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Joaquin feels with his foot at the base of the stairwell; ever since losing the Medal of Everlasting Life (and in very short succession one of his eyes) the adjustment to the lack of depth perception has been hard, but he’s learning to manage. He doesn’t calculate nearly well enough, though; the soldier puts his foot down finally while not fully certain of its endpoint and consequently trips, emitting a sharp yelp. Though he manages to keep himself from toppling over by grabbing tight to the banister, Manolo still darts into his field of vision, clearly concerned.
“Are you okay?” The guitarist asks, selfless as always.
“Uh- yeah, I’m fine,” Joaquin says as he rights himself. Luckily he was only at the very bottom of the stairs. “Just took a little tumble there. Heh.”
As he straightens out, he notices the apron wrapped around Manolo’s broad frame, and the realization hits him- “Were you making dinner?”
“Yes.”
An apologetic look spreads over the soldier’s features as he places a hand on his chest- “Oh, Manolo, I’m sorry I pulled you away from-” Manolo cuts him off with a wave of the hand. “I just ran out to see that you weren’t hurt. I had only just started. Would you mind helping me out?”
Joaquin snorts. “I’ll give you a fair warning, I’m not very good.”
“Then I’ll make sure to give you a task that’s very easy,” Manolo replies, smiling wryly.
As the two of them make it to the kitchen, Joaquin spots an onion resting atop a cutting board, an unbroken globe wrapped in a fine yellowish skin. “Can I take that?” he asks, gesturing toward it. Manolo places a hand on his clavicles, freezing his face into an expression of mock apprehension: “And let the hero of San Angel lose his only remaining eye to something as horrible as an onion?” When Joaquin stands there vacantly for longer than he’d like, Manolo clarifies, “That was a joke, of course you can. Breathe through your mouth instead of your nose and your eyes won’t water as badly. I usually sing when I’m cutting onions, it seems to help.”
“But you’re always singing,” Joaquin points out, and the playful tone in his voice is not lost on Manolo.
“True.”
Joaquin sets right to work, slicing off the ends of the onion before methodically peeling off the many crinkly, ivory-colored layers of its outer skin and setting them aside for the garbage- if, that is, he can avoid Chuy getting to them first. It’s not terribly hard from there to slice it into two hemispheres and then from there to cut into many smaller pieces- though what with how often he needs to turn his head to gauge whether he has the knife positioned properly, he figures it takes him a bit longer than the average, fully-sighted person. Nevertheless, being the good sport he is, Manolo doesn’t show even the slightest hint of indignation or impatience, only calmly singing to himself as he goes through his own tasks: I will walk down to the end with you/ If you will come all the way down with me…
He gently taps Manolo on the shoulder, carefully brandishing the cutting board laden with strips of onion, and Manolo’s face lights up at the sight: “Bravo!” He gestures at the skillet resting on the nearby cooktop. “Go ahead and slip those into the pan, would you?”
Joaquin does as he’s told, carefully scraping the onions into the frying pan with the flat of his knife, then leans idly against the counter, seeing as Manolo seems to have most of the other aspects of meal prep handled. “So, I’ve survived an encounter with la cebolla mala, eh?”
Manolo looks up from what he’s doing absentmindedly, before understanding and the memory of his previous joke simultaneously wash over him. “Oh yes,” he smirks, “and not a scratch on you. With no medal, even.”
“Actually I did cut my finger once. Not terribly deeply.”
“You did?” The humor in Manolo’s eyes instantly flashes out, replaced with worry, and he swiftly runs over and grabs Joaquin’s hands to inspect them himself. The cut is, as Joaquin said, incredibly small- it isn’t even bleeding. “Well, we’ll find some antiseptic and treat it with that,” Manolo says, and a bit of levity returns to his voice as he remarks, Joaquin’s hands still in his, “Wow. Perhaps you’ll get a scar. Everyone will be all over you then, hm?”
Joaquin only chuckles, a faint heat rising in his cheeks. He was never as good at the banter aspect of their friendship as either Manolo or Maria are- he supposes part of that owes to their backgrounds, Maria having become exceptionally well-read during her time in the convent, Manolo, a talented lyricist- but he suspects the larger portion of that is a natural aspect of their personalities that he simply doesn’t share. In that, at least, he’s never felt himself to be quite on the same wavelength with either of them, and a twinge of sadness arises in him at the thought of being the odd one out of the trio of lifelong friends. He briefly forgets where he is, forgets that he’s standing there with a sad look on his face while holding Manolo’s hands.
