Chapter Text
“Wow. You really are dying.”
The tall mirrors in Camilo’s room shielded his bed, working as room dividers, and as Mirabel finally slid past the final frame and was greeted by the pathetic sight, she winced in sympathy.
It was no secret that Camilo was sick. Casita had been filled with Pepa’s anxious clouds alongside her panicked rambling about her poor son ever since early morning. Not even tío Félix had managed to calm her down. And while Mirabel had felt a spike of worry herself - she wouldn’t be here otherwise - she also knew that a) poor tía Pepa had a tendency to blow things out of proportion, and b) Camilo took great joy in purposefully being overdramatic.
But with her own investigation, Mirabel found a pale, sniffling Camilo curled up in bed, surrounded by used tissue papers and extra pillows. His usual smirk was twisted into sad pout, and everything about him screamed misery; from the bags under his eyes to the contrast between his freckles and pale skin and the redness across his nose.
His hair, for some inexplicable reason, was blond.
“I’ve never been this sick in my life,” Camilo mumbled, voice distorted by the snotty nose. He let his head fall back against the pillow with a heavy sigh.
Mirabel sat down in the nearby armchair, raising a somewhat impressed eyebrow at the scene in front of her. “And here we all thought you were being dramatic about it.”
Camilo opened his mouth for a snotty reply - but then his whole face twitched and morphed from the sudden impact of a body-jerking sneeze.
Wide-eyed, Mirabel couldn’t help but shudder at the display. “Urhg.” Camilo’s nose had somehow ended up on his forehead, and she was pretty sure his current eyes actually belonged to Isabela. And wait, was that Agustín’s mustache hanging over his crooked mouth? At least his hair had turned into his own dark color.
Groaning, Camilo fumbled blindly for a tissue, but when he pressed the paper against the middle of his face, he found that his nose was no longer there.
“It’s, uhm -” Mirabel pointed at her own forehead, mirroring the spot for him to find.
After a couple of failed attempts, Camilo shook his head like Parce after a quick swim in the river. Facial features flew around to finally fall back in place. “This is the worst,” he groaned, rubbing the mustache away with the back of his hand.
Mirabel could sympathize. All the Madrigal kids had tried being sick, and while her mother’s food always made them feel better, she once again had to repeat how their illness meant the body was already healing itself, leaving her Gift useless - though still tasteful.
But Camilo was a shapeshifter, and while Isabela would sprout flowers whenever she sneezed, at least her nose stayed in place. It was one of the few times when Mirabel felt very grateful for her lack of Gift.
“Well, it sounds like mamá is going to make you chocolate caliente to cheer you up. So you have that to look forward to.”
Camilo’s eyes darted toward her, the mention of the snack catching his attention. “I earned it,” he said while throwing the used tissue at the pile that had gathered at the end of his big bed.
“You actually didn’t, you just caught a cold,” Mirabel said automatically. Sure, she was here to cheer him up, but trying to puncture Camilo’s inflated ego was a habit of hers. They seemed to balance each other out that way. “The rest of us will get to drink it, too.”
“But that’s unfair!”
“How?!”
“Because I’m suffering!” Camilo grumbled just in time for him to cough twice - the first one made him shift into Félix, while the second one turned him into his own five-year-old self.
Mirabel cooed at the sight, and for a split second, a long distant memory returned to her - sharing the nursery with Camilo who was bundled up with blankets at the other end of the room, coughing and sputtering while being tucked into bed by tía Pepa. She remembered the cloud hovering above them both, how she’d wondered if she could jump and reach it if Casita helped her.
“Aw. Probecito primito!”
She leaned closer to pat his arm, only to be swatted away as Camilo grew into his usual size. “I hate you,” he muttered with that pout on his face that made it clear he didn’t mean his words.
“You’re grumpy when you’re sick.”
“I’m miserable.”
“I bet,” Mirabel said after another round of coughing where his curls grew and shortened with every shake. “If you feel as bad as you look.”
Wiping his red nose with his hand, Camilo looked up, squinting to hide his amusement. “How dare you - I have stunning looks!” he shot back at her.
“Mhmm. Helps to have the Gift of shapeshifting.”
