Author's Note: More of this nonsense. I really have no control at this point, guys. Um. Fair warning, not-Bruno likes to swear, so just, you know, be advised.
Disclaimer: Disney's Encanto does not belong to me.
Not-Bruno slips into a seat at the dinner table, a scowl written plainly across his features as he serves himself a single empanada left-handed.
"Thought you were sleeping," Camilo says, eyeing the man briefly before going back to his own meal.
"That was the plan," not-Bruno grumbles. "This body's wound so tight it's a wonder it hasn't jumped out of its own skin. No wonder he never sleeps."
"Huh?"
Not-Bruno rolls his eyes. "Your tío's a mess," he says, taking a belligerent bite of his empanada only to gag on it almost immediately. "Not that we don't love him, mind you, but really it's a wonder he's survived as long as he has."
Mirabel's father clears his throat meaningfully. He looks tired, and more than a little bit resigned.
Not-Bruno spares him a glance. "The more you don't talk about it, the worse it's going to get. You just need to find ways to talk about it that aren't going to make him more anxious-or make him feel like he's a burden."
"Look," not-Bruno says, and there's no denying that whoever's currently inhabiting the body of Mirabel's uncle is left-handed as he methodically starts cutting his empanada into increasingly smaller pieces. "The man spent decades believing that it was his fault when he saw bad things happen-that he made them happen-and that he deserved to be punished for that. And, by extension, he learned to both fear and hate his gift. And try as he might, he still believes it, at least to some degree, even in my time.
"So he suppresses the visions until he makes himself sick. He uses salt circles and tiny flames and green colored glass to try to control them until he's convinced he can't call them on his own without the stuff. And even when he tries to give in because he knows that it's not going to stop until he does, his body still fights them until it no longer can. Of course he ends up with migraines. Of course he gets so nauseous he can barely stand the sight of food. Of course he has trouble sleeping-he's afraid of that too, between the visions and the nightmares. He's literally his own worst enemy.
"And he will never utter a word of this to another soul because he's ashamed, because he's been told that he should be able to control it, or that he at least should be able to handle the things he sees, and that it's a cardinal sin to question the miracle and the gift it chose to bestow on him, and that if he ever breathed a word of it aloud that everyone would know, and would see exactly how terrible and utterly unloveable he is, and as selfish as he's convinced himself it is, he can't bear the thought of losing his family again."
Not-Bruno takes another bite of empanada, shudders, and swallows. "Brunito,"
The eight-year-old looks up and tenses. Mirabel tightens her hold around the boy, praying that this older version of himself will be kind, and doubting very much that her prayer will be answered given the way he's talked to them so far.
"Nothing that you see is your fault." not-Bruno says bluntly. "None of it. You don't choose to see it, you don't make it happen. If you tell someone and it still happens, that's not your fault. If you don't tell anyone, and it happens, it's still not your fault. If you tell someone and they don't like what they hear, it's still not your fault. Just because you see it, doesn't mean you made it happen. Entiendes?"
The boy nods, first uncertainly, then more firmly.
"And quit fucking around with your own future."
"Bruno!"
"That's not my name, and I promise you the kid's already seen-and heard-far worse." Not-Bruno manages another bite of empanada, though he clearly does not enjoy it.
"What is your name then?" Camilo wants to know.
"Oscar," not-Bruno says simply. "The whole Brunito vs. Bruno thing was fine at first, but we aren't the same people, no matter where we started, so after a while I changed it. Sure, it took some time for people to adjust-" he grins at the Mirabel's primo. "But you can't let other people dictate how you live your life. It's not worth it."
"So when is Tío coming back?"
Not-Bruno-Oscar-shrugs. "Whenever he wakes up. Could be a couple hours, could be a couple days, could be a couple weeks. Until then, you're stuck with me."
"Great," Camilo says, not at all pleased.
Oscar shrugs. "Could be worse," he says.
By the time dinner is over they're all convinced that the man sitting at the table with them is not Bruno, even if the rest is more than a bit complicated, and even if they're not all convinced that he is who he says he is-though Mirabel has no idea who else he would be-or that he can be trusted to be left to his own devices.
Oscar doesn't seem to care about any of it. When it's decided that Mirabel's father and uncle will keep an eye on him for the time being, he shrugs, completely unbothered.
"What? I like your dad," he says, when he catches Mirabel staring. "And your uncle's cool. I mean, they're probably going to be bored, because I'm gonna go try and grab a nap, or at least meditate or something-when is the last time this guy even slept?"
The weirdest thing about the whole affair, Mirabel decides, is listening to Oscar complain about Bruno's body.
