Whispers [Bruno Madrigal x Reader]

Chapter One

The mind is a peculiar thing.

Whether it be an earworm that haunts you, taunts you with a missing lyric or note, the somatic obsession of each breath or blink-- it's a phrase you read once in a book, one you find truth in more and more each day. Despite the fact that, more often than not, there are more pressing matters at hand, we become so occupied with half formed memories of our daily experiences. Just as a stray bullet can be enough to strike, the flashing images of a strange man can be enough, really, to invade the mind of a young woman.

He was a ghost to you that day, nothing more. For a brief moment you actually considered the possibility of this; the idea that light played tricks on your groggy eyes, or perhaps he truly was a spirit of some kind.  Though you can't quite place your finger on what it is, something shakes this notion from your mind. Just as a one can feel eyes burning into them from behind, as a dog feels the earthquakes before they wobble any brick, you knew there was a man with you at the river that day. It was not a threatening presence by any means (any possibility of that was waved away as he skittered back up over the hill and out of sight, almost afraid just to be perceived), in fact, some peculiar force weakly beckoned you to pursue. Even if only to satisfying your prying eyes and hungry mind.

Why did he haunt you so? Perhaps his reaction to you was simply in such a noticeable contrast to the warm and boisterous nature most people, even if it was just for show, carried with them in the encanto. Perhaps it was... That's all you've got. 

You sigh as you roll over in bed, pressing the side of your face into your pillow. Your books simply were not enough to pacify your curiosity, though you'd managed to avoid it during the day with your work. Without the business of the city around you, the memory of that man by the river was free to torment you. A pink torment, one that blossomed in the chest and tickled the brain. You have simply got to scratch that itch, but how? You're not some crazy stalker, not some weirdo who's going to go around and ask questions about an embroidered olive green poncho and a few shocks of grey throughout black curls. Lord why did you care so much? 

"You're finally losing it," you whisper aloud to yourself, ending the pregnant silence you hadn't noticed sneaking up on you. (How long had you been holding you breath?)

Again, your thoughts drift to the Madrigals. Difficult not to think about them, honestly. They were such an integral piece of daily life. Specifically though, you wonder about that young woman... Not far from your own age. Dolores. She seemed to have y one of the more tame gifts that decorated the branches of her family tree, but you as the minutes tick by and you indulge in the fantasy that you were special like them, you are sure you wouldn't be able to handle it.

To hear so much. To be so, perhaps painfully, aware of the secrets of the town, let alone her family. You're positive she hears it all, hears every curse the average person mumbles when they stub their toe, hear the sweet nothings of shared like never ending currency between a pair of young lovers in the heat of the summer nights. You're sure she hears townspeople weep with personal tragedy, hears the dirty secrets passed between a group of men gathered on a porch and the dirtier secrets their wives share over coffee with their cousins and friends. You almost chuckle, exasperated by it all, but what if Dolores could hear that too? What if she'd heard you just now, talking to yourself? 

You've really got to lay off the caffeine before bed.

***

Music swelled inside the little home. A very specific sort of magic, something different from the miracles that blessed the exceptional Madrigal family and their exceptionally gifted children. There is something much more human, much more raw in the magic of music, the way it sneaks throughout the room like an invisible piece of twine. It pulls and trips and pushes party guests around your neighbors' ( the Moreno family) home. Strings around limbs and twists people in a timely dance. Unchoreographed, unpracticed. How enchanting it really is, to lose your body in dance and your mind in glasses of wine and heart laughter. With music to wrap around it all like a perfect little bow. 

Quite the 7th birthday party, you think to yourself. 

Presents and food fill the house, and though the Moreno's are not particularly wealthy, they are rich in love and life. You break out in a warm smile as a group of children rush past you, whooping and cheering in some make believe world you've simply grown out of understanding. You're jealous, for half a second, of the ability to fall into that childlike wonder and imagination. You wonder if the kite  you've crafted for the birthday boy will ever be half as interesting as the world he and his friends have created for themselves. 

A comfortable breeze tickles your face as you peel quietly from the crowd and into the night air. The piano muffles behind you as the door closes and you step into the street, facing your own house immediately across. That smile lingers on your lips, perhaps the wine. The moon is full in the sky tonight, bathing you and the town around you in it's pale glow. A feminine, ghostly creature is she, who watches the world below her sleep. Before you know it, you're headed towards the brook. Had anyone asked you, you'd blame it on the sweet summer alcohol, or perhaps that magic moon herself. In reality, your subconscious simply harbors a deep need for answers. 

Just under a week had passed since you'd last been to the stream, and though you knew you'd have to return the next day, you sauntered on. The last of the music's charm had been shaken from your bones in a half sidestep here, a little bit of a hip pop there. Up and into the swallowing darkness of the trees. You heard it before you saw it, inviting and cold for sure. With no one around to pass judgement, you kick the sandals from your feet, hold your skirt at it's folding point and hurried down to the water. 

It's just as you expected-- better even. The chilly water lapping at your ankles doesn't phase you any as you leap from rock to rock, comfortable knowing the only thing you risk is your butt in the water and some smooth river stones on your skirt. How long has it been since you played like this? Years, certainly. That childish joy was intoxicating, you figure, reaching down to let your fingertips brush the surface of the water. You are soothed, comfortable in your skin as mother nature cleanses your palms. If only you had the chance to do this more. Ground yourself from a hard day's work and a loud family's party in the river. Of course bathing was relaxing too, but it lacked the connection to the earth that your quiet nighttime oasis offered you. 

Content with your half drunken, late night expression of joy, you slink from the water and let the soft grass tickle your feet. Before you even really know it, you're sprawled out in it's embrace and gazing through the filtered light of the palms into the deep sky. It would be so easy to lose yourself here just as it had been at the party, but something pulls you from your peace.

Footsteps?

You're not quite sure at first, until you see the shadow of a man cresting the hill you'd barreled down just minutes ago. You sit up, intrigued and a little bit alarmed. The encanto was safe, of course, but there was a level of fear any woman with a proper head on her shoulders kept about it when it came to men in the dark of night. Silly girl, you betray the instincts your calculating mind has instilled and let the words pour from your body instead, your chest.

"Hello?" You call out softly, and see the figure freeze. His hesitance is remarkable, you think, pulling pieces together slowly. There's a reason you are being so forward and calm, and the wits in your body have figured it out before your brain has finished it's puzzle. "Come down, I can hardly see you."

"Oh-, uh, totally not necessary," Comes the reply. It's disjointed, like marbles lolling and clacking against his teeth. Is he really so nervous? He's already backing up the hill when you recognize the familiar way his dark curls frame his aged face. The man from before. You're on your feet half a second later.

Good lord, he looks like he could trip with those stuttering steps of his. 

And trip he does. 

Flat on his butt, pulling a (surely embarrassing) surprised squeak from his throat. His arms thrash about as he struggles to catch himself sliding down the hill. You cover your mouth with your fingers, thought you're not sure if it's to stifle a laugh or shield him from your obvious shock. The man rolls clumsily over once, a half somersault before coming to a skidding halt a few feet from the water, a few feet from you.