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petrichor
Loving Pepa came as naturally as breathing.
Other things didn’t.
false prophet
They’re sitting under one of the apple trees in an orchard that Pepa’s responsible for keeping watered, except she’s not doing that now. Instead, the sun is blinding, and Félix is hoisting her up, his arms wrapped around her writing back as he looms over her, their lips locked together.
showers
His lips hung heavy beneath her, her fingers writing inflamed poetry across his skin, and he thinks that this is where it begins—that of course, Adam took the apple from Eve, what is eternal life in comparison to a woman’s love?
Félix isn’t a very religious man; he’s never trusted priests and he has no need nor interest in prying salvation from the hands of a being that’s supposed to know everything and yet still lets children hop around on one leg, lets men tend stalls even as burn scars snarl up their quivering hands. If there’s a God up there, it’s a God that Félix has strong words for.
But that doesn’t mean that Félix hasn’t read the Bible in search of feelings he can’t explain but know more intimately than drawing breath on a cool night.
hurricane
When Adam bit down on the apple, he did it because he trusted Eve. Because he loved her, Adam bit into the apple because the woman he loved above anything else—a literal part of himself removed—told him to, no matter what God said. No matter the rules of Heaven. What's Heaven to a woman's love anyways? He would sit in Hell forever if he got to do it next to Pepa.
He would trudge into the deepest pits just to keep her warm, just to hear her laugh rumble against his chest.
What's God to your wife? To your life?
The first sin of humanity wasn't the lust for knowledge, the crunch of apple against teeth: it was trust. Eve trusted the snake, Adam trusted Eve and Félix trusted Pepa. Maybe that's a sin, maybe everything those evil nuns tried to beat into his head is true, maybe everyone's right and maybe they're nothing but dirty sinners.
Maybe his urge to kiss Pepa really does offend God, maybe they shouldn't be standing outside of a church, umbrellas shaking. If his love offends God, it’s not a God that Félix wants to give a single second of devotion.
But what's God to a woman's love? What's Heaven got that he can't find in the eye of the storm, find sitting next to her on a cool autumn morning, a cup of tea in his hand, outstretched towards her.
Saying his vows in a hurricane, his hands clutched against the love of his life's wrists, holding onto her like a railing, he tasted the seeds at the back of his mouth, staining his teeth.
And he knows that he doesn’t regret a single damn thing.
tornado
Life is short, and Félix keeps this from his children until he can't. Life is short, and Félix's father died at thirty-four and it wasn't an accident like the newspaper said. Life is short, and Félix knows that he's shortening his in a thousand, ill-advised but delicious ways, and he thinks that as he swirls a glass of whiskey, trying not to look at Julieta because he knows that if he does, the glass is going to shatter in his hand.
(Again.)
He will too, keep this from his children. Both the drinking and the breaking glasses and the not caring if he walks in the shards when he's sweeping them up. The world is at least fifty percent terrible and the world's always painted Félix as Mr. Fucking Sunshine and later in his life it became literal the Fucking wasn't tacked on by him in rage of never being allowed to be anything else, but instead as a quip in between market stalls—
And Félix never strikes back.
Félix is a strong man. If he wanted to, Félix could cause some real damage. Félix has only ever strayed to violence once, and even thinking about it over a decade later makes him shake and go into the yard to cut thrice the amount of wood Agustín manages to do in a day, in thirty minutes, just enough for the rage to evaporate, not enough for his children to ever think anything's amiss.
(He'll keep telling himself that, even when they're older and they're shooting him cautious glances over dinner, trying to figure out why a seemingly random, insignificant day in February makes their father's smiles crack.)
The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative estimate, and he's going to fight to keep this from his children—they're going to grow up in a sanctuary of pleasant-smelling flowers, sunshine and rainbows after the crops are watered and there's always going to be food on the table and while you might be reprimanded for stealing seconds, your head won't ever bounce against the tiled floors.
For every bird singing on the rooftop, there's someone throwing a stone at it. For every child loved so deeply he doesn't have words to describe it, there's a child bagged and weighted down with stones, sunk in a lake. For every kind touch, there's someone dousing your back in gasoline, so it'll burn better.
His mother never hugged him until the day of his wedding, and that was the last time they ever spoke where she knew his face. She'd never known what to do with him, and how he was someone else's problem. He's glad the dementia took her quickly, leaving her a burning memory. His father carried the anger that all fathers did—Félix does too, and he douses it before it bubbles it over, but he feels it thrum at his skin, and he knows that it only takes one person coming near his children to crack the dam—it's loud and terrible and wrong and his hands drip with red and it lingers for his whole life.
