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hessickjim · 1 month

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Stubborn Things, Part III - Plato Fuerte

Wherein Julieta beats herself for not being perfect, Bruno continues to make himself more miserable than he needs to be, and Agustin is just sort of… living his best life for no reason lol

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“I hope you’re hungry,” Julieta said, adding another sprinkle of salt to the pot. “It’s almost ready.”

Two recipes down, and Bruno remained undeniably sick. If anything, he seemed to be feeling worse by the minute. He was back to pretending he was fine, which would have been sweet had he been doing it to protect her feelings and not to dodge another round of testing. Julieta offered him several opportunities to lie down in the parlor if he promised to submit to supervision, but his stubborn devotion to conveying the illusion of health kept overruling his instinct for self-preservation.

“It smells fantastic,” Agustín said. “And I bet it will taste even better. I really think you have it this time, mi vida!”

Having finished all the prep work that didn’t involve sharp utensils, her husband was seated across the table from Bruno, pretending to read a copy of La Vorágine that he grabbed off a bookshelf at random. Julieta had tasked him with keeping watch over her brother and, if necessary, intercepting him if he tried to bolt again. Julieta wasn’t sure if he was doing his job well or if Bruno was simply too tired to move.

“Gracias,” she said, grateful for his support but growing weary of his cheerful optimism in light of her terrible track record. “Pero, I’m not worried about the taste or the smell.”

“I am!” Bruno interjected weakly.

“My concern,” she continued, choosing to disregard his unsolicited input, “is that it works.”

“Of course, of course,” said Agustín, finally remembering to turn the page of the book he was supposed to be reading. “I’m just saying, I have a good feeling about this one. They say third time’s a charm, right?”

He threw an expectant look at his brother-in-law, who usually had a lot to say when it came to matters of luck, but this time Bruno had no comment. His head was resting on the table beside an empty cup that stood as a testament to Julieta’s latest failure. The guava and mango juices she had blended together with Isabela’s pelargonium and a dash of aguardiente made for a refreshing morning cocktail, but a woefully ineffective medicine. Bruno claimed to feel better just a few sips in, but then sneezed in short, strangled bursts not long after finishing the concoction. He tried to blame the cooking spices lingering in the air from breakfast, those new plants Isabela had growing just outside the kitchen window, even the minuscule amount of alcohol in the drink, but when Julieta kissed his forehead, it was warmer than the last time she last checked. He muttered an apology that only added to her mounting aggravation. It was her fault, not his, that she couldn’t figure this out.

Now here she was, pouring all of her prayers and frustrations and love for her brother into a pot of ajiaco. It would be cruel to keep him hostage much longer if he didn’t improve after this dish. He hadn’t lifted his head from the table since the juice; the only indication that he was still awake (and alive) was the occasional cough or sniffle, wise-ass remark, and knock knock knocking of his knuckles against the tabletop. Once an annoyance, the repetitive thumping was now a strange comfort, a reassurance that her brother was still here with her.

Julieta was ladeling steaming hot ajiaco between two bowls when she noticed a shift in his breathing. It was subtle, but just obvious enough to someone who knew him as well as she did. When she turned around she found Bruno sitting up but hunched over, gripping his nose between his thumb and forefinger. She couldn’t tell if he sneezed already and was waiting for more to smother into silence, or if he was waiting for a fit to start. Either way, she felt compelled to speak up this time; she could tell that those last sneezes he bottled up left him with a headache, though he refused to admit it.

“Bruno.”

Her tone was just firm enough to pull him from his daze without startling him. He waited a moment, then released his nose from the punishing pressure of his fingertips, huffing sharply and shooting Julieta a look that struck her like a thunderbolt from Pepa. She couldn’t remember the last time her brother looked at her with anything but adoration; whatever this was, she didn’t like it. Her eyes darted to Agustín, seeking backup, and she found him engrossed in the book that he was only supposed to pretend to be reading. She wasn’t surprised or even disappointed; if anything, she was impressed it hadn’t happened sooner. To his credit, he closed the book dutifully upon his wife’s silent request, but not before folding the corner of the page to save his place.

