#dust sans

[userarwrztsaw4]

2025

[userarwrztsaw4]

[barksenji]

Bonezuela MTT/La Regla de Tres: A Murder Time Trio AU.

Chapter 10.

All previous chapters under the tag, and very neatly organized on AO3.

Bonezuela! MTT, or La Regla de Tres, is an Undertale AU set in my home country, Venezuela. In this alternate universe the sanses from the Murder Time Trio are not only humanized, but reimagined as part of a criminal gang operating in the barrios of Caracas. Names may change for realism, but I try to keep them recognizable (Héctor=Horror, Diego=Dust, Krishinller=Killer). You can read it here on AO3, which I would greatly appreciate.

Five thread-like fingers forced—with every ounce of strength they could muster—the lid tightly into place. The jagged edge of the cup writhed uneasily against the rubber seal; a steady stream of curses mounted in intensity as Héctor vowed the appliance must surely be alive, bent on exacting revenge against him. Half-gored pieces of fruit clung to the old, discolored plastic, and the deafening roar of the motor forced him back, only for the machine to come to an abrupt halt for what Héctor swore was the hundredth time. 

It was 7:25 in the morning; the night before, in the throes of a splitting headache, the alarm settings became an illegible grid. The crushing heat of Caracas had stood him up, shivering in the kitchen despite the rays of sunlight already streaming in. He could almost catch the scent of roasted coffee beans, along with the hum of passing cars, as he stared at the splatters of food and water inside the blender. A tight knot settled in his throat, and the lines of color before him blurred into a smudge that crept from his eyes, down his cheeks. Neatly cut pieces of mango and pineapple sank into the murky water, in chunks and pieces. At least half a mango, perhaps more. About a fifth of a pineapple, perhaps more. At least $2’s worth, he estimated. Wasted. 

You're not going to cry about this. You're not going to cry about this. He tilted his head back, hoping his eyes would swallow his tears back up. “Fuck.” 

“Are you okay?” 

First came his voice, then the gentle touch of his hand on Héctor’s shoulders. Héctor flinched back, facing Cross as if he’d been scalded by fire, his fingers immediately tracing the spot where he’d been “burned”. It hurt. Cross held both his hands up in a silent “I come in peace,” drenched in sweat, breathing heavily against what Héctor swore was an overwhelming chill. 

“I was working out in my room,” Cross rushed to explain, feeling suddenly judged, “I heard the sound of the blender and thought maybe you needed some help. I’ve tried making some of my… shakes. I noticed it didn’t work.”

“So you broke it with your bullshit.”

“No,” Cross said, “I think… I saw it plugged in the other day. With the power outages and all that crap, maybe someone left it connected and it got all messed up.”

There was a fight and a struggle as tears forced their way out of his eyes, something blunt crashing beneath his chest and surging upward. Every day, guns and drugs were smuggled up the uneven ground of the slum, climbing high into the alleyways that stretched out like a question mark: Will I get out of here alive? When that happened, he stood there and took it. He spoke to these men with the same venom they held in their tongues, and there wasn’t a shred of vulnerability, not even a hint of distress. Now, he’d woken up late. He still took his time with each piece of fruit, dicing it into perfect, repetitive squares—why did he do this?—. It was the same kind of delicate care he always gave to food, personal in a way that made it more human than even the men in the alleys. Now he cried.

Cross was a man: The Perfect Man. Caring and well-mannered. Soft-spoken, immaculate, and spotless. Not a man suited to the grim aquarium Narciso had put them in: the twisted, almost comical reality in which Héctor found himself immersed. A strong man, a healthy man. A man who, Héctor noted, came from a place where time was not in short supply; witnessed by his well-maintained physique, the compulsive yet pointless routines he stuck to. And as Héctor’s flooded face loomed before Cross—”Because of two dollars,” Héctor made sure to repeat to himself—he expected a judgmental stare. What would Cross understand about crying for food? Cross slowly slid toward him, as one might approach a wounded dog, and it was offensive to Héctor that he wasn’t being mocked.

That “perfect man” rested against the kitchen counter, just a whisker away from Héctor, creating a closeness that felt deliberate. Héctor’s fingers clenched into fists, and Cross struggled to stifle a laugh. He pointed at the blender.  

“Last time we went shopping, I bought some yogurt so I could make chicha with it. I’d, uh, heard from a buddy that it tastes good if you make it with Greek yogurt instead of milk,” Cross said. “I’ve never tried it, because, well… stuff. What I mean is: the yogurt’s fresh, and it would be a shame to let it spoil in the fridge. Let’s do this: I’ll grab a bowl, pour a little yogurt into it, and then add whatever’s left in the blender. I’ll mash up the fruit, and since there’s some water in there, maybe we can add a banana or some oatmeal to thicken it up? Do you tolerate yogurt well?”

“Yeah.” Héctor rubbed his tears away using the back of his hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine with yogurt.”

