Whispers [Bruno Madrigal x Reader]

Chapter Four

Time is both frustrating and confusing. How the hours just melt away. Sometimes, it seems our lives are slipping through our fingers, that we simply are no match for the sands of time. There are days, too, where it is painfully easy to sink fully into the idea of stasis. Change is never easy, but everyone has moments where it seems so much more than impossible to alter their path. Both of these situations present uniquely difficult issues, some still without proper solutions. It is for these reasons that you are so, incredibly grateful to have found a conversation partner with the likes of him. Morning hours fall away with Bruno Madrigal, but they are not wasted. Conversation is not some strenuous task locking you into place out of politeness, it's natural and genuine. He's witty, you find, quick to a joke when he's not wringing his hands and choking on his words.

"I've never really been too big on eggs," he remarks, plucking a blade of grass idly. You'd finished your wash by now, and were letting your feet rest in the cool running water with Bruno beside you. He certainly was no pinnacle of good posture, you think cruelly to yourself about the way he's hunched over. "Julieta's always been able to make anything taste good, though. I do love her cooking." You chuckle, just a bit.

"I suppose with a gift like hers, you have a lot of time to practice. Imagine if she could heal, right," you readjust yourself, spreading your palms out as if it would help better explain your idea. "But the catch is that all the food... muy soso." He furrows his eyebrows as if to show you how peculiar it is to say, but he's smiling at you nonetheless.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

He nods, accepting the validity in this response.

"What are your dinners like?" Bruno asks, giving you the smallest of nods. He leans his weight on to one hand, looking at you from over his left shoulder. So at ease, you think. The perfect contradiction to his earlier nervous demeanor.

"You asking how the atmosphere is or how they taste?" you say, half joking. You don't wait for his reply. "I enjoy cooking. My neighbors are the nicest people-- they wrote me a recipe book when I was younger and it's been a critical part of the kitchen experience ever since." Fondly, you think of the Moreno family. Perhaps it was Mrs. M's motherly instinct, but she could sense how nervous you were about living entirely on your own, and had gifted you the book after inviting you over for a meal with her and the rest of her family. It's impossible not be a little sad when you think about your empty dining room, but you're not about to take his innocent question in such a terribly morose direction. "Cooking for one is different, though, with portions and all."

He bites at his lower lip, considering your words carefully. You've found him to be such a good listener as well, an active one. Unlike your experience in talking to most people who are older than you, there is a sense of attentiveness to the way he nods along while you speak and breathes a laugh at each hint of sarcasm that lets you know that he really does care about what you're saying to him. He's taking you seriously.

"I've never really put a lot of thought into that," he admits to you, shrugging a little. "Everything we've done is... big, y'know? Big plates, big portions, big meals. Have you always lived alone?" The question catches you off guard, to tell the truth. It's like he had spent that little pause running through ways to ask you about it without coming off too strong.

"Oh, um." You press your lips together, cocking your head a notch to the side sheepishly. "My family doesn't keep in contact to tell you the truth. It's not a super big deal." You're lying. Both straight to his face and by obstruction as well. For a moment you're glad he's missed ten years of village drama. "We just had different ideas for my path in life, so I found this little place when I was nineteen."