Augustín is pretty sure, based on the expression on Dolores's face as she joins them for breakfast that morning, that the girl would like nothing more than to slam her head face-first into the table. It's an expression he's seen Bruno wear far too many times over the years, usually when his gift is making his life a misery by the way of debilitating headaches.
It frightens him, now, to see that same expression on his niece.
Not that he has any idea what to do about it.
Everyone else is already there except Bruno, who hasn't missed a meal since their gifts came back, and who has, based on his wife's whispered retelling last night and his own experience earlier that day, been on some kind of mission during that time to single-handedly right every wrong, real or perceived, that he's observed within la familia Madrigal.
Not that Agustín isn't grateful. On behalf of his daughter and his wife.
And not that he thinks the whole thing with Camilo was being blown out of proportion. He figures that out of all of them, Bruno's the most likely to notice something like that. Given his own history, and his own struggles when it comes to eating.
Not that he seems to be struggling anywhere near as much, since the miracle came back.
Bruno shows up at last, but his entrance just so happens to be from the direction of the kitchen, and he has also just happens to be carrying a steaming cup of tea in hand, one that he must have made himself because Julieta is sitting at the table right beside Augutsín.
His sister catches his gaze and shrugs, largely unconcerned, at least until Bruno sets his cup down not at his own seat, but in front of Dolores.
"Sip it slowly," he cautions, and Augustín immediately knows what's in the mug.
"Bruno-" Julieta begins.
"Bruno-" Pepa cuts her sister off, far less understanding and with far more vehemence.
Bruno flaps a hand dismissively at them both, fixing his gaze on Dolores, who barely seems to have noticed him. "Dolores, mírame, mija." She blinks, seeming to realize someone's talking to her, and turns her head just enough to scowl at the man. Bruno presses on unfazed. "Slowly," he says again, pressing the mug into her hands. "Just enough to take the edge off, entiendes?"
A tiny nod.
"Absolutely not!" Pepa snaps, moving from her seat at the table. Bruno doesn't retreat, simply turning to face her and, in the process, putting himself between mother and daughter. "Move!"
"Why?" Bruno is strangely calm even as lighting sparks along Pepa's very skin. The cloud now raining over both of them is inconsequential by comparison.
"Why?" she splutters. "Because, Bruno, that's my daughter, and she's-"
"A twenty-one-year old adult, old enough to marry? Or simply in pain? Look at her, Pepa."
Pepa looks, and shrinks in on herself. The sparks stop, even if the rain doesn't.
Dolores scowls at them both. "I'm right here," she snaps. "Stop talking as if I'm not. What is this, Tío?"
Julieta sighs. "It helps with his headaches," she says.
Bruno rolls his eyes. "It's a mixture of dried herbs that are extremely toxic if not handled correctly, brewed into a tea that can do lasting damage if used long term-or if the brew is too strong-and it does help with the headaches even when Juli's food won't." He sighs, turning to watch Pepa out of the corner of his eye. "And at that strength I could drink an entire pot of it and not feel a thing. I'm not stupid, Pepa. I'm not going to risk making your daughter sick."
Or killing her, Augustín's mind finishes for the man. Because Bruno's been drinking the stuff off and on long enough to have built up a tolerance for it, and the only reason he hasn't found himself suffering any the long term effects is Julieta's gift.
That, and the fact that Julieta keeps that particular mix hidden, far back on a top shelf that Bruno should in no, way, shape, or form be able to reach.
"How-?" Julieta only gets the one word out, but it's enough.
"Casita," Bruno says, "Apparently she can be quite accommodating when she wants to be." This sparks an argument between the three siblings, one that Augustín stops listening to the second Dolores raises the mug in her hands to her lips and takes a tiny sip.
In the background Abuela is getting involved, and Félix is telling both her and Julieta that Dolores is their daughter, kindly butt out, but Augustín is waiting to see if Bruno got the strength right, or if it's about to be a very good thing there are fresh empanadas sitting in front of them.
Dolores lets out a soft squeak and takes another small sip before opening her eyes to glare at her cousins-and brothers, who suddenly find themselves fascinated by the place settings before them.
"Está bien?" Augustín asks, voice low, when she turns her gaze on him. Still waiting, since it doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone else that Dolores is fully capable of making this decision for herself while the rest of them are arguing.
The thought might have occurred to Bruno, who is waving his arms in a slightly exaggerated way and asking if they would prefer for Dolores to be sick enough to start throwing up before they decide to do anything.
Dolores takes one last sip before relinquishing her hold on it, pushing it back and away from her with a sigh of relief.
Bruno breaks off mid argument. "Better?" he asks the girl.
"Much. Gracias."
Bruno walks over to his seat at the table and sits down without another word. Julieta, lips pursed together in a clear sign of displeasure, removes the rest of the tea from the table and retreats to the kitchen. From there Augustín can hear the sound of her dumping the rest down the sink before she starts scrubbing angrily at the breakfast dishes.
Félix shoots his cuñado a look, one that usually means there's going to be a rather unpleasant conversation later with whoever it's directed at, and sits back down at the table. Pepa looks about half-ready to murder her brother. There's still a distinct cloud above her head, raining down almost steadily and leaving her hair more than slightly damp.
She, too, presses her lips together before heading outside. Considering the wet footprints she leaves in her wake, it's going to be a while before she regains control.
Augustín looks out the window, where the sky has turned more than a little gray by now, and a wind is starting to pick up, and wonders whether or not that cloud is shortly going to turn into a storm.