“I was born beautiful, and I will die beautiful,” Camilo insisted with crossed arms. Maybe he would have appeared a bit more dignified if he hadn’t ended the statement with another sneeze that shook up every facial feature. “My Gift has nothing to do with that.”
“...Your face is crooked again.”
With a huff of frustration, Camilo collapsed back against his pillow. His pupils rolled around like marbles in the eyeball until his face straightened itself. Still, it didn’t look quite right. A normal Camilo would be smiling or smirking with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Right now, that energy was gone, replaced with a dull annoyance and exhaustion.
All the more reason to keep teasing him. Camilo took great pride in making people smile - the least Mirabel could do was to return the favor.
Scooting her chair closer to the bed, Mirabel did her best to match the grin Camilo would make before poking fun at Isabela.
“I bet you were a real ugly baby.”
“You’re cruel.”
“All wrinkly and slimy and purple.”
“Babies are cute. Especially me,” Camilo huffed. “Just remember Antonio - and hey, I share his genes!”
Both Camilo and Mirabel had held their share of babies, both serving as babysitters in the Encanto, but they could both easily agree that Antonio was by far the sweetest one they’d ever seen as they’d peeked into the bundle Pepa had been holding after that stormful night. Maybe he had some unfair advantage by being in family with them, but hey, Antonio was the cutest miracle to ever exist.
“Oh, Antonio was definitely more cute than you,” Mirabel said, smiling at the memory of the first time she met her smallest cousin. “I even heard mamá say that Antonio was the most adorable baby she’d ever seen.”
“...That means he beat you, too,” Camilo counter-argued, and for the first time she’d entered his room, she saw some energy return to his hazel eyes.
That argument took her by surprise, and after a moment of consideration, she just shrugged. “Well, I bet he was the cutest of all of us.” She’d come in at a close number two, of course, but she’d gladly let Antonio take that win. “And that doesn’t change the fact that you were an ugly baby.”
Camilo coughed and his ears changed size. “Lies.”
“You wish.”
“Ow,” he said and faked his death by collapsing against the mattress, hands flying to his chest. “You are stabbing my heart. You’re killing me. The cruelty.”
“Mhm. It’d be a mercy-killing.” She leaned over him, squeezing his knee beneath the blanket and letting out a surprised squeak when he took revenge by throwing a dirty tissue ball at her head. She dodged just in time, and it bounced off one of the mirrors behind them. “Ew.”
Camilo smiled at her disgust - and Mirabel silently cheered at the sight. This was what she’d come to achieve ever since learning of his illness.
“Besides, if I didn’t love you, dear primo, I wouldn’t warn you that I heard tía Pepa will soon come up to coddle you the rest of the day.”
She watched as Camilo’s lips twitched, expression turning more amused than annoyed. Camilo was a mamá’s boy, no doubt about that, and while Pepa showered all her kids with love, Camilo sometimes seemed to drown in it. Pepa would indulge him and spoil him, and while Camilo thrived under the attention, every now and then he’d prove to be a true teenager by muttering an embarrassed “mami” and rubbing her lingering kiss off his cheeks that would burn under the amused stares of his friends and primas.
According to Camilo, he’d grown too tall for the name Camilito years ago. But that was a battle already lost.
Camilo was soft, even when he tried to hide it behind pranks and sarcasm, and he was especially weak when it came to his mamá. Even so, it was a surprise to see Camilo with absolutely no defense up at the sound of many hours of a hovering Pepa ahead. In fact, it seemed like he even looked forward to it.
“Oh wow, you really are that sick.”
He waved her off, clutching the blanket tighter as he rolled over to lie on his side. “I just need to sleep it off,” he muttered with his cheek squished against the pillow. He looked ready to nod off - and that would be Mirabel’s cue to leave. She was sure his siblings, if not his other primas, would come and visit him later today, comforting and teasing him the way only family could.
“Well, that’s the type of medicine you won’t complain about,” Mirabel said with a smile he was quick to match.
“That, and tía’s cooking.”
“I’ll sneak you some pan aliñado later,” Mirabel said as stood up from her chair and brushed off her skirt. “But I’m sure tía Pepa will too. And my mom. And Dolores … You’re spoiled, you know that?”
She squealed when he threw another tissue at her, missing once more.
