Chapter Text
"Incluso cuando soplan los vientos de la desgracia, todavía pueden ocurrir cosas asombrosas.”**
- Gabriel García Márquez
When Agustín saw the vision, bright green and luminous and very poorly concealed, he felt as though the world had dropped from beneath him.
He hadn’t seen one of Bruno’s visions in a decade - possibly longer.
Agustín had always understood that the visions weren’t fully controllable, that they sometimes appeared without intent or warning, that there was nothing Bruno could do about them. They often came on quickly, the only warning being the sudden appearance of a headache; he remembered his cuñado describing them as uncomfortable.
He knew from his observations that it was likely an inadequate descriptor. Even in the early days when he’d been but a stranger to the Madrigal home – he would find out later from Pepa that Alma had, on more than one occasion, called him Julieta’s ‘desperate suitor’ – he could see a vision coming. Bruno would become listless and unfocused; would appear as though the light was an aggravation. He’d pinch the bridge of his nose and mumble quick undulating phrases.
Agustín knew from his wife – from dear, loving Julieta – that it was worse than he’d observed, that sometimes his headaches – migraines – would last for days accompanied by fever and nausea so unrelenting that he’d be bed bound.
Julieta had once shared a theory: that it was Bruno’s resistance that made the attacks so severe. In the years before his disappearance, Bruno had become hesitant and less willing to utilize his gift at anyone’s behest. In those same years Bruno suffered some of the worst of attacks Agustín had ever witnessed in their knowing of each other.
He could remember one particularly terrible one. He remembered hearing his cuñado fall to the ground, remembered feeling guilty for not having noticed the signs - pinched expression, shallow breathing, a cold sweat - remembered the thrill of fear that had flooded his body when he’d seized.
Julieta had cried that night.
She had waited until they were alone, until after Bruno had recovered and their children had gone to sleep, and cried. She had never seen him that poorly – none of them had – and, pained and frightened for her brother, Julieta admitted what she suspected had caused it.
Agustín remembered feeling sick over it, over the fact that Alma had been haranguing Bruno to provide insight into Mirabel’s gift for months. He hadn’t known anything of it. He hadn’t even suspected it. It had come up only once and they had quickly refused to recruit Bruno in such a manner; neither of them wanted to know a thing about what was to come, not for Mirabel. They were content letting the future unfold on its own.
Agustín remembered burning with frustration, with anger. He had never been an angry man, but he believed in standing up for what he believed was right. What she had done had not been right. Surely, she had known – just as Julieta and Pepa, Agustín and Felix had – that the more she asked of Bruno, the more she made her request known, the more fervently the future knocked, demanding an answer.
It was as though the future itself could sense desperation, that by putting the same question into universe over and over and over again forced the hands of time.
Apparently, it had happened a time or two before, though never so dramatically or with such consequence to Bruno’s health. In their youth Pepa had been unrelenting and, in her desire to know if Félix was indeed going to propose, she had badgered her brother for days. On the fourth day the future came knocking and Bruno had a vision – the vision.
It was good news, wonderful news and the siblings rejoiced; any annoyance or discomfort or pain Bruno may have felt seemed to wilt under the weight of the joy he had felt for his sister.
Knowing Alma had so thoroughly transgressed against their and Bruno’s wishes had been a hard thing to bear, to forgive. He had been silently angry for days.
“I didn’t … didn’t see anything, if you’re wondering.” Bruno had said as though he had failed, and it had hurt Agustín to even look at him. He’d nodded, swallowed tightly. He must have looked disappointed because the other man floundered, continued.
“Well, not nothing, I did see something. It was just … it … I’m not sure what it was.”
“I’m sorry I can’t show you.” Bruno had muttered as though he’d failed. His spontaneous visions had never produced anything tangible, but Agustín hadn’t been expecting one.
“Hermano –“ He’d started but Bruno had shaken his head; he clearly hadn’t wanted to discuss it further, had wanted to forget it had happened in the first place.
Agustín had likely had the thought before in some vague, nebulous iteration, but looking at Bruno as he was then - small, tired, dejected – he thought with absolute clarity that, perhaps for Bruno, his gift wasn’t actually a gift.
He would never mention it to Julieta, how that thought blossomed and twisted into concern for Mirabel, a mere two weeks from receiving her don.
They had both noticed it, Alma’s stiffness, the tension in her features, as the day drew closer. It hadn’t been so with Camilo mere months before. Agustín wasn’t sure what had changed, what could have possessed her to go against their will. Had she perceived something different about Mirabel? The idea had pained him. He knew it had pained his wife as well, but they moved forward and tried to forgive for the sake of their daughter who’s excitement grew with each passing day.
And then the day had come. That day.
It had been agony, watching his daughter’s expression fall as the magic slid down the wall like water. It had been indescribable, hearing his daughter cry and cry, unreachable by words of comfort or reason or distraction because she was five years old.
They loved her as intentionally as they could. They tried hard to make sure she understood that they loved her – gift or no gift – and it seemed to stick, to be enough. Still, enough was hard to gauge in the face of magic and, in darker moments – moments were Julieta cried for Bruno, moments where Luisa quietly withdrew, or Isabella fought with Mirabel – he wondered whether they had failed.
That day had been the start of a new chapter for the Madrigal family, even if it went unspoken.
They’d moved on with aplomb.
They’d ignored the blank space where the door should have been, where Mirabel should have appeared in beautiful, gilded wood.
They’d shown up the next day, like clockwork, to aid the villagers with their quotidian.
They’d taken dinner that first night and listened, in silence, as Abuela Alma broke the news: Bruno has left us.
They’d grieved in privacy.
Pepa with her thunder and lightning. Félix with diminished gusto, trying to wrangle two confused children – one who could look just like Bruno and had done so to try to comfort his mother, and one who had gone completely silent.
Julieta with her deep, painful sobs and Agustín with an ugly pain in his chest and watery eyes, his mind scrambling to make the connection. Mirabel and Bruno. Agustín had always assumed, always believed that there was a connection, but Abuela Alma had been unmoving.
They would not talk about her son, he who had abandoned them.
They would not talk about Bruno.
They would not talk about that day.
So, when Agustín saw the vision etched on glass and glowing as though it had been freshly divined, he felt as though the world had dropped from beneath him.
Agustín was both a forgiving man and a loving one. He loved Abuela Alma very much and he had forgiven her for her thoughtlessness that night, but it was not without effort that he extended such grace.
In the fallout, after the relief and joy and surprise, he had found himself unsettled.
