#rivera drabbles

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

It'd been hard, in the early years - teaching herself to make shoes, salvaging the leather of failed attempts, staying up late to finish "just one more pair," fingers aching, head swimming with fatigue. She wondered, sometimes, about giving up and working as a seamstress or something.

Whenever she wavered, she would tiptoe to Coco's bedroom and gaze upon her daughter, curled up in slumber. It gave her strength. This was who everything was for, every saved coin, skipped meal, painstaking pair of shoes. Everything she did was - and is - for Coco. Imelda put her family above all else.

Unlike him.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Miguel was safe. Luisa knew that. He'd come back by dawn. He hadn't been hurt. He was fine now. He had come back.

Yet that night stayed with her; looking and looking for her son, and no one finding him, as though he had vanished off the face of the earth.

She was not a Rivera by blood, but she'd shuddered at the thought that history was repeating itself. She dreamed about it, sometimes; of Miguel leaving and never returning.

When this would happen, she would take little Socorro and sit by Miguel's bed, watching him sleep. Sometimes she cried.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Victoria had never missed music, not like her mother did.

Why would she? She'd lived her entire life without it. She had lived her afterlife without it. She was content. You can't miss something you never had.

She knew her mother did; Mamá had danced, sometimes, when Victoria was a little girl. Occasionally Victoria or Elena would catch her absentmindedly humming.

"I miss music," Mamá would explain. "I used to sing and dance with my papá. I loved it."

But he still left you, Victoria would think, but never say.

At least she hadn't ever loved music to miss it.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Socorro's earliest memories were the strumming of a guitar, the always-familiar smell of shoe polish, voices raised in song, and the beat of her brother's heartbeat as he held her close.

Trying her best to sing along with her brother as he carefully repeated the words so she could copy them.

Her father swinging her around in the air, faster and faster, until she was breathless from laughter.

Trying to make the sewing machine in the workshop work all by herself.

And, on a night with candles and marigolds, a friendly skeleton smiling at her with nothing but pure love.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"Just like mis tíos," Abuelita had said fondly when they were born, and she was right.

Manny and Benny were twins, just like Abuelita's great-uncles. They didn't look very much like them, at least according to the old photographs they had.

But they shared the other Rivera set of twins' passion for inventions, for creating new things, for discovering how different things worked, as Óscar and Felipe had.

"Just like mis tíos," Abuelita always said whenever one of their experiments went wrong, whenever they stayed up all night tinkering with some project or another. And Manny and Benny always grinned.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The discarded shoes in the back of the workshop - old, misshapen, or too worn out for even Abuelita to save - are fun to play with. Some of the old ones have wheels or yarn attached. Benny spends hours playing with them.

For once, he does't tell Manny what he's up to for their birthday. They decide to each make the other a surprise.

Manny likes the surprise. Mamá doesn't.

Building a replica of the statue in the plaza with all of the shoes in the middle of the kitchen is fun, even if he has to clean it up afterwards.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Manny always loved listening to Abuelita's stories about their dead familia. This never changed as he grew older, although he liked his primo's stories of how they visited as well.

They couldn't come unless there was a path of marigold petals. Well, they could, but they might not know the way. ("They will," Miguel assured, "but the petals are still very important!")

Manny and his twin always loved to scatter the petals, ever since they could remember. From vague memories of dumping out bucketfuls, to meticulously placing each petal, they welcomed and guided the dead each year with marigolds.

[dragoneyes613]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Miguel can't remember the first time he heard music, the first time he became fascinated with it. He just always was.

It's like the enticing, forbidden melody - any melody - hypnotizes him and compels him to follow it. And he would do so, anywhere, anytime. As a toddler, he used to slip away from his mother at the market in favor of a mariachi three streets away, a radio in someone's window, anything.

He loves it. He knows his family doesn't - shuns it, even hates it - but he can't help himself.

Music's part of him, beautiful, wonderful...and always, always, forbidden.