“That really isn’t good for you,” he lectured, adjusting his glasses. “And what a terrible feeling, to waste a sneeze like that. It feels so much better to just let them out, ¿verdad?”

Bruno didn’t seem interested in entertaining Agustín’s musings today. Keeping his fingers curled under his nose, he dropped the bits of leftovers he stashed away from breakfast onto the floor for his rats. They were gathered at his feet, which was odd; normally they were nestled in his pockets or perched on his shoulders. Maybe his fever turned their usual habitat into a inhospitable environment.

“We don’t mean to nag, manito,” Julieta added, drawing his ire back her way. “We just want you to be comfortable.”

What she really wanted was her brother to quit being such a cabezota and stop suppressing a natural reflex like it was some sort of personal failing. She didn’t care if he was annoyed with her, because she was annoyed with him, too. Walking over to the table with the ajiaco - slowly, so as not to spill a single drop of what could have been liquid gold - she watched him paw at his poor nose with increasing aggression. Rather than extinguish it, the rubbing seemed to stoke the lingering embers of irritation back into a roaring fire. Grabbing a clean napkin off the table, he shook it open and brought it up to hover near his face, the cloth fluttering slightly with each trembling exhalation. Julieta decided to hold off on giving him his food and instead stood quietly beside the table, ready to chastise him if he stifled again but hoping he would just listen to his family for once.

Agustín stood up to help her with the bowls, but with an eagerness that suggested he was more excited to start eating than itching to lighten her load. He started to say something, but Julieta bumped him with her hip and gave him a stern look. He seemed to get the hint, but just in case, she shoved one of the bowls into his hands and produced a spoon from her apron pocket. Maybe some food would keep him quiet for a bit.

It didn’t matter anyway, if Bruno’s defeated sigh and deflating posture was any indication. Once again the urge to sneeze strung him along before abandoning him completely, leaving him in a state of bewildered chagrin, but this time it wasn’t Julieta’s fault. She sat down across from him as a plank on the table tilted slightly, sending the salt cellar and bowls of crema, lime halves, and sliced avocado skittering to their end of the table. Bruno turned away from the food to blow his nose, then folded the napkin and clutched it in his fisted hand. He pressed the palm of his other hand against his forehead, eyes squeezing shut. Julieta frowned as he bit into his bottom lip hard enough to leave marks. Definitely a headache.

Tentatively, she pushed his bowl and spoon across the table. Bruno peered out from behind his hand to inspect the offering. His eyes flickered briefly to his sister’s face before settling back on the bowl in front of him.

“Ajiaco?” he asked, squinting.

She gave a quick nod, uncertain if what she was about to say was still true. “Your favorite.”

“Juli,” he said, taking a moment to appreciate her presentation. She felt the knot in her chest loosen when he finally smiled at her. “Gracias. It looks wonderful.”

Agustín indulged in a long whiff from his own bowl and sighed happily. “It smells wonderful.”

“I wish I could smell it,” Bruno said, watching Agustín longingly. “I guess I’ll have to settle for sort of tasting it.”

“I added some red ginger,” Julieta said. “So it should help your headache, even if it doesn’t help with the… everything else.”

Bruno nudged absently at his nose as he studied his bowl. It was filled to the brim, though Julieta wasn’t sure if he had enough of an appetite left to finish it all. He took a deep, resolute breath that, miraculously, did not trigger a coughing fit. He held it in his cheeks and then exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his furrowed brow.

“It’s going to work,” he said. “Gus is definitely onto something, because this…” He tapped the edge of the bowl with his spoon for emphasis. “This is the one.”

