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madrigaljail · 2 years

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Some More In-Laws Apocrypha

Sooooooooooooo if you've been following the saga of me torturing myself with my own writing you know that a while back I wrote what's essentially the end of the El Brujo Loco saga back when I was writing chapter one of something else and anyway. It's complicated. And it ended on a cliff dive cliffhanger. Well, I've since been politely bullied into resolving the cliffhanger but! I pulled an Uno-reverse card and switched up the POV so now it'll tie in better with the Bruno/OMC rom com I had no idea I was going to write when I first started planning this.

Got that? Ok, here's 2200~ words of (my) José Guzmán walking down a bunch of stairs, doing a lot of thinking, and making some lousy choices. cw: internalized homophobia, nonconsensual kissing (with immediate reprisal), reference to suicidal ideation, good lord these guys are a mess, thank god it takes them 30 more years to get together. Anyway, T border on M for this because Themes, idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

He heard an angry shout from far below, the echo of a door slamming, and José fell to his knees and called out a prayer of thanks. For a moment he’d thought he’d just witnessed Bruno leap to his death, but…he watched the rope and the counterweight sway, spotted the pulley anchored near the eye-shaped skylight, and shook his head.

“You…insane bastard,” he muttered before shakily getting to his feet and turning around. The vision remained where he’d dropped it, one of the corners had broken off but thankfully the image was intact.

José looked it over again, shifting the tablet back and forth and marveling at the clarity. It was definitely him, somewhat older, and he seemed enveloped in a sense of peace directly at odds with Bruno’s ravings about the misery and hardship that awaited him. More proof, he guessed, that the problem was with the Seer and not the Gift.

Speaking of misery and hardship: there were all those stairs he still had to climb down. Delaying the inevitable, he took one last look around the imposing entrance to the vision cave, the grand archway and carvings like something out of an ancient temple. Or a tomb. Contrasted with that, Bruno’s hammock and haphazard pile of supplies called to mind a beggar’s encampment.

Well. José had done his part, whether or not it got Señora Madrigal what she wanted was out of his control.

With a sigh he carefully slid the vision into his satchel and began his descent. The steps had been nowhere near as numerous the last time he’d been in this room, years ago, when they’d still been children. Even then he’d noticed with each visit - there hadn’t been many, and he never stayed long - that the room got taller, and when he’d pointed it Bruno had shrugged.

“Part of the magic, I guess,” he’d said with a shy, awkward smile.

Since the explanation was given back when one could trust what he said, José accepted it. Plus Pepa’s room had changed too and…

Good Christ, that had been a mess. Humiliation burned his face and he froze, fists clenched, between one small landing and the next. He’d cast her aside on her birthday, called her clingy and desperate, and in time he’d suffered the vengeance of her siblings but it had been better than facing the truth, hadn’t it?

It had made more sense than to admit that, upon being led to a wonderland of rainbows and mystic clouds by a beautiful, eager girl on the edge of seventeen, he’d completely failed to be seduced. That the same happened under less miraculous circumstances with both Lourdes Garcia and Pia Valencia was less notable, more quietly brushed aside.

That Nestor Herrera has succeeded was revelatory. A lot of things suddenly made sense in José’s mind following a few afternoons of awkward but satisfying fumbling, and he tried explaining how relieved he was to know someone else felt like he did. Nestor, baffled, had said it was just a thing guys did sometimes, it didn’t mean anything, that he shouldn’t read so much into it, and then never invited him over again.

Which left José alone to grapple with the confusion, shame, and finally despair that came when he realized exactly how different he was. Soon it became clear that he was fated either to loneliness or a marriage even more loveless than the one his parents endured, and his father warned him he needed to choose a girl soon because pickings were slim, and his mother was far too eager to crow about Osma Martinez being newly available, and-

And then the Devil himself in the form of Bruno Madrigal had skulked into church on the Feast of the Assumption, shrugged off that stupid military jacket only to keep it draped over his shoulders, mussed his unkempt curls so they fell more artfully over his eyes, and José added disgust to his list of descriptors. He’d realized he was sick, that much had become clear, but to consider goddamn el brujo fucking loco like…that?