"Hey," he says to her in the hallway as the rest of the family scatters. Mirabel turns and waits. The whole situation is weird, and that's definitely not her uncle, but she doesn't really feel threatened by him, and for some reason she believes him when he says he's Brunito from the future, even if his story doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to her.
He looks her over briefly, and for the first time since lunch there's a hint of uncertainty present in the man. He runs a hand through his hair almost a nervously. "I know it's not easy. None of this is. But you're doing a good job. With him-" he nods to the boy half-asleep in her arms. "With Antonio, with Tío Bruno. It shouldn't be your job, taking care of them, but I don't know if they would have had a chance-I don't know if I would have had a chance-if you hadn't gotten involved. So thank you."
"You're welcome, I guess," she says, taken aback. "I mean, it's not like I could just...walk away. Ignore it. Uh..."
He shrugs. "You could," he disagrees. "But you didn't-you don't. I just want you to know that I appreciate it, and so does Bruno."
"You're a lot less snarky than you were at dinner," Mirabel points out, not sure whether or not to be amused.
Oscar chuckles. "What can I say? Had some really important dialogue to get through. Exposition, plot points, character summations, all that. Now all I have to do is hang out till Tío Bruno-well, your Tío Bruno-wakes up so I can go home."
"Tío Bruno?" she echoes, raising a questioning eyebrow of her own, and he laughs outright.
"I wasn't going to call him Dad," he says, rolling his eyes. "So it's Tío Bruno, Tío Augustín, Tío Félix. Abuela-well, pretty much everyone calls her that. It only really gets weird where Juli and Pepa are involved. It's fun calling Camilo my nephew though. Pisses him off every time, with the added bonus that he gets even more annoyed when Antonio calls me Tío Oscar."
"That's not confusing?" Mirabel asks.
"Not really. Antonio doesn't actually think of me as his uncle. He just thinks it's funny because we're only a couple years apart. He's, uh, he's been really good for Tío. For both of us, really."
"Bruno told him some stuff about his gift. Some of it I didn't know either. I worry-" she hesitates. "He's still so young-"
"Antonio's fine. Kid's resilient. He's actually a lot worse when he doesn't have at least some idea of what's going on. Not that Tío ever tells him everything-or that I do. Some of the things I've seen-well, let's just say I'd hesitate to share with anyone if I didn't already know Tío Bruno's seen things that are just as bad, if not worse."
Mirabel feels her throat tighten at the admission, and at the brief flash of sorrow in the man's eyes.
"God, this guy is old," Oscar complains, rolling his shoulders and ruining the moment. "I mean, not as old as I'm used to, but still." He shakes his head. "Old and stiff and creaky-I will not miss any of that, when I get back." The comment sparks a question, but Mirabel's not sure whether or not it's okay to ask, what with him being from the future. "What?"
Mirabel laughs, nervously brushing her hair out of her face. "I was wondering how old you were, but I wasn't sure if it would mess things up for me to ask."
"Oh." He considers this for a moment. "Probably not. I'm fifteen. Do you know how weird it is, being fifteen and stuck in the body of a fifty-one year old? It's really fucking weird."
Mirabel's father, lurking nearby, clears his throat.
"And everybody lets you talk like that?" Mirabel asks, curious. Oscar shrugs.
"They kind of gave up?" he admits, grinning at her. "I, uh, might have mentioned that it helps with the pain. I meant for Tío Bruno-I don't know if you've noticed that he only tends to slip when he's either super stressed or in an incredible amount of pain-or pissed, but that's another matter entirely." Mirabel shakes her head. "Well, that's all right, he tries not to swear in front of the kids either way, even you. I was trying to get them to cut him some slack, but what actually ended up happening was they started leaving me alone about it instead."
"Do your visions cause you pain?" she asks, then realizes he might not appreciate her asking.
"Sometimes," he admits. "I mean, it's nowhere near what Bruno goes through. And they tend to be-upsetting more than painful, most of the time. A lot of the time, actually. Once I started learning to control them, not that control is an entirely accurate word for it, it started getting easier."
He pauses, looking thoughtful. "Wonder how he does with water at this point. Any idea whether or not Bruno drinks water? Because I'm pretty sure he's dehydrated. Never mind. I'll figure it out."
He says goodnight and wanders off, muttering under his breath, and Mirabel isn't sure how much more she can handle of Oscar casually highlighting problems she didn't even know her uncle had as if they're common knowledge.
Maybe where he's from, they are.
She hopes that's a good thing, and that his Bruno didn't have to suffer too much to get to that place.
Isabela joins them in the nursery that night, taking the spare bed while Mirabel and Brunito share the other. They wake in the dark of the night, not to a bad dream, but to a vision. The boy presses his body up against her once it's over, shaking, but settles down fairly quickly in her arms, falling back asleep in less than an hour.