“Then have a bowl of yogurt with some fruit. See? That wasn't so bad,” Cross reached out, ruffling Héctor’s hair, as he’d recently gotten into the habit of doing, before Héctor slapped his hand away with a scowl.

Great, Héctor thought. 

His fingernails dug into the hem of his pajamas, a rhythmic sequence of little taps picking up pace as his gaze followed Cross. Cross bent down to reach for the yogurt carton, and squinting past him toward the fridge, Héctor began tallying their losses: Only maybe a fifth of a chunk of cheddar, was that a bite mark on it? The butter was surely running out too. Beans jealously guarded in margarine containers and slices of ham wrapped in plastic, they needed to go buy food… Again. Great. The yogurt poured into the bowl, sliding down smoothly and hitting the surface with a heavy “plop.” Great. When Cross reached for the utensil rack, tilting his head just slightly as he stirred the pieces of food into a mixture. Great, yes, great. Héctor felt increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin when he was pushed away like a child, every time he tried so much as to touch a spoon, or the bowl. Even more irritated as he watched Cross pull two ramekins from the countertop. 

“‘I’m gonna be real with you, Héctor,” Cross said, gently pouring the fruit-yogurt mix into one of the ramekins. “I’m doing this because you seemed down and all. But, you know that fructose turns directly into visceral fat and overloads your liver? Not that fat wouldn’t suit you. Ahem. But it can also cause dangerous blood sugar spikes and stuff. Maybe next time, you can eat some eggs and meat? Oatmeal causes…” 

“Chicha must be a real health miracle, then. Since you were plannin’ on making a glass.”

Cross let out a nervous laugh, carelessly dropping a silver spoon into the mixture. “That’s different. I’m—it’s only once in a while. You know?”

“Takin’ into consideration you’re bleeding like roadkill on the side of the street more often than not, and you’re not dead thanks to my very poorly rewarded medical expertise. I'd say,” Héctor cleared his throat, “you’d better trust my food choices instead of being a fucking dick. If not, then try stitching yourself up.” 

“You don't have a medical license, Héctor.”

“Aw. You do?”

“Damn… who’s giving chicha to who?” Diego’s voice cut in. 

“And y’all didn’t even invite me. So mean,” Krishinller added. 

Two vultures passed by, unheard. They had, simultaneously, decided to swoop down the stairs, to force Héctor towards a sight even worse than Cross himself. They perched on the newly acquired—”Newly Acquired” being the only thing “new” about it—plastic table. Sitting side by side, mirror images of each other: both elbows propped up on the table, flaunting their equally infuriating rows of teeth. 

Héctor glanced at Cross; if only, he thought, he could channel his own hostility through him, perhaps telepathically. He hoped Cross would say something before he had to. 

Cross laughed. 

Héctor noticed there were five ramekins on the countertop, all filled evenly and smoothed off with a spoon. He looked toward the ramekins, then at Cross, and slowly at Diego and Krishinller. Before Cross could offer to carry the plates for him, Héctor shoved him aside. He grabbed two of the cups and set out to feed the hogs himself.

“How helpful,” Krishinller said.

“This is the only thing you’re good for, isn’t it?” Héctor took a seat across from them, empty-handed. “Askin’ for money and food. The only two times you come running down here.”

“You’re such a meanie. Sometimes I stop by and say hi.” Diego fiddled with the spoon, stirring the yogurt absentmindedly. “You weren’t awake today. So I went back to sleep.” 

“You could've waited.”

“Would you have liked me to?” 

“Uh, well…”

Who had the right to eat? 

Cross set a half-filled bowl in front of Héctor, noticing how he flinched, glancing away at the wall; a host of emotions played themselves out on his face. Cross knew Héctor couldn’t finish it. He sat down next to him, his own plate in hand, and the question stirred up his peace. 

«It’s ridiculous» Cross thought, staring down at the colorful swirls peeking out from beneath the opaque white. Everyone did. Those Christmas dinners, back when his fingers ached from wiping banana leaves for hallacas. The seasonings, the beef and pork stew. Watching superhero movies as he rushed through breakfast, knowing he’d be at school in just ten minutes. Even late-night snacks after work. He could only think of food as an extension of life; there was no way to give up your right to it.

The sound of silver cutlery clinking against ceramic plates drowned out everything else in his mind. He looked up at the men around him: Diego sloppily gobbled spoonfuls of yogurt, hurrying to wipe the food trickling down his chin before taking another gulp. Krishinller guarded his plate from Diego’s prying hands like a cat fought for its prey. Héctor stifled a smile, that way happiness always seemed to hurt him. Did everyone have the right to breathe? It was a much more meaningful question—something determined and enforced in court—decided in dark rooms, in front of the barred door of a home as you load a weapon. Cross had always wanted to study law. In a courtroom, he would surely have sentenced all three men to death.

But even as he carried out this sentence in his head—not the first, nor the last time he’d thought about it—it seemed ironic: he was providing them with life in the form of a bowl of yogurt.