Just as Julieta was wondering why his voice sounded sort of wonky, Bruno dropped the spoon with a clatter and brought his hands up to rub urgently at his nose. He managed an exasperated “De verdad?!” between hitching breaths before stifling violently into his crumpled napkin, each sneeze sounding itchier and more desperate than the last. Even with the fabric locked in place to muffle the sound, he insisted on holding them in. He kept his nose buried in the napkin for a moment, then dropped his hand to knock against his chair three times, a delayed echo. His shivering exhale and subsequent coughs disrupted the graceful curl of steam rising from his ajiaco.

“Ay, Brunito,” Julieta sighed, unsure of how else to express her frustration and sympathy at the same time. “Salud.”

Bruno sniffled, expression hazy and nostrils flaring slightly, before giving his head a shake. The movement seemed to dispel whatever irritation remained. His hand crept across the table to the salt cellar to grab a pinch of salt, which he threw over his left shoulder. He hesitated before grabbing another and tossing it behind him in one swift motion, as if Julieta and Agustín wouldn’t see his do-over if he moved quickly enough. Then he muttered something to himself, something with the cadence of a prayer that Julieta didn’t recognize. He scooped up some broth, making sure to capture a good sized chunk of potato. His hand shook, causing some of the liquid to splash off the spoon and back into the bowl. All of his certainty from before seemed to evaporate as the moment of truth drew nearer.

“This is the one,” he repeated, as if saying it more would make it so. “This is the one.”

Taking another deep breath, he held it, then released it and took his first bite. He swallowed, wincing, and took another bite. Then another. As the contents of the bowl dwindled, Julieta felt herself growing more apprehensive. She was too nervous to eat any of the ajiaco Agustín kept trying to share with her. Bruno was still sniffling and coughing between spoonfuls, which wasn’t a good sign. As soon as he drained the last of the soup from his bowl Julieta studied his face, waiting for the first sign that he was still ill, that she failed yet again. He just gazed back at her, expression strangely unreadable.

“So,” she said, when he didn’t say anything first. “What’d you think? How do you feel?”

“It was…” The muscles in his jaw were tense as he paused to swallow. His next breaths sounded a little uneasy as he pushed himself to try again. “It wuh-hh! Sorry, J-Juli, I… h’hiihh!”

Oh.

Julieta felt her stomach sink as Bruno crumbled into his napkin with another string of stifled sneezes. They seemed to be coming on with little to no warning now. He whimpered after the last one, pressing his fisted hand into his forehead and gently pounding at the table with the other. It didn’t even help his headache, she realized.

Something about reliving the same failure over and over again despite her best efforts shifted something inside of her. Before she could stop herself, Julieta was getting up from the table and marching towards the stove. Grabbing the handles of the pot, she hoisted it over to the sink and dumped her cooking unceremoniously down the drain. Steam rose in an angry cloud as the lid crashed against the ceramic. Somewhere behind her, Agustín squawked in surprised dismay.

“Mi vida!” he exclaimed. “Que haces?”

Julieta watched the liquid swirl in the basin before it vanished down the drain, leaving behind chunks of potato and shredded chicken. Her cheeks felt hot and her eyes were burning. “It didn’t work,” she said, speaking slowly in an effort to keep her voice steady. “I was so sure I had it this time.”

She pretended to busy herself with cleaning up, but when she felt a pair of arms wrap around her she dropped the act and turned into Agustín’s embrace. Suddenly she felt very silly, getting so upset over something so relatively minor that her husband felt he needed to rush to console her - that was Pepa’s move, not hers. Julieta closed her eyes and tried not to replay the image of her hard work swirling down the drain. She wondered what her mother would say about her wasting perfectly good food.

Except it wasn’t perfect; that was the problem. She mended four twisted ankles this month, reset a foot full of broken toes, and made countless scrapes and bruises vanish with her food, but when it came to helping her brother with something that she should have been able to handle, something that should have fallen within the scope of her gift, something she spent most of her life trying to figure out because it didn’t come naturally to her like everything else did, Julieta was completely and utterly useless.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice muffled against Agustín’s chest. “Why can’t I figure it out, after all this time?”

Agustín squeezed her tighter, then cleared his throat in a very specific way. He only did that when he was going to say something she didn’t want to hear, but needed to.