Indeed, Mirabel had made it back to them unharmed – and he could have cried at the sight, so frightened had he been – with Abuela Alma at her side. Yes, miraculously, Bruno had returned to them, his affect surprisingly familiar and true despite the years that had passed.
But, in the quiet of their first night outside of their ruined Casita, spread across the church that had been made available to them for as long as required, old hurts seemed to flutter to the surface.
More than once he’d had to insist that Luisa – wonderful, incredible Luisa – enjoy the relative peace of the night. There was naught to do but rest until morning, he had assured her, but still, he could see the eager twitch of her muscles and the disappointed upturn of her brow.
He had complimented Isabella’s dress, told her that she had never looked more herself. She had smiled and it had been genuine, but he could see something waver in her expression, an uncertainty. A pain. It had been hard to miss the glance she had cast to her right, towards her Abuela.
He had told Mirabel, over and over, that he was proud of her. He said so until she laughed and with some exasperation claimed that she knew that already. Agustín said it again for good measure when she lay down to sleep, Antonio tucked into her arms; yo sé, pá, she had said through his curls.
Agustín knew it to be a natural thing; there were decades of hurt between them. They’d all been hurt, had done some of the hurting, had suffered loudly or in silence.
In silence.
Bruno had always been exceedingly talented when it came to fading into the background and it was with some shame that he realized that he had lost track of the man.
He surveyed the great hall and its line of pews, its alcoves. Most of the family had laid their borrowed sleeping rolls near the pulpit, or in the first row of pews, all except Alma who had been offered an old but comfortable cot.
Agustín looked around again, hands of his hips - surely, he would have spotted his cuñado. For a moment he feared that it had happened again. That Bruno was gone. He swallowed heavily – Julieta would never recover. Mirabel would be devastated, would likely do everything she could to find her tío.
He didn’t want to raise the alarm, so he walked down the aisle, eyes trying to catch at least a glimpse of unruly, wavy hair or a swatch of green.
Agustín looked back towards his wife, hoping she wouldn’t catch on to his private moment of panic. Even from his place in the middle of the church he could see that she was exhausted, that she hadn’t seen him slip away.
Julieta – his Julieta - was helping her mamá onto the cot, bracing her elbow with the same tenderness he had fallen in love with. He smiled, still lovesick even after all these years, and turned back to his quiet task.
He continued forward, his footsteps as light as he could manage. The vaulted ceilings were cacophonous, and it wouldn’t do to disturb anyone with his lumbering.
He had nearly reached the end when he jolted mid-stride.
There, in one of the last pews, was Bruno.
He was asleep, that much was evident. He was laid out on the bench on his side, his forehead pressed against the backrest and his arms curled inwards, gripping his ruana tight around his body.
Another talent: Bruno had a knack for making himself look even smaller than he already was. Agustín couldn’t imagine that it was a comfortable place to sleep, not without something to soften the unyielding wood. Not without a blanket to fight the chill natural to such a vacuous space.
Bruno didn’t look particularly bothered. He was asleep. He had likely wandered over with neither word nor fuss, laid down and simply closed his eyes.
Agustín was overtaken by a sudden sadness.
“Ay, Bruno –“ He muttered to himself, too quiet to disturb the man before or the family behind him.
He hated that his cuñado had felt the need to isolate himself, that he had managed to do so. They weren’t yet used to including him in their familial count, and, exhausted as they were, it had likely been an easy oversight.
For as long as he’d known Bruno – decades, now – the man had been introverted, bordering on reclusive. Julieta had told him early in their courting that he hadn’t always been that way, but Agustín couldn’t imagine it. He only knew this Bruno. The one that didn’t want to bother anyone. The one that was gentle and kind and quiet. The one that could disappear for ten years without disappearing at all.
The one that would rather be forgotten than to ask for anything at all.
Agustín considered the other man for another short moment before turning back towards where the rest of the family had settled; he could hear soft snores and it stilled some of his anxiety, soothed a bit of his grief.
Julieta, no longer occupied with her mother or their children, furrowed her brow as he drew close. They had laid out their rolls side by side, next to their daughters. He could see the question in her gaze as she smoothed a blanket.
“Bruno – “ He started but did not finish for Julieta gasped, hand flying to her chest as though he’d rent fresh grief from her very being. She had been distracted. She had had forgotten.
He could see the pain of the realization build in her very tired eyes.
“Agustín, where –“ She said in a pained whisper as she stood with speed that belied their age. She, like Mirabel, would run through the town, into the forests surrounding the Encanto, to find her brother.
Agustín grasped her hands, stilling her increasingly frantic motions.
“Shh, shh, mi amor, he is fine. I just wanted to grab a blanket for him.” Her relief was palpable. Her shoulders dropped, releasing their tension and the panic left her eyes. Still, she frowned.
“Where is he?” She asked quietly, eyes searching for her brother.
Agustín pursed his lips, gesturing towards where he’d found him.
Julieta gave a short nod as her hands worried over the blanket she had just folded. He put his hand on his lower back, walked her forward; the next few weeks, months, would be long for all of them.
Bruno was in the same position he’d initially found him, curled tight in his ruana.
“Hermano.” Julieta sounded heartbroken. They still hadn’t fully processed his return. None of them had.
Julieta moved forward quietly, doing her best not to disturb her brother; Agustín imagined it was unlikely. Bruno had looked so terribly tired. Agustín pulled a the bottom of the blanket as she pulled the top over her brother.
He gave no sign of having noticed their intrusion, even as she tucked the blanket above his shoulder. With the task complete, Julieta looked lost.
“Ven,” Agustín said, low and gentle, as he offered his hand to his wife, “you need your sleep too, cariño.”
She nodded and gave her brother one final, long look before turning to Agustín, hand extended and reaching.
“How is mamá?” He whispered as they walked back to their makeshift beds.
“Tired. We all are.”
The short walk was enough to make him feel it. He was tired. He was ready to lay down and allow the day and its events to draw to a close.
He imagined he would have fallen asleep as soon as he laid down, just as Bruno likely had, but Pepa intercepted them looking slightly frantic.
“Have either of you seen Bruno?” She said, trying to keep her voice down. Félix was close behind, always ready to support his wife, to support the family. They had been occupied tending to Camilo. He had hurt his wrist during Casita’s collapse – only a sprain Julieta had said with relief – but they had been careful to ensure they wrapped it appropriately. They weren’t used to injuries they couldn’t treat with the aid of an arepa.
