Worth The Shot

dream about me

Today's feature is by @heaven_is_pink ! I'm trying to work through some of the fanart you guys sent a while ago! They made y/n on The Sims, which I know next to nothing about, but she looks amazing! I love her dress design and hairstyle! 

I wrote SO MUCH tonight omg. I wrote this chapter and then like 2,000 more words. I'll probably post again tomorrow, lots of... EXCITING content coming up. Take that as you will. :) 

I also made a Spotify playlist for the vibes of the story right now. It helped me write this chapter. My username on Spotify is SapphireSoup if you want to check it out! 

BACK TO THE STORY

A single mountain had collapsed, tearing a wide, vulnerable gash in the silhouette of the Encanto's protective cliff circle.

A hiss of wind gusted from the shadowed opening. Outside, you could make out craggy trees and broad hills. The dim tangle of wilderness seemed to crawl for miles.

"What do you think is out there?" You breathed. Adrenaline whispered in your chest, an awestruck urge to slip across the mountain rubble and adventure into the unknown darkness.

"Trees. Meadows. A whole world is out there, (y/n)," Mirabel glowed. "Villages we've never heard of." Resent soured her smile. "Abuela won't allow anyone in The Outside. We can't even step in that forest."

"We are safe in here," you admitted, sympathetically resting your hand on her arm. "But give it time. I'm sure she'll let up."

"I'm beginning to think she won't! It's already been three weeks!" Mirabel groaned with desperate frustration. Her fascination with The Outside felt off. It felt like more than mere curiosity.

"Imagine how many people are out there," She continued, the dreamy clouds returning in her eyes. "People who have never even heard of gifts!"

Gifts? Is that what this is about, Mirabel? You didn't vocalize the concerned question.

You understood her fierce hope. Did she long for people who wouldn't judge her through the lens of her giftlessness? After lonely years of being ignored, pitied, and overlooked by both the villagers and her family, the crack in the mountains must have seemed like a dazzling possibility.

"We'll try to convince Senora Alma later," you promised. "I want to go out there, too."

"If we both nag her, then she'll have to agree!" Mirabel optimistically declared, shedding her quiet wanderlust. She tugged on your arm, drawing you back toward Casita. "You still want to go see my cousin?"

Camilo. Brain-dead, spread on his bed like a hospital patient. 

"I- I have to, Mirabel," you quietly said. Seeing him as lifeless as a corpse scared you. But he needed you. You needed him. Love. It was a sharp, compelling rope. The worst kind of dagger in your back. 

 Mirabel nodded, leading you into Camilo's room. The seasick floor rolled it's shapeless lumps, a mute yellow. 

"Yellow," you mused, feigning interest in the floor. Your eyes avoided Camilo, stuck on the floor like a shy child. "At least it's not purple, right?" 

"Huh?" 

"You know, how the colors are affected by his mood?" You trailed off, confused by Mirabel's blank, unsure look as she dipped her toe in the blobs. "You haven't been in his room much?" 

She scrunched up her shoulders in a shrug. She's lived here her whole life! She should know all about her cousin's room by now. Weird. 

Gathering your courage, you stiffly raised your eyes to Camilo. Tension melted away from your neck and arms. Camilo's face was relaxed. Peaceful, heavy with sweet sleep, calm. Yellow blankets cocooned his body, and his dark auburn hair fanned out over a silk pillowcase.  

"Hey, Camilo," you murmured, your breath disturbing a wayward curl. You smoothed your hand over his forehead, brushing his tumble of hair away from his eyebrows. His skin felt hot, but not feverish.

"Is this the part where you kiss him awake?" Mirabel stage-whispered, hovering above you.

"Shoo," You scowled, laughing at Mirabel as you pushed her out of Camilo's room. "Give us a minute alone, okay?" Mirabel shot you a thumbs up and an obnoxious wink, her hair bouncing feistily as she whisked out the golden-orange door. 

You curled your legs underneath you, leaning up against the covers. In companionable silence, you played with his hair. It was a release, touching Camilo. A desperate, sharp pain that had floated away. Everything felt safe and secure. 

"Nothing can hurt you. Not while I'm here," You promised, one of your hands finding it's way to Camilo's. You'd heard that birds can always trace their path home. You felt like a little bluebird. Flitting here, close beside Camilo, felt right. 

"You look like a little caterpillar with all those blankets," you smiled, sifting your hand through his curls. "If I was like you, I'd give you a silly nickname like Oruguita. And I'd call you that whenever I made you laugh. Or after I kissed you. Or when I felt so, deeply in love that your name didn't seem like enough." 

A rosy tint crept over the globs in Camilo's room, slow as a smile that made you feel warm all through your back. He's happy. 

"Can you hear me?" You hopefully asked, your breath catching. "Either that or your having a really good dream. What do you dream about, Camilo?"

Camilo didn't stir.

"If I was more romantic, I'd say I dream about you," You sighed, nuzzling your nose against his. "But I never remember my dreams." You paused, choking on a lump in your throat. "Will you remember me?" 

Your eyes meandered around Camilo's room, tripping over the gelatinous, pink surface. It was entirely empty except for his messy twin-sized bed, a guitar, and a mirrored desk with two pocket-drawers.

You approached the desk, leaning on it with both hands. You heaved a deep breath at yourself in the mirror, imagining Camilo staring into his own hazel-green eyes every morning. Had he broken down in front of its glassy surface, just like you? Eyes gazing up as if through eyebrows, elbows locked, hands planted, trying not to cry? 

The first drawer rattled open with a squeak, anticlimactically bare, except for a wide-toothed comb. You cast an amused glance at Camilo. He didn't really need a comb to shapeshift his floppy hair into perfection. "Narcissist." You affectionately whispered. 

You had to jerk the second drawer hard to pry it free. A tattered notebook rested inside, mysterious as a ancient scroll. Once upon a time, the cover must have been a cheerful yellow, but its color had dulled into an aged cream. You weighed the faded book in your hand like a brick of precious gold. It was a little heavy, rough, and sweetened with the scent of powdery dust. You inhaled through your nose, enveloping yourself in its comforting essence. What had Camilo written in its pages? 

I shouldn't read it. He's unconscious, it would be wrong. You slammed the drawer shut and self-consciously paced back over to Camilo's bed. 

"Camilo," you grumbled, blushing from embarrassment as you crouched close to his peaceful face. "I almost read your diary. Now would be a really good time to wake up. Come on." Soft breaths. Unresponsive, relaxed muscles. 

Your awful curiosity betrayed you, and you sheepishly retreated back to the desk. Holding the bound pages felt like cradling Camilo's colorful, beating heart in both hands. 

"I'm a terrible person," you muttered, delicately tugging the cover open with your thumb and pointer finger.