To Mirabel's surprise, the two both show up for breakfast, Brunito once again propped not entirely securely on Bruno's hip.
She is far more surprised, as is everyone else at the table, when the kid wordlessly leans toward her father, arms outstretched, momentarily throwing his older self off balance in the process.
Papá's eyes dart upward briefly toward Bruno as if checking to see if it's all right before holding out his own arms and letting the kid slide into his lap. Once there, Brunito completely ignores the rest of the table as if they don't exist.
Bruno, initially unconcerned by this recent turn of events, slips into his own seat only to hunch forward as the stares turn from Papá, who is by now managing his coffee as if he's been doing so with undersized eight-year-olds plopped in has lap all his life, to him.
Antonio takes the opportunity to climb into his tío's lap. He smiles up at the man as if unaware of the attention the older man is getting. "I missed you," he whispers, and Mirabel only hears because she's sitting right next to them. "It's okay, though. I know you have to take care of Brunito. He needs you."
Bruno looks down, and manages a smile. He also accepts half an oblea from his sobrino a minute later, leading Mirabel to wonder if Antonio picked up that trick from the older boy, and whether or not that means he's aware that his uncle has trouble eating properly.
It's hard to tell, sometimes, exactly how much Antonio knows about their tío and his gift.
Meanwhile Mirabel's dad keeps offering Brunito various things off his plate and asking him if he's ever tried them, and it seems to be working, because the boy keeps taking tiny bites of whatever's offered, though whether to be polite, or because he's actually interested, Mirabel isn't sure.
Halfway through breakfast the kid suddenly jerks backward, smacking the back of his head against Mirabel's father's chest in the process, eyes glowing bright green. Mirabel is up and out of her seat in seconds, Bruno slightly behind her as he takes the time to let Antonio down. The rest of the table seems to freeze.
Except for Papá, who looks down and carefully pushes his chair back so the boy can slide out of his lap and into the floor. By the time Mirabel reaches them they're both in the floor, Brunito shaking and well in the midst of a vision, her father carefully just within arm's reach and calmly watching.
To Mirabel it almost looks as if he's done this before.
Nobody else seems to know what to do, so of course no one else does anything. Mirabel hears Antonio's muffled sobs behind her, and turns to see her primo standing there with his face buried in their tío's ruana, crying, because nobody's thought to make sure he's out of the room.
By the time the vision ends, Bruno is on the floor with Antonio in his lap, and Mirabel is next to her father, waiting to see whether or not she can help.
Brunito closes his eyes, but doesn't move otherwise. He's still shaking, and tears are running down his face. Mirabel wants to immediately pull him into to a hug but waits to see whether or not he can handle physical contact.
Her dad waits as well, just watching, and Bruno, oddly, continues to hang back, holding Antonio as the boy continues to sniffle into his chest.
After a moment though, Papá stirs, "¿Brunito, está bien?" He reaches out carefully, one hand brushing ever so slightly against the boy's back before retreating.
Brunito shudders slightly before opening his eyes again. It takes him a second to focus, and when he does his gaze goes straight to Mirabel. A moment later she shifts just enough so that he can see her father as well.
"Do you need anything?" Papá asks. Brunito blinks, then seems to take a minute to consider the question before shaking his head.
He slowly pushes himself up and into a sitting position, looking around. His eyes land on Bruno, who is still holding Antonio, and his gaze lingers there for a moment before he turns back to Mirabel's father and unceremoniously climbs back into his lap.
He immediately goes limp, as if the simple act of moving has taken up the last of his strength. Papá brings up a hand to rest on his back, as much to support the child as to offer comfort, Mirabel thinks.
Antonio finally emerges from Bruno's ruana, sniffing as he runs a sleeve across his nose. "Is he okay, Tío?"
Bruno smiles down at the boy. "He's tired, mijo. The visions-they take a lot out of him." It's not an answer, not really, but seems to satisfy Antonio, at least until he frowns and looks up at his uncle in alarm.