“Sí, he’s fine, he’s sleeping.” Julieta said as she reached for her sister’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Pepa’s expression fell, just as Julieta’s had; she undoubtedly felt the same guilt for only now having addressed the realization that her brother wasn’t with the rest of the family.
“We didn’t want to wake him just to make him move.” Agustín said as he unrolled the blanket over Julieta’s bed, prepared the space for her.
“Move?” Félix questioned just as Agustín gestured to the front of the church. Félix clicked his tongue, a sharp tsk meant to convey sympathy.
“He may have thanked you for it. He’s going to be hurting tomorrow.” Félix shook his head as he took Pepa’s hand, guided her down; if he didn’t help her settle down it was very possible that she wouldn’t. Once she had begun to worry it could become difficult to pull her from the tides of her concern.
“Pfft –“ Agustín exhaled, “we all know Bruno is the most limber of us. You should worry about yourself, hermano.”
“Hmm.” Was all Félix offered in return.
Agustín liked to think he knew the other man well. They loved each other as blood brothers, had raised children side-by-side, discussed los dones without ever saying los dones. He was rather confident, then, that Félix hadn’t really been worried about Bruno’s back.
They shared a long look as they settled down, the weight of the day seeming to settle as heavily as their fatigue.
The children were safe. The family was safe. Their home could be rebuilt.
The rest – the minutiae and planning and those still unknown complications – could wait for the morning.
Agustín looked over the space before him. Mirabel and Antonio were cuddled together with Luisa laying back to back with her sister. Isabella was spread out next to her, limbs cast in every direction. Camilo had chosen the most frontal pew, laying on his back with one arm hanging off – a position only the youth could afford in the morning. Abuela Alma was, as far as Agustín could tell, asleep on her back, hands folded delicately on her stomach. Dolores, who had been noticeably straining to listen for things she could no longer hear had chosen to a spot close to the cot.
Agustín heaved a sigh and gave the front of the church a final glance before leaning down to kiss his wife’s cheek, pulling her into his arms for the night.
“Te quiero mucho, mi vida.” He said into her hair as he closed his eyes, eager to rest.
The morning found him and Mirabel first.
His youngest had always been an early riser. She had been the child awake and waiting every morning before dawn, the one who, as she’d grown older, knocked on the other’s doors, accompanied them into town for early errands.
It wasn’t until recently – the last forty-eight hours – that Agustín wondered if, perhaps, it wasn’t just a matter of being a ‘hardworker’, or ‘helpful’.
Being a part of the Madrigal family was a complicated thing. He was overjoyed to be part of the family, loved each member so deeply that it was a pain in his heart when the smallest misfortune crossed anyone’s path.
However, it came with the unique challenge of managing gifts, magic that exceeded the comprehension of most of humankind’s lived experience.
As he watched his daughter rise from her sleeping roll, nuzzle Antonio, and stretch, eager to greet a new day, he felt a swell of pride. He had always been proud of Mirabel, but, in light of recent events, his heart only continued to swell.
“Miraboo.” He whispered into the lightening space. He gave her a wink as he rose which she returned with a brilliant smile. She pointed at the door to the covert with her lips – he knew she intended to get a start on coffee and a light breakfast for the family.
He weaved carefully around his sleeping family. No one moved and he latently wondered if losing your donwas physically taxing. They all looked liable to sleep for a week. The only one who hadn’t such an excuse was Félix. Agustín knew he would be unlikely to stir until Pepa awoke; he would hold her, content, until then.
“Buenos días, hija.” He greeted her with open arms. Mirabel leaned into the hug; it was uncountable, the moments between the collapse of Casita and now, that he thanked Díos, the Encanto, the magic and whatever may remain of it, for keeping his daughter safe.
“Buenos días, pá.” She said warmly before turning back to the kettle before her; she seemed to be vibrating with energy.
“Ready to get the day started, I see.” Agustín observed, moving forward to help. The kettle was small, meant for the few members of the church that utilized the small kitchen. It would take them some time to prepare enough for twelve people, though he wasn’t keen on giving Toñito coffee.
“It’s going to be a busy day!” She whirled around, skirt nipping at her ankles. Agustín wanted to tell her to slow down, but he understood that this was Mirabel working through all they had been through. He wouldn’t get in her way, but he would certainly help alleviate some of the work she had already tasked for herself.
“Well, let’s get it started.”
Together they set to work. They brewed the coffee and pulled – con permiso, of course – plates and drinking cups from the cupboards. Agustín had been grateful to see that el Padre had left pandebono in a chunga-woven basket on the counter at some dark and early hour. He knew that Julieta would not be able to relax and ease into the new day if she woke to the realization that they may go without that morning.
The morning preparations were a welcome distraction and gave him some time with his daughter. When he poked his head into the church’s great hall he found, to his surprise, that his family only seemed to be at the cusp of waking – small movements and barely there changes in breathing patterns.
“Looks like its going to be a late start.” Agustín chuckled when he returned to Mirabel’s side, helped her move the last of the cups to the long table in the garden.
Mirabel frowned but continued to set the table.
“Do you … what if …” She, too, seemed to be grappling with the possibility that the loss of Casita and the Madrigal magic had impacted the family. Unlike Agustín, however, she looked fearful.
“They’re going to be okay, right?” She paused, plate held hovering over a spot. She wasn’t used to such a sluggish start. None of them were.
“No te preocupes –“ He started, doing his best to fill his words with something warm and comforting, “I think they are adjusting, that’s all.”
“Right, right –“ Mirabel nodded, reorienting herself and adopting her familiar optimism; something about it made Agustín feel a pinch of sadness.
“ – they’re adjusting –“ Mirabel poured herself a cup of coffee and then took a bite of pandebono.
“ – we have to help them adjust –“ She said, chewing and talking all at the same time.
“Mirabel.” He huffed fondly. Whenever she put her mind to work, adopted a new goal, her mind seemed to operate at a speed unrivaled by the rest of her person. Stopping to chew and swallow was hardly a priority.
“ – lo siento – “ she mumbled as she swallowed another bite and continued, unperturbed by the soft correction.
“ – it can’t be easy, right? –“ Agustín agreed. It couldn’t be easy. Though they had begun to work toward healing old wounds, there was work yet to do. Most of the Madrigal family had known life with a gift. It wouldn’t be so easy to sooth the rough edges left behind by such a loss. Regardless of what the nature of the magic, the don really was, it still played a role in their identities.