“Yeah, Diego. I would've liked it. Because today you’re comin’ with me,” Héctor said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. The spoon felt like a stranger in his hand as he took small sips from its edge. “The blender’s broken. You sit on your ass all day scratching your balls and never do anything for the people around you. It’d be a nice change of pace if you, you know, came with me to buy a new one.” 

Diego raised an eyebrow just slightly. “That’s nice of you. To ask me out on a date, I mean.”

“I’m not—”

“Can I come too?” Krishinller said, briefly allowing his eyes to wander away from his plate. “I have to go buy stuff. Uh. I want a stove, and a TV, and a washing machine, and a speaker, and a Switch, and a fridge, and… This piece of—!” 

A spoon flew wildly across the bowl, sending drops of yogurt spraying onto the already grubby table. With a snake-like dash, Krishinller lunged forward, drawing a little "eek!" from Diego, which he found comically similar to a mouse. Diego clamped his claws around the rim of Krishinller's ramekin, his soil-stained nails brushing against the contents just enough to make Krishinller grimace. Diego struggled, using his feet for leverage, his chair teetering on the brink of falling as Krish clutched the other side of the bowl.

Two mismatched eyes locked onto Krishinller, pupils dilating sharply with a gleam of mischief. It gave Krishinller an idea. The blur of ebony-colored nails flooded Diego's vision; he jerked his head back just before Krishinller could jab two fingers into his eyes. He rushed to grab Krish's wrist with both hands, his fingers slipping away from Krishinller's bowl.

Once Diego’s fingers drew off, Krishinller drove the point home by spitting into his own yogurt. 

“Greedy asshole! Jeez,” Krishinller brushed a yogurt stain off his shirt, “want it now, sucker?”

“Yesshhh.”

“You disgust me,” Krishinller said, though it came out softer than he intended—even sweet. He grinned, nudging Diego away. 

Héctor's eyebrows knitted together, a vein of disgust throbbing through his insides as he fixed his gaze on the spilled yogurt. There were five ramekins on the countertop, and only four people at the table. 

“Quit acting like toddlers,” Cross said, his tone a little awkward, as if he’d just walked into the room, “Didn’t your, uh, mom ever teach you proper table manners?”

“Well, Momma’s—” 

"Krishinller, you're not coming with me," Héctor interrupted, "and neither is Cross. Aliza's sleepin' on the second floor. If the police show up looking for that little thief, I'm dead sure Cross is just gonna ditch us and leave us to the wolves. Besides, I wanna have a word with him."

Héctor gestured vaguely toward Diego. 

Diego looked left, then right, “Me?”

“No, Diego. The ghost who looks just like you and lives around the corner, that’s who I’m talking about.”

“Oh,” Diego said, “so Paulo.”

“Oh my god.”

“But, but, Héctoooor,” Krishinller stretched out the last vowel, until it sounded more like a screeching fork on chalkboard, than a human voice, “If you leave, then I’ll be forced to find Cross’s tongue. And he’s gonna pretend I'm painted on the wall, so I’ll get bored shitless, which means I’ll be forced to teach Aliza to do motopiruetas. And… Uh. She's going to end up fucked in the head. All while I'm smoking weed.” 

“I think he’d like that—they’d match then,” Cross chimed in, smiling at Héctor’s scowl. “What? You basically called me a sellout.”

“You are a sellout,” Diego said. 

“And here I was thinking about giving you a little bit of my yogurt. Oh, well,” Cross couldn’t help but smile as Diego’s barely perceptible arrogance gave way to silent panic. “Guess I’ll save it for Krish.”

“Wait,” Diego said, catching his breath, “No.” 

“Your yogurt? Heh. I knew you were a little weird, but I never expected you to be a little fag,” Krishinller smiled, hesitating before shoving in a spoonful of yogurt. “af me oum on a date fifm,” he said, his mouth full. 

Cross rolled his eyes. 

“Cross. I'm sorry,” Diego said. “I didn't mean it. Please, I'm hungry.”

“Diego. I served you the biggest portion of them all. You can’t be serious.” 

“Liar,” the remark—which might have been meant to be dramatic—came out instead in Diego’s usual monotone. “I checked them. They were all the same.” 

Cross’s spoon finally slid down into the yogurt; he shoved a whole mouthful in, and without even tasting it, gulped it down. He pointed a finger upward, nodding to signal that he would answer post-swallow.

“Mm…” After what seemed like an eternity of suspense, he gave a one-word pronouncement: “Equity.”

“No.” Diego’s response was tinged with heartbreak.

“Yes,” Cross replied.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Diego said.

Four meals, for four men. Héctor’s gaze darted across the room, feeling something warm brush against his skin, the fiery heat of a flame, as if kissing the most tender of his flesh. It still burned where Cross had touched him. He wondered if he was going insane. That single, crimson iris settled on the solitary bowl waiting on the countertop, the light catching on its rim just as stage lights fell upon an actor. Like the flickering flame of a candle, suddenly dipping and stretching…

He found himself admiring the comparison.

