Chapter Text
Being back in Night Vale again took some getting used to.
Carlos had become comfortable in the solitude the Desert Otherworld afforded him. He had charted great distances only to find, even more than usual in a sandy desert, the landscapes definable features such as boulders, the light house and mountains (yes, actual mountains) were subject to unpredictable shifts. What was important, and so attractive, was that it had been vast. In all that space, there were very few sentient beings that demanded his attention, he could be alone with his thoughts and his science. A scientist is self-reliant. He had a lot to think about and he quickly ran out of real science with which to excuse his absence. As Carlos’ excuses ran dry, so did the happy, smitten tone in Cecil’s sweet voice. Sometimes his boyfriend’s decline weighed heavily upon him, other times he tried not to think about it. The scientist’s feeling of almost unbridled freedom was, he would never admit, frustratingly incomplete for being tethered to Cecil. It was as though he could see the holy grail but he could not touch it. But the realisation came, almost too late, that the Desert Otherworld, the life he had built for himself and the work he had done had been literally and figuratively empty and his life in Night Vale had been full. At the very least it had been full.
So, human interaction and his relationship were taking a lot of work. Walking around the desert community was an exercise in the basics of communication and social functioning. Eye contact was a challenge. Body language came out robotic and worse was actual speech. The effect his hermit life style had on him wasn’t nearly as bad as the guilt that was weighing him down, however. Everyone knew Cecil, he was their Voice and it hardly needed explaining that they were protective of him. Whether or not the people of Night Vale blamed him for the Cecil’s state, and whether or not they stared at him when he walked down the street, his guilty conscience felt eyes on him, and heard accusatory whispers regardless.
There had been some changes to Night Vale; shop closures, a few “In partnership with The New Strexcorp Inc: Definitely Not Run by Angels” plaques on the places that had remined open and some new graffiti (a lot of it political given the events of the last few months) to name just a few.
The recent rain had done so well to wash everything of its usually dusty coating that the town looked newer than the place he had left a year ago.
He had just been to the Ralphs to bid for food. The other residents had not shifted away from him as he expected them to, and when he bid for items he found few people competing with him. Some even gave him small waves and thin smiles. He felt whether it was by simple deduction or something of the mysterious symbiosis between the townspeople and The Voice -they knew that he was shopping for Cecil, that the Radio Host needed help and that Carlos was trying. Useful items came up for auction in quick succession like vitamin supplements, wheat and wheat by product free tortilla wraps, painkillers, vegetables, body wash… he passed on the imaginary corn.
He walked away carrying several hessian and cotton bags, some baring the logos of companies or physical acts Cecil had sponsored on his radio show. The weight of them put a surprising strain on his muscles. He realised not only did he not feel hunger and thirst in the Desert Otherworld, but pain had also been dulled, making the ache in his back, shoulders and arms unfamiliar and difficult in a kind of ridiculous way, like getting out of bed in the winter. However, he decided against the bus after spying several hooded figures standing at his usual stop, each seeming to watch his laboured progress silently as he passed them.
Instead of looking people in the eye Carlos amused himself with spotting the miraculous greenery that had sprouted between the cracks in the path after the rain storm. He knew that Night Vale wasn’t the only place where life did this, other deserts across the world experienced this same rapid surge; plants growing, flowering, seeding and withering within a matter of days, living fast and dying young. Looking up was also a good way to avoid interaction. There were heavy clouds up there, shifting under the usual blue curve of the daytime sky, looking all together out of place over Night Vale. He sniffed the air and felt a stirring up of the wind and knew it would be raining again soon. He walked straight down the road, having an odd sense that the sky was bigger than it usually should be as he carried the bags with his arms by his sides. He would worry about restoring blood flow to his fingers later.