Agustín couldn’t imagine it for himself, but the closest approximation he could come up with was losing a limb, losing sight or hearing. Having never been dotado, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to understand it.
“ – and, and this will be tío Bruno’s first morning with us since –“ Maribel’s expression dropped again and Agustín couldn’t help but follow her lead.
“ – and I want it to be perfect, pá –“
He didn’t know – hadn’t yet asked – what had happened over the past days. To Augustin’s understanding, she had gone to the market and returned without complication, had helped them prepare for Antonio’s ceremony, and then had –
– had decided to search for one of Bruno’s visions – the last vision, she had said – before disappearing, reappearing, and disappearing once more after the frightening collapse of their Casita.
Then she had returned with Bruno, someone who had not been seen in ten years. She had returned with a warm smile and love for her tío, a man she had hardly been able to remember.
He had not yet voiced the fear he had felt the day before, but, as he watched Alma shout at his daughter, and as he watched Mirabel yell at her Abuela, he had been certain that history was repeating itself.
He had witnessed similar confrontations between Bruno and Alma, though Bruno had never been so bold. His hurt had almost always been communicated via withdrawal. He would stand there and listen. In a motion of self-comfort, he’d brace his left arm with his right, a habit from childhood. He’d raise objection if he could, if he felt it was worth defending and, ultimately, would be silenced again.
After that he would make himself scarce. His sisters and cuñados always tried to follow-up but, over time, he became more adept at hiding and they became more distracted with their children.
Agustín had watched helplessly, terror gripping his heart as he thought: just like Bruno.
And then she had run. She had run away after the collapse of Casita, their home. She had run away from them.
Words spoken in anger, in frustration the day before rose like an echo, unexpected.
Think of the family!
I was thinking about my daughter.
Agustín shook the memories away, smiled, trying to lighten the mood.
“It will be perfect, Miraboo. We have you at the helm.” She gave him a weak smile as her gaze flickered over the table and Agustín knew his daughter well enough to understand she wasn’t just worried about breakfast, about Bruno’s first morning with them in a literal decade.
“Pá, can I … ask you a question?”
“Of course.” He said easily, all while internally bracing himself; she’d been through enough and he wasn’t sure he’d have the answers she needed, deserved.
“Did anyone know why tío Bruno left? Did you?”
Agustín hadn’t expected this to be the question. He also hadn’t expected the raw look of hurt as she asked it.
If he were being honest with himself, he had never delved too deeply on theories that addressed why Bruno may have left. His cuñado had been at the height of his introversion then, had become more and more reclusive. He’d become withdrawn, quiet.
Agustín had always assumed that he had not been able to bear the weight, the burden of his gift. That he could no longer stand to deliver prophecies that were so poorly received. Though his disappearance had surprised – devastated – him, he assumed the man had believed it to be the only way to protect himself from such terrible responsibility.
He assumed Bruno had seen no other way to escape the increasing demands put upon him by his mother.
He had never voiced this opinion to his Julieta, but he had to Félix, and was met with agreement. They both understood Abuela Alma in a way that was unique to only them; they had once been outsiders, strangers.
So, sometimes they could see what the others – the triplets, the children – could not.
They could see the lines that were crossed and the little pains that were pushed down and away. They could see miscommunication and the sadness under easy smiles. They could see the weight, the isolation. The misunderstandings.
It had been easy to assume why Bruno had left.
But then …
… the vision.
He still didn’t know what to make of it. He hadn’t known it existed in the first place, or that Bruno had looked into the future before his disappearance. He hadn’t known that Bruno had seen … Mirabel.
Agustín took a thoughtful breath, hummed in contemplation.
“I didn’t, and I still don’t know, mija – “ He shook his head uncertain how to explain how something so terribly devastating had been treated with so little care. They had all just moved on.
“ – but, I think that is something we should wait to ask him, now that he’s –“ Agustín had thought that this was the best, most tactful answer, but Mirabel cut him off with a shake of her head, hands ringing her cup.
“He left because of me.”Agustín’s first instinct was to console her, to tell her that that wasn’t true, that Bruno himself would not endorse or appreciate such an assessment. However, the conviction in her voice made his pause.
She hadn’t asked if it was because of her. She had stated so.
For one moment, he worried that Bruno had said something to her. That he had said that to her.
Guilt flooded him rather immediately. Despite the way they all seemed to talk about Bruno – in negatives and fear and warnings - Agustín knew better. The Bruno he knew would never say something like that.
“Abuela asked him to look into the future, my future, when I didn’t –“ Agustín felt a strong rush of surprise run through him, settling in his gut as she paused, the words sinking between the both of them.
He hadn’t known.
He hadn’t known that she had done it again, that she had asked Bruno to investigate something they had expressly requested be left alone.
The news was shocking, and he was trying to process it quickly.
“ – when I didn’t get a gift.” She finished; he could see how much it hurt her.
With this information, it was relatively easy to put the pieces together. He’d seen the vision, had seen Mirabel standing front and center in front of Casita, caught in an unending cycle of shattering and repairing.
At first, he had been too shocked by the mere presence of the thing to consider the content. He’d stood slack-jawed, the scene a veritable shock to his person. Then Mirabel had explained her own interpretation – something he had learned early in his knowing of Bruno to be a fool’s endeavor – and they had become caught up in the panic of a secret poorly kept.
With the newfound clarity of a danger put to rest, with their sleeping family, whole and safe in the next room over, he could afford to think about the implication of what he’d seen. Of what she was saying.
His cuñado – her tío Bruno – had indeed left, but not because of her, rather it had all been for her.
Agustín took a sudden breath, a quick stuttering thing. Years of guilt rising. Years of grief for his wife, for the loss of a man he had loved deeply, seemed to reveal themselves with the permission afforded by finallyunderstanding.
He had been trying to spare his daughter from experiencing all that he himself had suffered. He had been trying to prevent her ostracization, her mistreatment at the hands of her own Abuela – intentional or not.
Agustín could – and always would – remember the conflict that had arisen between Abuela Alma and his daughter just before Casita’s collapse. It had been ugly and cruel and painful to witness. A small part of him would remember it and fail, again and again, to fully forgive it.
Bruno – for all his perceived lack of skill in interpreting the future – had known exactly what would have happened had he shared the vision
You have to stop, Mirabel, Abuela Alma had said before, Bruno left because of you, followed by, I don’t know why you weren’t given a gift, but it is not an excuse to hurt this family.
She had shouted at his daughter loud enough to attract his and Julieta’s attention from another room; he had felt dread then, remembering the multiple small disagreements she and Bruno had had a decade earlier.