His eyes flickered toward Diego. He grimaced. Best get back to the bowl.

In his mind, a sequence played out. A performance. He pictured himself standing up, walking up the stairs to his room with the bowl in hand, crossing out numbers in his mind. Dosages. How many pills were left? Yogurt? Maybe the fruit would upset her stomach. He envisioned every action with perfect clarity, even the dry strokes of the felt-tip marker as it dragged across his wall: 12 years old. 22 kg. Metronidazole, 220 mg every 8 hours. 

And yet he couldn’t bring himself to act. Tied to his chair by a growing sense of unease, a dangerous feeling; he was left helpless, save for the sidelong glance he cast at Cross.

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” Cross let out a half-hearted huff. “Get checked out. You might have tapeworms.”

“What.”

“They make you hungry.” Cross said. 

Héctor was so absorbed in Cross; he neglected Krishinller's piercing gaze. Eyes squinting through the dark haze of his poor vision, he noticed that Héctor's scowl felt a few degrees off. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed tightly together. Scared? No. Worried.

Cross cleared his throat, clasping his hands in front of him in what seemed to be a half-hearted attempt to look professional. “Given that you haven’t taken a shower in— Uh. I don’t know. Since you were born, I think it’s not far-fetched to suggest that maybe you should send a stool sample to a lab. Or somethin’.” 

“Cross,” Krishinller called out, raising his eyebrows in amusement, “Someone’s…”

“Well. I do have parasites” Diego said, crossing his arms, “I don't know what they have to do with my appetite.” 

“Intestinal worms like tapeworms consume the food you eat, depriving your body of its fuel,” Cross adjusted a pair of nonexistent glasses on his face. “Not that you would know that.” 

“You’re very talkative today. I liked you better when you kept your mouth shut.”  

“Weren’t you the one who came to my room and told me my muscles would die, get into my kidneys, and kill me?” 

“Cross.” Krishinller’s voice rang out again, demanding Cross’s attention as Diego let out a low, defeated hum. “Someone’s watching you.” 

Cross arched an eyebrow, looking around the room with a sudden unease. Krishinller clicked his tongue, motioning with his head toward Héctor. 

"Aliza's on the second floor." 

 Héctor’s tongue scraped against his teeth like sandpaper, a string of missing words tangling tightly around his throat as he managed only that one sentence. He looked at Cross. Cross returned his gaze. And an unspoken agreement was reached between them before Héctor stood up with a jolt, once again, burned. He was still in his pajamas, thin layers of fabric that perfectly highlighted his bony frame. Usually, he’d rather die than greet the sun wearing nothing but a pair of cotton pants and an oversized shirt, but the flight of stairs leading to his room felt like a dead end. How much time had passed? Two weeks? A month and a half? He guessed that having half a brain meant it took half the time to get attached, yet he thought these things were behind him.

He seized Diego by the collar of his sweater, ignoring his faint protests as he wrestled him out of his chair. Diego went slack, yielding to Héctor’s lead as he dragged him from the kitchen to the living room door. Héctor tugged once. Twice. The mounting tension of the scene was overshadowed by the sight of Héctor pulling, in near silence—only interrupted by the occasional grunt—a man who weighed twice as much as he did. Just as one might force a cat to walk on a harness, Héctor thought. Before they’d even managed brushing their teeth, they were already on their way out.

Their goodbyes were punctuated by the loud slam of the door, followed by the quiet chirping of birds. Krishinller looked at Cross, arching an eyebrow with a hint of a smirk. Cross held his gaze for a split second before turning his attention back to his bowl of yogurt. 

“So…” Krishinller said, clearing his throat, “Are you going to give me the yogurt bowl?”

No response. 

“Are you going to ignore me for the rest of the day?”

Silence.

“I fucking knew it.”

────────────

The tail end of a tune drifted past his ear, the rhythm of the timbals weaving its way through the steady bustle of the crowd, like damask woven with congas.

 It looped through the fabric, through his ears. He scanned the scene, hoping to catch the eye of a musician, someone to argue with: “Just let the song play.” Who is Diego to speak? Isn’t he the one looping movies on repeat? He found nothing but Héctor’s dark brown locks tied in a neat ponytail. The man who’s always three steps ahead of him. They climbed down the throne of the slums, steep, rocky stairs with jagged edges, pieces falling to the ground. The boys from the slum, the ones who used to climb with boxes of alcohol on their shoulders, were nowhere to be found. The houses lining the alley stood deserted; even the streetlights seemed lonely. Diego didn’t notice when Héctor’s hand slid down to interlock with his fingers, pulling him out onto the streets like a child. The melody was still playing on a loop; Diego paused and looked back. If there was no crowd, what bustle was he hearing?

En amarte una vez más…

en amarte una vez más…

en amarte una…

“Do you…” Diego paused, swallowing hard, “where are we going?”

