Work Text:
Aware is a word, quite well-known, for the bittersweetness of a brief and fading moment of transcendent beauty. It's that "last burst of summer" feel, or the transience of early spring.
Carlos threads his fingers through Cecil’s far more elegant digits, squeezing them gently as they stare up into the void. He counts each of Cecil’s soft breaths, counts the seconds between them; records, to the decimal point, how warm Cecil feels against him. Calculates the chances of who will first break the comfortable, sweet silence between them, meticulously studies the rise and fall of Cecil’s chest from the corner of his eye.
Carlos is, above all else, a man of Science. And even if he himself occasionally questions what Science is (which is an intrinsic question that, as he knows, every scientist has to attempt to answer at least once in their life), especially in a town such as Night Vale, he can always fall back on it when all else deserts him. It always helps to apply scientific logic and reasoning to a place where it doesn’t apply, and to people who don’t seem to understand its importance or existence.
But he would happily devote his entire life to the study of just one particular individual.
Cecil. He wants to whisper it, hear the hushed sibilance fall from his lips in a way that tastes of violets and honey and secrets. He wants to dissect each syllable, analyse every vowel, tear in apart in the study of what causes a mere name to make his heart accelerate and his breath quicken. He wants to call it, over and over, shout it into the stillness of the night, scream it into the void with varying degrees of passion and intensity. He wants to see the owner of that name turn in answer, perhaps blushing, perhaps responding with the fondness and adoration conveyed in a sigh of his own name.
He could write pages of research on the beauty of Cecil’s name. He could give lectures on how he never knew how much one name could mean to him. He could spend years and years investigating just how much wonder and perfection there is to be found in those two syllables.
And he still wouldn’t be any closer to fully understanding what it is that causes his heart to skip a beat and his cheeks to burn a soft red at the mere thought of the man beside him.
Carlos traces chemical formulae on the back of Cecil’s hand, a part of him marvelling at how smooth and soft the skin under his thumb is. All these equations and calculations; and yet none of them will tell him why he feels as though he may burst with an all-consuming warmth that seems to be caused by something as little as being in Cecil’s presence.
That gorgeous, soft skin, glorious in its texture. If Carlos was a poet, he’d write songs and sonnets about how beautiful it is, how he wishes to memorise each fold and crinkle, every scar and blemish. He would write about his favourite areas- mostly on Cecil’s face. The faint laughter-lines around his eyes and beneath his cheeks, delicate as a fairy’s wing. The soft, soft skin of those cheeks, how heat and colour blossoms on them with a hue more perfect than any sunrise. He would write how Cecil’s eyes are pools of softly-glowing midnight and stardust, how perfectly each lash frames them. And how he adores the way they look at him. He would compose an entire volume of verses on Cecil’s lips alone, how soft they feel against his own and how sweet they taste. He would write about how he dreamed of those lips, how long he yearned to have them pressed against his, how beautiful they look when curved into a smile, or when forming the words Carlos and love.
But Carlos is not a poet. And actions speak far louder than words.
He manages to tear his eyes from the void, finding something far more interesting for them to observe, only to find the object in question already gazing at him. A soft smile curves Carlos’s lips, accompanying a gentle squeeze to Cecil’s hand as he leans over. His lips graze against Cecil’s with a tender sweetness, as chaste and fleeting as the first time. He goes to pull away, only to find Cecil rising up to meet him and a hand (still charmingly hesitant) starting to tangle in his hair.
Their lips meld together as if they were two halves of the same whole. Scientifically speaking, that isn’t theoretically possible, but Carlos enjoys the momentary imagining that Cecil and him were made for each other. His lips part with a soft exhale into Cecil’s mouth, and the kiss that started as sweet and explorative now evolves into something far more passionate, far more intense.
Carlos isn’t sure how long he’s been kissing Cecil- time doesn’t work in Night Vale, at least not in the ordinary way- this one kiss could have been going on for minutes, hours or all eternity. He never wants to pull away, not with Cecil licking into his mouth like that and arching beneath him in a way that would probably form a perfect curve. No, he wants this to last forever, having Cecil underneath him and the void above and the comforting, quiet darkness all around. He wants this sweet, shared moment to just be for always and always.
But moments like this aren’t meant to last, and eventually, one of them pulls away.
Cecil sighs happily, warm and sweet and perfect beneath Carlos. “I’ve wanted to do that all evening,” he murmurs, a flushed grin on his face “but you looked so intense and pensive.” Carlos still doesn’t know how Cecil manages to pronounce italics. Another delightful mystery to add to the puzzle of the man under him.
“What were you thinking about?” Cecil presses on, looking up at his scientist with a slow, fond smile. “Science?”
Carlos leans down with a matching, although far quicker smile, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Cecil’s lips. “No,” he murmurs, calculating how many kisses it would take for Cecil to melt completely. “I was thinking about you.”