on the fifth of january, hector goes to meet @enzocarrasco for the first time after spending four years in prison.
If you were to ask him, all those years ago, Hector Carrasco wouldn’t have been able to give a concrete answer in response to why he’d taken Enzo in. He’d been in his late thirties, Enzo not even twenty, and their interactions in spite of their father’s awkward attempts had been... difficult at best. Strained, some might even say. But Hector had arrived on Enzo’s step without a single thought to it, darkening his half-sibling’s doorway with the intention to do something good.
And, of course, in the way of all the other times Hector’s attempted to do something good, it fell through. Gutted, from the belly up. He’s turned that particular train of thinking over and over in the palm of his hand, desperate to figure out why the world could be so unkind to people like him and so generous to others who would see it burn if they had the chance. All that work, all that time, the blood, the sweat, the tears, for nothing.
Until Death. Until Uriel. Until May, with her wry grin and the knowledge that he might be a good fit. He feels like he’s in some kind of waking dream, where the things he touches and hold take half a second to fit inside his palm. He doesn’t know what to think, except to laugh at the quiet irony of it all: here he is again, darkening Enzo’s doorway, mouth dry. He has to work himself up to it to actually knock — had to work himself up to even showing up — but no one else is here, so Hector doesn’t beat himself up over it. Tries to take his time. A trembling hand raises, lowers, steadies itself, and then raises again. Three knocks to the door.
And then he’s left to wait, and pray that Enzo actually answers.
