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Chapter Text

Camilo knew exactly who he was.

He was Camilo Madrigal; a Colombian teenage boy, local town shape shifter, called a ’twink’ by the people his age. And he did not forget that ever, even when he had shifted a lot during one day. Whenever anyone asked ’Hey what's your name?’ he said ’Camilo’. Because Camilo was his name.

It had been a theory when he'd first gotten his gift, that he would forget who he was in a way, which had clearly concerned his parents. With post-it-notes that only said his name on them to pictures of himself they hid in his ruana. It was annoying, and Camilo had to tell him he wouldn't forget. Only then did they stop.

And not to brag but he hadn't forgotten who he was; His gift, unknown to many, had an original state. That meant he would always turn back to himself eventually, even if he didn't want to. Because of this, all he had to do to turn back was to clench his stomach and then relax it. Automatically, he would turn back.

No, the problem was not that he disliked his gift; it was that he liked his gift a little too much.

Because there was just something about shape shifting into someone else, looking in the mirror, and then seeing someone who had nothing to do with yourself. There was just something about that. And Camilo couldn't explain it.

Everybody had told him not to overdo his gift, that he didn't have to shift. Camilo wanted to shift, though. But how did he tell his family that? How did he tell them that certain days he hated his body so much that he wanted to shift, without concerning them?

There wasn't a way, Camilo quickly learned.

He would never be able to explain how certain days he looked in the mirror and pulled at his curls because they just felt wrong. They would assume that he hated himself, or something, and he didn't! He just... didn't know what it was.

Hate seemed so strong though, Camilo didn't want to use that term, because a voice in his head told him that meant he thought his parents were ugly and he didn't! That was disrespectful to them, and Camilo respected his parents very much, regardless of that they paid more attention to Antonio and Dolores. Actually, he respected his parents even more for that because Antonio and Dolores needed that attention.

Camilo had turned out easy, he didn't need more help; in fact, he barely needed any help at all! By 8 he learned the basics of cooking, by 10 he already knew how to change diapers which was perfect for helping his parents with little Antonio! Perfectly helpful, perfectly respectful!

Antonio and Dolores, however, did need help; Dolores, rude courtesy of her gift, was very sensitive to nearly all noises, and she constantly needed to rest in her (now) soundproof room because of it; while Antonio didn't have gift problems, he just had... social problems. The boy was very shy, something that worried Mami and Papi.

”He needs to come out of his shell,” he heard Mami whisper to Papi, light cloud above her, ”He's just too shy.”

Camilo, of course, tried his best to help too; with Dolores, he carried the soundproof headphones that her room provided her with, as she often forgot; with Antonio he dragged him to town central and the boy hid under his ruana as he talked to the townspeople. Camilo thought it an improvement, because before he would have run away.

Be a respectful Madrigal, he told himself when it all felt hard. Be a respectful Madrigal; don't be selfish, don't be egoistic (unless you're Isabela, Camilo would add, sourly), don't be tired, don't be sad, don't be useless, don't be busy, don't be rude, don't kiss boys.

Don't kiss boys, the rule Camilo had given himself. Or rather, don't kiss boys again because he had once; he had been 13 and walking back to Casita with a townsboy his age, Diego Rodriguez. They'd only been talking about stuff, and then suddenly (but it hadn't been sudden at all), they had kissed. Camilo had caught himself exactly six seconds later and had ran away with a quick apology.

Camilo regretted it deeply, he would probably never not regret it, but luckily nobody knew; Dolores had been in her room, he had found out, and nobody had seen it. After all, it had been quite late. Looking Abuela in the eyes afterwards had been hard, but he'd managed. Nobody knows, Camilo had to tell himself a ton of times.

Unfortunately, the comfort of nobody knowing had not been particularly comforting, so he had to go and get a girlfriend. To prove to himself that no, he wasn't into guys somehow, despite that he had liked the kiss. So he asked Cristal Cortes, the local ’boy-hater’ as everybody called her, to date him so they could keep up appearances. She had agreed.

Camilo didn't know if they had fooled anyone, though, because he just could not act as if he really liked her; he'd mentioned it, nonchalantly, while he told Mami what he'd done that day. To him, everybody else had overreacted (except Dolores, but that was because she knew) and during their month-long relationship, Camilo treated her more as a friend than anything. Then after they'd ended it, Camilo forgot to mention it (because that was how little he cared) and his family found out a month later. Their reactions to that were overexaggerated too.

Cristal's acting hadn't been very superb either; her family hadn't even heard that they dating from her but rather the town. During the relationship, she had behaved more as if they were best friends and not boyfriend and girlfriend, then got irritated when people reminded her of the fact. After they ended it, she told him- as they stayed friends- that her parents, once again, found out from the townspeople rather than her.

Yeah, needless to say, both had cared too little about their relationship to even act decently.

And Camilo didn't bother to try get another girlfriend after that (or at least a decent amount of time after that), because all the townsgirls were clingy, irritating, and quite frankly not his type. What was his type, then? Don't even ask. (Oh, and also because Camilo hadn't had the time. He was a Madrigal, after all.)

”You need to hold onto them a little, niño,” advised Papi, ”Chicas want you to fight for them so be more persistent, mijo!”

Camilo had not been sad about ending it with Cristal, because he hadn't cared about their relationship. But his family had not understood that, somehow, and even thought he was sad about it. Mami had given him forehead/cheek kisses; Papi had ruffled his hair; while everyone else just told him that he could talk to them if he was ever upset.

Honestly, his family only talked to him when something was going on his life. There; he said it! Especially his parents. Camilo thought he needed advice quite a lot, being a teenager and Madrigal after all, but Mami and Papi only gave him advice when they saw fit. (When something was going on, in other words.)

”Oh, chiquito, that's such a shame, I quite liked the girl,” said Mami, cupping his cheek, ”You need to be a gentlemen, be kind. Girls like that in a boy.”

Of course Camilo could not have said, ’Well what if I don't want girls to like me?’ because that would come across oddly to Mami. There was no way explain that, no way to comprehend it. Did Camilo want boys to like him? No, he didn't know. (Mostly because he had not asked himself.)

Camilo wasn't a normal teenager, so it made sense he didn't think of girls like a normal teenager would, right? Well, that was what he told himself, at least, because it was easiest. Or at least, much easier than admitting something he didn't even know about.

And Camilo had always been the type to choose the easiest alternative.

He knew that, because Camilo knew himself; sometimes, however, he wished he didn't know himself. Or perhaps he just wished he was someone different, someone who wasn't Camilo. That was hard to explain, though, so Camilo would stick with ’I know myself’ despite how little it explained.

Chapter Text

It had never been said that the townspeople were annoying (especially by Camilo) but one could only endure so much protesting outside as they were trying to eat dinner until they snapped. Camilo didn't snap, however, he just groaned and swore, which earned a sharp reprimand from either his Abuela or Mami.

You might have noticed how oddly specific that was, which was because that was exactly was happening; the townspeople were knocking on the doors to Casita (which had gotten specific orders to not let them in) while they protested and yelled stuff Camilo chose not to listen to.

Of course, the townspeople were irritating on the best of days, but they were not usually actively irritating. Instead they just kind of demanded help, despite how obviously tired he looked (yes, that had happened before.) But they never crossed the line of purposefully disrupting their dinner. They had accidentally done so before, but that was different.

”What do they want?” he asked Dolores as he nudged her.

Dolores shrugged irritably, ”I don't know; they're not saying. They're being really loud, though.”

Camilo grabbed her noiseless headphones from the large pocket on the inside of his ruana- because of course, Dolores had forgot them again, as she usually did- and put them over her ears, and she gave him a soft smile in thanks.

He internally praised himself- because hey, if not him, then who would?- as that had been kind, respectful. The act of a good brother, something he'd never been called before. Camilo knew that he was, though, and therefore did not need to hear it. Did he want to? Yes, but want and need were two different things.

Sometimes, Camilo would like to be praised by his parents; perhaps be told how kind he was, how great he was, how he was such a good brother. But whenever he yearned for it, he'd start scolding himself because that made him sound so selfish, then he'd scold himself again because it sounded as if he was parenting himself and that was bad because he had parents. Perfectly good parents at that.

Camilo respected his parents very much, and it was not to be accused that he didn't; in fact, he still called them ’Mami’ and ’Papi’ just to show them respect. He was a Madrigal- quite impossible to forget- and Madrigals, of course, showed their parents respect.

A bang on the door and a whisper of a yell Camilo could barely hear.

”Abuela just go ask the townspeople what they want already, they're being so fucking-” a sharp reprimand of ’Language!’ from Mami, followed by Abuela's, ”annoying! So just go calm them down, let them get their point across so they'll let us f-” he caught himself this time, ”I mean, so they'll leave to let us eat dinner in peace!”

There were pleads of agreement from others, then; Antonio, looking very annoyed, said, ”Camilo's right, they're annoying the animals!”; ”Camilo's right, Mamá, we can not eat dinner like this.” said Tía Julieta; ”Please do, they're really getting on my nerves.” said Isabela, indeed, sounding very annoyed; ”Please, Abuela, they're disrupting us. I can barely focus on eating.” said Mirabel; and a 'mhm' of agreement from Dolores.

”Fine,” said Abuela, standing up and she left. Nobody spoke as they waited for her, him especially as when he said 'I bet it's something really stupid-' Papi nudged him and shook his head sternly. Then Abuela entered the room again after a few minutes, and everybody rose their heads, ”The town have organized therapy for us; a therapist for each of us. I agreed because I think we could benefit from therapy. It starts tomorrow, approximately an hour before dinner. It is next to the medical facility, the long building. We'll go there together just a little before 6:00.”

What, Camilo's first thought was. Because well; therapy? Well, Camilo could never have believed it because before Casita fell, whenever something even remotely concerning happened to any of them, Abuela would force them to tell everyone they were fine personally, without even questioning if they actually were.

Because once- when he'd been 11- a man by the name of Alberto Suarez had dragged him to an alleyway, forced him to shift into his stern and stiff wife, and then pressed him against the wall. He had been strong, so Camilo could only struggle against his grip as Suarez told him he'd been following him around the town for some time, and about how pretty he was. Camilo remembered the word making him feel queasy. Suarez had been about to grasp his hip, until Luisa threw him away and he was pulled in close by Dolores.

Apparently Dolores, as soon as she'd heard it, had ran to look for someone. It was a great thing to do, but Camilo had not thanked her nor Luisa. Camilo, instead, remembered telling everyone that he wanted to go to bed, but really he'd just ended up puking in the bathroom. If Dolores heard it, well, it was never mentioned. Camilo remembered staying in his bed, for the first time sleeping till noon.

Until Abuela entered his room, scolded him, and instructed him to ease the town's worry. That included a small ’press conference’ in lack of a better word; Camilo had been forced to tell the whole town that, despite what happened that previous day, he was fine. And that Suarez had just been feeling ’weird.’

Suarez had been detained (shortly) but it hadn't exactly been comforting. Camilo hadn't even had time to process what had happened, that he had almost been- Camilo could not bear to think the word- because he had to be happy, so if he wanted to bury himself in his room, then he could not.

The point of telling that rather-forgotten story, was to provide an example of one of them having to ease the town's worries.

Abuela had enforced it, after all, but now she was suddenly okay with it? Okay with unwinding to process something? Well- in other words- Camilo could not believe it; had Abuela really changed so much?

”Uh, I refuse,” he said simply.

Calm down, he told himself. It wasn't as if he would have to go to this therapy, so what was there to get worked up about? He would not be forced to go the therapy sessions, Camilo was much too cheerful for that, and the family knew it! 

”Camilo, it is not optional,” said Abuela, sighing, ”The whole family has to. In two weeks, when your therapist decides to clear you, then it is optional,” when; Camilo did not know how to feel about the use of that word, ”And besides, do you not think there is anything a therapist could help you with?”

Well perhaps there was, but Camilo did not want to know; after all, a comic relief's task was to entertain, be cheerful and to not have issues; and the two last ones were necessary for the first one to be completed. Camilo knew that it did not have to be accurate, as long as it was believed to be so.

In other words; Camilo did not have to be fine, he did however, have to act fine. Everyone must believe that he was. Therefore, therapy was inconvenient, disruptive. He did not have time to go to therapy, as that could potentially disrupt, ruin the role he was playing.

Nobody liked a sad comic relief, a lesson he had learned perhaps too early.

Maybe he was bad at it, though? Maybe he was bad at being happy and everybody could see past him? His acting could have been subpar this whole time, though nobody confronted him because they didn't know how to? Or they just didn't care?

Camilo had to tell himself that this was foolish, that he was being paranoid, because his parents definitely would not have noticed. They definitely had not noticed a single crack in the wall he'd built up, as it was impeccable and they were too busy admiring it; admiring its spots and cracks written over by meaningless words and praises in ink. They only saw its beauty, and not its vulnerability.

No, never its vulnerability.

For years people had stood in front of his walls, admiring and praising its beauty, its stability. While he stood beyond the walls, listening to it all as if he was Dolores. His mask, the smile etched on, was kept on. Camilo did not dare ever take it off.

But now they were suddenly tearing the metaphorical walls down, and how dare they? Why would they, when for years they had been admiring it?

”Well then,” said Abuela, starting again, as he did not answer, ”We will all be here at Casita tomorrow, 6:00, and none of you are allowed to be late or,” she sent Camilo a stern look, ”not come. We will go there together and wait together. Do you all understand?”

Camilo rolled his eyes as the whole family said, ”Yes Abuela,” simultaneously.

He stood up immediately, holding his unfinished plate, and ignored the glances of his family and Mami's command of, ”Camilo, finish your food-” and he placed his plate on the counter before diving upstairs to his room.

He had always disliked his room; it started off normal, a dirty golden wallpaper and a dark wooden trim and there were shelves adorned with pictures and books; then it was a vast theater, mirrors (that never depicted your actual appearance and could speak) and a long row of seats that led up to a stage that had vibrant red curtains with golden hangings. Behind the curtains was the sleeping part of the room, that had his large bed, his posters, his chameleon plushie and shelves adorned with various stuff.

Many, when entering his room, were amazed; the mirrors always showed someone else, which was fascinating to everyone except Camilo, who was used to it. Barely anybody talked about the mirror backstage, which actually depicted one's real appearance, because barely anybody had ever seen those mirrors.

Personally, Camilo disliked his room because of how... impersonal it was, as that was really the best (or only) way to explain it; the room was as much for everyone else than it was for him. It was for entertaining everyone and for giving him a space to sleep. In other words; his space was, coincidentally, the smallest part of the room.

Of course he understood that it was his job to entertain, to captivate. But sometimes he wished that his room was fully for him. Perhaps that was selfish, but was it really that bad if no one knew? If his Abuela ever heard it, she would, of course, scold him but fortunately she did not know.

She would never know.

Upon pulling the curtains apart and stepping in, the mirror, shifted as himself, said, ”You feel sad, and annoyed,” just as it always did; whenever he was in there, the mirror said what he was feeling and it was very annoying. 

As soon as he'd fallen onto the bed, face-first, a sharp knock was heard and a rather shrill voice yelled, ”Camilo! You will come out right now, chico, and finish your food! I do not care if you are full, you shouldn't have taken that much food, then!”

He did not answer, or run to open the door, and instead groaned, muffled only by the pillow he'd buried his face with; she usually did this, and even after all these years, she did not understand that she would not get a response from him.

Camilo listened as she continued to scold him for a few minutes, at some point starting to talk about his reaction to therapy instead, and his eyebrow had raised at that point but he did nothing else. He only pulled his blanket tighter to himself, twisting into it, and lost all attention to give to Mami. And at some point, he realized Mami had left, giving up on her scolding.

This was the first time he had ever gone to bed after dinner, he realized. Or well, the first time he had done so in many years. Usually he went out to help for a couple more hours, as did everyone except Antonio, so this time he was conflicted. He felt relieved, yet also confused and annoyed?

Relieved that he need not go to help the village, yet annoyed with himself as he should want to go down to help as he was a Madrigal, and confused because why did he not want to this time?

Camilo thought about it so hard it ended up lulling him to sleep, in a way.

Abuela had told Dolores to keep an eye on him.

He had overheard it in the morning, when Abuela told Dolores to do so; ”Keep an eye- or well, ear out, in your case- on Camilo, will you? I know he will attempt to sneak off, and I can not afford that.” and when Dolores had promised to do so, Abuela had smiled softly and tucked out one of her curls.

She had kept to her word, as Camilo knew she would, and seemed to always be in his vicinity; when he had helped Señora García, a quite slender woman with frizzy hair, with her new baby, little Natalia. Well, Dolores had been standing a few feet away, observing him. Then when he had helped Señor Gomez with lifting, Dolores had been watching him in the corner of her eye as she spoke to old Señora Ozma, who needed help finding her cat.

Camilo had tried to tell her she didn't have to; he'd been walking through the town, and Dolores had been closely following. He'd snapped, so to say, and had almost-yelled at her to stop. Unfortunately, Mami and Papi had been close by, and had given him a long scolding on being nicer to his sister.

Camilo had just escaped- Dolores quickly going back to following him, and Camilo attempted to ignore her this time- and and was now entertaining the children; who were all sitting on the grass, clapping as he danced, shifting with every move. While Dolores was standing a few feet away, watching.

Camilo tried his very best to ignore her.

Turns out no, that was not an easy feat, as every time he was turned to that side, his eyes would meet hers; watching him. Camilo wanted to groan out loud every time, but knew that would be odd. At best. 

”Camilo,” said one of the kids- Alejandro, Camilo thought his name was- after a while, and Camilo stopped his performance immediately, ”I have a question.”

Camilo smiled softly at him, bent down, and said, ”You can just tell me right away, kid,” because someone had to teach these kids, ”What's your question?”

Maybe-Alejandro put his finger on the edge of his mouth, in the way kids did for some reason whenever they were going to state a fact, ”Well, I heard from my mamá that you and your family were going to start therapy, she was one of those who organized it,” Camilo nodded, and he continued, ”So, I was wondering; are you going to start being sad now, that you're going to therapy? Because I don't want you to be sad, I like when you're happy. You're fun then.”

Did everyone think he was secretly sad, or something? Or that if he went to therapy, he wouldn't be able to keep up his obvious act of being happy? Did they know? Did they know he was sad, that he was conflicted and didn't know what to do with it? Was he really that bad at pretending?

”Sad?” said Camilo, repeating, and the kids nodded, ”Oh, that's sweet, but no. The family isn't getting therapy because we're all sad, we're getting therapy because of...” how to put this? ”because of how much pressure Abuela was putting on us for all those years. But I've always been really happy, so I promise I won't stop.”

The kids looked at him for a while, in sad confusion.

”Oh,” said Cecelia, ”Did you not like it, that your Abuela was putting pressure on you?”

Camilo shrugged, ”Eh, it never really bothered me much, actually,” false and he knew it, ”So this therapy is really just annoying to me. To my familia, it might mean a time to finally talk about their feelings, but I don't care much about that.”

”So you'll get cleared?” said the Coffee Kid, excitedly.

Well I hope so, though Camilo, honestly, but he knew he couldn't say that.

”Yep!” said Camilo, happily, ”Really I should say ’maybe’ or ’probably’ but why should I when I'm 100% certain I'll get cleared? Everything will be fine; I'll make that therapist laugh so much, she'll be like ’Goodness, how could anyone think this boy needs therapy?’ and it'll be all good!”

The kids cheered, and Camilo went back to performing; As he swirled, shifting into Tío Bruno as he did so, he could see Dolores gazing at him, unapproval clear in her eyes.

”I'll make that therapist laugh so much, she'll be like ’Goodness, how could anyone think this boy needs therapy?’ and it'll be all good!” was apparently a promise easier said than done; as Camilo could not make no-bullshit Miss Cortez laugh.

He'd tried, of course; shifting (she had raised an eyebrow at that, but nothing else), joking that his family had been so nervous they'd had clouds above their heads, making a frankly hilarious pun about Shakespeare (”Every time I think about this, I shake- speare!”)

Okay, it hadn't been that funny, but how was he supposed to make therapy-related jokes when there was not something even remotely entertaining about therapy? Exactly, he couldn't!

”So,” she started off after he'd shut up, ”I presume your Abuela has explained but I'm going to do so anyways; one hour two days a week, we're going to talk, and after two weeks, I'm going to decide if you need to continue talking to me.”

He nodded, and she responded in a short nod; they sat in silence for a while- he found it comfortable, nice, despite that he usually hated silence for its awkward nature- until she then asked, ”Now, what do you want to talk about?”

”About how I don't need to be here,” he said, seriously, and she grimaced but still nodded in a sort of encouragement, ”I've always been happy, you know? The townspeople are assuming the whole family needs therapy, or something, but that's not true! I-” he trailed off for a few seconds, looking down as he lost all his determination, ”I liked my life.”

God dammit, Camilo, he thought, Why sound so sad? She's never gonna clear us if you keep up like that. And then Camilo stopped for a while, to question his use of ’us’ and ’you’ and his first name, as if there were multiple people in him. There wasn't.

”What specifically did you like about your life, Camilo?” she asked, and Camilo couldn't help it!

”The shifting!” he started off, ”I've always really loved my gift! I know it's not really that helpful but at least it makes people happy, so is it really that useless? Oh, and you wouldn't believe the amount of times I've fooled people!”

Camilo actually recalled that in most of those instances, he had played into that role, and not always for the fun of it (although it was very fun) and sometimes it was because he just wanted to believe it; that he was that person. But that didn't matter, he'd still fooled them!

”That was only one thing,” she pointed out and Camilo's face deflated, ”Was it only the shifting you liked, Camilo?”

Camilo internally cursed himself; he'd gotten so wrapped up in his love for his gift that he had completely forgotten to continue and talk about the other things he'd loved! For example, the- okay, maybe there wasn't something but still, Camilo should have said something else! Now she thought he had hated the rest of the parts of his life, or something, but that wasn't true!

He had 1) loving parents that barely spoke to him, 2) great siblings that he ended up caring for constantly, 3) an, of course, incredible gift that he might have an unhealthy obsession with. 4) kind townspeople, more like overbearing, and annoying. 5) Adorable kids that rivaled the annoyance of even Capulet. 6) His own room that was barely even just his. 7) Friends that were barely even his friends.

The point was, Camilo had so many things in his life to appreciate, and like.

”It's fine,” she said after a few minutes of awkward silence, ”Nobody really thought about it when it was happening, but when you stopped to do so, it seemed kind of weird; How you guys were nine years old and already being out all day, helping around. And compared to every other nine-year-old at the time, it was a feat.”

Camilo chuckled, and asked, ”You remember me, though? I was happy.”

”What I remember most about you is how you used to have multiple allergy attacks yet nobody stopped to consider that maybe you were allergic,” she smiled softly, but even though it was the right moment, she did not laugh.

Camilo remembered that; when he had been 9, he'd been a huge help with constructing due to his shapeshifting gift. However, he always got watery-eyed and itchy, and even had skin rashes days afterwards. Nobody had cared, except Papi who had fretted and scolded everyone. Then he'd let him rest the whole day, with a whole batch of Julieta's arepas. The only downside was the serious discussion he had with his parents, who explained to him he was probably allergic to adhesives- whatever those were- and that he was hereby forbid from construction.

But he didn't remember it for the story; he remembered it for it being one of the last time his parents ever fretted over or worried about him. If he had an allergy attack nowadays, they would probably give him an arepa and send him back to his chores. But if Antonio did? They would probably fret over him, worry, and scold anyone who made it happen.

Camilo tried not to feel envious.

”Yeah, every time I think about it, I get watery-eyed!” he cracked, ”Haha, get it-”

She did not laugh. Instead, she sighed and after a few minutes of her giving him the Did you just say that look, she started, ”Camilo, have you ever thought that you use comedy as a coping mechanism?”

Panic struck him, like Mami's lightning would; was he really failing that bad that she was now talking about coping mechanisms? Was he bad, could he not pretend to be happy-

His walls were all crumbling around him, painting him with metaphorical seeping blood, but Camilo did not care- he was failing, he was failing, he was failing, he was fail- as his breathing quickly grew irregular.

In his mind she was screaming, but he didn't hear any of it- ’we're so dissapointed in you’ said the voice of his Mami, ’So, so dissapointed,’- as his mind was spinning, and he only heard the word ’dissapointed.’

There he sat, the metaphorical crumbled walls trapping him, keeping him there as his metaphorical blood mixed with the dust- bad, bad, bad, bad, you're so bad, can't do anything- and in his mind he barely heard shouts of help as ’bad’ echoed.

Help me, I'm dying, he thought, as he couldn't breathe. The air was refusing to enter his lungs, refusing to cooperate, but he deserved it- ’Maybe we should have gotten someone else to pretend for us,’ said his voice of Abuela, and he wanted to say ’No I can do it’ but he couldn't- because he was useless, and bad. He was bad and was gonna die-

When his mind returned to real life- when the air finally worked right- he was met with the sight of Miss Cortez crouching in front of him, eyes clearly displaying concern, and then she said, ”You had a panic attack, Camilo.”

”O- oh,”

She nodded slowly, and then asked, ”Would you like to talk about what triggered it?”

Camilo shook his head forcefully- talking about your panic attack surely did not look very fine on the ’mentally fine’ list- and she nodded, but still sighed, and moved to sit down again.

”Almost half an hour left,” she said, looking at her pocket watch, ”I assume you're looking forward to that, hm?” and Camilo was too stunned to reply, ”Well, I'd actually like to go back to my previous question; I've noticed you rely on comedy to cope, would you like to tell me about that?”

No, no I would not, Camilo thought.

He didn't ’rely on comedy to cope’, after all, he just enjoyed joking around; enjoyed the thrill of hearing everyone's laughter, the good feeling it gave. Was he not allowed to feel happy now? Could he not even joke anymore? What was this?!

He was frustrated; stupid Miss Cortez, not even wanting him to joke. Stupid townspeople, for forcing this onto him. Stupid Abuela, for letting the townspeople force this onto them.

He shook his head again.

”Well then,” she said, after a while of uncomfortable silence, after taking a long sigh, ”Camilo, I can tell you're annoyed with me,” he looked up at her, at that, ”I didn't mean that you can never be happy; I meant it would be good for you to express all your emotions fully.”

A part of Camilo, a silent, deep down part of him, thought how come you're the only one who noticed? But the rest of him- the part still tightly clinging to denial- was offended at that; because how dare she assume he wasn't?

He was the town's comic relief, the one many said was born to entertain, and here she was, wanting him to be sad? It was offensive, to say the least, and not only to him; to his parents, who created him to be happy and entertain. Camilo had never been born that way, he'd just understood had no choice early on.

Camilo had always been quite the observer, especially in his younger days; he observed the way heads sunk at Abuela's words, the way his parents reacted to the words ’each new generation must honor the miracle; by helping this town’, what the words ’Camilo, before your birth, the town was very stressed out and worried about the family's- well, kid-making; your birth fixed that.’ He had understood; had understood that meant his birth had been meant to ease people's minds, that that was his purpose, and he stuck to that, remembering it when he laid awake in bed at night.

And even if it sucked sometimes, he stuck to it; even when people ridiculed him, or used him as an easy form of entertainment, or thought he was some person who couldn't feel anything other than happiness. Even when he just wanted to scream I have emotions you know, he stuck to it.

”I do!” he denied, ”If I actually feel shitty, or something, I do talk about that. With-” shit who to say, ”my hermana, Dolores. I talk to her, so no, I'm not some emotionally stuck-up idiot!”

Well, was it really a lie? When he'd been younger, still wee and bubbly, he'd adored Dolores; following her around every chance he got, sitting with her quietly when she was overwhelmed. He'd loved it, and Dolores had too, but Abuela and Mami forced him to stop as soon as they found out.

The point was; him and Dolores had been close at some point. So was it really a lie that stretched?

”Well, that's great,” she said, and Camilo internally cheered, ”But you were obviously lying, Camilo; the pause made it obvious. You don't talk to Dolores, do you? You don't talk to anyone, do you?”

Fuck, she hadn't believed him.

”I-”

Camilo didn't know what to say; she'd basically caught him red-handed, seen right through the lie as soon as said. Could he lie again and risk her knowing again? Could he be honest and risk her thinking he couldn't be cleared?

Because of course he didn't talk to anyone, at least not about that; he was Camilo Madrigal, the lucky-go Madrigal, the one everybody could trust with their issues. He didn't talk to anyone, people talked to him.

”No I don't, okay?” he said, ”I don't talk to anyone; but that's because I don't need to, my life's great and I'm happy! But if I ever am upset, I'll- talk to Dolores, or something!”

She stared at him for a while, unimpressed, until she sighed, ”Camilo, you need a go-to person, somebody who you think to go to as soon as you feel upset, or angry, or any other emotion. Somebody you can talk to when you need to talk.”

”I don't need that,” he lied, ”I have mirrors- they speak- it's fine. I'll talk to them, and listen to the mirror version of my mami drill on about how I shouldn't talk to mirrors.”

That was a another attempted joke, but she did not laugh, or chuckle; instead she stared at him for a while, incredibly weirded out, and said, ”Camilo, you can't talk to mirrors. I meant a person.”

He knew that, of course, but yet he still somewhat enjoyed talking to the mirrors; the mirror version of Dolores, that would listen to all his jokes and then make her own witty remarks; the mirror of Abuela, that liked to remind him to look presentable; the mirror of his Papi and his life-long mission to scold him every time he made a joke; the mirror of Luisa, that always wanted to talk about his emotions.

The point was, he had people to talk to, even if they technically weren't actually human and just a copy in a mirror.

”Well, I seriously don't need to talk to anyone,” he repeated, ”I'm a happy person.”

He attempted a grin- which was harder than it should be, as he could feel her unapproving eyes boring into his skull- and it quickly became awkward, as the silence stretched on too long. They only looked at each other for a while, testing who would break first-

”Only one minute left,” she said, as she looked at her pocket watch, ”But I would like to continue this conversation next time, Camilo; monday and Thursday, 4:00-5:00. Bye, can you see yourself out?”

He nodded quickly, standing up, ”Yep!” and it was quiet between them again, ”Bye.”

Camilo loved his family- something quite obvious, and undeniable- and he would never, ever, feel annoyed by them-

”Oh, my therapist was so nice,” said Mami, beaming, ”She told me I needn't feel ashamed of how I feel, or hide my cloud-”

Except now-

They were all talking about how their therapists had been- how nice they'd been, what they had said- and Camilo hated it; Couldn't they just let it go, and talk about something else? Something else, that didn't make Camilo's eyes brim with tears to think about?

Camilo didn't usually cry, of course; but the fear- that was quickly taking over him- of not being cleared, and the memories of how he'd failed, was very hard to deal with. And Camilo was only 15, he didn't know how to hold back tears. 

He wasn't crying though, it was fine, only he felt that he might if they continued.

”Mine,” said Antonio, in between chugging of an arepa, ”said I was adorable,”; ”Talking to mine was really awkward,” said tío Agustín, which lightened Camilo's heart as at least he hadn't been the only one; ”My therapist said we had a lot to talk about,” said Mirabel which didn't surprise Camilo in the slightest; ”My therapist was very curious, they wanted to know everything about my life before the Encanto,” said Abuela.

It seemed nobody had had as bad as an experience as him, not even Bruno, who answered every question given to him without a single issue. Was he really the only one who just didn't want to talk about it?

Even Papi- who everyone knew had only talked about Mami- was happy talking about it. It seemed as if everyone, expect him, had liked their therapists. Which he thought was unfair, frustrating, and frankly just undeserved.

Why was it only his that had sucked?

Fortunately, nobody asked him how his had been; instead they continued to talk about their own, praising their assigned therapists as they did so, and ignored Camilo's existence as they always did. Which usually annoyed him- as it felt like they only remembered him when he was funny- but right now it was quite a miracle.

Camilo had been told before that, upon just looking at him, one could easily tell that he was the middle child; he didn't really understand why, as he'd never bothered to learn about how middle children usually acted, or even if he dressed like one. Perhaps it was just the way he carried himself, though, and Camilo thought that made sense.

Though he knew very little about middle children and the way they acted, he knew they were usually ignored by their parents (everyone did.) Camilo thought that was great at the moment, as he did not want to talk about his failed therapy session. His family might- god forbid- fear he would not be cleared if he did.

That thought gave him a realization-

What if I'm not cleared?

To everybody else that might sound ridiculous; because he was him and he was happy. So why wouldn't he be cleared? If anyone was at risk of not being cleared, it was Mirabel and Bruno. Not Camilo, never Camilo.

They would know he was a failure, that he couldn't do it, if that happened. And he couldn't be a failure, he was a Madrigal, and Madrigals didn't fail. That wasn't in their blood- at least it wasn't in his. He refused.

Camilo knew the reason of his birth, he knew his purpose, and always opted to stick to it; he was born make people happy, and therefore, could not afford to fail that. What would he be, if he couldn't even stay happy? What would that mean for him, if he failed at the purpose of his birth? The very reason he existed, the very reason his parents loved him?

He was a failure, wasn't he?

A sob surprised them all and Camilo was on guard, ready to comfort, ready to entertain-

”Camilo, mijo,” said his Mami, looking at him worriedly, a cloud already above her head.

In fact, everybody were looking at him worriedly, all seeming quite fine themselves. Fearing, Camilo reached his hand up to wipe at his eye- the action being observed by them all- and shit shit shit; he was the one crying.

He stood up immediately- eyes closed, refusing to look at any of them and see the worry in their expressions- ignoring their calls of his name as he rushed up to his room, even ignoring the mirrors’ attempts at comfort.

As he pulled apart the curtains, he immediately- ignoring the mirror of him saying he was feeling upset because he already knew that- dived under his bed and sobbed.

Ever since he'd been young, he had laid under his bed whenever he was upset, hiding under his blanket and crying; under his bed in the nursery, where Mirabel would always know; and under his current bed, which was enchanted to block out the noises from the mirror and always fit him no matter how he grew. It was a habit which he had passed onto Antonio. (Though the boy did it less.)

”Camilito, mi sol, what's wrong?” he could hear his Mami ask.

Camilo's sob turned to a groan as he heard her, followed by the voice of his Papi, ”We're coming in, mijo,”

And- as if the universe, for once, was answering his prayers- he then heard the voice of Dolores, ”No, I will,” she said, ”He'll respond better if it's me.”

Although it was much better than Mami and Papi, it was still quite annoying with Dolores; preferably, he would have none of them comforting him, and instead being alone. But that was a disgrace within the Madrigal family.

”Hermanito,” he heard her say, voice coming closer, and when she pulled apart the curtains, he could practically hear the smile in her voice, ”You're under the bed, aren't you?”

She did not need an answer as she crawled under, giving herself space as she laid down next to him, and it was quiet for a while until he grumbled, ”I've told you to stop calling me ’Hermanito’,”

”And I've told you I won't,” she replied, still smiling softly.

Camilo didn't reply, instead opting to bury his face in one of the pillows- hoping she wouldn't see his teary eyes, even though she already knew he was crying- and she sighed as she said, ”I'm going to guess it's about today's therapy session? Did it not go well?”

”Why ask, you already know,” he said, shaky voice muffled by the pillow.

And that's when it hit Camilo; she knew. She knew about his failed attempts at jokes, his uncertainty, his panic attack- whatever that was- and she knew he had lied about talking to her. She'd heard it all, and somehow he was just realizing this now-

”I don't, actually,” she said, and he glanced up from the pillow, ”It's soundproof. So no, I don't know how it went for you. But do you want to tell me? It could help,” she added, nudging him at the last part.

Camilo looked down, refusing to meet her eyes as he mumbled, ”What if I don't want to? What would you say then?”

”I'd say you don't have to,” she replied, calmly.

It was silent between them, a kind of one-sided comfortable silence- Camilo reckoned the silence wasn't awkward for Dolores, as she was still smiling like she had during the entire interaction- and he leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder as she pulled him closer into a kind of half-hug.

Eventually, the silence was comfortable for him too, and none of them tried to say something, which helped quite a lot with his thoughts- that were slowly becoming much more hopeful; it didn't really matter if the first session had gone badly, he thought, because he would just have to make sure the next session went better. Make her smile, he ordered.

He had nothing to worry about; it would be fine. It would be.

Right?

Chapter Text

Camilo had fallen asleep under his bed; blanket tightly tucked over him, head squished between a bunch of pillows, Dolores long gone. His mind had been hazy, distant, just as it always was after he'd cried. (And he found that it usually was even days afterwards. One of the many reasons he hated crying.)

Waking up, he groaned and rolled out. And he laid there for a while, staring up at the patterned ceiling, truly no thoughts running through his head.

”You're feeling tired, and upset,” said mirror-him and for once, Camilo didn't want to punch the mirror.

Instead, he thought; What would happen if I just... stayed up here? Not leaving to eat breakfast, see his family, or help in the town as he did every day? He even wondered if anyone would notice, and worry. If he stayed in here all day, would anyone come to drag him out?

Would anyone even notice that he wasn't there, that he wasn't talking? Or would their ears miss the lack of his chatter, miss the lack of his face? Would mami and papi realize that one of their kids weren't at the table, or would they be too busy fussing over anyone but him?

Just for a minute, Camilo decided he wouldn't leave his room; that he would lay here, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would notice he wasn't there. Testing them.

”Mijo? Are you awake?” asked the voice of his Mami, which made him jump, ”We want to talk to you, Camilo.”

Camilo knew exactly why; they only wanted to ask why he cried- the most shameful thing to do if you were him- hear his reassuring answer about how it was just some dumb thing, so they could go back to worrying over better things. Things they cared about more, things they liked more.

”I'm awake,” he sighed, standing up to walk to the door, and as he reached it to open the door, he added, ”Buenos dias.”

Mami smiled, softly, cupping his cheek, ”Mi camaleón,” she whispered, and Camilo couldn't help but leaning into her hand, and they stood there for a while, but then she started frowning, ”Yesterday... when you cried,” Camilo could tell she was still in disbelief, ”was it because of your therapist? Did you not like them?”

”You can just tell us if that's what it is, Camilo,” Papi added quickly, ”You don't have to be embarrassed; if the two of you clashed- well, it happens to everyone- then we can assign you another one.”

Mami stopped cupping his cheek as she nodded, continuing, ”The therapists were assigned based on balancing; she's stern and blunt, while you're more cheerful and lively! But if you just clash, and it's affecting you so negatively that you start crying, then you don't have to take that! We can assign you another one,” and at that she cupped his cheek again.

While you're more cheerful and lively. Camilo wondered; what would they think if they found out he wasn't cheerful and lively, not really? But rather he wanted to be a theater nerd, talk about the books he'd read, play fútbol with his familia only, and kiss boys? What if they found out he wasn't the way he acted, the way he pretended to be? That he really wanted to be more different than he was?

Would they still love him then? If he followed his heart, what the voice of him really whispered? Would they still love him even if he didn't live up to the purpose of his birth? If he didn't do what he was born to do?

Camilo didn't know how to reply.

”No, it's fine,” he said, then pausing for a while, thinking of what to say, ”You don't need to assign me a new one. I can talk to Miss Cortez, it was just-” what to say? ”It felt weird, I guess. It just felt really weird. I don't know myself, to be honest.”

Mami and Papi glanced at each other, sending one of those looks which seemed to communicate much more, and then Papi said, sternly, ”Okay. But if you feel like you're clashing, then tell us and we'll reassign you. And if you keep having more of these... spurts of negative energy, then we're reassigning you ourselves. A therapist is supposed to make you feel better, not worse. Do you understand, chiquito?”

Camilo beamed- fake but they wouldn't know it- and said ”Got it!” as he kissed his mami on the cheek, gave his papi a quick fist bump, and proceeded to walk away as swiftly as he could without coming across as if he was escaping. (But he was. 100 percent.)

But no matter how fast he strode, he could still feel Mami and Papi's eyes on him. And it was very awkward.

After breakfast- which was very awkward, as everybody tiptoed around him despite his many attempts to joke, and Antonio even asked if they could ’break the rule of their designated seats so he could sit next to him’ which caused Camilo to explain that they didn't have designated seats to Antonio- he went into the village, which was very refreshing.

Nobody was tiptoing around him, nobody glanced worriedly at him as he walked past, nobody offered him more food than the rest- damn you tía, he thought- and most importantly of all; nobody cared about him.

In fact, they ignored him just as they always did, instead going on with their lives and barely even looking at him as he bounded through the town, beaming. (Therefore, nobody noticed his beam was fake.) Just as they always did, to his relief.

Just as he was starting to wonder when he'd be needed, he heard a call of, ”Camilo!” and when he turned around there was Miss Torres, rushing towards him, baby Natalia in her arms, ”Hello, sorry, could you babysit Natalia for me? There's some emergency at work and- well, you understand.”

”Sure,” he said, smiling as he took Natalia into his arms, ”Still up for tomorrow?”