“Man, you’ve got to get those ears checked because that shitload of wax is turning you deaf,” Héctor said. “The blender’s broken. We’re buying a new one.” 

“Okay.” Diego stumbled as Héctor picked up his pace, “But where?”

“We’ll see.”

“My cousin works at an electronics store in Chacao; I haven't seen him. I wonder if he's still working there,” Diego replied, his voice trailing off. “We could go there.” 

“You're crazy if you think I'm going to catch a bus during rush hour.” Héctor said, “Plus, you Chinese are such a bunch of crooks. I don't want anything to do with that.”

Crowned by unplastered red bricks nestled between zinc roofing and cables, the alley gave way to Petare’s zigzagging streets: a wave of houses flooded the horizon, stacked one atop the other in miraculous defiance of physics. The distant melody, the bustle of the crowd he swore he’d heard, was now swallowed up by the heartbeat of the slum. The laughter, the chatter, people adorning the city’s alleys like holiday garlands. Diego’s grip tightened on Héctor’s hand. 

“Héctor, uh, please?” Diego said, and even for him, it was unusual to beg, “I just want to check.”

“We're going to the local market.”

“I'll pay for everything out of pocket if you come with me,” Diego offered, “I'll also buy you something, anything you want.”

Héctor clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes away to one of the faded walls. “I wasn't planning on bringing you here just to use you as my cash cow. Well, fine, then. What are you planning to do, cowboy? walk?” 

Diego shrugged. “Yeah. I do that a lot.” 

Héctor's strides slowed, followed by Diego, who crashed into him as the sudden change in pace caught him off guard. Héctor turned, slowly. 

“I don't believe you,” Héctor said.

“I don't see why you wouldn't.”

“That's like” Héctor paused, brushing the dust off himself, “two hours of walking.”

“I've walked for far more than two hours; it's not my fault you can't walk for more than 30 minutes.” 

“Cunt,” Héctor said.

A growing pang, a certain kind of hunger, struck Diego; along with the simmering pot smoke—which he swore the air was drinking in—it all acutely reminded him of the hourglass that only he was aware of. When was his last dose? He recalled waiting for Héctor to wake up, finding a little spot on his thigh... It was 5 a.m. Three hours. He had only three hours, and nothing more. 

His hands immediately reached into his pockets in a silent prayer, before Héctor rushed over to interlock their fingers again.

“They’ll think we’re faggots,” Diego said, a cheeky smile playing on his face as he fiddled with the zipper pull on his jacket, “if they see us holding hands like this.” 

“If I don't hold your hand just like this, I’ll lose sight of your wimpy ass, and by the time I realize it, two people will be dead and you’ll have stolen someone’s dog,” Héctor’s gaze flickered briefly toward Diego’s impatient fingers, “if we catch the bus, I don’t know which god you’ll pray to, but you’ll have to find me a seat.” 

“I'll take the bus,” Diego said. “Maybe I'll pick up a cigarette along the way.” 

Everything from then on was a haze. 

The minutes melted away like ice against the heated friction of Diego’s thoughts: If he wasn’t misremembering, as he often did, he’d put some pills in one of his pockets. They’d take longer to kick in, but if he had just enough, then maybe the high would last longer. If he could get his hands on a cigarette, maybe that would take his mind off the craving. God, he needed some Valium too, or Xanax. How much money had he spent on cigarettes lately? Not that he was short on cash. Did Krishinller steal some of them? Fuck, Diego thought, what if somehow he’d lost the pills he swore he had in his pockets? He shoved a hand in: One, three, two... Four pills. Only four?  

Diego paid no attention to his surroundings, including the racing cars that threatened to sweep him down the streets if not for Héctor’s guiding hand. Lobotomized by his frantic itch, he would regain consciousness only at the sight of the occasional small, enclosed metal booths bearing corporate logos: just as his remaining brain cells kicked into gear, sending a jolt of energy through his feet to propel him toward the kiosks, Héctor would pull him forward and away. This cycle repeated itself for what Diego thought was five minutes. Héctor knew it was half an hour. The teeming river of people and asphalt offered no solace; instead, they were struck by an overwhelming wave of heat as they stood in the sun. At the bus stop. 

Diego tried to tug his hand away from Héctor's, yet Héctor didn't loosen his grip. Diego shifted his position. He leaned slightly against Héctor’s shoulder, then stood up straight. He looked left, then right. He scratched the back of his calf with his foot and shoved a hand into his pocket. He looked left, then right… again. He took the whole handful of pills and, in the blink of an eye, shoved them down his throat. 

“Uh…” Héctor said, “Are you okay?”

It immediately sent him into a coughing fit.

Diego hid behind one of his sweater sleeves, then pulled his arm away to reveal his face, now beet red and teary-eyed. He cleared his throat, and a strained little “Yes” escaped him. 

He gently placed his hand around his neck, feebly trying to hide a pained grimace before speaking again. 

