It shouldn't be so terrifying to take that next little step.
It isn't like it would be unwelcome, Carlos thinks, running a hand through his hair as he paces around his living room. He knows it won't be unwelcome. Hell, the whole damn town probably knows it won't be unwelcome. They're probably all wondering why he hasn't done it yet. If they realize he hasn't.
Carlos came to Night Vale for one reason and one reason only – that it defied all known laws of science. It seemed like a fascinating place to study. Other scientists might have been interested in the fame it brought them, the research grants, the prestige of attaching their name to a study of such a place. Carlos was, and still is, interested in none of that. It was his curiosity that brought him to Night Vale, the desire to know.
It is a different kind of desire that has kept him here.
Carlos made eye contact with a most singular man, within his first few hours of arriving in town, and that brief moment had knocked him for a loop. He fled, of course. Didn't bother asking his name, or how long he'd lived in town, or whether or not he had ever noticed these strange occurrences or flagrant disregard for the laws of nature. All of which would have been perfectly reasonable things for a scientist to ask. After all, his studies had to start somewhere, so why not with this man, with his warm eyes and his charming smile and his strong jaw?
The answer, of course, is because he terrified Carlos. Not that there was anything monstrous about him. He didn't have a fixed, glassy-eyed stare or overly-sharp teeth or wings or a suspiciously cheerful, optimistic personality. All of that was the ordinary kind of terrifying, and Carlos the scientist could deal with it, as he dealt with it in all the other citizens of Night Vale, simply by formulating theories and conducting studies and analyzing tests. No, this man terrified him for the simple reason that he stirred up wants, desires Carlos fought too long and too hard to keep hidden.
All his life, Carlos has understood that the way he feels about other men is shameful, a vile perversion to be kept behind closed doors. It's better now than when he was young, at least in some places, but Carlos has never lived in those places. The whispers, the damning accusations, swirl around him every time he lets his feelings go. So when he locked eyes with the man on the street and felt the instant connection, he panicked and scurried away and asked no questions. Not at first, anyway, although he managed to learn what he needed to know eventually.
Cecil Palmer, reporter and radio personality, the voice of the evening show at Night Vale Community Radio. He was beautiful to look at, and even more beautiful to listen to, with a voice like molasses, smooth and dark and flowing and sweet, but not too sweet, not cloying. And Carlos damn near dropped dead of a heart attack on the spot when he listened to the man's radio show for the first time, only to hear him rambling about Carlos.
Well, nobody ran him out of town, or tried to set fire to the radio station, so Carlos concluded, to his mild surprise, that nobody in Night Vale actually gave a damn that Cecil seemed to have a crush on another man. It definitely came as a shock to him.
When they did finally meet, finally exchange contact information, Carlos wasn't sure whether to be grateful or disappointed that Cecil didn't reach out first. He always waited for Carlos to contact him first. Carlos always chickened out, though, and made the conversation about science – asking Cecil about strange phenomena, passing along new discoveries, getting him to spread the news to his listeners. Cecil never seemed upset when Carlos turned down the offer of getting more personal.
No matter how badly he's wanted to.
Carlos took to listening to Cecil's show on the daily. At first, he listened while he worked in his lab, but before long, he started using Cecil's opener as a signal that it was time to start winding down for the day, or at least take a break. He told himself it was good sense; the show starts at the same time every day, and it keeps him from losing track of time while wrapped up in an experiment. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that he can't concentrate properly while listening to Cecil's voice. It's certainly not that. And the fact that, when he does have to be out of the lab or working when Cecil's show starts, he records it to listen to later isn't anything to write home about either. Cecil is a good reporter, with his finger on the town's pulse. He doesn't editorialize – much – and always warns the listeners before he does. It's sensible for Carlos to want to be sure he gets Cecil's news reports, when he can. It's certainly not that he just likes hearing him.