Camilo had a very set schedule; mostly filled by babysitting gigs, but also shifts he took up for some too tired, or plays to perform. Miss Torres was one of his regulars, as she had a demanding job and no husband to help.

”Oh yes, thank you,” she said, relieved, ”You're literally an angel, Camilo. Muchas gracias.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing one last time- Camilo's smile dropped, though he couldn't really explain why- before rushing away, leaving him with baby Natalia. And for a moment he just stood there, doing nothing.

His parents never touched him like that; never placed their hand on his shoulder; never kissed him on the cheek; never held him close to their chest in the loving way he'd seen them do with Dolores and Antonio; never caressed him fondly.

After a while, he decided to just go to Cristal- who was probably working in the shoe shop- and walked there quickly; upon arriving, he saw Cristal behind the front desk, cleaning a shoe with a dishrag. She looked objectively beautiful; her long light brown hair; her blue headband; her dirty, large hands; her smile, as she saw him.

Cristal worked at her parents’ shoe shop, Cortez’ shoes, as the one who did most nowadays. Her parents still handled the orders, though, as Cristal had too little knowledge of that. What she really wanted to do was go out and dance in the town central and wear long dresses, after all. 

”Hola, Camilo,” she greeted, smiling as she sat up on the front desk, still cleaning the dirty shoe, ”Babysitting- oh let me guess- Elena?”

”Natalia,” he said, stepping forward as he bounced the baby up and down, all the while grinning at Cristal, ”Why do you still guess names? You're really bad at it.”

She rolled her eyes, though she was still smiling, ”Ay,” she said, ”I just only remember names that are important, at least to me. Like; you, your familia, mi familia... Important people, ya know.”

Cristal was a weird person; she stayed away from boys, though not him; she enjoyed dancing in the town central, with the girls and women; he'd even seen her blush in front of Isabela before, and always seemed especially nervous around her; and she always, for some reason, pronounced words oddly. ’Ya’, for example, when she meant to say you.

 But the most odd thing was that Camilo still liked being around her.

”Stop saying ’ya’, it's you,” he pointed out, because he didn't know what else to say.

And Cristal just stared at him, dumbfounded, for a while, ”That is so sad,” she said, ”Seriously, your life is so sad.” and Camilo didn't like the word sad being used with him, ”Mierda, Camilo, don't you talk to any teenager that isn't me?”

”Well no, I'm busy babysitting,” he said, point blank, and then added defensively, demanding an answer, ”And what do you mean my life's sad?”

But Camilo didn't get an answer to that question as, at that moment, he saw himself in the large mirror- the mirror most often used to trying on new shoes- and were his curls always that long? (Mierda, he'd have to ask Tía to cut it) and have his feet always been so large, so ugly?

He was deformed, he swore he was, as he nit-picked at his appearance; his feet were so large, yet his legs were small. He was short; he was so skinny, and of course he knew why but-; and his curls were just ugly, there was no other way to explain it. He was just ugly.

”Oi, handsome,” said Cristal, annoyed, as she slapped him repeatedly. (Camilo didn't know what to think of the word handsome because he certainly was no such thing), and then she stopped, letting them stand in silence until she sighed, worriedly declaring, ”I'm worried about you, Camilo.”

Camilo didn't like that; he worked very hard to make sure nobody worried about him, after all, as somebody being worried could disrupt people's ’comic relief’ view of him. And so far, he'd succeeded in that. Until Miss Cortez (Cristal's stupid aunt, as he'd realized at breakfast) had gone and stomped over that, causing him to burst into tears. God, why did all the Cortez worry about him?

”Because I don't know what ’ya’ means?” he asked, cheekily.

She huffed, and smiled sadly as she said, ”You know exactly why I'm worried.”

”I really don't.”

After having a very long conversation with Cristal- where she persistently influenced him to talk about his feelings (not appreciated)- he left to entertain some children, who today had wanted piggy-back rides for some reason. Then afterwards, when Miss Torres had come back, he had been dragged into taking care of Señora Ozma's cat, which scratched him constantly. And after a long break, he got forced into performing for the town.

Then it was lunch; and Camilo was stuck in between his parents, who kept awkwardly smiling at him; Tía Julieta gave him extra food again; and Antonio kept on staring at him; Dolores was the only one who was acting the most normal, as she only occasionally gave him sympathetic glances (Camilo liked to think it was for the attention he was receiving.)

And afterwards, upon Julieta asking him to spend some time with ’his old tía’ as she had called herself, he decided to do so; there he sat, on the kitchen counter, sitting in silence with Tía Julieta as she made arepas. Tío Agustín wasn't there, as he usually was, because he'd decided to go out drinking with papi and Tío Bruno.

They usually did this, him and Tía; even before Casita fell, he would go up early every morning to sit with her as she cooked, even occasionally helping her there and there. They had always been close, after all, and he used to like to call himself her sobrino favorito. But then Antonio came along and... well...

He wasn't very sure he was her favorite nephew anymore.

Not that he thought it was a bad thing! He loved Antonio very much and therefore understood why anyone would favor the boy. Antonio was kind, thoughtful and quite frankly adorable; while he was michevious, annoying and very ugly. So he wouldn't blame Tía if Antonio was her favorite.

”So,” said Tía, after a long while of silence, glancing at him as she handed him an arepa, ”When do you have your next session?”

Chugging on the arepa- very good, as usual- he said, ”Tommorow. Thursday. Well, you probably knew that-” Tía smiled at him, for some reason and Camilo quickly added, ”This is great, by the way!”

Tía continued to smile, caressing his cheek as she gathered the ingredients for Suadado de Pollo, ”That's great, mijo,” she said and then, after taking a deep breath, said, ”I'm worried about you, you know,” she turned around to look at him again, ”The way you burst into tears yesterday...”

Even Tía Julieta- the one who always knew what to say- was speechless; it didn't fit her image, not knowing what to say, as he'd always seen her as the one everyone could talk to. He'd known if he could talk to anyone about how he felt, it would be Tía Julieta. This proved to him that no, he really couldn't.

”It was concerning to see,” she continued, after a moment of silence, ”And I want you to know that you can talk to me, Camilo. I understand stuff has been hard for you, with this new therapy arrangement but that is no reason to shut us all out, we're here for you.”

He attempted a soft smile (perhaps failing) ”Thanks, tía.”

And Camilo thought about it for the rest of the day; during dinner, where he stayed silent the entire time (which definitely worried the familia); when he took Alejandra, Cecilia and Juancho to bed; and later taking care of some babies; and afterwards going to bed, saying goodnight to no one.

In bed that night, he wondered; how long would people be worried until they moved on from something they deemed much more important?

When it was time for his session, he told no one; he knew people should probably knew, if they needed his help, but did they ever? And if not for that, then so his parents didn't worry but would his parents worry? If it was Antonio or Dolores, yes. But not when it was him. Never when it was him.

So Camilo just went up and left, and upon entering the building, saw an empty waiting room. So he sat on one of the stools, for once daring to look gloomy (which represented his emotions much more than his half-assed smiles did.)

”Camilo?” a voice he recognized spoke and as he looked up he saw it was, in fact, Miss Cortez, ”It's good to see you. Come.”

Camilo only nodded in greeting before he followed her, who showed him to the room they'd been in last time; the small room, with natural light only coming from the back wall (though curtains were draped across it today as well, blocking the sunlight,) and he sat down on the not-so-comfortable armchair.

Miss Cortez, of course, sat down on the armchair opposite, propping a notebook on her lap. And it was quiet for a while, until she spoke, ”Normally I would start this off by asking you how your day has been, how you're feeling- things like that- but I have something I need to address...” and she took a deep breath before continuing, ”Yesterday a colleague came up to me, specifically your papá's therapist, and they told me that you burst into tears the day of our therapy session. Apparently your papá begged them to talk to me, so that I could talk to you.”

What?

Papi told his therapist about how he burst into tears two days ago? Who then told Miss Cortez? Anger bubbled inside him, like boiling water, and he wanted to scream; scream at Miss Cortez to leave him alone and stop overanalyzing him as if he was her homework; scream at papi's therapist for telling her in the first place-

But most of all, he wanted to scream at papi; scream at him that he had no right to tell anybody what had happened. It was between the family, it was supposed to be between the family. Miss Cortez was never supposed to find out but now, thanks to papi, she knew. What if she spread it around? Or even worse, papi spread it around more under the pretense that he was concerned? Didn't he understand how much that would ruin stuff for Camilo?

No, no he didn't get it, because he was giftless and would never understand how it was like to have that pressure placed upon you; Camilo had to be happy, otherwise he was useless, and papi could never even pretend to know what that was like.

Now miss Cortez knew, all because of papi, and what did she think of it? Did she think that he couldn't be cleared now? Did she know he had lied, that he wasn't really a happy person? 

”Camilo, I am here to help you,” she said, after a moment of silence, ”But that has to go both ways; I can't help you if you don't let me.”

And now she was assuming he needed help? Was he really just bad at pretending, bad at pretending that he was happy like the rest of them? That he really needed help? Could he not hide it?

I don't need help, he wanted to scream, and whenever I do, nobody wants to help me. Nobody ever wants to help the annoying comic relief, but now, now you all do? This doesn't make sense!

It didn't, it didn't make sense at all.

Whenever he actually needed help, everybody found a reason not to help him; when Suarez did what he did, everybody waited for him to say he was okay so they could drop it and not help him at all. His tone had been hesitant, his smile hadn't reached his eyes days afterwards, yet nobody seemed to wonder if he wasn't really feeling fine? They didn't want to help him, no one did.

Papi didn't want to help him. If he did, then he would do something. Camilo didn't know what he had wanted him to do, but maybe it was for papi to be mad; for him to hurt Suarez (like the man had hurt him), to hug Camilo and say he was sorry. Sorry that it happened. But that hadn't happened. Papi had acted normal, as if it didn't matter to him because it happened to the kid he cared the least about. As if his son almost being raped didn't matter because it was his least favorite one.

”I don't need help,” he gritted out between his teeth, ”Why can't you all listen to that? I don't need help.”

Camilo expected Miss Cortez to say ’People who don't need help don't burst into tears, Camilo,’ but she did not, ”Fine then, you don't,” she said, a bit hotly, and Camilo sighed in relief, ”But I need to see that for myself, Camilo. Starting with asking you why you cried. So, why did you?”

”I don't know,” Camilo replied in a loud voice that only grew, ”I didn't mean to; suddenly I was just crying, and I couldn't help it! Everybody are asking ’why did you cry?’ and THERE IS NO WHY,” his tone fell and he sat down (somewhere in between, he'd stood up), ”I just did, I guess.”

They sat there, in silence, for a while, following Camilo's outburst of sorts. Until she said, quietly yet sternly, ”Everything has a reason, Camilo. I understand it might be hard to say what you were thinking, that lead you to tears but it didn't just come out of nowhere. I'm sorry but it didn't.”

He'd like to argue with that- protest, disagree and tell her he truly didn't know why he had cried- but he couldn't, because he did know why he'd cried; he'd cried because he was scared he wouldn't be cleared. But Camilo didn't want to admit that, because that would mean admitting the things that gripped onto him like arms, forcing him to remember. Remember what he'd like to forget.

”Can't we just drop this?”

Miss Cortez sat up straighter in protest, ”Camilo-”

”No!” he yelled and stood up again, ”No, I'm sick of people asking me why I cried, I'm sick of people sneaking glances at me as if I might break any second, I'm-” it came out before he had time to stop himself, like vomit, ”sick of people acting like they care!”

And as soon as those words came out of his mouth, he regretted it ever did; sick of people acting like they care? Why had he worded it like that, in a way that made her think he believed they didn't actually care about him? He knew it to be true, that they didn't really care about him much, but he was aware people would deny it ever he spoke it out loud. That's why he didn't.

It was like she had pressed at his chest until all his heart’s contents had gushed out, and that didn't make sense, because your emotions don't gush out when people press at your chest. That was scientifically and logically impossible, after all. More it was like his emotions were water, and despite how much he tried to securely hold it in his hands, it leaked out.

After that, she continued to talk, only sometimes getting a response. Camilo didn't find it in himself to care or listen, he was much more focused on his anger; how could Papi tell, he kept thinking, and why didn't he ask him beforehand? Why didn't he just talk to him?

You wouldn't have let him, a snarky voice in the back of his head told him, he had to tell his therapist because he could never talk to you about it. Isn't it funny, how you crave their love so much yet you're a bad son?

Camilo would have liked to protest but knew he really couldn't; he would have, if Papi told him about his worries, joke about it and convince him to stop it rather than care why. Because Papi didn't really want to know, he reasoned, he just wanted to hear a reassuring answer and be done with it. He wanted to do the bare minimum, so he could move on with his life. 

At some point, she realized still talking about the dinner incident- as he had now taken to calling it in his head- was doing no good and she started talking about how he needed somebody to talk to, continuing the conversation from last time. But Camilo didn't listen very much to that either, his only responses being indifferent ’yes’s and ’okay’s.

Camilo had no idea why she was still talking when it was obvious he wasn't listening.

After the therapy session, Camilo had not gone back to Casita; he knew he should have, knew that the familia would start wondering. But he didn't care as he felt that if he saw Papi's face, he would start screaming. Start screaming and never stop.

Why did he do that, he thought, didn't he think at all about how that would affect him at all?

Well, of course he hadn't thought, he knew; that would mean thinking much about him, Camilo, and Papi would never want to do that. Because why think about your least favorite son, when you could completely ruin things for him?

Ruin his chances of moving on from this, ruin the comic relief view the town had of him, ruin the lies he'd told Miss Cortez, ruin his chances of being cleared-

The last thing hit him like a punch, though he felt it deeper in his gut; there was a chance now, bigger than before, that he wouldn't be cleared. Now that Papi had went and told his therapist to tell Miss Cortez, she surely would not think he was fit to be cleared. No way would she want to, now that she knew he had cried. And it was all Papi's fault.

It was all his fault, all his fault that he might not be cleared now that he'd told people! Important people, that should not know! Didn't he understand how this could ruin things for Camilo? Or did he want to ruin his life, ruin the way people saw him for no apparent reason?

How could he do this?

Camilo was shaking now, and it felt as if he was a dragon breathing fire, and he quickly marched towards Casita; they would probably be eating dinner, Camilo had been gone long enough, but he didn't care. He didn't feel like eating at all, even though he knew he probably should.

As he neared Casita, its shutters flapping to welcome him, and in the corner of his eye he could see the familia sitting and eating dinner on the table outside. As soon as she saw him, Luisa waved him over, grinning and he marched towards them, his eyes set on a grinning Papi.

On instinct, he placed Dolores' white soundproof headphones over her ears as he reached them, and afterwards he screamed at Papi, ”What the fuck did you do that for?!” and everybody, except Dolores, flinched at his loud tone.

”Langu-” Mami and Abuela started, though stopped in their tracks at the glare he sent their way.

Papi, however, seemed confused and it angered Camilo that he didn't know, that he didn't know how much he had just ruined-

”You told your stupid therapist,” he continued, breathing heavily as the familia's eyes switched between him and Papi, ”you told them that I cried at dinner! And then you asked them to tell Miss Cortez, apparently!?”

Papi was still confused, he could see it, yet he nodded and said slowly, ”Yes, I did. Because I was concerned. But I don't understand why you're so angry-”

”WHY I'M SO FUCKING ANGRY?” he repeated, yelling even louder now, ”I'M ANGRY BECAUSE THEY DID TELL MISS CORTEZ, OBVIOUSLY, AND SHE TALKED TO ME ABOUT IT!” his tone grew quieter, ”So I know you told them. And,” only to go back to its previous volume again, ”WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND ANYTHING!?”

Papi- Papá stood up to face him, despite Mami (wet from the rain pouring down upon her) holding him back, and roared right back, ”You don't talk to me that way, chico! I am your papá and I demand your respect!”

”AND I DEMAND THAT YOU DON'T RUIN MY LIFE!”

Papi steps closer, looming over him, despite Mami's cries, ”Ruin your life? How did I possibly ruin your life by sharing my worries with my therapist?!”

”You've ruined it all; now Miss Cortez knows I'm not some bubbly, lucky-go person who's incapable of being sad!” he choked back tears as he continued to yell, ”Now she doesn't think I'm just some comic relief! AND THAT'S EVERYTHING I DO, SO NOW THAT'S RUINED!”

Papá backed off, shocked, and uttered ”Camilo-”

Camilo had always hated fights, as they always made one reveal stuff they never really meant to reveal, but right now he didn't care how much he hated fighting-

”NO, PAPÁ! I'M GOING TO HAVE TO FIX THIS SOMEHOW, AND I DON'T KNOW HOW! AND IF SHE FUCKING TELLS OTHER PEOPLE, AND IT SPREADS, THEN MY LIFE'S EVEN MORE RUINED AND IT'LL BE ALL YOUR FAULT!” he yelled at the very top of his lungs, ”DON'T YOU THINK?!”

As Camilo bothered to look at his surroundings, he saw they were all in a bad state; Mami, along with the rest of them, was soaking wet from the rain, and she was standing up too, not knowing who to look at; Dolores was clutching at her white headphones, eyes refusing to move away from him; Antonio was visibly confused, looking between the both of them; Luisa was shocked and holding Antonio tightly; Isabela looked as if she hadn't finished processing the current events yet; Mirabel looked distraught, almost; Tío Agustín was just shocked; Julieta was likewise, though she seemed to hold certain concern for him; and Tío Bruno had apparently snuck off to his room.

And Papá, well; he looked pissed off, though perhaps a bit worried. He was completely ignoring Mami's cries, which he never did, in his very strong anger for him. He looked as if he might pull Camilo over his lap and spank him any second.

”Mijo,” Mami cried loudly, going between them and attempting to hold him, ”Just go upstairs and take a breather, Milo, and we'll be with you any second, please!” and the ’please’ ruined the sternness it had evidently tried to hold.

Camilo was soaking wet, from the rain of Mami's clouds (which had now rested in the sky, over all of the Encanto) and the metaphorical water that was supposed to resemble emotions; the emotions of everybody there had splashed upon him, in his face and all over him, like water.

”I WON'T GO UPSTAIRS AND TAKE SHIT!” he yelled, the swear words more easily rolling off his tongue now than they usually did, ”THIS COULD ACTUALLY FUCKING RUIN THINGS FOR ME, BUT YOU DON'T CARE, DO YOU?!” he choked back tears again, ”YOU NEVER FUCKING DO!”

Papi stepped forward, blinded by his anger, and ignoring Mami's hands holding him back as he continued to yell, ”THAT IS IT, YOUNG MAN!” he pointed at the Casita, his finger slightly upwards, ”GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

Shaking in his anger, he didn't think as he cried out, ”TE ODIO!” and his ears barely heard the audible gasp or what his Mami yelled in response.

He noticed, however, that his Papi stayed silent.

Chapter Text

After his fight with papá, Camilo had decided that instead of wallowing in his anger, he would upgrade his game; perhaps do more dumb plays, join the little dance parties in the town central (Cristal would be there, which would help with his reputation) and maybe come up with even better jokes!

Camilo would be get past this setback, he decided, and rise from it. So that even if the Dinner Incident- as he now called it- came out then it wouldn't matter, hopefully. He didn't know how that could happen but he was willing to try.

The first step was to block out everything negative in his life; like his fight with papá, hence he avoid the man himself, to avoid feeling sad and situations that come from it. Camilo had decided the best way for this was to act as if papá didn't exist, just like he did with Rodriguez.

The second step was to be in the town more, specifically the town central; because perhaps, if he seemed to be more dedicated (and happy), the town would forget about the whole therapy debacle. And that would be best, as it would lessen questions about his sessions that were painted in a negative light, regarding emotions. Basically, in words a teenager could understand; therapy sucked.

Everything bad happened after therapy, case of example; The Dinner Incident, the only example needed.

After he'd stopped yelling, he'd stormed off to his room; even yelling at Casita when the house didn't let him go up. He'd ignored Mami knocking on his door a few minutes later, begging him to come outside and talk to them. (Camilo was certain them meant her and papá. He didn't want to talk to him.)

Everything had been chaotic out there; Antonio asked loudly why Camilo is upset- Camilo's heart ached- and nobody had known what to answer. Mami, at some point, yelled at papá even.

”Why did you have to ask your therapist to tell Miss Cortez, when she was obviously the reason?!” she had yelled, ”He didn't want her to know and ay, now he's angry and refusing to talk to any of us! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”

And it seemed that, despite papá's protests that he had only been worried, Mami refused to listen. For a moment, Camilo had liked that she was on his side in the whole matter but that changed quickly when she apologized for yelling.

No, it seemed Camilo was completely on his own. What a surprise, he thought ironically.

Though he had rised higher than that, the next day he had stepped out, ignored the mirror's ”you are feeling nervous and determined”, dressed properly and just as he was supposed to, and on his face a confident smile. (One would wonder why he would like that after his fight with his papá. But Camilo was just determined.)

When attempting to go down the stairs, Casita had meshed the steps together, making it almost impossible to go down (even properly.) And in a way it was as if Casita had its arms crossed, looking dissapropingly at him. He softly smiled as he said, ”Lo siento, Casita,” and the steps were normal again in Casita's way of forgiving him.

Camilo had always been sort of oddly affectionate with the house- as was everyone- because it felt like much more than just a house, more like a member of the family. And Camilo didn't remember the time he first walked, as he was so young at the time, but Dolores had told him; apparently he had tried multiple times, Casita lifting him up from falling each time, until he finally succeeded.

Casita had been part of each their stories of the first time they walked, though Camilo only remembered Antonio's.

Upon walking to the outside table, he saw the whole family- including papá, who he ignored- and set towards Dolores, saying ”Buenas días, Lola,” as he sat down on his designated seat next to her.

”Buenas días, Milo,” she said, before leaning in to whisper, ”Are you ignoring papá?”

Camilo didn't know how to reply- because he was, obviously, though he had an inkling that papá was looking at him- and, when leaning in, whispered, ”No, I just think we need a break from each other at the moment.”

”Okay then,” she whispered back though, judging by her tone, she didn't actually believe him. Quickly, her tone resetting back to its normal volume, ”I hope you reconcile quick. He's inconsolable.”

Camilo doubted he really was, though; it wasn't as if papá had fought with mami (he'd rather die than do that) or Dolores, or Antonio even. It had only been him, his least favorite kid and he therefore doubted papá was in any need of emotional support. The man would be fine.

”He'll be fine,” said Camilo and Dolores sat back properly, now focusing on eating, ”I doubt he's that upset.”

And after saying that, he started piling food onto his plate.

Camilo remembered the days after his gift ceremony quite clearly. He'd been shifting non-stop, it felt like, and quickly paid the price; puking and nausea to fainting had occurred. It seemed like Camilo, or rather his body, couldn't bear to shift so much. It had been fine at the party, where he shifted as much as he could (in the midst of eating Tía's delicious cupcakes, of course.)

That was when he had realized that, presumably, his gift required food to properly function (or the calories in said food, more likely) and ever since then he'd doubled his food intake. It had been quite the change; going from eating the required amount for growth (or less if he was upset) to shovelling down food whenever he could. But of course, nobody had noticed. Well, nobody had cared, at least.

Perhaps they had noticed- Camilo didn't know but that he wished for the opposite of what was most plausible- but just didn't see reason to question him about it. Regardless, he was thankful.

Because of that new revelation, he had started reading even more books than usual for him- he'd been quite the book nerd, growing up, enjoying everything fictitious- about food and its calories. And found that, if he wanted to shift the best amount, he would need to intake approximately 5861 calories. Which seemed like a lot but really it was achievable.

And, of course, his family stayed none the wiser.

He stood up- having finished eating- and avoided eye contact with everyone (especially papá) though Mami stood up too, a cloud above her head, ”Camilo, mijo!” she said quickly, ”Could we talk for a minute, please?”

He sighed, knowing he had no choice and said, ”Fine. A minute then,” and, gratefully smiling, they started walking towards the town with only a short nod and it was silent between them for a while (until he got sick of it,) ”So I'm just going to guess you want to talk about what happened yesterday?”

”Yes,” she replied, nodding sadly, and she sighed before continuing, ”I just wanted you to know that Félix didn't mean anything bad by it, he was just very worried about you, cariño. And that we've decided to hold off on your punishment at the moment.”

Punishment? he thought, remember the last time you actually filled out a punishment? Yeah, me neither.

”Félix agreed to that, did he?”

Mami forced him to stop right in his tracks as he grabbed hold of his ear, ”Don't call tú papá that!” she scolded, ”Honestly. I know you're mad, mijito, but that's still your father!” she let go off his ear, and he rubbed the now red area, ”Could you please just talk to him? He feels so guilty, you know, and-” she paused, ”I know you're upset too, don't even lie.”

Yeah, you do? he yelled in his mind, then how come you never notice? 

It frustrated him that she claimed that while she never noticed when it was ’inconvenient’ for her to notice- for example when it happened and she hadn't even asked if he was okay- because why notice when it was more convenient not to?

She didn't know shit, he gathered, and was just trying to fix things up so she could go back to her perfect little life where nobody fought and her little smiling son always smiled. Back to the life where she could be ignorant.

And he still loved Mami, of course; he still loved that he used to sit on her lap as she applied her make-up and hearing her explanation on what each of it was (he never grew tired of it and if he wore make-up now, that was nobody's business but his); he still loved the times he'd walked through the town central with her, holding her hand as he bounced up and down; and, of course, he still loved performing his plays for her even if he didn't do it anymore.

”Of course I am,” he sneered, coldly, ”But I'm not going to do anything about it until he talks to me about it,” he then added, as her face lit up in hope, ”and apologizes.” only to fall again.

Too fucking bad, isn't it? he thought.

After his talk with Mami- which was definitely longer than 1 minute-  he had gone out to perform in the town; starting with babysitting the García twins, both fuzzier than usual, and then entertaining the group of townschildren. Of course, this left him annoyed but he ignored it, and instead went on to babysit the newborn of the Martinez.

Cristal had come to visit him, backpack swung over her shoulder, with baby shoes for the little Cierra; ”’From the mountains’,” she pointed out, ”What are they thinking, that's she's gonna be outside the Encanto one day?”

She'd stayed there, making fun of Cierra's name and saying stuff like ’Cierra Martinez, does that really fit?’ and ’ugh, they give her the same first letter as Cecilia. I always hate those.’ It had been much more enjoyable than he'd thought it possibly could be, despite that he hadn't even agreed with her. Then he'd joined her and helped at the shoe shop.

”Hey, when's that dance party at the town central happening? That always happens on Fridays, right?” he asked after a while, pausing from wiping dirt away from some really ugly shoe.

Cristal turned to him and held his gaze longer than he would have liked, ”Yes,” she replied, suspiciously, ”Always starts 7:00 pm, then ends 9:00 pm. But why are you asking? You never go to that. You ’never have time’ somehow.”

”Well, I do today,” he said, defiantly, ”Besides, I thought it would be nice to spend time with you,” he shifted into her, laying across the table and getting an upside down view of her, ”Mi amiga mejar.”

A chuckle, ”That's pathetic,” said Cristal, though she was grinning softly, ”I'm your only friend. Unless you count those tontos?”

He knew exactly what tontos she was talking about; the other normal guys, very opposite to him in terms of much but especially attraction to girls (by that, their very existent attraction to girls and his non-existent.) They were the type to sneak off and watch girls bathe in the long lake, or watch them training, and beg him to join him for the first time ever; they were also football players and the only reason he never tried out for the team.

”As it happens,” he said, sitting up straight now, ”I don't. You're never going to believe it but they wanted to sneak into the girls' changing room last week. And wanted me to join. There, inside the school I've never set foot on even.”

Cristal made a face of disgust, ”Can't say I'm surprised,” she said and then, as if she'd much rather talk about something else, added, ”Anyways, we got Literature homework today. I was wondering if you'd like to look at it, maybe?”

Camilo, just like all the other Madrigal grandkids, had never gone to school; he had tried asking once, why, and Abuela had replied that they didn't have time for school in the midst of their very important duty of helping in the town. He'd agreed- of course they wouldn't really have time with all those other stuff- yet that didn't mean it wasn't still a disappointment. Because he wished he could.

This was, of course, a secret he would keep to the grave. Except for with Cristal, as she knew him too well. (He had cowered immediately.)

”Yes!” he said, excitedly, and hurried to the backpack she'd thrown on the floor haphazardly, ”What's it about?”

He opened the bag and rooted around for the homework, ”Ugh, Shakespeare,” she groaned and Camilo hid his wide grin; he loved Shakespeare, ”So boring. Why should I care about what he did?”

”He was a great author,” he said as he found the homework and quickly started reading the questions, though added as to not make her believe he liked the guy, ”Not that I'd know. But I think Mirabel's read his books.”

She had not. He would know.

You see, Camilo knew very well that the only person with a book written by Shakespeare in the Casita was him; as Señora Gonzalez, the town librarian, had told him so. ”You know, Camilo, you're the only one in your family that's read these books.”

When he'd read all the questions- slowly checking off every one he knew- he realized he knew all the questions. Though, surely, he would be seen as a nerd if he admitted that? People his age didn't usually know Shakespeare's birthday, did they?

Cristal looked at him for a long while- and for a second he thought she knew- but then she, quietly, said ”Yeah, well, send Mirabel my way then,” Camilo recognized sarcasm and was relieved, ”Because I do not know anything about Shakespeare except that he wrote Romeo And Juliet. Why is knowing his birthday even important for my future career?”

”Maybe your future interviewer is a fan of Shakespeare and asks you,” he joked, grinning up at her, ”Maybe they judge everyone based on their knowledge of Shakespeare? What if your teacher's preparing you for an unlikely what-if situation?”

”Unlikely,” Cristal pointed out, annoyed, though the grin betrayed it, ”It's unlikely I'll even work for anyone who'd be a fan of Shakespeare, anyway, that's not where my interests lay.”

He put the homework in her backpack again- with an urge to tell her the answers but he fought back- as he said, ”Do you even know where your interests lay? You still haven't decided your future career.”

She would have told him if she had, after all.

After he had finished bartering with Cristal, he had gone to help tía with her food stand; this was good practice for him as he tended to get very irritated. There was a man, señor Muñoz, who he found to be very stupid. Señor Muñoz only ever went to tía's stand due to being hungry and it seemed he didn't know that didn't count as pain. Or he had just never learned to cook.

Camilo- as one might expect, considering he was his Mami's son- always lost his patience with Señor Muñoz and now that he was changing himself to be more seen as comedic, he hoped to control his anger issues.

”Sobrino,” whispered tía as she handed an arepa to an injured townsperson, ”Señor Muñoz will probably show up,” he knew where she was going with this, ”and can you try not to throw a plate at him this time?”

He rolled his eyes, though it was thrown off by his carefully-constructed smile, ”That was one time,” he replied, ”but you must admit; my insults always were entertaining.”

”They were, actually,” she replied, wrapping an arm around his mid-section to pull him closer and suddenly his smile felt very real.

That only lasted for a short while, however, as soon he saw Señor Muñoz in the line. He swore in his mind and dreaded the next minutes; when it was his turn, the man looked apprehensive as he muttered, ”Not you...”

”Yes, me,” he said, before giving the man a once-over, ”Are you actually hurt or is it just hunger as usual?”

The man sighed loudly, looking as if he was constipated, ”My stomach hurts,” he bit back.

”It always does,” Camilo replied, exasperatedly, rolling his eyes, ”And it's also always hunger,” now he was biting his tongue too, trying not to yell at the man, ”Can't you just,” he tried to say, calmly, ”go to the bar or something?”

Tía Julieta was now looking between them, awkwardly, as if wondering if she should say something; everybody else behind Señor Muñoz looked as if they were anticipating something (presumably him attacking Señor Muñoz, either verbally or physically) while Señor Muñoz looked agitated.

”No I can't!” he argued, confirming that he had gone to the stand solely because he was hungry, as usual, ”Because I was in the mood for Julieta's arepas!” he then added, as if trying to put himself in the right, ”I'm a townsperson, you have to take care of my needs!”

Already he wanted to punch the man, but instead he sighed and said calmly; ”A want is not a need,” which was apparently a controversial opinion, ”And even if it were, tía's stand is for the injured and,” he made a show of looking him up and down judgementally, ”you are not injured.”

”Oh, come on!” the man complained, now getting confident as Camilo had not yet attacked the man, in any way, ”Can't you just give me one arepa? It won't waste that much! Not as many you eat daily, at least!”

One of the things he hated was when the townspeople told him he ate much- because he had to, of course, though he couldn't tell them that- and he had made up many things to say if he heard this again; ”Oh my god, I never noticed,”; ”Yes, I'm aware,”; and ”Thanks for informing me of my own habits.”

”Thanks for informing me of my own habits,” he replied sarcastically and he heard multiple chuckles, one even from tía, ”But the difference is that those arepas are supposed to feed me, while these here,” he pointed to the plates full of arepas, ”were made to heal people's injuries.”

During all of this, he prided himself on staying calm. Despite how badly he'd like to perhaps throw a plate at the man again.

Eventually, Señor Muñoz had grown tired of arguing- just as expected, he was very persistent- and he could continue to help tía until lunch, which following, he started with babysitting the children (or basically just entertainment.) Just as it always was, it was nothing short of slow torture. Those townschildren were, predictably, loud, annoying and too honest.

They had dropped the whole therapy debacle, though, and that was a relief.

Then, around 6 pm, he walked to the town where, predictably, Cristal was; she was dressed up, too, in a sundress. It seemed she was preparing the music and he prayed they wouldn't play Gulliermo Buitrago. Actually, he prayed that some people- papá, Rodriguez and Suarez- wouldn't show up. But knowing him, he probably wouldn't have that luck.

”You made it!” said Cristal, hugging him, ”Great! I'm just organizing some music- hits, by the way- and you totally need to dance with someone here. Hmm...” she looked around for somebody to dance with him, stopping when she had seen- ”Him! Rodriguez, right? Doesn't his mother own that cafe, with the really good coffee?"

Fuck no, he wanted to say, I'd rather... rather... tell people my issues! Or drop my pants in front of everyone! (Considering a man like Suarez lived in this town, that last one really was the equivalent of writing 'go almost rape me again' on his forehead.)

”No,” he said, attempting to make up a lie of why he couldn't dance with the dude, ”He's a horrible dancer!” that he actually was, ”I don't want him to step on my feet. That would mess up my flow.”

Cristal looked like she didn't believe him.

Understandable, of course, considering she was aware of his 'fall-out' with Rodriguez and since she dissaproved of it- ’you need more friends than just me’, she had said- had tried to get them to reunite in hopes they would rekindle their old friendship.

”Sorry,” he said, before walking away to entertain some other townspeople (and make sure Rodriguez didn't catch sight of him, that would be awful), ”But nice try.”

During the dance party; he of course danced so much he would presumably leave with his muscles stiff, with Cristal and anyone, really; avoiding Rodríguez who, it felt like, was everywhere as he was handing out goodies; entertaining the townspeople who were, obviously, feeling quite entertained; and joking with Cristal when she wasn't dancing with the women, which unfortunately wasn't very often.

He had just snuck off the corner, hiding from Rodríguez, and found himself face-to-face with Isabela, who seemed very shocked indeed to see him, ”Camilo?” she said, ”What are you doing here? Are you, like, making your way through or..? Because I'm always here, but I've never seen you here before. Or are you,” she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer to whisper, ”looking for chicas?”

He tried not to wince at the last question; looking for girls. Pfft, as if. Camilo had been alive for 15 years and not once, as far as he could remember, had he ever even wanted to look at a girl's tits. Which according to guys his age, were ’hot’ but he didn't understand. Never had, really. And he had never even wanted to look at their butts, the second hottest thing according to the guys! Did the familia not even know that?

”I regret to inform you that I have not,” he said, fake-formally as she pulled her close as well, ”I am not just passing by and I'm not looking for girls either. I'm here with Cristal, kind of like her plus-one.”

Isabela, smirking now, pulled him into a dance with her- her hands guiding his to her shoulders and hers going to his- as she said, ”Cristal, huh? You're spending quite a lot of time with her recently, I've seen it. Trying to get back together with her, are you?”

Oh right-t-t-t, she's my ex-girlfriend, he thought. Because he truly had forgotten.

”I dated her,” he stated, ”It totally slipped my mind. We're just friends and I haven't really spent a lot of time thinking about how we started off because I'm not into her, or anybody for that matter.”

Isabela raised her eyebrow, confused, and they started swinging back and forth, ”You forgot? Really, I'd think you would remember stuff like that. To, I don't know, brag. Isn't that something you'd do?”

”I'll have you know,” he said as he spun her around and she made flowers float around her, garnering the attention of many others, ”that I would never.”

People were applauding them now, showing very clearly that they were enjoying his and Isabela's show. And Isabela, wearing a smirk only one could have when they knew what they were doing, seemed to be thriving under this attention. People close to them were covered in flowers of all sorts now, courtesy of Isabela, and didn't seem at all concerned about the possibility some of these flowers were poisonous.

Isabela, after the fall of Casita, had become rather... careless; she made the people she was mad or annoyed with be hit by cacti, something Camilo had suffered of multiple times already; she sprouted out beautiful, but often poisonous flowers when she moved around, still just as gracefully; and the vines she could create, often filled with thorns from top to bottom, had become a part of her show.

She had also become extremely smug, harsh, and did what she wanted to whenever she wanted to. Presumably because she had spent a lifetime doing the opposite of that, of course. But Camilo wished she would stop hitting him with cacti as it hurt quite a lot and those thorns had created scrapes in his skin.

”Really?” she said, after a while of silence between them (filled only be the rambunctious applause) ”You, Camilo Madrigal; the one who's friends with those jerks? The ones always spying on girls and talking about their bodies as if women aren't sentient beings and just shows there for their viewing pleasure?”

I am not that type, he wanted to say, if you ever actually watched you'd see I'm uncomfortable too and that they're forcing me into all their bullshit.

That is of course what he wanted to say but how could he? Maybe keeping up the front of being a normal teenage boy- one who was really into girls and thought only about seeing their tits- would help with his public view. A normal happy teenager, they would think he was, who was at the age where he thought about girls and perhaps, if they were lucky, about how he treated other people.

It would really help if he actually did this, of course, but alas he was not a teenage creep and just some guy that had only ever kissed another guy and never tried it with a girl, who he should kiss. Girls, who he should want to kiss but didn't, because of some odd reason. Maybe Camilo could just pretend though, keep up that front so nobody could see past it?

His emotional walls could be of glass, after all, and yet nobody would see him on the other side, on the side where he need not keep up some facade he hated and pretend to like girls. That was one of the pros of being the family middle child, the ignored one.

”They don't just talk about girls,” he protested, hoping he believed her (really he didn't know, but surely they did talk about something else? He hoped so) ”They talk about la familia sometimes, you know, and all going on at that school of theirs.”

Isabela, however, looked as if she did not believe him, ”Sure,” she leaned down as if having dramatically fainted, raising her leg high while at it, as vines sprouted from the ground and picked her up again, ”Sure, Camilo. Whatever you say.”

After the dance party he had, in fact, left with stiff muscles and assured that he had boosted his public image. And to add to his luck, he had not seen papá or Suarez; because even if papá had coincidentally walked past, and seen him, he would be too nervous to alert his presence to Camilo at all; while with Suarez the man had not been there at all and he knew it. Because he had always danced like a woman, he had been told, and there was no way Suarez would be able to control himself.

Then he had taken an early night to continue writing his recent play; about a man, stuck in the most boring job in the world (in his personal opinion), escaping to a fun place where no jobs existed. Obviously unrealistic- because you needed money, which came from a job, to survive- and this fun place was supposed to be seen as positive. That's what Camilo was struggling with.

The thing that had also held him back (so far it was overdue to be finished) was that, once the possible misconception it could cause and how unrealistic it was had really settled in, he had started with another play completely; one about a man with a deadly disease that had tried to fix the mistakes he had made in life but couldn't before he died. He had enjoyed writing it so much but the problem was that he couldn't perform that for the upcoming party.

Every monthly party, he performed a play he had written and it was always a happy one. Because tragedy (what he really liked) was so 'out-of-character' for him and children would be watching. He had tried to punish himself by reading as many happy plays he could but no matter what, he couldn't. He found happy plays to be unrealistic and for children. Because surely there was no way an adult could truly enjoy that?

He couldn't, at least, because happy plays were- along with unrealistic and causing misconceptions- boring; there was no doubt of the ending, that it would be good, so reading them almost felt like torture. While the tragedy plays could include twists as there were multiple ways to make a bad ending and if he was honest, the characters in tragedy plays were much more interesting.

He traveled long and far, he wrote and tried not to hate it (and failing), over mountains and seas and bumbling hills; it was cold and hard yet he felt particularly determined to find the town of fun. And a much better life to come with it.