“You could’ve told me to take a shower. Or change. This heat is killing me. I would’ve changed into something fresher,” Diego said, his voice groggy. “I might have to take off the jackets. It’s usually not this hot when I go out.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot you shower every day, every hour of the day,” Héctor replied, making no effort to hide the sting of sarcasm in his words, “Hell, I don’t think you even wash once a year.”

“What?” Diego sounded as offended as his voice would allow, quickly turning his gaze to Héctor’s, “I shower at least once every, uh, month. Months.”

“Oh my god.”

“My armpits don’t smell though, so I don’t see why I’d have to,” Diego lifted an arm, turned his head, and took a quick sniff, “Nothing. Clean as a baby. Like, I mean, a baby after a shower. I don’t think babies are that clean. I think.” 

“Have you ever smelled your ass, Diego?” Hector said.

“No,” Diego replied. “Do you want to?” 

“I’d rather kill myself.” 

The ghost of his own breath haunted him, and Héctor cringed as he realized that he, too, hadn’t cleaned up. He didn’t bother noticing when Diego stripped off his threadbare clothes, tying the two sweaters he wore—always one on top of the other—around his waist. He also didn’t bother noticing that Diego’s silence was quickly and increasingly being replaced by words. “This and that about my cousin. Quantum physics. Death and meaning. Blah, blah, blah…” Instead, he ran through excuses in his mind, any justification for having dragged Diego out of that room.

«I want to talk to you» he had said. 

About what? 

Maybe the fact that Diego always hoarded a stack of dishes, neatly arranged in his room, or the way he stole food from the fridge in his bouts of frenzy. He planned his speech as he got on the bus, still holding Diego’s hand, lest he somehow slip away from him. Unfortunately, they found matching, empty seats; “unfortunately” because they had to sit next to each other; “unfortunately” because Héctor now had the perfect opportunity to speak. He couldn’t. He struggled to admit how much he wanted to escape home with a friend.

It became even harder to speak as his tirade was interrupted by the local merchants. Héctor opened his mouth, finally determined to defend his ego in a mock confrontation, and then the familiar symphony would swallow them whole:

"Good morning, everyone. First of all, may God bless you all. Look, I know that for many of you it’s annoying when people get in their vans to sell their products, but I’m an honest man and I’m not here to take anything away from anyone. Unfortunately, I have hip cancer and a young daughter all alone at home; this is my only way to fight and put bla, bla, bla, since I have bla, bla, bla, that I can’t afford. But I’m keeping my spirits up, you know how it is. Today I’m offering you the completely original Cocosette and Susy. I’ve got a special deal: two or three units for just one dollar, folks, or the equivalent in bolivars. You can check the expiration date yourself, because this, or this, or that. I’m going to go from seat to seat, placing the product in your hands. Take a look at it with no obligation whatsoever, and if you can’t help me out, just give it back to me with the same smile I gave you when I handed it to you. May God watch bla… bla… bla…”

Diego would be the first to search for a nonexistent wallet in his pants. Héctor figured it wasn’t out of any kind of empathy; rather, when faced with food, he lost all sense of restraint. 

When he didn’t find one, he’d look at Héctor with that look in his eyes that was just a hair’s breadth away from being completely indifferent, yet sad enough to maybe elicit some lukewarm kind of empathy. He wouldn’t fall for it. As silence finally settled in and Héctor perhaps found an opening to speak, the preacher would step in and talk about salvation and how the world has been drowned in an ocean of darkness. We need help, or something like that. You're all going to hell, especially you with the hole in your head. 

He didn’t say that, but he implied it, Héctor thought. 

Then the street rapper would chime in, repeating the same story: “From humble beginnings, I just want to showcase my talent, my career…” So Héctor would have to listen to the same tirade for the next five—maybe a hundred—minutes, as the rapper fixated especially on the very prominent scar that he, in his rush, had forgotten to cover. Then he’d look at Diego’s bomb, the one conveniently strapped to his chest, which to him had already become one with Diego’s skin itself: “You with the fake bomb, you’d like to take turns with your own mom…” Yeah, whatever, Héctor thought, again.

“Didn’t you want to have a word with me?” Diego cut through the almost comical interruptions, his voice so low it felt intrusive. 

“Yeah,” Héctor said, taking a deep breath.

“What is it? What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” Héctor shrugged, tearing his gaze away from Diego’s. “I wanted to have a word with you. Now we’re having a bunch of words.”

“So you don’t want to tell me anything.”

“That’s not what I said. I’m telling you things right now.”

“So this really is a date,” Diego said. “You just wanted to go out with me to chat.” 

“Dont be a faggot.” Héctor nudged Diego’s shoulder a little too hard. 

“Jezz. I’m just joking.” Diego rubbed the side of his arm, where Héctor had hit him, “You could’ve told me you wanted to go out.”

“Yeah. Uh-huh.”