Which is why when, seconds later, Manolo leans in to plant a gentle, silent kiss on his cheek, Joaquin jolts like he’s just been electrocuted, startling them both. “Gah!” Manolo exclaims. “Joaquin, what was that for? We’re home, it’s fine, I promise...”
“Lo siento, lo siento. I just… still haven’t gotten used to this yet. The whole ‘both at the same time’ thing. It’s… overwhelming.” Especially coming from you, he thinks, but manages not to say. “ I never imagined this would be an outcome. A very happy outcome, for sure, but one I never imagined.”
Manolo mms noncommittally, gaze shifting to study Joaquin’s hands again. They’re quite alike, but Joaquin’s palms are rougher, more calloused; Manolo only has callouses on the pads of his fingers, the logical end result of playing a guitar almost every day for the better part of his life. “That’s fair,” Manolo agrees, “but I have to ask- why even here, in our home? You know there are no prying eyes here.”
A turbulent feeling arises in Joaquin’s chest at that question. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I guess- I guess I’m still hung up on the idea of being the hero of San Angel. Not wanting to do anything to damage my image. But I said I was done with that, and I know it hurts you and Maria, and I’m sorry, so why-”
“Joaquin.” The sound of his own name cuts through the soldier’s building thought spiral like a knife. “I’m not offended. Really. Believe me, I understand how hard it can be to not live up to the idea of what someone wanted you to be. Maria too. It takes so long to unlearn that sort of thing.”
“You don’t think it’s self-centered, or something?”
“Of course not. It’s only as self-centered as the survival instinct is, only… a bit misplaced.” The guitarist squeezes Joaquin’s palms, a soft and earnest look on his face. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. We both will. I promise.” He finally releases Joaquin’s hands, going to check on the progress of the onions in the pan, and Joaquin aches a little unexpectedly for the feeling of that warm touch. Then, Manolo turns abruptly to face him again. “Do you remember when I tried to kiss you a few years ago?”
“What?” Joaquin wracks his brain trying to conjure that particular image up; he has a feeling he’d remember something as important as that, but all his brain gives him are moments- many more moments than he’d like- where he’d felt the urge to kiss Manolo yet resisted the desire.
“You seriously don’t remember?” Manolo asks, but there’s no trace of a hurt feeling anywhere in his voice, only amusement. Feeling foolish, Joaquin ultimately has to shake his head.
“It was when you were watching me practice in the corrida, remember? Asesino knocked me over and tore a hole in my uniform. I blacked out; you carried me home and examined me for broken ribs.”
The synapse fires. Joaquin does remember that, or at least that part of it anyway. “Yes, I remember that, but- but I don’t- I don’t ever remember you trying to kiss me.”
“I guess we’ll just have to go back over it again, won’t we?” Manolo says coyly, a small, sly smile spreading across his face.
* * *
It had been a day like any other, save for a few key things- Manolo’s father had gone off to assist General Posada with the rebuilding of a barrier wall the bandits had attacked, believing it to be his duty seeing as- save for Joaquin- Posada’s men were all in such poor shape. This had the result of leaving Manolo to practice his bullfighting alone- or at least, he would have been, and likely would have “slacked off” as his father put it practicing his guitar instead of what really mattered. So he had appointed Joaquin to watch over him while he was gone and ensure he continued his training, despite Joaquin itching to be back with his fellow soldiers giving all the aid he could, despite Manolo wishing to be anywhere on a beautiful late summer day but the center of a corrida, empty except for him, Joaquin, and the beast currently locked in its pen.
The dark mood hanging above them did not dissipate as Manolo grimly unlocked the pen and freed Asesino, inciting the bull to rage at him, then dodging swiftly as it skidded past him. Without Carlos’ presence, he had no need to worry about finishing the bull, but nevertheless his heart was still not in it. It never was.
Perhaps it was the lack of his father, perhaps it was that dull, beaten-down feeling, but whatever the reason, Manolo’s footwork was just a little sloppier than usual that day. Joaquin remembers vividly how Manolo’s eyes flicked up to him for just a moment in the stands- a sullen, defeated look on his face- and then the awful, sudden moment of the bull slamming into Manolo full-force as it turned. His dear friend had collapsed instantly, driving Joaquin to panic.