Abuela, too, sits back down, fixing her son with a look of her own as she does. It's one Augustín has seen on her face a hundred times, always in regards to her son, though usually it's in relation to his gift. It's a look of disappointment and frustration and yes, even anger, and has in the past been enough to cause a retreat on Bruno's end, usually from the room, if not from sight entirely.
Bruno ignores it in favor of serving himself an admittedly small helping of calentado, leftover beans and rice from dinner the night before reheated and served with egg, chicharrón, chorizo, and arepa. He waits all of two seconds to see if anyone is going to deliver some sort of morning speech before starting on his breakfast.
When it becomes obvious that Bruno is simply going to continue slowly and methodically working through the food on his plate even with the kids staring (Félix only has eyes for his oldest daughter by this time), Mirabel redirects her attention to Antonio, who is by this time starting to look more than a little lost, and more than a little distraught. She serves the two of them, asking questions about various animal friends, and about his baby rats, until she finally manages to distract him.
Camilo shrugs and turns his attention back to his own plate, piling it with almost as much food as Luisa normally does before setting up it as if he hasn't eaten in days, and Augustín figures that as uncomfortable as the conversation probably was for everyone involved, Bruno seems to have had a point about the boy's eating.
Félix spares his older son a glance, one that only serves to make him look that much older-and wearier-before turning his attention back to his daughter.
"I'm fine, Papa," Dolores murmurs, reaching for the nearest serving dish, her voice barely audible in spite of the hushed mood currently pervading the room.
Isabela recovers herself with a toss of her head, elbows Luisa, asking if her younger sister has any plans for the day yet as she serves them both, and mentioning that she was thinking about spending the morning in the garden, and asking if Luisa had gotten a chance to see the finished product yet.
Luisa hasn't.
"I'll give you the grand tour after breakfast," Isabela declares, with perhaps a little more cheer than necessary, and favors her sister with a smile.
Luisa agrees, albeit reluctantly, and not without a hint of guilt in both her eyes and her demeanor, and Augustín finds his jaw setting at the sight-it reminds him too much of Bruno, in the days before he disappeared.
Well. Even now, there's that once-ever present shame lurking in his eyes as he meticulously dissects the egg on his plate and absently informs Antonio that he is not, under any circumstances, going to apologize for rescuing one of the rats-Augustín missed which one it was-from falling into the toilet last night.
Antonio shrugs and admits that he doesn't always understand what his animal friends are thinking, even if they can talk, mentioning that he might have caught the capybara in the bathtub the day before.
Breakfast is over in every way that matters. Most of the other kids have dispersed, Abuela has left, her disapproval and disappointment in her son's earlier actions trailing her like one of Pepa's clouds. Dolores's father is still there, though he gave up on pretending to eat a while ago, waiting.
Tío Augustín exchanges a glance with Papa before pushing his chair back and excusing himself, grabbing his breakfast dishes and heading for the kitchen. He goes to stand beside Tía Julieta but doesn't say anything, and Dolores is grateful.
Everything is still very loud.
Just enough to take the edge off, Tío Bruno said. The headache is still there, but it's lost its iron grip on her skull, and Dolores can function again.
Tío Bruno has also finished his meal, though in this case his plate is actually clean. It's unsettling, but that's something to worry about later. Right now he, too, is waiting, as if he knows there's a conversation due between himself and Dolores's father, about children and boundaries and meaning well but going about things the wrong way.
Dolores doesn't care.
It occurs to her, once the three of them are the only ones left, that her father might be waiting for her to leave as well.
She looks up.
"You would have said no," she tells her father. "So would Mamá, and nothing Tío Bruno could have said would have changed your mind."
Her father meets her gaze evenly. "You were still very young when your uncle left, mija," he begins, but Dolores interrupts.
"I had a better idea at eight what his gift did to him than any of you did," she says flatly, ignoring the way her tío can't quite keep from wincing at the admission. "Not that I listened. If anything, I tried not to. But I can't exactly turn it off, now can I?"
"I'm sorry, cariña," her father says, his expression gentling. "Your gift has always placed far more on your shoulders than any one so young should have to bear. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."
Dolores rolls her eyes, even if the gesture hurts, because the headache isn't gone, just manageable. "I'm pretty sure if you there were a way to stop me from hearing too much, you'd be all over it," she concedes, because she loves her parents, even if they don't always know how to help her.
Her father relaxes the tiniest bit, some of the tension draining from his expression. "And yes, I should probably accept that you're growing up. That my baby girl is old enough to marry, and make her own decisions, and know her own gift well enough to know when she needs help managing it." He shoots a glance toward Bruno. "Having things out in the open-it's going to take some getting used to."
Dolores knows what he means. For so long it was every bit as forbidden to speak badly of the gifts they had been given as it was to talk about Tío Bruno. "Believe me, I know," she says, wondering if she could have simply told them, yesterday, that the headache her gift sometimes gave her was getting to be too much to bear.
Past memories of being hushed, of being reminded of what the miracle had blessed them with-even of the other adults' reactions to Bruno's admissions of pain and distaste for his own gift-had echoed in her mind even this morning, sealing her lips far more effectively that the agony that had been every sound in the Encanto hammering away inside her skull.
Her father clears his throat. "I have less issue with the fact that your tío wanted to help than how he went about it, mija."
Bruno huffs, folding his arms across his chest. "Our first morning back in Casita, our first full day since our gifts return, and everyone immediately goes back to old habits as if nothing happened. As if the house never fell, as if the candle never went out, as if-" he looks upward, as if the point he's trying to make might be conveniently etched across the ceiling. "As if I never left in the first place. We can't go back to what we were before, Félix. For the sake of these kids, for their health and happiness and for their very lives, we must change." He pauses for half a second. "That's not a prophecy. I haven't had any sort of vision about the kids. I don't need to."
