need anything, there’s food in the kitchenettes, and FRIDAY is willing to answer any questions you might have.” Without giving them an opportunity to speak up, Henrietta stepped into the elevator and was gone, intending on going to medical and getting the strongest migraine medicine they could give her.

"To friendship!" Ernesto had said.

  "I'd move Heaven and Earth for you, mí amigo." and Héctor would do the same.

  "¡Salud!" they had clinked their glasses together and, as one (at least, as far as Héctor knew), gulped down their tequila.

  "Just one more night, Hèctor, please?" Ernesto had pleaded. 

 Héctor hadn't yet bought his ticket, and he had decided to finally leave with little warning. It wasn't fair to his hermano and, besides, he'd never been good at telling him no.

 Why not just one more night? Imelda and Coco wouldn't worry, they weren't expecting him for another month, at the least. He'd made his decision so abruptly that he hadn't had the chance to write and, even if he left come morning, he would be home long before they received his letter. 

 So, with a tired smile, he set down his things and said "Sí." 

“Héctor? Héctor?”

 The man jolted awake, blinking blearily at Ernesto. “ Sí, ‘Nesto?” he slurred.

 Ernesto chuckled, shaking his head. “You fell asleep while we were talking, my friend.”

 “Oh.” That.. was bad, wasn’t it? “Lo siento.”

 A hand was on his arm, then, helping him to his feet. “No worries, you need to get some sleep. Here, let me help you.” Héctor grabbed his forearm, allowing him to pull him up, his legs stiff beneath him.

 Hooking his arm over his shoulder, although it was a bit awkward with their height difference, Ernesto helped Héctor to his bed, tugging his shoes from his feet. “You don’t look so good, amigo.”

 Héctor squinted up at him, his head aching, each flicker of the candles sending another throb through his skull. “I don’t… feel so good.” he murmured, eyelids heavy, eyes stinging as sweat dripped into them.

 Ernesto frowned, running his hand through his hair, “Ah, my friend, get some sleep. You’ll be fine in the morning. Just think, you’ll be home with your wife and daughter this time tomorrow.”

 Despite himself, Héctor couldn’t help but to grin. “‘m glad… you don’t hate me, ‘Nesto.”

 “Go to sleep, Héctor.”

 And he did.

He woke up he-doesn’t-know-how-long later, crying out wordlessly as he curled in on himself, clutching at his lower stomach. ‘ ¡Oh Dios mío!’

 His stomach churned, and his throat clenched; Héctor didn’t want to wake Ernesto, so he staggered to his feet, grabbing the wall as everything danced around him, his pants uncomfortably wet at the crotch. Whimpers died in his throat, each step sending pain shooting through his stomach, and he only barely made it outside before emptying his stomach on the ground, tears streaming down his face with each stab of pain.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow,’

Héctor slumped against the wall, wrapping his arms against his stomach as it continued to hurt, each breath sending shocks of pain through him. ‘Parada, por favor, parada,’ 

 He slumped to the side, spitting out a mouthful of saliva, whimpering. ‘Parada, parada, parada,’ his stomach clenched, and he heaved bile on the ground, nothing left in his stomach, ‘Basta, por favor, parada.’

 He rested his head on his knees, trembling, occasionally turning his head to spit out a mouthful of saliva. ‘Please, god, make it stop.’

‘... why… am I outside?’

 Héctor must have dozed off, he supposed, because he didn’t remember getting out of bed, or coming outside. Didn’t remember vomiting or slumping to the ground.

  ‘Where’s ‘Nesto?’

 He looked over his shoulder, blinking blearily at the door to the hotel room. Oh. Ernesto must have still been inside, and he didn’t want to wake him.

 Héctor’s stomach clenched, and he twisted, retching fruitlessly—his stomach was empty, but god if it didn’t hurt!

  ‘I was… going to the train station, wasn’t I?’

That was right, he’d been walking out the door. He was going to the train station, he was going to go home.

 So… where were his things? He looked around, head throbbing with each movement, fingers twitching as he clutched at his stomach. ‘ ¡Oh Dios, that hurts!’ What was wrong with him?

 He… he needed to get to the train station. That’s where he had been going, right? He just… needed to get his things and get going. He could rest on the train, and he’d feel fine when he got home.

 So Héctor stood, having to brace himself against the wall as his head protested the movement, throbbing with each heartbeat, stomach churning. ‘Pará, pará, pará,’ He staggered to the door, carefully, slowly, opening it, not wanting to wake Ernesto—had he said goodbye already? Surely he had—glad to see his suitcase and guitar case were within arms’ reach.

