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Camilo Madrigal knew of a lot of people. He had to . His gift was shapeshifting , twisting and morphing 'till his face was unrecognizable and the body he was occupying was distinctly not his. It didn’t matter, his body never really felt like his own these days anyway. He wasn’t sure if he even belonged in it, if the crawling in his skin and twisting in his gut was normal, if the unreality of his own reflection, the foreign twisting feeling of it was unusual. He didn’t think about any of it. So yeah, he knew of a lot of people. He couldn't say he knew a lot of people, though.
He simply studied them well enough to morph their features into his own, practicing in front of the pretty mirror in his room. He didn't know these people's life stories or passions or personalities. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. They didn’t know him either, didn’t want him at all, just modeled for him, a quick in and out situation to benefit everyone, they needed his gift, not his friendship. It got lonely sometimes. He tried not to think on it too hard. Didn’t really think he deserved much more than he could offer anyway.
Elonzo Vergara was no exception to this rule. Camilo knew of him too. Just barely. He knew he was Mira's best friend, he knew he was his age and he knew he had long hair. Not nearly enough to even shapeshift, and yet Camilo had an undeniably huge crush on him. Which he would take to the grave , so stop meddling, Dolores e Isa.
Camilo was pretty happy going on like this. His day was pretty routine. Wake up,stare at the mirror for just a little too long - for no reason, no, none at all because everything was fine, he was fine - eat breakfast, steal off his sister’s plate, help abuela around the house, go to the village and play with the kids, wonder why Juancho seemed to hate him so much and, if he was lucky, spend some time with Mira.
Camilo was pointedly not happy when he heard a new, male voice entering the house. He knew that voice. He hated himself for the way he rounded the corner, hiding behind one of the many old creaky closets that adorned Casita. He hated himself for the way he peeped just to have the breath knocked out of him because Elonzo was wearing his hair down.
It was unfair, really, that he was that pretty. Tight curls,the colors of honey, mahogany wood and roasted coffee all spilling down his shoulders and onto his back as he shook his head back to tie it in his red bow. It was honestly, truly appalling how his neck arched back so soft and elegantly, revealing the crook of his shoulder and graceful collarbone, seriously, how the fuck did he have a graceful collarbone, honestly, it was just excessive at that point. Not to mention his warm, tawny skin and his stupidly thin fingers with the rose colored tips that danced as they threaded through his silky hair. He wondered if they were soft. His eyes were crinkled up, caught in a smile - and god, what a smile it was - showing off his amber eyes, shiny and gleeful as he pushed Mirabel to the side, Camilo wished he would look at him like that. Then, he laughed , the sound making its way through every corner, crack and crevice, filling him with warmth and he knew that’s the kind of sound poets wrote about and Gods fought about.
That’s when Elonzo turned around and Camilo thinks he’s never blushed so hard in his whole life . Not when Isa’s friend asked to hold his hand when they were ten, not when María from over the mountains kissed his cheek goodbye at twelve, not at his first proper kiss with Gabriel at thirteen, not even when he got asked out by Pedro and Dani. He nodded, making the executive decision to fucking bolt out of there.
Casita, on the other hand, is a filthy traitor and seemed to have other plans.
“Hi, ‘Milo.” Elonzo was talking. He was talking to him. He called him ‘Milo. Ay Dios, he called him ‘Milo.
Ay Dios, ay madre mía, okay, he had to play it safe, keep calm, act cool. He could be cool! Yeah, super cool, cool as a cucumber. Antonio said he was the coolest person he knew after Luisa! Which, fair, it was Luisa, for crying out loud. Meaning , meaning that he was almost as cool as Luisa, so he could do this, he’d do amazing, just had to say hi. Just say hola, Cami.
“Hi, I’m bisexual, I mean gay, I mean. Um. You’re pretty…” maybe he was not, in fact, as cool as Luisa, “cute, yeah, you’re pretty cute. Wait, no, wait no, I mean you’re pretty cool, not that you’re not pretty! You’re um, yeah.”
That could’ve gone better.
Thus, he found himself face to face with a way-too amused Elonzo, a cackling Mirabel and the sinking realization that his soul died and he’d have to take his twelve year old not-really-girlfriend María, from over the mountains up on her offer and run away, change his name and live under her bed. He’d always wanted to travel so why not. Surely it’s viable. Somehow.
Maybe he should tell Mirabel, she’d sorta understand, maybe. He turned to where she was standing, leaning on Elonzo filled with mirth, completely ready to tell her he was leaving to live a quiet life as a hermit outside of Encanto and to not put a plate for him at dinner. Instead all that came out was a stuttering, embarrassed.
“Mátame.”
She did not, in fact, put him out of his misery. Casita seemed to be having way too much fun with this too, gluing his feet to the floor, he was pretty sure Isa and Lore were peeking behind some corner too but he was honestly too mortified to care about anything but the sweet release of death right now.
What he didn’t expect was for Elonzo to lean over, smiling so softly, so gently - the kind of smile that made him weak in the knees, heart fluttering happily - and tuck a little yellow dandelion behind his ear, kissing his cheek - what’s truly incredible is that he didn’t combust right there and then - with a sweet smile.
“It’s okay, I think you’re very pretty yourself, ‘Milo.”
With that, Mirabel, seemingly having enough of the whole scene turned around with a wave and walked away, Elonzo happily trailing behind her with his own blush - which was somehow so much gentler and prettier than his own and how did he manage to look cool while blushing.
Still, the compliment sparked something in him, something very akin to confidence. He thinks it had been a while since someone had genuinely complimented him . It felt a little bit like wanting. He smiled and this time it was something quieter, softer, more content, you’re something more the words echoed, translating themselves in his head.
That night, Camilo, somehow still blushing - which Isa, Mira and Lore were never letting go - he put the flower in a small blue vase beside his bed, it was a pretty little thing, shining brightly with tints of yellow, reflecting the setting sun on it’s soft petals, something about it looked just like Elonzo.
The next day, his routine was just slightly different, he thinks he might have been a little braver when looking at his not-quite-him reflection, daring to morph his hair into something slightly longer and wearing one of Isa’s old skirts. He really liked it, he hoped he could go out looking like that one day. Still not-quite-him but a little more than before. At breakfast, he still stole from his sister’s plate, he still dusted for his abuela - he dared call her abuelita this time, surprised by her warm smile and pleased chuckle - but that afternoon he kept and extra eye out for Juancho and made sure to pay a quick visit to Mirabel and Elonzo by the river.
He didn’t want to think too hard on the change but it felt nice. Warm. So he didn’t ponder, just letting himself feel warm, he thinks he might’ve deserved it.