"I don't disagree," Papa says, after a moment. "I have eyes, cuñado. And I want what's best for these children just as much as you do. But Dolores and Camilo and Antonio are still my children, mine and Pepa's, and ultimately any decision about their upbringing should fall to us. This-taking matters into your own hands at the breakfast table is out of line, and while short term it may seem to work-sure, you helped Dolores with her headache-if you keep going like this it's going to cause hurt feelings and resentment, which you of all people should know is every bit as damaging as, say, letting someone work themselves into the ground for the 'good of the Encanto.' I'm on your side, Bruno. But as the father of my children I ask you to come to me first instead of making decisions that will affect them for me."
Bruno fidgets, refusing to look at either Dolores or her father. "Nobody listened when it was happening to me," he finally says. "I could see glimpses of it, when the kids were very young. Little things, maybe coincidences, if I hadn't seen how they turned out. How Juli, and Pepa, and I turned out. And when Mirabel didn't get her gift-" he swallows, turns slightly so they can only partially see his face. "Nobody listened then either."
"And we were wrong for that," Papa admits freely. "But this is not then, Bruno. You aren't alone anymore. Especially not when it comes to protecting this family. I'm not asking you to keep silent, and I'm not asking you not to help your sobrinos. I'm asking you to let us help you. And, you know, to respect the fact that these are my children. At least give it a chance," he says with a sigh.
"Sure," says Bruno, still not looking at either of them. "In the future, if it concerns one of your children, I'll come to you first."
"In private," Papa puts in, and Bruno nods.
"In private," he agrees. "But this hasn't changed anything. I will not stand by and watch while any of those children suffer. I can not. If that makes me the 'bad guy', so be it. I've played that roll before, albeit unwillingly. I can do it again."
Papa rolls his eyes at the man, and even Dolores can admit that Tío Bruno can be a little over-dramatic when the mood takes him.
"It won't come to that," her father promises.
Dolores wants so badly to believe him.
They've been wandering aimlessly in the garden in spite of Isabela's original offer of a tour for about hour, neither uttering so much as a word, both thinking about breakfast and Tío Bruno and Dolores, and what it means that they both get headaches from their gifts, and that Dolores's was apparently bad enough for Tío Bruno to decide to do something about it in front of entire family and causing a huge fight among the adults because of it, when Luisa finally breaks the silence.
"Do you-" she pauses, swallows nervously, but ultimately continues. "Do you think Tío Bruno's in trouble?"
"He's an adult," Isabela says, as if that makes any sort of difference.
"Tía Pepa's upset." That much is obvious. Isabela is surprised that there's only a slight drizzle rather than a full out storm. They're both a bit damp from spending an hour out in the elements, though neither of them seem to care, but that's it.
"And Abuela's disappointed," Isabela counters. "It's not like it was. Before. Things are different now. They'll work it out."
Luisa isn't fooled by the pseudo-confidence with which her older sister spills such nonsense. Isabela can tell that just by looking at her.
"And if they can't, we'll handle it." She decides. "We'll look out for each other. Help each other."
"And Tío Bruno," Luisa adds, as if that weren't a given. As if she needs to hear it anyway.
"And Tío Bruno. Of course." Isabela reaches out, plucking a single pink rose, tiny and delicate, from the bush in front of her. Turning to her younger sister, she shifts up on to the very tips of her toes and tucks the flower behind the girl's ear. "I'm here, if you need me. If you want to talk. If you need to cry. If-" she hesitates for only a moment before pressing on. "If you don't want to do something, or need a break, but don't know how to tell someone no. I've got your back."
Luisa's eyes are suddenly watery. The smile that works its way through the stoic facade she's been hiding behind since their gifts returned. "You too," she says, then sniffs. The laugh that follows sounds a little bit like she might be trying not to cry. "I've got your back too."
Isabela smiles and wraps her arms around her sister's waist, pulling her into a hug. Luisa reciprocates immediately, her arms completely surrounding her older sister in their embrace.
Antonio spends the morning in the living room trying to convince one of Bruno's rats not to be mad at him, Mirabel with him, offering suggestions or explanations whenever one of the boy's attempts doesn't work.
Camilo sits at the bottom of the stairs, well with sight and hearing of all of it, trying not to think about anything in general, or about his mom or his sister or his uncle in particular.
It doesn't work. Everything that's happened since that fateful moment yesterday, when he walked into the kitchen, saw that it was occupied, and didn't immediately walk back out, has been whirling around in his brain non-stop, refusing to give him a moments peace, refusing to even let him sleep.
At least he's not hungry.
But Mama's mad, and Dad's mad, and Abuela is mad, and Tío Bruno is acting weird, and Dolores was apparently in enough pain at breakfast this morning that his uncle didn't care who he made mad by giving her that cup of nasty-smelling tea.
Worse, Dolores didn't care either, because while they were all arguing she actually drank some of the stuff. And he could see her relief, afterwards. Could tell it was helping by the way the muscles in her face, and neck-well, everywhere-relaxed a little with each sip. By the way she stopped furrowing her eyebrows and clenching her jaw and. By the way she was finally able to just-breathe-without the sound of her own breath clawing at her ears.
Yeah. Camilo isn't oblivious. He sees things.
Like the way people react when Dolores hears something they wish she hadn't and accidentally lets it slip.
And the way certain people in town don't like his uncle because of the things he's seen.
Not that Camilo has visions. But he does turn into other people, which requires a certain understanding not just of what people look like, but how they move, how they hold themselves, how they talk.
So if somebody's acting different than he's seen them in the past, he notices. When they're sad. When they're angry. When they're afraid.