Reaching their home, he took a moment to appreciate the little miracle in the dirt by the front step. A little crocus like plant, already budding, lively green, porcelain white; as miraculous and strange in this time and place as his first encounters with Night Vale’s ordinary but extraordinary phenomena, like the lights in Radon Valley or the false clocks. It felt like so long ago but then again- A tap on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts, and just who wanted his attention startled him further. There, blotting out the midday sun was Erika -at least, one of the Erikas. Carlos tried to look respectful, he ending up bowing his head a little and saying ‘Hello Erika’ clumsily. The “angel” (Carlos refused to rule out the existence of angels, but he also did not confirm it. He was in the grey area of angel denial in Night Vale) did not speak at first. Instead with a flourish of the hand Erika produced a small object and held it out to the scientist, who reflexively put down the shopping bags and took it slowly. What he found in his hands was a black cassette tape marked inexplicably “Best of? NB: NO!” He looked up at the maybe angel for an explanation. ‘Don’t let him see it, don’t let him listen to it. Hide it, hear it in your own time.’ Then Erika hastily added ‘And don’t let it… you’ll know.’ Carlos could only nod, mouth open, as he watched Erika turn swiftly and take off into the air in a rush with powerful feathered wings, only to descend again to stand at the bus stop not forty metres down the road, seemingly to wait for the next bus. Carlos felt the first heavy drops of rain on his hair. He looked at the tape one more time before placing it carefully in one of the bags. He opened the door and picked their shopping off the ground.
The house smelled of sitting alcohol and decaying casserole. Just beside the front door had been three dishes covered in tin foil, evidently slipped in for Cecil by someone who had a key. Carlos knew of only two people - Abbey and Old Woman Josie. Who else could have been given one in the intervening year, Carlos could only guess. The point was, he hadn’t eaten them, or even touched them, forgetting about them and allowing them to go stale and grow mould. Carlos had thrown them in the bin, glass and all, not long after his arrival (he vowed to replace the dishes when he figured out who they belonged to). The smell still lingered though, and Carlos hadn’t even had a chance to tackle the open bottles of cheap wine and Armagnac in the kitchen.
Old woman Josie had said something alarming to him on the night of the opera. Just before he saw Cecil, sitting in the limo. She had pulled hard on his collar, dragging him down so he could hear her ‘Now I know you’ve just arrived back from where ever you blew away to, and I’m not one to put undue pressure on people but our mutual friend is going to need your help. He hasn’t been bowling all that much, he’s stick thin, stinks of the hard stuff at least two days in a week and he’s been having some existential crisis I’d say every damn time he’s on the radio. And he’s been talking, all times of the day and night, alone in his apartment mainly. People have heard him... You know that he speaks for us, Carlos. You know the way he keeps a good eye on us,’ with this she tapped the centre of her liver spotted forehead twice ‘And he has for a long time. But he’s more than that too and he’s been distancing himself from his life by talking away and not taking care of himself. He’s had a lot to want to escape, I should think. I hope that he’ll talk to you about it.’ Her tone suddenly changed to an admonishing one, she shook him slightly ‘Just take care of him and don’t do a runner!’
And this is when the limo stopped and someone familiar but changed climbed in. Soaked to the skin and wide eyed. When their eyes met, it was sweet and strange.
Carlos tucked the tape with a note of anxiety into the breast pocket of one of his lab coats, hanging on a hat stand by the door before calling Cecil’s name. There was no reply and no evidence of anything having been disturbed. Maybe he was still in bed. Carlos worried. He wanted so much for Cecil to be okay. His worry felt like reaching and reaching for the thing, the nugget, the words that would fix everything, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, but he could not, for all his failings, find and grasp that one crucial thing. What he did have to offer, a hand, a shoulder, a hug, felt as useless as the lint in his pockets. His heart weighed heavy with what he already knew of Cecil’s year alone.
