I Dream of Disney (Volume II)

16 - I Remember Bruno (no, no) [Bruno Madrigal x Reader] Part One

Part one: Just The Boy. Not the Prophet.

I can still remember the first time I saw Bruno Madrigal.

There were a lot of small glimpses that I caught of him before that, of course, but this was the first time I ever really saw him. There was a short, swift breeze on that day which stirred up the leaves of the coca tea from the marketplace: I was standing too close and the fine dust got into my eyes. That was all it took. My eyes were watering and my lip was warbling as I cried for my Mama to make it better. Through the haze of tears, my mother's cheeks were blood red as she tried to calm me down and use the edge of her skirt to get the gunk out of my red eyes. My cries were attracting some poor attention from the village elders, who looked at her disapprovingly.

"Conejito," Mama's voice was a soft plea.

Then there was a sudden stifling of whispers and I felt Mama's hands freeze on my cheeks. Uncertain about why she stopped, I almost forgot the pain in my eyes before I saw the figure of a little girl in front of me. She was holding out a buñuelo.

"Eat this," Said the little girl with the big brown eyes. "It will help with the pain."

Mama was whispering something beneath her breath and now could not move. She had fallen back on her knees and was simply staring at the miracle child, the one who was rumored to heal, and the gift. The little girl stirred on her feet uncertainly, leaning on one leg heavily and extending her hand out. Wiping my fist against my stinging eyes, I took it. As soon as I did, the girl ran away into the crowd.

It was fried and light; a doughy food that melted across my tongue. The second that I had swallowed, prepared to take a new bite, the stinging in my eyes disappeared.

"Well?" Mama hesitated.

I wiped my eyes, "All better."

Mama's smile was relieved as she gathered up her skirts and dusted off her clothes. Then she took my arm and started to dust off mine, fixing my hair and rubbing her hands on my face. She was back to her shopping and, tucking me under her arm, kept a close watch on me afterwards. She was humming as she paid for the vegetables, walking peacefully in the warm sunshine and drawing the eye of every person who appreciated beauty. She was the swan and I was her grey-feathered duckling, tucked underwing and watched by the other villagers to see what I would one day become.

Mama had handed me a juice pulp and as I stood sucking the juices from the rinds, I looked up across the market to see the same little girl who had helped me. She was playing with her sister, with the beautiful light hair, and her stunning smile showed how she was affecting the weather: the sunshine was crisp and glowing, turning everything to gold. I started to absently wave at her, not expecting that she would see me, but then I saw that someone had.

He was a small boy with a poof of wild black curls. It was a timid gaze that peered out from around his mother's skirts, while she spoke amicably to the owner of the stall, but the eyes themselves were so green. Greener than anything I could think of. Placing the exact colour was something that would be my task for a great many weeks after I saw him. It was only then, or years later when I had practice of staring into those eyes, that I would find them to be the same green as the fresh mint growing in the orchard.

This boy had seen that I was waving. Apparently uninterested in his sister's games, he decided to stay with his mother instead and was now doing exactly as I was: drinking fruit pulp while Mama watched carefully on the side to see if I would spill on my clothes.

"Hello," I mouthed.

I waved at him.

For a moment, he closed his eyes tightly and put his head against his mother's leg. It seemed like he was trying to blend in and hide. I giggled. For some reason, I liked this funny boy. The ostrich boy.