He just doesn't say anything, because people already don't like it when Dolores says stuff-or didn't, when they were growing up, before she learned when to keep her mouth shut.
Not that she always manages, but she also doesn't gossip near as much as everyone seems to want to think she does. When it's important, she can keep quiet.
Take Bruno, for instance. The guy spent ten years hiding in the walls, and she never said a word.
Speaking of Bruno, the guy's acting weird. Well, not weird, exactly. The guy was already pretty weird, and Camilo had, for the most part, gotten used to the weirdness.
Hell, he even understood some of it. His uncle's had a hard life, even before the whole living-in-the-walls thing. With his gift, with the way the people in town treated him-even with the way his own family treated him.
Add to that the fact that his tío is clearly a very creative, very imaginative type of person (Camilo can relate to that on a personal level). Guy could have been a writer. Or an actor. He's definitely a performer.
And there's the fact that he did, after all, spend ten years hiding in the walls of Casita with nothing but his stories and his rats for company. That alone would be enough to drive anyone mad. All things considered, the fact that Bruno's not any weirder than he is nothing short of a miracle.
Except for recently. Since the miracle came back, to be precise.
Bruno's been weird, for him, and by that Camilo means that he's been acting, for the most part, like a normal human being. A normal family member.
He eats breakfast with them-and actually eats. He talks, laughs, jokes, even makes eye contact (sometimes) while at the table, surrounded by the entire family.
That sounds-uncharitable, even in Camillo's own head. And anyway, it's more about what he doesn't do.
He doesn't avoid them at meals, and he doesn't get overwhelmed and shut down being around so many people at once. He doesn't knock on doors frames, or tables, or counters. He doesn't throw salt or sugar over his shoulder while repeating old nursery rhymes. Or stutter. Or startle. Or tense any time one of the adults looks his way. Or flinch every time one of them says his name.
Or avoid conflict.
Camilo really doesn't want to sound like he doesn't like his uncle. He does, the guy's a great guy. Loves his nephews and nieces. Loves his family.
And if he's actually doing better, great. Camilo hopes he is-he wants the man to be happy. Bruno's suffered enough already.
It's just-
He argued with Mama about Camilo's eating habits yesterday, and he argued with everyone about Dolores today. And Luisa is in the garden with Isabela instead of in town, helping everyone.
The first day they were all back, it was like nothing had changed. Camilo might have dreamed it all, if not for the addition of one weird uncle in a very old, very worn ruana to the table, drinking enough coffee to give any normal person a heart attack and working his way through breakfast as if he's never had trouble eating in his life.
And Camilo didn't miss the way the man watched them all scatter after breakfast, or the way he listened intently at dinner as everyone told pretty much the same story of how their day went that they've all been telling for as long as Camilo can remember-again as if nothing had happened.
As if they'd never lost their gifts. As if the house had never fallen. As if Bruno had never disappeared. As if Mirabel hadn't spent ten years being low-key ostracized over her lack of gift in spite of her uncle's best effort to protect her.
And Camilo was just as guilty as the rest of them. He went into town just like he always had. Spent the day shifting into other people on demand, helping with anything and everything, as if that was all he was good for.
"Scoot over." Bruno appears as if summoned, breaking into the boy's thoughts, barely waiting for Camilo to move before dropping on to the step beside him.
Camilo appreciates the interruption, even if he's already tensing in anticipation of some continuation of yesterday or even this morning. As if his uncle is here with a purpose, and isn't going to leave until he's accomplished it, and Camilo has no choice but to participate.
"I want to apologize," the man says instead, leaning back to prop his elbows against one of the steps behind them and sprawling his legs out in front of him. "About yesterday. I was trying to help, but it occurs to me that I might have embarrassed you, or put you into an uncomfortable position, either with your parents, or Mamí, or with the other kids.
Camilo shrugs. "I mean, I certainly wasn't expecting it," he says, leaning back in imitation of the man. "And my heart about when through my throat when you called me out in front of Mirabel and Antonio. But-" another shrug. "Didn't really hurt my feelings. And now I can eat what I want, so."
The man can never quite get rid of all the tension in his shoulders, no matter how much he tries, and they hunch forward the tiniest bit, almost as if on their own accord, as Bruno considers his sobrino's words.
"Still. I should have talked to you first. Maybe your parents. I know what it feels like to be called out in front of the entire family for something you can't help, and I shouldn't have done that to you."
"Well maybe next time just talk to me," he suggests, his tone casual, because while he's already gotten over it, it's clear his tío hasn't. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"You ever-" he tilts his head back, studying the ceiling way above them, trying not to look nervous. "You got your gift back, same as the rest of us, right?"
"I did." Wariness creeps into the man's tone as he answers. Out of the corner of his eye, Camilo watches as his uncle raises his own gaze heavenward.
"Has anyone asked you to see anything-to use your gift-since then?" he asks. His uncle snorts.
"No," he admits. "I'm pretty sure nobody in the village is willing to risk it, even if some of them are starting to realize that I wasn't trying to see things that would hurt them. I'm equally sure most of the family wouldn't ask either, knowing what I've been through."
Camilo nods, because he gets it. "So what do you do, then? If you aren't using your gift. Like, do you still want to help people, or..." he trails off, not sure exactly how to ask-not entirely sure what he's trying to ask.
Bruno reaches back over his head, stretching. His shoulders crack in response, as does his back, tiny little popping sounds traveling down his spine and making Camilo cringe. "Sorry," the man says, noticing his nephew's discomfort. "Luisa and I had a similar conversation yesterday. As a child I was taught I had a duty to the Encanto. A responsibility. To use my gift to help those around us." He pauses, shifts, and crosses his feet at the ankles before continuing. "Unfortunately, my gift has rarely shown me anything useful in helping the people in town. If anything, it seemed to do more harm than good.