Without missing a beat, Joaquin practically leapt out of the stands, throwing his full body weight into the side of the beast that had attacked his friend. The bull howled and snarled, making his ears ring, and Joaquin had no experience fighting them off the way Manolo had, but even he was still hesitant to reach for one of Manolo’s swords- that was his business alone. Besides, the invulnerability (if not the strength) the Medal granted him was more than enough to shove Asesino back into its pen and latch it shut, preventing it from injuring Manolo any further. Breathless, he turned to the fallen body of his friend, who lay unconscious in the dirt, and gathered him up in a bridal carry, palm supporting the back of his neck. He didn’t know how bad the damage was and he didn’t want to risk exacerbating it any further; the fact that Manolo was so heavy and limp in his arms frightened him enough as is. He shifted Manolo slightly and was disturbed to find the bull had torn a hole clean through his jacket; the fabric was bunched and frayed where his hand brushed against it. He didn’t see any blood, thankfully, but that didn’t mean Manolo couldn’t have broken a rib. He needed to get him home to check him for injuries- fast.
Joaquin kept up a jogging pace, the fastest he felt he could go without potentially hurting Manolo even more than the bull did. Was he overcompensating? Maybe. The fact of the matter was that he knew Manolo would never visit the doctor in town, with good reason, so it fell to him and his (admittedly limited) medical training to treat him. “Whoa, is he okay?” he heard someone yell as he passed by. Grimacing, Joaquin turned to see that the source of the voice was none other than Pancho Rodriguez, one of the trio of mariachi brothers who served as backup for Manolo frequently. They were on good terms, Joaquin knew, but he couldn’t be sure just how good; when they were together he and Manolo often got so caught up in talking with each other that they were rarely mentioned. He needed an out, but unfortunately his capacity for improv had never been that large. If Manolo had been awake, he surely would’ve come up with something much craftier than “Yup. He’s fine. Just got all tuckered out from practicing with the bull today. I’m taking him home now.”
“You sure, dude?” Pepe piped up. “His color’s all off…”
“ YEP HE’S FINE, I’M TAKING HIM HOME, BYE!” Never let it be said that Joaquin Mondragón couldn’t effectively bolt away from a situation when he needed to. The Medal granted him invulnerability, but the stamina was all his own, taken from years of grueling training- he didn’t have to worry about being hurt, so he could go on for far longer than the average person.
He made it to the Sanchez home quickly enough- no one was home but Anita, dozing in the corner, and he didn’t want to wake her- and spread Manolo out on his bed, wringing his hands nervously. He was eager to examine him, but it felt deeply wrong to undress Manolo if he wasn’t awake or able to understand what was happening. Luckily, the guitarist stirred slightly, solving the problem for him.
Manolo lifted his head, bleary-eyed and squinting as the image before him resolved itself into a person. “Joaquin?” he asked, voice fuzzy and higher pitched, as it always was when he was upset, hurt, or sleepy. “Ay, my head… my side!” At this, Joaquin immediately moved to sit on the bed with him. “What happened? Am I hungover?”
“No, I think you might be concussed,” Joaquin admitted. “Asesino got you while you had your guard down. You blacked out. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Damn, I would’ve preferred being hungover,” Manolo said, woozy but still in possession of enough of his faculties to make a joke. Joaquin took that as a good sign. “Yeah, I would’ve preferred you be hungover too. Can I…” He felt embarrassed, suddenly, and trailed off without knowing why. Manolo stared at him. “Can you what?”
“Well, I wanna make sure you’re okay, physically. I mean- moreso than your head. He hit you really hard in the side and I wanna make sure your ribs aren’t broken, but… but to do that I’m gonna need you to take your clothes off.”
“That’s all?” Manolo blinked. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Joaquin. We’ve known each other since we were kids, I don’t care.” Already his hands went to the clasps of his jacket, but the hiss he drew pulling them in alarmed the soldier greatly. Joaquin briefly thought of insisting he wasn’t embarrassed, but seeing Manolo struggle to undo the buttons made all thought of himself fly out the window. Each time he moved closer to help, though, Manolo would insist that he had it, until finally he was stripped to the last layer- the little undergarment encircling his chest- and looked quite exhausted. What would normally have been a simple matter of pulling over his head had become acutely painful. Manolo winced as he tried to tug on the edge of the fabric, but it hurt too much to continue. He sighed. “Okay. I do want your help with this one.”
