Worth The Shot

Night Terrors

Today's fanart is by @_FrenchToast_! They drew the scene from Nothing But Grass and Wind where (y/n) is chilling with a panic attack and a lightning storm. I LOVE her hair, it looks so silky, and their take on her outfit with jean short and a cute shirt instead of a dress was so creative and they nailed this look!! 

BACK TO THE STORY

A sound you'd hoped to never hear again ripped you awake. 

A clear scream, followed by hyperventilating gasps and cries. Camilo's scream. 

On instinct, you charged out of the nursery, forcefully slamming the door to Camilo's room open with your shoulder. Camilo sat rigidly straight in his bed, legs still bundled underneath fleecy mustard-colored covers. His bright hazel eyes had dulled to a terrified, watery blur. 

"Camilo!" Pepa burst inside mere moments after you. Antonio sleepily tripped behind her, holding Mirabel's hand. 

"No, no," Camilo breathily protested. "It was just a nightmare. You all can go." 

"I can stay with you, mi vida," Pepa hesitated, her bony, delicate hands curving to hold underneath Antonio's chin. Antonio's dark eyes blinked slowly, round with concern. 

"Leave. I'm okay," Camilo assured, a pale, fake smile wrenching onto his face. He attempted a dismissive, lighthearted wave goodbye. But it just looked wrong. He held his wrist too stiff, his fingers trembled, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened off his palm. "See you in the morning." 

"Alright. Come get me if you need me," Pepa sighed, ruefully smiling for Camilo. She gently whispered with Antonio as she walked him back to bed. You lingered behind, leaning your shoulder against his orange-golden doorframe. An ominous, shadowy color bled across Camilo's floor, purple as poison. Purple meant scared. 

He was always pretending. Always playing okay. Why did he have to do that around you? Around his own family?

"Do you want to ta-" You leaned forward, as if your soul, your very essence called out for you to stumble across his fear-stained floor to comfort him. 

"No," Camilo immediately said with panicked desperation. His shoulders slouched and he rubbed his face with both hands. His curls limply splayed over his hands as his voice drooped to a defeated whisper. "Please don't make me talk about it." 

So you didn't. You left, like he'd asked you to, retreating through the dim hallway and sinking into your nursery bed. When you heard the crying start, you cried for him. 

That was the first night. 

The nightmares didn't stop. Each night, Camilo ripped the left wing of the Madrigal home from slumber with gasps and shuddering screams. At breakfasts, Camilo always refused to discuss the nightmares, his dark eyebrows pulling down with touchy aggression. He'd hold his chin high, but bruise-colored shadows ran under his eyes like murky water crevices. He was exhausted. 

Once, during Camilo's night to wash dishes, you'd lightly tapped his arm as you slid him the last of the flowered, china plates. A feverish shudder racked Camilo's body at the contact, and his velvety golden-green eyes burned with terror. 

"Woah," you'd gently reacted, sidestepping away with your hands softly curled up to show him you didn't mean any harm. Camilo steeled his expression with thorny, blank indifference and his lips quirked into a devil-may-care smile. But before he'd wiped his emotion away like soap suds across china, you'd caught a moment of vulnerability. His rough lips had trembled, and his sunset eyes had clung to you: scared, embarrassed by his outburst, exhausted from this charade, miserably pained. 

"Something's not right," you whispered one night to Cristina and Mirabel in your starlit field. Grass prickled and crunched against the thin cream fabric on the back of your dress.