But Mirabel had argued back, had defended her tío, their family –
Don’t you ever –
Abuela Alma hadn’t the opportunity to finish, a crack in the foundation splitting under her feet.
Bruno hadn’t left because of her. He had left for her.
And.
Bruno had been right.
“Mirabel, hija –“ He started, his voice low and tired and sympathetic. He hated what his daughter had been through, and he hated that he hadn’t seen the full impact. He had always tried to do his best to support her, to bond with her in his own quiet way, an acknowledgment of the fact that neither of them possessed a don.
She sniffed against impending tears and he reached across the table, grasped in his daughter’s hand, pulling it gently from the cup; she’d had it in a death grip.
“I – I know it’s not my fault, but –“ She looked up at him and he nodded encouragingly. This was good, this was important, even if it caused them grief. They had to put the days of stuffing their emotions away behind them.
“ – but I can’t help feel like … like it is.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a compulsion.
He remembered her fast and anxious explanation when he’d discovered the vision, that she thought the magic was dying because of her.
“Oh, Mira –“ He said as he squeezed her hand, heart aching for her. She was far too young to bear such a concern, to have born all that she had for so long.
And he knew, considering all they had been through, it was a valid concern. She had grown up listening to her family, her Abuela, casually slander the name of her own uncle. She had grown up believing, understanding, that it was Bruno himself who caused bad things to happen, not that they were simply destined to.
They had all lived for the sake of others, certain that a single moment of rest would doom an entire village.
Blame – projected or internalized - had been a natural part of their family’s attempt to grappled with the weight of unbearable talent and power, of their inability to counter every misfortune and woe.
“You are right in that it was, is not your fault –“
“ – we are all responsible for our own actions. You know this. Could you make Isabella do anything she didn’t want to do?”
Mirabel huffed at that, rolled her eyes.
“No. But –“ Mirabel shook her head, raised her arms in frustration, pulling her own from his grasp, “ – but that’s the point! Haven’t we all been doing things we don’t want to do?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s more … complicated than that.” It felt rather meaningless in the face of her confusion, her frustrations. How did one talk about such things with their own daughter, with a child without …
It would be hard to discuss such nuance without disclosing the faults of their family, of her Abuela and her mother and Bruno and himself, and Agustín was not willing to be the one to unintentionally sway his daughter toward resentment.
He was unhappy with what Abuela Alma had done, yes. He was still angry and hurt. But what he wasn’t was resentful.
“Mirabel,” He reached out again, pulling her fidgeting hands back towards him, “do you blame Abuela for what happened?”
He felt her hands tense under his as her eyes widened, her glasses slipping.
“No, of course not!” She was appalled by the idea; any of them would be. No matter what they may have said in moments of anger, of hurt, or sheer stupidity, not a single member of their family would in their heart – cast such genuine blame.
It hurt Agustín to know that they had been so loose and frequent with their blame of Bruno. They had all transgressed terribly and owed him more than apologies; they had to show him that they understood how poorly they had acted, how unjust they had been.
But, in those quiet moments that one of them broke and decided to talk about Bruno, there was always regret.
Félix – his greatest confidante, fellow musician, drinking partner - would shake his head in an unusual display of mourning, loosened by aguardiente, and lament: sometimes, hermano, I wish I could have stopped him from leaving.
Pepa, who had always been the most vocally disparaging – she misses him, Félix would explain whenever she was being particularly cruel – would thunder and lightning and weep over memories that would rise like the wind. The last instance he could recall had been caused an errant comment about Camilo’s ruana; he was sure his sobrino didn’t know, but it had been a gift from Bruno. Agustín could remember Pepa critiquing the size of it, to which Bruno had replied, he’ll grow into it, hermana. He’d been smiling when he said it.
Julieta … everyday was filled with regret and grief, both small and large. On her busiest days it was a small thing – a frown over the word hermano, or a glance towards his pale, deadened door. On her worst days it was pain – weeping that would overcome her for no reason at all, a sudden waking from a dream in which she’d seen him, sleep evading her for the remainder of that night.
Even their children would, on some rare occasion, make mention before feebly looking away, feeling shame for having forgotten themselves and the unspoken rule.
Agustín had always known better.
Their unkindness had often come from a place of fear. Sometimes, looking at Bruno had been like looking into a mirror. He had always been himself, nothing more and nothing less; it had been easy, at times, to project personal fears and failures and woes onto the least understood of the family.
“No!” Mirabel repeated, appalled, disgusted. “Abuela, what she has been through, it was terrible. I – I was angry and I was wrong about what I said before when Casita … no, I could never blame her –“
Agustín nodded as he squeezed her hands, halting her tirade.
“Yes, yes, I know. Yo sé, but that is exactly my point.” Mirabel’s jaw shut as she breathed in, still holding tears at bay.
“Tío Bruno would never blame you for what happened –“ He said sternly as he looked into her eyes; she had to understand this, “ – he would be just as upset as you are now if he knew you blamed yourself.”
“How do you know?” Mirabel’s voice had dropped again into something worn.
“I know your tío, Mirabel. Believe it or not, but your tío and I … we were close, before. We still are, and I know it will take time for everyone to adjust. But your tío –“
Agustín had to pause. It was so clear now, how much Bruno had cared for his daughter. He felt his eyes threaten to overspill; still, he smiled.
“ – he loves you.”
Mirabel nodded even as her face reddened and her eyes shimmered, overflowed. She huffed, laughed, and rolled her eyes as she reached up with one hand to wipe at her eyes. She’d been carrying such a terrible sense of blame and he hoped this was cathartic, that she was forgiving herself for her perceived role.
Agustín reached forward to wipe away another errant tear.
“Oh, Mira.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Really.” She sniffed and gave a heavy sigh; she looked somewhat lighter, was no longer vibrating with anxious energy.
“I know. So, what do you say we see if we can’t get everyone up and ready for breakfast? We can’t let them sleep all day.”
“Sure, but you can wake Isabella –“ She laughed as they stood and cleared their own cups.
Agustín smiled, made a show of looking frightened – his eldest was a night owl, despite all her attempts to act otherwise.
“Ay, Mirabel! Que horror …” She threw her hands up as though it couldn’t be helped. They both turned to walk with each other, to walk towards the new day, when Mirabel turned quickly, colliding with him.
Agustín let out a small huff of air, taken by surprise.
“Gracias, pá.” She said as she hugged him.
He hugged back, tightly.
He was so very grateful.