"Are your visions like that?"
Too late, Tía Pepa starts to stir. Bruno is already answering.
"Mine are different, Toñito," he says carefully. "Brunito doesn't know how to control them yet. They're-they're worse when you can't control them."
He doesn't mention that he still has visions he can't control, but Antonio is already moving on. "But you can teach him, right? Because then it won't be so bad, if he can control them." He pauses, looking back at Brunito, who is nearly comatose. "You can teach him, can't you?" His voice is softer now, like he's not sure what to do if his tío can't, or worse, won't.
Bruno looks distinctly uncomfortable for several seconds before his expression abruptly banks, and even in Mirabel's admittedly limited experience, that's a bad sign. "I can try," he agrees, looking over at the other boy as well. "I don't know-"
"Antonio, why don't you make sure the nursery is tidy in case you two want to play in there once he's feeling better?" Tío Felix's tone is carefully neutral, and when Mirabel looks up, he also has a reassuring hand on his wife's arm and is steadfastly ignoring the cloud over her head-one of the few they've seen gather since the miracle came back to them.
Antonio looks at his father, then at his mother, then back at Brunito. "Yes, Papí," he says, but his voice is subdued.
"I'll help you, hermano," Camilo offers, shooting his baby brother a grin that is both too wide and too bright to be genuine. "Come on,"
Antonio lets himself be led back upstairs. Bruno watches him go, shakes his head, and climbs somewhat awkwardly from the floor.
"Perdoname," he mutters, leaving as well. He ignores the protests from his sisters and brother-in-law and the concerned looks from the other children.
Dolores closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose the second he's gone, letting out a long sigh. "Antonio knows a lot more than he lets on," she says, sounding tired and annoyed and frustrated all at once. "He does talk to the rats, you know."
Mirabel decides to stay on the floor with her dad, because she can feel the sudden tension between Dolores and her parents.
"He's also been spending a lot of time with Brunito," her cousin adds, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. "Eventually he's going to figure out that Tío Bruno's visions are worse than he lets on. Isn't it better if he didn't find out his uncle was lying to him about it as well?"
She crosses the room and heads for the door, apparently finished, only to pause in the doorway and turn to look at Mirabel and her father. "He trusts you-they both do. You're safe. Please don't prove them wrong."
Then she's gone, leaving behind a silence that no one else seems to know how to fill.
One by one, the remaining family members left at the table begin to stir, recovering enough to gather their dishes, drop them off in the kitchen, and go about their day. We've all had enough practice before Casita fell, Mirabel thinks to herself bitterly, going on as if nothing happened.
Her father remains where he is, though, Brunito now more or less unconscious in his arms, and Mirabel stays with him. She doesn't want to leave the boy alone, especially not without Bruno here, even if it is Papí.
She doesn't really feel like talking, though. She's grateful when her dad doesn't seem interested either, even if it's probably because he's currently deep in thought. She can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow, and the set of his lips, and by the troubled gleam in his eye.
"He's going to be like that for a while." Mirabel startles at the sound of her oldest sister's voice. So does her father, for that matter.
Isabela offers them both a shy smile as she joins them on the floor. "When we were little, we used to find Tío Bruno like that sometimes, usually on the couch, or sometimes out in the garden. All limp and still like that, with his eyes barely open. It was the only time he'd refuse to tell us stories or play with us. He'd insist that he couldn't move because a witch stole all his bones, and then he'd send you and Luisa and Camilo all over the house looking for them."
Her smile falters, and she looks away for a moment before recovering herself. "I used to think it was just a game. That he was being silly. But it usually meant there weren't going to be any games or stories for the rest of the day. He'd spend hours like that, half awake, barely moving. Insisting to any of us kids that came along that a witch had stolen his bones."