A thick, blue cord throbbed at the side of his neck. Each beat brought with it a dose of patience, pulsing in time with his heartbeat; abbreviated with each palpitation, as Diego’s eyes dropped and that familiar bag of sand once again settled over his chest. Its warmth felt comforting. A single, nearly invisible silver dot was hidden among the unspoken scars that dotted his neck. One silver spot. Pinkish, whitish, but to Héctor, it was silver. Héctor’s throat bobbed as he swallowed once, and amid the noise, that sound was louder. Loud enough for Diego to notice. 

With that unerring gaze of his, he traced the direction of Héctor's eyes, bringing his hand, slowly, to that spot. 

“Thank you,” Diego said. 

“What?” 

Diego gave him a knowing smile, his eyes narrowed and heavy with a kind of insulting understanding. 

“I started with the pills,” Diego went on, his voice just a little faster, even impatient, “I don't like needles.”

“I know,” Héctor replied.

“But you get used to it. Like going to a theme park. Disney. It’s fun the first time around. The first year you go, or so. If you go every day, it becomes routine.” Diego leaned back against his seat, turning away from Héctor and toward the window next to him. “You try going to Universal once. It’s life-changing. Maybe not Universal, but… What’s something life-changing to you?” 

“I don’t think your sad little self would mind going to a place a hundred times,” Héctor said, “considering how often you rewatch movies. And TV shows, too… And basically anything you like.” 

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“I've had no life-changing experiences. Sorry to disappoint.”

Diego hummed, his gaze still fixed on the passing road, “Most movies are bad. I don't like them. The plots are cheap, it's always the same two underfed actors, nothing more. Even the acclaimed ones. It's like a sleeping pill. The kind you take.”

“Hah.”

“But among them, there’s one that will change you. Your ideas, your philosophy. I’m sure I can find one for you, Krish, and Cross. That’s what it’s like. You hit it once, Héctor, and you feel like you’re in your mother’s arms again. And you go out, looking for that movie again. And again. And again. But no movie’s like that one.”

Héctor's eyes clutched onto that silver dot again, his breath sinking beneath a wave of suffocated words. Inevitably, a hand reached out toward Diego's neck, pressing his thumb into the indented scar. Diego didn't react, except for the subtle catch in his breath as his eyes remained trained on the view. 

“Messing around in the same spot with a sharp needle scars and tears the delicate tissue inside your vein; some say the vein ‘collapses.’ Eh. It just gets hard and difficult to access,” Héctor said. “I saw alottadat back when I was rottin’ with the addicts. When I was eleven, or twelve. There was a dude living under some bridge who got a nasty infection because he tried to stick some bullshit into his jugular. Much like the ulcer you got from sticking some bullshit into your heel.”

Diego scoffed.

“If you can’t find any other movies to get your rocks off to,” Héctor pressed his thumb harder against the skin, watching it dip under the pressure, “then maybe you should look for happiness outside of… ‘Movies.’”

The pulse beneath Héctor's touch faltered, jumping one beat at a time until Diego's usual, lazy heartbeat seemed almost normal. Yet Diego's face remained smooth with that blank expression, aloof even as an eyebrow twitched—the acute symptom of an emotion, quickly replaced by nothing. He still did not meet Héctor's gaze. 

“I didn’t know you dragged me here like a dog to a wedding, just to lecture me,” Diego said. “If it bothers you that I asked for help, just say so.”

A pause.

“It doesn’t,” Héctor shrugged, a cynical, toothy smile spreading across his face. “Just sayin’.”

────────────

Cross blinked once. Twice. 

A pink lump lay breathing on the floor, a strip of fabric trailing from Héctor’s bare mattress. Pink, Cross thought. A gentle color for a rabid man. Where did those bedsheets come from? Did Héctor buy them just for her? It would have looked like nothing more than an old pile of laundry if it weren’t for the way it swelled. Up, down. Up, down. Cross stood in the doorway, holding a bowl with both hands. Nursing a smile onto his face, he stepped inside. 

“Alicia,” was it? Alice. Aliza. He’d picked the name out of a barrage of half-hearted insults; it flowed effortlessly off Héctor’s tongue. 

Cross used to bring animals home: dogs. Cats. The one time a rat had looked at him kindly, he’d sneaked it into his pocket. His father told him not to name anything he found. The cat, Antonio, was put up for adoption. The dog, Copitas, was given to a cousin of his. The rat, Irvik, was kicked out of the house with a broom while his mother screamed. Naming them meant getting attached. It meant he cried every time he lost another pet. He’d wondered at what point Héctor had asked Aliza for her name.

He knelt in front of the breathing lump, noticing how with every breath the rhythm—up, down, up, down—quickened. He scoffed as he set the bowl of yogurt on the floor. 

“Good mornin’,” Cross said, “I doubt sleeping on the floor is much fun.”

“Hm.”

“Héctor asked me—” Cross paused, clearing his throat, “Héctor wanted me to bring you something to eat. It’s, uh, yogurt. It’s sweet.”