He paused the writing and looked at what he'd written-imagining how to perform this part in the play- and decided he hated it. If he had more times in his hands, maybe, he'd be able to rewrite the part but it happened to be so that he didn't.

It really didn't matter anyway as they would all like the play regardless of how bad it was. Or perhaps they were all faking, pretending to enjoy it for the sake of the children (and perhaps even for him.) Because he really doubted anybody who wasn't a child truly could.

He banged his head on the desk, groaning loudly over the mirror's comment of ”You're feeling frustrated,” because yeah, he was. Who wouldn't be when writing a shitty play that was going to be enjoyed by anyone but him?

”Of course I am!” he yelled at not the mirror, not really, ”I'm writing a shitty fucking play, my parents hate me-” he forced back a sob- ”I'm ugly as hell, I'm not happy and I'm nothing like I should be!”

The mirror wasn't quiet, expectedly (because it was a fucking mirror, for gods sake!) and commented ”You're angry and frustrated.”

”No fucking shit!” he yelled back and briefly he wondered why; was it perhaps because he had nobody else to talk to? ”Of course I'm angry! I'm miserable, really! I'm not as happy as I should be, I'm so ugly the only one that's attracted to me is a middle-aged man and I fought with mi papá so now everybody fucking hates me!” he broke down sobbing, ”I fucking hate my life! I can't do anything, anything at all!”

He woke up, dried-eyed and frighteningly numb (as if the tears had spilled out all his emotions on accident) and thought, just for a second, that he ought to help tía with breakfast. Just to show that he really could be a good sobrino, if anything.

”Sobrinito,” tía had said upon seeing him in the doorway and she handed him an arepa from the pan with a rather large grin, ”Buenos días. Did you sleep well?”

He nodded and moved to stand next to her and quickly snatched the eggs (to add into the pan), ”Don't call me ’sobrinito’, that's Antonio,” he said, ”And this is supposed to be Huevos Pericos, right? Here, I'll cut the scallions,” he moved to snatch the cutting board but was stopped by-

Tía grabbed his face and planted a smooch right on his cheek, ”You're still young, Camilito, still mi sobrinto precioso,” she said, rubbing his cheek with hers as she smiled softly for a while until she sighed and handed him the cutting board, ”Yes, here you go. Gracias.”

He nodded in response and started cutting the scallions yet making sure to keep an eye on the eggs so they, of course, did not burn. This proved not to be a very difficult task, as expected. He had been helping tía cook since longer than he could remember. So presumably ever since he was a chicito, way too young to remember much of his life at the time, when everything was still well and dandy and breaking down crying wasn't a thing.

A better time, in other words. But Camilo didn't like to think about it much. Really, who did?

”Has the family talked to you about my fight with papá?” he asked suddenly and tía's eyes snapped to his, open wide in shock so he quickly added, ”I was wondering who's on my side in it all.”

Tía Julieta sighed, ”Camilo, nobody is on your side,” he had expected it, of course, yet it still stung in a way, ”You went home and started yelling at your dear papá for having the decency to worry about you. Nobody thinks you were in the right, Camilo, trust me.”

”It's not just because he ’worried’ about me,” he said and moved away from her, opening the gap in between them (of course supposed to show her that he was mad now or at least no longer speaking to her.)

She didn't understand, but he supposed that was fine.

He didn't speak to her for the rest of the morning; breakfast went by splendidly- tía Julieta took the credit for all the food, as usual- and he didn't speak to anyone except Antonio, who asked why he was so quiet so he replied that he was not at all. Then he and Antonio went out in town and he managed to get the boy into the townscentral with a fuss! Of course, Camilo was very proud of himself. And Antonio.

Spare the fact that his hand was aching, of course.

”You didn't speak during breakfast, you always speak during breakfast,” Antonio said after a while, ”Is it because of your fight with papá? I really think you should apologize-”

Camilo could tell the boy was about to continue; ”No, Toñito,” he said, ”I'm afraid I won't be apologizing to papá any time soon. He's gonna have to apologize to me first.”

He could tell Antonio had the opinion that papá had no reason to apologize- as did the rest of the family, apparently- but perhaps, if he was lucky enough, Antonio would be too shy to say it to his face. Or discuss it at all, with him.

”Papá has no reason to apologize though,” nope he did not have that luck at all, ”You went in randomly and started yelling at him. It was really weird. Everybody thought so, I think. And you made mamá cry. A lot, nobody liked that.”

Camilo- already in a bad mood from tía's complaint about exactly the same thing- decided to ignore it.

But then, just as around the corner, was Mami- looking as if she had been waiting for him, as if Antonio had been leading him here without his knowledge- and Camilo's eyes widened. While she said ”Camilo,” softly and let them stand there in silence.

His guess was that she was looking to talk to him- which would explain why Antonio tricked him here, the little scamp- presumably about papá. Of course, because they would never let him forget it, had he not apologized to the man. She was of course itching to go back to her perfect little life, where his other emotions dissapeared in a whirlwind of happiness.

Mami sighed and continued; ”You don't have to talk, just listen; Félix is really upset, cariño, about your fight. I know you think that he'll be fine and all that, but the truth is that he isn't! He's been crying himself to sleep, I know he has! He feels guilty, Camilo, for making you feel like that, I promise,” she said all this in one, long breath, ”And honestly, I'm upset too. I hate when you two fight like this; it's disheartening.”

You know what else is disheartening? he thought, almost getting raped but you didn't care about that, did you?

”Well, he will live,” he said, trying to remain confidence and that cold, closed-off manner and she attempted to argue- ”No, Mami. If papá wants to make it up with me so bad, as you claim, then he should get his head out of his culo and do it.”

This was, definitely, inappropriate but Camilo didn't care. Mami did, though; ”Camilo!” she yelled, aghast, gathering the attention of many around them but apparently she did not care, ”Don't talk about such- such vulgar acts, and especially not about your father!” her tone then turned quiet for only him to hear yet she sounded just as stern, ”I would spank you had we not agreed to wait with your punishment.”

Camilo wasn't worried about that threat, however, as he had not been spanked since he was 9. No, that stopped as soon as Antonio's birth, but the threats of it remained. Sometimes he wondered if they themselves even knew about how long it had been.

”I'll be fine,” he said, smirking, ”And I'm still not going to apologize to papá, just because he ’feels sad’, apparently.”

The cloud thundered above Mami now, ”That is it, chico!” she roared and he backed away, shielding Antonio as he did so, ”If you have not apologized to Félix by tonight, then I will grab you over my lap and spank you myself, do you understand!?”

But he did not fear at all.

When Miss Cortez opened the door, it looked just the same and really, Camilo didn't know why he kept noting how it looked as if one day it might drastically change. It hasn't, so far. And he doubted it would any time soon. If she ever did, it would probably be after the two weeks and by then he would hopefully have been cleared.

”Sit down,” she instructed and he obliged and the next thing was a question she had asked every time so far, ”So, how have you been doing since we last saw each other?”

He wondered why she always asked because she must be able to tell he would always say the same thing; ”I'm fine. Dandy, really,” he faked a grin, ”I watched a rat telenovela mi tío Bruno made yesterday; something about a woman who falls in love with this dude, who's her cousin but she doesn't know it. He does, though, and is trying to set her up with his best friend. Tío Bruno likes incest a lot, I don't know why.”

That was, of course, an attempt at a joke (because he knew the reason tío Bruno wrote telenovelas about incest a lot; he thought it was most interesting) but she still did not laugh! Really, he was starting to wonder if she was even capable of laughing! Because that would explain a lot!

”That's great, Camilo,” she said, ”Now; do you have anything you'd like to talk about- anything at all- or could I start with what I wanted to talk about with you today?” he shrugged in response, ”Okay. Well, what I wanted to talk about was your childhood; how was it, with the parties, all that pressure, and having a gift set to make you different from the rest?”

Oh fuck, he thought. His childhood, the one thing he liked to avoid in conversation at any cost; because how could he talk about how he first started hating his appearance when he was 7? Or about how he was 4, sitting in his Abuela's lap, when he first heart about the reason he was born? The way his only friend back then was Rodriguez, who he never even talks to anymore because they kissed?

How to tell a person about the sacrifices he had to make just to be a good Madrigal, a good nieto? Or about the fact that his childhood ended prematurely, when he was just a 5-year-old that didn't even know his mami wasn't named Mami yet? How to ever tell somebody that?

”It was good,” he lied, ”I was the youngest in my immediate family for most of my childhood- or like, all of my childhood- and mi tía let me get seconds lots of times,” because I had started helping her to cook was left unsaid, of course, ”Tío Bruno left, but I was too young to remember him at all-”

He gifted me a plush Chameleon and I cried for multiple nights when he left, was the truth but he could not say that. It was better to just lie; she didn't really want the truth anyway. Nobody ever did.

She nodded encouragingly and he continued; ”And then when I was 6, mis padres took me to some happy play-” and I hated it, which solidified my to-come love for tragedy plays that I would have to keep secret, ”which started my performances! I loved my gift-” way more than I ever loved myself, was there just in spirit, ”and I still do! So yeah, my childhood was pretty great, why?”

”Because I've found that the way we grow up- the behavior of our parents, our living conditions, everything like that- has an effect on us, even way later on in life,” Miss Cortez replied, ”Your behavior, Camilo, is based of off those of your padres, and likewise for them.”

He nodded slowly, waiting for an explanation of why she felt the need to ask him about this, ”And the point of talking about this is..?”

”I want to see if you could, perhaps, find reasons in your childhood of why you are the way you are today,” she explained, ”Is there anything that happened, Camilo, that's stuck with you?”

He saw flashes of multiple memories; Suarez’ hands on him, areas it shouldn't be, and his voice telling him how very pretty he was; Mami sobbing, a large rain cloud above her that didn't seem to ever want to cease, as she found tío Bruno's room empty; Abuela, holding him as he sat on her lap, telling him how stressful and awful everything was before his birth; a baby in Mami's arms, the realization that he was no longer young, not really-

”No,” he said, ”My childhood was happy. So maybe that's why I'm so very happy?”

Please say I am, please say I am, he thought desperately; because right now he felt that he needed for her to say he was happy, that he could be cleared, just for reassurance if anything-

She didn't say anything like that; ”When I said I want to see if you can find reasons in your childhood of why you are the way you are,” she said, ”I really meant; is there anything in your childhood that could be the reason you, for instance, use joking as a coping mechanism?”

At that, keeping up his very carefully-constructed grin was hard; a coping mechanism which suggested he used it as a way to cope. A way to cope with his issues- the ones she wasn't supposed to know existed- cope with the sadness that refuses to leave him? Had he really failed that much, he wondered, that she could tell he had things he had to cope with?

”I don't use joking as a coping mechanism,” he said, still trying to defend himself for some reason even though she could see through him- could see the cracks in his walls when nobody else could- ”I joke around because I'm happy, because I want to, and because I like to make people happy, okay? And I'm not trying to cope with anything, doing that.”

Yet he still lied, despite of it.

And she didn't believe it, just as expected; because somehow she saw a young boy, happy and grinning, that got through everything shitty with a joke and dismissal and saw somebody who needed help while everybody else didn't. While everybody else saw it just as it was and didn't think any deeper of it because it was about him. Him who was only really useful when he shifted into somebody who was. Him who's shape shifting powers was the best thing about him.

Because what else did he have, if not his gift? It was the one thing that made him special, the thing every Madrigal expected to be one day, not because of anything they could ever do themselves but because they were born into a special family.

A gift was the thing he had yearned for, after all, before he turned 5. Afterwards, he was to use his gift and be happy no matter what happened. The gift of his was much more than just magic blessed to him; it was his importance, his specialty, his miracle. It was the one thing that made Camilo Madrigal, other than his last name, special.

But despite how very great it should be- having a gift that made you stick out and meant people would look to you for guidance and help- being a Madrigal was much more difficult than it sounds.

It shouldn't be, yet it was.

”Camilo, I'm going to be honest with you,” she said, after a long while, ”I don't think you really are happy. And I'd like to speak with you on Wednesdays, 6.00, now too. Because I'm having trouble deciding on whether I can clear you or not.”

deciding whether I can clear you or not, deciding whether I can clear you or not, his mind echoed; much louder than anything else in the room. Maybe she was saying something, hopefully declaring that she was wrong and that she had never met a happier person, but it didn't matter, strangely enough-

Because he couldn't breathe, he found, as the water of his emotions were welling up in his lungs; and the thought of I'm gonna die wasn't heard, oddly enough, because he was now hearing the voices of his familia in his head, all expressing shock at how he had really been all those years. About how he was a failure that couldn't handle something as simple as being happy.

And he was coughing now, trying to cough up the water that wouldn't come- the one stuck in his lungs, his heart, his stomach, his brain- but it didn't work. He was dizzy with all that water, now leaking out from his wide open mouth, and he couldn't really focus at all. Maybe he was shaking, he didn't know, but he felt as if he would fall over if anyone even leaned against him.

It felt as if it was like that for hours- the dying- but then he heard her voice again; ”Camilo!” and when his focus regained, he found her crouching in front of him, hand on his chest, ”You had another panic attack. Remember, you had one our first session?”

He still did not know what a panic attack was, but he found that his mind was much too hazy to care.

”Uh,” he said, voice hoarse now and he wiped his sweaty forehead, ”I guess,” and it was quiet between them for a while, none of them knowing what to possibly say, ”Mi prima, Mirabel, told me-” told the family, he corrected in his head- ”her therapist said the same thing.”

After saying it, he realized that this didn't comfort him at all. It did the opposite, in fact; because nobody expected Mirabel- the giftless one having to live as an outcast, to forever be a dissapointment in her family's eyes- to be cleared. But everybody expected him, the happy one, to be cleared. How would they react if he wasn't?

Why did he feel like crying? That definitely would not help his point at all but every time he thought about her words, his mind repeating it, it got even harder to not cry. How would the town react, if they found out about that? It would ruin his reputation.

His reputation, which he had spent troubled and difficult years working on. It would be awful to have it fall down just like that, as if with a snap of one’s fingers.

”Yes, we've gotten the right to do that if we are uncertain,” she replied, ”With you, I of course feel I don't know enough about you. It's like there are plenty of things you are not telling me, more than things you are telling me. With tú prima, my guess is that she has told of multiple stories yet she seems very happy and that must be confusing señora Sánchez.”

His eyebrows furrowed; ”What do you mean? You know me,” he said, ”Haven't you heard about me from the townspeople? They all say I'm a very happy boy, I guarantee. There's not much more to it than that, not really.”

Technically that was no lie; in the eyes of others, those who did not bother to see him as anything more than a comic relief who always had a smile on his face, there was not much more to him than that. To them, he was one dimensional but didn't care because at least he was happy and that automatically meant everything was fine, no matter what.

”But I haven't heard much about you from you,” she replied, ”The townspeople will say what they do and eventually you learn not to listen. I want to hear about you, Camilo, not of your entertaining stories or shifts. One person can not be happy all the time; that is not possible.”

But why can't you just believe it is with me? he asked in his head.

And for the rest of the session, Miss Cortez talked about his childhood and theorized on how certain things in his life could have affected him- Camilo did not deny or confirm with that, and continued to insist there was nothing overly negative in his childhood (expectedly, she did not believe him)- so when it was finally over, he bid her goodbye and left.

Then afterwards, he; ran away from Rodriguez at one point, so he could go on to help a couple with their little fast toddler; entertaining the daycare kids, who were very fussy and annoying today. Just as any day; and then- and this was the highlight of it- after going on a date for a dude (which failed) he went on to spend some time with Cristal.

Cristal who, today, was very annoyed with her madre for asking when she would get a boyfriend; ”And she told me,” complained Cristal for the hundredth time and by now, Camilo has stopped listening, ”’when are you going to get a boyfriend, Crissy? You haven't dated since Camilo’ and you won't believe it but she even asked if I'm hung up on you! Ew!”

She made fake gagging noises and he could not hide his laughter.

”Oh, come on, I'm not that bad!” he said, having not tried with his fake offense tone at all and he just sounded very amused, ”I think mi familia's waiting for me to tell them I've got a girlfriend. I don't think they've realized I'm not going to again. My little relationship with you was all I needed to know that yeah no.”

They were in the shoe shop- Cristal sitting on the cashier in front of him as they waited for a customer- and they were currently talking about whatever, doing nothing more than that, as they had finished brushing and setting down the shoes.

”’Yeah no,’” she repeated, ”Good explanation of it. I don't really want to date anyone, I guess. Well, not you or any of the other annoying guys, at least. There must be something wrong with me because you're the only guy I tolerate yet I still don't want to date you,” she said with another laugh, ”Maybe we're just not made to date? That'd explain things.”

Camilo agreed; while dating Cristal, had found himself forgetting they were dating in the first place, perhaps because of lack of actual feelings. Of course he had learned to like Cristal over time but as nothing more than a friend. Maybe a part of his issues with dating her had been the reason of asking her out.

The fact that he had kissed Rodriguez- impulsively, sure, and only lasting 12 seconds but he had still kissed the dude- which, admittedly, he enjoyed more than his whole relationship with Cristal. Surely, he just wasn't very interested in girls yet!

”Definitely,” he said, ”We could make a club, something about not being made for dating. A pun, maybe. Are there puns for that?”

Cristal sniggered, ”Puns for not being made to date? I doubt it,” she said and there was long silence between the two of them, ”But what if we're just... not into anybody here? I don't think I dislike the idea of dating in general, not really, but just the idea of dating boys. Is that odd?”

”Very,” he replied and wondered if there was a way, other than saying it aloud, to show that he agreed (Except that he would replace ’boys’ with ’girls’) ”I understand though. Maybe I just haven't found the right boy- I mean girl- yet. That sounds much better than ’just not made for it.’”

If Cristal noticed his slip-up, she didn't mention and said; ”Yeah.”

Then it was silent between them- none of them knowing what to say as he internally scolded himself- until they heard the bell; it was papá, Camilo saw, and it seemed he had seen him too as he walked away quickly before Cristal could even utter a greeting. He knew why, of course, but then remembered that Cristal did not...

”Weird,” Cristal commented after papá was out of sight, ”I saw his shoes; they were really ugly, I'd want new ones too... You don't reckon he's coming back, do you?” and in response to that question, he shook his head and hoped she would not remember- ”Wait, isn't that your padre? Do you know why he would leave like that?”

But alas, his prayers had not been answered (no big surprise there); ”No,” he attempted to lie but, judging by the look she sent him, she could tell, ”Okay, yes... We had a fight recently and... he hasn't been able to look me in the eyes ever since.”

”Alright,” she replied, shrugging, ”What was it about?”

Camilo wanted to lie; say it had been for some other, useless reason that would not make him out to be the bad guy. But this was Cristal, his best friend, and surely she would be able to see through his lies anyways. They had known each other top long for her not to.

”It's kind of a long story,” he explained and she nodded in response, gesturing that she still wanted to hear it, which brought a sigh from him, ”Fine; you know my first therapy session?” she nodded, ”Well, I cried afterwards. Don't ask why because I don't know but the next therapy session, she- Miss Cortez, tú tía- told me that papá told his therapist about me crying and asked for Miss Cortez to talk to me. And I got really mad.”

It was silent as Cristal stared at him and he watched as everything registered in her expression; ”Why?” was asked after a moment of silence and she added the next part accusingly, ”Because he had the nerve to worry about you, su hijo?”

”No, i-it's hard to explain,” he said desperately because it was, ”But he never worries about me- it's true, he doesn't- and I didn't want Miss Cortez to know because the whole Dinner Incident was a fluke and I hoped that he knew that but apparently he didn't-”

”A fluke?” she repeated and their interaction was getting heated now, ”Jesus Christ, Camilo, do you expect your padre to care about you so little that not even crying would ring any alarm bells, or something?” and he shook his head quickly, ”Of course he's going to want to help his son, then!”

No, you're misunderstanding it, he thought angrily, I'm not the son he cares about. But he couldn't say that, could he? Nobody ever understood, when he said it, so why would he expect her to? She, along with everybody else, had never seen the differences in which papá treated him and how he treated Dolores and Antonio, his two favorites. But Camilo had.

”Yeah, I know what you mean, but- but Miss Cortez is all serious and-”

He could not finish; ”I know how she is! She's my tía, for God’s sake!” Cristal said, voice growing in volume, ”It's not her fault that your papá was worried! And it's not his fault either!” she paused for a while, ”Camilo, I'm worried about you, too. So excuse me if I understand why your papá would be! But maybe if you actually talked to anybody, we wouldn't have to be!”

”I do talk to people!” he yelled back, tears collecting at his eyes now, ”I've started talking to you everyday now, haven't I?! But I'm not going to talk to mi papá, who never even really bothers to listen to me anyway!” and he got even louder for a while as he roared back, ”SORRY HE'S NOT REALLY SOME PERFECT PADRE EVERYBODY THINKS HE IS!”

It seemed that the next words that left Cristal's mouth had escaped before she could register it; ”WELL, YOU'RE A BAD SON, AREN'T YOU?” as the words landed, it grew silent and Cristal backed off, hands on her mouth- as if hoping to keep the words that had already left at bay- and she was about to apologize before the bell ringed and in stepped a man which caused Cristal to say; ”Hello! Just a second! Camilo, wait-”

But he had already left.

The loud knock was heard and when papá stepped out- looking considerably put-out, just like he was feeling- his eyes widened upon seeing his middle child; ”Camilo,” his tone was cold, just like the expression he gave the younger boy, but when Camilo started crying, it seemed he could not keep it up, ”What's-”

A particularly loud sob as Camilo, face now messy with tears and disgusting snot, ran towards his papá and hugged him. This had, of course, shocked the man and Camilo could feel it. But soon enough large, thick hands wrapped around him, pulling him impossibly closer and he let it happen.

”I'm sorry, Papi,” Camilo sobbed, hiding his face as if embarrassed about his distraught state, ”I'm really, really sorry! I didn't mean to be a bad son, I was just angry for some really stupid reason-” he was broken off by yet another sob, ”I'm sorry, it was fucking stupid!”

Papá- Papi would not correct him on the choice of language like Mami or Abuela would, Camilo knew, because he had always been more understanding about things like that. It was one of those things he had always loved most about Papi; the understanding, even when nobody else did. Especially when Mami didn't.

Upon hearing Cristal's words, yelled in the heat of the moment, Camilo had left- not to stew in his anger, like one might think, but to revaluate the recent days; his fight with Papi, specifically, when he yelled at the man for what, exactly? It seemed so stupid now that he didn't remember. It was stupid, and was there really anything more to know about it? Except that he had yelled te odio to the man, in the heat of the moment like Cristal had, when he didn't, not really.

Of course he had never been particularly close to him, of course, but never- and with that, he meant never- had Camilo been accused of being a bad son. Because nobody did with that in the Encanto, accusing him of things that had been proven time and time again to be false. But now, when he had let his anger (his ridiculous, ridiculous anger) take control of him like that? He didn't think that title was something to be far kept very far away from him anymore.

”What, Camilo...” he pulled Camilo away from him momentarily to bend down to his height, ”Hey, look at me,” and he complied, letting Papi see his teary eyes, ”Mijo, you are not- and repeat with me on this- a bad son. And I'm sorry too, I should have tried to speak to you before I told my therapist. I know you don't like it when such ’family matters’ is shared with outside la familia. You're just like tú Abuela with that.”

This did not help with his hefty crying at all; ”I'm still sorry!” he sobbed, pulling Papi back to him so he could hide his face in the embarrassment of the crying, ”It really was fucking stupid and I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry, no te odio,” he mumbled the last part, hoping the man heard him anyways, ”Te quiero, really.”

”Te quiero también,” said Papi before landing a kiss on the top of his head, just in his curls, ”And when I say that, I mean it. Tú eres mi hijo,” and the silence that fell between them was comfortable, nothing he wanted to break, ”And I think we can forget your punishment. With the way you're crying, I think you've been punished enough.”

I knew it, he thought but just hummed in response, opting to stuff his (probably still snotty) face in the man's shirt. And as he did so, he muttered, with a soft grin; ”I'm sorry I said you should get your head out of your culo.”

”Wait, what-”

Chapter Text

When he had been young, he had witnessed a prank with Papi; a man nearing his fifties had walked out of his house to find himself covered in water seconds later, due to the bucket above his door, and he had been shivering and Camilo found himself reminded of Luisa when Isabela did the same thing. (At that time Isabela had, of course, been much more carefree and young. But after Mirabel's gift ceremony and tío Bruno leaving, Abuela had pressured her to ’stop being so childish’.)

Everybody else had roared with laughter- including Papi, whose boisterous laugh turned many heads- but not him. He hadn't really seen the reason to, what with the old man having started to yell at the teenager who had pranked him, still shivering. And he hadn't felt pity, not really, but rather he thought this was the very opposite of what a Madrigal should be; calm and in order, helping to control the chaos that surrounded them.

He had wanted to say that, originally, when Papi asked what he had thought of it but then Camilo saw his wide grin- the man looked so very entertained- so he had chuckled loudly and declared that he loved pranks. It was supposed to be just a minor lie but then people started assuming he loved mischief and everything deemed fun.

And instead of correcting it, he had embraced it; by hiding his beloved tragedy plays (and if he cried himself to sleep that night, well that was nobody's business but his); hiding his notebooks filled with his very own plays; gotten the room to gift him happy books- which was very difficult as it could sense that he did not actually want them; and buying new notebooks to instead of filling with plays of tragedy, he would fill with happy plays.

In the beginning he had hated it- and he still did, if he was honest- but over time he had come to terms with that this was just how it was, for no reason he could change at all. If this was how people would like him best, then he would do it. Because he was a Madrigal and Madrigals were well-liked, respectable, and incredibly selfless. And of course, he tried to be a good Madrigal, the way people expected of him.

And as he woke up- having dreamt of himself in a different world, where he was just a normal townsperson and free of all the expectations- ignoring the mirror saying how he was feeling (he didn't listen enough to hear) and then, after a few minutes, heard a knock on his door and the voice of Papi; ”Camilo? Can I come in, mijo?”

”Sure!” he called out, quickly moving to put on his clothes and once again ignoring the mirror, now saying that he was nervous and when Papi entered his room area, he grinned brightly; ”Buenos días, what did you want to talk about?”

He had an inkling, but did not want to do anything about it until Papi confirmed it himself.

Papi sighed, taking a while to respond to him; ”I wanted to talk about yesterday,” and his suspicion was confirmed, ”and this time, mijo, I won't leave until I get an actual answer out of you. What brought it on? Why did you cry so much? What made you think you were a bad son?”

”It's nothing,” he started off uncertainly- how to pull off this lie? he wondered. ”I just realized how much of a jerk I had been; yelling at you like that, out of nowhere. It was an asshole move, honestly, I'm sorry. And well, about the crying,” now he was the one to sigh, ”The therapy kind of... got me off my track, I guess? I wasn't expecting it at all and it just... caught me off guard, really bad. I'm sorry about that too.”

Papi's hand was on his cheek now, pulling his face up and Camilo was met with an expression that was not fit to be towards him- he briefly wondered if perhaps Dolores or Antonio were in the room, somewhere he could not see them- and said, ”You don't have to apologize for having emotions, mijo.”

I know I shouldn't, he thought, but if I have to avoid having them, why shouldn't I apologize for when I do? But that's not what he said, and instead replied; ”I don't think that I do,” of course, this was a total lie, ”I'm sorry that I kind of overreacted like that, with the whole therapy debacle when nobody else did.”

”Camilo, can I tell you a secret?” Papi asked and he nodded in response, ”We were all shocked over having to get therapy. You were not the only one caught off guard, it's just that you couldn't hide it. And you think it's a waste of time, right? Because you don't need it.”

Papi said this so confidently- so very sure that Camilo was fine, did not therapy at all- and briefly he wondered how the man would react if he wasn't cleared? They would probably have this conversation again, him then saying I thought you were so happy, why weren't you? and him not knowing what to say because he had tried to be, really, but could not. Would that be something that would have to happen?

Yet he nodded and said, ”Yeah,” because he could not, under any circumstances at all, let Papi know about his complex feelings about therapy. And everything, really. Because he was supposed to be his perfect son, wasn't he, that always smiled and didn't need help with anything? ”It was hard, I guess.”

”You can admit that, Camilo, you don't have to hide it,” Papi attempted to reassure him (key word being attempted because it was not working) ”That's what we do in la familia now; we admit when we're stumped and learn to get help from it. It's not something you have to be ashamed of, mijo. Just be yourself,” at that, Camilo burst into a laughing fit, ”What?”

In the midst of his boisterous, almost uncontrollable laughter, he managed to say; ”It's just... You said ’just be yourself’,”

Papi did not understand, as shown by the raised eyebrow; ”And?” he asked, subtly showing Camilo that he would need to elaborate if he ever hoped for him to understand.

”Well, it's just that not being myself is my whole gift,” he explained and Papi gave him a resigned, annoyed look that said seriously? in anything but words, ”Because I'm a lot of people, you know? I turn into countless people. That's my gift.”

Papi did not think it was funny- for some reason; it had been quite funny, after all, in his own personal opinion- and said, ”Camilo, you are not a lot of people, you turn into a lot of people,” ugh, a stupid correction, he thought, ”When I say ’be yourself’ I mean that figuratively. Be how you are as a person, that's what I mean, okay?” he sighed, ”I had to explain the same thing to Antonio, oddly enough.”

”You know Toñito can take things really literal,” he told Papi, ”Once I told him that he should ’Go wherever the wind leads him’ as encouragement and he said that the wind will only lead him to places he has already been before. Correct, of course, but I meant it figuratively. I, on the other hand, was just joking around, though. Just so you know.”

Papi chuckled- and he followed suit so for a while they stood there, just chuckling- until he stopped and walked forwards to embrace him. Camilo was surprised, as he had certainly not been expecting that, but eventually he hugged back, his arms wrapping around the older man. ”Te quiero,” Papi said and he hummed, grinning brightly now, ”Do you hear me? Te quiero.”

”Te quiero también, Papi,” he replied and after a while they pulled apart- Camilo almost wished they hadn't- and he added, ”Is there anything else? Or have you gotten enough answers out of me?”

Please be satisfied, please be satisfied, he thought. Because he did not know if he could answer any more questions without lying or at least widely stretching the truth till it was just an alternative, another way things could have gone. Till the truth was no longer the truth, not really, but more like something he couldn't tell, along with many other things.

”Yes,” Papi said, ”Just one more question, mijo, then you can go to breakfast; how has your therapy been going?”

Shit, he thought. This had been one of those things he had feared telling the most, because what would he say? That it was going badly, that Miss Cortez saw him in a way he could only ever wish others would? Or should he lie completely and tell Papi that it was going great now, that Miss Cortez was company he did not fear at all? Perhaps that would be too much of a stretch for Papi to believe, though.

Papi had raised his eyebrow now, looking at him pointedly, and he understood that he had to speak; ”It's been fine,” he lied, ”Nothing that special with it. Both Miss Cortez and I are bored during the sessions, honestly. I think she was hoping for more sad stuff.”

”Shame you're likely the happiest out of all of us,” said Papi, smiling now in a way that told Camilo the man was reminiscing, ”You were always such a quiet baby, you know? Nothing like Dolores. She was our loudest. But you? You've always been so easy, so independent. I'm very proud of you for that. Tu mamá and I would probably collapse, what with Dolores and Antonio having their struggles, without you. Pepa's mi sol nickname for you really fits, doesn't it? Gracias, mijito.”

But what if I'm not like that? Not at all? he couldn't help but think, trying to fake a smile but struggling, what would you say then? If I wasn't as big of a sol as you think I am?

Never would he tell Papi that he had been so independent and easy for them on purpose; because he had seen them with Dolores- seen her struggles, seen the way Mami and Papi worried- and realized that he could not be the same for them. He couldn't stress them out more. Break an ankle? Tell tía before they find out. Upset? Deal with it without letting anyone know. Almost got raped? Make sure they don't worry.

”Of course I am,” he said, trying not to show that Papi had gotten to him and added, humorously, ”Because I'm the very best hijo there is. When this therapy bullshit is over, I'm going back to my normal life, I promise you. No way I'm sticking around there, to listen to her asking me questions about whatever,” and Papi nodded in agreement, ”Let's go to breakfast now, Papi. I can practically smell tía's food.”

Papi chuckled, ”Of course you can,” he said, lightly, ”Let's go, mijo. I expect you have a busy day ahead of you that must be prepared for?”

Camilo doesn't answer- he doesn't need to; Papi knows he's quite busy, expects it, and never has he asked. Some part of him wants to keep it that way- and instead walked out of the room, planting a grin on his face as soon as he did so, and says good morning to every family member he sees.

None of them choose to mention how he seems to be much more friendly with Papi that morning- except Antonio, who grins and declares that they've finally made up. So Camilo tells him they have- but when he looks up from his food, he can see Mami smiling at him.

She's happy they made up, he can see it; it must have taken quite a toll on her, seeing her husband and son fight like that. Especially considering that son was her happy, lucky-go one. The one that didn't fight with people, rather made them laugh from the very goodness of his heart.

It had been hard for her, indeed.

She stopped him just before he could leave Casita, ”Camilo?” he paused and nodded, gesturing that they could walk together. So they did, ”Could we talk, mijo?” and the question came as no surprise at all, ”About your fight with Papi. You've finally made it up with him. What happened?”

”Cristal,” he admitted. Because he had always been accused of being a Mama's boy, hadn't he? ”She had her way with me, about it. And I don't know why, but it got to me,” and he added, just so she would not believe it was romantic- because the familia tended to do that. ”maybe it's because we're such good friends.”

She smiled softly and said, ”You wouldn't have to lie to me, mijo,” he dreaded what was to come; the ridiculous assumption that he had feelings for Cristal, ”I've seen you around town, with that girl, a lot. A mother sees the signs, you know. Of feelings like that... It's all over you, cariño.”

Well, then those signs are really messed up, he thought, because they're all false.

”Well, those signs are really messed up then; they're completely lying to you,” because I'm not as close to being attracted to girls as I am to turning 100, he thought, but didn't say it, ”The only thing that's all over me is my guilt of treating papi like I did.”

She didn't believe it. He didn't expect her to, if he was honest; ”Mijo, yo soy tu mamá. I know when you have your crushes,” she said. It was complete bullshit, of course, because she barely noticed him at all, let alone his crushes, ”You can't lie to me, just like that.”

I've lied to you multiple times, he thought, do you really think I've never set foot in the bar, when I'm often responsible of Alcoholic Jacinto? Or been touched in inappropriate places? I have, you just don't know about it. Because way too many times had the Velasquez' asked him to take care of their wayward, alcoholic father, who liked to spend his time in the bar. Or people touching him when they think he's somebody else, maybe even- if it's Suarez- doing it even though they know it is him.

Mami didn't know about any of that though, because he had lied to her. So yeah, he could lie to her very easily and has, in fact.

”You know I don't get many crushes,” he said and it actually was not a lie, ”The girls here just are not worth it. While Cristal's not my type; a bit too ragged-looking for my taste,” and her long hair- often tied into odd ponytails and buns, if she had the energy for it- and her tits, way too large for him, and soft features. He liked them harder, ”Don't get me wrong; I like spending time with her, she's nice, but... no.”

She smiled knowingly at him, ”Say what you want to, mijo,” she said, ”And see if you can fool the familia, but you still won't be able to fool me, no matter how many believe it,” then it was silent between them, ”Teasing aside, though, I really am glad that you've made it up with your papá.”

Yeah, he thought, I guess I am too.

He had, in the last minute, remembered that he had to babysit Cali and Dario Giraldo; the kids to the popular, rich Giraldo couple. With this, also came being pompous and refusing to step foot in dirt.

Dario- who's name meant possessing goodness. Possessing goodness, indeed, Camilo thought, in the very depth of his heart that gets less sunshine than a vampire does- had been standing in front of the door, looking disapprovingly at him while he panted, ”You're not late,” the boy said incredibly formally, ”But you could have been, very easily. Exactly on time. I'll be informing mamá and papá of this.”

While Cali- her name meaning beautiful and Camilo thought it would be best she grew into her appearance eventually, as otherwise her name would be an utter lie- had scrunched up her nose upon seeing him and said, ”You are going to entertain us, give us food when the time comes, and make sure we do not harm ourselves or cause harm to others. For the next 5 hours, this is your duty.”

Despite that they were barely even eight, Camilo held a grudge against them- something that his family would scold him for, if they ever heard of it- as they were, in lack of a better word, just like their parents. Which wasn't a positive thing at all. They were pompous, rude, and constantly told people that they 'would be informing their parents of this' no matter what 'this' was. Even in front of Madrigals, they acted like this.

”Your casa is quite far away from La Casita,” Camilo explained, ”I had to run.”

They scrunched their noses- they too, just like their parents, thought running was tacky- and Cali said, ”That is no excuse. Your duty is to get here in time and if you do not, we have a right to complain.”

”I was on time,” he said, trying not to lose his temper- that would definitely also add to their complaint- ”Anyways, let's move on; how about you give me requests, and I shift into them? Even if it's not an actual person, I should be able to, as long as I get a description of their appearance.”

He did this for many people, offering requests in case anyone had ever wanted to see, for instance; Isabela picking her nose; Señora Pezmuerto being smart; Osvaldo Orozco- or, as many liked to call him: Obese Osvaldo- swearing he would never eat sweets again; Abuela being nice. His favorite one had been 'turn into your mamá, happy'.

”Camilo, never do that again,”  Abuela had said once, after she had caught him turned into Isabela, picking his nose, after multiple requests for it, ”You looked utterly foolish. Nobody will ever take you seriously as a Madrigal, if you do stuff like that. It is important to live up to your standards.”

 No matter how many times he argued that it had been a request, multiple in fact, and that she had taught him to always please the townspeople. She didn't listen, though, and said that nobody would see him as a 'real Madrigal' if he continued to act like he did.

”We are not childish!” said Cali, frowning up at him, ”We were going to ask you to shift into us but with different outfits, to see if they would fit us. It is for our birthday presents,” she scoffed then, ”Do you really think so lowly of us, to believe we would ask for those sorts of requests?”

You're seven, Camilo thought, You're at that age where your peers do that.

But no, apparently they are 'above of their age' and see it as a great offense to have people assume they are like their peers; happy, capable of laughter, and still quite childish. What are the Giraldos doing with their children, he wondered, that they being like their peers as offensive? Not even he was like that at age 7, and he had just started staying up late to learn how to joke at that age.

Okay, that was probably quite depressing on its own, but he didn't care. ”I wasn't assuming that, sorry,” he said, despite himself, ”What I meant was that your peers usually do that and...  nevermind,” he shifted into Cali, now shorter and long hair cascading off his shorter back, ”Any outfit you want me to wear first?”

Cali and Dario rushed upstairs, coming back with literal lists, one for both of them. Welp, he thought, I'm going to be here all day. Wordlessly, he took the list from Cali and, upon seeing the very detailed explanation of how it looked, gave her form of Cali a long, red dress with bows at the sides. (Even adding bows in the sides of the hair.)

However, she made a face of displeasure and said, ”It's awfully plain,” she stated and frowned at Camilo as if it was his fault, ”Change into the next one,” so he did; a shorter, flowery dress with puffs at the ends but her face did not change and she added, ”Now that I see it on you, it just looks ugly.”

I'm you, he thought exasperatedly but just nodded, said, ”I'll continue. One of them has to be pretty, right?” she didn't nod her approval but she gave her form another dress anyway; a rather plain, pink skirt with flowery puffs (Camilo could admit it was pretty) ”What do you think of this, then?”

”It's ugly!” Cali declared and he briefly wondered if perhaps she was blind, ”How could you even think to turn into that? Next time, think a bit,” you little, Camilo thought but didn't even finish it in his head. There was no word bad enough for it, at the moment. Except maybe puta, ”So? Next one!”

So he continued; shifting into multiple outfits- few of them being 'acceptable', though it was coincidental that the pretty ones were the ugliest, in his opinion (who liked maroon? Honestly)- and, by around 12 am, he prepared food for them; arepas and leftover Ropa Vieja. Which they deemed tacky but ate anyways.

Afterwards, he had continued to entertain them, which meant bringing them outside and getting groceries, so they forced him to carry all the bags, as punishment for daring to bring them outside around the low-class people- not in those exact words, of course, but that's how he interpretered it.

When their parents finally came, Señora Giraldo said, ”Hello,” and the look she fixed him with made him feel as if he was the dirt on her shoe. Camilo understood where Cali and Dario got it from. ”I trust you have done your task these recent 5 hours. Or am I incorrect?”

”You're not,” he said, speaking before Cali and Dario could- he doubted they would be saying anything positive and the people pleaser in him did not think he could bear that look as if he had displeased him- ”They've been entertained, fed, and I even got your groceries you. With my own dinero but...” when Señor Giraldo pulled out dinero from his pocket, he added, ”Gracias.”