He's learned a lot about the man over the past year, mostly from listening to the radio but also from their too-brief interactions. Cecil is smart, and funny, and kind. He's a real animal lover – he was never exactly a cat person, or so he avers, but the sight of him cooing over Khoshekh, the hovering cat in the Night Vale Community Radio Station's men's restroom, did funny things to Carlos's insides the first time he saw it, and his sheer delight when the cat produced a litter of kittens made Carlos smile so broadly it hurt. (Carlos would have adopted one of those kittens if he hadn't been allergic. He almost adopted one anyway, just for the excuse to go to the station and see Cecil, but again, he chickened out at the last minute.) He cares about his community, and the individuals in it…for the most part. His utter hatred of Steve Carlsburg is kind of amusing, actually, but for all that, Carlos politely avoids the man whenever he sees him. Cecil is – was – right about the so-called Apache Tracker, at least.
For all he's tried to keep his distance, there have been a few moments he almost broke. The sandstorm, for instance. Carlos remembers hunkering down in a well-protected area of the house he rented, listening to both the wind outside and the calm, soothing sound of Cecil's voice. He wasn't worried. He trusted Cecil when he gave instructions to keep safe, trusted him when he said that they could coexist with their doubles if they appeared. He wasn't worried until Cecil described a vortex forming on the wall of his studio. Carlos didn't even have time to reach for his phone to text Cecil, to warn him not to touch it, before Cecil leaped through it…apparently.
And then the voice that came on was not Cecil's, but someone else, and Carlos's stomach dropped to his shoes even as his heart leaped to his throat. Cecil was gone, replaced by this…other, this high-pitched, vaguely creepy-voiced individual. Carlos held his breath as he realized that, unlike everyone else in town who met their double – whose double appeared in the same place as them – Cecil had traded places with his double, a man with a different name and different voice who seemed lost and confused. Thank God the vortex was still there, and the man went back through it…but when he described Cecil's desk as strangely bloodless, Carlos panicked anew. He nearly sobbed with relief when he heard Cecil's voice once more, following the weather, and only barely stopped himself from running to the radio station and wrapping him up in a hug.
But when he called Cecil later, intending to tell him how thankful he was that he was okay and that he had come back safe, he chickened out again and kept it impersonal, kept it to science. Cecil, sweet Cecil, let him lead the conversation, and didn't seem upset when Carlos panicked again and turned him down when he suggested getting more personal even though there was nothing Carlos wanted more.
Carlos is still trying to convince himself that the only reason he didn't send the poems he wrote for Night Vale Poetry Week to the radio station is because they are bad, or because they don't really seem to carry the same spirit as the poems Cecil read over the airwaves. Carlos is not a poet. He's a scientist. But he tried his hand at it anyway, just for grins and giggles. His left hand, to be specific, because Carlos is ambidextrous and for some reason that sort of thing comes easier when he uses his left hand and not his right. There is probably a scientific explanation for that, but Carlos has never been interested in experimenting on himself and he's not even sure what he would be able to test. Anyway, he tried his hand at writing poetry and found, in the early light of dawn, that he had filled an entire notebook. But when he realized what they were about, he hastily shoved the notebook into a drawer and tried to forget about it. He can't show those to anyone. Can't send them to the radio station. Can't send them to Cecil. Even if he sends them anonymously, even if he disguises his handwriting. Cecil doesn't need to see those words before Carlos has the courage to say them out loud.
He thought he was going to. He had it planned. Cecil invited him, he said, to a special ceremony, something about a one-year anniversary. Carlos was going to go, assuming it was a community thing, and pull Cecil aside and finally tell him how he felt. But then Teddy Williams announced the army from below Lane Five was imminent, and Carlos let his scientific curiosity get the better of him and went to the alley to investigate. He figured he'd have plenty of time. Maybe he'd text Cecil and ask him to save him, Carlos, a seat at…whatever ceremony it was they were supposed to be going to. He set up his equipment to record Cecil's show and went to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.
Which brings him to now.
Carlos died. He doesn't need to run tests, or question logic, or anything like that. This is Night Vale and honestly this is one of the least inexplicable things that's happened since he got here. He had just finished demonstrating to Teddy Williams, his militia, and the disgruntled bowling party that the invaders were tiny and the pit only ten feet deep, that they were worrying over what was, broadly speaking, nothing, when he felt the first shot hit him. And then the second, and then the third, and then there were too many to feel where one ended and the next began.
And then there was darkness.
And then there was…not darkness. There was, instead, fluorescent lights and overworked machinery and neon industrial-loop carpet, and if he was looking into the face of God then God looked a hell of a lot like Teddy Williams, and if he was still dead it sure hurt a hell of a lot. But Teddy Williams – who was apparently a doctor, and Carlos' brain just accepted that because why wouldn't he be – assured him he was going to be okay. That he would live. That he did live.