Joaquin flushed slightly to be helping him with this specific article of clothing, but said nothing, following Manolo’s instructions as he felt for the edges of the soft, durable cloth. “I’m gonna need you to raise your arms, okay? I promise I will make this go fast.” Manolo nodded grimly, doing just that, then cried out in pain as Joaquin quickly tugged it off of his torso. He sucked in a harsh breath and threw his arms around his trunk, face contorting into a grimace. Distressed, the soldier leaned forward to him, only to retreat just as quickly when Manolo insisted he needed a moment to recover.
After several agonizing moments of watching the guitarist try to steady his shallow breaths, Joaquin asked, “Are you ready for me to take a look at you now?” Manolo only nodded, slowly letting his arms slip from their position clutching his chest. Kneeling on the floor, Joaquin tried to avoid touching him there as much as possible; though Manolo had never really described how he felt about that aspect of his body (to him anyway), he knew his friend to be sensitive about that area and didn’t want to make an already painful and uncomfortable experience worse. Joaquin winced instinctively when he saw the deeply purpling bruise just below Manolo’s armpit; though it had been ages since he’d felt any pain as substantial as what his friend must be feeling right now, it didn’t make him feel any less sympathy for the man. With careful fingers, he gently prodded and pressed on the area, stopping whenever he heard Manolo gasp or groan. “Don’t tickle me,” Manolo joked, though he was clearly in too much pain to feel it if Joaquin had tried. It didn’t fail to get a chuckle out of him, though. “I won’t, I promise. Can you take a deep breath for me?” he asked, and when Manolo complied, he followed up with “Did it hurt to breathe?”
“No,” the guitarist answered honestly. His breaths had steadied to a normal rhythm and depth again after finally getting his binder off.
“That’s good,” Joaquin said, returning his focus to the matter at hand. He didn’t feel any sort of depressions or changes in the firmness of the bone, which was heartening; but then, Manolo was still being struck by sharp pains whenever he tried to lift his arm above his head. He felt horrible when, after Manolo asked, “Well? Is it broken or isn’t it?” he could only reply with “I’m not sure.” He rejoined Manolo on the bed, and was surprised when his friend slumped against him, crestfallen; gently, he reached out for one of Manolo’s hands and held it in his, carefully rubbing it. “I can’t tell if it’s broken or just bruised. Either way it’s clearly hurt you enough that you’ll be out of commission for a while.”
“And out of the corrida for a while,” Manolo smiled sourly, and Joaquin felt even worse that the only reprieve from his rough training that Carlos approved of was his son getting injured so badly he couldn’t do it. You deserve better, he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. He wound an arm gently against the expanse of Manolo’s shoulders- what luck that he had inherited his father’s height and broad frame- and felt his friend relax into the touch, closing his eyes and resting his head on the soldier’s shoulder.
After several moments of this, feeling the warm skin under his hand, Joaquin remembered that his friend was very much so shirtless beside him and that this was probably not an appropriate thing for them to do as adults. He tried to extricate his arm from the embrace as non-awkwardly as possible, but seeing as how Manolo turned to him with an unreadable expression, he must have failed. Then, that expression changed to a simpler confusion as Manolo felt at the back of his head- “Where’s my hair tie?”
Joaquin thought back to earlier- he had noticed a tiny red thing fluttering in the dirt where Manolo had been laying, but he had been so preoccupied with getting his friend to safety that he hadn’t registered that it could be the ribbon Manolo used to keep his beloved ponytail in check. “Back at the corrida, damn it,” Joaquin said, standing up suddenly, “I’ll go get it, I’ll be right back-” Manolo grabbed his hand. “Joaquin, it’s just a ribbon, I have a million of them. It’s not that important.” Then, with that same unreadable look in his eyes again, “Will you just sit here with me?”
How could he say no to that? The soldier found himself sinking back on the bed next to his friend again as they fell into an easy rhythm of talk and silence, Manolo studying him all the while. And in one of the little gaps of silence, the setting sun came through the window as they wound down from laughing at some horrible joke, debating whether if Maria were here she’d agree with them or feel ashamed to know them. And Joaquin did not miss how it lit up everything in gold; he did not miss the dark sweep of Manolo’s unbound hair across his neck, frizzy and sweaty from training, gilded in highlights; he did not miss the handsome cut of the guitarist’s jawline, so very like his father’s; he did not miss how the evening light brought out the warm, rich tones of his brown skin that told him inexorably that his friend was alive; he especially did not miss the subtle smile on Manolo’s face, and those dark brown eyes cutting through him like a searchlight through oblivion. He wondered in some idle recess of his brain just what they might find, and was startled out of his reverie by the gentle touch of a hand on his cheek- Manolo’s good hand, the one he could lift without hurting himself, gently rubbing across his mustache, perhaps even brushing a thumb across the soldier’s lips, though he was sure he had only dreamed up that part. “This came in nicely, hm?” Manolo remarked. “I can’t honestly say I’m not jealous.”