Bruno did not join them for breakfast.
This was not because he didn’t want to. Rather, the man slept through it.
Julieta had gone to wake her brother and had found him in the exact position in which he’d fallen asleep. She’d given him a terribly fond look and clucked her tongue as she shooed a curious Antonio away. The child had taken a fast liking to his ‘new’ tío and had, upon waking, immediately asked after him.
His absence was noticed but they were all simply grateful that Bruno was there to begin with, that he was getting the rest he clearly needed. Abuela Alma reserved a plate for her son, covering it with a cloth, before checking on him herself.
When she returned, they got to work. Their short morning consisted mostly of planning and talking to villagers who had the appropriate skillsets that would allow them to tackle the months ahead. It wasn’t particularly laborious. They were trying to ease into it, to allow themselves the time to recover from the loss of the magic, the gifts, their old home. It was a morning mostly spent over cooling cups of coffee and quiet conversations.
Lunchtime came and there was still no sign of Bruno. Félix claimed the honor of rousing the man, claimed, with a cheeky grin to his small audience that he was a hard man to ignore and that even Abuela would complain that she could hear him from across the village at his most boisterous.
Agustín observed from afar, watching Félix’s saunter turn into a hesitant hunch as he leaned towards their cuñado. He could see the man’s lips moving, calling Bruno’s name. He stood there for a long moment, unblinking and attentive, before standing back to his full height.
He stood there another long moment before giving up.
Félix returned to them alone, hands up in defeat.
“Can I have his lunch? Ay, Dolores –“ Camilo asked before being punched in the arm by his sister.
Pepa cast them an exasperated look before ushering them back outside for lunch, lamenting the encroaching grey clouds she could do nothing about, while Félix turned to Agustín.
“Nombre de Díos,” He hissed as he held a hand to his chest, “Bruno nearly gave me a heart attack. I had to make sure he was breathing –“
Agustín couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him.
“ – he hasn’t moved - ” Félix shook his head, bending over to brace his hands on his knees. That explained the long stall in front of the pew. If Bruno hadn’t been so clearly exhausted, it would have been hilarious.
“Oh, c’mon, parcero –“ Agustín clapped the man on the back; he’d always been one for dramatics.
“En serio!” Félix said, voice a low grumble.
“He’s exhausted. I imagine it’s been a very long … ten years.” He hadn’t meant to darken the mood, but it seemed to have that effect. Félix’s shoulders drooped and his expression turned thoughtful, sad.
“Sí, you’re right.” Agustín had not yet told Félix what Mirabel had told him; that would require an easy night alone without the worry of rebuilding a home and enough aguardiente to satisfy ten men.
And, he knew if he told Félix, he would tell Pepa. It wouldn’t be in a betrayal of his trust, rather it was understood that what they knew, their wives knew. They didn’t tend to hide things from them, and, in Agustín’s opinion – his experience - this was something that they did not need to know, not right now.
They would face this when the time was appropriate, when they’d shed some of the burdens of what was to come and gave Bruno ample time settle himself into the family dynamic.
“No te preocupes. We won’t let him miss dinner.” And they wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure sleeping for a full twenty-four hours without relieving oneself, eating, or moving was healthy.
As an afterthought, he added: “I’ll sick Mirabel on him.”
“And Antonio.” Félix added with a shake of his head.
“Now, let’s go before they come after us.” Agustín said with a small smile.
The afternoon would pass just as swiftly as they day had.
Agustín had hoped Bruno would appear on his own but, as the day’s light turned into twilight, he realized they would indeed have to intrude upon this incredible feat of sustained unconsciousness.
“Mirabel –“He called over at his daughter who bounded over with an enviable lightness, Antonio in tow. Her hands were covered in maize flour, and she wiped them on an apron, allowed Antonio to do the same as they walked, never missing a step.
“I hate to do this to him, but can you –“ She nodded before he could even finish, pulling the apron of in a swift shedding. She reached to take Antonio’s hand.
“Sí, pá, I’m on it!”
He knew she had been worried, had asked if anyone had seen him throughout the day. He had caught her, on occasion, looking around for any sign that Bruno had joined them. Her expression fell into something small and sad each time she realized he was still absent.
They all but sprinted into the main hall and Agustín trailed briefly behind them, stopping to lean on the doorframe separate the hall from the covert.
He watched as Mirabel helped Antonio onto the pew-bench in front of Bruno’s own; the boy leaned over, looked between his uncle and cousin. Agustín could see him smiling. The youngest Madrigal was terribly charming. He couldn’t see Bruno from his vantage point, but he could imagine that he still hadn’t moved.
He sent out a quick prayer for the man’s back.
His daughter leaned over, just as Félix had, and spoke.
Perhaps it was the right timing – it had been nearly twenty-four hours, after all – or, maybe it was the fact that it had been Mirabel who had reconnected him with his family, but finally they received a reaction.
Agustín himself nearly jumped when he heard the quick yelp followed by the dull thump of a body hitting floor. His own fifty-year-old body ached in sympathy.
“Ay, lo siento – are you okay?” Mirabel’s voice range off the vaulted ceiling as Antonio giggled despite his cousin’s concern; he leaned forward, invigorated by the fact that his tío was finally awake.
“Good morning, tío Bruno!” He heard his sobrino say. His little voice was a sweet balm, soothing some of the anxious twisting in his own gut.
Bueno, Agustín thought, as he was taken by a surge of relief. For a moment he had been concerned, just as Félix, Julieta and Pepa had been; Alma, too, though she would never burden them with such a thing.
They had shared uncertain glances throughout the day, had asked between chores, Brunito? They tried to be patient, all growing eager to talk to their long-estranged brother. As the day wore, Julieta and Pepa had admitted to them a strange fatigue that they believed related to their don, but they had clearly begun to worry that perhaps Bruno’s gift had been different.
They all knew his gift took a toll on his physical health. Migraines. That terrifying seizure all those years ago. Insomnia. They couldn’t know what it would mean to lose a gift that seemed to be directly tied to his physical self.
Hearing that Bruno had awakened, and with such energy, was a genuine respite from his anxieties.
He waited a moment, watching their unheard interaction far afar; his cuñado had only just peeled himself from the floor and was hurriedly folding the blanket Agustín had thrown over him the night before.
Agustín turned to look back into kitchen; it would likely be another half hour before everything was ready. He imagined Bruno would appreciate something to wake himself up, to shake off that long sleep.
“Oyé, Bruno,“ He called out softly, eliciting the attention of all three family members. “un poco de café?”
