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He woke up to tiny gentle claws pawing at his cheek.
Bruno somewhat grumbled, tempted to roll over in an attempt to get away from the patting and resume his sleep. But he knew how that ran the risk of him falling off of his hammock or, Encanto forbid, rolling over one of his rats, so he settled for half-heartedly swatting in front of him instead, hand falling back to rest almost the moment he lifted it. There was a brief moment of solitude before the familiar feeling of whiskers and a nose touched his hand instead.
Allowing himself to smile, Bruno opened his eyes, looking at the rat with nothing short of adoration as it now climbed onto his hand. The little guys were so kind and curious, he couldn’t help but love them: especially when they’d been his complete and only company for ten years of self-inflicted isolation. Even so, they held the second most dear place in his heart, only losing to his very own familia.
Idly, Bruno lifted a finger which felt extraordinarily heavy to stroke the rat, smiling more when it perked up and followed his movement. Now that he was back with the Madrigals, he’d need to balance his rat-to-human time to ensure both of his favourite things remained happy and content. (Was “back” the right word? He had left, but not far. And he’d never emotionally left at all. To his family, he was back; to him, he was never gone.)
“Buenos días.” Bruno hummed, his voice clouded with sleep. The little rat startled, staring straight at him for a moment before collecting itself and squeaking, making him laugh quietly. They were much more intelligent than people thought, Bruno had discovered, as they seemed to pick up on his little habits and traditions quicker than most humans did.
(Or maybe the humans he knew just didn’t understand. Rats don’t have to consider normality or rhythm or politeness or anything that he used to be scolded on. They understood that if he got out of bed in the morning, it was a good day. It wasn’t like the times he’d open his eyes but not move from his hammock for hours until the day had passed and he’d go back to sleep. And it certainly wasn’t a good day when his head wouldn’t stop hurting from hunger and visions and tiredness and he wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and hide, hide, hide away, sink further and further into the walls until the forest swallowed him whole. No. Those weren’t good days.)
But he was with his family again now and they’d vowed to try and understand his peculiarities so maybe they’d be more intelligent than the rats. And possibly less hungry than them too, Bruno considered as the rat he was petting squeaked and scampered off to the makeshift food bowl. Many of the things from his hideout had been salvaged, like his hammock and creations for his rats, which he insisted on adding to his new room.
Speaking of, his room was much nicer now. The smooth tiles on the floor lacked the mounds of sand that he hated so much so he could finally walk around easier, restricting him much less now that he had more freedom. The hourglass entryway was also devoid of sand, no longer blocking him from the outside world, instead leading to his smaller but still suitably cave-like room with his furniture scattered around. Two doors were embedded into the stone walls, one leading to his vision cave with only a few steps up to it and the other revealing a quiet, relaxing side-room with shelves of storybooks and area for sentimental objects to be kept on display.
Really, he shouldn’t even be on the hammock. Casita had provided him with a wonderfully comfortable and cushioned bed, the bedsheets a wonderful sage green with his hourglass emblem printed along the edges and the pillows an endless pile that was blissful to dive into, but this hammock held so much familiarity to it. (He had taken one of the pillows from his bed to use on his hammock, so he didn’t feel terrible for not using the gifts given to him.)
With a sigh, Bruno pushed himself up, yawning widely before settling. He’d expected his first night back in his room to be sleepless but he actually felt incredibly well-rested by his standards, which was a great plus. Swinging his legs over the side of the hammock, he stood and stretched happily, heading to the wardrobe to grab his clothes. Isabela and Agustín had been kind enough to take him into town to buy some spare ruanas and new sets of shirts and trousers, which he hadn’t stopped thanking them for — and then, Mirabel had found a way to pass the time during Casita’s rebuilding by embroidering his hourglass symbol onto each ruana to match his original worn-down one, which he also hadn’t stopped thanking her for.
Put on the new clothes, fill the food bowl, mentally brace himself for the day looming ahead of him which will either be the best or worst of his life, and step outside.