“I say this with love, corazón,” he said, drawing back to look at her tenderly. “Abuela isn’t the only one who needs to work on relaxing her standards.”

The only thing that stopped her from getting upset with him was suddenly remembering that nobody had eyes on Bruno.

Her poor hermano, who she had somehow forgotten in the midst of her self-pitying tantrum. Her blurry gaze landed on the chair where he had been sitting a moment earlier, empty now except for a rat grooming itself. Julieta sighed, bringing her hand to her forehead and suppressing the urge to pound against it. She opened her mouth, but Agustín beat her to it.

“Miércoles.”

#OHOHOHO #love a tag team couple working together #Agustín ‘reading’ that book 😭#like i know this is a snz fic but i’m so obsessed with how you capture the characters #juli’s frustrations and harshness on herself (NOT THE SOPA DOWN THE DRAIN)#legit so obsessed with this story

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hessickjim · 1 month

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Somehow this two part En//canto fic turned into four parts?? That’s hedonism, baby! This one has some sneeze references but it’s light on the actual sneezing. Consider it the calm before the storm. Sorry for all the Spanish but I trust you’re all adults who can google if you don’t understand lol. Lots of love to anyone who likes, reblogs, or even just reads this and goes about their day. Thank you for partaking in my literary gruel.

Stubborn Things, Part II - Intermezzo

(Part I - https://www.tumblr.com/snezus-christ-risen/747603245128712192/i-am-both-pleased-and-ashamed-to-debut-my)

Things were not going smoothly.

Somewhere between most of the family heading out to town and Julieta collecting the plates to be washed, Bruno absconded from the room. Typical. She only took her eyes off him for a few seconds, but that was all he ever needed. He could still move pretty fast for someone who just returned from a ten-year sojourn complaining of sore joints and back pain.

Julieta tracked him down with help from Antonio and the two rats that had joined them at breakfast. “They’re worried about him,” Antonio reported, when Julieta asked why they were so quick to “rat” out their companion. He stopped and seemed to listen to the impassioned squeaks of the rat riding on his right shoulder before continuing. “And they’re tired of getting scared and shooken around every time he sneezes.”

Julieta couldn’t help but chuckle. If those noiseless stifles were enough to startle his rodents, she couldn’t imagine how they would handle his sneezes at full force. Once upon a time, the youngest Madrigal triplet was notorious for his huge, house-rattling sneezes. There were times when they quite literally rattled the house, confirming that Casita was not immune to being startled. His sneezing was just as much an annoyance for his mother and sisters as it was a source of amusement. They used to joke that as the man of the house, his sneeze had to be imposing (especially since nothing else about him was). Bruno never found it as amusing as they did and was very much embarrassed by his lack of volume control. Pepa swore he was loud for attention, but Julieta knew he hated the scrutiny and would have given anything to be invisible when it happened. No matter how hard he tried, he just never seemed to be able to get a grip on it.

All of that changed the night Dolores received her gift. Nearly blowing out his niece’s newly hyper-sensitive eardrums was traumatic enough for him to commit to finding an immediate solution. Even if that solution was learning to painfully stifle his sneezes for the rest of his life. Dolores learned to control her gift to some degree, but even with her explicit permission, and the reassurance that his sneezes were but a drop in the ocean of sounds that bombarded her daily, Bruno clung to the habit. It became another form of self-inflicted punishment in his extensive repertoire.

Surely the practice was a boon in the walls, but there was no use for it now. His method seemed to draw more attention and admonishments than ever before; it truly served no purpose under these conditions except to self flagellate. Julieta resolved to help him break this behavior once and for all, but she would have to find him and cure his cold first. She tried not to overthink the loftiness of these goals.

At least finding him was easy enough. The rats led them to the downstairs sitting room, where they found Bruno slumped on the floor between the chaise lounge and a bookshelf. It reminded Julieta of how he used to play hide and seek with her girls, tucking himself away in the most obvious of places just to make them laugh. With the hood of his ruana up and most of his face in shadow, his expression was hard to read; she suspected it lacked the mirth those memories carried for them. Julieta reached down to touch his head gingerly, frowning at the heat that radiated from his skull.

