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Bruno is, to say the least, a mess. In more ways than one.
Not just in a literal sense, though of course you could tell exactly where he’s been in Casita just by the trail he leaves behind. But his mind is messy. It’s cluttered, filled to the brim with information. Of course there are tons of facts about rats, but there’s more than that. He knows the perfect cheese to arepa ratio. He can recite his favorite books in their entirety, with all the inflection and drama of a performer and solely by memory. And Bruno thinks at about a thousand miles a minute. Like he’s taking a running leap from topic to topic, faster than anyone can really keep up.
Once, on one of your walks he plucked a gorgeous flower and tucked it behind your ear, going on and on about, “Yeah, it’s almost as beautiful as you. Of course, it’s poisonous if ingested. Not like, killing you to death of course, but—eh. Oh and look, here's a jaguar’s print. Pretty fresh, too, huh? Yeah, you can tell because—”
It’s easy to notice his quirks when someone talks to him. He’ll start saying one thing, veer off in a tangent, another tangent, and then somehow circle around back to the original thought while the person he’s talking to is still ten steps behind, trying to find some linear progression to the conversation.
The worst part is he knows. Bruno knows that he does it. And he tries to stop, cuts himself off when he realizes he’s gone off topic, or he tapers off when he realizes that their eyes are starting to glaze over. He keeps a little notebook with him and writes the bare minimum of what he’s ‘supposed’ to say in preparation for talking to people.
It affects how he talks to you. One moment he’ll be animated and excited and filled with jittery energy. Then slowly but surely, he’ll stop or trip over his words, look at you as if he’s questioning if you really want to hear him speak at all. As if his cluttered, scattered thoughts don’t lend to the most creative, intertwining stories and conversations. It takes all of your energy to try and politely nudge him back into talking, rather than going out to find everyone that’s ever made him feel like what he has to say doesn’t matter.
But that jittery, excited, scatter-brained energy transfers into physical aspects of himself too.
Bruno shuffles into your shared room and leaves a trail of clothes and papers and trinkets in his wake. Kicks off his chanclas, shucks his ruana and tosses it toward the bed, though it misses by several feet and ends up in the middle of the floor. He pulls some document and an arepa out of his pockets and untucks his shirt in the same motion.
He flutters about in the room; from the bookshelf on one side to the desk on the opposite wall, nearly tripping over the nest of blankets, rugs, and pillows on the floor. Ruffles his hair to try and get sand out of it.
The whole act always seemed to be a ritual for him. A way for Bruno to release all that nervous energy that he accumulates throughout the day, like he’s physically sorting through his mental landscape. He doesn’t really talk, and you don’t really mind. It’s entertaining to watch as he bites the folded paper in his hands before realizing he’s filed away the arepa in his desk drawer instead of the document. And when he swaps them around, you pretend not to notice a rat absconding with the other half of Bruno’s food.
Bruno is truly quite a mess. Odd and strange and special.
He turns his pockets inside-out as he makes his way back to the bookcase. Salt and sugar fall to the floor and he gathers the remains to toss over his shoulder. You take him in, from his bare feet to his wild mop of hair, all the way up to his hands that grasp for something off the top shelf. If your eyes stop briefly on the sliver of skin that shows as his shirt rides up, then no one can blame you.
And you can’t be blamed for the way you laugh to yourself and mutter, “Ay, Bruno. You sure are... something. ”
Bruno blinks. Turns to you and looks in awe, as if he’s just realized you’re there and sprawled on the bed in the mess of pillows and sheets.
“Sorry, uh… Did you say something?”
You simply shake your head, so he goes on. Comes over and sits on the edge of the mattress. Runs his hands over the wrinkles of his pants, picks at a loose thread on your sleeve, holds your hand and traces his thumb over the creases of your palm with his sand-calloused fingers.
Finally, Bruno talks about his day, about helping Isabela re-pot some plants and telling the village children stories with Camilo. About the little silvery fish he saw when peeking over the side of the stone bridge and the way the wind blew through the trees and other little things he can think of. His words slur when you scoot up behind him, legs splayed on either side of his hips, and rub soothing circles into his back and over his shoulders.
When Bruno runs out of words he turns and collapses into you, tucks his head into your shoulder. Together you’re a tangled mess of limbs.
“Are you okay? I know you had some visions today.”
Bruno nods and traces his nose up your neck. His stubble pricks against the sensitive skin of your jaw when he presses his kisses there. Your hands find his hair, massages his scalp, and he melts even more.
“Hmm—yeah. Just tired.” You can feel his lashes tickle your cheek when he closes his eyes. “What were you saying earlier, when you were laughing?”
“I was just saying how much I love you.”