"Maybe it was because I was just a child and couldn't control it, maybe it's because people misunderstood, or thought that my gift should be something other than what it was. I don't really know. But I tried. For decades, I tried. Because I had to. I did it because I was supposed to, and because I believed I had no other choice. I had been given a gift, and I owed it to the family, and to the people around us, to use it for good.
"For that I was hated and feared and even beaten by the very people I was trying to help." Camilo can't help but react; he knows all this, of course, but knowing it and hearing his uncle speak of it so casually are two completely different things, especially after having seen the results of just one person in the Encanto attacking him-
An elbow nudges him in the ribs, not enough to hurt, bringing him back.
"The point, Camilo, is that even if we did owe something to the Encanto, I think I've given enough. Certainly as far as my gift is concerned. And I've had enough bad experiences with the people of the town that I'm not really interested in going out and making connections and trying to help in other ways-assuming any such attempt would even be welcome. But that's me. The last month or so aside, I hadn't so much as spoken to a single soul in town for ten years.
"I do, however, have about six sobrinos who seem to think they're grown, and who also seem to need a decided amount of looking after. Never mind a couple of sisters who also seem to think they're grown, and that they don't need looking after."
"You feel responsible for us," Camilo says, voice low. Bruno shrugs.
"In that you are all, for the most part, still children, and I am an adult," he agrees. "And in that you are the children of both my sisters. And in that I have seen enough pain and suffering in my life to want to keep you safe from as many of this world's evils if I can, and to pray that none of you ever have to go through even a fraction of what I've been through, because of your gifts, or simply because life can, at times, be hard, and cruel, and unfair.
"All that aside, I love you kids with all my heart, and if I can't stand to see Antonio upset because I'm currently arguing with a rat over something that is clearly her fault, how on earth am I supposed to stand by and let any of you get hurt if there's even a chance I can do something to stop it?"
His uncle is getting emotional, and Camilo is starting to feel the same way himself, which leaves him with two choices. He can give in, and they can hug, and cry, and whatever else, and risk breaking this facade his tío has very carefully cobbled together in the wake of the miracle's return, or he can deflect.
"You apologized," he says with a laugh. "After all that, you gave in."
His uncle relaxes, and Camilo does as well. "I'm going to apologize," he corrects. "Look at how upset Antonio is. How hard he's trying to fix it. I can't stand to watch anymore. And I know Eloise. The second I apologize all will be forgiven, at least until the next time I'm forced to save her from her own poorly thought out actions. I can't decide if she's stupid, or just stubborn."
Camilo laughs along with the man, wondering if Dolores has any idea why he's been acting so weird since the miracle returned, and whether or not she would actually tell him anything if she did.
Pepa's husband finds her outside, in a small clearing near the jungle, trying to pull herself together.
She thought it was better, when the miracle returned. That she could control it.
Of course, she also thought that with Bruno back they'd all be together again, one happy family, learning from their past mistakes, building a better future for themselves and their children.
Then came all this nonsense with Camilo. Then the same with Dolores.
Except-
Except her brother isn't wrong, and Pepa has no idea how she didn't see it.
How could she have been so blind?
She's their mother-she's supposed to protect them. Instead she's been hurting them. And Antonio-
Who knows what she's missed with him. He's only five, but five years is more than enough time to screw a kid up, particularly if you're a Madrigal.
She's more like her mother than she wants to admit.
Sharp. Demanding. Stubborn.
It doesn't help that try as she might, she can't seem to make it stop raining.
"I talked to Bruno," her husband says. He hasn't appeared out of nowhere. She saw him step outside, has been watching him approach. He doesn't seem to mind that he's getting wet, but then again he's never seemed to mind a little rain-or even a hurricane. "Suggested that right or wrong, we would prefer it if he talked to us if he thinks the kids are struggling rather than taking things into his own hands. I'm pretty sure he listened."
"He was right, though." Pepa sniffles. The clouds darken.
Félix wraps an arm around her. "Entirely beside the point," he says. "Yes, Dolores was in pain. Yes, the tea helped. Did that give him the right to decide that he knew better than her parents and that he could take matters into his own hands? No."
"Except he did know better." Another sniffle. Félix sighs.
"This time, maybe. Doesn't change the fact that he should have at least talked to us first."
"Maybe he didn't think we would listen."
"We talked about that too. We're on the same side. Maybe we've made mistakes in the past, but we all want what's best for the children."
"I hurt my children." It comes out in a whisper that a sudden gust of wind nearly drowns out. Her husband, the love of her life, hears her anyway.
"We made a mistake. But you and I both know, mi amor, that he pillages the kitchen anyway, when he thinks no one's around to catch him. And that Julieta has always made a point of cooking enough food that there's something left over for between meals and then leaving it out in the kitchen for anyone to have access to."
"And Dolores?" Again, he hears her. She's not sure how-she can barely hear herself over the roar in her ears.
"I knew she was in pain when she sat down at the table, I just didn't know it was that bad," he admits.
"I knew." Pepa sniffles again. "I didn't know how to help her, and then Bruno came in with that damned tea-"
"He was careful."
"I don't want her to have to rely on it the way he did. To end up-"
"Our daughter is not going to end up like Bruno." Her husband tells her firmly. "For one thing, Bruno would never allow it." Pepa huffs at the assertion. "For another, things have changed. Dolores isn't alone. She has us, and she has her uncle, and we all know that there are downsides to the miracle. We need to make sure she knows she can come to us, if she's struggling. And remind her, most likely, as independent as that girl is. But I promise you, corazón, that she will not turn into your brother. She will not suffer as he did, not physically, not emotionally. Maybe we haven't always been there for our children like we should have, but we will be from now on."