“Brunito,” she said, lowering her hand.

It was more of a gentle command than a greeting. He didn’t decline her helping hand, to her surprise and relief. With a groan and some effort - more than it should have taken, even at their age - Bruno got to his feet. Once he was as upright as he was going to get he leaned into her, allowing himself to be guided back towards the kitchen. His docility was convenient but concerning, a sign that he was too ill to flee or put up a fight.

Antonio suddenly grabbed her other hand, uncertain as he looked up at his tía for further guidance. Julieta felt bad for involving him for this long already. She was still working on not treating the children like little adults, as had been their family’s tradición tóxico for as long as she could remember.

“Gracias, Antonio,” she said, ruffling his curls as she tightened her arm around her brother’s shoulders. “You were a big help this morning. Your tío will be good as new once I’m through with him, won’t you, tío?”

Right on cue, Bruno flashed his nephew a weak smile and a thumbs-up. It was all Antonio needed to feel reassured. He stretched his arms as wide as he could to hug his aunt and uncle simultaneously, then climbed up onto his jaguar.

“Feel better, tío,” he said, giving a little goodbye wave as they lurched towards the front door. “I’m going to see if Abuela needs my help now. Los quiero!”

“Gracias, pollito,” Bruno said, his voice straining against something more than just emotion. “Te queremos.”

As soon as the front door closed he folded into his sister’s side with a series of spluttering coughs. Julieta held him steady and rubbed his back, shushing his choked apologies and flinching as her hand bumped against a mysterious lump. No sooner did it disappear than she heard a thump and the scrabbling of tiny claws against the tiles. Malditas ratas en todas partes. Such a nuisance, but she had to admit their concern for him was sweet. She could hear the pitter patter of at least a dozen little feet as she and Bruno resumed their cortège toward the kitchen.

His body felt warm against hers and his collar was damp with sweat. He was sniffling more after his coughing fit; Julieta could feel his nose scrunching up against her shoulder where his face was buried. When they were just a few steps from the kitchen he stopped abruptly, causing Julieta to nearly trip over their feet.

“Estás bien?” she asked, working to regain her balance and his.

Bruno responded with a series of urgent breaths, scrambling to tuck his nose into the folds of his ruana. Julieta winced as his body shook against her twice, both sneezes tightly and painstakingly contained. She found herself blessing him rather than scolding him, and actively suppressing the urge to do the latter. She didn’t have the heart to kick him this time, either, and quite frankly, she was concerned she might hurt an innocent rat if she tried. Instead she waited patiently while he struggled towards a third sneeze that had no interest in making an appearance. Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, Bruno lifted the other to hover indecisively in front of his face. A quick glance at the cloudless sky above the courtyard prompted a few breaths that sounded promising, but ultimately failed to deliver. For some reason he didn’t use that little light trick of his again; Julieta suspected he was growing too self-conscious and chose to accept defeat in lieu of further embarrassment.

“Híjole,” was all he could say as he leaned into her again, sounding as woozy as he looked.

“Pobrecito,” Julieta crooned, handing him a napkin from her apron pocket.

They continued on, Julieta keeping a close eye on her brother in case he decided to pull another surprise stop. He did, but only to dig through a pocket and throw salt over his left shoulder. Then he sucked in a breath, held it, and knocked against the doorframe as they crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Julieta snuck in a knock or two along with him.

Just in case.

#good GOD this is a good story #friend i have missed your writing like the deserts miss the rain #your character studies are top notch like???#are you secretly a madrigal bc you know them so well!!#there were so many little phrases in here that had me gawking at your brilliance #like julieta not being perfect but trying her best (talking to kids like little adults!!)#the memories of bruno and the girls and tonito wanting to help #this is the kind of fic middle school me would have printed out and kept in my lisa frank binder #POBRECITO BRUNITO

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