Cecil had only just found out who had bought lot 37, who had bought him. In the time Carlos had been gone Cecil had been possessed, owned and made into a puppet, used according to someone else’s agenda. He knew now that Dana was not the culprit and that his ‘owner’ had tried to use him for good in the absence of full control over his own shared body. This fact, however, did not do much to help the damage already done to the frightened radio host. He had not spoken about it to Carlos since he arrived home, but he saw how his body now bore several small, but healing wounds which Cecil had no memory of receiving. The scientist had noted with a sick shock that most of these bruises, scabs, cuts and shiny red marks, that were surely already scars, had been to his knuckles, torso, shoulders and head, not one of them was a defensive mark. Cecil had been used to fight and protect but had not been given a chance to shield himself. Cecil had been injured again and again, coming back to awareness every time in pain, having the threat of it happening again hanging over his head, with no answers and no relief. The returning scientist had clasped his hand over his mouth and tears and snot had spilled over his fingers as the now too thin Radio Host had stood awkwardly by their bed on that rainy night, little expression on his face, his dress shirt on the ground. The distance between them had been so palpable but they had both been rooted to the spot. The damage to Cecil’s psyche was something he knew less about, and feared. If he could make an educated guess these mental wounds might not be so small and what healing had been done when he found out the circumstances of his purchase, if any, Carlos was unsure.
He tried to ignore a small, persistent voice in his head reminding him he could always run away.
There was so much more to discover. He knew about the strain that had been put on his friendship with Dana. He knew that Cecil hadn’t been eating. He knew that he had been drinking. Carlos had found pill bottles scattered around the place but he had not yet looked at the labels. A carving anxiety dug its way down into his insides and he wondered what Erika’s tape would reveal.
When he had put their purchases away he found that the bedroom door was already open. Carlos had closed it when he left, indicating either than Cecil had got up in the two hours he had been gone or the Old Woman that Secretly Lived in Their Home had paid him a visit. Carlos shivered and hoped the latter was not the case. Inside Cecil was sleeping in the bed as though he had been dropped from a great height, limbs sprawled, his hair messy. Carlos hesitated for a moment, unsure of what their boundaries were, having slept in the same bed last but still strangely apart yesterday, the night of their reunion. Carlos hesitated in the door way, wondering if he should take a step back to give Cecil full control… But he wanted to be near him, he wanted to look after him. A scientist may be self-reliant, but he needed to stop expecting others to be the same. He wanted to try for him, no more running away. He carefully and slowly slid into bed, fully clothed, beside his sleeping boyfriend. He lay close to him but not too close, feeling unsure of himself. But when Cecil stirred, a pair of striking violet eyes met him, first with surprise then with something like pleading and Carlos found himself bridging the gap between them and pulling a trembling Cecil into his arms. He held him tightly, stroking his hair and planting frantic kisses on him.
The scientist felt himself break.
It made Carlos feel too self-important, it made him feel like he was selling short Cecil and any strength he may have, with or without his wayward partner. But, with images of his boyfriend hurt and alone flashing through his mind Carlos said ‘I’m here, I’m here Cecil’ again and again, hushing and rocking him like a child ‘Oh god Cecil, shhh, it’s ok, I’m here.’
They stayed like that for some time, until Cecil’s breathing smoothed out. It was so good to hold him in his arms again.
This, Carlos thought This. How did I ever want to give up this?
To be in their apartment again, to be in Night Vale with the person he loved above anyone else was on a level of wonderful he could never measure scientifically. Cecil might be able to put it into words, with his gift, but this feeling was not quantifiable, it was outside logic and Carlos gave into it.
I’ve been so stupid… This man…
Cecil’s hand went up to grasp his hair, the hair he had always loved and the scientist melted at his touch, after a few shaky breaths came a mumble with a hint of a smile in the tone ‘My perfect Carlos.’
Carlos went tense. Cecil pulled back, sensing his discomfort, hand slipping down to the back of his neck. They looked at each other, Cecil had been crying, Carlos could not hold the eye contact ‘I’m not perfect, Cece.’ He said, looking down and glimpsing a scar that looked like it had been a severe burn on the radio host’s shoulder, still tender and pink and still angry towards the centre.
Cecil made a noise like all the breath had been knocked out of him. Carlos winced, feeling self-centred. But then his voice, not his radio voice, but deep and honey soaked all the same: ‘Do you remember what you said to me? After we escaped the condos, after you said it was time to make a home together. Do you remember what you said?’
Carlos made much the same noise as his boyfriend had ‘I do, Cecil.’
Both men seemed to be holding their breaths. For once The Voice of Night Vale was lost for words, when he did speak, he sounded pained, his words horribly unsteady and slow ‘Then… well… is it…?’ He swallowed, paused, started again, looked at Carlos ‘…You know… Are we…still…?’
