Yeah, don't ask me why I did this. I just... do lots of things. Because I can.
Sooo... this is going to be a series of loosely connected one-shots. Mostly because one-shots mean less commitment than multi-chapter stories, and because I wanted to do something with a smaller word count. (Not that a small word count is ever going to happen with me, but here's to hoping!)
Not Like The Rest
You don't keep secrets from your family.
It's one of those basic principles Miguel grew up with. And he normally wouldn't have had trouble with that. He was an honest boy. He talked a lot, even when no one was listening, and his family relied on him to look after the sadly unresponsive mamá Coco pretty much from the get-go. It never bothered him, especially with the added bonus of being exempted from chores. He loved his mamá Coco with all his heart, and he talked and talked and talked to her for hours on end.
However, there were two things he learned to shut up about at the tender age of four: music, his great-great-grandfather, and especially his musician great-great-grandfather.
Well, maybe that counted as three things.
It was an open secret that Miguel loved music. He did an awful job at hiding the fact. Someone always caught him humming or singing absentmindedly, or sneaking off to browse one of the local Ernesto de la Cruz fan shops. Sometimes, he came home with a certain spring in his step, and everybody knew he'd been out dancing. Especially Rosa would get all nasty on those days, which Miguel didn't pay much heed to until he caught her studying instructions on making dancing shoes. He was eight. She was nine. They agreed right then and there that they'd never tell on each other, though it kept neither from being smug when the other was subjected to a tirade.
Who, as it happened, was usually Miguel. Rosa's secret dancing shoe sessions blew up once, and were never heard of again. Miguel didn't understand how it was possible for his prima to hide her dancing so well. Had he been in her place, he would have danced and skipped and hopped from anywhere to everywhere, and never stopped.
Rosa just... didn't.
Most of the time, the family pretended that Miguel's passion for music didn't exist. As if it would go away if they ignored it for long enough. But Miguel grew up, and his love for music grew with him.
Back when Miguel was still a second-grader, he thought his family was crazy. In fourth grade however, he started wondering if it was him. He certainly didn't feel like the crazy one, but there was no denying that he was different. He couldn't pretend the way Rosa did. It wasn't in his nature to be shy about his emotions. It wasn't in his nature to keep secrets.
And it certainly wasn't in his nature to hate music.
He tried to change. He tried to unlove music, he really did. But he couldn't. His head was full of melodies, and he exploded when he didn't let them out. He'd never been the most patient boy to begin with, and the music droughts only left him even more irritable, even more prone to snapping at the people around him.
In a way, his family was right. Music was trouble. But only because they made it so! Yes, Miguel had heard it – the story of the walk-away musician of his great-great-grandfather. Heck, one of the songs rocking his mind was a half-finished ballad about the whole thing! It drove him crazy at times that he couldn't fill the blanks where his great-great-grandfather was supposed to be. He never seemed to find something satisfactory to make up.
He tried asking questions, sometimes. But the only one to actually remember the-musician-who-can't-be-named was his mamá Coco. And even she only remembered that she had a father. She couldn't share his stories the way they shared the story of mamá Imelda and her shoes.
It was a hassle – there were no two ways about it. Between his overactive mind and the constant "No music!", Miguel couldn't seem to catch a break. Maybe it was a curse after all, even though he wasn't sure what he did to deserve it.
Okay, he didn't always eat his vegetables. But that wasn't worth ruining his life, right?