Señor and Señora Giraldo did not smile, say De nada, or anything like that- honestly, what had he expected? This was the Giraldos, after all- but Señor Giraldo, looking at him in a way that made him very nervous, said”Very well,” with a pompous sort of voice, ”Go now. Take the dinero as payment.”

He nodded quickly and left, not even saying goodbye to the kids, which he usually did. Clutching the dinero in his fist, he quickly walked through the Encanto, knowing exactly where he wanted to go; it wasn't normal that he was paid as the townspeople started doing that after you turn 18, though it was always a small payment.

Camilo knew that Tía Julieta got the most payment of all, as she helped so many people; he remembered a time when he was young that he had been harmed, a busted lip from a bunch of kids that had not liked him being a Madrigal- though that wasn't what he had told tía- and, to comfort him, she had let him buy whatever he wanted from the sweets shop.

”Oh, Camilito,” tía said softly, holding him as he cried, hiding his now-healed lip from view, ”Here, take mi dinero- there's no need to be upset, shh- and go buy yourself sweets, okay? How about some chocolate?”

Camilo, after finishing the chocolate sweets he had bought with the large amount of dinero given, had started looking for Cristal. He wanted to apologize to her, or thank her, for yesterday. For getting his head out of his arse. Now, because of her doing, he knew that the only one who had a head up in their arse was him.

However, she was nowhere to be seen; not even in the shoe shop, sitting in the counter and perhaps dusting off a shoe. In there was instead Señora Cortez, Cristal's mother, cleaning, ”Oh, Camilo! Hello, dear!” the woman had said, grinning, upon seeing him.

”Hola, Señora Cortez-”

”Oh just María is fine,” she said, shrugging off the formalities like she would shrug off a fly, ”There aren't any needs for formalities; you're such a close friend to Cristal, after all. Maybe even more...”

It seemed that people in his vicinity liked to take things from his actions that had never been there in the first place all to fit him into the view they held for him. Sure, he liked Señora Cortez, but she was no different from the others.

”Where is she? Cristal?” he asked, ”Is she up in her room?”

Señora Cortez raised her eyebrow and said, ”No. After school she came her a bit to do her homework- I urged her to- and then she went to the Rodríguez Cafe. With a friend, she told me. Although I assumed that friend was you.”

”It w-wasn't,” he said, trying not to sound awkward.

Senora Cortez fixed him with a sort of look that said I can tell but instead said, ”Well, was there anything else you were wondering, dear? You're welcome to stay for tea, too, of course. However, I reckon you want to see Cristal?” he nodded quickly, ”Goodbye then; I hope you have a good day, and please, come over to dinner sometime.”

”I will. You know I love Sancocho nights,” he joked, and Senora Cortez laughed—it felt like a relief after so many people that had not laughed at his jokes. ”Bye, Sen—María.”

And he left; strolling through the town, as Mirabel- on the way, he had accidentally looked in a mirror and really, how did his Abuela even let him leave the house, looking that ugly?- and when he reached the Rodríguez Cafe he saw, to his utter horror, Rodríguez himself.

Of course he'll be here, he thought, his mamá owns the cafe for God's sake. He helps around, you know that-

Originally, he was going to hide, before remembering that he was currently Mirabel and surely he wouldn't recognize him. Right? However, Rodríguez gave him a look that looked like recognition, to him at least, ”Hello,” the cute boy said.

”Hello!” he said with a fake cheerful tone- after all, how could he ever be cheerful around Rodríguez again? ”Diego, right? I've heard from mi... tía,” Dammit Camilo, he scolded himself, don't expose yourself! ”that your mamá makes the best coffee. It always manages to cheer her up.”

Rodríguez chuckled- and Camilo felt a sense of remembrance. Nostalgia- and said, ”Yeah, I've seen that too. Her cloud always dissapears. I understand her; mi mamá's coffee is very good. I taste it occasionally. Did you know she grows her own coffee beans?”

How could I ever forget? he thought sadly.

”No,” he said, forcefully, trying to sound as if he did not know that but failing, even by his own standards, ”I didn't know that at all, actually! That's impressive!” they grinned at each other and he felt the liquid in his stomach move around, as if trying to make him dizzy, ”Anyways, is Cristal Cortez in there?”

Rodríguez leaned backwards to look through one of the large windows and said, ”Yeah, I can see her with some girl- don't know her name, though.” he stood with his legs apart as he straightened up and added, ”Are you looking to join them?”

”I don't know,” he said, hesitantly, ”I thought she would be alone-” as Cristal usually lied to her mother when it came to whether she was going to certain places alone or not, ”but I don't know if I dare, with that stranger there. I'll talk to her later, I reckon. Bye.”

”Bye, Camilo Madrigal.” Rodríguez said simply, not even glancing at him as he said it!

Shit, he knew, he thought, panic-stricken.

Why had Camilo ever hoped he wouldn't? Back when they were friends- best friends, if he dared admit it- Rodríguez had always been able to tell, regardless if he was old Señora Guzman or little Cecilia. No, it did not matter if he was burly or puny. Haughty or demure. Rodríguez always recognized him.

Back in the days, before- well, it- he had been close friends with Rodríguez. Something one might not expect, but it had been true; they stayed over at each other's houses (Rodríguez's mostly); swapped clothes, solely because they wanted to; listened to Gulliermo Buitrago together, and danced to it occasionally. Really, they had been very decently close.

And when Rodríguez started to grow out his looks, well, Camilo had not liked how he'd felt. The guy had looked... No longer awkward-looking but instead handsome; his frizzy, but well-brushed hair, fairly strong jaw, and stubble! When Camilo had seen that, he'd wanted to grow out facial hair, too!

However, as a Madrigal, it wouldn't be fitting. He had to look presentable, after all, like he had always been taught! So he had asked papi to teach him- alright he had asked tío Agustín to do it originally but the man told him to ask papi instead out of respect for the man or something.

The point was that he and Rodríguez used to be friends. Camilo's first friend and, for a long time, his only. Then, when... Well, things couldn't stay the same forever, could they? No matter how great they were...

Camilo could see the outline of Casita as he laughed with Diego, who had just made a very funny joke about the adults in the Encanto; ”Honestly, they act like they don't want their children around, just leaving them to you and expecting you to take care of all their needs. At least, that's what it seems like to me.”

Diego was of the opinion that most adults in the Encanto used him more like the third parent to their children so they wouldn't have to be rather as a babysitter. While he understood where the adults were coming from- the work hours were long for most people, after all- he couldn't help but agree with Diego.

”It's the whole miracle thing, I think,” he said and the way Diego looked at him, as if whatever he had to say was important to him, made his stomach flutter, ”They rely on me because I'm a Madrigal. I have my gift.”

Diego reached for his hand- like he had done multiple times; he and Diego were the type who did not shy away from physical affection yet it made him feel giddy. ”Right. I bet they take it as an excuse to overwork you like that,” he cleared his throat so his voice would come out as high-pitched, ”’But his gift is perfect for taking care of the children.’”

He laughed again- and if he were to kid himself, he would say that he had seen Diego look at him fondly and flush red- and said, ”They're like that, I suppose.”

”It's so annoying. Actually, the whole thing with your family is annoying. They're so...” Diego said and paused, as if he was wondering what to say, ”demanding,” now it was his turn to blush, as few ever saw his the Madrigals’ high position like it was; a demand, a struggle to live up to, ”Oh, look! La Casita! Well, bye, Milo.”

Camilo didn't know why- perhaps it was the fact that Diego was the only that called him 'Milo' these days, or that Diego was acknowledging the struggles of being a Madrigal, or perhaps it was so many things all at once that he could not possibly narrow it down- but at that moment, he stood up on his tippy toes and kissed Diego right on the lips.

It was quite nice, actually, kissing Diego; he tasted oddly like coffee and sugar and Camilo liked even more that he knew why. Diego tasted like the freedom that could have been his life, had he not been born as Camilo Madrigal, and smelled like the coffee beans but then everything else, too. Diego both tasted and smelled great, actually.

But then he remembered what situation he found himself in; he was kissing Diego. Kissing; locking his lips with the boy and, out of all the things in the world, thinking of how he tasted? And smelled? The oddest things to do, really. Was Diego disgusted with him, waiting till he was finished with this show of his, so he could end their friendship? But then, he reasoned to himself, what were those hands he felt on his mid-section? It couldn't be Diego's hands, surely?

Or could it?

He got control of his hands- which had been going to Diego's shoulders- and pushed him away, hard; Diego looked as if he was on the wisp of falling, but caught himself just in time. Cute, he thought, despite himself. It was disgusting, really, to be thinking this stuff! About a boy, no less! His best friend!

”I-I,” he could not speak, nonetheless look Diego- Rodríguez, he corrected himself forcibly, you can no longer be his friend- in the eyes and ran away, ”I'm sorry!” and nobody was to know of the tears currently running down his face. Dripping.

They could never be friends again.

Dolores wanted to talk to him.

Ever since after lunch- which he spent happily telling the familia what he had done so far, leaving out only everything him-related and joked with them about the Giraldos- she had stuck by him, watching; when he had put on a show for a group of townschildren? She had been apart of the audience, though steps away from the rest; when he lulled a baby to sleep? She had been talking to its madre.

”Alright, Dolores,” he said eventually, having grown tired of her following him around as if she were his tail. His tall, quiet, red tail. ”What do you want? You've been following me around for a while now; don't think I haven't noticed.”

Dolores, defeated, sighed and said; ”Perdón, hermanito,” and she had started speaking again before he could tell her off for calling him hermanito, ”I just didn't know how to reach out to you. I wanted to talk to you about papá,” he nodded and she let there be a moment of silence between them for a while, ”You've made up with him.”

”I have,” he said and then realized with a jolt- ”You heard it, didn't you?”

Dolores' expression did not change but she nodded and said lowly, ”Yes, I did. Well, parts of it, at least; I heard your crying, and the apologizing. I didn't hear Papá's response or anything else; I was in my room then. You did not notice me.”

”Are you...“ he said awkwardly, trying to voice the fear of are you going to make fun of me? that his brain had thought of, ”Has it, you know, affected your opinion on me at all?” Dolores only shook her head and he added, ”Why?”

Dolores looked at him for a while- as if wondering why he would ever think that- and said, ”Tú eres mi hermano, Camilo. I've watched you cry before. Multiple times, actually, although you stopped eventually,” she eyed him suspiciously and made her classic hm! noise, ”Why would I look at a child and judge them for having emotions? That seems very rude of me, and hypocritical. I cried when I was your age, too.”

”I'm not a child,” he said, because he didn't know what else to say.

Camilo knew what Dolores was thinking, without it even having to show in her expressions or words. Of course, she'd rather see him as a child, her hermanito. She did not see him as someone who avoided his issues all to work, never even getting paid for it.

”Camilo, you are fifteen,” she said, ”That is the age of nothing but a child; you cry, of course you do,” after a while of giving him worried looks, she added, ”Hermanito, I still cry occasionally too, you know? It's something for adults too.”

Of course he understood what she was trying to say; that adults cried too, as did his peers, so therefore he should not be ashamed of crying but she just didn't understand. Really, she was lying to herself, trying to say that if he were to start being himself (mentally, that is) she would not miss the happy, fake him. Everybody always told him it was okay to be sad until he was.

He couldn't tell her that, though.

”I know,” he sighed exaggeratingly, which only succeeded in amusing her, judging off the expression on her face, ”I've seen Mami cry multiple times. It's just-” suddenly he felt the urge to be honest, let her get a glimpse through the cracks in his walls, at least, and his shoulders slumped, ”that I don't like crying. It doesn't feel like it's a 'me-thing', you know?”

Dolores, shocked that he had shared that much- honestly, he was too- stared at him, eyes widened, for a while until she pulled him into a hug and said, ”Camilo,” with such a tone that, for a short while, he wished she was his madre instead, much to his embarrassment because she's your sister! ”Your thing could be whatever you share with the familia.”

At that, his most vocal thought was; Your favorite me-thing is being happy though, admit it, while another part selfishly thought why can't Mami hug me like this?

Because of course he knew why Mami couldn't hug him like that, and wouldn't! She was far too busy with little Antonio and sensitive Dolores, who needed more than him, admittedly. He knew that, so why did a part of him still wish she would treat him like she treated them?

Why did he still wish she loved him as much as she loved them?

Camilo had been quite young indeed when he realized that Mami didn't, and couldn't, love him like she loved other things; he had been at the age of 8, still in the prime of his secret Metamorphoses-fan phase, and Mami and Papi had left one of his plays early to help Dolores, who could no longer handle the noise. Sure, it was understandable but it had still stung. Perhaps that was why he was self-conscious when it came to his plays, young him having internalized it to mean his plays weren't good enough for them to stay anyway.

”Oh, Dolores got overwhelmed with the fireworks and all,” explained Abuela, still grinning down at him, ”so tus padres decided to help them. They'll be back later, for the portrait,” her grin turned to a frown as Camilo, his fallen face only a shadow of his previous, joyful expression, turned to look at his closed door, ”Keep smiling, Camilito. Now; go talk to the townspeople, they're waiting to applaud you.”

When it happened, he had scolded himself for acting as if Mami and Papi were not allowed to leave his plays, under any circumstances. They were, of course! However, that night was the first night out of many that he stayed awake wondering if he was as important as his other family members.

The answer he had come to was a simple- though dissapointing aswell- no. One might misunderstand what it meant. That his parents hated him which they, of course, did not; they only did not love him like they loved Antonio and Dolores. It was a fact he had long since accepted.

Perhaps he had not accepted it as much as he had originally thought, however.

After a few more minutes, he stepped back and said, lightly, ”Let's not be clingy now!” and Dolores huffed in a way that said funny for you to say that somehow and he added, ”Lola,” he moved quickly to give her a kiss on the cheek, ”You're the best hermana, did I mention?” and proceeded to leave before she could say anything more.

Just as he had been with Mami and Papi a few days back, he was escaping from her. Fortunately, Dolores' gift was super hearing rather than any mind-reading ability.

When Camilo stepped through the kitchen, bones aching, Tío Agustín and Tía Julieta were there; ”Oh Camilo, hello,” Tío, making dough that would soon be arepas, said and he added, in an amused sort of voice, ”Are you here for arepas?”

”You're in luck, sobrino,” Tía said, grinning at him as she looked away from the stove shortly, ”We just made an extra batch,” she handed out a fresh arepa to him, which he took and ate quickly- it eased the aching that had been there for a while now- and she chuckled, ”I knew it. Always here for a treat, you are.”

Occasionally, the amount of food he had taken at breakfast wasn't enough. It never got very far- certainly not to the first level, which was intense puking- but definitely inconvenient. So he always had to grab some arepas. Or, well, steal some, more like.

”I am not,” he said, fake-defensively and tío Agustín chuckled, which only spurred him on from his dramatic act, ”You know you're mi tía favorita. The insult,” he sniffled mockingly, ”that you think I only come here for your arepas! Well, I never!” and he huffed in a lighter voice than his usual, ”Next time, I'll be sure not to spend time with you!”

Tía Julieta couldn't help it; she broke into a fit of joyful giggles and said, flashing her white and even teeth, ”You're just too funny, sobrino! Honestly, I'm glad you come here to spend some time with little old me,” she stepped forwards and ruffled his hair, before placing a kiss on the side of his head, ”You never fail to make me happy, cariño.”

Trust me, it's not effortless on my side.

Perhaps if he was effortlessly funny like Isabela had been effortlessly- or so as it had seemed- perfect, then life would be easier. However, his humor was not impulsively and it certainly wasn't easy, although people always assumed it was. If Camilo could be funny like others could, he'd enjoy it. Probably be happier, too.

If only, really.

”Stop it, you're embarrassing me,” he said, in a mockingly serious tone and was quick to shift into Abuela and imitate her experienced, slightly scratchy voice, ”Do not embarrass the Madrigal name-” and turned back as tía pressed her finger into his chest- one of his 'shift-back' spots, as he called it. ”Oww... Stop...”

Tía Julieta kept on her grin as she said, in an amused sort of voice, ”You're a little shit, aren't you?” and she laughed for a while, until she suddenly stopped to add, ”Are you sticking around, Camilo? Please do. You're such a laugh.”

Camilo knew that she meant it positively; that she meant he was enjoyable to be around, as many thought, but he could not help but think I'm only a laugh. Nothing else because did she only want him around when he was funny? Did people only ever want him around when he was funny? Because he was largely seen as a funny person, who could entertain?

He remembered that his room was more for him to entertain than it was for just him. Perhaps that's just what he was? An entertainer? Such an entertainer that his own room had to show it?

”Of course I am!” he said, cheerfully, practically straining to still hold his smiling mask over his face. His facade. ”You know me,” a lie, a cold voice said in his head, ”I love spending time with you! And, oh,” he glanced to tío Agustín and added, a bit awkwardly, ”you too, tío.”

Tío Agustín only nodded quickly, in a way that showed it was awkward on his part, too.

His relationship with tío Agustín had always been complex and weak, due to the fact that they barely spoke. Camilo didn't know the man and, growing up, he had taken Abuela's way to see him; incompetent and not worthy of tía. Of course, this was false- even then, he had known it, although deep down- but him and tío Agustín were just so different that he had never tried to build his relationship with the man.

Really, Camilo had close bonds with very few family members; Dolores, probably due to the fact that they were siblings; Tía Julieta, for reasons he couldn't explain; Mami, because he was well-known as a mamá's boy; Papi, because the man was his padre and there was no more depth to it; perhaps Antonio, too, but really Camilo only wanted to protect the young boy. And teach him stuff, like a good older brother should.

The rest, though? If he was honest, he had never had any sort of close bonds with them. More like he saw them in the days- could say te quiero también when they did- but he didn't care to. In a way, Camilo would be fine if he never did.

Was that odd? Was it selfish?

Camilo didn't feel very close to his familia. Or anyone, really. Except maybe Cristal.

You were close to Diego too, remember? a voice that didn't really sound like his own said in his head and Camilo did not like the reminder; the reminder that, out of everyone in this closed-off world, he had felt the closest with Rodríguez. It wasn't something he liked to think about.

”Do you mind helping, Camilo?” tío Agustín asked, ”We're going to start on dinner; Bandeja paisa. You could keep an eye on the rice, I'm sure, while we start with the meat. You've cooked before, right?” there was uncomfortable silence on the man's part, as he and tía Julieta smirked at each other and he asked again, ”You have, right?”

”It's safe to say he can handle it, Agustín,” tía Julieta, knowingly, ”I have full confidence in that.”

Camilo remembered the reason he had started helping Tía Julieta cook occasionally in the first place, and why he had made sure it would be kept secret- to everybody who wasn't Dolores. He had simply wanted to learn how to help around, and be useful, but didn't want others to know this. To this day, not even tía knows why. That's how Camilo likes it best.

”Ooohkay,” said tío Agustín, stretching out the ’o’ and making an oh sound, ”I'm not going to...” the man paused awkwardly, as if wondering how to word what he wanted to say, ”analyse what is going on between you two,” and he gestured to the two of them, still looking confused and he continued, ”Could we just, uh, start? I'm feeling like I did when people whispered to each other and I didn't know what they were talking about.”

”Awkward, then?” he joked and laughed- really, just trying to come across as amusing and, above all, happy. ”Oh, tío, tía and I are just having fun gossiping. Away from youuuuuu,” he streched out the ’u’, like tío had done earlier.

Tío and tía laughed. At the moment, he was nothing more than their comical, happy sobrino, who did the things he did because that was simply how he was. And that was how he wanted them to see him; (unconciously) ignorant of the fact that he, too, had feelings like a normal person would. He didn't show it, though, so it was much easier to just ignore it.

Camilo very much stuck to his purpose; making people happy, and being happy in turn. In times he was exhausted from it, he only thought of Abuela's words and forced himself through it, even if it didn't work.  (Sometimes it didn't, after all) Fortunately, his familia and the townspeople happily, and unconciously, stuck to that. Practically doing half the work- though the easy part- for him. It was helpful.

”Anyways,” Tía said after a while, only chortling occasionally now- he was happy to see that it had been that funny. ”We should probably continue. Camilo, watch the rice, will you? We started it just before you arrived, so it should be finished soon.”

He sent a thumbs-up her way and was quick to start on his pretty important, though easy, task; keeping an eye on the rice, which, just as Tía had said, had been ready fairly quickly. Afterwards, he was set the task of getting the beans ready, which he was quite hesitant to do as he did not like beans.

He knew he would eat it anyway, though, because he would need the calories. Earlier, Señorita Carmen- the Nunez's wayward, chill young adult daughter- had asked if he could do the last of her shift at the yarn shop for her in exchange for part of her pay. Due to how long he would therefore be her, he thought it best he got in as much calories as he could.

Perhaps, if he had enough luck on his side, some of those calories could even go to his stomach! Camilo was starting to fear that Señor Gomez- the town doctor- would start declaring that he was underfed since he had held the same width till he was 10 years old.

While he was cooking the beans, he imagined Señor Gomez suddenly informing Mami and Papi of this, that he was ”severely underfed, in need to gain weight,” and them forcing even more food onto his plate because of it and scolding him, even. Surely, they would assume he was doing something since he ate so much, yet he never gained that weight he desperately needed?

Gah, he hoped they never found out! It would be the talk of the whole family, probably, or even the town! God knows Mami and Papi would never bother to keep it secret, despite how much he would wish they would. Gossip runs fast in town and Camilo would hate to hear ”Did you hear Camilo Madrigal is underfed? What's going on? I thought he ate a lot.” while he's someone else.

He's fine with gossip, generally- as a shapeshifter, he hears quite a lot of gossip daily. Just one recently, actually, about Señora Ozma's failing knees- but when it's about him, he likes it a lot less. Typical, isn't it? When gossip is about another, he can find it amusing, but when it's suddenly about stuff like ”Did you hear Camilo Madrigal has started dating Cristal Cortez, the boy-hater?”, ”Did you hear Camilo Madrigal has turned down yet another girl? Is he ever going to get with somebody? He's turned down almost all of the girls his age already.” or ”Did you hear Camilo Madrigal and Cristal Cortez have broken up? I heard she cheated on him with a girl.” then it's less enjoyable.

When dinner was ready, he grabbed a plate- filled it with multiple of everything, even the beans, much to tía's amusement- and thanked tía for the meal before sitting down.

”Hola, Camilo,” Dolores said as she sat down next to him, her plate not filled with as much as him, though that wasn't a surprise. ”Cristal Cortez asked after you; said she wanted to apologize for last night.”

Camilo flushed red at the fact that she heard his fight with Cristal but simply said, ”Hola to you too, Lola,” and took a while to add, ”Gracias. I'll talk to her later, if I have time. I'm sure you've heard I'll be taking up a part of Señorita Carmen's shift. Boring but since I'm getting paid for it, I suppose that makes it worth it.”

”Yes, I did. She's been asking you to do that a lot lately,” Dolores replied, ”She thinks it's very boring. I don't know why she picked it but I suppose she thinks the shop will close soon away. That yarn shop is failing, after all,” and she leaned closer to whisper, ”I heard Señora Lozano cried about it yesterday, saying she had no way to save it. I didn't hear it, though, so I don't know if it's true.”

He winced sympathetically and said, ”Ugh, I almost feel bad for her- and you know how she's like; it's like her and the Giraldos share the same soul!” he paused, wishing not to start ranting completely about the haughtiness of certain townspeople, ”You know Mirabel and old women like Señora Ozma are her only customers, so maybe she should just start something else. Sewing classes, maybe? Barely anybody actually knows how to sew anymore so maybe that's a good idea. I was thinking of suggesting it to her,” as Dolores stayed silent, only looking at him with a shocked expression on her face, he grew increasingly more nervous and quickly added, ”What?”

”That would be really good of you, Camilo,” she said, in a serious tone, after a while and added, as he scoffed, ”I'm serious! Trying to help somebody save their business- or even wanting to- is the sort of thing a good person would do.”

Camilo had never really thought of himself as a good person; more like the sort of person who people liked having around, not because of anything pure or anything, but for the fact that they were enjoyable. A nice person who entertained others. Was anybody here even good? They lived in the Encanto where crimes barely existed- except for Suarez, but nobody counted him as a criminal- and therefore, there seemed to be no need for goodness. Or pure hearts.

”Well,” he said, shrugging (he didn't want Dolores to know she had gotten to him, after all.) ”You know she's stubborn, so she might not even listen. I'll also be Señorita Carmen and everybody knows Señora Lozano doesn't trust her, only keeps her around for the extra help.”

Dolores nodded in agreement and, most likely before she could add to the conversation they had going on, squeaked in such a way that showed she had just heard something. ”Alexandro Alvarez and Señorita Luciana have just started dating. I bet he'll cheat on her the first week.”

”Definitely,” he said, confidently, ”I've seen the guy around lots. He's not the commited type; doing this to get... well, laid, most likely because he thinks she's guapa or something.”

He had seen Señorita Luciana around before- one of those instances being everytime he brought her padre back from the bar- and in his own, not-attracted-to-girls, opinion, she wasn't that guapa. Or guapa at all, really; hermosa, perhaps, with her long curly hair but he supposed that wasn't what Alexandro was interested in.

He understood why she would want to date Alexandro, though, and no he doesn't mean anything by that; after all, the guy was quite muscular- fútbol did that, he supposed- and looked a bit like Mariano The Bobo with his dashing, incapable-of-looking-bad hair, except that his was a lighter brown. Also, the confident manner added to his attractiveness, in Camilo's opinion.

Did he think Alexandro was guapo? No, not really, only he wasn't blind. Alexandro was attractive, and anyone with eyes could see that.

”Yes, that's even what he said when he asked her out,” Dolores said and when she spoke next, her voice was higher-pitched, ”You're so guapa.”

Before he could respond, Mariano The Bobo arrived and said, as he sat down next to her at the seat that was usually Papi's and wrapped his arm around her, ”Same back at you,” in a flirty sort of voice and suddenly Dolores' grin was infectious, only he seemed immune to it, ”Hello, Lolita,” and then the bobo added, in a hesitant sort of voice, ”Hello to you too, Camilo.”

”Hello, bobo,” he said, not glancing up at his plate as he said so, though he noticed that Mariano The Bobo gave him an awkward sort of smile that told him everything he wouldn't be told in words.

His relationship with Mariano The Bobo wasn't complex, per se, as he knew exactly what he felt about him. Simply, the man was not worthy of Dolores; the man was quite foolish, after all, while Dolores was much more serious and quiet. Also, just as an added bonus, he had seemed to be fully infatuated with Isabela before he suddenly flipped a switch and went over to Dolores as if she were his second option!

Camilo wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that the man had only gone from Isabela to Dolores because he saw it as a status of power, to be linked with the Madrigals in such a way. It certainly wouldn't be the first time something like that had happened.

Dolores glared at him as she nudged him, though she spoke to Mariano The Bobo, ”Hola, guapo,” and she kissed him, as if trying to punish him for daring to not like her boyfriend. When they pulled apart, she had a sappy grin, ”I'm glad you could make it. Wasn't Gabriela mad you're eating with us again?”

Internally, he scoffed. For some time now, the man had spending quite a lot of time at Casita, even attempting to talk to him occasionally. Camilo didn't know why, only that he didn't like it. Really, the less la familia saw Mariano The Bobo, the better. In his opinion, that man showed that looks didn't matter much if you were stupid.

”You know she loves you,” the man said as he held her hand, ”Mind you, not as much as I do.”

”Te quiero también,” Dolores replied, still wearing that silly smile.

Camilo was very glad indeed when neither of them had time to say any more- he thought he might puke, if he had to see that bobo practically eye-fucking his hermana any more- as the rest of the familia gathered, and Abuela looked down at them all as she stood at the center.

He was already prepared for a boring speech before she started speaking. ”Hello, familia,” Abuela said, wearing that calm smile she always had and, as she saw the bobo sitting at the table as if he was family, ”And Mariano,” the man only nodded in response, ”I have exciting news to share.”

”Who's willing to bet it's not actually exciting?” he muttered in his breath, though Papi seemed to have heard him as the man hissed out a Camilo sternly.

Abuela continued, though was sure to send a glare his way, ”Well, I'm sure we all know about the therapy-” how could he forget? Tomorrow was one of his last sessions. ”and the town has decided that we need an extra week with our therapists. They realized that it was not enough time to get to the root of our problems!”

”WHAT!?” he said, differing from the light cheers from the rest of the familia, making Dolores flinch, ”Oops, sorry, Lola but-” the whole family was now looking at him, both Mami and Papi giving him glares that said all too well stop talking, ”but you said it's only two weeks, Abuela! You- you promised and now... We've got to continue?!”

That was one of the only things that had been any comfort to him recently; that this therapy bullshit would soon be over- if he got cleared, as the nasty voice in the back of his head liked to remind him- but now they were just continuing? Camilo had thought, hoped, that his life could go back to normal. Everything had derailed itself ever since the news, what with the Dinner Incident and his fight with papi.

”Camilo,” Mami said sternly, breaking the shocked silence, ”Control yourself! Do,” she paused awkwardly, and her gaze softened as she seemed to remember how awfully he had taken the news at first, ”do you need to speak privately?”

”No!” he said, loudly, and paused to hand Dolores her noise-canceling headphones- at this point, it was nothing but instinct. ”I don't need to speak to you, or anyone, privately! I thought this bullshit-” he simply ignored Mami and Abuela's sharp language, ”would be over soon! It wasn't supposed to continue! Why the fuck would you lie?”

Around him, his family was starting to panic; Mami had a cloud, which was already starting to drizzle; Papi was halfway up his chair; Dolores had her hand on his chair, clearly ready to comfort him if needed; Mirabel and Luisa were looking at him, wide-eyed; Antonio was quick to place one of his animals on his lap, for some reason; Mariano The Bobo was glancing around at the familia, confused; Bruno was cowering in his seat, looking incredibly nervous and as if he might bolt; Abuela had inched closer towards him; while the rest gave him looks of sympathy, with a hint of panic.

It was clear they were fearing that he would start crying again.

”Camilito,” Abuela said softly, now devoid of any sternness- he winced, as he had still not gotten used to it. ”I promise you that I did not lie. I got informed of this today as well, and was told to tell the rest of you. This is not my fault!”

Camilo knew that. Logically, he knew that, only he didn't care much at that moment; he had been specifically told that this would all be over in two weeks' time, and he was currently close to the end of the second week. It should be over Thursday, his last session- if he was cleared. Even if it wasn't Abuela's fault, it was someone's fault.

What was he even doing? Reacting like this? So that all his family members could fear that he was going to cry; he was the happy Madrigal, for Gods' sake! People feared Mirabel, or Mami, would start crying. Not him. He was even doing this in front of Mariano The Bobo, who didn't even know the story behind it all!

”Mamá!” Mami said, now standing up, and the next time she spoke it was to him, ”Camilo, it's just one more week,” this was said reassuringly, as if spoken to some sort of injured animal. Did she think him violent? ”You'll get through it, mi sol. Only one more week till you get cleared.”

She too- like Papi had done this morning- said it so confidently that Camilo could not help but wonder about her reaction if he wasn't. Sadness? Worry, like now? Anger? Dissapointment? Yes, surely. Or perhaps all of those, at once, mixed together as if in a stew that he would not like.

”I thought you were happy,” she would probably say, looking at him in such a way that he would not be able to decipher without looking at it for a long time. ”You told me you were happy,” too, even though he had said no such thing. Not outright, at least, though she would be right to assume. He would have wanted for her to assume.

He found that he was in no mood to be spoken to in that way, so he was quick to stand up and said; ”I'll leave. Eat this in the kitchen-” many were about to protest- ”No! Gracias for the food, tía,” she smiled at him, in a comforting way he liked much more, ”but I need some time to think. Alone.”

Just like that, he left, carrying his half-finished plate.

After dinner, while he was cleaning his plate, Isabela slipped him a note which read come to my room. When he had finished reading it, however, she was gone. Which was quite odd; Isabela didn't even say good morning to him most days, nonetheless give him permission to enter her room.

Camilo wasn't one to complain, though, so he was quick to finish cleaning the plate and left- giving tía a kiss on the cheek before he did. When he had entered, saying ”Soooo, what did you need from me, Isa?” before he really had a chance to look.

On her flowery bed was a sight even more odd than Isabela slipping him that note; Isabela herself, giving pitying looks to the one next her; Mirabel, who wasn't even glaring at Isabela; Luisa, who sat on the floor in front of the bed (presumably because of her size); and Dolores, who was wrapped in a blanket, frizzy hair let out and all over the place, and currently the victim to said looks the others kept giving her as she was distraught-looking.

”Hola, Cami,” Dolores said to him, and the nickname proved her state more than the tears did. She let out a choked sob, Isabela's hand tightening around hers. ”You know Carlos? He-” she paused, letting out yet another sob, ”I heard him talking to his friends, about how he's only with me because I'm a Madrigal.”

Camilo had never heard such hatred used when saying their last name, not by anyone. Sometimes he felt like they were all trying to keep it together, afraid to reveal any hostility they held towards the ir family. Other times, he felt like it was just him.

He knew what he had to do, though. (And if he failed- well, he was only a failure.)

He shifted into Carlos and said, in the boy's rough, consistently hoarse voice, ”Hello, I'm Carlos Mártinez. I am,” he paused for dramatic affect, gathering the others’ attention, ”an asshole,” Dolores let out a laugh, ”I despise the thought of being respectable, and I like tricking people. Did I mention I like to pick my nose?” Dolores broke into a fit of laughter, followed by the others- except Isabela, of course, who simply grinned up at him. ”I like the taste of snot, you see.”

There were no words for a while, as the others laughed and he barely had time to join them as Dolores stopped and gestured for him to come closer, ”Gracias,” she said and took his hand, ”He was a bit shifty, wasn't he?”

”A bit?” Isabela said, ”He was very shifty, Dolores. We all thought it!” and they nodded in agreement, which urged her on, ”Did you never hear him, Dolores? He was one of my admirers-” Mirabel rolled her eyes discreetly, which she always did when Isabela mentioned her many admirers, ”even while he was dating you, and he never seemed to be very fond of you either.”

”I've met the guy too,” he said, now sitting on the bed too, ”He was rude; disrupted my work and then proceeded to tell me I wasn't doing anything important anyway. While I was taking care of toddlers!” he took a pause to move closer to Dolores, ”We all thought he was an asshole, Lola, so it's no surprise that he is.”

Dolores sniffed in response to this and, after quite a long while of silence, said with a shaky sort of voice; ”I suppose I did notice he wasn't very into me, only I didn't want to believe it. When I first heard him say it, I thought- or hoped- that maybe my hearing was going loopy, that I was suddenly hearing things that had not been said. But the magic is precise, isn't it? It doesn't get 'loopy'. Which means Carlos just dated me in hope he would become a Madrigal one day, and get that power.”

She was right; having your last name be Madrigal came with a certain amount of power, one people could not get without being born, or marrying, a Madrigal. For instance, tío Agustín had been bullied and looked down upon at first for his clumsy habits, but when he started dating and eventually married tía? The respect came, not gradually but instantly. It wasn't natural, nor did it come from anything good. It was rooted in fear, he knew it.

Such fear was not pure and Camilo had always assumed that romance would be harder for them as Madrigals, since many would kill to take up their last name. Looking for something true in the midst of so much fake would be difficult, and he had accepted it. While Dolores had always been much more gullible, and romantic; she had dreamt of finding ’The One’ and he had prepared himself for her finding something fake instead. He had prepared himself for learning that she had been fooled.

Camilo only hoped Dolores was not fooled like this again.

After a long shift at the yarn shop- which, to nobody's surprise, mostly consisted of him sitting at the counter and thinking about the recent... development regarding the therapy debacle- Camilo walked home as he munched on some chocolate.

Señorita Carmen had given him part of her pay- 8 pesos, specifically- and with this new dinero, he had bought a large chocolate fudge wrapped in napkins as a pick-me-up. Because chocolate cheered him up, of course. Also, since he would not be shifting for the rest of the day, perhaps this would have time to go to his weight.

”Gracias,” Señorita Carmen said as she dug around in her pockets, the sounds of coins clinking against each other, ”Just let me... 8 pesos? I checked, that's what you deserve... How was the shift, by the way? Did you help anybody?”

By the end, when Señora Lozano had arrived, he had gathered his near non-existing courage and suggested she start sewing lessons. To which she had glared at him and said hotly ”I'll think about it,” before sending him away.

Camilo was prepared to hear her shop had failed. It had been a risk to suggest it to her, as she was as stubborn as you could expect from somebody her age. Of course, she would take it as an insult, simply referencing her failing shop.

If I were you, I wouldn't trust my own ability to run a shop, he thought bitterly, since your shop hasn't even had any golden years, only ’good weeks’ and ’okay months’.

Really, this chocolate had quite a lot of bad mood in him to fix; everything with Señora Lozano being a bitch bit haughty; the fact that he had seen Rodríguez; and the fact that he had not yet seen Cristal.

He wanted to speak to the girl; apologize and tell her about how he felt about the therapy, perhaps- even though he shouldn't. Only he hadn't gotten a chance and, when he had stopped by Cristal's after the shift, she had not been there. Which was odd, at best, though he supposed she had other friends to spend time with. She wasn't him.

”WELL, YOU'RE A BAD SON, AREN'T YOU?” as the words landed, it grew silent and Cristal backed off, hands on her mouth- as if hoping to keep the words that had already left at bay- and she was about to apologize before the bell ringed and in stepped a man which caused Cristal to say; ”Hello! Just a second! Camilo, wait-”

He hoped she would feel no need to apologize for that, since it had been momentarily true. Camilo had been a bad son; getting all angry because Papi had been worried- even though he knew the man loved him, only not as much as Dolores and Antonio- and refusing to look him in the eyes, even.

It had been out-of-character for him and a mistake, reminding his familia that he was capable of emotions other than happiness, which they weren't supposed to be aware of. That ruined his facade.

Before he had registered it- too stuck in his head and thoughts about apologizing to Cristal- he was near the edge of the town. Nearer Casita, in other words.

At the edge of town, before the trees and path leading up, were the medics house- where the annoying Señor Gomez and generally alright Señora Gomez resided- and an alleyway opposite it. This is where he was currently standing, as he had stopped in his tracks; close enough to see the beginning of the alleyway and, he realized with a jolt, to hear those weird noises.

Oh fuck no, he thought panickedly, is a couple making out in there?! It sure sounded like it, what with those smooching noises which he recognized far too well from being around his padres. Of course, he knew it was a common make-out place, even if he had never been in there for that reason- his only kiss had been with Rodríguez, after all- but he had never had the misfortune of walking past while such a thing was occuring in there either. Kill me now.

What should he do? Lay down and die, never having to walk past and seeing such a scene? Worst case scenario; that awful couple comes out eventually, see his dead body, and live in horrible guilt for the rest of their lives for being the reason. Not too bad. Or walk past quickly, trying his very best nothing to glance at it...

Should he shift? If the couple realized that he had seen it, their reactions would surely be worse; a Madrigal and, on top of that, a teenager. He would hate that as well. But if he were just a regular adult? Would they all be able to laugh it off, without much mortification or embarrassment on both sides? Senorita Carmen, perhaps? Or the lady working at the sweets shop who's name he struggled to remember? Anybody better than him right now...

Having made a quickly thought-out decision, he shifted into Señorita Luciana- and he hoped, to the very bottom of his heart, that it wasn't Señorita Luciana and Alexandro Alvarez who were currently making out in there- and stepped forwards, in line for the mysterious people to catch sight of him.

The word he heard a few seconds later was something not even Shakespeare, with all his creativity, could come up with; a strangled, somewhat mortified ”Hermana?!”

He turned so quickly that his neck would have snapped had he been any older and was met with the sight of Señorita Mariana- Luciana's total opposite sister, who was instead fierce and somewhat of a boy-hater, like Cristal was- who was currently looking at him, eyes wide and panicked.

Who she was with, however, shocked him even more. Because it wasn't a boy, like one would expect. Instead it was a girl; with long, currently messy hair, as Señorita Mariana had her hands in it; large hands, currently wrapped around Mariana's neck. It was Cristal.

There they were; standing in the alleyway, hands wrapped around each other in a way no two girls should hold each other, and looking at him. The realization that came- oh shit, the kissing noises were from them- didn't help at all. In fact, it worsened it.

Cristal was- what was the word again?- queer. And Mariana must be too, somehow, but that didn't matter very much to him. No, what mattered much more to him at this moment is that Cristal was. His ex-girlfriend, the one townsgirl whose company he actually enjoyed and, the title that stuck out most, his best friend.

How could he have accidentally befriended a queer?!