It wasn’t the first time that Camilo was sick - Mirabel knew the drill by now. Poor stressed tía Pepa would hover, and Dolores would join her, sharing their worry and love for Camilo whose shape would change with every cough. Julieta would tend to him as well, if she could even get past Pepa.
Mirabel wasn’t jealous - whenever she’d be knocked out with a cold, her parents would coddle her, too. And she’d love it, her father’s soothing voice, and her mother’s gentle hands.
Tía Pepa was gentle, too. It’s just -
Every time Camilo came down with something, she’d treat him like he was dying. Actually, when she was six, Mirabel had been convinced that was the case when Camilo had fallen ill; she’d seen the heavy downpour and Pepa’s upset rambling, and put two and two together. Julieta had found her sobbing and had calmed her down, promising it was nothing but a cold and Camilo would be fine in a couple of days.
“Tía Pepa is just worried,” Julieta had calmly explained to her, pointing at the dark sky above them, “because she loves him very much.”
It was a good thing they had a magical healer in the house. Mirabel really didn’t want to see tía Pepa’s reaction should her kids ever get seriously hurt.
It wasn’t raining just yet, but when Mirabel left Camilo’s room and stepped out on the balcony, she could see the heavy layer of clouds blocking the sun. Descending the stairs, she could see the blue and orange colors of two familiar skirts through the butterfly-shaped bricks of the kitchen wall.
“- will be fine, Pepa. It’s just a cold,” Julieta’s calm voice said. “He’ll feel better in the morning, I’m sure.”
“I need to get rid of the stupid cloud before I go see him. His lungs don’t need the fog, and it’ll make him upset to see it, I know it will.”
Mirabel winced; she could hear the raindrops fall against the tiles, and she knew her mother didn’t like rain in her kitchen - or rather; in her cooking.
“There’s no reason for any of you to be upset. Here. Use your chance to get some quality time with your hijo. We’ll keep an eye on Antonio.”
“It’s - I’m okay. Clear skies, clear skies.”
Poor tía Pepa. Mirabel was sure that was the first time she’d heard the familiar calming phrase in use since the rebuilding of Casita. Pepa had been in a happier and calmer mood than Mirabel had seen in years, but it wasn’t just that - it was the lack of comments and frustration whenever it would rainy or windy.
It was all just a part of life - emotions and weather would never stay the same.
Mirabel just hoped her tía hadn’t fallen back into old, bad habits. Camilo wouldn’t want that either. By the time Mirabel had reached the hallway, she looked over her shoulder to see Pepa ascent the stairs with a tray of two steaming cups. It’d seem that Camilo would be showered with kisses, and the rest of them with rain.
Hopefully, both she and Camilo would feel better soon.
Maybe she didn’t know how to calm her tía down - Camilo was usually the expert when it came to that - but she trusted her mamá and Félix to tend to her. Meanwhile, Mirabel would continue her mission to cheer Camilo up.
The teasing angle had worked, and, well, Mirabel wasn’t a quitter. Now she just needed some proof to slam her primo’s face.
All she had to do was to find a baby photo of Camilo. Granted, she didn’t even know if he actually was ugly. Now when she thought about it, she didn’t recall seeing a photo of infant Camilo before. If he turned out to be as cute as baby Antonio (or, God forbid, even cuter), she’d hide it and never bring it up again in her life.
But - if she was right, then she had to rub it in his face. That was her job as his prima.
In the living room, right next to the unlit fireplace, Mirabel looked up at the big wooden book cabinet hovering over her. It was filled with books, some fiction but not all. The books abuelo Pedro had written, however, were safely stored away in Alma’s room. Some of the shelves were filled with memorials - from clay statues to expensive vases that had survived the journey to Encanto back in the day.
At the very top were the treasures she was after; heavy bound books filled with the photos they hadn’t already framed and put on the walls. They were too far up for her to reach, even as she stood up her toes. But there was no need for a stool when you had a living house.
“Casita?” The cabinet already jittered at the sound of her voice. “I need the one from, uhm, 1934. Or maybe 1935?”
The cabinet tilted forward ever so slightly, and two books fell from the shelf into her awaiting arms. The weight of them was enough to send her stumbling backward. “Gracias!” she told the house after regaining her balance.
