Fly High, Butterfly

Chapter Twenty Eight

Being a part of the family again was hard.

Oh, Bruno loved it, don't get him wrong! He had spent years in the walls, watching his family from through the cracks, pretending that he was a part of their dinners and conversations. Now he was a part of everything that he had spent years longing for, and that was great! It was, really!

It was also just very, very tiring.

Going ten years for no one with rats for company was, ah, not the best for one's social skills. Especially when that someone's skills were already lacking in the first place.

Bruno knew that he had a tendency to come across as, well, creepy. Things that felt comfortable and instinctual for him, like alternating between staring someone in the eyes for minutes at a time and then doing anything possible to avoid eye contact, came across as suspicious and shifty to others. Not to mention his curse blessing, making his eyes glow as prophecies pressed against the back of his tongue, begging to be released.

The people of the village didn't really understand how his blessing worked, and though his family put in an effort, neither did they. This was completely the fault of Bruno, of course! ("But did they ask?" the voice of his niece asked in his head.)

They didn't understand that no matter how much he wished to, no matter how much he internally pleaded with himself, the future wants to be known. It pounds at his head until he lets it into his mind, eventually bursting forth regardless when he tries to refuse it entry. Once it is known it demands to be shared, tearing free from his lips without his consent more often than not. It's a disconcerting feeling, the sensation of your lips moving even as you beg for yourself to just shut up, keep quiet, stop causing trouble-.

Well. The point is, his gift was not content with not being used.

Over the years, however, Bruno had gotten very good at figuring out ways to delay his visions. Hiding in the walls meant that he couldn't exactly just blurt out everyone's futures as he watched through the cracks, not unless he wanted them to realize he was there. Which he did not. (He did. Dios mio, how he had spent those years wishing that someone would notice his presence, would welcome him back home with open arms.)

The most effective method, he eventually discovered, was usually a quick hit to the head. It didn't always work, but over the years he had discovered that it was effective more often than not with clearing his head, including clearing him of thoughts unrelated to the future.

And sure, it might not have been the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but it was better than blurting out his family's futures over breakfast, or getting lost in his own poisonous thoughts (knock knock knock on wood, no do it again, no that wasn't right, Bad Luck Bruno, have to keep the bad luck away-). Better that he was in pain than cause his family more issues.

This habit only started to truly become an issue when he came home, when he was once again part of the family. When you only have your rats for company, things that would be frowned upon by people became normal, so commonplace that it was barely worth sparing a thought to. Tossing salt over his shoulder whenever he felt the looming presence of an aching vision, knocking on wood as he entered each room, redoing little things he gets wrong over and over until it feels right and he can finally rest.

Ten years of having no one to question his... eccentricities left him out of practice in pushing them down as he did before he left, each little habit earning him a questioning glance.

As much as Bruno loved his family, he was constantly on edge. He knew that it could take only one dark prophecy, one too many times of him exiting and reentering a room, one ill timed joke, for things to go back to the way they always had been. No matter how much he loved his family, he knew he wasn't truly meant to be a part of it. And it would only be a matter of time everyone else knew too, and he would be alone again. (Would the Casita even let him stay in the walls, this time?)