As happened often when he was experiencing a shock- and boy was this a proper one- Camilo shifted back, now much shorter and his hair in his face, hopefully blocking his expression. However, it could not block Cristal's expression worsening or stop him from hearing her ”Camilo, wait!” as he ran away, though she continued to call after him, her voice echoing in his ears despite the distance, ”Please!”

He ran for a while, shifting into a little boy as he did- so nobody would think oddly of it, and so he could run quicker- but eventually, Cristal caught up to him and grabbed hold of him, to which he yelled out ”Let me go!” in response.

She did not.

”I can explain, Camilo, I promise,” she said, desperately, and as he glanced back at her, he could see the same in her expression, ”If you'll just listen, please. Por favor.”

”What, you'll deny it?” he spat out, trying to sound me much angrier than he was- but anger just wasn't his prime emotion at the moment. ”You'll deny that you're-” it felt like he might vomit if he said the word, ”that you're queer?”

She was silent, and it looked like she wouldn't deny it. ”I would, but I can't,” she said, looking down and finally she let go of him, yet he didn't run, ”I'm queer, alright? I am. I don't know how, or why, but that's why I didn't like you like that. That's why I was just making out with Mariana, and-” she paused, as if wondering if she should say her next sentence, ”and I know you are, too.”

Horror struck him; not the need to laugh from the absurdity; not anger at assuming such a horrible thing about him. But instead immediate, pure horror. He was scared, he realized faintly, for the fact that her words didn't sound... No, no, Camilo told himself sternly, trying to force himself to believe it, she's just projecting to make herself feel better about her fault.

”What?” he hissed out, but it didn't sound as angry as he had wanted it to- instead, it sounded like a question. Like a what, I am? which would only manage to convince her. ”No- no, I'm not! Just because you are, doesn't mean I have to be! You're being... ridiculous!”

She was, she was. She had to be. Camilo couldn't be queer; that was something that only came to the least important, and odd, people. If he was queer, surely Mami and Papi would have noticed when he was a baby and kicked him out to the streets? They would never let a queer baby stay in their house. That's why he couldn't be, not possibly!

”No, Camilo, it's- it's okay!” she said, in a somewhat reassuring voice. She's insane, he forced himself to think, gone mad. ”I've had feelings for Mariana for a while now and when we kissed yesterday-”

”Yesterday?” he choked out, in surprise.

Cristal continued; ”I know how it sounds, alright? It sounds like a sin but it's not. It can't be, not possibly. Why would God make me like it so much, if it was a sin? Sins don't feel good, Camilo. I-”

”That's just because you're SICK!” he yelled at her, trying to urge his voice not to sound as shaky as he felt it did, ”You're sick, mad! I-” he choked up, like, like- no. ”I would never enjoy kissing a guy!” and at that, he promptly ignored the nasty voice in his head reminding him of Rodríguez. ”Tú eres... enferma, en la cabeza. Don't talk to me!”

Camilo was about to leave, but Cristal gripped onto his ruana and pulled him back violently, ”Lo siento, pero...” she said, tears gathering in her eyes, ”When it happened, I observed you. To see if it was just me- because you didn't seem to be very into girls either,” he wanted to deny it, but his brain could not find the words, as if they were hiding from him, ”and when we had that talk about not liking girls and boys respectively and I had the thought, what if you're into boys like I'm clearly into girls? Just think about it-”

It didn't make sense. It didn't. She's just gone mad, he told himself.

”What I'm thinking about is that you're obviously sick,” he said, wishing he sounded more hostile than he actually did. Why didn't he? The fondness that he still held for her, somehow? She had been his best friend, after all. ”You are, seeing these stuff from nowhere and... and kissing girls!”

Surely, what she had done was different from what he had done? Of course, he had kissed Rodríguez but he hadn't made out with him. It had been one, short kiss while Cristal and Mariana had made out, hands in each other's hair and... it was different, it just had to be.

Cristal hadn't kissed Mariana like he had kissed Rodríguez. Because his kissing Rodríguez had been an accident, he assured himself, a mistake.

”No, actually think about it!” she yelled back, sniffling and wiping the tears from her dark eyes, ”You asked me out to keep up appearances, well, were those ’appearances’ to seem normal? To look like you liked girls?” he sucked in a breath, which only seemed to spur her on, ”Did you have a crush on Diego Rodríguez? Is that the reason you stopped being friends; him finding out you like guys?!”

Camilo had not asked her out to seem normal. He hadn't. No, no, no. It was only to make sure nobody found out about his mistake- kissing Rodríguez, you mean, and the fact that you liked it, the stupidly nasty voice said- and no, it had not been to seem ’normal’. Or not queer. Because kissing Rodriguez couldn't possibly make him queer. Right?

”Do you even hear yourself?!” he forced himself to say- don't let her find out she got to you, don't let her find out she got to you, he ordered himself. ”You're so queer, so sick, that you want everybody else to be, too! Crush on Rodríguez, really?!” he hadn't. He hadn't. ”So vulgar! You're disgusting!”

He supposed his feelings for Rodríguez hadn't been that odd. Surely, the only reason it had seemed like such was because Rodríguez was his first, and only at the time, friend? No, it would've have felt much more disgusting, he attempted to reassure himself.

Camilo just simply couldn't be queer, he decided, because he had never felt particularly disgusted with himself. Wouldn't he have felt that way, probably feeling attraction to his papi? Or tío, even? Wouldn't he have enjoyed it when Suarez had his hand on his hip, telling him he was the prettiest Madrigal?

He hadn't, though; instead he had felt disgust hearing such words come out of Suarez' mouth and feeling a large hand on his hip? He had felt awful, hadn't he? He had hated it, even puking to it later because he had just felt so disgusted. There was no way he was queer, then. Right?

”Milo, please,” she choked out. The nickname only made it worse. ”I-”

”No!”

But she continued, still keeping that tight grip on his ruana, ”I know it sounds a bit insane? I thought I was sick at first, too- part of me still does- but,” she paused, letting go off him now, ”but I've made sense of it, and you should too. We're queer, Camilo-”

Without really thinking- everything was too fuzzy, his brain repeating the word queer, queer over and over again- his palm connected with her cheek. Although that was only in simple words; really he had just slapped her, ”I am not like you! You're- you're some freak!” his volume grew with the next words, ”DON'T TALK TO ME!”

And he left.

Back in Casita- the house somehow sensing his burning anger, and leaving him alone- he laid under his bed, blankets tucked tightly, and tried to calm his breathing. Camilo was angry, that much he could tell.

Who wouldn't be, after being accused of being queer by your best friend? Who you had just seen kiss a girl? It was shameful of her, to do such a thing, and then try to extend that shame to him! As if he were like her in any way...

He couldn't be queer, that was the thing. Perhaps it was different for Cristal somehow- being a townsperson few cared about- but him being a Madrigal... Well, he didn't have such privilege, did he? To be some common sort of queer.

He wasn't anyway, he reasoned, because how could he be? Cristal had made out with Mariana, and enjoyed it. That was the line one didn't cross- and she had crossed it, without a doubt. While he had done nothing of the sort, really. Yes, he kissed Rodriguez but...

You kissed Rodriguez and liked it, that stupid voice reminded him, echoed as if it was in a cave, That is the line somebody does not cross. Remember that? he shook, even though the voice was only in his head. There was no threat, not really. Do you remember that?

”I'm not queer,” he whispered to nobody but himself- not even Dolores was an exception. ”I am not... some queer,” he choked on his own voice, the tears now falling freely, ”I am not,” a sob escaped him, and he was really so lucky that it was for no ears but his, as it didn't even feel good when only he was hearing it and his volume rose now, ”I'm not queer!”

But, despite his previous words, he couldn't be sure.

Chapter Text

When Camilo woke up, he didn't remember yesterday's events at first.

Of course, he felt oddly miserable but that wasn't really a first for him so he hadn't wondered why. Until it hit him, like he might be hit by a bully; his fight with Cristal- the second one, he reminded himself, because this wasn't their first fight- about how she's... she's...

queer.

It was still hard to think about, still hard to really accept. He had to accept it, though, didn't he? Cristal was queer; such it was when she crossed the line of kissing a girl, and enjoying it. There wasn't much he could do about that, was there? She had already done it, and he couldn't control her actions, no matter how badly he wished to.

Officially, he was friendless- isn't that a contradiction to that personality he holds up? because he couldn't be friends with Cristal anymore. He was a Madrigal, who had to hold up to standards even if he hated it. First Rodríguez, now Cris- Cortez.

Cortez, Cortez, he corrected himself, forcibly, call her Cortez. First names are for friends, and you can never be her friend. Not again.

He had always known that it was often the good things that lasted the shortest; his close bond with Mirabel falling apart had been all the proof needed for that - because that was just how the world worked, and there wasn't anything to be done about it. But he had never thought, it had never hit him, that the same could happen to Cris- Cortez. Like... like he had never believed the same could happen with Rodríguez...

At least this time, it wasn't his fault. If she decided to kiss a girl - and be that - then that couldn't be blamed on him. You couldn't have known, he tried to assure himself, there was no way you could have known.

Isn't it somewhat ironic that he always lost his closest friends to kissing, of all things, as if he was a normal teenager with stupid romance drama as his biggest concern? Who could have thought; Camilo Madrigal, probably the most abnormal teenage boy in the Encanto, losing his friends the way normal teenagers might? He would have laughed, had he not been so upset at the moment.

He wouldn't call himself weird - the way Cortez was, and always had been - but he certainly wasn't normal. People who had been in his head, seen past that facade he put up, wouldn't call him normal. He was okay with that, somewhat; because who cared if he wasn't, when he had his last name to hold over them? Nobody could do anything to him like they could to others.

People already thought the Madrigals weren't like the rest, didn't they? That they were special, gifted from God, so who would look deep enough to find it wasn't only his gift that made him different from others? But that there was something else, something that made him different from even his family?

In a way, Camilo was lucky to be a Madrigal. Because nobody cared about anything that wasn't his last name, and his gift.

”You are feeling upset,” the mirror-version of him said, now sitting criss-cross on the bottom of the mirror as they looked at him, ”but you're also in denial about being queer.”

”I'm not queer!” he yelled back in response, because he wasn't. He wasn't.

Mirror-him acted as if he had not spoken and instead said, in a calm tone of voice, ”You're also angry now, too. There's also a bit of fear that has been pushed up. Although, the other emotions still linger-”

”Gah, shut up!” he said, because it was always a mistake to adress the mirror; it did shit like this, constantly pestering him about how he was feeling, never shutting up. ”Stop! Stop!”

Quickly, he started dressing - a way to distract him, perhaps, because mirror-him had not yet shut up - and it went ordinarily, as stuff like that always should, until he reached to grab his ruana and a tiny piece of paper fell out-

He let out a gasp, because he knew what it was, even before he had picked it up. It wasn't often, that he remembered its existence - except sometimes, when his brain reminded him of shit just because, and that was one of the worst just because's - but it was still hard, when he did. Perhaps it always would be, and he would be in his thirties and still breathing heavily at the reminder.

After a while, Camilo picked up the piece of paper. It looked just like ever; a picture of him, although much younger than he was at the moment, and hugging the grinning Rodríguez. He still remembered the details, like how it had felt hugging the boy, and Señora Rodríguez taking the picture, even.

It was too vivid- the event still not yet too long ago - and he didn't know what to do. Multiple times had one of the mirrors suggesting throwing it away, or even burning it, yet he had done nothing of the sort and instead just leaving it be till the next reminder came like some sort of awful circle. This was not the first right now. It was not the first time he had held that picture and just wondered.

Why does this picture seemingly matter so much that I can not throw it away?

Logically, he understood that deep inside he didn't want to throw away the picture, not really - he wasn't stupid. But that didn't mean he understood why that was, or liked it. Because he certainly didn't do any of those things. The thing was that, despite the memory it reminded him of every time that he would rather forget, he held the picture to high regard.

Camilo didn't know why- perhaps it was the fact that Diego was the only that called him 'Milo' these days, or that Diego was acknowledging the struggles of being a Madrigal, or perhaps it was so many things all at once that he could not possibly narrow it down- but at that moment, he stood up on his tippy toes and kissed Diego right on the lips.

It is only because he was a friend, he told himself. Convinced himself, not because of anything else. I didn't have a crush on him.

However, he didn't need that nasty voice in his head reminding himself to know. Know that it isn't friendlike to kiss your friend. Even though he had no friends before Rodríguez, he knew this; what they had done that today had crossed a line, had been disgusting.

Camilo was aware of that, really; that only queers did stuff like that. After all, isn't it similar to what Cris- Cortez, he scolded himself- had done, just a few hours before? Didn't that create a similarity between them, no matter how hard he would like to deny it?

”Camilo!” said the voice of Mirabel outside his door - probably for breakfast, he reminded himself, although he felt his brain was far too occupied to eat right now. ”What are you doing in there? Masturbando?” he could hear her chuckling at her own joke, ”Come on! Desayuno is ready, vamos!”

No, no, remember, he thought in his attempt to comfort himself- bad idea to be negative, wasn't it, if he would likely stay in such a mood all day. Cortez kissed a girl, and liked it! Probably even kissed that girl more than once! You kissed Rodríguez once, and who said you liked it?!

The contradicting memory hit him before he could stop himself-

It was quite nice, actually, kissing Diego; he tasted oddly like coffee and sugar and Camilo liked even more that he knew why. Diego tasted like the freedom that could have been his life, had he not been born as Camilo Madrigal, and smelled like the coffee beans but then everything else, too. Diego both tasted and smelled great, actually.

You going to deny that you enjoyed it? that stupidly nasty voice sneered in his head, sounding like his own personal bully that he got to carry around in his head for all eternity, When the past itself contradicts it?

He knew there wasn't much the other part of him - that part that liked to be positive and keep him in a good mood - could say about that. He had enjoyed it in a way, hadn't he? Camilo knew that it had been nice, that it hadn't felt disgusting in the moment. No, in that moment, he had only felt bliss, no matter how much he wished it wasn't true.

Maybe we're just a kissing person, who's to say? the positive part of him still tried, and he let the thought continue - anything he had to deny defend it with, he would take. Maybe we just like all kissing. We can't know that. We haven't kissed a girl yet.

That was something he liked to not think about; the thought of kissing girls. It had never been something he hadn't wanted to do, necessarily, but he also had never let a girl kiss him. Multiple times had girls - after confessing to him and misunderstanding the silence on his part - attempted to kiss him, and he had always pushed them away. Not out of nerves, not really, but from that tense feeling he disliked, which always came with it.

Surely not yet having kissed a girl could prove any potential queerness? There were probably other guys in this town that hasn't kissed a girl yet, and they weren't queer for that. People didn't think they were queer for that. So why should it mean anything when it was him?

Ahhh, but it's different with you, the nasty voice made a comeback, much to his immediate displeasure, because they're not desired like you. They're not attractive like you. Girls ask you out, remember? Every single week, and he could not deny it. Because it was true, and you reject them all. You've had your chances, and you flee from them. All the time.

It was true, of course. Was there any reason denying it, even? Because he had, multiple times; a girl would lean in and he would push them away, often physically, and try to politely reject them - even being sure to mask that grimace he probably had every time. So yeah, he did push them away. He pushed girls away from kisses because he didn't want any.

Camilo still remembered the fiasco that had been the latest rejection he had to give; the one the day of the therapy announcement, in other words:

Señorita Elena leaned in, her lips puckered up, and he immediately pushed her away, ”Uh, sorry,” he tried to mask his for-sure grimace as he said this, ”but I don't like you like that. You're cool, you know? But, well,” he paused awkwardly as he saw the crestfallen look on her face, ”you're just not my type. Tú es hermosa pero... that's it. Really, I am sorry.”

Camilo was - if it was even possible to be so - an expert on rejecting people, if he said so himself. He was aware of what you should say, and how you should look, as he had repeated it far too many times to count. There was, however, always one similarity between these events; it was never a rejection because it had to be.

Every time he rejected a person, it was because he wanted to, because he truly did not like them in the way they wanted. Never because he had to, for the sake of his last name - the family would be supporting of any girlfriend he got anyway - and he knew this. Ever since just recently, actually, he had never been ashamed of this.

Because he had never been accused of being queer, he supposed; now he felt the need to defend himself - explain his actions even just to himself, as if he had been put on trial by his own brain. Not because he was, necessarily, but because being queer was such an awful thing, wasn't it? That he felt like he had to give reasons why he couldn't be.

That's it. That's it, he told himself.

”Camilo?” said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Isabela for some reason and suddenly, once he had blinked back to reality, he was sitting at the breakfast table with a plate barely filled in front of him - gah, he had done this all unconsciously, hadn't he? ”You good, primo?”

He jumped up and - after shifting into the carbon copy of the one next to him - turned to her, ”Hah, yeah, sorry,” he said, in a hopefully easygoing sort of voice, ”My brain took a while to flick on. Such it is like when you are stupid, I suppose,” to which she snorted. Mission accomplished. ”Anyways, what's the conversation I missed out on about?”

”We were talking about what we were going to do today,” Mirabel replied from the seat opposite him, ”and I asked you but you ignored me even after I continued to ask - you just sat there playing with your food. You really looked out of it. A bit conflicted-looking too-” she cut herself off from the quickly-spoken ramble, ”and then Isabela snapped you out of it. What were you even thinking about, Cam’?”

About how I'm not queer, was the honest answer, which he could not say so instead he said, in the same easy-going tone, ”Absolutely nothing,” which earned chortles, ”Anyways, can I get more food? Turns out my subconscious isn't much of a food-fan.”

He stood up, under the pretense of taking more food, so they could not see his frown fall. Because he knew his familia; they would question it, ask why he looked so sad - and he preferred the word upset, thank you very much - and he could not have that. Too much trouble for the town's comic relief.

When he came back, however, he had on his usual grin - and his regular amount of food on the plate. ”So, to answer the previous question,” he said upon sitting down and he garnered the familia's attention rather quickly, ”I have some babysitting gig at the medics house, then a show for the niños, and then I don't have anything planned after that.”

”Same here!” Mirabel spoke up, halfway through chugging on an arepa - which she of course finished before she continued. ”There's nothing in my schedule so all I can do is walk around, I suppose,” she sighed exasperatedly, ”If only las chicas weren't at school, otherwise I'd hang out with them.”

After the fall of Casita, Mirabel had - in lack of better words; he didn't really understand the whole process, if he was honest - realized she needed to put herself out there and be more than her last name or some bullshit like that and had therefore started hanging out with some girls in town. Camilo did not know which, but he hoped it wasn't any girls that he had rejected. (Although, knowing his luck, it probably was.)

”That school sucks,” he groaned out in a comedic tone and promptly ignored the sharp Camilo that came, ”I've heard sh- stuff about it from, like, the townsboys and I'm so glad I don't go there. There seems to be homework every day, according to them,” and he went back to dinner, not bothering to continue his sort-of rant (as it had only been for show) until he looked up to find Dolores staring at him, that was, ”What? Why are you staring at me, Lola?”

”You just seem normal today,” she said in a tone, likely before she could fully comprehend her words as she quickly added, ”considering yesterday! And the,” she hesitated, but Camilo suddenly felt no words were needed. Oh fuck, he thought instead, now full-on panicking, oh fuck- ”the alleyway. That couple, you know.”

Camilo was having trouble registering the next words, however, because Dolores knew. She knew everything; that Cristal had kissed Señorita Mariana and that she had even accused him of being queer. She also knew about his initial reaction, how he had been too slow to jump to anger. Knew his reluctance.

What if she feared he was queer now? She was certainly the type to listen to his body language more than his words, only this time it was an actual problem. This time it would cause problems; serious, long-lasting problems that he couldn't just solve. Because Dolores was far too stubborn for a ”I'm not queer” to do anything other than lead her on.

Mami winced, ”Oh, don't tell me,” that my friend accused me of being queer? Don't worry I won't. ”that there was a couple making out...” he nodded quickly, trying to force embarrassment onto his face- because he wanted to say that's not even the worst of it. ”That's too bad, mijo.”

”It's happened to at least all of us, I'm sure,” Papi continued for her, because they did shit like that often. ”When I was your age, that was my worst fear- well, that and spiders.”

”It happened to me once, too,” said Isabela, startling him slightly, ”It was the farmer's son, I think, and they were with some chica. When I walked past them, they apologized,” he wasn't surprised to hear it, as the town had always liked Isabela very much, ”and that was the end of it, although it still felt uncomfortable. Is that why you've been quiet, primo?”

Realizing it would be much easier to just lie, he nodded and sighed exasperatedly - it still had to be a bit comedic, after all. ”Yeah,” he said, ”I bet you didn't shift into one of them, though...” the familia winced, some muttering you didn't in horror, ”I did! And the one they were with was like ’Camilo?’ to them and I was like ’no I'm Camilo...’ Worst experience of my life!”

Camilo had always been an excellent liar.

”I admit,” Isabela said after a moment of silence - the familia had to take a while to process his lie. ”that was nothing like my experience. Shit, Camilo.”

Mami, face stuck in that oof expression of hers, said in an attempted kind tone, ”I know this isn't helping, but mine wasn't like that at all,” he sunk down in his seat with a groan, which got her sitting up straighter, ”Perdon, mijito! It's a difficult experience for the rest of us, too - say, Bruno, didn't you have one a bit like that?”

”Yes!” tío Bruno said quickly, after Mami had glared him into submission, ”It was, uh, in the time I... wasn't very appreciated, in town,” there was a pause; all of them knew which time he was talking about. ”And this couple... Well, both were a-already in a r-relationship,” the man looked around quickly, as if expecting somebody to yell at him, ”so when they saw me, they, uh... got very mad...”

Tía Julieta leaned forwards to take his hand, ”Hermanito, none of us will get mad, alright? It wasn't your fault.”

”They got very mad,” Bruno continued after a while, clutching tía's hand as he did, ”and, as you can g-guess, their yelling was loud - well, of course it was -” he interrupted himself, ”and some people came out of their shops...”

After this sentence, the man stopped talking completely - as he often did, the nerves had been far too much. This was why they had opted to always give him space to speak himself, although occasionally people like Mami would try to include him in a conversation.

Camilo supposed living in the walls for 10 years does that to a person - but he certainly wasn't speaking from experience - as the man had become very socially inept, sort of how Antonio was, and always seemed afraid somebody would start yelling at him.

Suddenly, in that moment, he understood why tío Bruno had fled when he started yelling...

”Let me guess,” he said in a tone usually reserved for Antonio when the boy was panicking over the thought of talking to a townsperson, ”two of these people were the ones that they were actually in a relationship with?” tío Bruno nodded quickly, resolutely looking down at his hands, ”Well, I agree, that's not your fault. They were the ones cheating, and yelling, weren't they?” tío nodded again, now slightly looking up, ”Thanks for the story, tío, it helped.”

He grinned at the man - which, to everybody's astonishment, was returned - and, afterwards, they fell into a comfortable silence which gave him plenty of enough time to panic.

Shit okay, he thought, Dolores knows - that's undeniable - but when she speaks to me, I'll try to assure her that I'm not. Explain it in more depth. This won't ruin my reputation; Dolores is capable of keeping secrets, too, as long as it's serious enough.

Flashbacks to when Casita was falling - Dolores blurting out about Bruno's vision and ’how they were all doomed’ - hit him and, yeah, they did not paint her in a good light; it made it seem like she truly was not capable of secrets, even though he was certain this was only because she had been in shock. She struggled keeping secrets that had shocked her.

Had the... accusation shocked her? Camilo didn't know but, judging by the fact she usually told people what she heard nowadays - Abuela had ordered it after the fall of Casita, after all, that Dolores ought not to keep everything she hears to herself - he should probably wait till he had seen Mariano The Bobo to be sure.

One thing he did not know, however, was if the bobo could keep secrets? For his own sake, Camilo wished that he was but, considering this man was quite an idiot, it was unlikely. Oh fuck. What if the news were already spreading right this second? When he was in town, would the townspeople know in the way they looked at him? Asked him questions, even?

When he could sneak a subtle glance at her, it was to see she, too, was glancing at him - only her face was tightened in the way he recognized from Mami, which told him something along the lines of You're lying and we'll be talking about it.

Obviously, he hadn't expected her to believe his lie, since she already knew what had actually happened and he knew this, but he had hoped it would be something held over them a bit longer so he could figure out what to say.

Now that he had seen that look in her eyes, however, he knew he wouldn't be coming out of it; if Dolores got her way, this conversation would take place after breakfast - if he was unlucky, that is, which he often was - and the convincing would be improvisation, made up at the spot. Shit. 

Don't worry, that'll only make it worse, he tried to reassure himself, just focus on keeping it private; if nobody else ends up knowing, we have more time to convince Dolores. And ultimately, that's what's important.

Fortunately, Dolores was the calm type - or, more accurately; she had become the calm type after getting her gift - which would make it easier to keep the whole conversation, and yesterday by extent, secret. Because the whole ordeal must stay private; it would ruin the whole familia's reputation, if it came out that one of them had even been accused of being queer.

Such a thing was something people expected from the lowest of the low families, like the Velasquez with their alcoholic patriarch - and, as he remembered a second later, they had, with Señorita Mariana - or the Perez with their different views and lifestyle.

Not the Madrigals. Never the Madrigals - surely, it was impossible? Surely his last name had far too much meaning that it was psychologically impossible for him to have such a disease? Right? Camilo was a Madrigal; he had a gift, helped around the town, and when he grew older he would have a wife and children with gifts of their own... Such was the life expected of him since he was born...

Being... queer would ruin all of that; it would mean he could never be happy with a woman, no matter how badly he wanted to, because a disgusting part of him would always want to kiss boys. That behavior was shameful, to go against your family name in that way, and Camilo could only imagine the reactions if he did that.

Dissapointment, definitely, anger... A hard spanking, if he was lucky. Getting disowned, if he wasn't - which was coincidentally also the most likely option. That is what he would have to lose, if he really was queer... Cortez could never really understand that, could she? Her parents owned a fucking shoe shop, for God's sake, while his were highly viewed members of the community! It was different, undeniably so!

That is also why he could not possibly be queer, if he had so much to lose. Surely, the world was not so cruel as to give him the illness that would ruin him? That could ruin him more than a knife, or any weapon, ever could? Because it would go against his worst weakness; his reputation?

Camilo considered, in that moment, why the most highly-viewed ones were also the most vulnerable, too.

Camilo had no time to escape Casita before he heard her; ”Camilo!” she called out, fortunately quiet enough to not catch the familia's attention - he wouldn't want them to suspect anything, of course. ”I need to speak with you.”

It wasn't a could I speak with you? No, it was a I need to speak with you, as if it wasn't a question, nor a suggestion, but an order; she wanted to speak with him and Camilo was in no position to say no - suddenly, he was reminded of Mami. She did stuff like that, too.

”Sure,” he replied, as if he had misunderstood her words, and grinned, ”I suppose this is about,” he paused suddenly as Abuela passed them and they nodded to her in greeting, and when she was hearing distance away, he lowered his voice to a whisper, ”yesterday?”

”Yes,” she whispered back and pulled him to the side, into the hallway. And there they stood, in awkward silence, until she continued - in her normal volume. ”Camilo, I don't really know how to say this but I suppose, that if,” he dreaded what she had to say next and clearly, judging by the look in her eyes, did she, ”that if you were... well... queer-”

Camilo interrupted her, feeling as if he had to make this known before she continued, ”I'm not!” and she winced, ”You don't have to worry, Dolores, I'm not, alright? Cortez is just a bit mad, and I suppose she thought that made sense. I promise.”

”Yes, of course, but-” it seemed, for a second, as if she did not know whether she should say this, ”if you were queer,” she took a deep breath and resolutely kept her eyes closed, ”if,” after a moment, she opened her eyes again, ”I feel like it wouldn't matter to me. To me, I would love you nonetheless. That is what I wanted you to know.”

Camilo could not reply, even though he knew that he should.

”Okay,” he managed to say after a while of very awkward silence, ”Okay, uh, I don't know what to say to that,” except things he shouldn't, ”but... Well, it's probably impossible for us, you know? To be queer, since we're Madrigals.”

Dolores nodded quickly, ”I know,” she assured him, ”It's weird, I know that too, but that's just what I think. If you were queer,” he tried to stop a wince, ”I would still love you, even if I certainly wouldn't have understood it! I,” she sighed exasperatedly- but it wasn't the way he did; it wasn't comedic. ”It's weird, it's so weird, but...”

”Lola, chill,” Camilo said and stepped forward, placing his hands on her shoulders, ”I'm not... queer,” it's not a lie, it's not a lie, he tried to convince himself, ”alright? You don't have to worry about that, I promise. Because I'm not,” there was silence between them - awkward, crippling - during which he took his hands off her, ”I need to go now,” she was about to protest - ”I actually do! Need to help out at the medics house, remember? It's fine, Lola!”

Technically it wasn't a lie; he did need to go help at the medics house, as he had told the familia earlier, only it was in half an hour... Camilo, however, felt as if he might fall if anybody as well as shoved him right now, and then stay there.

If anything did happen Camilo did not want Dolores to witness it - even if it was just her noticing his incredibly shaky hands. It was too risky, wasn't it? It made him seem too human, too much of a reminder that he has feelings other than happiness. She could not know.

It also made it more likely that he was lying, in her eyes, because why was he nervous?

Come to think of it; why was he so nervous? Surely, if it wasn't a lie - and it wasn't, it wasn't - then why was he nervous, why were his hands shaking like that, why was his breath quickening in pace? Why, if he had no reason to be nervous, was he? It just didn't make sense.

”Alright,” Dolores said in a tone of resignation - which made it all the more clear that she did not want him to leave. Fortunately, he had a reason she couldn't argue with! ”Bye, Camilo... Just,” in one movement, suddenly she had pulled him towards her, arms wrapping around, ”te quiero, Camilo. Always.”

Allowing himself a genuine smile against her shoulder - which she could potentially feel - he said, in a low voice that only she could hear, even with her super hearing, ”Yo también te quiero siempre.”

In the end, Camilo had not even lasted five steps away from Casita.

In fact, he had only just managed to step out of its boundaries until he felt that his knees might buckle from underneath him and leave him there on the ground and - knowing neither he or the familia could afford anyone seeing that - he had swiftly walked to the edge of the house.

So there he was, leaning against its walls heavily - ignoring the bricks sticking out in an attempt to communicate with him - and breathing far too quickly for it to be normal. She can't know, she can't know, his thoughts were racing, leaving him to only picking up a few select words, gah, you've failed. Failure. Failure. Failure.

The blood- blood? Had he overused his gift again? - was all over him, weighing him down, and he was occupied with the smell of iron and the fact that it was dirty. Dirty, dirty blood, dirtying him down with his queerness.

How could he? How had he ever let the dirty blood coat him like this?- he felt glaringly hot, as if he had been left in a burning building- good, die. Kill yourself. She knows she knows she knows SHe knoWs sHE knoWS SHE KNOWS SHEKNO WS SHEKNOWS SHEKNOWSSHEKNOWSSHEKNOWSSHEKNOWS

She knows.

After his momentarily panic - and Camilo would call it nothing else, nor properly acknowledge it - he had made his way to the Medics House, as Dolores (because he found that any shape was better than his at the moment.)

”Ah, Dolores!” said Señor Gomez, grinning - who, of course, did not recognize him behind his mask of Dolores. ”So nice to see you! Did you need anything? Fortunately, I don't have an appointment coming up any time soon, so I'm free, for the most part; there is a sick niño here, as you might have heard, but your hermano's coming to take care of him.”

”Indeed,” he said and didn't give Señor Gomez any more time to speak as he shifted back, effectively rendering the man speechless, ”Conveniently, I am that hermano. Where's that niño, then?”

Even after a few seconds, Señor Gomez was still staring at him, with the same dumbfounded expression. Camilo understood; it was always hard for the people to realize that person they'd been speaking to hadn't really been that person the whole time, but rather Camilo. He recognized that dumbfounded expression from the multiple times he had seen it- on all kinds of people.

There was only one... (Camilo did not allow himself to even finish the thought.)

”Sorry!” the man said, upon realizing his staring was rather rude, ”I, uh, really thought you were Dolores, actually. I suppose you get that a lot?” he nodded and the man, after chuckling a bit, added, ”Well, anyway, the niño's right this way! With María, at the moment!”

There was no more speaking necessary as he followed the man through a long corridor - even a part he had never seen before - until they reached a room, in which Señora Gomez and that niño were residing.

It was, surprisingly, a child he had never babysitted before. Of course, this was quite rare since he was the town babysitter - a title he had officially held since the age of 8. Although he was aware that some padres preferred to take care of their own niños, it was still rare.

Like- dammit, Camilo, stop thinking about him.

”Ah, Camilo,” said Señora Gomez, ”Finally, you're here; Angelo - the niño - is due to wake up any minute soon, and he gets very fuzzy. He only calms down when his mamá holds him; Señorita Cabrera, that is.”

Camilo nodded and, within seconds, his form grew and his hair fell beneath his shoulders- he was currently Señorita Cabrera. ”Sí, Señora!” he said, still in his own voice, ”Is there anything else I should know?”

”Right!” she said, ”He has a bit of a head cold, and he's coughing a lot- patting his back seems to help. You should also be sure to not squeeze at all; tight grips increase his panting... But that should be all...”

Camilo was suddenly reminded of the time he had taken care of a sick Antonio - who had been nothing but a baby in bundles at the time. The bebé had cried continuously, he remembered, and had been very hot to the touch. Thus, Camilo had given him a bath (which ended with him more wet) even though Mami and Papi had insisted they do it instead.

If they ever asked why he had done that today, he would lie - as he did with many things they asked him - but really, if he was honest with himself, it had been because Abuela had asked him too; some couple had an upcoming wedding, and later a vacation, and had wanted the best weather possible.

Camilo had always listened to what Abuela ordered him to do, after all.

Before he had time to respond - which he felt like he probably should; make some stupid joke that only she would like - the niño had stirred awake and, given only a few minutes, the crying started. Suddenly they were in his supposed, expected, expertise.

”Ay, Angelito,” he said, now in the voice of Señorita Cabrera, and picked the niño up as he started cooing - because that was, as he had learned during his many years of practice, a good method with crying babies. And although it took a few minutes of cooing, the niño eventually stopped, which gave him time to ask; ”Sorry, I was going to ask, but how long ago were his basic needs fulfilled? Hunger, peeing, for instance...”

Señora Gomez thought for a while until she said; ”Well, he peed a while back - I changed his diaper. And of course he just slept but other than that? No, he hasn't eaten or drunk anything in a while...”

”Great!” he said, cheerfully, ”He shouldn't have to pee in a while, then, and we'll be able to tell when he's hungry or thirsty.”

There was a nod in response to this and for a while, there wasn't any conversation. Really, there wasn't any need to- also, Angelo took up their attention far too much with his occasional whining and crying. Until Senõra Gomez said, ”Angelo might have to stay here for a while, you know. The Cabreras are having issues.”

”Hm, what kind of issues?” he asked, in a disinterested tone; he was currently occupied with patting Angelo on the back, to help his coughing calm down - but considering his disinterested tone, fortunately, sounded nonchalant rather than disinterested, she probably couldn't tell.

”Well, I shouldn't say...” she said, which was actually code for I shouldn't but I will anyway, ”but their older son - Tomás - is, well, rumored to be...” she stepped closer and whispered, as if it were only for his ears, ”queer-”

Despite the fact that he wasn't the sick bebé, he choked on his own spit and coughed out, in a horrified sort of tone - which greatly matched how he felt - ”Sorry, did you say... queer?”

”Yes,” Senõra Gomez whispered again, clearly not having picked up on his tone, ”He's sensitive enough - which is always a bad trait for boys - but a few days ago, he also called one of the boys his age cute. Or, so they say, at least, but I have excellent sources...”

Camilo remembered when he was 6, still small and shaped like a branch width-wise, and had thought one of the townsboys were cute. But surely, he wondered, there's no connection? I didn't really think he was cute; I was just acknowledging his appearance...

”Woah, that's...”

Terrifying was his real answer, really - terrifying for the fact that it made his hopes even more implausible - but instead, Senõra Gomez said, ”Disgusting, yes, I agree. Imagine thinking somebody your own gender is cute,” I don't need to, he thought, ”Oh, I feel so bad for his padres, having a niño like that; so messed up in the head. Enfermo.”

”That's just because you're SICK!” he yelled at her, trying to urge his voice not to sound as shaky as he felt it did, ”You're sick, mad! I-” he choked up, like, like- no. ”I would never enjoy kissing a guy!” and at that, he promptly ignored the nasty voice in his head reminding him of Rodríguez. ”Tú eres... enferma, en la cabeza. Don't talk to me!”

Why did he feel like this? Attacked, as if her words were somehow about him? As if she were calling him out? She wasn't; no, she was talking about Tomás Cabrera being queer, not him being queer - and he wasn't, even! So why, despite all of that, did he still feel like she was? Why did he feel so personally attacked every time a person mentioned queerness?

Perhaps it was still a sore subject for him, what with Cortez... Since she had ended up being what she was - sick and twisted in the head, he reminded himself - and he hadn't noticed, no matter how much time he had spent with her. How many times had she referenced feeling no attraction to guys, he wondered? Perhaps too many times to count...

”Yes, it's awful,” he said, trying to keep back any other emotions from showing their ugly selves, ”I can't believe it... I've been around him before,” she was my best friend, even, ”and it's difficult to comprehend, being around a person like that and not even noticing - you'd think it'd be more obvious.”

Why hadn't Cortez's queerness been obvious to him? Why had he been around her so much, bonded with her so much, yet never noticed she was so enferma? It was scary, he told himself; how had he never noticed?

”I know, right? I've treated him before, for a nasty cold, and not once did I think there was something seriously wrong with that boy!” Señora Gomez said, fortunately not noticing how personally he was taking their current conversation, ”Sure, he's a bit sensitive, but your hermanito is too and in no way is he...”

Camilo understood, without her needing to say it, and he took it as assuring - which he shouldn't, but too late. Your brother isn't queer just because he's sensitive, she was really saying, in his head, so neither are you. Because queerness couldn't be possible for Madrigals, since they were the highest of the high, he told himself.

”Yeah,” he replied, sensing he needed to - seem normal, seem normal, he commanded. ”I suppose it's just for those low families, huh? The ones with the bad blood?” and she nodded, so he continued, ”The rest of us are safe, then. I don't think I could live with the shame, if,” I was queer, ”a future child of mine, for instance, was queer.”

Because that's what was expected of him, wasn't it? That he would one day grow up, let go of the childish antics they'd forced onto him in the first place, and find a nice lady who would carry children for him; it was his future, one he couldn't simply control, and it would happen because he had no choice. Such was the life of a Madrigal, and he would enjoy it.

Camilo knew that one day he would meet a girl - a girl he'd want to spend his life with and one his familia would love - and that they would soon have children together, who would get amazing gifts and one day have children of their own. Just like his predecessors.

”Well, of course,” Señora Gomez said, nodding along with her words, ”It's a real shame... Ay, I feel bad for that niño's padres...”

By now, Angelo's coughs had died down - replaced by panting - and he laid the bebé down in the crib again. ”Same here, it's awful, really. What will they do about it - are they sending off the niño?”

”Yes, I think so,” she informed him as she started sorting a vast amount of files, ”Señora Rodríguez told me that they're going to get tu Abuela's permission to send him away from the Encanto - we can't have him here - but I'm not sure,” fuck. ”Otherwise, they might send him to the therapists, see if they can fix him. Personally, I hope they send him away, so he doesn't contaminate everybody else.”

Why was he so scared? It wasn't like he could get sent off, since that was a thing they reserved for the worst; the queers, and perhaps the criminals too, if they had any that counted. He wasn't apart of the worst, he reassured himself. Madrigals couldn't be.

”Maybe they'll bring it up at dinner today, I could convince Abuela,” he said, hopefully - or; with a fake tone of hope, disguising that fear. ”It's best they send him off; we really can't risk he takes any of the other niños down with him...”

Would you want the same if it was Cristal? the nasty voice in him said, suddenly, or is it just because it's a niño you don't know? Would you want Cristal to be sent off, even if it risks everybody finding out about you-

No, he thought, stop being so ridiculous. You're not queer; thus, there's nothing to find out. NOTHING.

”Oh please do,” Senora Gomez replied, smiling at him - in that sweet, affectionate, sort of way that Camilo barely saw directed at him. ”That would be excellent, Camilo.”

”Of course,” he said, nodding along with his words, ”I don't want that niño here any more than you do, so I'd gladly help with getting rid of him,” but partly, he didn't mean it. Because a part of him felt like if Tomás was kicked out of the Encanto, it would mean he was officially queer and those similarities they shared... Gah, he didn't want to think about it. ”I mean, who wouldn't?”

Cristal, probably, he thought, despite himself, she would probably claim something stupid like ”being queer isn't a sin” or worse. Since her fault has her convinced that it isn't a fault at all somehow.