He does live.
Carlos wandered out into the gathering twilight of Night Vale and lifted his phone with shaking fingers and sent a text to Cecil. It was only after he sent it that he realized Cecil's show was still going on, and he wouldn't get an answer for a while. But barely had he perched himself on the trunk of his car to wait than Cecil arrived in the Arby's parking lot, his beautiful face pale and drawn, his lovely eyes wide and bright and suspiciously wet, and his smile uncertain and hopeful.
Carlos couldn't quite bring himself to say everything. That the world was off-balance and he needed Cecil to stabilize it again. That he had been scared, more scared than he had been in a long time, and he needed Cecil nearby to make him feel safe again. That somehow, in the year he's been in Night Vale, Cecil has become safety, has become security, has become home. But he did allow himself to tell Cecil that he hadn't texted him about science, that he just wanted to see Cecil, and Cecil sat next to him and let Carlos rest a hand on his leg while he leaned against Carlos' shoulder, and they watched the light in the sky above the Arby's together, until Cecil had to go back to the station because the weather would be over and he had to finish out his show, and Carlos understood and let him go to be the beacon in the dark for all the lost souls, not just Carlos. He thought, for just a brief, shining moment, that they were getting somewhere.
And now, here he is, a month later, pacing around his living room and trying to convince himself to just call already.
They've interacted a bit since then, more or less back to the way it was before Carlos' near-death experience. Cecil still smiles, still sounds hopeful when Carlos calls, but he doesn't push when Carlos, inevitably, backs down from his firm intention, or at least semisolid intention, and insists it's not a personal call. He resorted to making something up off the top of his head last week because he couldn't actually come up with something he needed more information on or needed Cecil to warn his listeners about, not that Cecil seemed to notice. It's getting ridiculous, even more ridiculous than it was before.
There's no reason to be afraid. It's not even that big of a step. Why can't he take it?
It occurs to Carlos that he hasn't listened to the last recording he made, the one of the show Cecil was giving while Carlos was busy being an idiot. He wants to hear Cecil's voice, and there's still time before his show tonight, so it can't hurt to listen to it now, right?
Sure. Can't hurt at all.
Carlos presses play and sits down to listen. It's fairly typical for one of Cecil's broadcasts, and heat floods Carlos' cheeks when he realizes that Cecil planned the anniversary ceremony himself, that it was meant to be for Carlos, and he squirms a little with guilt over not going right away. He lets Cecil's voice, gentle and soothing and warm, flow over him like a blanket and tries to forget the middle of the story, because even if it has a happy ending it had a truly terrifying middle. At least for Carlos.
It's not until Cecil comes back from a short break that Carlos realizes it must have been terrifying for him, too.
Listening to Cecil's voice as he struggles to stay calm and professional, struggles to report on what happened beneath Lane Five, Carlos feels his breath catch in his throat and his chest tighten. He remembers wishing Cecil could have been there when he…and he can't decide now if he still wishes he was there. If it would have made things better for either of them if Cecil could have held him…or made things worse. The way Cecil's voice breaks, the heartbroken sob as he cuts to a public service announcement, brings tears to Carlos' eyes too.
He suddenly understands. He understands the expression on Cecil's face, the pallor and the wetness, when he arrived at the Arby's parking lot. He understands the way he seemed to sink into Carlos' side when they sat on his car. He understands the gentle slide of Cecil's fingers over Carlos' hand as he – reluctantly – pulled away. He understands the added brightness in Cecil's voice every time Carlos calls him.
And he knows.
As soon as Cecil signs off on the show's recording, Carlos reaches for his phone. It's early enough – Cecil won't be at the station yet, or if he is, he at least won't be on the air yet. It's now or never, and after listening to that, Carlos can't – won't – accept never as an option.
The phone rings, once, twice. Cecil answers, his voice bright and warm and excited, the way it always is when he answers, the way Carlos doesn't think he actually answers the phone for anybody else. He almost chickens out again, but the memory of that small sob stops him. Taking a deep breath, he says the six words that will change the course of the rest of his life.
“I am calling for personal reasons.”