The Scientist felt his heart break and leap at once ‘Yes!’ he cried, rushing to kiss Cecil desperately ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Carlos saw the emptiness in his mind, the paradox desert, the wandering giants that roamed it and the light house, always on the horizon. And then a familiar face, as familiar as it could have been all twisted like that. He remembered then, the blood that had dripped from the sound boards, the viscera coating the floor, the teeth, human teeth, strung up like Christmas decorations and in the middle of it all a too wide smile, violent but somehow desperate. His mind had reeled and Carlos knew he had been wrong, he had been living wrong all that time.
He remembered before, the depth of love Cecil had shown him, the length and breadth of it. No amount of scientific discovery or solitude could ever amount to the profundity of what he had here with Cecil.
‘Yes, my Cecil. Yes, yes.’
* * *
Carlos had always been self-reliant, he didn’t like to be fussed over, he was independent. He was good at taking care of himself. He told Cecil as soon as they had started dating because he needed to set boundaries so that he would be comfortable, because making himself understood was important. What Carlos didn’t understand at the time was that not only was he self-reliant but he tended not to understand non-self-reliance in others. Cecil’s need for his time, his support, his help had been slightly bewildering to him. It was not that he didn’t try, he loved this man and he tried for him to be there when he needed him. Night Vale broke his walls down, adapting to the strange place had meant that he looked to Cecil for comfort and guidance to an extent (although sometimes this guidance was limited given that fact that Cecil perceived most of Night Vale’s phenomena as normal but Carlos knew what cultural relativism was, he had taken a rogue module in anthropology once upon a time, and he made do with what Cecil could offer him.)
He understood now that Cecil needed him at least for the moment and shut out the voice that told him being needed was stifling. He had asked his boyfriend’s permission that afternoon after watching him at the corner of his eye move slowly around the kitchen as they cleaned up, his clothes hanging off him, the dark circles under his eyes looked worryingly deep.
While Cecil was cleaning a counter, Carlos ambled up to him, carefully hugging him from behind. His collar bones and ribs were too prominent to be healthy. The scientist felt nervous.
‘Cecil, do you think I could…? I mean nutritionally speaking, I think that maybe, I could, you know, umm…’
‘It’s ok Carlos,’ Cecil reassured him, bring his hand up to rub his boyfriend’s arm.
Carlos’ breath hitched a bit. Cecil had always been understanding when he felt nervous and couldn’t string a sentence together without stammering and adding hundreds of adverbs and asides to distance himself from the difficult thing he was trying to say.
‘But just nutritionally speaking, with good food, I-I think that maybe we should try and um get your weight up? You can say no, scientifically, by which I mean really, it’s your body and I’m sorry to bring it up-’
‘It’s ok, I agree with you. I could use some good food.’ Cecil broke the hug and turned around to face Carlos, a little grin on his face ‘Caarloos, you never have to apologise for being concerned about me.’
The scientist blushed then he brightened up ‘Ok Cecil, t-then if you don’t mind I was thinking about making tortillas. Like, I got a whole load of wheat and wheat by product free ones from the Ralphs, I think they’re made of sweet potatoes which is pretty cool, and I got lots of avocadoes and peppers and I bought you some nutmeg because I know how much you like it. There was this meat, I think it’s turkey? The packet was in Russian for some reason. Oh, oh! And I have mascarpone cheese because it came up for auction and I was like -cheese is cheese, am I right? And mascarpone is a bit like sour cream too I suppose so like two birds with one stone there and-’
‘Carlos,’ Cecil said, his voice was deep and beautiful. That smitten look had been restored to his eyes. He leaned over and kissed his cheek ‘Thank you… I’ve missed you.’
Carlos was struck by the sweetness of words, they hurt, in a good way ‘I missed you too.’
There was silence, the Radio Host was looking at him warmly.
‘Neat,’ Carlos said, smiling an embarrassed smile, forcing himself to look him in the eyes, feeling heat spread across his cheeks.
‘Neat,’ Cecil laughed, looking a bit more like himself.