As if his brain was currently out to get him, he recalled Cristal's words from yesterday; ”I know how it sounds, alright? It sounds like a sin but it's not. It can't be, not possibly. Why would God make me like it so much, if it was a sin? Sins don't feel good, Camilo. I-” 

She would definitely be supportive of Tomás, perhaps even openly; she could be so far gone that she didn't understand how awful it was anymore, something he had seen the signs of yesterday, that she defended him openly - outing herself in the process. And, something he realized with a horrified jolt, him.

What if she told people about their fight? If anybody knew that she had thought he was queer there would, no matter how ridiculous it was, be suspicions. People would start to wonder, to question, which would ruin his reputation - and the familia's, by extent. There would be a riot everywhere; out in the town, in the private homes, in Casita. Right, the familia would be very mad with him, too...

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Cristal couldn't tell anyone, which was probably harder said than done; she was so far gone, proven in their fight yesterday, that he couldn't be certain she wouldn't say something. Camilo couldn't possibly trust a queer to do what he wants, anyways.

For the rest of the time he was there, he didn't say anything.

Camilo was out of it for the rest of the day - which, fortunately, wasn't noticed by anyone as per usual. Instead, he did what he had been told while he continued to ponder what he should do; how to make sure Cortez didn't tell a soul about their fight.

He had only been assured by the fact that she hadn't said anything yet; after all, if she had, he would have heard about it. His padres would have searched him out, people would be whispering when he passed, and the brave ones would ask him about it. Unfortunately, the key word was yet. Just because she hasn't said anything yet, doesn't mean she won't.

He couldn't trust a queer to keep his secrets, not when said queer was mad, far gone; not when she had lost herself enough to think he was like her, which was just ridiculous-

Except it isn't, remember? the nasty voice spoke again, just like it had many times during the last couple of hours, she was picking up on the things you were saying, and doing. The reason you asked her out. You complaining about girls asking you out all those times. You never wanting to sneak in with the other chicos. Don't you remember?

The thing was; he did. How could he not? He remembered every rejection he'd given, every time he refused to look at the chicas, the reason he asked Cortez out- especially the secret reason for it, that he'd kept to himself. At the time he hadn't thought anything of it, of course, but now when it had been viewed in a queer lens?

Now Camilo was dreadfully aware that, looking through his actions in a lens like that, he seemed queer. Could he really blame Cortez, for picking up the pieces he'd left behind and analyzing it? Was she perhaps not that mad at all?

No! What are you doing! the other part of him said, that had not yet succumbed to their nasty counterpart, You're not queer; you're a Madrigal, for God's sake! Cortez is mad! Don't be stupid, remember that!

So why couldn't he? Why was his head, despite himself, set on worrying he was queer? It was ridiculous; he was a Madrigal, far too great genetically to be queer. So why was he still not able to believe it, if all sense pointed in that direction?

It didn't make sense.

When he sat down on the sofa in the office he had grown slightly accustomed to, Señora Cortez took one look at him - in all his fidgeting, fake-smiling glory - and asked, ”What are you thinking about?”

”Oh, uh,” he said, because he hadn't expected her knowing at all, ”It's nothing! I'm just, uh, thinking about dinner- you know me, always thinking about food!” he laughed but she didn't, ”It's nothing important, see? Put that frown upside down!”

Her frown, which she wore so much he was starting to wonder if she even could smile, stayed in its place. ”If the thought of food, Camilo, is making you anxious then I think we should talk about it,” she said. Fuck. ”Has there been conflict at the dinner table recently? Because that can, and often will, affect how you perceive the food as well, but subconsciously.”

”No, of course not,” he said quickly- he couldn't possibly leave her thinking he was having food issues now, too. ”Mi familia aren't fighting, don't worry - I'm just.... Well, I'm a bit restless, so that's why I'm,” he pointed towards his leg, which continued its tapping, ”I'm restless, that's all. It's nothing.”

He hoped his lies could work on her, too.

”Alright,” she said, raising her eyebrow - and he took that to mean that she was considering his words. Well, it's something at least. ”But you can tell me if there is anything going on within your family that is making you anxious. It's normal, you know. I've had multiple clients say the same.”

He wouldn't tell her anything any time soon, and he hoped she knew it - it would simplify things for both of them. Because he couldn't just say he's having family conflict like others could, when his family are the Madrigals. He had learned fairly early on that townspeople couldn't know those sorts of stuff. Abuela had basically drilled into its head.

Don't tell the townspeople our private family affairs, she would say sternly, to nobody in particular, really. She just liked to remind them. We are the Madrigals, not some common family. We have a reputation to uphold! Familia Madrigal, remember!

”Well, there probably won't be,” he told her, ”Ever since... the fall of Casita,” there was an awkward pause - nobody really liked to talk about those events. ”we've all been really open, so shit like that doesn't happen anymore. If there's ever conflict, we resolve it pretty quickly.”

She nodded in acknowledgment and said ”I'm glad, I feel you need an environment like that, Camilo,” shit not what I meant, ”But I also feel that I'm not wrong when I say you don't do that?”

She wasn't.

Camilo remembered when Abuela had sat them down in the family room the day they had finished rebuilding Casita and urged them to open up, one by one filled with hugs and hand-holding and just general affection.

He also remembered that he hadn't. When it had been his turn to be urged, he had only said ”Oh, no, don't worry about me! My life's good!” even though, in that moment, he had thought about opening up briefly; thought about opening up about the stress; the smiles he faked; the fact that he loved his gift just a bit too much.

In the end, he hadn't, and they had moved on to urging Tío Agustín. But sometimes he still thought about it; what would have happened if he told them everything? Would they be shocked? Upset? Angry? Would Mami at least get a cloud? He knew he shouldn't, because comic reliefs don't dwell on what-ifs, but he still did.

”Well, I don't need to much,” he said, trying to force her to believe it, ”I know my other family members do but I'm happy, you know?” please know, ”I just don't need stuff like that - sure, if I'm worried about something I'll tell mi padres about it, because they basically force me to, but that's all!”

He hoped, from his very core, that that little comment - the one implying he ever had worried - was enough to make him seem at least human in her eyes, that she believes it. Believes everything he's been telling her. That would make everything easier.

Judging by the look on her eyes, she hadn't. Fuck.

”Speaking of your parents...” she started off, and at least she hadn't continued on her previous topic, ”How is your relationship with them? Good? I've noticed you call them ’Mami’ and Papi’, you see, and I wondered if you think highly of them? Are you close?”

She probably didn't know it - or at least he hoped she didn't - but that was one of the most difficult questions she could have asked him. Because what could he say? The truth; that no, they weren't? That he tended to avoid them as much as he could? That would be a bad answer, in the way that it would help shape her opinion on him negatively.

Fuck.

Should he lie - something she has picked up on before - and say that they were, actually? That he did try and talk to them, didn't avoid them like one might avoid the flu? With others, it wouldn't be harder than saying anything, since they would believe him no matter what. But it had always been harder with Señora Cortez, somehow...

”I suppose I am,” he said instead - with too big of a pause after her words. ”I'd say we have a typical relationship for teenagers and their parents, you know, but maybe a bit better. They...” he wondered if he should lean into what he normally said when that question was asked, ”support me in what I do - letting me figure myself out. They're great padres.”

Somehow, though, he had a feeling she didn't believe this. Because of course she wouldn't; when had she ever believed anything he's said?

The thing was; he didn't even know it it was a lie. Due to the fact that he would have to say it anyway, he had never really thought about if Mami and Papi were good padres. Camilo had no idea - because sure, they didn't pay much attention to him but he was their happy kid. Of course they wouldn't.

”Alright,” she said, nodding slowly - he wondered what she was thinking about. ”Alright, Camilo,” it was silent for a while until she added, ”do you want to speak more about them or would you like to move on to a different topic?”

The thought of telling her about his fight with Cortez came to him. It was stupid, really; because he couldn't tell anybody that, he knew this, so why did he want to? To her especially, who even happened to be Cortez's tía? He shouldn't, he can't.

”Well, I was told about the extra week with you - Abuela told us yesterday.” he said and Señora Cortez visibly perked up, ”And I suppose I wanted to ask why? Abuela didn't really explain...”

It wasn't a lie, at least; he did want to know why the extra week had been decided, especially when he had felt so close to getting rid of it. When he had already started to feel hope, only for it to be diminished like a fire might be. Quickly, leaving no traces.

”The townspeople wasn't seeing any changes in any of you, and it helped them realize how little time two weeks really was when there are only maybe two or three sessions. That's why they spoke with us about it, and the decision was made rather quickly. It was for your best,” Camilo didn't feel like it was, though, ”Any more questions?”

”Does- does that include me?” he asked, despite himself, and regretted it only seconds later - why did he sound like that? ”Were they expecting, or even wanting, any changes in me?” Did they really think there was a chance of change? was the question he wanted to ask, ”Do you know?”

She shook her head and Camilo felt a mix of dissapointment and relief, ”They didn't say, no,” she said, ”but I suppose they were.”

”Alright,” he said and for a second, just for a second, he let himself look gloomy, ”But I don't, I-” he wondered if he could say it, ”I don't think the way I am is bad, is it? They've always liked it before...” so what do I do now that they apparently don't? was left unsaid.

”Oh, Camilo,” he hated the way she sounded. It didn't belong in the context of him; that soft, sweet tone. ”No, that's not it. You've misunderstood. They like you very much, I'm sure, but they were expecting a few changes of personality, even momentarily. I suppose you kept your act up.”

Act?

The word drew a gasp out of him, trapped him in surprising anger; how dare she go around and say it was an act? What did she know, what had she ever known? The townspeople had been the ones to want his personality from the first place, so why were the complaints coming now? Why was the word act coming now?

It just wasn't fair. Why should they get to tell him to change the personality they had forced him to change in the first place? Why were they now complaining about the personality they had wanted from him?

He wondered if they even understood anything at all; he couldn't, wouldn't, just go around changing his personality completely every time they wanted him to. Not when the personality they wanted from him now apparently was the one they had forced away from him, forced him to hide.

If they wanted him to be real, why had they told him to be fake in the first place?

”It's not an act,” he said, trying to keep calm but failing because it just wasn't fair, ”It's not! Stop using that fucking word, acting as if I'm fucking miserable and that being happy, when it's me doing it, is just some pretending?! Can't I just be happy!?”

He hated being angry; hated that he always lost control of himself, of how loud he was being or just what he was saying, but he just couldn't help it; somebody would say something, or anything, and suddenly he lost all manner. He snapped so quickly, and he hated it. Hated how he always saw his Mami in himself, whenever he did - it was the worst trait he could possibly get from her, after all.

”That's not what I was saying at all, Camilo,” she said but it was, it fucking was, ”You've misunderstood me, alright? You're allowed to be happy,” her voice was calm, soft. Briefly he wondered if she knew it was him she was speaking with, ”but I just don't think how much you're happy is realistic. I think you, when you were very young, internalized something and now you think you need to be happy. It makes sense, but it's wrong. Whatever you learnt, was wrong.”

She didn't understand.

It was understandable, of course; she wasn't a Madrigal, could never, so she could never speak on the experiences of being one. Couldn't understand it. It was simply like how he couldn't understand how it was like to be a townsperson.

She was right, the words Camilo, before your birth, the town was very stressed out and worried about the family's- well, kid-making; your birth fixed that of his Abuela echoing in his ears, and Camilo knew it. That, however, didn't mean he had to fix it. It didn't mean it was wrong.

Camilo had built up his facade for it to never be seen as a bad thing; no, nobody would ever question it, or think it was wrong. Because he was Camilo Madrigal, wasn't he? The town's comic relief - a title far more important than anybody would ever acknowledge.

”Sorry, you're wrong,” he said, perhaps a bit too forcefully - you're only proving her point, you idiot, he thought. ”That's deeper than it actually was in reality, funnily enough; I just have a good life. Simple as that.”

Even though he certainly liked to say he had a good life, it was far more complex; because it wasn't very easy, or effortless, on his part. Camilo tried to have a good life, that was the thing. It had never been a natural happiness, not really - or not anymore, at least.

”50 minutes left,” she said, avoiding the question for as long as she could. After a few awkward minutes, she sighed, ”Camilo, I would like to get somewhere with you, do you understand? So far, we haven't had any progress; you've just been continuing to insist and deny,” insist and deny, his head repeated, ”and I understand, alright? That you feel like you can't tell me how you feel, but that also isn't true. It's not.”

Yes it is, you don't understand, he thought, I can't tell you - or anyone - exactly how I feel. That's not what comic reliefs do. It's not what I do.

”There's just not many places to go,” he replied, ”when those places you want to go are nonexistent. I'm not going to lie to you, obviously, and pretend that woe is me or some shit,” he sighed, ”Can we just move on already?”

And she did, now talking about how childhoods affect one's personality, which he promptly chose not to listen to.

It turned out that he didn't even need to bring up the topic of queerness - something he had been dreading - since the familia, started by Abuela as soon as Antonio had left for his room, were already talking about it because maybe God felt bad for making him suffer.

”In all my time here, I never thought we would be punished with queerness. I assumed - hoped - we were immune,” said Abuela, sighing, everybody nodding in agreement as she spoke (except Dolores, but he chose not to think about that) ”I suppose those people will find a way to ruin everything.”

Camilo agreed, of course - he would have to be mad not to - yet he couldn't help but feel a sting every time they spoke about it in that harsh, disgusted, tone. It was odd. Obviously, the queers were mad, enferma en la cabeza like he had said to Cortez, but the sting was still there. Almost as if their words were... hurting him, his feelings.

No, no, he thought, trying to drown out the voice of the nasty part, saying whatever, that's impossible. It's just a sore subject for you, with Cortez and all. Queerness is so disgusting, it's to be expected! Don't even think it, Camilo!

”No, mamá,” Mami spoke up, breaking the silence that had fallen after Abuela's words, ”We can come back from this, I promise! I mean,” she hesitated around her next words, visibly looking for support in Papi, who gave it with a hand now holding hers, ”we are the Madrigals, aren't we? La familia Madrigal!”

Despite her best efforts, it seemed not much could help the melancholy in the air.

He should say something, shouldn't he? They were sneaking glances at him, he could see it, as if they were expecting him to say something. Something that would lift their spirits, presumably, and make everything okay because he was Camilo Madrigal: the comic relief. That's what he was supposed to do, yet...

Camilo just couldn't. There was nothing to say, really, at least not for him; because he wasn't in the state of mind they thought, expected, him to be in. He wasn't in such a state at all- in fact, he might be more anxious than all of them, even Abuela. Right now, the whole topic was just too personal.

So yes, it was a dissapointment, but they would just have to live with it. Surely, they couldn't think less of him just because of that one thing? Especially when it could be understandable, considering the very difficult thing they were talking about? They couldn't, possibly...

Ahh but they would, the nasty voice said in that drawling voice, you see, you're their comic relief. And they already suspect you. If you don't say anything now, that will confirm their suspicions. I didn't know you wanted that.

”Gracias, Pepita, mija,” said Abuela, breaking the silence and drawing their eyes from him, ”But I just don't know how. That child being... well, makes me wonder if there are others among us,” a chill went through him before residing in his chest, ”I know it's stupid - surely, there can't be - but ay, I just can't help but wonder.”

I'm not one, I'm not one, I'm not, he told himself - because shamefully, his body needed that reassurance- I can't be. I'm a Madrigal, remember? Calm down, and remember; I'm not a queer.

Unfortunately, Abuela's words did not do much and sure enough, when she had finished speaking, eyes turned to him again- but more directly this time, as if trying to send him a message he wanted to desperately avoid.

Hell, even Abuela was looking at him in the corner of her eye!

It was clear the familia expected himself to say something and, most likely, share the well-known humor. They wanted him to make them laugh, make them feel okay. Camilo would have, of course, if only he wasn't in need of some of that humor, too.

Later, after dinner, while he entertaining a persistent group of niños, Camilo realized that not saying something was a mistake. That he should have. It came with panic, since he had instead stayed quiet the entire time, even when he had gotten what he now realized were opportunities.

There was really no way to soften the blow; Camilo could have said something, actually had a direct opportunity to - the familia glancing at him - and hadn't, because he was too busy with his own little pity party. Too busy pitying himself, feeling anxious, to remember he was a comic relief for a reason. That those expectations existed for a reason.

Fortunately, his familia hadn't questioned him directly - and, knowing them, they wouldn't - and inadvertently giving Camilo the chance to plan. No, this wouldn't be a mistake for too long, when he fixed it; all he had to do was act normal.

Not even his normal, no, but the regular one; he was going to show to people that indeed, he was a normal teenage boy that joked around and was attracted to girls! He would make it undeniable, to Dolores, to Cortez! To the townspeople, if they ever found out about yesterday!

That was why, when the townsboys came up to him to asked - as they had done every week for two years now - if he wanted to look at the chicas dance practice, he had done the never-done-before and said yes. 

Quite the unusual thing; every time he had been asked, the answer had always been no. A quick one, one which did not require thought, because he had never wanted to look at that. He had never wondered why, had only known it.

Later, when he was crouching with the chicos and sneaking glances at the chicas together, dressed in skirts and tops - showing much more skin than he'd like to see - he thought that maybe a no would have been alright if he thought up an excuse. Said he had to babysit a niño, perhaps; they would whine, as always, but ultimately let him go. He could have kept up tradition, and no eyebrows would be raised.

Why don't you want to be here? the nasty voice asked, sneering, don't want to see the chicas dancing, barely covered, like the others, do you? Do you wish it was a boy instead?

The thought had him flinching, because it was just so... so... out there, far-fetched; wished it was a boy? No, no way. Camilo was not wishing those chicas - those pretty chicas, he reminded himself - were boys instead. Because that was a line he couldn't cross, something he could never do. Such a thing was queer, undeniably so, and he could not... He was a Madrigal...

”You good, Camilo?” one of them asked- for the life of him, Camilo couldn't remember his name, though. ”Was it that move? I know it was hot; think I'm getting a bit hard, actually.”

He didn't want to reply.

”Gross, man!” one of the others said for him, scoffing and making a face of disgust, ”Save it for the bedroom!” 

Camilo did not know whether he should focus on the banter, which he hated for its sexual nature, or focus on the chicas and their bodies, something which he would also hate to do - there was really no preferable option.

”What? It's natural, you know,” the chico replied, speaking with a factual sort of voice - as if whatever he said was true, simply because he had been the one to say it. ”Those chicas are hot, everybody knows it-” speak for yourself, he thought, ”so why pretend? We all like what we see. Right, Camilo?”

No, was his true answer. But he couldn't say it - it came off as too weird- so he opted for, ”Yeah. Really, it was a mistake,” coming here, he thought, ”not saying yes all these years, when this is what I've been missing out on.”

The chicos cheered - stupidly loudly, as if they didn't care if the chicas knew they were there - and Enrique, the only one whose name Camilo knew, wrapped an arm around him as he said ”Yes, Madrigal! It really was good for you to come here, you know, we thought you were...” he paused, before he could finish his sentence, ”Well, it doesn't matter now.”

”Thought I was what?” he asked, curiously.

The chicos glanced at each other nervously, as if communicating silently, before Enrique replied, ”Well, uh. Don't be offended man,” he was prepared to be now, ”but we thought you were, uhm, a twink. You know.”

”Skinny?” he said, very confused indeed, ”I know. That's not something you can think, when it's a fact. Everybody knows I'm a twink, Enrique, that's not even a secret,” and he added, as the others grimaced painfully, ”What?”

It seemed like they were all very scared to answer him as they all nudged each other, all earning a vehement shake of the head in reply, and it confused and worried him at the same time. Because he knew, had known them long enough, that nothing they said now would be any good. Fuck.

”Well...” one of them said, awkwardly, ”No offense, man, we really didn't mean anything by it,” oddly enough, they seemed very adamant on that, all nodding along with his words, ”but... twink, uh, doesn't only mean skinny- I mean, it does, but... I don't know why we called you it, since you're obviously not... I mean...”

”What does it mean?” he asked sternly, with that tone he used with the niños when they were trying to hide something from him - and failing.

The chico, however, turned to Enrique and they spoke violently with their eyes for a while. ”I don't know when it started,” Enrique started after a while, alternating between looking at him awkwardly and his scabby knees, ”but it means...” he paused, seeming afraid to say the words - that wasn't a good sign. ”well, basically, queer.”

...

Camilo wasn't really processing anything after that. Instead, the words queer, queer, queer, queer repeated in his head, in all kinds of different voices, even. Enrique's, first, but then the other chicos and Cortez and Mami and Papi and Abuela and...

Camilo couldn't think.

How long had they thought it? That he was... queer? How could he have let it go on to a name, said so publicly that his padres could have heard it once, his familia? What it they did? That could ruin him very quickly, quicker than one could blink...

He remembered the first time he had been called a twink, too; it had been one of the chicas after he'd rejected them, and she had said ”Should have known you'd reject me, really- you're a twink!” and now, looking back on it, it made sense. She had been calling him queer, the entire time, right to his face. Everybody had, and he hadn't known. Hadn't understood.

Nobody had ever even said it meant skinny; people had just always said it in that tone, reserved for when people made fun of his physique so he had assumed. He had assumed it was a funny nickname disguised as an insult, something he had gotten before. Many times.

Camilo had not even considered that maybe, just maybe, it had been about something else - that the tone wasn't actually reserved for people making fun of his physique - because that was all it had been; a maybe. An improbable one, at that. It just hadn't sounded probable, but now..?

”Camilo?” one of them said, hand on his shoulder. ”Lo siento, man. We really didn't mean anything by it, you know - I mean, you're a Madrigal!” right, right, he was, ”It's just that... you always rejected the chicas, even the hot ones, and... It was weird...”

Enrique nodded in response as he continued, ”And even while you were dating that Cristal Cortez, you didn't seem like a couple much,” he hated that the boy was right, ”I mean, I wouldn't believe you were dating if I didn't know you were - you didn't act like it, you know. It was just... weird.”

Camilo was in shock; he, honestly, hadn't considered that others had noticed his actions, too. People who weren't Cortez, or queer like her. He had never thought, had never wondered, if others could think his behavior as weird - presumably because he had always assumed he wasn't visible, noticeable enough, to garner such attention.

Now, however, he knew that he had; somehow he had managed to make his peers wonder if he was queer, despite the family he came from, without even noticing it himself. He hadn't even noticed that he had risen their suspicions enough, before his had even started, to get them to make a nickname for him. How?

Had he made more people than them suspect him, he wondered?

”Yes, of course, but-” it seemed, for a second, as if she did not know whether she should say this, ”if you were queer,” she took a deep breath and resolutely kept her eyes closed, ”if,” after a moment, she opened her eyes again, ”I feel like it wouldn't matter to me. To me, I would love you nonetheless. That is what I wanted you to know.”

He tried not to remember Dolores words; she had just been- well, he didn't know. But it didn't matter, anyway, he told himself. Because Camilo wasn't actually queer, he reminded himself. No, that had just been a misunderstanding.  One that, sure, had reached a lot of people but it was still just a misunderstanding. It was.

”No, actually think about it!” she yelled back, sniffling and wiping the tears from her dark eyes, ”You asked me out to keep up appearances, well, were those ’appearances’ to seem normal? To look like you liked girls?” he sucked in a breath, which only seemed to spur her on, ”Did you have a crush on Diego Rodríguez? Is that the reason you stopped being friends; him finding out you like guys?!”

”I'm not, obviously,” he said, trying not to sound mad but failing - and his tone noticeably made them flinch. ”I-” he thought about it for a while, until softening his tone and adding, ”About my relationship with Cortez, I genuinely did like her, you know?” as a friend was left unsaid, ”But over time, we both realized we didn't like each other very much. Not enough to keep being in that relationship, at least.”

Camilo was about to leave, but Cristal gripped onto his ruana and pulled him back violently, ”Lo siento, pero...” she said, tears gathering in her eyes, ”When it happened, I observed you. To see if it was just me- because you didn't seem to be very into girls either,” he wanted to deny it, but his brain could not find the words, as if they were hiding from him, ”and when we had that talk about not liking girls and boys respectively and I had the thought, what if you're into boys like I'm clearly into girls? Just think about it-”

What was going on with him? Why was he fumbling so much with his words? Camilo had always been great at lying, after all; it had always been just saying whatever to him, really. That's why it was never obvious, when he was lying. So why was he now so awkward, fumbling around his words and stuttering? It didn't make sense.

Camilo knew lying - hell, he was practically an expert on it! Forget Shakespeare, or literature, lying was his expertise (albeit a secret one.) He had lied so many times, in fact, that it would probably take a day or more to even scratch the surface of all the lies he'd told. The very wide, hard surface.

When people asked him how he felt, a lie with the words I'm feeling great were seconds away; when his padres asked if he was going to bed, and he was actually going to spend up later reading Shakespeare? Well, they would be none the wiser; when Antonio asked what that red stuff on his clothes was? He would never know it was blood; when niños asked if he had many friends, they would never know the truth. The no, not at all.

The point was, Camilo knew lying.

One of them sighed - gah, what was his name? Juan? ”I'm sorry, Camilo,” maybe-Juan said, ”We spread the nickname pretty far, you know. The chicas know about it, too - and what it means,” Cortez, he thought, ”and... maybe some adults too.”

His face - which he had just tried to build up a soft smile with - fell, and his new expression didn't leave enough to the imagination. ”Lo siento, we can-” Enrique started, probably going to offer some useless consolation or offer to do something unhelpful.

He shook his head, ”No,” he said quickly, sternly - they would not do any more. Could not. ”don't do anything, it's... fine. I won't do anything, you know? The rest will realize it, eventually, right? I'm a Madrigal - they can't possibly think I'm queer.”

Right? he asked himself. He didn't know the answer.

Could you even blame them? that voice told him again, sneering, you act queer, don't you? Always rejecting girls, your relationship with Cristal... Can you blame them for noticing what you do? What you did for years, without shame?

”Of course,” one of them said, ”Let's just go back to watching the chicas now - they're almost finished, and I don't want to miss their last moves! Oh, Camilo, their tops ride up!” for a reason Camilo could not understand, the boy sounded... aroused. Ew. ”And we get to see their tits- Carmen has the biggest ones!”

Distantly, he wondered why they had been looking. Of course, he knew why - all chicos liked tits, especially if they were big - but he still didn't really understand it, why they found pleasure in knowing which girls had bigger tits. It was only measurements, after all.

That's not a normal way to think, the nasty voice said, repeated, That's not how they think. The normal ones. They actually like seeing that, unlike disgusting you-

He tried to ignore it; that negative part of him didn't understand anything, anyway, he told himself.

”That's nice,” he said, sounding his very best to sound into it like them- you shouldn't have to try, the nasty voice said again, ”Carmen is very... guapa,” and you should mean it, it continued. ”If she ever confessed to me, no way I would reject her!”

She had asked him out before - twice, actually, once when they were younger and the other time quite recently - and he had, without even thinking about it or glancing down at any body part, rejected her. They didn't need to know that, though.

They didn't need to know that because if they did, truthfully, Camilo doesn't have an excuse. Not a good one, at least. Something that excuses him rejecting her, and still makes him seem good, because maybe that doesn't exist. They definitely don't need to know that.

Fortunately, the chicos didn't dwell on it. ”I think she'll be at the party tonight, you know,” Enrique said instead as he ogled at Carmen, ”Heard her say it to Guerrero, when he invited everyone, that she'd be there. Something about her parents anniversary and not wanting to be home for it...”

”Wait, what?” he said quickly, ”What party? There's a party tonight?”

Neither of them answered him as they were far too busy ogling at the chicas, who were currently doing a move, much more fast-paced than the rest had been; it started off as regular waltzing, like they had done the whole time, except their legs grew farther apart as they bent down to prepare for lifting their legs up over their shoulders. He recognized it.

Personally, Camilo wasn't liking it too much - it was just dancing, and sloppy dancing, at that - but the chicos, however, were making odd noises as the chicas bent down, some even muttering something about the culos, and as their legs lifted too. One of them, he could see, was even covering his crotch.

When the move was over and done - the chicas now packing up - they moved away, breathing rather heavily, ”Did you see the way those tits bounced? Especially Carmen's... And Luciana's culo, too,” maybe-Juan made a noise between a groan and a moan, ”Shame she's dating Alvarez. Right,” he turned to him now, ”Camilo?”

”There's a party tonight?” he asked, avoiding the question he wouldn't be able to answer without lying, ”You mentioned it earlier...”

Maybe-Juan nodded, ”Yeah,” he said, nonchalantly, before seemingly realizing something as his face lit up, ”You can come! To the party!” at this, the other chicos nodded along exuberantly, ”It'll be great, man! You can watch more dancing, too! I think there'll be some sort of performance!”

There was nothing Camilo would like less.

”Ay, that sounds fun-” except it really doesn't, he thought, ”but I wasn't invited. I know that. Shame.”

Unfortunately for him, they brushed that minor detail off as Enrique casually replied, ”Yeah, if you were us. But you're not a regular townsperson, you're a Madrigal,” he was using that tone that told Camilo he wouldn't like whatever was going to be said - that cheerful, certain, tone. ”so Guerrero will be honored to have you at his party, man. You can just show up, say you heard about it from us. We could go there together, too.”

”Yeah, it'll really do something for our reputation,” one of them whispered to another, but he heard it all the same. The same chico then, after a moment of serious contemplation on his side - on how to decline in a good way - asked, in a normal volume now, ”So, you going?”

Now, as he was brushing his wet hair to the side, Camilo had the thought that he should have said no.

Surely, he would have been able to get away with it? Say he had to help in town, like he always did? They wouldn't have questioned it... Or say he had to prepare his play for the upcoming party, since it was only in two weeks? Technically, it wouldn't have been a lie - he did need to work on it.

It was too late now, though, as he looked through clothes in his closet and avoided the mirror saying ”You're nervous and worried,” He had to go, didn't he? His hair was already half-way ready - it only needed to dry - and once he found appropriate clothing, he would be ready to go.

There was no way to get out of it now; Camilo would have to go to this party with the chicos for a few hours, and try to keep up his reputation. Try to seem normal, like them. Just for a few hours, he told himself.

So you admit that you're not normal? the nasty voice said, that you need to pretend to be? 

He tried to ignore it, tell himself that he hadn't meant it like that, but truthfully? He didn't really know how he had meant it; that he was a Madrigal and automatically not normal, on the one hand, but... what was on the other hand? His first reason?

...

Camilo was in the closet.

He had never been to those sorts of parties before. In fact, the only parties he had ever attended were the ones the familia threw, in which he was obviously expected to attend, and dress formally. Did he need to dress formally now, too? Surely, it wasn't a serious enough party for that...

Was he overdressed? Maybe the hair- now pushed to the side and brushed neatly, no spare locks- was overkill? Maybe he didn't need to look this nice? Would everybody know, if he showed up looking like that, that he had never attended those parties before? That he was kind of a loser?

Should he wear his regular clothes instead? But what if he was underdressed, then, which would still show that he had never gone to those parties before? Those parties which he was pretty sure was a regular for the teenagers in the Encanto, that only the losers didn't go to? Fuck, what should he do?

Briefly, Camilo contemplated skipping the event. Not going at all. After all, he hadn't exactly promised he'd go, had he? No, he had said that he would think about it - which they had all probably thought to be mean yes, in that moment - and he could probably get away with it... If he ever spoke to them again, which he probably wouldn't...

Then he took it back; if he didn't go, that would just prove to them that he wasn't normal. That their suspicions were correct - and they weren't, of course! - so, he couldn't not go; he would have to, and they would never think he wasn't normal again, he told himself.

Maybe, if he just went to this one and behaved well enough, he wouldn't have to go again. If they ever asked him, he could make up an excuse without risk of them assuming anything, he reassured himself. They would still think he was normal.

Camilo continued to root through his closet, practically buried in there now, as he looked for clothes that were nice, but not too nice. It was a hard task, harder than it should.

Eventually, though, he managed to find a white shirt, with chameleons embedded - Mirabel had made it for his 13th birthday, a fact nobody outside of the familia should know - to wear with his usual pair of pants, ruana, and sandals.

When the door to the probably medium-sized house - but still small for him, who lived in large Casita - opened, Guerrero took a second to blink at Camilo Madrigal at his doorstep, before grinning and announcing loudly, ”Camilo, hey! Welcome in! Buenas tardes!”

”Buenas tardes, Mateo,” he said, politely, ”I heard about the party tonight- from these guys-” he gestured to the chicos, who were standing proudly behind him, ”and thought hmm, I might just come and now I'm here!”

Guerrero led him in and said, ”It's great to have you here, man! Feel free to look around!” he walked in without glancing back and distantly heard Guerrero call out, ”The drinks are in the kitchen, if you want any!”

The house started off in a living room, with a sofa - currently resided by very many people, all acting quite weirdly - and then led into a hallway, with entrances to a dining room, a door which probably led to the bathroom, and then another which led to the kitchen, which could probably be the largest room in the house.

There were many people in there, too - even more than there had been in the living room - and these people, oddly enough, were starting to get more giggly the more they drank from their cups, constantly refilled in a bowl with some red liquid... Then, Camilo understood.

ABORT! ABORT!

His brain was screaming at him to get the fuck out of here, no matter how he had to do it, because fuck. They were drinking! Alcohol, to make terrible matters even worse! He was currently in a house with drunk teenagers!

Apparently, teenagers drunk at this age - something Camilo had only ever suspected. Why hadn't the chicos told him? Warned him? Had they thought that he knew, somehow, even though they must be aware he had never gone to a party? But, even worse, did they expect him to drink?

He wouldn't do it; screw seeming normal, if they offered him a drink - read: told him to drink - he would say no. He didn't care about being normal anymore, if they were asking him to drink alcohol. He wouldn't do it. Sure, he would stay, because he still had a reputation to uphold even if he kept his standards, but that was not a line he would cross.

How the hell was he going to talk to anybody, if they were drunk? Pretend like he was drunk like them, even though he would be happily sober? Or should he act more mature, act like a Madrigal? They hadn't invited him here to be a Madrigal though, he knew that, they had invited him to be a teenager. A teenager like them.

He hated this.

”Camilo, hey!” somebody called out to him and, to his utter astonishment, it was Mirabel. He turned to his right and there she was; curly hair up in a side bun, simple make-up on, and a white dress clad with a teal-colored ruana. ”What are you doing here, primo?”

He put on his fake, easy going grin. Well practiced. ”To party, of course,” he replied, ”Really, I should be asking you,” he pointed at her and she rolled her eyes fondly, ”What are you doing here, primita?”

”My amigas invited me, they're right there,” she said and pointed at a group of chicas behind her - one of them, he knew, was Rosa Morales. A girl who, famously, had a crush on him. Annoying. ”Who are you here with, then?”

Camilo wondered if he should call the chicos his friends. Were they? Definitely not; in fact, he disliked them quite much, but he knew his familia didn't know this, too. They thought he was great friends with the chicos, actually. Not because he had told them, though, and he had always wanted to correct their belief...

He decided not to. ”My amigos, of course. The chicos. They're,” he said and looked behind him to see that they had probably stayed in the living room, maybe accepted some drink there, ”somewhere here. I kind of lost them, because they wanted to stay behind and I wanted to check the place out more - haven't been here before.”

Mirabel nodded in response and, just like that, the conversation had turned stale, awkward. Of course, they weren't close - hadn't been since they were 5, young enough to talk about anything and everything without judgement - and this often happened when their greeting topic had ended. They were best suited for small talk, that was the problem, and both always tried to develop it from that. It never worked.

Should I say something? he wondered.

”Hola, Camilo!” said Rosa, grinning sweetly and batting her eyelashes as she walked up to them, providentially interrupting their silence while at it. ”I hope you're well. Cómo estas?”

He gave her the same smile he always did - the right lipped one, to try and let her down easy without words. Not that it had worked yet, in all the years he's practiced it on her, but a boy could hope. ”Muy Bien, gracias. Y tù?”

”Estoy bien, I can't complain,” she replied, still batting his eyelashes at him - which left him groaning internally, chicas snickering behind them, and Mirabel smirking. ”How come you're here? You've never gone to these parties before, when I invited you.”

Right, he thought, as he panicked a bit internally, the party invites I either assumed were ploys for a date with me or actual parties I thought sounded like hell. I forgot about those.

What could he say? Something that would answer the question and make him seem normal - because he certainly couldn't say oh I just never wanted to go because they sounded like hell. They still do sound like hell because I don't actually want to be here! That was the truth, and the truth would make him seem weird.

”Oh, it's so annoying, I was always busy,” he said eventually, playing it off with a comedic, exasperated, groan as he said that last word. It worked. ”Today, though, I realized that I had nothing to do - other than, like, sleep,” they chuckled again, Rosa's higher pitched, ”so I thought I'd come. And it hasn't let me down yet.”

After that, Rosa laughed loudly - probably trying to seem attractive, or something, a thought which disgusted him - and said, once it had died down, ”You're very funny, Camilo. You- you should go to more of these parties, everybody would love to have you there. I- I would, too.”

”Gracias, Rosa,” he said and, after she had walked away with only one last glance at him, he sighed and added, ”How long can one chica like somebody? I swear, she's had a crush on me for, like, 5 years. She desperately needs to move on.”

Mirabel nods in agreement as she replies enthusiastically - now that they had a conversation topic. ”We've all been telling her to, but she's not ready to try and move on. I think she, deep down, believes there's a chance there. I don't know how, but I sort of feel bad. Anything you could do?”

Camilo shook his head, because there really couldn't be anything else to do, could it? He had it abundantly clear to everyone that he was not ready for another relationship - that he probably wouldn't be for a couple of years. So if that hadn't set her to move on, what would?

Sure you're not ready for a relationship, the nasty voice said again, or do you just not want a relationship with a girl?

Of course he wanted a relationship with a girl. One day, when he was older and felt more ready for a relationship - Mami and Papi had said that was perfectly fine, perfectly reasonable, when he told them about it, after all. He didn't want one now but one day, he would marry a woman. A woman who he would love, and have children with, and maybe she could be short-haired like he had always pictured.

”I've been trying to let her off easy for years,” he told her, ”It's just never seemed to work. She always comes back and acts the same way,” he checked Rosa had gone before shifting into her, dramatically bashing her eyelashes and smiling shamelessly as he said, in her voice, ”’Hola Camilo. Cómo estas?’”

Mirabel barked out a laugh - just like she always had, when they were younger, he recognized; shamelessly, loudly, exuberantly - and, for a few minutes, he couldn't help but laugh with her. It wasn't often he laughed for his own joke, but her laughter had always been infectious like that. When they were younger, Tía had always said that their laughter was the same.

They sat under the table together as they ate arepas and laughed - they were doing impressions of the familia, rated by accuracy. ”Niños,” tía Julieta said as she crouched under the table, smiling softly at them. ”Ay, your laughter is the same. You're adorable.”

Their laughter was still the same, high and boisterous. Infectious, like Abuela would say. Even after all those years of barely talking, they still had the similarities the familia had loved about them when they were younger.

”She talks about you constantly, you know,” Mirabel said after a while, ”About the jokes you made that day - thinks you're really funny - and your looks, too, I think. But that's when I'm not around, because I do not want to hear that,” they chuckled together as he held onto her arm, ”Honestly, all the chicas are sick of it!”

They were standing in the corner now, holding onto each other - just like they would have when they were younger, and it was bittersweet how quickly they sunk into those habits. ”I know,” he admitted, getting them weird looks as they giggled, ”I've been some of the chicas before when Rosa just comes up to me and talks about something I did, and I'm like I know, I just did that ten minutes ago.”

”When she does the same with me,” Mirabel replied in between her giggles, ”I'm always thinking something like I could have heard this at dinner. Outside I'm just nodding, like,” they both laugh at the same time as Mirabel imitates awkward nodding, complete with the facial expression. ”It's going to get to the point where every time I see her, I'm just going to run in the opposite direction!”

So, when Rosa came back minutes later and walked towards them again, they took one last look at each other as they ran out the kitchen entrance, laughing and clutching each other's arms. ”That was,” he wheezed when they were sitting in the dining room, resting against the wall, ”fun. She's probably so confused, though, like what the fuck just happened!”

”I'll be stuck explaining later, I just know it,” Mirabel replied, giggling quietly to herself, ”Because that was very fun, Camilo, but it was so weird, too. The chicas will be questioning me when I see them. It will not make a fun explanation,” she snorted and added, ”What should I even tell them?”

Camilo hummed in response and then promptly broke into his own set of giggles, ”Tell them it's some inside joke,” he suggested after a few minutes, ”We're primos, they won't question it. And we're the same age, too, so that's another reason why they won't question it.”

”Damn, Milo,” said Mirabel as she laid her head on his shoulder, sinking him down significantly but he didn't complain, ”That's a good lie,” she then started laughing randomly and added, ”How can you give good lie suggestions yet still be so bad at lying?”