Aliza shifted, moving the bedsheets aside so that all he was able to spot were two flecks of gold floating in a deep, mossy green. She looked at Cross as if sizing him up, committing every line of his expression to memory, trying to figure out if he was cut from the same cloth as the other criminals she’d come to live with. After what felt like an eternity, she emerged from the blankets. 

Five thread-like fingers reached out as she cupped the bowl; branches cut from the same tree as Héctor’s. She said, “Thank you.”

“Why are you lying here?” Cross settled on the floor, sitting cross-legged as he leaned forward. “Doesn’t Héctor let you sleep on his bed?” 

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“My head’s been hurting a little. I feel sick. The floor is cold, it kind of takes your mind off the pain,” Aliza said, stirring the spoon in the yogurt, her eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve been feeling like this ever since I started taking the pills. It’s only a few days until I finish treatment… or so he says.”

A river of assumptions flooded Cross’s mind, all swallowed in a single gulp. “The pills?” 

“I've been… uh. It's just embarrassing. I've had an upset stomach for a while. He finally noticed and…” Her wrist shook, a sour taste rising in the back of her throat as she gathered the courage to take a spoonful. 

She motioned toward the wall. Cross followed with his gaze.

It stood imposing before him, a concrete canvas marred by obsessive lines of handwriting. Undoubtedly Héctor’s; the only empty spots still waiting to be used were those that reached upward beyond his height. At each corner where one wall embraced the other, the writing was so dense that Cross would have struggled to identify what Aliza was pointing to had it not been for the way it was framed: a small patch of wall where a prescription took up more space than the rest of Héctor’s nonsense dates and reminders.

“He said that if, for some reason, he wasn't here, I should look at the wall. He told me I was old enough to know how to… Uh, figure out my schedule.” She swallowed a spoonful of yogurt, and judging by the way her expression brightened, Cross figured she hadn’t expected it to taste good. “He did some tests and stuff. I don’t know about that. I don’t think he’s even a real doctor.”

“Well, he's a doctor,” Cross said.

“A real one?”

“What do you mean by a real doctor, Aliza?”

“Well, I don't know… Someone mannered, at least.”

“Hm.” 

A teddy bear. 

Aliza’s words faded into a veil of static as Cross’s eyes locked onto it; lying alone, tucked between two pillows. It was well-loved—or rather, hated—its fur frayed at the edges, missing an eye and a chunk of its ear. A neat little bow tied around its neck stood in stark contrast to its wretched state. It surely shouldn’t have caused such disbelief, but Cross had convinced himself that Héctor couldn’t be surrounded by anything even remotely sweet without going off in flames. Yet this teddy bear looked far from new, and while Aliza could easily have brought it home, something about it seemed oddly familiar.

“It kind of looks like him, doesn't it?” she said, barely holding back a smile. “He had it tucked away somewhere in his closet. I found it, and he hasn't said a word about it.”

The missing eye. The chunk of ear. The frayed, dark brown fur that maybe, vaguely, was wavy. 

Cross laughed. 

“It does look like him.”

It was endearing. 

For a second, it was. 

The kind of vulnerability that left itself open to ridicule. Take a picture. Rush back downstairs where Krishinller was sharpening knives, sorting the silverware by pattern and shape as he whistled songs. He would burst out laughing, forcing Cross into printing it out so they could frame it on the living room wall; just above the TV. That stuffed animal would end up rotting in some back alley, Cross said to himself. It looked glum, in Cross's eyes—did it belong to Héctor's mother? His sister? Maybe even Héctor himself. You could see bits of plush hanging from the unraveled seams, the way the fur drooped as the stuffing clumped together and weeped out. Cross squinted, seeing pink stitching through some of the seams, setting off brightly against the plushie’s dark fur. Just like the pink, immaculate bow; that was new, was it silk? It shouldn’t have come with the plushie itself, it felt like something he’d bought last minute at some store. Would it end up rotting in the back of an alley? The tag was still on, bearing the faded logo of a toy store, with “P” written over in red marker.

The thought made his stomach churn, that Héctor was human first and Héctor second. 

He was capable of showing kindness to a little girl, of hiding his true feelings behind insults as he took her in. Was it easier to accept that he was selfish in the way an animal might be, or that he was a person in the same way that Cross was?

It made the next words flutter in his gut.

“Aliza,” Cross said, “I’m going to— I’m going to tell you something. But you’ll have to be completely honest with me. Héctor won’t find out.” 

Aliza raised an eyebrow, “Uh-huh.”

A beat. 

“Do you want to leave this place?”

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Originally, this was going to be a much longer chapter. However, I decided to split Chapter 10, so Chapter 11 will most likely be a continuation of this. Sorry it took so long, ugh.

[stikybug]

literally lowest effort i can do with this but wouldn't it be interesting if after a while dusttale papyrus remembered the resets also ? while dust is losing his mind during the loops papyrus really wants his brother to get better but kinda also has to watch him helplessly spiral lol

like this perhaps ↓

[cjcake458]

....gays

[gxlzero]

comfort from.

[skellyloverr]

Idk which one yall would wanna see soooo

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