The moment he left his room, Bruno heard the bustling chaos of his familia at breakfast, admittedly smiling to himself while he headed down the stairs and joined them at the table. Nobody took notice of him, his footsteps trained to be quick and silent while everyone was engaged in their conversations, but he didn’t care at all, just taking an arepa con queso from the plate in the middle and biting into it happily. When he was younger, he’d routinely fill his plate with enough food to make a starving man cry, much to the playful distaste of his sisters (“Mamá, Bruno’s stealing all of the arepas again!”). But as fun as it would be to go back to old habits, a decade of living off of scraps and leftovers hadn’t left much room in his appetite, so snacks it was.
(His appetite, might he add, was clearly passed on to Camilo, who’d often pile his plate high enough for Julieta to tut and joke about making a whole feast just for him.)
As he was thinking this, Julieta came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of unknown pastries before sitting down herself and Dios mío, the food looked gorgeous. Barely even finishing his mouthful, Bruno reached over for one of these new mystery pastries that he’d never seen before and barely hesitated as he bit into it — years of being a taste-tester for his sister had ensured him that everything she made was heavenly, and in that moment, Julieta was like the angel of food.
“¡Buenos días, Madrigals!” Abuela announced from the head of the table, and everyone fell silent, turning to look at her patiently. Pepa noticed Bruno as she turned, tapping him on the shoulder and giving him a warm smile, accentuated by the sunshine beaming overhead. Bruno returned the gesture. His heart swelled.
“Today will be our first day as a rebuilt familia, so we must make it a good one. Please, do what will make you happy, not what others need.” Abuela continued, recalling some of the things that Mirabel had told her were good to encourage, like personal happiness and not overworking yourself. Of course, her mindset and ideas hadn’t changed overnight, but her effort to try and become better was appreciated by everyone. She sat down, turning to talk to Julieta and immediately triggering the conversation to flare up again.
“¡Bruno!” Pepa grinned, reaching for a pastry and gesturing with it, “Have you got any plans today?”
“Uh, well…” No, not at all. If someone had asked him a month ago, he would’ve shyly mentioned the new episode of his telenovela that needed writing (the one where Diego discovers the love letter that Daniela wrote to Mário and begins to suspect the affair) and hurried off to wonder if that was the right thing to say or not, but now he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do at all, “Not really. Just… explore the town and, well, y’know, see how everything’s changed. Well I did see the town while, uh, while we rebuilt Casita, but it was, well, I was there for supplies so it wasn’t really- It wasn’t really exploration, even though I have, um, seen it, so…”
Pepa watched him the entire time he rambled, the same amused expression on her face that would always show itself when they were younger, with that sly smile and a raised eyebrow. He quickly shut up, much to the relief of his future self.
“Soooo…” She dragged out the word once she realised he’d stopped, “Are you still into acting?”
“Oh.” The response felt dry in his mouth, but what else was he supposed to say? He’d maintained a love of acting throughout his time in the walls, partially due to loneliness and wanting to distance himself from reality, but why would Pepa want to know that? “Well, yeah.”
“Ah, good. I was wondering…” She kind of glanced around the table before leaning in towards him, making him copy the movement subconsciously, “Could you invite Camilo to do something acting-wise, like a show? It’s all he’s been asking me about since he found out you liked theatre.”
“Why- Why me?” Bruno questioned, looking over at Camilo briefly to see him sticking his tongue out at Isabela next to him, who responded with a playful huff and a light hit, sending him into laughter, “There are professional actors in town.”
“You’re the only one in the family who knows about acting.” Pepa paused, a small smile lighting up in her eyes, “Besides, I think he wants to get to know you. The real you. The one who’s nowhere near seven foot tall.”
“I’m not short.”
“Okay nene.”
Bruno huffed, turning and waving a hand dismissively at Pepa, prompting her to bark out a laugh. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t hung out with Camilo much during the rebuild, the only times being when his sobrino was asking questions or needed building supplies. It couldn’t hurt to get to know the kid a bit better.
“Sure, I’ll ask him.” He smiled, lightly knocking at the underside of the table in some attempt to negate any bad luck which might come his way with that promise. Pepa grinned widely, a rainbow appearing over her head before she turned to Félix and began chatting away happily to him. Bruno smiled down at the floor, thinking about getting to know his family again.
Now, Bruno was not a confrontational man. Any kind of issue or duty could easily be solved by running away or getting someone else to fix it while he cowered in the corner until the altercation was over. This wasn’t something instilled in him by his mamá or the townsfolk (though they certainly didn’t help), but something he was born with, an intrinsically deep urge to avoid confrontation.
