This was inspired by a conversation in discord. Essentially it's just an au in which some people have wings, including Héctor, Coco and Imelda. Everything else is the same.
When Héctor woke up, the first thing he noticed was the pain. Burning, like somebody was pressing a red hot poker to each of his shoulder blades. He groaned and a voice said "oh, you're up at last, are you?"
Ernesto. He rolled over— why was he lying on his front? He never slept on his front!— and gave a shriek as the pain in his back intensified. That was why— he rolled over again as quickly as possible so that he was lying on his side and the pain was just about bearable.
Ernesto laughed— of course he would find this funny— "you won't be sleeping on your back for a while, amigo. Lo siento."
"Ernesto." It was hard to talk. His friend was sitting by his bed looking down on him. He looked... slightly less concerned than Héctor would have expected— he was used to jokes about his many minor accidents, but surely something this painful deserved to be taken more seriously— but the medical kit was lying open on a chair next to the bed, so at least he must have tried to patch him up. "What... what happened?"
Ernesto shook his head. "Rest Héctor." He was holding a knife, one of the big ones they'd brought for cutting meat, and wiping it clean with a rag.
The bottle of rubbing alcohol in the kit had the top off it, and there was a needle and thread next to it. That would explain the burning sensation. What had he done to himself? Something serious, that was for sure. He tried to remember.
He'd been arguing with Ernesto. About the tour taking too long, like most of their arguments over the past few weeks. This time, he'd actually gone so far as to pack his bag. He'd been so homesick— Santa María! How could have forgotten?! He needed to get home!
With another groan, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and stood up off the bed. Almost immediately he was seized by a dizziness so strong he had to clutch at Ernesto's shoulder for support so as to avoid going over.
His friend's face was calm. "You need to rest, Héctor." he said, though he made no effort to stop him. "Believe me, amigo, you won't get very far."
Héctor ignored him. After a few moments, the dizziness seemed to fade a bit, and he took his hand off Ernesto's shoulder and staggered forward. But he only managed about two steps before he stumbled and fell to the ground. With some effort, he managed to get back on his feet, but fell over again the moment he got upright.
He didn't understand it. It wasn't as if his legs were giving way, more like he'd forgotten how to stand up straight. He wondered if maybe the pain in his back was actually the least of his problems; maybe he should be worrying more about his head.
He tried again and fell again, this time cracking his head painfully on the stone floor. Ernesto ran over. "Hey, hey, watch out. You don't want to knock yourself out again."
But no. No time to worry about that now. He'd have plenty of time to figure out the exact nature of his injuries when he was back on the train to Santa Cecilia. Imelda could call him a doctor when he got home. In the mean time, he just needed to get out the door. If he couldn't walk, then he'd just have to fly.
He braced himself— there was no way this wasn't going to make the pain in his back a hundred times worse— and tried to extend his wings.
His wings wouldn't extend. Worse than that, it was like they weren't even there. With a sinking feeling, Héctor noticed a snow white feather lying a few feet away from him. There were more in front of him, and patches of blood on the floor, leading up to two white shapes lying horribly in the corner, tossed carelessly on top of one another like old clothes.
He looked up at Ernesto, who was still holding the knife. "I'm sorry Héctor." He said, not sounding sorry at all. "You shouldn't have tried to leave me."
Héctor tried once more to stand, and would have hit the floor again if Ernesto hadn't been standing close enough to catch him. Now he knew why he kept falling over. His wings had been heavy— even when they were hidden, he'd always been able to feel them— and now they were gone his balance was off. His body was still trying to compensate for a weight that was no longer there.
He looked up at Ernesto. "What?"— it came out as a gasp, Ernesto had stopped his fall by grabbing him by the shoulder, so that his hand brushed painfully against the place where his wings had once joined to his body.
He waited for him to speak. Waited for his fuzzy memories to come into focus and explain how he'd lost his wings and why it looked like... like Ernesto— like something had happened that could never ever have happened.
Ernesto sighed, the same way he always sighed when he thought Héctor was being stupid. "I told you I couldn't do this without your songs. I begged you to stay. You wouldn't listen— I couldn't let you leave."