He doesn't know why Encanto thinks he's a good person. He supposes it's because Encanto doesn't know anything about him other than that he's connected to Pepa by a golden string and God help the man who tries to cut it.
As a child, he didn't have the love he needed. And that made him do things. If anything, he wishes that he could take his younger self's head in his hands, cupping warm cheeks in callused palms, and promising him that everything would work out in the end, and when it didn't; he'd have enough that he could be satisfied with his ending.
He'd want to talk about all the love he'd have, how it would finally drown out all the anger, how it would even manage to grow and blossom around the sadness curling around his deepest hurts. How it would drown him, how he would become it, how he would become the love he never got—how he would make sure that no one felt unloved in his house.
A bright shining sun.
He knows he shouldn't have this drink. Yet, on a wet night in February, he clinks his glass with Julieta, and they pretend not to speak each other's languages.
monsoon
Pepa cries, and the crops drown.
Pepa screams, and roofs come off clean.
Pepa collapses to the ground, pulling out her hair and Alma throws open the door, demanding Félix to make it stop. It. Félix has always had a lot of choice opinions on Alma, and he knows damn well that his continued enjoyment of the sunny side of the Madrigal Family hinges on his ability to manage his own wife.
As if she’s a chore.
As if she’s not capable of it herself.
No, that’s not it.
It’s that she’s not allowed to live a natural life, because that’s against the core ethos of Alma: everything has to prop up the Golden Madrigals and Félix bit into the apple, knowing what he was sacrificing, because he would rot anywhere if it was next to Pepa.
But he still thinks about it, and when Alma slams the door shut, Félix thinks about how easy it would be to overpower a sixty-five-year-old woman.
tsunami
Alma’s sitting at the table, her hands folded and a candle that isn’t magic flickering between them. She’s frowning and Félix wonders what Pepa would say to him throwing the kids over his shoulder and taking off. Would she pack their things, or would she cross her arms, watching him from the porch—never moving to stop him, but never reaching out a hand, either?
There’s a pair of perfect thornless roses in a vase, and Félix knows what she’s going to ask before she opens her mouth to speak. He’s heard the rumours around town, and his gaze stays on the vase, a perfect glazed cerulean blue, not a dent or scratch in sight.
Two weeks prior, Mirabel had made a wobbly rendition of the family on the side of handmade vase. It veered “slightly” to the side, and when Félix had tried to prop a couple daisies in it, they’d fallen out, regardless of how he’d angled them.
Of course, Félix had heard the rumours going around town.
“The Guzmáns are very respectable, Félix,” she spoke, her voice rumbling, “You know that. You understand the importance to the family, right? What this means to Senora Guzmán and I, right?”
Félix nods and thinks about that he doesn’t know where the line is drawn between self-sacrifice and self-slaughter. Félix understood. He understood that Alma enjoyed her role as queen of Encanto, and no one wearing a crown ever comes in peace.
“So,” Alma dips her voice, reminding him of fingers running through a clear stream, “I would appreciate if you could find a way to nip this little problem in the bud.”
Félix is going to handle it in the morning, he knows. He always has, from the jungles, thick bags of cocaine strapped to his back, to the streets of Encanto, to the cold back alley where he found Bruno, where he created one of the few injuries that Julieta never healed, to how he grasped Pepa’s hands in the middle of a hurricane, promising her forever as the wind almost took him away—but he knows he’s going to think about it, too.
Félix isn’t entirely without blame, and he’s going to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night, leaving the warmth of his wife—of everything he’s ever wanted—to sit with his head on his hands on the porch, a glass of abandoned alcohol meant for a wedding next to him, glimmering in the moonlight.
How can he teach his kids a way of being human that won’t entirely destroy them?
He’ll taste the bitter tang of cyanide when he wakes.
clear skies
He’s walking down the street with her, clutching her hand tightly and the overcast sky is no fault of his.
At first, he was incoherent with rage. Now, he’s coherent with rage and the only thing holding him back from strangling Alma with his own two hands, dripping with blood, is that seemingly, everyone else has forgiven her.
And Félix’s never been the one to ruin the good mood.
rainbow
She wraps his name tightly around her ribs and keeps it there, smelling of fresh apple pie as he takes her on the kitchen table, and he feels like a part of his soul has loved her since the beginning of time. Perhaps, they are of the same star. When Death takes his hand, he’s grabbing hers with the other, and he’s giving her one last kiss goodbye, promising to find her in every lifetime.