It took a moment for him to respond, as though he wasn’t used to be addressed. He probably wasn’t, especially over something so mundane.
“Uh, por favor, gracias.” His voice, though low, carried enough to be heard. Agustín gave him a friendly thumbs up and turned to prepare it.
As he poured the coffee into the small cup and settled it on its own plate, the conversation he had had that morning with Mirabel returned to him.
“Julieta.” He called, looking over his shoulder as she finished forming the arepas, preparing them for cooking.
“Bruno is awake.” Her relief was palpable; her shoulder visibly dropped into something a little less tense and she heaved a relieved breath as she approached him, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
“Is he okay?” She asked. Agustín hummed an affirmative, not wanting her thoughts to stray as they prepared for dinner.
“Just going to bring him some café to help shake the cobwebs before dinner.” She gave him a grateful smile.
“Gracias, mi amor.”
He smiled and kissed the top of her head.
As he walked, coffee carefully held in one hand, a thought dogged him:
That, in hindsight, it should have been obvious.
Bruno had left after Mirabel hadn’t received her gift; he had done so without a word to anyone. Abuela had announced that he had done so, that he hadn’t cared about the family, and that they would move on.
It should have been obvious.
But, Agustín was a father. He hadn’t spent an undue amount of time wondering and worrying about the why.He had been busy dealing with his wife’s grief over her brother, and their collective confusion regarding Mirabel’s failed ceremony. Why hadn’t mattered. Why wouldn’t change anything. Why wouldn’t help Mirabel.
Obvious.
His conversation with Mirabel that morning still rang clear in his mind; it was likely that he could reproduce it, word for word. It had followed him throughout the day, had made him pause and think in those odd moments between tasks. He had been so distracted that he had nearly driven a nail through his own thumb.
It had been impossible not to think on it, a decade’s old mystery coming into the light.
As a father he would do anything for his children, he would gladly die for them. He would do anything for those who loved and protected his children and ensured they move forward in life, happy and healthy and secure.
So, as Agustín approached his cuñado, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
Agustín smiled as he took in the sight. Mirabel and Antonio had clearly been regaling him with the events of the day. Antonio had climbed next to Bruno and had laid his head on the folded blanket on his lap. His little fingers pulled at errant, loose strings as he interjected his own child wisdoms from that day.
Mirabel was sat next to her tío, was smiling over something he’d just said to Antonio, something that had made him giggle.
Agustín’s heart swelled; it was very good to see him back with the family. He had always been good with the children.
“Niños.” He addressed them softly, “It’s almost time for dinner. Why don’t you go and help?”
Mirabel gave him a wide smile. The quiet worry she had been carrying throughout the day seemed to have evaporated.
“Sure, pá. C’mon, Toñito.”
Antonio groaned but rolled off his uncle’s lap, whispered, “sit next to me” before squeezing himself out of the narrow aisle.
“Claro que sí.” Bruno said with an enchanted smile. He dipped his head in thanks as Mirabel gestured towards the blanket, intending to take it away for him, and readily accepted the coffee Agustín handed to him.
As they walked back towards the kitchen, Antonio turned his head to look back, waved with his free hand as Mirabel pulled him along.
“They love you.” Agustín remarked, waiting until they had ducked into the hall to turn his attention onto his cuñado.
Bruno gave him a shy smile, clearly not used to such attention; he took a sip of his coffee, eyes closing in a small moment of enjoyment, and shrugged.
“Kids are easy, they’re very … forgiving.” Agustín disagreed, shook his head as he sat down, taking Mirabel’s place.
It was not that his children or his sobrinos were not forgiving, rather, it was that he disagreed that that was the reason for their affection.
“And, lo siento … I didn’t mean to, well, sleep the whole day.” He said into his coffee taking another long gulp; Bruno never had been one to sip his coffee. He knew the man often averaged three to his one.
“I think you needed it.” Agustín said kindly, quite aware that Bruno was and always had been easily taken by shame, that he’d long lived in fear of failing others.
“De pronto.” He muttered as he drained the cup, put it aside.
Despite the long sleep, Bruno still looked tired. He’d always looked that way, even in his youth, but the years had bent him into a tired hunch, had deepened the shadows under his eyes.
‘He left because of me.’
This man had saved his daughter from so much pain; Agustín knew he could never return such a favor. He would never be able to express how grateful, how desperately grateful he was for Bruno and what he had chosen to do for his daughter. There weren’t enough words in the Spanish language, in any language, to satisfy him.
“Bruno, hermano –“ He started before feeling his throat tighten.
The other man looked over at him. A weak smile formed on Bruno’s lips; his expression was somewhat hesitant but terribly steady. For as introverted and shy the other man naturally seemed to be, he was painfully brave. Bruno had always stood his ground and listened with intent, even when the words were harsh, or cruel.
Certainly, the other man was an expert in making quick, awkward escapes. He was, when he wanted to be, adept at a quick exit. Agustín had never met someone so capable when it came to literal feats of acrobatics, all in the name of avoiding an awkward situation. He’d seen the man jump out of a window to avoid an awkward conversation, por Díos!
But.
When it mattered, he had never backed down …
He hadn’t let the villagers harass him into exile.
He hadn’t allowed his own family’s misunderstandings of him to inspire a hasty retreat, an abandonment of them.
He hadn’t allowed his own mother’s criticisms, all thirty-five years of them, to wear him into nothingness.
He hadn’t ever run from them.
Agustín understood now how out of character it had been for him to just vanish.
To give up on himself.
As he sat next to Bruno, he felt himself break.
Bruno’s brow furrowed, his expression slanting upwards into a concerned tilt.
“Agustín?”
He sat there, tight-lipped, as tears welled in his eyes. He took a deep steadying breath as he tried to control himself. All the love he had for his children overwhelmed him as he stood in front of the person who had sacrificed his well-being, his reputation, his happiness for them. Mirabel. Julieta. Agustín, himself.
“Are you okay?” Bruno turned a bit, angling towards him as he fidgeted with his hands. He still couldn’t speak; his throat was painful, burning with building emotion. He knew he was likely providing an unsettling sight, staring ahead at the other man, eyes burning. Bruno stared back, head tilted slightly, clearly uncertain of what was happening.
“Ok.” Bruno said, clearly taken by the awkwardness of it but completely willing to sit with it. It made Agustín all the more emotional; how they had ever spoken so poorly of him, how they had demonized him so terribly would forever escape him.
