A Madman With a Guitar || Héctor Rivera X Reader

Wine and Cheese, Please

Frida Kahlo. Chicharrón smiled at you with a look too smug for you liking.

"You met Frida today?" His voice was so smug, so pleased with himself.

"Shut up."

He laughed, they laughed, damn them. You'd only been there two years, you didn't know him that well. You didn't know his poorly made disguises like they did. Cheech stifled his laughter to point towards the Shantytown entrance, and walking over, bones rattling, that friendly smile on his face.

"Tio! Cheech, Y/N, partying without me?" He teased, picking up one, two, three, four shot glasses and pouring them full of liquor.

"Only barely, Frida." You replied, a cool snarkiness in your tone.

  Héctor drank the shot clean, smiled and leaned back down against the table, clearing his throat.

"Ah, yes, Frida Kahlo! It is me!" He took a step back, changing the voice to the higher pitched one he used at the gates, dramatically flinging his arms out.

You grabbed his shot glass while he was being dramatic and poured it full of the liquor while everyone was focused on Héctor being Héctor and downed it quickly, followed by a fit of coughing and a smirk at Héctor. He looked up, knowing what it was, chuckled and sat next to you.

"You're going to regret that, Chamaco." He soothed, voice deepened to melted sugar, and he smiled wider as your face went red "Five minutes and you'll be in the river, Y/N."

"That was one time, you donkey! And I had had like, three shots." 

He chuckled and took another shot, keeping eye contact as he did "See this? It's called an alcohol tolerance, amigo, and you don't have it."

"You develop it by drinking, amigo, and then you die because your liver's committed suicide over your drinking habits." You went to grab the liquor, but Héctor snatched it away with a smirk and placed it on the ground next to him, between him and Chicharrón.

"Do you even know what amigo means, Y/N?" Héctor purred.

"Yes, I do! I'm not that bad. Besides, it's the SOUTH that I'm from. Plenty of Spanish-speakers live there, I even had to take Spanish for a few years." You huffed, arms crossed in front of you.

  Héctor lightly punched your arm, you giving a gentle laugh and fake cry of "abuse!" as he leaned into you. He was.. bony. A dumb remark, you were aware, but you hadn't had much physical contact with other people since you'd been in the Land of the Dead. Another of your famous first remarks, which Héctor would never let you forget was "there's lots of dead people here".

"What did you even learn in Spanish class, chamaco?"

"Oh, y'know, important things. Hello, goodbye, have you seen my hamster, thank you. The lot." Was that a hand behind your back? Fingers you could feet tracing along your shirt?

"Have you seen my hamster? Santa Maria, what an idiot."

"I think it was supposed to teach how to put together words, Héctor, we were only, like, seven."

"Ah, that makes more sense."

You thought you could feel him resting his head on you. You thought you could feel his arm wrapping around you, pulling you a tiny bit closer. You knew you could see the other three carried away in their own conversation, not noticing a single thing that happened between you and Héctor.

"I wish I were rich." You blurted.

  Héctor looked up, what would be an eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

You gulped and nodded "I- I uh, yeah, I do, because then I could, well, we could, I mean, all of us could-" He smiled wider and nudged your ribs, which now wasn't painful.

"All of us here in Shantytown. We could- we could have a nice house. No more flooding. Separate rooms." Héctor poked your shoulder playfully, shoving you a bit.

"Oh, you wouldn't want to share a room with me, chamaco?" He chuckles at your flushed face.

"You probably have fleas, though,Héctor!" You coughed "Anyway, uhm, imagine the nice food we could have too! Wine and cheese please, waiter, and an entire chicken. No no, I'm not sharing, allll for me! Wouldn't that be great?"

"Yeah, chamaco, I guess it would be." He sat up, and you could tell in the shift in weight and lack of warmth on your back your suspicions were right, and watched him shake his bones in a way that was still unsettling to you. Last you checked, bones were not supposed to do that, but there was also the fact you shouldn't even exist without muscle and skin, so you'd live.

Or, you'd die. Or something like that. You were already dead, anyway.