puppetfic | Encanto Fic: My Roots Hid Deeper

Title: My Roots Hid Deeper
Fandom: Encanto
Relationship: Isabela Madrigal/Luisa Madrigal, Isabela Madrigal/Mirabel Madrigal
Length: 429 Words
Warnings: Implied Sibling Incest

Sometimes, when Mirabel is sleeping, Isabela tries on her glasses.

She looks in the mirror, curls her hair up with her fingers, grows flowers just to wither them moments later. She tries to embody her younger sister in her entirety when she does this, tries to become Mirabel against the glass. Mirabel, who no one expects anything from. Mirabel, who is seen as inherently imperfect. Mirabel, who can allow her flaws to shine because those flaws are so visible in the eyes of others. Mirabel, Mirabel, Mirabel.

She touches the mirror with her other hand, her hand over the reflection of her lips, of Mirabel’s lips. Her own lips part, slightly wet. She reaches up to stroke Mirabel’s glasses. She can barely see with them on; the world looks so different, through Mirabel’s eyes.

Sometimes, she looks at Luisa and wonders how she manages.

She’s so strong, so capable. She carries the village over her shoulders like some mythical prophesied being and she doesn’t blink, doesn’t shed exhaustion.

When she is sad, Luisa picks her up and swings her around. They dance. Luisa hoists her up, holds Isabela in different poses as she balances perfectly over one of Luisa’s palms. It’s hard to keep the flame of sadness burning when you have someone as strong, as valiant, as beautiful as Luisa Madrigal to throw you around with love.

Tonight, Luisa picks her up and Isabela runs an innocent hand over the muscles of Luisa’s back. Luisa squeezes her tighter; she clearly thinks that Isabela only wants comfort, but in truth Isabela wants more. She always wants more than she can have, and everyone always expects more from her than they’ll ever truly get. She’ll marry this man for them, she’ll dance her perfectly-positioned dance over the village, but it’ll always be her sisters that—-

Sometimes, she wants Mirabel to want to be her. She wants Mirabel to feel that same envy, wonders if she does. Mirabel will never be perfect—neither will Isabela, but they can’t seem to grasp that. Mirabel will never have what Isabela has, the gift of the warmth, the weight of expectations crushing her chest like little hard candies. Isabela will never have what Mirabel has, the gift of mediocrity, the ability to fade into the background without being noticed.

Isabela hates her for it. Isabela wants her for it.

Isabela desires everything that she cannot have. They say that she is gifted, but this gift is hollow inside. This gift is gutting her and replacing her innards with flower buds, her potential strangled away.