“So, uh –“ Bruno squinted, suspicion rising. “Should I go get Juli?”
He couldn’t help himself. Agustín lurched forward and pulled Bruno into a crushing hug. It forced them into an unusual position, sat next to each other as they were on the long bench, but Agustín held tight.
Bruno tensed under his hold before relaxing, arms raising slowly to return the gesture. Though his movements felt hesitant and slightly jerky they were genuine. They remained that way for a moment before Agustín pulled back, he was pretty sure he was crying as he held Bruno’s shoulders. Bruno’s hands came up to his elbows, bracing himself.
The look on the other man’s face would have been funny if he weren’t trying to hold back a veritable sob.
“Um, I’m sorry but … are you … what’s happening?“ Bruno asked clearly taken aback. He looked around as if to recruit another family member. Agustín knew he was caught in a complicated kind of struggle between wanting to apologize for some perceived transgression, asking if he was alright, and wondering what exactly was happening. And running, probably.
Regardless, his voice was tender and concerned, his gaze imploring.
“Mirabel told me everything.” Agustín couldn’t help the hoarseness of his voice, how it came out thick with emotion.
Bruno’s eyes widened as he visibly stiffened.
“Oh, well, I – I was trying to help and –“ Bruno stuttered and Agustín furrowed his brown in confusion.
“ – lo siento, hermano, I know how you all felt – feel – about the visions, it’s just, she really wanted to, uh, and I thought that maybe I could help fix what I – “
Aye, no, Agustín thought as he realized that Bruno had misunderstood him.
“No, no, Bruno, this is not about that –“ Mirabel had filled him and Julieta in throughout the day, had recounted the events of the past days as they’d worked. It hadn’t been like that morning, at breakfast; rather, she had told the story with gusto.
She had told them about how she had climbed Bruno’s tower, had groaned about the number of stairs, and had complained about the sand.
She had raved about watching her tío utilize his gift, how strange it was to see things that had not yet happened, how excited he had been for her when her future had etched itself in glass.
She had told them about how he had found her and Abuela Alma at the river, how he had attempted to take the blame …
“Mirabel told me about why you left, what you did for her.” His voice broken again.
“Oh –“ Bruno shrugged, looked away and Agustín lowered his arms, allowing Bruno the room to gesture, to adjust his ruana, “ – I didn’t really do anything, I uh –“
Bruno shook his head, mouth quirking as he looked for the right words. Bruno huffed as though he was considering some private joke before looking back up at him.
“ – I just wanted her to have a chance at her own future –“
Agustín frowned, must have, because Bruno hastily interrupted himself.
“ – and I know, I know … she was only five, Agustín, I shouldn’t have –“ Agustín felt the same heartbreak he had that morning when he’d spoken to Maribel, that evening when he’d found Bruno sleeping alone and isolated.
“ – but, well, who knows what would have happened, right? My visions, they’re always –“
Bruno made a random gesture, something inexact, but Agustín understood it all the same. It was hard to define Bruno’s visions, to assign a single word that would serve as an adequate descriptor.
“ – and I knew Mamá would always wonder if I didn’t say something, didn’t tell her, eventually, so, uh –“
Bruno looked as though he were on the cusp of saying more, as though he may divulge the pain, the agony of the decision but he suddenly chut his mouth with a click. Agustín watched as he took a deep breath, rapped his knuckles lightly on the wooden bench beneath him, whispered something under his breath. Knocked his knuckle against his own head, seemingly for good measure.
It hurt to observe. Bruno had always been superstitious but, as time had worn, it seemed as though his superstitions had transformed, worsened. As though they had become compulsion. Agustín was fairly confident that Bruno believed himself to be the genuine source of all that was wrong and unlucky and bad. That he had to protect others from his presence, his existence.
Bruno sighed. He looked like he was trying so hard to make things right.
“ – it was the right thing. Leaving, I mean. Not the … not the vision. Leaving was, it was easier for everyone, that way.”
“Bruno –“ Agustín shook his head, at a loss for what to say next. He wasn’t lacking a material. He wanted to say a million things at once lest he not have the opportunity.
“Oigan, muchachos!” They were interrupted by Pepa’s voice bouncing off the walls with all the resonance of a clearly rung bell.
“Dios mío …” Bruno flinched, would have likely jumped had the space not been so small.
They both turned slowly towards her like children who had been caught doing something ill-advised.
“Time for dinner.” Even from all the way across the grand hall he could see that she was grinning. He wondered what she would think if she knew what she had interrupted. She would, no doubt, be horrified.
“Sí, Pepa. We’re coming.” Agustín called back lightly; his voice was no longer so hoarse. The adrenaline from her attempt at scaring them both to death had reinvigorated him.
They both watched her leave before turning towards each other.
Any tension or awkwardness that had formed between them died with Pepa’s intrusion and they suddenly found themselves laughing. Agustín chuckled loudly, wiped at his eyes which had watered over, while Bruno huffed in a shy but amused way that had always been unique to him.
“She will be the death of me.” Bruno said as he rubbed at his eyes; he blinked comically as he realized what he’d said.
“That’s not –“ a prophecy, was likely what he intended to say, but instead he shrugged, “though, maybe.”
“Hmm.” Agustín hummed; he had never been one of the people who thought everything Bruno had to say was prophecy. Though he no longer wasted his breath on the matter, he had, on multiple occasions, told Félix that he was rather certain Bruno had been joking at their wedding. The man had a very subtle sense of humor. He had always liked it.
“Well, we probably shouldn’t … keep them waiting.” Bruno swallowed heavily but made no move to rise.
Agustín realized how little he had change, at least at the core of his person. He still had the same tells. He watched as his right arm rubbed at his left, how he kept his eyes downcast as though in thought.
He was nervous, and rightly so.
It had been a long time.
“No. Probably not. But, Bruno – “
Bruno looked back at him even though he was still clearly feeling trapped by their impending evening. Brave.
“ – I didn’t get to say all that I needed to. And I would like to when we have another moment – “
He paused, took a deep breath. Gratitude washed over him once again – ten years.
“ – but I mean it. Thank you, hermano. Thank you.”
He could see Bruno’s own eyes beginning to mist as they looked at each other. He saw no reason to torture the poor man, wanted to spare him such an emotional start to what was going to be a rather meaningful evening.
So, he clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a wide smile, clearing his expression of all that sorrow and hurt.
“Ven. The family’s waiting.”
Bruno nodded, reached up to rub at his right eye, clearing errant moisture, and smiled, said:
“Vamos.”