She collapsed in the nearby armchair, putting the book from 1935 on the table while opening the oldest book in her lap. At the very first page, a smile appeared on her face.
Mirabel could recognize her father’s handwriting. There were neat titles at the top of every page and a few lines scribbled below the photos, adding context. It must have been another project of his, putting the pictures all together. She’d inherited a lot of her creativity from him.
This album contained various moments from that year. Mirabel almost chuckled slightly at the sight of toddler Luisa chewing on an arepa. There was one of Isabela on the swing, her parents embracing, Alma at the plaza, a wide-eyed Dolores being taught how to dance by Félix with Pepa smiling in the background.
A frown appeared at the one of Bruno holding a book with both Isabela and Dolores leaning against him on the couch and with small Luisa in his lap. “-Story time with tío” Agustín had written with his flawless handwriting.
Mirabel swallowed, suddenly realizing why it’d never been a family habit to look through these albums together. While they’d removed any trace of tío Bruno on the walls, the photographs of him remained in these books.
Every now and then she’d find a page with an empty space from where a photo had once been. She supposed they had been the ones chosen to eventually be framed. Sometimes her father’s words revealed what had been in their place;“-A butterfly took a liking to Luisa”, Mirabel knew exactly what photo that would be, toddler Luisa with a butterfly on her nose, and she knew it was currently placed in her parents’ room. Other times, the sentences had been crossed over, leaving her unable to read what had once been there.
About halfway through the book, she found the first clue of what she was looking for. Félix and Pepa in an embrace, next to a glowing door. At that moment, it didn’t have a name or a pattern, but Mirabel figured that around five years later, it’d be the door Camilo would open.
The couple looked so happy. Somehow even happier than the photo from their wedding day. There were no sentences next to the photo, but she supposed the picture itself didn’t need any words. Their joy was contagious, and Mirabel found herself slowly peeling the photo from the paper. This one deserved to be framed and hung up somewhere.
The next page revealed the same situation, except this time, it was her padres. And herself, she supposed. Agustín had his hand on Julieta’s belly as she leaned against his side. They looked so in love …
Mirabel flipped through the next pages, searching for the final pages. Camilo was born at the very end of the year, so he must be found on one of the very last ones. The bellies continued to grow in every photo of Pepa and Julieta. There was one picture of the two of them standing together, comparing sizes with big smiles on their faces, and even Mirabel couldn’t quite determine the winner.
She flipped the page, and -
That was it. Or, there had once been a page, but it’d been cut away by a focused hand. Mirabel could just faintly touch the small line of paper that revealed the missing page.
No baby Camilo.
However, she still had the other book to go. With so few days left in the book for 1934, maybe they’d needed the space in the new album.
Mirabel flipped to the very first page and finally found a baby picture. Except, you couldn’t really see the baby. The bundle, however, was being held by a smiling Julieta, Agustín right next to her. “-Mirabel Madrigal. March 6th, 1935. 3,924 kg. Our newest miracle.”
So that wasn’t Camilo. The next few pages revealed that Camilo had been right - Antonio beat her when it came to baby cuteness. She was still adorable, if a bit wrinkled. More and more dark hair appeared on her head as she flipped through the pages. There was a picture of Bruno feeding her with a spoon, one where she’d been placed in Alma’s lap, one where she was wearing Agustín's oversized glasses, and one where Isabela was holding her. Her sister had a huge smile on her face while Luisa clung to her skirt. “-The proud girls with their hermanita.”
The next one was of her and tío Félix. It was strange seeing him without the gray in the hair, but dios, he looked exhausted in the photograph. She could hardly blame him, knowing there’d been two infants in the house at this point, and he had a daughter with super hearing - not a great match.
The album seemed almost dedicated to her, and every new page showed how she continued to grow that year. About halfway through, it seemed to change, and more pictures of her sisters and prima appeared. Isabela with a doll, Dolores with a new bow in her hair, Luisa on top of the piano while their father played…
Mirabel turned the final page, and while the photograph of herself in the kitchen with her mamá made her smile, it didn’t erase the frown from her forehead as the realization slowly sank in.
There wasn’t a single picture of Camilo.