In time the desire grew to be as ugly and twisted as its target, and the harder he pushed it away the more consuming it became. His gaze would linger too long, poisonous ideas struck him at increasingly unwelcome times, and the only answer to his torment was an oblivious smirk and casual, aimless mockery.

When José drew back his knife that October night, enraged and frustrated and vengeful, and realized Bruno had not only given up the fight but was maybe encouraging him to go through with it, it all fell apart.

That night he resolved to leave the Encanto, an idea he’d been toying with for some time but now had cause to act on. José confessed everything - unofficially, and in vague terms - to Padre Lopez, and after some thought his mentor agreed that finding a path over the mountains would be best for him. With some hesitation he went on to suggest looking into becoming a priest, that if he was careful he’d find acceptance, and if he was very careful maybe companionship.

His parents were furious, his brother bitterly hurt, and when word eventually reached Doña Alma she summoned him to Casita, which had led to…a conversation.

“When you leave, the Encanto loses a potential leader,” she’d told him seriously as her tired eyes drifted upwards. “Before that happens I want you to try and get another one back.”

She’d told him precisely what to do, and he’d climbed the stairs, and found an unresponsive lump in a hammock. Bruno had barely left his home in the intervening months and secondhand accounts from his sisters indicated he hardly left his room; by the greasy curls peeking out from under the blanket and the bitten-down nails on one exposed hand he believed it.

So José waited, and explored the haunted space outside the vision cave, and waited, and studied those tormented carvings, and thought about the vulnerability of a bared throat, and his heart broke a little, and he fought back tears.

Then el brujo loco awoke and their old dance started up one last time. Bruno’s performance - and he now knew with complete certainty that was all it was - had become a desperate caricature, and José wanted to shake him, wanted the vision to show that maybe he would come along, wanted-

He’d reached the bottom of the stairs and run out of time. All that was left for him to do was step out the door and leave all of this behind.

Outside, it was so hot and dry that he felt like he was standing beside the glass maker's furnace. José heard arguing but couldn’t make out the words, and based on the atmosphere Pepa was involved and enraged and it was likely better - safer - for him to stay put until things settled down, then sneak out.

The tiles rippled at the base of the steps and all around the gallery, anxious. It was likely going to take a while, which left him alone with his thoughts, the weight of the future on his shoulder, and a golden glow beside him to keep him company.

The carved image was different from when they were kids too, the solemn, precocious boy replaced with wild curls, narrowed eyes, menacing hands, and…

José found himself dragging his thumb across the line of the mouth, feeling the rasp of wood grain and imagining stubble, hooking upwards at the corner where the permanent smirk was most evident. A moment, then another, to mourn something which never was, never could have been, and never would be.

There had been those flashes of Bruno’s life to come, simple things, a growing, happy family he could be a part of, and he sighed and lowered his hand.

“Peace be with you,” he murmured, and as he turned to go he could suddenly hear the argument clearly.

Bruno, mocking: “To hell with your miracle!”

Pepa, shrieking: “To hell with you, you filthy, worthless-”

Every hair on José’s body stood up and even in the recess of the steps the flash was blinding, there was an explosion of thunder, and with it the entire house shuddered. Lightning must have struck the tower; he heard something crack, and as he blinked spots from his eyes he swore the golden light of the door flickered.

“That is enough, Pepa!” Alma, cold and furious. They all spoke over each other, until Pepa cursed and the front door slammed, the storm following behind in her wake and dissipating as she descended into town.

Alma kept talking, low and intense and he couldn’t catch the words. She stopped on a questioning tone, silence followed, and as he continued debating whether or not to go footfalls approached, then suddenly Bruno was framed in the archway at the bottom of the steps.

He pressed a shaking hand to the wall for support as he caught his breath, shoulders slumped, head bowed, curtain of hair obscuring his face. His other hand came up to swipe at his face then he looked up, blinking when he saw José standing at his door.