He suddenly inflated, in a way, after she said that. Dammit, he thought, I was just so happy, too.

The thing was, Camilo had been a bad liar. Once upon a time, when he was younger and didn't yet understand the importance of lying, but the familia didn't know just how inaccurate that was. Of course, that was better for him - they wouldn't ever suspect he was lying - but it always felt a bit weird.

”I'm not that bad,” he said defensively - well, the defensive tone was actually exaggerated to be more comedic, but she wouldn't know that small detail. ”You should see Mami, she's a disaster,” he shifted into her, his vocal chords shifting with him, ”’W-what, mamá? No, no, that never happened. It didn't-” he started gesturing the way she shoved her clouds away as he spoke his next words, ”get AWAY, cloud! Get away!’”

Mirabel grinned at him for a second before cracking into laughter - high and boisterous, just as it always was.

He mimicked her.

”Mira,” Camilo called as he entered the nursery and in the one bed there - one bed because he, of course, had moved out months ago - was a lump, black curls peeking out from the top. ”Mirabel,” a sniff, ”How are you...” he asked, hesitantly, ”doing?”

Then he thought that was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't doing well, of course she was upset; that was the reason Camilo had come to check on her before his day began officially! Mirabel was obviously upset after last night... After...

Her failed gift ceremony.

He had no idea what had happened - and he was pretty sure that even the adults didn't! - but somehow, when Mirabel had touched that doorknob, what should have happened... didn't. Instead, it vanished slowly and Mirabel was left standing, still giftless like she had seconds before. No change.

The whole family had been in disarray afterwards as they ushered out the confused townspeople (”What happened? Why did the door dissapear? Is she giftless?!”)  and Camilo supposed that, in the midst of this, nobody noticed Mirabel as she leaned against the wall where a door should have been, silent tears running down her face. Still in shock.

Camilo would have comforted her - in fact, he had been about to - but Mami, dripping from the huge rain cloud above them all, had ushered him away to bed before he could even take a step towards her. So, he was doing it now, the day after.

Mirabel sniffed again in response and the blanket made a whooshing sound as she shoved it away and sat up, her face dark from tears. ”No,” she replied shakily, and she quickly started crying again, ”I'm not okay!”

Camilo didn't know what to do so he stepped towards her bed, shifted into Abuela, and said in the most accurate voice he could - he hadn't learned to shift his vocal chords just yet. ”Do not cry, Mirabel. Crying is for non-Madrigals,” and t he look on Mirabel's face almost made him shift back, but he didn't. His gift was a miracle, wonderful. It could only help-

”Leave!” Mirabel shouted and she was still crying, still upset. In fact, she seemed even more upset.

It didn't make sense. His gift was a miracle, could only make people happy - had only ever made people happy. It wasn't supposed to make people sad, and especially not even more sad. If a person was sad, him using his gift and making a joke was only supposed to make them happy again. Because that was his job; he made people happy. Camilo didn't understand.

”Why are you so upset?” he asked as he shifted into her and sat down on the bed. She didn't seem to like seeing herself, either. Huh, weird. Seeing yourself always helped, as Camilo had learned over the past few months. ”Who,” he hesitated around asking the question for a minute, ”who do you want me to turn into?”

Camilo was sure, in that short while she hadn't answered yet, that she would say something like ’Mami’, or ’Papi’, or a funny version of others as he had just started practicing - because shifting always made people happy, no exceptions - but Mirabel just glared at him and stubbornly said ”No one.”

That made even less sense. If Camilo couldn't shift, he couldn't make her happy, and that was just ridiculous. People got very happy when he shifted. Always. It didn't matter what time it was, who he was becoming. Nada, because it was a good thing. So for Mirabel to say she didn't want him to shift? To be upset when he did?

Camilo made people happy. That was simply his thing within the familia. Isabela was the perfect one, Luisa the strong one, and him? He was the funny one - that's just how it was. He was the shape-shifting one and as such he made people happy; it didn't matter how, Abuela had said, as long as he did. That they would see the smile on his face and feel that happiness as well.

”Why not?” he asked desperately, ”Don't you,” he tried to glance at her but she wouldn't meet his eyes as she wiped away useless tears, ”don't you want to be happy? I can't make you happy if you don't want me to shift, Mira!”

Her hands stopped covering her face and in result, he saw how teary and dark it was, ”I don't want you to shift,” she said, partly stubborn but also shakily as it lead her into another wave of sobs, ”Don't wanna be happy right now...”

Well, that just made no sense! In the Encanto, people were supposed to be happy, Abuela had told him; it was a paradise compared to the awful word out there, in which Abuelo had been killed, she said, that there were no innocent little towns that didn't end in bloodbaths or wonderful gifts. The Encanto was a paradise, where nobody should be sad or hurt.

”That's stupid,” he replied and the look she gave him almost made him back down. Almost. ”You'll feel much better when you're happy, and you won't lay in here and be lazy all day. That's unbecoming of you, you know that. As a Madrigal-”

”Am I still a Madrigal if I don't have a gift?” Mirabel asked, before he could finish his sentence, and the look on her face...

She looked heartbroken.

Camilo didn't know what to say, what to do. If Mirabel didn't want him to shift, he realized sadly, he couldn't make her happy. His Madrigal duty, the reason he had his gift in the first place... He couldn't live up to it, for the first time. He couldn't make her happy. If his gift was such a miracle, why wasn't it making her happy, he wondered?

Mami was making it rain heavily outside, and he could distantly hear her calling out for tío Bruno, but he didn't care; he couldn't call himself a Madrigal, after all, if he didn't even try to make her happy. And Camilo had been about to try until - ”CAMILO!” Abuela was yelling, but she didn't sound angry. Upset. ”Camilo, come here immediately, cariño! Camilo!”

He didn't want to - of course, he wanted to stay here and try to make Mirabel happy. She was his amiga mejar, his prima favorita, and he didn't want to leave her - but... It was Abuela. That was one of the rules; if Abuela was calling for you, you came. No exceptions. Everybody knew this, and especially him. He had been spanked for not coming immediately before.

Distantly, he could hear Mami calling for him now too - he really, really shouldn't make her wait, especially since she sounded very upset and he hated it when she was upset - and he turned to her, who looked as if she even wanted him to leave, and said ”I'll be right back, Mira. Later, I promise!” and he only spared her one more glance before leaving.

There never ended up being a later.

”So,” Guerrero asked him, arm slung over his shoulder and speech slurred as he asked, ”What're ya thinkin’ about the party so far?”

Truthfully - which he wouldn't say, but he could at least think it - he was hating it. Or, strongly disliking it, since Camilo didn't say hate. Ever since he and Mirabel had briefly parted ways to find their respective ’groups’, the chicos for him and the chicas for her, he had been stuck talking to almost everyone there and shifting. Lots of shifting, indeed.

”It's been so much fun!” he said loudly, laughing as he did - he had decided to act drunk, after all, to fit in and he had noticed the others laughing a lot. ”Chattin’, drinkin’,” the others listening in giggled, ”Havin’ the time of my life here!”

Most of the statements were false, of course, except for chatting; he hadn't took a single sip of alcohol, despite being offered, and chatting with anybody here who wasn't Mirabel had been boring and annoying. Really, coming was a waste of his time - he still couldn't see how this could help with his reputation!

Guerrero took another sip of his alcohol a bit too closely to him before saying, ”Glad to hear it! The party's no’ver yet, though!” he turned to everybody else as he said, ”That’s righ’! I've got dancers here, to put on’a show - chicos and chicas for everybody!”

Those surrounding them all cheered loudly, which he joined in on. Not because he wanted to, obviously - a show sounded boring, anyway, and all he cared about was whether it could serve as a distraction for him to leave without anybody noticing - but even though they were all drunk, and definitely not in observant states, he had to pretend to be normal, at least. Pretend he wanted to see chicas dance.

Pretend, the nasty voice echoed, pretend you're normal like them and not a queer, but you'll probably be watching the chicos dance anyway.

Not that he wanted to watch the chicos dance! If he did - which he didn't! He didn't! - it would only be because he wanted to see how they danced, see if they were competent, he told himself, because it was fun to watch people dance. Not because he was attracted to them, that was ridiculous!

But if you like watching people dance, the nasty voice replied, sneering confidently, then why didn't you like watching the chicas dance? The chicos were drooling, like they should, but you were hating it. Didn't even want to watch.

”Ar’the chicas guapa?” one of the boys said, earning laughter from everybody - even chicas, probably because they were drunk. ”I’don't wanna watch if’i’m not loving what I see, Guerrero.”

He wanted to say something snarky like and how big island that chance? because honestly, the chicos would probably like any chicas as long as she had tits - looks didn't matter much beyond that for them - and unless these chicas were a never-seen before mutation Guerrero had somehow bred, then they would have tits. Of course, he didn't. That would be much too rude for a Madrigal.

”Oh, you'll be loving it,” Guerrero said confidently before turning to him and adding, with a smirk, ”Camilo, shift into Rosa Morales,” and he did, without even needing to ask; within a second, his hair was longer and black, chest larger, and thicker. ”See, chicos? That's one of the people you'll be seeing.”

Rosa was considered attractive?

Camilo had never realized that before, oddly enough. She certainly wasn't attractive in his eyes, never had been, so he supposed he had never realized that she was in other people's eyes somehow, though he supposed that silky black hair wasn't an ugly trait...

”Who else is’t, though?” Enrique asked, earning ooo's from others for some reason, ”Rosa isn't the only hot chica, need more names!” and the guy hiccuped - he had been drinking quite a lot, after all, and the glass currently in his hand certainly wasn't helping. ”Need more tits!”

Guerrero only smirked before saying ”Oh, trust me, there'll be tits, but fine!” and then Guerrero turned to him, which the aching in his gut recognized as a bad sign, ”’Milo,” don't call me that, he wanted to say, ”Shift into,” Guerrero leaned in to his ear and he felt a sense of dread as he listened to the names, ”Okay?”

Camilo shouldn't.

The thing was, he recognized the aching in his gut, had felt it enough times in his life to know it wasn't good, that it was a sign he hadn't eaten enough and that the first step was going to kick in if he shifted again, and definitely that many times; intensive puking, and that wasn't how he wanted to spend the next 10-20 minutes, thank you very much.

But... He couldn't just just say no, that was also the thing; he was Camilo Madrigal, who didn't just say no when people asked him to shift, and it wasn't like he had the inevitable puking as an excuse because not even the familia knew about that. He couldn't let anybody find out about that, and that was why he couldn't shift, but he also couldn't just say no.

He just really, really shouldn't; if he did, he doubted he would be able to make it to the bathroom in time, which would probably leave him puking right here in the living room in front of everyone and - he shouldn't go further into that rabbit hole. Maybe they would assume it was from being drunk in the moment, and laugh it off, but when they were sober they would realize. Realize that they hadn't seen him drink, that he hadn't acted drunk, and he would be doomed. He couldn't risk that-

He did.

All he could do was suck in his stomach as he shifted into the various girls quickly - earning ooo's from the others, unaware of his discomfort and the vomit quickly traveling up his throat - not that it did much, but at least he could make it to the bathroom, close the door, before he crouched down in front of the toilet and let out his stomach's contents.

Puking like this was always awful, every time he had to; it seemed like the lurching then heaving would never stop, not even as there was no food left to puke out anymore and it was just stomach acid. At most, he got 5 seconds to breathe before there was another lurch and he was left repeating the process. Rinse and repeat, except there wasn't much of a rinse.

”Ay, mijo,” Mami said as she held his hair up and stroked the back of his neck - he had forgotten to close the door this time, after overusing his quirk yet again, in his rush. ”Shh, shh, don't cry. It's alright, it'll be over soon.”

After that, Camilo had made sure to always go puke in his bathroom. Mami shouldn't have to deal with that, and neither could anybody else - he couldn't possibly waste their time with that, to sit with him while he puked. That was disgusting, especially the way he did it.

It'll be over soon, it'll be over soon, a voice suspiciously sounding like Mami said in his head, it'll be over soon, it'll be over soon, it'll be over soon-

But he supposed that, a part deep down, had enjoyed Mami's comfort in that moment; brushing his hair out of his face, sitting next to him on the cold bathroom floor, and muttering sweet nothings that he couldn't really hear but he appreciated the thought. It had been nice, to be doted over like that.

”Camilo?” Mirabel suddenly said from the other side of the door and, fortunately, Camilo managed to hold in the need to puke more. ”Cómo estás? You've been in there for pretty long now,” she knocked and Camilo couldn't stop himself from flinching. He was always overly sensitive in times like this. ”The show's started soon; it's great - the chicos and chicos have great choreography.”

Distantly, he wondered if he could be done puking by now. If, perhaps, he wouldn't need to puke anymore if he just grabbed some arepas from the kitchen, and maybe get away with leaving early - puking always ruined his day, no matter what. Even if it was Antonio's gift ceremony or a fiesta.

”I,” he said and had to clear his throat at just how raspy his voice was - god, she could probably tell something was wrong just from that, ”I'm not feeling too well, because of the alcohol,” he groaned loudly, ”Gah, who knew it made you feel this shitty?”

The lie had been necessary, so he wouldn't have to hide the fact that he had puked, because 1) his breath would smell of it, when he walked out. 2) she had just heard his first attempt at speaking; the raspiness.

Really, the only problem was that Mirabel would assume he was a normal teenager who drunk alcohol now - a view Camilo, if he was honest, didn't want his prima to have on him - but it was worth it. He had to make everybody believe he was a normal teenager, anyway.

”Not me,” said Mirabel, a bit uncomfortably - good, it meant she had believed him. ”Maybe we should head home? It's getting pretty late and now that you're... drinking,” she swallowed around the word, ”we should control your intake.”

Camilo gave himself a minute to get himself up on his feet, walk - or more like wobble, his legs were quite weak at the moment - and said to Mirabel, after opening the door and only giving himself one minute to lean heavily against it, ”I want ’o stay longer. The show!”

Admittedly, Camilo had no idea how to act drunk; should he speak more slurred? Blush more, like the others were? Laugh more? This was the first time he had been forced to act drunk, so he had never thought to analyse drunk people the few times he had been around them.

Please believe me, please believe me, he thought and, in the short space of time where Mirabel was just looking at him, he had the panicked thought that he had no idea what to do if Mirabel saw past him right now.

”Sure,” she replied, still looking uncomfortable but smiling all the same, and internally he breathed out a sigh of relief, ”Let's do that, then.”

So they did and when they reached the living room, Mirabel helping him the whole way there because she seemed to be under the impression that he had struggle walking, there were multiple people packed around the dancers; three girls and three boys.

The dancers were mostly dressed in the same, skin-showing way, except that the boys were shirtless and the girls had crop tops on, at least, although it didn't do much to hide their features - probably the point, or something.

The chicos were ogling the female dancers, particularly Rosa, for a reason he couldn't understand; the dancing was pretty low-quality and the dancers were obviously drunk, yet the chicos were reacting as if it was the best dancers they had seen in their lives, which was very far from true. Everybody knew the Madrigals were the town's best dancers - that was one of the things, other than their miracle, they were known for, after all.

When he glanced over at the male dancers, however, he understood the ogling; their confident grins as they danced around and their muscles, their firm arms, flexed. Their bodies were quite firm, he realized as he continued to look; they were wearing short shorts, which gave Camilo everybody a good view of their thick, firm thighs, their strong hips, their round butts...

What was this feeling?

The tallest one of them - was his name Emiliano? He swore he had seen the guy around in town - was really quite attractive, objectively; loose, curly hair which hung around his strong shoulders, sweat running down his thick arms... Thick legs, firm hips, and quite a large butt... Oh...

Briefly glancing to his side - he didn't want to miss anything of what was being offered to see - he saw that Mirabel, too, was looking at the male dancers with interest as she bit her lower lip, just like he had done a minute ago.

You realize that's not good, right? the nasty voice said in that moment, just like Mirabel, you like what you see-

Camilo ignored it.

He didn't like it, per se, what he was seeing. He was just... watching, and the feelings in his stomach were unrelated to that, he told himself - he had just puked, after all - and biting his lip, like Mirabel, was... Unrelated to that too, he decided; maybe he was just nervous!

Being nervous was fairly common, after all, especially for him - he was his Mami's son! So no, it didn't have anything to do with the male dancers at all, and him looking was just because it was being offered to see, and...

He wasn't a queer. He wasn't like that.

Are you sure?  the nasty voice in his head sneered, but he tried to ignore it. He wasn't, he wasn't.

”Camilo! You're back!” a voice called out and, out of the crowd of people, came a flushed José, who leaned against him, arm around his shoulders, ”Enjoying the view, man? I’now, I'm too. They're ’alented.”

Compared to José, whose speech was slurred and was very flushed - clearly out of it, too, judging by how much he was leaning against him - it was really quite obvious that Camilo wasn't drunk. If Mirabel decided to place her eyes off the view in front of her, she would probably notice. He needed to step up his game, starting with...

Shifting after the first step of overdoing was always hard; it felt like if he moved just too quickly, he would unleash nothing but stomach acid on the floor in front of everybody, which would surely distract from the dancers. It was worth it, though, as he now looked flushed like José.

”Yeah-h-h,” he said, drawing out the h - from the corner of his eye, he could see Mirabel sneaking a glance. ”’Hey're hot. Good,” José chuckled, which only spurred him on, ”Been practicin’.”

It felt so weird, speaking like that; so improper, so unlike a Madrigal, and for the only judging he was receiving be from Mirabel, who was probably only thinking about how he was ’drunk’ anyways. Camilo was used to speaking properly, like a Madrigal should, and for people to hold him up to those standards. He had never relaxed this much in his speech.

”Wishing you’ever rejected ’osa, hoh?” José said, mispronouncing a few words while he was at it.

Definitely not, was his honest reply. As always, he couldn't say that and instead, the words ”Yah,” came out, with a purposeful mispronunciation of yeah - there couldn't be too much of a difference between how he and José spoke, after all - and to his side, Mirabel scoffed.

He really did hate the thought of Mirabel misunderstanding him like this, and if he had a choice... Well, that was the thing; if he had a choice, because he didn't now. Camilo had to be normal, had to live up to the expectations of a Madrigal. His last name wasn't like the others’ - it affected him. He just didn't have a choice.

”She'so hot,” José replied and started leaning towards him even more, which meant Camilo was bent down in the effort, leaving his ear close to Jose's mouth which the guy was quick to manipulate, ”Might ask’er out.”

And? was his honest thought to this, Am I supposed to care?

Probably, that was Jose's intention; for him to care about this - for a reason he couldn't comprehend, since it wasn't like he owned Rosa in any way - and give some sort of reaction. A reaction he couldn't give the guy, honestly.

”Not before I’do,” he whined exasperatedly, which made Enrique laugh while it only earned a glare from Mirabel. It was worth it, at least. ”She'so hot, I deserve a’chance! Ask her ot after’me!”

Camilo hated speaking like this - so slurred and unlike how he should, as a Madrigal - hated acting like this, like a disgusting teenage boy that his own prima didn't even want to be around, but he had to. Had to be normal, seem normal. He couldn't risk them suspecting anything.

”Like she'd turn you down,” Mirabel muttered to herself, but both of them heard her anyway. ”She's basically liked you for forever.”

His stomach twisted uncomfortably when she said that - was it guilt? - so he turned to watch the male dancers again, who were spinning and showing showing off their butts, making his eyes slide down over their nice forms. Their nice bodies.

No, he didn't necessarily like what he saw - anybody would be able to appreciate those bodies! - because really, who wouldn't look? They were... hot, attractive, and Camilo wasn't queer like his head was telling him just because of that, just because he was appreciating what was in front of him. Anybody would like seeing that.

Any girl would like seeing that, the nasty voice in his head corrected, and you're not a girl, are you? You're a guy, looking at these dancers’ butts and liking the view like the queer you are.

”Then I'll ask’er ot,” Enrique replied after a while, tone factual despite his casual mispronunciation of the word out, ”and she'll turn’e down, probably, and say yes when’ya ask her out.”

Enrique spoke if it so factually, as if he actually believed Camilo would ask Rosa out. As if he actually believed Camilo thought Rosa to be attractive enough, despite his words a few hours ago...

The chico, however, turned to Enrique and they spoke violently with their eyes for a while. ”I don't know when it started,” Enrique started after a while, alternating between looking at him awkwardly and his scabby knees, ”but it means...” he paused, seeming afraid to say the words- that wasn't a good sign. ”well, basically, queer.”

Camilo had to be here, had to talk about Rosa this way - despite how much he hated it - because he had messed up, hadn't been normal enough. He had assumed that, with hid title as a Madrigal, people wouldn't think he was queer. That he got away with stuff like that.

The conversation with the chicos had been an eye-opener and he had hours to think about it, to realize exactly what he had done wrong; he had assumed his last name could let get him away with everything that he had neglected to try and be normal.

If you have to pretend to be normal, the nasty voice said, you must not be all that normal to begin with.

Camilo was normal, yes - and he had no doubt on the matter! He didn't! - but if he was honest, which he never actually tried to be, what the negative part of his thoughts said still terrified him.

”Rosa,” he greeted.

She was there, grinning at him with happiness that was odd for somebody clad in such a revealing outfit at this time - almost eleven o'clock! It was probably freezing! - to have. ”Hola, Camilo,” she said, with a certain twinkle in her eyes, ”Did you enjoy the show?”

She was probably asking if she had been any good which he couldn't say anything about, considering as he hadn't watched her at all. Or any of the female dancers, actually. Not for that reason, of course; the male dancers had just started doing moves with their legs. Their thick, amazing legs and well, it had distracted him. Not that he would have watched the chicas anyway, because he probably wouldn't have. He just... wasn't such a big fan of watching people dance!

”Yeah,” he said anyway - because he wasn't about to say that he had watched the male dancers the entire time. ”You all were! Amazing choreography, you seemed half in sync,” he sent her a careful, friendly smile. ”Good job, Rosa.”

She stepped closer into the dining room - which he had been helping clean - now inches away from him, so she could see the hopeful look in her eyes. ”Mhm, thanks,” her voice was low as she looked just below his eyes, ”Anything else you would like to tell me,” she corrected her top, ”Camilo?”

”No.”

Oddly enough, she stepped even closer. She was far too close now, and he didn't like it, and especially not as she placed her hands on his shoulders and pulled him a bit closer. ”It's fine, Camilo, no need to be embarrassed. I've spoken to Enrique, you know.”

Sucks for you, he thought.

”Okay,” he said, confused. ”And?”

Rosa batted her eyelashes at him. Ew. ”And he told me, about that conversation the two of you had,” god please no, he then thought, fuck not that. She probably thought he liked her now, which was just... ew with 3 W's worthy. ”About me,” she puckered her lips and stepped an inch closer to him. She was getting closer and closer now, oh no. ”You don't have to be embarrassed, Camilo. I've liked you for the longest time.”

And I've tried to get you to stop liking me for the longest time now, he thought, but he couldn't say it. Maybe... Maybe this wasn't so bad; a girl that many chicos found attractive liking him, wanting to... kiss him. She wanted to kiss him, and maybe he should want that. He wanted to kiss girls, of course.

Camilo didn't know why- perhaps it was the fact that Diego was the only that called him 'Milo' these days, or that Diego was acknowledging the struggles of being a Madrigal, or perhaps it was so many things all at once that he could not possibly narrow it down- but at that moment, he stood up on his tippy toes and kissed Diego right on the lips.

No no, he hadn't wanted to kiss Rodriguez. Just because he had, sure, couldn't possibly mean much. Camilo had been overwhelmed with feelings unrelated to Rodriguez, and it had came out in disgusting ways that he deeply regretted. If he hadn't done that, the two could still be friends.

Of course he'd like to kiss Rosa, she just had to... back away. Camilo didn't want her to stand so close, to talk like she was, out of guilt! Yes! Enrique had misunderstood and due to that, she now had the wrong idea that he liked her, and he hated the thought. Hated the thought that she had false hope, which she shouldn't have. Yes, the anxious churning in his stomach wasn't because he didn't want to kiss her, but just guilt. He'd like to kiss her otherwise...

Right?

”Oh,” he said dumbly - he didn't know what else to say other than the truth, which he couldn't say. ”Yeah?”

Rosa nodded, leaning closer now and turning her head slightly to the side, ”Yeah, I really have. When you started growing out your hair - it looked really cute.” Camilo remembered that; it had been 4 years ago and had been because Rodriguez said longer hair would fit him. ”And I've liked you ever since.”

Camilo remembered it; she had started acting weird around him, which he had originally been oblivious to, until Rodriguez said she had probably developed feelings for him. He had seemed just as upset about it as Camilo had been because just like now, every time he thought about Rosa's feelings for him, he got that anxious churning feeling. Guilt.

”That's nice,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He wanted to be honest, but he couldn't. If he did, she would ask why he had said such things then to Enrique and it would become a whole thing. A whole thing it couldn't become. ”I don't really know when I started liking you.”

Because it never happened, he thought.

Rosa smiled at him but didn't reply as she leaned in even closer; her lips suddenly just two inches away from him, and now he understood what she was looking at - his lips. Ew - and wished she wouldn't. Wished she would back away, which she didn't do as she stepped a step closer and leaned in again and suddenly...

Her lips on his, disgustingly warm and wet, determinedly pressing against his mouth, larger than hers so he could feel the edges of her lips. Rosa's lips did all the awful things for them as he stood there, unresponsive, with his eyes wide open while hers were closed, and his jaw set tight enough to hurt.

Camilo knew this wasn't how kissing was supposed to feel. Sure, he had only done it once but the experiences were different; those lips had been soft and comfortably warm, tasting like coffee and sugar as they pressed back against him, and he hadn't been looking then as he used his other senses to feel. Kissing then had felt like freedom, while this just made him feel like he was in a cage with no other choice but to let the lips continue their assault.

It was quite nice, actually, kissing Diego; he tasted oddly like coffee and sugar and Camilo liked even more that he knew why. Diego tasted like the freedom that could have been his life, had he not been born as Camilo Madrigal, and smelled like the coffee beans but then everything else, too. Diego both tasted and smelled great, actually.

That had been with Rodríguez, though, a guy.

Camilo had assumed that maybe the reason he had liked kissing Rodríguez so much was because he just liked kissing very much, but now he was here and kissing a girl and he hated it. How could he have liked kissing a boy, but hate kissing a girl this much? How...

Oh. Suddenly, as Rosa finally pulled away and looked at him hopefully, he understood.

He was queer.

Chapter Text

”So,” Rosa said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them after that kiss, ”How... was that? I,” she seemed embarrassed, ”haven't kissed many people before, so... I'm not as experienced as you, sorry.”

Camilo felt like crying.

What was he supposed to tell her? Say ’sorry, I didn't - turns out I'm queer, even though I'm a Madrigal!’? But Camilo was sure that he must look shell-shocked, like his world had just ended in front of him - because it basically had! - so how could he lie?

”It's fine, it was fine,” he said, pulling away from her - he couldn't bear to have her touch him. Probably because he was... Well, Camilo could barely finish the thought. ”I haven't kissed many people either, so...” he had been about to repeat the words it's fine but in that moment, while he was in the process of freeing himself from her grasp, he looked to the right to see - ”Mirabel.”

There she stood, in the entrance of the room, and staring at them, gobsmacked. It was clear she had stood there for a while, just managing to slip under their radar due to being distracted - Rosa with kissing him and Camilo with having the worst realization of his life - and had gotten a rather good view of what was going on. Camilo only hoped she hadn't paid too much attention to him.

”Camilo,” Mirabel said, awkwardly - which came as a relief, since she would sound much worse if she suspected anything. ”I was just... coming to get you, to go home,” she glanced between the two of them, ”Sorry! I'll go! Bye!”

Please don't leave me with her, he thought.

”Mirabel, wait!” he called out and backed away from Rosa quickly, refusing to look at her while he did and moved to follow her, ”I was just leaving, actually. Let's go together. Bye,” he hesitated to glance quickly at her, ”Rosa.”

Rosa looked like she wanted to stop him from leaving - please don't, he thought - but instead, much to his luck, she just waved goodbye with an awkward smile and said, ”Bye, Camilo.”

Mirabel was glancing between the two of them again, probably thinking something she shouldn't, and he had to drag her away before she said anything. It was first when they were outside, the cold wind hitting them quickly, that she said ”I saw your kiss, you know.”

”I know that too,” he replied solemnly, ”Sorry,” she looked up at him surprised and he continued, explaining, ”that you had to see that, it had to have been awkward. You shouldn't have to see it again, though. Ever.”

Now that Camilo understood he was... queer - it was still hard to think - he probably wouldn't be kissing any chicas, at all, if he could help it. There really wasn't much he could do with chicas anymore, now that he was... Damnit!

He must have done something God didn't like; not believing in Him enough, for instance - Camilo didn't even go church on Sundays if he could help it! So now, God was punishing him by ruining his life. Being queer was the worst thing he could be, especially for a Madrigal who had to keep the family miracle growing when he got older. He couldn't do that now. Now, he was doomed to a life, probably shorter, of misery.

”You're not going to date, then?” Mirabel asked, ”Bad kiss?”

Any kiss with a chica is a bad kiss if you're queer, he thought but just nodded instead.

Camilo couldn't tell them he was queer, he realized. Because, even though he was a disgusting queer who really shouldn't be capable of it, he - against all odds - cared about his familia. About their reputation. If anybody found out they had a queer among them, one they hadn't found themselves, they would never recover. He didn't want that for them.

But what could he do, really? As far as he knew, as far as anybody knew, there was no cure to queerness yet. There didn't seem to be a way to cure his sickness, not yet at least. Not without people finding out, which they couldn't under any circumstances.

But, maybe - just maybe, it was uncertain - he could pretend, at least. Camilo could still fit in, after all, even if he didn't mean the things he did. He could still marry a woman, it would just have to be a stupid one to make sure she never had suspicions, and have children with said stupid woman. Keep the family miracle going.

Being miserable for the rest of his life was worth it for maintaining the family's reputation. The familia was, always would be, more important than that. So, Camilo would do it - without a doubt.

Now that he was thinking of it, maybe pretending would do his brain some good, to teach it that kissing girls was what he was supposed to want. Nobody had ever said that queerness was an incurable disease, after all, even if there wasn't one available. But maybe, he reasoned, the cure to queerness was to conform, pretend. Maybe...

Maybe he doesn't have to be queer.

The next morning, Camilo had taken to waking up at 6 o’clock to plan the cure to his current queerness and later write his play. He had just fixing a paragraph earlier on - which sounded far too negative for such a happy play - when somebody knocked on the door. ”Who is it?” he called out.

”It's Dolores,” Dolores said, ”Can I come in, Camilo?”

That's when he realized that fuck, Dolores, unless she had been asleep - which, unfortunately, was unlikely - had heard everything at the party. She had heard his kiss with Rosa, his short conversation with Mirabel afterwards, and even the one with Enrique.

It's fine, he reassured himself. Her gift was super hearing, not mind reading, after all, and she wouldn't be able to know what he had thought about during the kiss with Rosa. Neither would she know what he had thought about during the conversation with Enrique - in fact, that one was probably good for him, so he could get rid of her suspicions about him - and the one with Mirabel didn't even matter much. It's fine.

”Sure,” he said and after she pulled the curtain apart and stepped in, he continued, ”Welcome to my humble abode,” the place sucked, ”What do you want to talk about, Lola? Gossip, or..?”

That was a lie; he knew she wanted to talk about the party yesterday - really, what else could she want to talk about? - but she didn't need to know that. He at least had to make her think the party wasn't a big deal to him, and keep up the appearances that he took everything lightly.

”No,” she said awkwardly, looking around - it seemed she didn't want to talk about it much, either. ”It's just, I heard you yesterday. At the party,” he nodded as confirmation and she sighed, ”when you were puking.”

Oh.

Camilo had forgotten about that, among a queer realization and having your first kiss with a girl, it didn't seem too important. That was a good thing, though; Dolores probably just wanted to talk to him about how he got drunk - as she was under that impression - instead of the worse, more revealing things.

”Oh, sorry about that, Lola,” he said, turning around in his chair now, ”I know you hate hearing people puke, sorry. I just,” she looked him straight in the eyes and suddenly, Camilo remembered why he hated lying to Dolores so much. The way she looked at him, as if she could read his soul and know all his secrets. ”It was my first time drinking, so I overdid it.”

Dolores nodded, slowly - which should be good, but Camilo was still tense. ”Sure, sure. It's alright,” oddly enough, his shoulders tensed up even more. It didn't make sense, he should be calm now but - ”except, you weren't drunk. So, why did you lie? Why did you actually puke?”

”What?” he said, trying to sound confused, ”I was drinking. There was alcohol there and I didn't want to be, like, a loser so I drank. Why'd,” he tried to chuckle, although it might have sounded nervous, ”why'd you think I lied?”

Dolores’ facial expression didn't change - why hasn't it changed, he thought panicked - as she replied, ”I don't think you lied, Camilo, I know you did,” she seemed to observe him before speaking again, ”You didn't drink, Camilo. Yet, you told Mirabel that. And you puked.”

”You weren't there,” he tried to counter, ”and you couldn't have just listened extremely closely to know, Dolores. You couldn't have done that,” except she probably could, ”so you're in denial. You want me to stay young forever, or something. Well, let it go, Dolores. I'm a teenager now, and I drink!”

The argument was so weak that it was barely even an argument; Camilo was aware of just how much she could hear, so he didn't put much past her. Dolores knew he knew that, though, so she could probably understand that he had just been pulling straws, desperate to hold up his lie.

Dolores sent him a really? look, as if challenging him to continue with that bullshit, ”Camilo, you didn't drink,” she said simply, undeterred, and he gulped, ”and I won't tell Mirabel, if that's what you're worried about, but I'm just worried about you, Camilo. You would never lie to the familia,” at least she still thought that, ”and you puked. Just tell me why, and I'll leave it alone.”

”Fine, I didn't drink,” he admitted.

He should say more, surely - make up a lie about why he puked otherwise and why he lied to Mirabel - but for once, Camilo found himself unable to think of a lie. It was weird, since he was usually so quick with it, but he didn't know what to say. How he should lie to his hermana, when she was looking at him in that way as if she would see past every lie he even tried to tell.

Would anything he said even matter, if she didn't believe it? Camilo certainly wasn't about to tell the truth - the side effects of his quirk was a well-kept secret - so all he had was a lie. One he couldn't come up with at the moment.

”So,” Dolores said after a while of silence, ”Why did you lie, then?” he didn't answer, couldn't answer, and she sighed, ”Camilo, you can tell me the truth. You know that, right?” he nodded because he could, even if he wouldn't, ”Take your time.”

He racked his brain; tried to come up with a lie, even a bad one, but he couldn't. What was going on? The look he was receiving had never deterred him before, so why now? Was it just because it was Dolores, who could usually see past him? One of the only people in his life nowadays that actually tried to see past him? Camilo had probably lied to everybody in the Encanto before, but this... this was his sister.

”I wanted to-” he started, but the look Dolores sent him shut his mouth prematurely, ”I-I just,” she took a step forward and crouched slightly, as if to comfort him, and he flinched, ”Can I choose not to tell you yet?”

Camilo was aware of how stupid it was - to take the coward's way out and make it abundantly clear to her that something, that he wouldn't tell her about, was amiss - but he didn't know what else to do. He had been between a rock and a hard place and, instead of choosing to climb over one of them, he had decided to dig himself in a hole.

Dolores hesitated for a while - clearly, she had half a mind to force him to talk - but eventually, after giving him a confused and concerned look, she nodded and said, ”I'll hold you to that, Camilo. Tell me later, when you're ready.”

At breakfast, everything was normal. Except that both Mirabel and Dolores kept glancing at him, of course, but nobody noticed and if they did - although he was certain that nobody had noticed - they kept quiet. It was still annoying, though, due to the fact that he felt so seen.

Dolores kept glancing down at his plate, watching him eat his multiple arepas with rice - something he had always liked to do - and it almost seemed that she was thinking. She barely even participated in the conversation about a Madrigal Announcement they had to make.

Camilo wasn't very involved in the conversation either, to tell you the truth; he was tired - it was pretty hard to fall asleep after the worst realization of a lifetime - and didn't really feel up to making jokes. He hoped the familia didn't notice.

”Gross, Camilo,” Isabela said, from her usual seat next to him, bringing him into the conversation. Everybody else turned to them and, after a glance at his plate and the rice arepa in his hand, they gave him weird looks too. ”You're disgusting.”

Camilo recovered quickly and said, ”What, you want me to eat like you?” he shifted into her and, for the sake of the performance, started cutting his food in ridiculously small portions and making a show of slowly putting them to his mouth. ”That would take me hours.”

They laughed, Isabela rolled her eyes, and that small conversation was over. Camilo had managed it and when the laughter died down, they started eating or talking a bit amongst themselves like usual.

That was what he did, when the familia commented on his eating habits - which didn't happen as much as it did with the townspeople, but it did still happen occasionally. He deflected. It was what he had to do, to make sure they never thought deeper, as to when he had started eating like he did. When he started practically eating everything in sight.

”Ay, Camilo,” Mami said suddenly, smiling amused at him, gathering everybody's attention once again - who seemed rather amused, too. ”You forgot to shift back. You're still Isabela, mijo.”

He didn't want to shift back.

It him suddenly, just as it always did. The feeling he got some days, when he just... didn't want to be him. Camilo couldn't even pinpoint when he had started feeling like that, at some point it was just there. One day, he just did and it had become a regular feeling ever since. It was often random, inexplicable, but Camilo understood it right now.

Camilo Madrigal was a... a queer - yes, maybe he was in the process of fixing that part of himself but it didn't change that he was one, currently - and a mess who, despite being the happy Madrigal, couldn't actually pull off being happy. Isabela wasn't. Other people weren't. So, how could he want to be himself? The feeling made sense right now.

He had never told anyone, when he had those days. It just wasn't important enough to talk about, and nobody had ever noticed. The day just came sometimes, and when it did he accepted it. Those were the days you would found him in a completely different body.

”Oh no, you noticed,” he said lightly, grinning, ”I was hoping on tricking some townspeople,” that earned him giggling from some and a sigh of Camilo from Papi, ”but I guess I'll have to do that as somebody else, then. Sigh,” he was Mami now, ”I guess you'll have to do, Mami.”

Mami smiled, which ruined her scolding more than the soft tone of voice did, ”You're such a prankster, Camilo,” she said, ”You can't always shift,” but he would, for the life of him, try, ”mijo. Be more serious.”

The thing was, people always said that until he was. They said they wanted him to be serious, wanted him to be himself more, wanted him to show he was sad, until he was - that's when they told him to stop, because nobody actually wanted that. Who would? Camilo was the happy Madrigal, the shapeshifter. Camilo wasn't going to believe that they actually wanted that, when he knew well enough that they didn't.

”No thanks, that's boring,” he replied cheekily, earning a sigh from her.

Eventually they gave up, and their eyes were on other things. Except Dolores, that was; while everybody else moved on and their attention turned elsewhere, hers stayed on him as he stayed in Mami's form, despite the fact that he was eating in silence. Nobody else knew what was wrong, but she looked like she damn well wanted to find out.

Over the course of the day, Camilo had not shifted back into himself once. It made him feel good when he walked past a mirror and saw not his own awkward, too-skinny body, but bodies that were... right. Isabela, for instance, was skinny but she still had fat to her body - unlike him, who's ribs you could see - and her sleek, long hair embraced her face.

Mami was fairly skinny but with her height, it just added to her elegance. Camilo hadn't grown, either length or width wise, in years. She looked like somebody you shouldn't mess with, while he was visibly just a scrawny teenage boy.

How could he be expected to like himself, his body, when it was just so wrong? How could he be expected to want his own body when other people's bodies were just so right, unlike his? Every person he had shifted into, even post-pregnancy Señora Morales, looked so much better than him.

The familia often joked that he really was a growing boy at dinner but the thing was that Camilo hadn't grown in years.

Normal teenagers grew; normal teenagers didn't weigh themselves and see the same 43, just like he had for years now. Normal teenagers weren't underweight, despite how much they ate. If he was honest, the fact that his gift required the food he ate - thus meaning that the food never actually went to his figure - was the worst thing about it.

Mirabel was a normal teenager, in that regard; he had seen her weigh herself a few months ago, in the bathroom, and she had weighed 55 kg. Sure, she hadn't seemed happy to see it, but in that moment he had felt so jealous. He wished he could see a 55 when he weighed himself - she just didn't understand.

How could he appreciate his body, when he looked like he did? When he hadn't gotten any fatter yet? When you could see his ribs if he took off his shirt? Of course Camilo was ashamed - anybody would be, really. He wasn't going to be happy with it, when he knew there was so much better.