All this to say that Bruno was stood dumbly in front of Camilo’s door.
He didn’t need to do anything complicated. Just knock the door — didn’t he love knocking on wood? — and ask Camilo about creating a show. But even so, his feet remained stuck to the ground and his sobrino’s door engravings suddenly became very interesting indeed. It was only delaying the inevitable.
Slowly, hesitantly, Bruno lifted a fist to the door. If he wanted to reunite with his family fully then he needed to make the first move sometimes, a concept that deeply terrified him. But hey. Familia is familia and familia is sacred.
Knock, knock, knock.
Knock on wood, Bruno mentally finished, now reaching for the doorknob and pulling it open, sticking his head into Camilo’s room. It looked extravagant, a large stage stretching along the far wall of a theatre, rows of empty seats before him for the next show to be put on. His room was a sight that young Bruno would drool over.
“Coming!” Camilo shouted, falling silent for a moment before running out from backstage, noticing his visitor and waving him inside widely, prompting Bruno to close the door behind him and head up to the stage, “Hey tío!”
“Camilo, hi.” Now that he was here, the words he wanted to say fizzled and died on his tongue, “You, um, do you like acting?”
Of course he did. What kind of a question was that? The kind that you don’t ask to someone while in the middle of their theatre-themed bedroom, his mind supplied.
“Oh, yeah! I can do whole one-man shows.” Camilo grinned, spinning and turning into a middle-aged man who Bruno had seen a few times in town before turning back into himself, showing off his gift.
“I used to do one-man shows.” Bruno recalled, thinking back on his poorly executed shows about himself and his (imaginary) friends going on perilous adventures to collect valuable artefacts from around the world, “Anyway, I, um… was wondering if I could see one of your shows?”
At that, Camilo’s shoulders slumped and Bruno wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Mirabel had advised him to stop apologising so much if he wasn’t sure that he was to blame though, so he stayed silent.
“That’s my issue, tío Bruno.” Camilo huffed, sitting cross-legged on the stage and dropping his head as Bruno pushed himself up to sit next to him, legs dangling off the side, “I can’t write. I can act and perform and everything perfectly, but I can’t write shows for my life! But then my mamá mentioned that you used to write shows and Dolores told me that you performed your very own telenovela in the walls—“ Bruno hadn’t considered that Dolores had heard all of it. Maybe he should ask her for her opinions of the season so far, “—so I thought you’d be the perfect uncle to help me write a play?”
Ah, so that’s why Pepa wanted him to talk to Camilo.
“I mean, of course!”
And so it began. Every evening, for hours, Bruno and Camilo would sit in the theatre and write out their ideas to form a play. It gave Bruno an opportunity to share stories from his past, from his gift of acting to the adventures of Hernando to when he accidentally kicked his shoe through one of Casita’s windows in the middle of a performance, much to the entertainment of his sisters. In return, Camilo would talk about times he’s used his acting ability, like how he shapeshifts to get double portions at events or how he sometimes makes himself taller to see who points it out. Bruno started to treasure each writing session, actively looking forward to it each and every day.
“Hey!” Bruno was just getting a snack from the kitchen when a shout came from outside, startling him enough to nearly drop his food. Turning to look through the window, he was met with the faces of three grinning kids, stood by the village and clearly happy at his attention, “Why has Camilo been going home earlier?!”
Oh, of course. His and Camilo’s writing sessions always took place a few hours after dinner, when Camilo would usually be entertaining the younger kids in the Encanto with his grand performances and impressions granted by his gift. Since they’d started the play, he was coming home earlier and earlier, as eager as Bruno was to continue scripting.
“Uh, it’s a secret!” Bruno shouted back, his voice cracking from how little he raised it.
“What kind of secret?!” One of the kids shouted again, hands cupped around their mouth.
“A special one!” He replied and laughed at how the kids slumped in defeat, clearly wanting to get an answer to their most prized entertainer’s sudden disappearances. One of them patted the other two on the shoulder and gestured to the town, where they all bolted off to afterwards. Bruno smiled happily and took a bite of his pastry.
But, alas, his bad luck had to strike the very next day.