Somehow, Joaquin had just enough of his brain together to reply, “Uh. Hoping to one-up your dad in the mustache game?”
Manolo gave him an odd look that told Joaquin instantly that that wasn’t the reply he was expecting, but he still conceded, “Yes.” He then withdrew the hand from his friend’s face, and Joaquin felt a strange sort of buzzing in his chest, a frantic, flurried feeling he’d never felt around anyone save for maybe Maria. He felt the same sort of tingling sensation whenever they got letters- or better yet pictures- of their friend home from Spain, and he was sure Manolo felt the same about her, though they’d never talked openly about it. And therein lay the distress- Maria was a woman, he expected to feel whatever this emotion was toward her, but Manolo was not, and had gone to great pains both to establish that fact and conceal that secret. Joaquin frequently found it easy to forget his friend was different in any way until it came up directly. So what did this say about him? That deep down in spite of it all, he still thought of his best friend as something he was not and never would be? The idea distressed him greatly, but he had no idea what he could possibly say to Manolo about it. The guitarist still sat there, quietly regarding him; the expression on his face remained unreadable, but this time it seemed tinged with a quiet sadness. He must know, Joaquin thought. He must know what I’m thinking. I’ll have ruined everything between us.
He wasn’t sure what he expected Manolo to say, but when he finally spoke, he would have thought it would've been something harsher than “It’s getting late, isn’t it? My father will be home soon. I bet the general will be wondering where you are.”
“Is it?” Joaquin said, glancing at the window to confirm that yes, it was indeed getting late. The sun was sinking low on the horizon like a prowling cat flattening its belly to the earth. The soldier’s hands wandered to his chest- initially an action he had performed to establish that the Medal still hung there, but now a nervous reflex he repeated whenever he was uncertain of things. Rising to his feet, he said, “You know, I’m sure I’ve got medication for the pain somewhere in the barracks… the gods know those guys are always getting hurt…”
Manolo waved him off, tugging at the blanket beneath him and struggling to drape it over himself with only one arm. “I’ll be fine. You run along.”
The soldier frowned and reached over to tuck his friend in, insisting sternly, “No. You need it much more than I ever w- than I do.”
The guitarist laughed. “Whatever you say, soldado,” he replied, the mirth in his voice shining through the grunt of pain as he settled himself. “You might want to bring it by me tomorrow morning though. Please. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
That, he could agree with. “Tomorrow then,” Joaquin nodded, with a firm shake of his jaw to punctuate the point. “See you then, guitarrista,” and Manolo smiled again, likely because Joaquin had called him by the occupation he had actually chosen instead of the one he was forced into.
“Wait, Joaquin,” Manolo called, and the soldier paused as he prepared to exit his friend’s bedroom. “Thank you for patching me up.” Shyly, he wound his index finger through one of his many dark curls. “If you get enough time off… please come visit me? I don’t want to be cooped up all alone in here while I’m healing…”
“Of course, Manny,” and his friend grinned at the pet name as Joaquin crossed the threshold.
“Buenas noches, Joaquin.”
“Buenas noches, Manolo.”
* * *
Joaquin stands there gaping stupidly like a fish, so caught up in the recontextualization of the fond memory is he. “I… you…” he fumbles verbally for a moment. Manolo quirks an eyebrow, propped on the counter behind him with his hands. “Yes?”
“So you… you wanted to kiss me then, but you didn’t. Why?”
Manolo gives a faint shrug of his shoulders. “You looked so very nervous. I didn’t want to make you upset. And besides, I’d never do anything to you if you weren’t enthusiastic about it- not intentionally, anyway. I hope you know that.”
“Of course I do,” Joaquin sighs, though his face is very flushed. Manolo is studying him again and Joaquin would swear up and down, bargain his life right now in a deal with the Gods of Death that it’s the exact same look Manolo was giving him that day, has been giving him for years, and he’s never known what to make of it. There’s no point in delaying asking any longer- “Why do you look at me like that?”
Manolo blinks, and the expression fades. “Like what?”
“Like… like, I don’t know, you just stare at me with this little smile and I don’t even know what you’re seeing in me.”
“Ay, Joaquin,” Manolo sighs, scooting closer to him. “Haven’t you realized that I look at Maria just the same way when I feel things for her?”