"He wanted to protect you," Their father's voice is soft. "Bruno's gift-" he sighs and seems to consider his words carefully before continuing. "Some of the things your tío has seen, no one should have to go through. And the side effects of his visions, even when he isn't trying to suppress them-there are things he doesn't like us to know, niñas, and we're all well past childhood."
"Because he doesn't think you need to know?" Isabela asks. "Or because he doesn't feel like he can tell anyone?"
Papá doesn't take offense at the not-quite accusation. "Both, I think. Some, I think, is shame. Some of it may be that he doesn't think anyone will listen. But I do believe there are things your uncle has experienced that he truly believes no one else should have to hear about." He looks first at Isabela, then at Mirabel, his expression solemn. "I also think we should respect that."
"Mamá and Tía Pepa don't seem to feel the same way." Isabela says it before Mirabel can. "They don't stop when he's clearly uncomfortable with a conversation, or even listen when he says he doesn't want to talk about something. And when he does say something-even if it's something that will help Brunito-they get upset. How is he supposed to let us help him if he can't even get us to help with an eight-year-old child?"
"I don't know," their father admits freely, and Mirabel realizes that this is, perhaps, the first truly adult conversation he has ever had with her. "We're all trying to figure this out as we go along, and honestly, we don't seem to be doing a very good job at it."
"Then you have to try something different." Mirabel winces, hearing the accusation in her own voice. "We all do."
"You seem to be doing just fine," he points out, amused in spite of the serious nature of the conversation.
"Well, Brunito seems to have decided he likes you, so you can't be doing too badly either," Mirabel admits.
"He has very low standards, if all it takes is me not blaming him for something beyond his control."
Her father says it softly enough that Mirabel isn't sure he meant to say it aloud-or that he even realizes he has.
Dolores returns, looking far more distressed than Mirabel has ever seen her, panic shining in her eyes for all that the rest of her is carefully controlled.
"Dolores?"
"Bruno needs help. Antonio went and found him in his room-I think he was talking to the rats-just in time for it to get worse-It's bad, Tío. Antonio's so scared, and Bruno-"
Mirabel's father surprises Mirabel and Isabela both by handing the boy in his arms off to his oldest daughter. "Mirabel, I'm going to need you to help with Antonio."
It's no secret that out of all of his siblings and cousins, Antonio has always been closest to Mirabel. "Of course," Mirabel agrees.
"I'm going after Tía Julieta," Dolores says. "She went into town."
Mirabel follows her father out of the room and upstairs, heart pounding in her chest, wondering how bad it has to be for the rats to get Antonio, and for Dolores to come to them for help instead of simply going after her brother herself.
"I'm not sure how bad it's going to be, mija," her father says, sounding worried, "but I need to know that whatever happens in there-whatever you see-I can trust you take care of Antonio. I can't deal with Bruno if I have to be worrying about Antonio as well."
Mirabel nods, swallows against the sudden tightness in her throat, and finally manages, "I promise."
Whatever horror Mirabel's imagined in the time it takes them to reach Bruno's room, it does nothing to prepare her for the reality. She and her father both stop short in the middle of the sand pit, completely and utterly at a loss.
Bruno is on the ground, certainly, and Antonio is with him. Neither fact can be denied. And Bruno's eyes are definitely glowing as he holds the boy's hands carefully in his own-Antonio is sitting by his uncle's side as if it were the most natural thing in the world, listening as the man mumbles words that neither Mirabel or her father can quite hear.
Bruno's eyes find them, and even through the bright green glow of his gift Mirabel can read the desperation in his gaze quite clearly.
His nose is bleeding, she realizes abruptly, and it's about that time that her tío is entirely unsuccessful at holding back an agonized groan and his entire body spasms.
"Shit." Papá closes the distance between them, dropping down near the man's head, and Mirabel follows.
Bruno blinks, eyes locking on to her father's face with a frightening intensity that is made even more alarming by the fact that he shouldn't be able to see them-not while he's in the middle of a vision.
"Augustín." It comes out more of a plea that anything else. "Por favor."