It should’ve been a normal day. Bruno would wake up, eat breakfast, do his general chores or exploration, then help Camilo with the play they’d been working on for about three weeks now.
But now that he found himself awake, getting out of bed seemed olympic. Each part of his body was so heavy and weighted, reluctant to move anywhere aside from a few inches at a time. His eyelids kept closing on their own and the amount of times he wanted to just drift off to sleep until tomorrow was astounding.
This was a bad day. There were no headaches or visions — thankfully — but the rats understood that he was in no state to do anything of much use, so rather they just climbed along the toys he’d made them and entertained themselves. Any concept of the outside seemed like too much today and having to face his whole family at the table would no doubt cause him migraines.
At least his hammock was comfortable now, with the added pillow and quilt. He presumed he’d be spending a lot of time there.
As was normal for a bad day, time passed without Bruno, the hours wilting themselves away without his input or contribution to anything. He idly wondered what everyone else was doing at that moment before settling on “something useful” and sighing.
Those kind of thoughts are negative, everyone had said. You don’t have a need to be useful all of the time and it’s okay to not be. But even with that sentiment stuck in his head, the knowledge of how the others were doing jobs and favours while he lounged about made him feel sick.
It must have been a while since he woke up because the artificial sunlight that shone through the occasional crack in his walls had dimmed, taking on that evening husk of an approaching sunset. With barely another thought to register it, Bruno heard the distinct sound of his door being opened and clicking shut, someone walking towards him. They won’t think I’m bad for my bad moods, he affirmed to himself, because they’re my family and they love me regardless.
“Bruno?” Camilo asked, something like worry laced in his tone. Bruno could only shift in response, looking up at Camilo and taking in the anxiety glossed behind his eyes, “You weren’t here today.” Once again, Bruno couldn’t find it in himself to respond.
With some kind of hum, Camilo sat down by the side of Bruno’s hammock, resting his back on the wall and holding a book in his hands, “I was thinking about the play, earlier. I think it’d be dramatic if Marie is wearing her wedding dress during the argument with Alejandro outside the bar, so that her storming off holds much more emotional meaning. Like she’s clinging onto that love she had with him, even when she discovers he has a thing for her twin sister.”
“Bueno.” Bruno’s voice was croaky and hoarse from not talking or drinking all day but Camilo nodded anyway as if he didn’t notice. (And he did notice, of course. Camilo’s whole power meant he had to learn people’s gestures and mannerisms to accurately mimic them: he’s observant.)
Their back-and-forth continued, with Camilo explaining the ideas he had for certain scenes and Bruno giving a broken yay or nay. It was only about half an hour, but even so, Bruno had to admit that he felt a bit better afterwards.
Finally, after months of writing, it was opening night.
Everyone from the Encanto had arrived to watch the play. The Madrigals got special access which allowed them to sit in the booths at the top of the theatre with a clear view of the stage while everyone else piled into their seats and chattered happily as they waited for it to start.
Bruno stopped peeking behind the curtain from the wings, turning to face Camilo brightly, who was twisting his hands in a knot and giving a wobbly smile.
“Are you ready, sobrino?” Bruno asked with a hush, setting a hand on Camilo’s shoulder as he nodded surely. If there was a little anxiety hidden in the shakiness of it, well, Bruno didn’t bring it up, “Of course you are. You’re a superstar, Milo.”
Camilo grinned, staring for a moment before throwing himself into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Bruno and holding his cheek against his tío’s shoulder. Bruno stumbled slightly, laughing and wrapping his arms around Camilo too.
“Thank you so much, tío Bruno.” He expressed, somewhat muffled from Bruno’s shoulder, “You’re my favourite fortune teller.”
“I’m the only fortune teller.” Bruno groaned, playfully swatting at Camilo when they broke apart and watching how he laughed.
“Exactly!” He grinned. In that moment, the curtains rose, a round of applauds from the audience striking a bolt of confidence into Camilo. With one last grin at Bruno, he turned and walked on stage.
From the wings, Bruno watched him shapeshift to act out the first scene. A special feeling of pride grew in his chest, making him feel warm and happy as he watched his sobrino bring these characters to life.
Bruno felt just fine stood on the sidelines. It was Camilo who earned that spotlight.