Once again the fight appeared to have left him as he stared slack-jawed, those changeable eyes rendered glassy, and Bruno shook his head. “How are you still here?” he asked, flat, dull.

“I wasn’t sure it was safe to go yet,” José said, then decided to press his luck: “Is it?”

Bruno scoffed, sneered, then cocked his head and started up the steps, the mask firmly back in place.

“For you? Yeah, of course, you are in Doña Alma’s good graces.” He steepled his fingers and pouted. “The eager, faithful servant she’s always wanted- hey, maybe we can trade.”

He paused, spread his hands, and tipped them up and down like balancing scales, his gaze sliding to the tell-tale green glow coming from José’s satchel. “Let’s defy the future, I can go out there and whatever happens’ll happen, and you can stay here. Right here. Mamá will give you plenty of praise and attention until you slip up, and…well, sorry, can’t do anything about the uncaring father but-”

“Jesucristo almighty, do you ever shut up?”

Amazingly, for a moment, he did. The price of Bruno’s silence was a malicious grin as he all but hopped up the remaining steps until they were on the same level. José was only a couple of inches taller but it always felt like more, and they were both well aware of who would win in a physical confrontation.

The silence continued. The grin widened. He was being contrary on purpose.

José closed his eyes, grit his teeth, then shook his head and relaxed, opening his eyes again.

“Look, whatever you- you win, okay? You win, Bruno, I’m not playing anymore.” Aside from the grin shifting into a grimace there was no reaction, so be pressed on. “What happened that night scared the shit out of both of us, stop pretending it didn’t. The game’s over, you can drop the act. Aren’t you tired?”

“You have no idea-” Then, finally, the mask shattered. Bruno swallowed and shook his head, shoulders hunching up. “No, no, ha, you…you know exactly how much I want all of this to be over.”

The truth of that chilled José to the marrow. Honestly each week that had passed without word of Bruno having succumbed to some mysterious illness or freak accident - and he could perfectly envision Doña Alma’s blank stare and hear her flat delivery of this news - was a surprise and relief. And now…

“So end it,” José whispered. “Now you know you’re going to live, start doing that.”

A scoff. “What makes you think you can tell me what to do?”

José reached up with both hands, grasped Bruno by the shoulders, and kissed him, hard. He tasted like sour wine and smelled like he needed a bath but it felt exactly as right as José had imagined, and God help him he'd imagined it often.

His heart pounded when Bruno clutched at his shirt and he drew back to look into green eyes wide with…shock? Revelation? No sign of resistance though, so José kissed him again, more tender, more hungry, leaning in until Bruno’s back pressed against the wall. There was still no response so José hummed, approval and encouragement, and that’s when Bruno’s lips sealed themselves shut and the hand on his shoulder shoved him away.

Two large tiles under José’s feet tipped up and he was flung down, his shins cracked against the steps as he tried to recover, and it was only frantic grabbing at the handrail which saved him from tumbling all the way to the bottom. Above him, Bruno spat and then bared his teeth, furious.

“Get out,” he snarled, and beneath José the stairs tilted to create a steep ramp. “Go away forever, or Casita will make you leave.”

He let go, and slid down the steps, and he thought the last he’d see of Bruno Madrigal was a swirl of black fringe and sandaled feet disappearing behind a glowing door. He was harried by clattering tiles, creaking steps, and fanning shutters all the way to the front door, and before he left he glimpsed Alma staring at her husband’s portrait.

The next day the talk of the town was the obvious crack in Casita’s green tower, spidering out from where the lightning struck.

When he set out for the mountains he took one look back, and could swear he saw a small figure clinging to the tower, maybe holding a bucket, maybe wielding a trowel.

#my writing #the madrigal in-laws #el brujo loco hours #i did this instead of a lot of encantober and I feel bad #but I've successfully objectified door art in fic #and boy oh boy can i not wait to write the other half of that argument #'Seda can you write anything straightforward and in order?' no no i cannot #i am going to regret hitting post #wake up in a panic at 2am #and stop myself from deleting this #but only barely

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