"Come on Antonio," Mirabel says softly, remembering her promise. She kneels beside her primo. "Papá can't help Tío Bruno if he's busy worrying about us."
Antonio shakes his head. "He needs me." The boy's voice is terrified and sad and desperate all at once. "He was crying."
"Sometimes his visions hurt, Toñito," Mirabel tells him. "You know that."
"But he's better now. He was screaming too." Mirabel looks at her uncle and it's true: he's no longer crying, no longer screaming.
She's not sure that means he's better.
Another spasm, and Bruno jerks, a guttural groan catching in his throat. His breath catches as well, seemingly stuck, and it is several long seconds before he manages to bring in air in the form of a desperate, strangled gasp.
"Antonio, do you trust me?" Mirabel asks, leaning forward to block her cousin's view of their uncle.
He looks at her, eyes wide with sudden fear, looking impossibly young and helpless and vulnerable. After a moment, he nods.
"We need to go," she tells him, trying her best to keep her own fear out of her voice. "Bruno needs help, and neither of us can help him. Dad will."
Antonio wavers, his gaze dropping down to his hands-small hands desperately trying to cover two much larger, much frailer-looking ones, failing to conceal long, thin fingers splayed and pressed against green fabric so hard that they're turning white and torn, bloodied fingertips.
Mirabel's breath catches. "He was hurting himself." Antonio says, his voice oh-so-very small.
"Antonio, please," she says, because that's all she can think of to say. Her mind is reeling.
Bruno stiffens, and Mirabel braces herself for the next spasm to tear through him.
"Santa María, Madre de Dios-Augustín, for the love of God get them out!"
"Mirabel."
She's never heard that tone in her father's voice before, but responds to it all the same. Standing, she holds a hand out to Antonio.
"We have to go, now. Bruno doesn't want us here."
Antonio looks at their uncle, then back at her, eyes filling with hurt and something that Mirabel is terribly afraid is betrayal. He stands, allows her to take his hand in hers, and follows her listlessly back across the room, towards the door.
A half-strangled screams cuts through the sound of falling sand, and they both stop. Mirabel is crying every bit as much as her cousin as he throws himself into her arms. She picks him up, holds him tight, and starts walking.
She doesn't stop when another scream tears its way from her tío's throat. Or when the next follows shortly after.
Or the one after that.
Mirabel's mother comes barreling through the door as they reach it, Dolores not far behind. Neither seems to notice them as they pass by in an all-out run; Mirabel has never seen her mother so afraid.
They make it out into the hall, and the screams suddenly seem to stop.
Mirabel knows better. It's just the door closing behind them. On the other side, her uncle is still screaming.
Luisa is somehow waiting for them. She picks Mirabel up, Antonio with her, and starts moving. Mirabel doesn't know where they're going, but right now she doesn't really care either. She can't get those screams out of her head.
When Luisa finally sets her down they're in the nursery. Isabela is there, holding a softly weeping Brunito in her arms. Camilo is there too, looking serious and far too grown up as he relieves her of the burden that is his baby brother. Antonio is sobbing as if his heart has been broken into a million tiny pieces as he buries his face in his brother's chest.
Luisa pulls Mirabel into a hug, and she realizes that she, too, is sobbing every bit as hard as her primo. She doesn't resist the hug, or when Luisa guides her to the bed, or when she ends up in her sister's arms instead of beside her.
Her chest hurts, and she keeps seeing her uncle's bloody fingers in her mind. Keeps hearing him beg her father to get both of them out of the room. Keeps hearing the screams he could no longer hold back.
She loses track of time as they huddle together in the nursery, all of them silent. Even Isabela, perfect Isabela, is crying, and Camilo doesn't seem to care who sees as the tears leave silent tracks down his face.
Mirabel has no idea where Abuela is, or her aunt and uncle, and she doesn't really care. She's pretty sure none of them would be able to help Bruno anyway.
Disclaimer: Disney's Encanto does not belong to me.