Whispers [Bruno Madrigal x Reader]

Chapter Two

You were able to study him now, even in the dark of night, better than the first time you'd spotted the man. He was practically swallowed by his poncho— he was too small for it to cling to him properly. Really, he wasn't a tall man by any means, you estimate no bigger than 5'3. Perhaps he was taller, but the way his own clothes engulfed his body made it difficult to say. You trail your eyes along the patterns in his clothes, enamored with the stitch work. Are those hourglasses? The fabric looked as though it had been scratchy, itchy on the skin at some point in time, but had been worn down after such long use. In the same way your childhood quilt did, folded neatly across your bed at home in wait for you, it appeared aged but cherished.

Your scanning eyes push further as you finally get a close look of his face. Even without having seen him too clearly before, you know it's him. He is double you in age, at least, though this look is offset by the dark and boyish stubble around his chin. The only true tells are pale grey hairs that have started to highlight his mess of curls and the laugh lines that frame his mouth like parentheses. Perhaps he spoke in whispers too, a hushed version of real conversation. You shake yourself from this like of thought as he jumps to his feet, frantically brushing the dirt from his pants. You think he's just about to take off again when you step forward.

"Are you alright? That was, um. Quite the fall you had," you blurt out, the words having only been half formed in your mind before you spoke. Embarrassment, or perhaps something else, lit embers under your skin. It isn't like you ever been known for being suave in any sense, but this is downright pitiful.

"Yeah, yeah. I've had worse tumbles," he admits, eyes flashing around the ground as if looking for something to occupy his line of sight without drawing too much attention to the fact that he wouldn't meet your gaze. You notice, though, and you think he knows it. The man clears his throat and bends his arms at his sides in a less than convincing display of confidence. "Thank you for asking. I've gotta get going, though, for um. Well why does anyone ever need to be out this late anyway, really?"

He's nodding and making move to turn and leave when you take another half step forward, all too eager to keep him there.

"Well, I'm (Y/N)(L/N). I'm sorry that we had to meet on such... peculiar conditions." As eager as you may be, there isn't anything you can do if he chooses to go. He hesitates though, his body locking in place and you can see him weighing his options in his mind. For someone seemingly so secretive, he sure was easy to read. The man turns to face you again, lips thinned in a determined manner as he muscled through such a mundane social interaction. This time, however, he isn't shying away. At least not as much.

"I'm Bruno," he half mumbles back, voice losing direction amid his clear anxiety. As if it isn't enough, as if everyone in the encanto hadn't avoided using the name like the plague up until a few months ago, he continues for clarification. "Um, Madrigal."

Bruno Madrigal.

Shh! You think. Because we don't talk about Bruno.

Oh, fabled mystic Bruno Madrigal was standing before you, his tired eyes flickering across your own features in search of any resentment or distaste. There is none, but he does not relax. Hands wringing in front of him. Your mind is overrun in an instant, confusion and wonder and... fear? Are you afraid of him?

It isn't like you should be, you know this. Not only is he practically a puddle of nerves but his family has been working desperately to rework the narrative surrounding the man. Never could you ever have imagined Alma Madrigal, meticulous about her image, admit such regret to the people of your city about misunderstanding her own family. Her own son! Mirabel too, spitfire that she is, telling everyone and everyone she could about the many misinterpretations that haunted her poor uncle in hopes that the public outlook would shift. To her credit, it did. Just not entirely.

How could it? How can you just take back ten years of slander and... well, not quite lies. But a sullied reputation simply doesn't recover overnight. How many people could ever truly recover, could go from being an oracle estranged from his family on account of the bad luck that snapped at his heels? How does somebody outrun a rumor? The simple fact of the matter was that people still do whisper about Bruno. No longer is the name a ticket to being caught in the crosshairs of one of his more sour visions, but of course people talk. There's a lot to say, a lot to wonder. You're guilty of it too, and never before have you felt more ashamed of it then when the object of those baseless concerns is staring you in the eyes.

And worst of all, he's sweet looking.

"Oh wow," you breathe out, eyebrows raised. You try desperately to scrub the shock from your face and your tone, be as casual as possible despite your racing mind. "Well I'm pleased to meet you, Bruno. Do you come by here often?" You are gently referencing your first "encounter" with him, though your words leave room for any sort of direction.

Bruno shuffles in place, readjusting his stance to better fit the change in conversation. You find it curious, how rigid he is in terms of expression. If those whispers are true, and he really lived inside the walls for the better part of ten years, you suppose it's safe to assume his social prowess might be... lacking. Perhaps he's simply relearning what it means to be a part of community. And a family. When it becomes clear that he's struggling to articulate his reply, you continue.

"I love it the river. Watching the water is so relaxing, I come out here when things back home get too loud," your gaze shifts back to the humming stream. You almost wish you could share some of the serenity though you're not sure how you'd go about it.

"It is," he sighs. A heavy one, like he's been holding his breath for those ten years. His shoulders sag a bit as the tension begins to leave his muscles. Something tells you his mind elsewhere, though you can tell from the sentiment in his voice that he's at least a little envious of your ability to calm your senses. "It can be so nice to get out of the house without the risk of, you know, bothering anyone." You're not sure if he's implying he'd rather be alone, but you nod regardless.

Something's thumbing at your heartstrings like a child flips idly through a book, disinterested. He's smiling at the water just as you were, you notice, but he looks so sad at the same time. Is it the bags below his eyes, the lackluster way he's holding himself up? Perhaps it's the fact that even now, after years of being shunned by the community his family built, he's concerned with trying not to "bother anyone".

It's late, you remember, pulled from the trance Bruno's wrapped you up in. Maybe it's wrong to blame him for that though, because as far as you're aware, it was you who found her mind wandering back to the river for the past week. You don't think any of the Madrigals had any power over that.

"Well." You slice through the pregnant silence that has bloated between the two of you with ease. "These nightly trips aren't exactly scheduled, but I'm here every Sunday morning to wash out my clothes. Always preferred the running water to a bucket wash." You chuckle. Bruno does not. You clear your throat before continuing. "I hope to see you out here again sometime."

He meets your eyes again, and in spite of each of the social anxieties crawling around inside your brain, he smiles. Warm, and soft. Is his skin that way? Warm, soft? The thought rattles you, and before you have either the chance to indulge it or silently chide yourself, he's already replying.

"Yeah," he hums out. Almost a whisper, but not quite. Shit. "I think that would be pretty nice."