”Mirabel!” Rosa called out and he would have fled - would have ran the other direction - had Rosa not been close by. He turned around, and there she was, ”Hi!” he waved, awkwardly, ”Cómo estás?”

Even worse now that you're here, he thought, but chose to say, ”Estoy bien, y tú?” instead.

”Oh, I'm fine, but what I really wanted to talk to you about,” Rosa replied and she took a deep breath before continuing, ”was Camilo,” no, please no, he thought, panicking internally. He was not in the mood to be reminded of Rosa's feelings for him. ”He, as you know, kissed me yesterday.”

What? Is that she was doing, going around and claiming he had been the one to kiss her? When it was very much the opposite? Surely, she must know that - it had clearly been very one-sided. He hadn't even closed his eyes, or actually kissed her back.

”Did he?” he said, smiling awkwardly - it was times like these he really appreciated that he had perfected his gift. ”Yes, I saw that. Kind of wish I didn't,” Rosa chuckled nervously, ”Is there anything else, or..?”

Rosa nodded and asked, ”Yes, has he talked about me at all?” he must have given her a look, because she quickly added, ”I know how it sounds, but I'm worried! This is my chance to date Camilo!” she misunderstood his wide eyes and added, ”Yes, I know! He's your primo, but I really like him!” she sighed and practically deflated, voice unsure as she asked, ”Do I have your permission, Mirabel?”

”You don't need my permission, Rosa,” he said, voice choky, ”You need Camilo's permission, you realize that, right? If somebody decides whether you can date him, it's him. Just go find somebody and ask, girl.”

Rosa was quick to hug him, arms wrapped around his chest area, under his armpits, ”Thanks, Bel’,” she said while he hesitantly hugged her back, trying not to look like he wanted nothing more than to get out of the hug, ”You're the best. I'll go do that,” after pulling apart, she waved goodbye while leaving, ”Bye!”

”Bye! Good luck, I guess!”

Camilo would be staying in another form all day. Perhaps it was rude, practically leaving her to chase after him all day, but he couldn't just shift back into himself - a thought which made him feel sick - and reject her. He couldn't have yet another rejection on him.

It used to make him feel guilty, rejecting chicas as much as he did, because he could never understand why. Sure, he had known that he didn't like them but why he didn't, when other chicos found them perfectly attractive? He hadn't understood that, why their appearance didn't make him hesitant.

It was just a no, no matter how they looked. Camilo had never understood that about himself. Now he did, of course - he was... that way - but it still didn't make it any better. Now he just wondered how it had come to be that he was born that way.

Weren't Madrigals immune? They were the greatest of the greatest, blessed by a miracle and serving the town, but they didn't even have the privilege of immunity? It just didn't make sense, they were Madrigals. His whole life, his last name had brought him privilege but now, with this, it didn't. Camilo didn't understand.

Camilo remembered when he had occasionally spent some time with peers - often Rodríguez - and had witnessed the changes in how people treated them, compared to him. Being a Madrigal is an honorable title, Abuela had told him, yet the world hadn't given him that privilege, like he was just a regular person according to the world.

”Because Madrigals are not regular people, Camilo,” said Abuela, annoyed that he had asked such a foolish question like ’why are we not treated as regular people’, ”We have been blessed by a miracle, the highest honor, and we carry that honor through our bloodline. We are not regular people at all.”

But if Madrigals could potentially be queer as well, how special does that really make us? he wondered as he went to help a mother with her rambunctious toddler. Are we just regular people?

It was midday when Camilo realized that not shifting back was the reason he wasn't helping as many people. They had never been able to see through it so, even if they were in need of his help, they walked past him. The only people he had helped so far was people whose babies he had already planned to babysit. In other words, he had only helped 3 people, which was highly unusual for him.

He still refused to shift back, though. When these days came, his body felt wrong the whole day - when these days came, he would stay in a different form all day, despite what anyone said. Sure, he was getting increasingly anxious - Abuela always got so dissapointed when he didn't help as many people - but he refused.

When he looked at the mini schedule he kept in one of his ruana's inner pockets after lunch and saw that there was a 4-hour gap between the gig he had already done and the next one, he decided to head back to Casita shortly to get his notebook - which consisted of his plays - and work on his plays somewhere in the Encanto.

Camilo had hesitated to bring the one with happy plays or his favorite - the ones with tragedy plays - for a bit before deciding to take both with him to a little lake near the mountains, sort of a secret spot for him.

He sat on a big rock there by the edge of the water, surrounded by high grass, started writing his happy play. If he decided to make it as short as he could, he was almost finished. The plot was somewhat finished, he'd say, but perhaps it needed a bit more details...

Did it even matter? Everybody would find it great, no matter what he did, because it was happy...

Camilo found himself having writer's block; he was stuck on that paragraph, his mind completely still when it shouldn't be. Did it even matter if he finished it? The sentence would suck, no matter what he did - the entire play did - so why should he bother? He hated what he had written, and the damn sentence wouldn't, couldn't, change that.

It was just far too happy, too unrealistic. If you were upset with your life, there wouldn't be some fantastical, magic land where everything was fine waiting to take you away. Camilo knew that. So, this whole play was just stupid, yet he had to keep writing it because there were people who would like that message, no matter how stupid it was.

Encanto was that fantastical, magic land for them in many ways, anyway. Its target audience, the children, wouldn't be able to relate to looking for it, though - neither could even he - because that had been their elders, their grandparents.

That was when the realization came to him; the Encanto being this land was a great conclusion, that fit into the purpose of the party - celebrating the Encanto, the miracle. Finally something, he thought happily, that could fix this damn disaster of a play.

Did it make him like it any more? Still no;  it was just so... boring, and putting the Encanto in the story wouldn't change that. He hated it - not that he would ever say that - but at least it was as good as he could make it, without changing the entire plot. The townspeople and his familia would like it, though, and that was all that mattered.

Camilo wrote it down in the notes before moving onto the other notebook with the better, tragedy plays. This time, he stayed on the page about The Rose Thorn; a play about a princess as beautiful as a rose, cursed to kill whoever she touches, and it would end with everybody in her village dead when she fell in love with the wrong man.

He hadn't started yet, though, since he had been so busy with the other one that he hadn't allowed himself. Now, however, he just wanted to do what he wanted to do - no matter the upcoming deadline for the play.

It was nice, sitting there and writing the play, his pen moving constantly as the writing flowed like the water in the lake, a perfect backdrop. Camilo - or rather, Mirabel, if anybody were to come and see him - was so happy that his smile was soft, unlike him. The space, devoid of people, was peaceful. Nice.

The king's dear daughter, the princess, he wrote, was famous throughout the whole village for her beauty. Every man wanted to wed the princess as beautiful as a rose, always locked up in her tower. However, unknown to them all, the princess was cursed with the killing touch. The princess as beautiful as a rose had a thorn in her.

When he had stopped writing to take a small breather and saw that he was halfway through, he wished he could perform this instead. He even imagined it, standing up on that stage in this princess’ form - who had Dolores' face shape and Isabela's hair - telling the story, even if it was a tragic one. Even if it wasn't typical of their Camilo Madrigal.

He remembered when he had been younger, caught reading a tragedy story by Papi. He remembered sitting at the dinner table - reading because he had a week off after his allergy attack. He mostly remembered the words, though.

”Romeo and Juliet?” Papi read out, standing over him, ”Why are you reading that, mijo? That's unlike you - why don't I buy you something happier for your birthday. Or Christmas, it's close enough anyway,” he ruffled his hair, hand staying in his tightly curled hair, ”What do you think?”

Camilo remembered wondering if he should tell Papi that he liked this - he liked Romeo and Juliet, even if they both died at the end. The tragedy was what made it good, but he couldn't tell Papi that. It didn't matter anyway.

Camilo had learnt early that certain things, like his interests, didn't matter more than being a Madrigal. He was a Madrigal, and there were certain expectations on him that he had to live up to. His persona as the happy comic relief was important.

Doing what you wanted was for regular townspeople, not for Madrigals.

”Sometimes I wish you were a regular townsperson,” Diego said as they laid on the ground together in comfortable silence, occasionally squeezing their intertwined hands, ”like me. Maybe you would be happier.”

Rodríguez was the only person he had told when he wasn't happy. He had known that nobody could know when he was unhappy, yet he had always told Rodríguez. Or maybe the guy had just known, known him well enough to understand when he wasn't happy.

Sometimes Camilo wished he hadn't made that mistake, so he could still be friends with Rodríguez. The awful thing he had done had ruined something great, something amazing, and he couldn't do anything to fix it. Some things you've couldn't take back.

Suddenly, Camilo realized; shit. Why he had liked kissing Rodríguez - because he had liked it, he couldn't deny that anymore. Because he had feelings for the guy, romantic feelings that he somehow missed completely. Or maybe just ignored. 

That was why he had seemed almost unable to stop thinking about Rodríguez, why he had liked kissing him so much. He had liked kissing Rodríguez because he had been kissing his crush. His disgusting crush that he shouldn't have had, but a crush nonetheless.

Camilo's queerness hadn't come out of nowhere. It hadn't been dormant until now, when it finally developed. It had been developed years ago, too, when he had a crush on his best friend that he eventually ended up kissing. He just hadn't known it, because that was easier.

That was why he had to cure himself.

When Camilo sat down in the office again it seemed that Miss Cortez only had to get another glance in - the first had been wasted to see that he was currently Mirabel - before asking, ”Are you okay, Camilo? You seem upset. I want you to know that you can talk about that, it's what I'm here for. To support you.”

Camilo was surprised that she didn't seem more excited, which she should be since he hadn't opened up at all so far, but she didn't. She was only smiling softly at him, far from excited with that furrow between her eyebrows like him being upset was upsetting her. It didn't make sense.

”Fine like always,” he replied, trying to fake a grin - it wasn't the easiest.

Miss Cortez only looked at him, look undecipherable before saying, ”Your sister came to talk to me yesterday. About you,” Camilo's eyes widened and she seemed to take it as a sign to continue, ”She told me she is worried about you and asked how you're doing in therapy, which I didn't tell her for your patient privacy,” under his breath he muttered Fucking Dolores and she seemed to hear it as she asked, ”What do you think of Dolores? Are you close?”

Camilo remembered when he was younger and people would ask for his favorite family member. It was that sort of question people liked asking children for their honest answer. His answer had always been the same, even now when nobody asked; Dolores.

”Dolores!” he replied excitedly, earning 'aw' noises which only seemed to intensify as he continued, ”Because she's nice and plays with me when she has the time! And her hugs are the best, too!” 

”Ever heard of a boy who got asked for his favorite family member and said his sister every time? That was me,” he replied honestly, looking down, hint of a real smile, ”Lola and I have always been close. I sort of looked up to her when I was younger and I barely ever wanted to leave her alone. She let me.”

Miss Cortez nodded, ”That's great, Camilo,” she said, ”Siblings sure can be their own kind of treasure. Personally, my sister helped me do what I do today and find a location. How is your relationship today, still as close?”

Camilo didn't even know.

He didn't really talk to Dolores much anymore, not like she wanted him to. Dolores wanted him to open up, tell her how he felt, which he simply didn't do. He had practically rain-checked telling her why he lied today and, last week, why he had been crying. Except he might never tell her, so could it really be postponing?

”I wanted to-” he started, but the look Dolores sent him shut his mouth prematurely, ”I-I just,” she took a step forward and crouched slightly, as if to comfort him, and he flinched, ”Can I choose not to tell you yet?”

”I don't know,” he said, shrugging - trying to seem more casual than he was feeling. ”I guess we're not as close as we used to be. It happens with age, though,” he looked up at her and added, ”What did she tell you, specifically? Was it just about me?”

Miss Cortez nodded, ”Yes. She also seems to be under the impression that something is wrong, regarding you,” also, he noted, also. He could barely breathe. ”And she wants to help you. She asked for my advice, in what to do. How to help.”

”And what did you tell her?”

He was breathing heavily again, like he had yesterday. Camilo clutched at his chest but the next exhale, more like a pant than anything, caused him to shift back into himself. He never stayed long in another form when stuff like this happened. Why did these things keep happening? Why did Miss Cortez say also?

Camilo was growing warmer and warmer as he lost focus of the world to stay in his head, repeating the word also continuously. Also, also, also, also, also, also, also, also alsoalso -

”I told her to just show that she's there for you - which she is. She really does care about you, Camilo,” she said, expression shifting to worry as she looked at him, ”Are you alright? Camilo, breathe with me,” she stood up to crouch in front of him, hands on his knees, ”In and out. Slowly, now. Like I'm breathing.”

He couldn't, though, not when he was dying. Not when his heart was beating out of his chest, definitely more than it should - enough for him to hear it vaguely, a thump thump thump - and when he couldn't breathe, his lungs refusing to cooperate just as his heart was. His chest refusing to cooperate.

The hands on his knees grounded him, along with her soft-spoken words - in a way, it helped take him outside his head, a reminder of the world around him. Eventually, his breathing had slowed, along with his heart, to quick breathing rather than panting, like it had been before.

”I'm good,” he said after a while, ”I'm good.”

Miss Cortez didn't look like she believed him, even as she sat back on her chair; the worried look was persistent. ”Camilo,” she said, after a while, ”How long have you been having panic attacks?”

”Panic attacks?” he said, confused, racking his brain for any memory of that - none, except for when Miss Cortez had said it one time prior. ”What are panic attacks? I've never heard of those before, sorry.”

”Panic attacks,” Miss Cortez replied calmly, ”is something that might happen to people with anxiety, which I suspect your mother passed onto you genetically. They have moments of high anxiety, which causes a reaction in their bodies. Heavy breathing, for instance. We don't know much yet but we suspect that humans have dealt with this for centuries, even if it was recently discovered.”

So there he was, leaning against its walls heavily - ignoring the bricks sticking out in an attempt to communicate with him - and breathing far too quickly for it to be normal. She can't know, she can't know, his thoughts were racing, leaving him to only picking up a few select words, gah, you've failed. Failure. Failure. Failure.

Camilo had never thought much about his weird breathing moments. They didn't really matter, anyway, since it didn't happen that much - although, it definitely had happened more recently. Camilo's first one had been when he was 11, anyway, so he was used to it. It didn't matter much.

”And you think,” he said, trying to keep a happy, light tone, ”that I have those? Panic attacks? I don't understand, why? I just have, like, breathing issues. It's fine,” despite his attempt at denial, ”And what's ancety, whatever you said.”

Miss Cortez leveled him with a look that made it very clear she didn't believe him, left no doubt, ”Anxiety can be a feeling of worry but for some, it's a disorder. A state of mind, and it impacts their wellbeing very much. Do you recognize that? In yourself, or your mother?”

”Mami definitely has that,” he replied, ignoring the other thing. Sure, he did but he couldn't just say that. It didn't matter anyway, ”She's worried about something, like, all the time. Well, you know that too with the weather and all,” he chuckled nervously, ”Is she getting help with that? She should.”

The look in her eyes almost made him nervous. ”I don't know, Camilo. We're not talking about her right now either. We're talking about you.”

Camilo didn't know what to say. Talking about himself? Everybody knew he hated doing that.  No matter how anybody phrased it, it always seemed like being self-centered. When they were younger, he and Mirabel had ’Camilo-days’ and ’Mirabel-days’. On his days, they talked about him. That was the rule. Only, he never followed that very well. Camilo simply hated talking about himself.

Especially his... well, issues. Camilo would always deflect, because there were certain expectations of him. There always were, so Camilo didn't open up and he didn't talk about himself, even a little. Because ’a little’ was too much, too.

”I'm really bad at talking about me,” he joked, chuckling, ”It's so boring, I always start talking about other people. I used to,” he hesitated before continuing, ”I mean, Mirabel and I used to have ’Camilo-days’ and ’Mirabel-days’ for who was the star of that day, who we would talk about. I never talked about myself anyway, she had to correct me all the time to keep me on track.”

She snorted - which was the closest he had ever gotten to amusing her; yes! - and said, ”People can be quite different. Some love talking about themselves, others stray away from it as much as they can,” she nodded, ”It's actually affected by our upbringing. Many things are. So, this tells me a lot about how you grew up.”

Fuck, he thought, annoyed. He hadn't meant to prove any point of hers. He had meant to do the opposite, really; make a short joke, that she would never take seriously. He should have known, though, that she would. She seemed to take everything he said seriously, somehow.

”Yeah, pretty good,” he said, trying not to sound as nervous as he was, ”They didn't want me to turn out self-centered, you know? I've got to say, it worked,” he chuckled nervously, sweat gathering when she continued to look at him the same way, ”Now that I'm older, I can appreciate my family for doing that.”

She nodded and wrote something down in a way that made him want to look, ”Camilo, would you say your family helped raise you together? That it wasn't just your parents, as it would usually be?”

Would saying yes be bad? Sure, it was the truth but if it was somehow the wrong answer, too, then he didn't want to risk it. He couldn't risk it - things were already bad enough. Or would she know that he was lying if he said no, and take that as the wrong answer too? What answer would she prefer? Camilo couldn't risk it.

”Uh, erm,” he started, wondering how to word this. Should he ask what answer was the right one? Would she like that? ”I don't know.”

That was a horrible answer - that had slipped out - but she only nodded understandingly, ”I'm sorry. I should have thought about how it could make you anxious. You've already shown anxiety here, which I want to work on. Let me clarify that there are no wrong answers and the answer I want is the truth. I'm not out to get you, Camilo, which I fear you might believe,” he was quick to shake his head, ”I just want to help you.”

”The first one. My whole familia has basically raised me, with Mami and Papi,” he said as soon as she stopped speaking, ”and I know, that you want to help me. I just don't need help, that's the thing. I'm fine.”

Why didn't she believe him? His whole life, everybody had thought he was fine no matter what he did, it felt like. Before he had even been excellent at hiding it. So what made her think she could waltz into his life and put a Not Fine on it?

What if she didn't clear him? With the way things were heading, she was bound to force him to continue talking with her. He couldn't do that, not as their happy Madrigal who had promised to make their therapist wonder how anybody could ever think he needed therapy. He wasn't living up to his promise.

How wasn't he living up to his promise? He had walked in there fairly confident, joking and grinning. Everybody was supposed to think he was fine, how couldn't she? Had she not heard people talk about the happy Madrigal and understood that nothing could touch that smile? How hadn't she?

Was it his fault, him simply not seeming happy enough for her to believe?

”Camilo, I want to believe you,” she said, not breaking eye contact, ”but I'm going to be honest, it's hard to. You haven't opened up to me at all, and I've been a therapist for long enough to understand why that is. I'm educated in mental health, you see, and in helping people.” 

She couldn't help him, though. Nobody could. She couldn't help a queer, for instance - couldn't help anyone like him. Camilo doubted there was anything in psychology for queers like him, to fix him. Instead, he had to fix himself.

But how? Did he need to give himself time, or make his brain understand that queerness was wrong? Should he force himself to a relationship with a girl, like kissing more of them? Should he tell somebody, who could help?

”In all my time here, I never thought we would be punished with queerness. I assumed - hoped - we were immune,” said Abuela, sighing, everybody nodding in agreement as she spoke. ”I suppose those people will find a way to ruin everything.”

Obviously not that last one.

”There is something, actually,” he said quickly, feeling as if he might explode if he didn't say something, ”I guess. But could you, ah, keep a secret?”

Her expression didn't give much away but he could tell she was happy, ”I have patient discretion which means, yes, I can keep a ’secret’. Mostly, at least. If there was anything dangerous to your or anyone's safety, I would have to tell someone. Your parents, for instance. But other than that potential situation, no.”

”You heard about Tomás Cabrera being a...” he lowered his voice to a whisper, ”a queer?” she nodded confused and his voice came back to its usual volume, ”Well, I know another one. I've been afraid to tell people, and now I don't know what to do.”

He wasn't sure if it was about him or Cris - Cortez. Both would be bad, because he was a Madrigal and Cortez was her niece. He had to stay anonymous either way. Being queer was dangerous and somehow, despite how sick in the head she is, Camilo still cared about Cortez.

But she continued, still keeping that tight grip on his ruana, ”I know it sounds a bit insane? I thought I was sick at first, too- part of me still does- but,” she paused, letting go off him now, ”but I've made sense of it, and you should too. We're queer, Camilo-”

Caring about Cortez was dangerous.

”You should do what feels best,” Miss Cortez said, voice calm but her eyes were wide and there had been a moment of hesitation, ”This must feel hard, Camilo, and you shouldn't make it any harder. I can't tell you what to do, not if I don't know any more.”

Could he even risk it, telling her more? What if she saw through him and realized that he was queer right now? That he was sick in the head? Camilo was sure that it was dangerous enough for her to tell his parents. He couldn't let that happen. Mami and Papi couldn't know, they had to stay out of it.

”It's not like they're proud of it, they're ashamed,” he said, deciding to try and talk about himself - maybe she would know what to do. ”It's not permanent for them, being queer. They're not that far gone yet. I want to help them, but I just don't know how.”

Camilo wasn't far gone. At least he was self aware - which he doubted many queers were - so he'd like to say that he could still be saved, brought back to normal. Not all queers were queer their whole lives, surely, and he was one of them. He could become normal. Right?

”Camilo, you shouldn't put too much pressure on yourself,” Miss Cortez told him, ”You can not force this person to stop being queer. We suspect that's a part of them and their brains. We don't know much, of course. Psychology only has theories -”

Camilo interrupted her, asking, ”Are there books on psychology in the library?”

He might find something on queerness. God knows - well, not literally; he hoped God didn't actually know - he needed it. A cure, even if it was just a theory he would have to put to the test. Camilo was getting increasingly desperate.

”There should be some, yes,” Miss Cortez replied slowly, ”But if you're looking for any mention of queerness, I doubt it. Remember that we only have books from the 19th century. The 1890s at the latest. And they wouldn't have mentioned queerness, I'm sorry,” he deflated and Miss Cortez sighed, ”You can't help this person, Camilo.”

But he had to. He would never survive in this world if he was forever queer, wanting to kiss boys. That was disgusting, why couldn't his brain understand that? Surely, it wasn't hopeless? Him understanding that it was disgusting must have meant something good for his sickness. That it was still curable.

Camilo was a Madrigal, he couldn't be queer forever. He had to marry a girl.

”But I have to,” he said, failing to hide the desperation in his voice, ”There has to be something. This person isn't that far gone yet. They can be cured. They're disgusted with themselves right now,” he admitted, only using ’they’ as a disguise, ”and they didn't even really tell me. I just found out.”

He wasn't far gone like Cortez, who had admitted to her queerness openly and proudly, showing just how sick she was. He wasn't like that; he was deeply ashamed, as he should. Unlike Cortez, he could be saved. Camilo believed that, he had to.

”5 minutes left,” Miss Cortez said, looking like she wanted to say something else. She sighed, ”Camilo, I understand wanting to save a friend. But I think that the best way to help this person,” she leaned closer from her chair, ”is to tell your Abuela and have them sent away with Tomás Cabrera.”

She didn't understand. So, Camilo didn't say anything for the rest of the 5 minutes.

When he sat down at the dinner table, in the form of Isabela next to the actual Isabela, Papi asked ”Which one of you is Camilo?” to which they both pointed at him, ”Ah, Camilo. You really like being Isabela, don't you?”

Actually, no. He never had. Being Isabela used to mean expectations that he had shifted into her to avoid. Now it still wasn't much better; there were less expectations, sure, but the amount of guys who liked Isabela certainly hadn't changed. Guys would still go up to him, in her form, and ask him out. It was annoying, when he just wanted to be Isabela and have simple fun.

One time, Camilo had gone on a date with Mariano The Bobo as Isabela. That hadn't been fun - it was why he doubted the guy so much, when he had liked Isabela so much - and ever since then, he was barely ever Isabela. Not unless it was for a request from one of the niños.

The only reason he was Isabela right now was because it was the only option left. The thing with one of these days was that he liked to shift a lot, so nobody would know it was him beneath the disguise. It was also nice to try being multiple people.

”Ay, I don't discriminate,” he joked, ”I like being all Isabelas and non-Isabelas equally,” Papi snorted but Isabela only rolled her eyes so he turned to her and said, ”Hey, you should be appreciating this! You can see yourself at all times, this is your dream!”

Isabela had probably been about to respond - call him stupid, roll her eyes - but that was when Mami strolled in, holding a plate of her own, and she took one look at them and said, ”Let me guess. Camilo is the one on the left?” in response, Camilo shifted into her, feeling himself growing taller, ”Ay, Camilo. It's so complicated when you're other people. Just be yourself.”

Camilo couldn't help himself; he burst into another fit of laughter, confusing Mami and Isabela while Papi only sighed. ”That's the opposite of what I usually hear,” he wheezed out, ”I'm a shapeshifter, not being myself... it's my thing!”

Camilo laughed so hard that that his form fell, shifting back into himself for the first time in hours, but he was laughing too hard to take much notice of that or everyone else around him, giving him confused looks.

When Antonio stepped in - a coatimundi on his shoulder - he first grinned, which turned into laughter. ”I don't know what's so funny,” he told Dolores innocently, still laughing, ”I just like laughing with Camilo!”

Camilo pulled Antonio into a hug, ”Mami said the funniest thing,” he told the rest of them, recovering now, and he shifted into Mami as he continued, ”Just be yourself. Which is the opposite of my gift - that always cracks me up.”

”Ay, Camilito,” Abuela said, fondly for some reason, and she held him close as she kissed his forehead, holding him as if he were her nieto and not her mija at the moment. ”Your happiness never fails to cheer us up,” she sighed, resting her head on his, ”If only we could use it now. I have bad news, familia. Gather around, gather around!”

Within seconds, they were all at their seats and looking up at her. ”What is it, Abuela?” Mirabel asked when she had been silent for far too long, ”Estas bien?”

”Sí, sí,” Abuela said, taking a deep breath before continuing, ”I have made my decision, regarding the... situation,” Camilo stopped breathing, couldn't, ”We will send Tomás Cabrera away within two weeks. I just had to go inform the boy's parents - poor things, they were distraught. They insisted that there must be a cure,” she sighed, ”Shame. There is no cure for... queerness.”

There must be, right? Maybe Tomás Cabrera couldn't be saved, but he could. Surely, he had only been queer for... Well, he was unsure on how long but he was at least self-aware, which was rare. And good, it was very good. It was good that he was aware about being disgusting, since that would help cure him.

The silence was broken when Antonio asked, ”What's queerness?”

That only created more silence, a tense one. Nobody wanted to answer that question, to tell a 5-year-old what queerness is. Maybe he should do that? What if he talked about it and suddenly everybody could tell that he was queer? It wasn't even his job, their padres or Abuela should do that. 

How do you even possibly define queerness? It was an illness in the head, sure, that caused you to like the same gender as your own but how do you tell a 5-year-old that? Wouldn't Antonio want the why, which none of them had? Want the how, which they didn't have either? There was so much they didn't know.

Nobody wanted to take on the task, judging on the persistently uncomfortable silence. Briefly, Camilo was about to; screw the what-if because somebody needed to answer, but he stopped himself. The what-if was the worst case scenario, which occasionally came true. Nobody could find out that he was queer - they would send him away.

Right? Would they send him away, if they knew? They were disgusted by queer people but on the other hand, he was their family member. Their mijo, their hermano, their nieto, their sobrino, their primo... Could they really just send him away that easily? He would hope that he was too important for that. But he was also queer, their queer family member.

”Queerness, Antonio,” Papi said eventually, pale and refusing to meet the boy's gaze - or anyone's, for that matter. ”is... Well, it's awful,” they all nodded in agreement, ”It's an ilness. In the head. A mental illness, that we don't know much about. It's when a person is attracted to their own gender. A man, liking another man.”

For a reason Camilo couldn't understand, Antonio's eyes turned to him. It wasn't a brief glance, or the way Antonio often looked at him when he wanted him to say something; it was different. If he didn't know any better, he would say there was a certain knowing in Antonio's eyes. That was ridiculous, though. Antonio couldn't know.

Yet Antonio kept looking, even as Camilo met his gaze. It changed when their eyes met, because it was like Antonio was trying to tell him something. Are you... A question, but he couldn't understand the last part. The last word, defining the whole question. 

”Tomás Cabrera is one. The first one the Encanto has had,” Mami said, cloud above her head, ”I know it's scary, Toñito, but we won't let anything happen to you. Madrigals are immune, I promise,” they all nodded in agreement, but Antonio didn't seem scared. He seemed confused, still staring at him. ”and after the boy is sent away, there will be no more.”

Wondering if Antonio perhaps wanted his comfort, Camilo smiled at him and said, ”Every species has an exception. A black sheep. You were just telling us about that yesterday, remember? This is like that - Tomás Cabrera is our exception.”

Antonio just shook his head.

Why did he do that? Why did Antonio shake his head, as if he didn't believe that to be true? Why was he still looking at him like he knew something? Could it be that - no. No, that was ridiculous; Antonio couldn't know anything. He had hidden it. Nobody knew.

”Yes,” she whispered back and pulled him to the side, into the hallway. And there they stood, in awkward silence, until she continued - in her normal volume. ”Camilo, I don't really know how to say this but I suppose, that if,” he dreaded what she had to say next and clearly, judging by the look in her eyes, did she, ”that if you were... well... queer-”

Fine, Dolores had a brief suspicion. She didn't know anything, though. Nobody did; that was an important distinction. She had only briefly wondered due to what she had heard with Cristal, but he had set her straight immediately. She now believed that he was normal just like everybody else did.

”Exactly,” Abuela agreed, looking just a bit awkward - she likely hadn't expected having to teach Antonio about queerness. ”The Encanto is still safe, I assure you. We are the Madrigals,” she held up her glass, followed by the rest of them as they simultaneously exclaimed, ”La Familia Madrigal!”

Camilo spent the rest of his evening as Dolores, walking through town and thanking God that nobody could recognize him as anybody else.

When he was younger, his forms had been imperfect. There were still few who could tell - Mami was included in that small list, mothers' instinct telling her exactly which one was him - but then he had grown, practicing more and more until only one person was on that list; Rodríguez.

At first he had hoped that he would become perfect enough that not even Rodríguez could tell; that hope had been born years ago, though, and was no closer to coming true. He had asked Rodríguez once, why he could always tell.

”Good question,” Diego said, turning his head slightly to look up at his face, ”I don't know. I suppose it's, like, your eyes. That's how I always know,” Diego shifted in his lap to be able to meet his gaze, despite their position, ”Your eyes are always your eyes. There's something with it. I can't explain it.” he laughed, a beautiful sound that spurred him on, ”Sorry, is that creepy?”

At least he didn't see Di - Rodríguez around town much, since the guy helped his madre so often at her cafe. Back when they were friends, he used to go to the cafe when he didn't have any chores just to talk to Rodriguez - looking so cute in that apron - occasionally even getting free food. He didn't go to the cafe anymore.

”Dolores!” somebody called out and he turned around - he was the only Dolores around, after all. It had to be him, right? - to see Cortez, running up to him.

What was she doing? Cortez and Dolores weren't friends, they had no reason to talk. Was it about him - the only Madrigal that Cortez knew. They had nothing to talk about, though. Not anymore, not ever again. Camilo couldn't, what did she want? To tell his hermana that her brother was a queer?

She had been right, saying that he was queer too. Cortez - whether he liked it or not, and he certainly didn't - had the problem that he wished he had; liking to kiss girls. Did she want to tell Dolores that, ruin his relationship with her more? She couldn't take his hermana away from him, damnit. Not the one person who cared about him.

Dolores stared at him, eyes widened, for a while until she pulled him into a hug and said, ”Camilo,” with such a tone that, for a short while, he wished she was his madre instead, much to his embarrassment because she's your sister! ”Your thing could be whatever you share with the familia.”

When was the last time Mami had hugged him, held him as if he was something precious? Well, Camilo had been the baby; years ago, before the baby in her stomach came out, he had been her baby. He had been the baby, and now Antonio took up that role - perhaps even better than he had.

Dolores, though? She hugged him now, when he wasn't anybody's baby. Yet she still hugged him as if he was her baby brother. Camilo didn't understand it, but he wasn't about to lose it. To answer Miss Cortez's question; yes, they were close. They were still close to this day and he couldn't lose that.

”Don't start your crap,” he told Cortez harshly once she was close, watching her eyes widen, ”Yeah, it's me. Camilo. What do you want?” he stepped closer to whisper, ”Tell my sister that you think I'm a queer? Ruin my life one-by-one? If you do that, I'll ruin yours. Tell everyone that you're a queer. Okay?”

Cortez sighed, whispering as well, ”I wasn't going to. I just wanted to ask Dolores about where you were. I wanted to talk, I swear. Not ruin your life, I would never,” she attempted to reach out but he shook her hands away, ”I still care about you, Camilo.”

As if she was still capable of caring about someone; she was probably too far gone in her sickness to actually care about other people. Either way, having a queer care about you wasn't a compliment - it probably made you an accomplice.

But Camilo couldn't deny that some part of him - a small part of him, deep down - still cared about Cortez. Or the Cristal that he had known, the Cristal that had confronted him about Papi and let him help with her homework. His best friend, the girl he had dated for months before deciding that being called a couple was annoying. She hadn't been a queer, not really.

”Yeah no,” she repeated, ”Good explanation of it. I don't really want to date anyone, I guess. Well, not you or any of the other annoying guys, at least. There must be something wrong with me because you're the only guy I tolerate yet I still don't want to date you,” she said with another laugh, ”Maybe we're just not made to date? That'd explain things.”

That Cristal hadn't really been queer, she had been his best friend. Cortez was and he refused to believe they were the same people at heart.

”You are a queer,” he said, practically hissing out the last word, ”You're not capable of caring about anyone, Cortez,” she seemed to deflate, looking up at him uncertainly, ”You're just too far gone. Don't give me that bullshit.”

He couldn't save her, could he? If she was far gone enough to think that queerness, of all things, was okay then she was beyond curing. Probably, he wasn't sure. She wouldn't want a cure, anyway, but damnit. He wanted to try.

She had been his best friend, perhaps the one who knew him the most - why couldn't she had been normal, so that they could be friends forever? If Camilo was going to cure himself, why couldn't he cure her too? How did she even become that mad, naturally? Or did it happen eventually, the longer you knew you were queer?

How long had she known? And, a question he didn't understand, why didn't she tell me? Why would she? By then, she might have been sane enough to understand queerness was a bad thing, like she had said. He wishes she trusted him enough, but he understood. Camilo wouldn't have told her either.

”Is that really what you think?” she asked weakly, voice cracking, ”That I'm some sicko, incapable of feeling anything other than my attraction to girls?” despite it being a question, she didn't wait for an answer before continuing, slowly regaining strength as she spoke, ”Camilo, you know what you feel.”

”Lo siento, pero...” she said, tears gathering in her eyes, ”When it happened, I observed you. To see if it was just me- because you didn't seem to be very into girls either,” he wanted to deny it, but his brain could not find the words, as if they were hiding from him, ”and when we had that talk about not liking girls and boys respectively and I had the thought, what if you're into boys like I'm clearly into girls? Just think about it-”

He hated that she had been right. He supposed that their conversation, about not liking people romantically, had new context now - one that she had realized before he could. Had that really been what it was, his queerness peeking through before he had even started wondering if it was there? Had being friends with her been so easy because they were both a couple of queers?

”I know that you're sick!” he whispered in an angry tone - whisper yelled. ”You're projecting your fault, your sickness, onto me! I'm not some queer!” please, he thought, don't see that I'm lying. ”I'm not like you!”

Her lips on his, disgustingly warm and wet, determinedly pressing against his mouth, larger than hers so he could feel the edges of her lips. Rosa's lips did all the awful things for them as he stood there, unresponsive, with his eyes wide open while hers were closed, and his jaw set tight enough to hurt.

”Why would that be such a bad thing?” she asked, ”Being like me? Sure, maybe I'm sick in the head but this sin,” she gestured to herself, ”feels good. Sins don't feel like that. People in this town want to send a damn child away for thinking - thinking that boys are cute! And we're the bad ones?”

The thought of sending Tomás away made his stomach crawl. What would he do out there, in the danger? Had they thought of that or was this a death sentence? Camilo knew that queers had been killed for being queer before, but he had never thought that it would happen in the Encanto. Tomás was just a child, who hadn't reached his full height and never would now. How could anyone be okay with that, sending a child off to die?

For daring to think that boys are cute?

Don't get him wrong, it was awful but Tomás was a child. Could anyone at that age be beyond a cure? Camilo understood that the Cabreras had been upset; that was their niño, damnit, being sent to die. Of course they wanted a cure, because a child surely couldn't be beyond cure.

He shouldn't judge Abuela, though. What else could she do? No cure had been discovered yet, so he couldn't blame them. They hadn't tried, though, had they? The Cabreras were the only ones pushing for a cure.

”Yes. You are,” he said, careful not to reveal anything - Cortez couldn't know she had been right. ”You kissed a girl, don't you understand that? It's disgusting, wanting to do that sort of stuff to your own gender. That is why Tomás Cabrera is being sent away, who cares if he's just a child?”

Cortez sniffed, ”Guys want to do worse than kissing to girls,” she pointed out, ”and nobody cares about that. I know you do, though. Don't give me that bullshit, Camilo; I know that you are more like me than you want to be. Tomás Cabrera is a child, and you care about that. I know you do.”

”I'm not like that -”

”You're not?” Cortez interrupted, meeting his glare with one of her own, ”You're telling me that you want Rosa - who's been looking for you all day, by the way - to find you? That isn't why you've been someone else all day, sneaking around? You telling me you're not hiding from her so you can avoid rejecting her again? Cut the crap, Camilo!”

Camilo had seen her around town, asking others where he was. Not to mention the time that she had asked him directly, as Mirabel. One time, she had even came close to asking him again - as papi - but he had fled. He didn't want to see her, didn't want to talk to her.

Rosa nodded and asked, ”Yes, has he talked about me at all?” he must have given her a look, because she quickly added, ”I know how it sounds, but I'm worried! This is my chance to date Camilo!” she misunderstood his wide eyes and added, ”Yes, I know! He's your primo, but I really like him!” she sighed and practically deflated, voice unsure as she asked, ”Do I have your permission, Mirabel?”

Camilo imagined himself dating Rosa: kissing her warm, small lips again; walking around in town with her, her hand in his; having to talk about Rosa at dinner, enduring the familia's cooing; sitting in bed with her, locking lips as her hands wandered...

He shuddered.

At least there was one thing, that made it worth it; nobody could think he was queer. Not Dolores, not the chicos. Would that make it worth it, though? Was there anything that could? Hearing that he had kissed Rosa, their suspicions would be gone...

Maybe it could even help cure him, dating Rosa - which he didn't want to do, but that was the point. If he dated her, he could find fun in it; start liking her that way. Nobody could say he was queer if he was dating a girl, especially not one like Rosa. Rosa wasn't like Cortez.

”I need to go,” he said, leaving quickly before she could stop him.

For the first time the whole day, he was himself. Goosebumps rose, his stomach danced without permission, but he ignored it; he was going to burn up the suspicions, the wondering, after all. No more rumors, no more awkward glances.

Everybody was going to know that Camilo Madrigal wasn't a queer.

Maybe that way, he would cure himself by growing to enjoy a relationship with Rosa - it would take time but what did he have if not time? It was worth it, had to be. Anything was better than being queer forever, really, and being sent off to die.

When he saw Mirabel he rushed up to her, not caring that she was with her amigas. ”Mira, hey,” he said quickly, not even bothering to smile back at her, ”Do you know where Rosa is? Rosa Morales?” Mirabel's eyes widened while her amigas snickered, whispering to each other, ”Vamos! Where is she?”

”Over there,” Mirabel replied slowly, pointing to town center, frowning unlike the smiling amigas behind her, ”She's still looking for you, you know. Seemed to think she asked my permission for something, weirdly enough,” he hated the look in her eye, ”I thought you were -”

He didn't stay to listen - it was just another assumption, after all, and there was only one assumption left that she should have - as he sprinted up to town center, hoping that he looked desperate enough. It was better than the deep dread he felt creeping up into his stomach, nearing his throat.

In town center, near the fountain, stood Rosa. She was smiling awkwardly as she listened to Señora Pezmuerto, long hair tied into a bun at the top of her head held up with flowers. Other guys were eyeing her appreciatively but as Rosa turned around, her eyes were only on him.

”Camilo!” she called out, starting to run before purposefully slowing down into a stride, light purple dress fluttering behind her. She's pretty beautiful I guess, Camilo thought. ”Hola!”

Camilo tried to smile back but he found that he couldn't, ”Hola,” he replied instead, nodding at her, ”I heard that you've been looking for me.”

Rosa looked down, embarrassed - good, he thought, making me hide from you all day, making me by myself right now when I'm so ugly - and spoke quietly, ”Perdón. If it made you uncomfortable, or something, but I just had to -”

Camilo kissed her.