"Dreams require sacrifices Héctor! You can't just wait around playing at being a family man and expect them to arrive at your door!" he sounded angry now. "You have to seize your moment— and you were going to just let our moment pass us by!"
Memories were coming back to Héctor now. He'd told Ernesto he wanted to go, he'd got as far as the door and then... then he just remembered Ernesto running at him, and the feeling of his wings springing from his shoulder blades.
There was no way he could have flown off— there was barely enough space in the room to fly a few inches off the ground, let alone high enough to get away from an angry Ernesto— it was just instinct, he supposed. It didn't matter anyway, since a second later Ernesto's fist had hit him (he'd almost certainly have a bruise, he realised. It would probably have been very painful if it weren't for the fact that the pain from his back completely overshadowed it) and everything had gone black.
He stared at him. "You- you-"
"I did what I had to do." Ernesto scowled, then seemed to relax. "But it doesn't matter now. Like I said, you need rest." He picked him up, the way he'd done a thousand times when they were younger and Héctor had injured himself badly enough that he needed help getting home, and laid him on the bed, taking care to place him on his side.
Desperate, Héctor tried to get up again, but Ernesto held him down. "It's going to be a while till you can walk again, amigo," he said lightly, "and there's no way you could make it to the station."
Héctor gritted his teeth against a fresh wave of pain. "Get off!" he snarled, doing his best to shake off the strong hands pushing him onto the bed. He must have torn open his stitches by now— he could see the blood on Ernesto's hands from when he'd carried him— and the pain was agonising, but he didn't care. He wasn't sure what he'd do once he'd got free, but he didn't care about that either. He would crawl to the station— all the way to Santa Cecilia if he needed to.
Ernesto shook his head. "Stop it. I told you, I can't let you leave. And you're messing up your wounds— do you want to get an infection? Here, let me help."
Héctor made an attempt to jerk away, but Ernesto held him fast. "Come on, Héctor," he said, sounding tired, "what are you going to do? You'll need somebody to check them out sooner or later, and it's not as if you can call a doctor. You don't want anyone realising you're one of them, do you?"
"And if someone found out, and word reached Santa Cecilia?"
Héctor froze. Ernesto smiled and loosened his grip slightly.
"It would be a shame." he continued, "People might start to wonder about that fanily of yours. Though," he smirked, Héctor stayed as still as possible, "it might be for the best. That daughter of yours would stand a much better chance of finding a husband when she's older if somebody clipped those pretty little wings of hers. What man wants a woman with feathers?!" He laughed. "Now come on, let me clean up those wounds of yours." Héctor stayed limp, not daring to resist as Ernesto rolled him over onto his front— though he couldn't stop himself from crying out when he felt the sting of the alcohol.
"Stop being such a baby." Ernesto said. "And hold still!" Héctor obeyed, wishing there was some way he could hurt Ernesto, could make him pay. He still couldn't understand how anyone could have done this to him, let alone his best friend. What could he have ever done to deserve it?
Stitching up his wounds seemed to take forever. Ernesto didn't speak, but hummed as he worked. Héctor recognised the tune: The World Es Mi Familia. He wanted to scream.
When it was done, Ernesto stood up. "I'm going out. Try and get some sleep— and don't even try to move while I'm gone, I don't want to have to do that a third time."
He paused, as if waiting for a response. When none came, he continued. "We'll need to give you a few days to recover, but then we'll have to move on. I think we've spent enough time here. I'll have to figure out some way of getting rid of those things before we go." he gestured to the corner where Héctor's severed wings lay, "I don't think our landlady would be happy to find them. And I don't know how we're going to manage on stage if you're going to keep falling over!"
"Still," he chuckled and reached down to ruffle Héctor's hair, the way he used to do all the time when they were children, before Héctor outgrew him by several inches, "I'll think of something. You get some sleep, I'll take care of everything else."
Héctor heard him walk across the room and open the door. Before he left, he spoke again.
"Don't worry amigo, I'll take care of you. It's like I've always said— we need each other."