 Stretching to reach them had him gasping, stomach twisting as though grabbed in a fist, ‘I just need to get home,’ but he was anything it determined, and he was quick to bring his things outside. He had presents for Imelda and Coco in his suitcase, and his guitar had been a gift from Imelda. He’d never leave it behind.

Which way was the train station, again?

 It had been a straight shot from the hotel, hadn’t it? But… was it left or right? Or… was it right then straight? Left then straight?

 Well, he’d find it eventually. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he hadn’t bought his ticket yet. So he could get the next train home from when he got there, although he wanted to get there soon.

  ‘Coco, darling, your papá is coming home.’

His stomach twisted, and he gagged, doubling over. Héctor wrapped his arm around his stomach, his guitar case pressing uncomfortably against it, retching, only able to bring up saliva. ‘Parada, parada, parada.’ Each gag sent a sharp pain through his skull, and he couldn’t help but to whimper, ‘Why, god, make it stop, por favor, por favor,’

 His throat burned, and his stomach ached from the force of his gagging, but he forced himself to stand, to stagger forward. ‘Coco, my darling, … Imelda, Mí amor … I’m coming home.’

“Coco…”

 He should have reached the train station, he felt.

 “Imelda…”

 Héctor spat a mouthful of saliva on the ground.

 “I’m… coming home.”

 The train station had to be around here somewhere, surely? Just… just another street or two.

 “Your papá is coming home...”

Where was he going?

 He was walking somewhere.

 His stomach was throbbing, and he must have vomited at some point, as the front of his shirt felt wet against his skin. He kept having to spit, the simple movement of leaning over threatening to take him off his feet.

 “C-Coco… ‘melda…”

 He was going home, wasn’t he? Héctor was walking home.

 “Estoy… Estoy camino a casa…”

“I-Imelda…”

 Who… who was Imelda? The name was clinging to him, and he knew her, he knew her.

 “C-Coco. So-Socorro.”

 Those names… he knew those names. Who were they? No… who… was that? Those names… he didn’t know how, but he knew they belonged to one person.

 Héctor’s stomach twisted, and he doubled over, heaving.

‘Where… am I going?’

 There were people he needed to get to.

 He didn’t know who.

 He couldn’t remember their names.

 He couldn’t remember how he knew them.

 But he knew he needed to get back to them.

 Héctor’s mouth tasted like metal.

Héctor didn’t know where he was going.

 He didn’t know why he was going.

 But something was pulling at his feet, was pulling at his heart, and he needed to go.

 He felt like there should be something in his hands, but trembling fingers clenched on nothing.

  ‘I’m… on my… way.’

His feet hurt—why wasn’t he wearing shoes?

 His head throbbed—had he hit his head?

 His stomach twisted—had he eaten something bad?

Héctor stopped, closing his eyes.

 He was so dizzy, and so cold, although sweat soaked his skin. Where was he? This wasn’t Santa Cecilia, and that didn’t make sense. He would never leave Santa Cecilia, because… because… because they were there.

 He couldn’t remember who they were.

 Who were they?

Héctor staggered one step, two, and dropped as though he’d been shot.

 His long limbs began to convulse, jerking every which way like a marionette with its strings being pulled all at the same time, back arching off the ground. His head cracked against the ground hard enough that the skin split, blood darkening the dirt, fingers clenching and heels digging furrows into the ground. Helpless, nonsense sounds spilled from his throat, animalistic grunts that no human had the right to be able to make.

 Foam bubbled from his mouth, spilling down the side of his face, tinted red as he bit his tongue hard enough to split the skin. Urine trickled down his leg, and he voided his bowels, and if he were conscious he would have been humiliated, so it was a mercy that he was unaware, unable to feel the pain or suffer the embarrassment.

 When the convulsions finally slowed, he was sprawled in a way that could only be accidental. His breathing was short and shallow, stuttering in his throat, slowing as he twitched weakly, small convulsions that arced through his limbs until, finally, he laid still, covered in vomit, diarrhea, and urine.

  ‘Co...co…’

  ‘I… mel…da…?’

  ‘Where… are you?’

Translations: El camino a casa - The road home Camino a casa - I walk home Mí amigo - My friend ¡Salud! - Health/Good health/To your good health/Cheers! Hermano - Brother Sí - Yes Lo siento - I am sorry ¡Oh Dios mío! - Oh my God! Parada, por favor, parada - Stop, please, stop Parada, parada, parada - Stop, stop, stop Basta, por favor, parada - Enough, please, stop ¡Oh Dios - Oh God Pará, pará, pará - Stop, stop, stop Papá - Dad Por favor, por favor - Please, please Mí amor - My love Estoy… Estoy camino a casa… - I am… I’m on my way home