Chapter Text
Carlos is not afraid of dying.
He would have barely lasted a week in Night Vale if he were. During the research team’s first week in town, he’d dealt with terrifying levels of radiation, pterodactyl attacks, and waking up one morning to find bloody animal carcasses littering the streets and no idea as to how they got there. Two team members drove out of town after that: the rest, Carlos included, had knuckled down, resolute, ready to work. This town was… fascinating. It would have been absurd to let a little thing like the fear of death hold them back from what could become some of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of the century. After all: people were hit by buses in Boston every day.
Carlos is not afraid of dying. He knows death is inevitable and the aftermath is emptiness, only his own amassed energy and atoms dissipating back into the universe from whence they came: it’s a thought that has brought him far more comfort, over the years, than any idea of God in his youth ever had. In Night Vale, that truth feels closer than it ever had before: it’s acknowledged by townsfolk screaming in terror at the sky; it’s reflected in the void hovering overhead and in the lights above the Arby’s; it’s repeated, smooth, sonorous and reassuring, on the radio for the whole town to hear.
Carlos is not afraid of dying, but, lying bleeding under Lane Five, he had been absolutely terrified. The very worst thing wasn’t the pain, or even the calm numbness skirting horrifyingly at the edges of his vision. It wasn’t the rational part of his mind, kicking him from far off at his stupidity, and observing, dully, that none of the gaping citizens above were helping. The very worst thing was that he could still hear Cecil’s voice coming in over the alley speakers, and he sounded broken.
Cecil: steady and constant, anchoring the town through however many crises; Cecil, who was worryingly enthusiastic about municipal bureaucracy and who loved this place with all his heart; Cecil was crying. Cecil was cursing the town, and the people. Cecil was broken, and Carlos - lying there, bleeding out into the tiny city, darkness coming fast into his vision - Carlos was terrified for him, and for the town. What would a Night Vale without Cecil’s enthusiasm even look like? Carlos was terrified for himself, as well, and that terror manifested, as he swam down into dark oblivion, as a rush of regret: he had never even given it a chance.
*
Carlos is sensible, and well-informed about PTSD. It’s part of being a scientist.
He doesn’t plan on carrying these ingrained responses around forever: the rush of dizziness he feels when thinking about the bowling alley, heart pounding, breath quickening - no, he has a plan. He’ll challenge himself to think about the bowling alley, he’ll look at pictures, he’ll go back, soon, to the place. He’ll talk with friends, and ask for help as needed. He’ll get over it.
That said: first, he’ll take a long break. He’s sensible, but he is also gentle with himself. When his breath quickens upon driving past the bowling alley and he stares resolutely ahead, not thinking about it, Cecil squeezes his knee and doesn’t comment.
*
Carlos remembers.
He lay in the tiny city, spires digging in to the back of his neck and his thighs, his hands wet with his own blood, looking up and wanting to laugh with the absurdity of it all - one whole year! there was a trophy waiting, even! - hoping for help, observing. Faces ringed the opening, stars flashed at the edges of his vision. No-one came to help, and the only sound had been Cecil’s devastated sobbing coming in over the crackling speakers - in retrospect, it occurs that perhaps the townsfolk had been as horrified by the sound as Carlos himself had been.
No-one helped, and then the faces were gone, Carlos’ vision a narrowing tunnel. He had focused on the ceiling tiles: an off-green that hadn’t even been fashionable when they were installed in the seventies, the edges of them fraying and peeling, and a brown splash in one corner, perhaps from someone throwing a glass in triumph. The strip lights had shone too brightly, and he couldn’t focus on them - and then even the tiles had been too bright, all of a sudden - too real, and he’d closed his eyes.
*
Carlos walks back into the bowling alley.
He’s confident, ready to face it, and then - his feet drag, the now-familiar symptoms of panic setting in, and he thinks: tomorrow, perhaps, maybe he doesn’t have to go right in just yet. Pauses, grounds himself with a hand on his chest and counts to five slowly. Opens his eyes, walks on.
The alley is closed: it’s shut down, for now, while the detritus of the tiny city is cleared away. Carlos unlocks the grubby glass doors and lets himself in, looks around for the light switches and, finding none, fumbles quickly in his pockets for his phone. Gets the light on, and exhales loudly into the gloom.
It’s a bowling alley. That’s all it is. There are twelve lanes and a soda machine, there’s a bar and a big gap in the middle of lane five - and a counter for shoes, and a floor and walls and ceiling tiles and lights. He looks up, and forces himself to keep looking, until the ceiling tiles are only ceiling tiles: dirty green, peeling at the edges, a little faded. The strip lights are dark grey when off, the stains on the ceiling invisible. It’s just a bowling alley.
“You really don’t have to do this alone, you know”, Cecil says quietly, walking up behind him, his feet soft in the layered dust. “Of course, I admire your motivations: it’s not everyone who will return to stare death i the face a second time, who is willing to think on it and acknowledge it, to greet it as an old friend. Given the shortness and insignificance of our tiny little lives, you’d think that more people would be willing to open conversation with their deaths - but, well. There you are.”
He’s wound his arms around Carlos’ waist, and now rests his chin on Carlos’ shoulder, gazing out at the empty lanes with him. He’s a solid, warm mass against his back, and Carlos gives out a heavy sigh and leans back into him, allows himself to be held.
“Thank you for coming, love. I know it’s … not the easiest thing.”
“Of course. I know. I’m here”, Cecil says, and together they look out at the empty lanes, warm and breathing in the dust and very much alive, very much together, listening to Carlos’ heart slow down to a strong and steady beat.