Pepa nods, slowly, some of the weight lifting from her heart.
"Also, your nieces have been wandering around in the garden all morning, completely unfazed by the rain."
"I can't stop it."
"That's okay."
"But Mamá-"
"Your mother said something about it about half an hour ago," her husband says, eyes twinkling. "Bruno overheard and has been sitting on the front porch in protest ever since. He said, and I quote: a little water never hurt anybody, to which she replied that she seemed to remember him having a different view of the matter when he was younger-"
"He hated baths. She used to have to fight to get him in the tub." Pepa almost smiles at the memory: their mother usually ended up every bit as wet as her brother by the time she managed to get him clean.
"Anyway, he scowled, turned on his heel, and walked straight outside. Been there since. He actually might be sulking instead of protesting."
"He used to sit with me sometimes. Even though he hates being wet." Pepa recalls. "Especially when I couldn't stop it from happening. I'd try to get away from everybody, tried to at least minimize the damage, but he'd be right there beside me, talking about the different types of clouds and what kind of weather was associated with them, as if I'd never noticed that certain clouds are more likely to bring rain than others, or that thunder was simply the sound of lightning splitting the air."
"We should probably sit down with Dolores sometime. Not right now-" he assures her, squeezing her. "But we need to figure out how bad the headaches are, and whether there are any other side effects, and how we can help. And we need to make sure she understands that we're here for her." He rests his head gently on her shoulder before continuing. "We could have a similar conversation with Julieta and Augustín-Bruno too, I suppose-about your own gift, if you want. If you think it would help."
"I really don't know if it would," she admits.
"No pressure," Félix says, hugging her again. "I just want you to know that the option is there. Either way, you can always talk to me."
"I know that," she says, somehow laughing and crying at the same time, because this man loves her so much, and if there is anyone in the entire Encanto she can talk to, it's him.
A surprising number of family members are still home by the time the noonday meal rolls around, and so most of the seats are filled as Mirabel sits down at the table for lunch.
Dolores is upstairs sleeping off her headache, according to Tío Bruno, seated next to Antonio in the ruana Mirabel made for him, hair still damp in spite of Isabela's best efforts, but all the other kids are there. She is not to be disturbed for any reason, he says.
Mirabel's aunt and uncle are in their room. They both came inside and immediately headed upstairs, allegedly to talk, waving off any and all questions about why it's suddenly not only sunny, but also nearly ninety degrees outside. The rain may have stopped, but the jungle outside is steaming from the sudden change in temperature.
"Maybe give them some space too," Mirabel's father suggests, his tone mild, and Bruno nearly chokes.
Red-faced and spluttering, it takes him several minutes to regain his composure, and even when he does he refuses to so much as look in Papá's direction for the rest of the meal.
Abuela is not there, and as much as she hates thinking it, Mirabel figures maybe it's for the best. She hasn't forgotten the argument from this morning, or the disappointed glances her grandmother kept tossing Bruno's way throughout breakfast.
Bruno's here, though, and he's eating again. He's been eating so much better since the return of their gifts-seems to be doing much better overall.
He asks Luisa what she thinks of the garden, listening with interest to the reply; he's not just physically present, he's with them mentally as well, where before, when Casita was being rebuilt he had a tendency to get overwhelmed easily any time there were more than a couple of family members around.
It's reassuring, in the light of everything else, to seem him interacting with everyone, even if not every interaction has gone well. It's something, at least.
Bruno blinks and turns his head sharply away from the table, but not before Mirabel catches a flash of bright green in his eyes. Before she can even think to ask if he needs anything he's asking her whether she's decided on her next sewing project, and by then his eyes are the same hazel-green she's gotten used to, and part of her wonders if she just imagined the light in them.
He's smiling, though, and taking another bite of tamale while he waits for an answer, so she allows herself to be distracted.
Isabela corners her uncle after lunch, scissors in hand.
Specifically, scissors held precisely so he can't help but see them, and comment, so she can't lose her nerve.
Or, rather, so that even if she does lose her nerve he'll notice and bring it up herself. Then she can feign innocence, he can call her on it, and he'll help her out, because so far he's been deeply invested in this helping-his-sobrinos-live-their-best-lives thing.
He looks at her, then at the scissors, pursing his lips together, and in that moment Isabela know that he's on to her, and worse, he's not at all happy about it.
"Your mother has forgiven many things, over the past five decades," he says his tone overly casual as he reaches for a chair. "This, however? She may never speak to me again. Sit."
Isabela obeys.
"You're sure about this?" She nods. "Why me? You of all people should know that this is a bad idea. You've seen my hair."
"I just need a push," she admits. "I can do the rest, I just can't seem to take that first step."
Tío Bruno closes his eyes. Whether he's exasperated or mentally preparing himself or simply praying, Isabela doesn't know.
"I'm not going to blab," she says. "No one will know."
"Of course they will," he counters, opening his eyes and holding out his hand. "Who else would let you talk them into this?" Not that she's done much in the way of talking so far. Or that he's needed much convincing.
She hands over the scissors. A moment later she tenses against the feeling of cold metal against her neck.
"Too short?" he asks. Isabela closes her eyes. Grits her teeth.
"Do it."
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
She opens her eyes; in her peripheral vision she can see long strands of dark hair lying on the kitchen floor.
Her hair.
Her head feels strangely light in its absence.
"May God have mercy on our souls," her tío intones, returning the scissors. "Go fix that. I'll clean up here. Better to have it done and over with before anyone else finds out."
