"Tío?"
Her uncle's heart skipped a beat, and the mug in his hand went flying. They both watched in wide-eyed horror as it arced upward, across the room, only to land with a smash on the floor near the wall.
He recovered first. "Sorry, Dolores. Stay right there. I don't want you to cut yourself."
Feet bare against the wooden floor, the girl stayed where she was, eyes still far too wide. Then again, her uncle's heart was still pounding in his chest, and he was breathing hard, as if he had been running.
She knew he startled easy. She wasn't sure why, but by now most of the Madrigal children knew not to sneak up on their Tío.
Dolores watched as he got the broom, wincing slightly at the sound of shattered pieces scraping against the floor and each other.
"Sorry, mija," he said again, quietly.
One of the things Dolores liked best about her uncle was that his voice almost never hurt her ears. He was always so careful when he talked, so soft. Unless she was having one of those days when everything hurt her ears, but she had noticed, the last time it had happened, that he had only said about three words to her before simply falling silent. He hadn't uttered a word for the rest of the day, though at one point he had found her curled up in a closet and picked her up, carrying her up the stairs and into his own room at an awkward arm's length that made more than just his arms shake as he tried to accommodate her weight.
"Why are you up?" she asked as he finished sweeping, dumped the broken pieces, and set aside the broom. His head turned sharply at her question, and though his eyes were wary as he studied her, they were also kind.
"I should be asking you that," he pointed out, chuckling just a bit.
"I heard you," she replied, and her uncle stopped laughing.
"Lo siento." He looked around, uncomfortable. "Since we're both up, can I get you anything? Hot chocolate?" He grinned at her in much the same way Isabella did when the two girls were about to get into trouble.
Dolores nodded solemnly. "I can help," she offered, and saw the smile flicker, just a little bit.
"It's okay, Doli," he assured her. "I can at least manage to heat milk." There was no anger in the statement, but the girl thought her Tío sounded tired.
Well, more tired. Tío Bruno always sounded tired.
"You burned yourself trying to make tea yesterday." She pointed out reasonably, because she was, in fact, only eight, and didn't realize it might make him feel bad.
He sighed, then gave in. "Okay,"
She followed him as he gathered ingredients, watched as he started the milk for the hot chocolate, mentally measured along with him as he added the chocolate, and continued to watch as he stirred the pot slowly, methodically, and without actually seeming to notice what he was doing.
Just as she thought she might have to say something, her tío shifted and looked down at her. "It's ready."
He burst into a sudden flurry of activity, grabbing cups from one of the higher shelves, pouring out hot chocolate and setting it at the table, and catching Dolores by surprise when he whisked her up and set her quickly into a seat.
They waited for their hot chocolate to cool; Dolores was better at waiting than her uncle, somehow. He took a sip too soon and winced.
"It's still steaming, Tío Bruno," she pointed out. He huffed, grinning sheepishly at her. She smiled back at him, but only until she remembered why she was down here in the first place. "Why are you up?"
He offered her one of those smiles: sad, reluctant, and just a little guilty. "Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, niña."
"You have trouble sleeping a lot." She corrected. Her tío flinched.
"Yeah," he ran a hand awkwardly through his hair. "I do." He looked at her then, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes not quite focused.
Dolores waited. Sometimes it took her uncle a while to figure out what say. He was not particularly good with words, she knew, but could tell he thought this was important. He wanted to get it right. So she waited.
"You know how sometimes you get headaches from your gift?" he asked at last. Dolores nodded. She wanted to ask if he got headaches too, but made herself be still. "And some days your headaches are worse than others, and sometimes they last just a little bit, and sometimes they last longer?"
The girl nodded again.
Tío Bruno nodded back at her. Or perhaps to himself. Sometimes it was hard to tell. He took a quick, nervous breath.
"Sometimes I can't sleep. Sometimes it's just a night here and there, sometimes it's more often." He looked at her again, making a decision. "It can be hard, sometimes. Our gifts? Sometimes..."
"They aren't always fun." Dolores knew that, had known it since the day she had gotten hers and had to be carried, hands desperately clawing at her ears, from her own gift day celebration.
"Yeah."
They were quiet while they drank their hot chocolate. Both thinking. Her uncle was worrying about something. She could tell by the way he was struggling to keep still.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he said at last, and Dolores turned to look at her uncle, her still very young mind trying to figure out exactly the right thing to say because she knew, somehow, that this was very, very important.
Tío Bruno loved his nieces and nephew. Adored them. He always had time for them: their stories, their games, their worries, no matter how tired or sad he was he never brushed them off, never pushed them aside. He listened and laughed and played and cried with them as if they were the most important things in his world.
Her uncle also loved his hermanas, their husbands, and Abuela. But Abuela didn't want him to tell stories, she wanted him to use his gift to help the family, the village. Because it was the responsibility of every Madrigal to use their gift to help la familia. To help the village. And the other adults wanted what Abuela wanted.
The other adults always wanted what Abuela wanted, except for Tío Bruno, even though he never actually said so.
It was a complicated thought, one Dolores couldn't entirely understand, but she did understand that Tío Bruno often made the other adults upset, even though he didn't mean to. And that he tried really hard not to, but somehow it always happened anyway. So he apologized a lot.
Sometimes he apologized even when he didn't need to, like earlier when he apologized for dropping (well, throwing) a cup when Dolores startled him.
More and more often, he apologized for being startled. Like it was his fault. And sometimes, not very often, but sometimes, she saw him hesitate when she and the other children called their tío to come play with them. He always came when they called anyway, but Dolores did not miss his unease.
She didn't know what it all meant. But she knew it was important.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she said, finally. "Tía Julieta is up really early every morning. She says that's when she does her cooking. Since I know that, I don't have to worry about it and I just go back to sleep when I hear her. Now I don't have to worry about you either."
It wasn't the same exactly, her tía getting up early to cook and her tío being up late because he couldn't sleep because of his gift, but she didn't think saying so would help. The way he relaxed, though, Dolores thought she must have something right.
Author's note: I don't know why their relationship in particular fascinates me. Maybe it's because Dolores kept his secret all those years. Her part of the song "We Don't Talk about Bruno" comes off to me less anti-Bruno and more like she's trying desperately to get someone else to understand that he's not bad, that his gift makes things really hard, and that he's still here without actually coming out and saying it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, I definitely enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Encanto.
