falls asleep on héctor's shoulder. snzzzzzz
The sound of rippling water helped keep tempo as bony fingers strummed the worn strings of an old guitarra. Heel bone scuffed the wooden floor as bent skeleton rocked the hammock forward and back, the creak of the faded fabrics accompanying the low groan of the shoddy posts. Shantytown was far from exciting, the only light being the string of lights draped across the posts on the docks. Although they had little color and less in appearance, their little town was their home and it was all they had.
He hadn’t been as excited to show Sora as he had been to see it. The boy was full of wonder and excitement, a constant brightness in their gloomy bungalows. He had shown Sora around the colorful streets, but it had been here that the boy wanted to see most. His home. Where he was from. Embarrassed by the mess, he tried his best to make it seem as if it was enough. He, like the chamaco he sat beside, hid his pain behind a smile and a never ending light.
One that was ending- like it or not.
Sora had insisted - play a song. ‘Pleeeeeease?’ Héctor, despite all of his protests, found that he couldn’t resist that pout the niño would get. Admitting defeat, he sat beside the smaller boy on his hammock, using one leg to swing them forward and back. Skilled phalanges danced across the strings, moving with a feeling that not many could capture. Música moved his digits, a soft hum floating from the gaps of a phantom throat, amber gaze settled on the dim glow of the city’s reflected light in the murky waters beneath his bungalow ; a hole in the floor that had never been repaired.
“Eso puede ser, tal vez, más nunca habrá quien pueda ser un amigo fiel y tú lo sabes, el tiempo pasara lo nuestro no morirá, lo vas a ver, es mejor saber…Que hay un amigo en mí, hay un amigo en mí. Sí, hay un amigo en mí.”
Jaw bones split in a small smile, wrist bone tapping the side of the wooden guitar to add an extra note. It felt… nice to have a chamaco around again. Like the hijo he never had a chance to have. And, just like his hijita had in the past, Sora was sound asleep next to him, slumped against his bony shoulder. Skeletal hand pulled away from the guitarra, ruffling spiky brown hair with the affection a papá could offer.
“Buenas noches, chamaco. Get some rest.”