"If I'm old enough to marry against my will, I'm old enough to do what I want with my own hair," she says, though she understands completely. "Thank you."
"Make sure they bury me somewhere in the sun, when your mother kills me," he tells her solemnly. "I've spent enough of my life hiding in the shadows."
"I'll make sure the rats come visit your grave," she promises, startling a laugh out of him. Then she's gone, racing back up the stairs, eager to finish the job, trying not to think about how she will have no choice to reveal what they've done at dinner.
She won't go back to the way things were before. She can't.
Isabela and her uncle are the first to reach the table at dinner. He looks her over, motions for her to turn around, and nods in approval. "It suits you," he says.
"Thank you," she replies. "Pick out your coffin yet?"
Unfortunately the words come out of her mouth right as her father enters the room, and for a moment he is too busy trying to figure out why she would joke about such a thing to her tío, of all people (as if the man didn't have a spectacularly dark sense of humor if you caught him in the right mood), to notice her hair.
Tío Bruno hums thoughtfully, ignoring her father's arrival and his likely impending doom as he considers the question. "No need-"
"Isa. Bela." Her name, separated into two distinct parts, sends genuine waves of terror down her spine in spite of the fact that her father has not raised his voice.
"Yes?" She tries for an innocent smile and fails completely.
Her father looks from her over to her uncle. "You did this?" he asks, and her uncle's eyes widen as he, too, realizes the danger they are now in.
"I asked him to," Isabela says quickly. "I've wanted to for years, but I've always been afraid of what everyone will say, and I've been trying to get up the courage to do it since before Casita fell but couldn't, and all he did was help me get started, and-"
Her father raises his hand, and she falls silent.
"It's blue."
"I used roots and berries from a blackthorn shrub I've been growing in my room for about three years now?" she explains, chuckling nervously. She is dead. She is so dead, and her uncle is dead, very dead, possibly even more dead than she is, and it's a pity, it really is, but there's nothing either of them can do about it now-
"Is it permanent?"
"Um, kind of?"
Her father considers this. "Do not dye your cousins' hair. I don't care how much Antonio begs, or how cool Camilo thinks it looks. Pepa would murder all three of us in a heartbeat, and Bruno won't need a coffin, because they will never find our bodies. ¿Entiendes?"
Isabela blinks, then nods.
"Good. I'm going to see if your mother needs any help in the kitchen."
He turns and walks away, and it's more likely that he's going to warn Isabela's mom that she's changed her hair than it is that he thinks she actually needs help, but the moment has passed, and Isabela is still alive, and so is her uncle.
She turns to Bruno, who is looking more than a little pale.
"You didn't-" he swallows, licks his lips, and tries again. "You didn't dye either of your cousins' hair, did you?"
She stares at him. "No."
He lets out a sigh of relief. "Good."
Antonio loves her hair, and Camilo does, in fact, think it's cool. Mirabel congratulates her, insisting on hugging her, and even Luisa offers her a small smile.
Mama takes a moment to study it as she enters the room, steaming platter in hand. "Very nice," she says, not necessarily because she likes it-Isabela can immediately tell she does not-but because Tía Pepa and Tío Félix have just entered the dining area, and Abuela is only half a step behind them.
Her parents may not like what she's done to her hair, but they've decided to support her decision all the same.
Tía Pepa scowls at her outright, but Tío Félix doesn't so much as bat an eye as he sits down at the table. Abuela, on the other hand-
Abuela stares at her in horror. "What have you done to your hair?" she asks, and once again Isabela knows real, true fear.
"Blackthorn shrub," her father answers for her while all she can do is stare back at her grandmother, heart in her throat, mouth dry, unable to utter a single word. "Roots and berries?"
"The roots alone are a lighter blue?" Mirabel offers uncertainly. "You need the berries to make it bright." She hesitates before adding, "You can actually get pink from the flowers of the blackthorn too, but, uh, you have to be careful. It washes out easily."
Isabela knows all this, because Mirabel was the one she got the idea from three years ago, when her sister went through a phase of dyeing her own fabrics, and she knows her dad already knows all this because he was the one that originally introduced Mirabel to the woman that does most of that kind of work here in the Encanto.
Still. She appreciates the support.
Abuela fixes Tío Bruno with a look, one that he's received from her numerous times over the past couple days, and one which he returns full-force.
"You asked for my help," he said. "You said you wanted to change. That we, as a family needed to change. This is what change looks like."
"I'd like to know exactly how my granddaughter butchering her hair, with your help, I'm sure, helps our family." Abuela's reply is ice-cold, and Bruno winces. "She is still a child, but you knew exactly what you were doing when you agreed to help her, mijo."
Bruno takes a deep breath, letting it back out with a deliberate slowness that makes Isabela's lungs burn in sympathy.
"I would ask how it hurts the family, but I already know what you'd say," he says at last, his voice low. "It's not about the hair. The hair doesn't matter. Hair can grow back. The color will fade. If for some reason she needs to cover it, she can wear a hat, or a scarf." He takes another calming breath. "The problem is that your granddaughter is standing here, speechless, utterly terrified, all over something as trivial-as inconsequential-as the color and length of her hair."
"If the color doesn't mater, then why make such a big deal out of it?" Abuela demands. "Why change it at all?"
Bruno shakes his head, stifling a sigh. "That's-not the point. I know you, Mamí. You're worried about our reputation. What people will think. What people will say. Especially now that we have our gifts back, because in your mind we're still pillars of the community, and we still have a duty to those around us. And your oldest granddaughter running around with her hair chopped off and dyed blue doesn't fit in with your vision-pardon me-of who the Madrigals are. And the truth is, you're probably right. There are people in the Encanto who won't approve, and who will think it's irresponsible or inappropriate or whatever, and they'll probably talk, and then they'll probably come to you, worried about her reputation, worried about what other people might think, worried about what people will say. And the cycle will continue."