“No,” Joaquin says bluntly. “We would not be having this conversation if I had.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” Manolo says, and gently takes the soldier’s hand in his again.
“I just don’t get why I of all people am included in those feelings.”
Manolo stares at him again and replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Because you’re our friend and we love you. Why would we split up just based on who married who? We’ve been together since we were children; I can only hope we’re together until we die as well.”
“But not like how you died,” Joaquin abruptly cuts in.
“No.”
A lull in the conversation, then; the memory of that painful time is still fresh enough that they don’t care to dwell on it further. They stand there in silence for a few minutes as Manolo quietly examines their hands again, wrapped up in the moment. Joaquin purses his lip, unsure of how to phrase this, before going right ahead. “I think… The more I think of it, I did want to kiss you that day.”
Manolo meets his gaze. “And what stopped you?”
“I thought… I thought if I must be feeling that towards you of all people, then I must not be seeing you as you are.” When Manolo looks only more confused, he clarifies, “I thought it made sense for me to feel that towards Maria because she’s a woman, but you aren’t, and I thought if I was feeling that towards you then I must not really think of you as being-”
“Joaquin.” Manolo cuts him off. “Firstly, I wish you had told me about that years ago. Secondly, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Every time I get a cramp, you forget the reason why I’m cramping. You’ve never seen me as anything but myself. You are remarkably good at doing that.”
Joaquin averts his gaze again, unwilling to look Manolo in the eye. “I should have kissed you then too,” he mumbles.
“You have plenty of time to make up for that by kissing me now,” Manolo says playfully, and when this fails to produce the desired reaction, Joaquin continuing to stand there still as a stone, he phrases it as an order: “Joaquin. Kiss me now.”
They both move together at the same time, colliding with each other so clumsily that Manolo barely has time to suppress a snort of laughter from his nose. But the levity is swiftly forgotten as he presses his lips to the other man’s again, encircling his neck with his arms, feeling him relax into the kiss. Joaquin takes the opportunity to finally, finally run his fingers through Manolo’s hair, pleased to find that it is as soft to the touch as he always imagined it would be, and his heart flutters when he can feel the guitarist smile against his lips.
Then all of a sudden the onions, long forgotten in the moment between them, burst into flames. They both startle, searching frantically for a lid to smother the flames, before Maria, nearly crashing into them on her way to check on them, finally clamps the lid down on the blaze herself. They all slump against the counter in relief, trying to catch their breaths.
Maria turns to them. “What happened? I was coming down here with Chuy, I smelled smoke, and I ran down the stairs so fast I ended up tripping.”
“So it’s not just me who has trouble with the stairs?” Joaquin blurts, before realizing that he probably just missed the point entirely.
Sheepishly, Manolo explains, “Ah, we… we just got caught up in a good memory,” but Maria isn’t fooled. “You were making out.”
“We- I-”
“Your hair was tied when you went down here. It’s not now. I can tell,” she says, though there’s no ire in her voice. Manolo feels reflexively for the back of his head and sure enough, the ribbon is absent.
She lifts the lid to examine the carnage. “What were these, anyway?”
“Onions. Browning onions.”
“More like blackened onions. Here, Chuy, Chuy, Chuy…” she calls, though it doesn’t take much encouragement to get the pig to eat the burnt remains. Standing up to her full height again, she says, “Next time, can you please work this out when you’re not supposed to be monitoring something flammable?”
“I think that can be arranged,” Manolo giggles. “We really are lucky to have you, Maria.”
“Of course you are,” she smiles, standing on tiptoe to give them both quick pecks on the cheek. “Who else would carry the two of you out if our house burned down?”
Manolo gasps, faux-horrific. “Are you challenging Joaquin for his title of town hero?”
“The hero of my hero is…” she starts, and in a rare moment of blankness, continues, “Me. I don’t know where I was going with that.” They all laugh warmly at that, happy to have each other, happy to simply be alive and sharing this moment. “I guess you two could use more help with dinner than I thought,” she remarks, drawing them both in for a brief hug before releasing them. They protest, but she insists. “No, three sets of hands would make this go a lot faster anyway. Come on.”
Manolo lightly punches Joaquin’s upper arm. “Are you ready to challenge la cebolla mala again, querido?”
“No retreat!” Joaquin enthusiastically exclaims, pulling him close.
“No surrender!”
They only have a red onion to use instead of a yellow one, but it turns out fine anyway.