"But you aren't worried at all," Abuela says. "About any of it. Your niece's reputation. What people will think. What people will say."
Bruno laughs. "Why on earth would I care what anyone in that town thinks? Perdoname, I'm sure they've all grown to be lovely people, during the decade I was gone. I'm not completely oblivious, Mama. I know better than most what can happen when a person is ostracized from their community for being other. But this is hair. It only has to become a big deal if you make it into one."
Abuela considers her son for a long moment before shaking her head and taking her seat. "So help me Bruno, if you come to breakfast with blue hair just to prove your point-"
He laughs. Abuela shakes her head again but doesn't finish, and some of the tension dissipates. Not all of it, but just enough that Isabela feels like she can breathe again.
"I'll shave his head for you if he does," Tía Pepa offers dryly. Félix will hold him down."
Félix shrugs, accepting the part his wife has assigned him in this imagined scenario. "Sorry, hermano."
Bruno grins as he digs into his plate. "You'd have to catch me first," he declares, and Mirabel snorts.
Augustín ends up at the piano after dinner. No sheet music, none of the usual favorites, just him improvising, his hands graceful in a way the rest of him will never be as they dance across the piano, giving insight to the man's innermost thoughts to those who know him best.
Julieta knows, and so she sits close by as the music ranges from agitato to pesante to lamentoso to risoluto, all of it beautiful, all of it pulling at the heartstrings of anyone close enough to hear.
Félix too, knows. He sits farther away, giving both Augustín and his wife space while still close enough to offer support if needed.
The children linger as well, though they only know that the man is playing, and they enjoy listening. Pepa, too, lingers, and Félix is almost certain it's for the same reason.
Pepa and Augustín have never been particularly close.
The music eventually draws in Bruno as well, the man settling down between Mirabel and Camilo and allowing Antonio to clamber up into his lap, and Félix wonders if the other man knows that when troubled, Augustín turns to the piano, his fingers striking keys in an almost painfully intimate reflection of his thoughts.
Félix loses track of how long they sit there listening, but eventually Augustín comes back to himself enough to realize he has an audience. Without missing a beat he switches gears, playing all the old standbys without prompting, taking requests here and there, and throwing in the occasional musical joke.
The evening passes by quickly-far too much so for some-but by the end of it a lot of the tension that has been brewing of the last couple days, particularly between the adults, has started to dissipate. Most of the family is relaxed, and happy, and cheerful as the kids start to rouse themselves and head up to bed.
Antonio is first, and rather than wake him from where he's fallen asleep in Bruno's lap the man engages in the slightly awkward process of wrangling the unconscious boy into Pepa's arms. The glance the two exchange over Antonio's curly hair as they manage it is fond, a reminder that in spite of his most recent shortcomings Bruno loves their son very much, just as he loves all his sobrinos.
Privately though, Félix wonders if Antonio might be Bruno's favorite.
Mirabel and Camilo are the next to leave, both yawning as they make their way upstairs, followed shortly by Dolores, then Isabella.
Luisa seems content to simply sit and listen to her father play. If her mother's noticed she's still up, she doesn't seem to mind. The way Augustín is currently working his way through all the girl's favorites, however, is clear if unspoken permission for her to remain.
Bruno lingers as well, head tilted back, eyes a bit unfocused as he stares at the ceiling, fingers tapping out a rhythm that almost matches their brother-in-law's playing.
It's late when Augustín calls over his shoulder "Bruno?"
The man startles only to immediately look sheepish, but does not seem to understand. He tenses when Augustín's playing slows, then pauses, and the man turns to look at him.
"Can I play anything for you?" Augustín asks, and Bruno blinks.
It takes him a few seconds to recover, and while he does the other man simply waits, posture relaxed even as he sits half-poised, ready to play as soon as Bruno gives the word.
Bruno blushes, ducking his head. "I don't remember-"
He hums a few notes, his expression less than hopeful, but Augustín has always had a fantastic memory where music is concerned, rarely forgetting a piece once learned. He's also, Félix recalls, the sort of person to take note of a song, once asked for, making sure he can play it should the same request be made again.
Augustín hums the same handful of notes, eyes closed in thought. A moment later he turns back to the piano and begins to play.
Bruno closes his eyes, his head falling back against the couch once more, fingers tapping against his leg in time with the music. The man almost looks relaxed, his shoulders loosening and coming down out of that not-quite perpetual hunch they're used to.
After, Augustín returns to his musing. His playing becomes thoughtful, almost pensive. Félix exchanges a glance with Julieta as he stands, yawns, and wishes everyone good night.
Luisa, half asleep herself, rouses enough to do the same, half stumbling up the stairs while Félix pauses to consider Bruno.
The man opens his eyes to meet Félix's gaze. He then looks around, over at Augustín, then to his sister.
"Right," he says. "It's, uh, late. Should be getting to bed. Good night, everyone."
Félix shakes his head as he follows the man upstairs, partially in amusement, partly in what is admittedly a fond sort of exasperation. The man may be a bit rough around the edges, but there's no doubt that he loves this family, and that he wants what's best for them.
Author's Note: I love writing fanfiction for this movie. Absolutely love the characters-they're all so relatable, and it's easy to understand where they're coming from, even if you don't always agree with everything they do. They did such a good job of making these characters feel real, and I really hope I do them justice, because I absolutely adore this world and the people in it.
Disclaimer: Disney's Encanto does not belong to me.