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Carlos had always been curious. As a child, he’d asked all the questions his blooming mind could conceive, and he was astounded to find that there was always an answer to be found. Of course, his questions back then had been “how does the sun move?” and “how to fish know what way they’re going” and “why do humans have so little hair?” Childish questions of a childish mind. As he grew up, Carlos maintained a healthy dose of curiosity in asking more abstract and complicated questions. And, he found, there was always an answer, even if he or his present company or the current earthly population didn’t know it yet. Even if the answer was uncertainty, there was always an answer. Carlos regarded that certainty as a mix of comforting and stifling. Curiosity could only go so far when every question had already been asked and every answer was on the horizon of being known.
Maybe that was why Carlos so loved Night Vale. Nothing there was certain, let alone bound by laws of convention or physics or logic. Any question he could think up and never been asked before, or, if it had, the citizens of Night Vale had long forgotten the answer and so were delighted by the discoveries Carlos could find for them about their beloved hometown. Many of Carlos’ colleagues who’d resided in Night Vale with him early on had found the shift in understanding—that trying to understand based on an outsider’s understanding was the first misstep—quite stressful. It couldn’t be helped, as they were going from a solid foundation of scientific exploration and adherence to reality to a town whose foundation shifted daily, chaotic and beautiful as its occupants. Night Vale was a scientific playground, a marvel unlike anything ever studied. For Carlos, it was endlessly fascinating and liberating, its uncertainty a perfect outlet for his equally endless curiosity.
Well. Speaking of beautiful residents, there were some things that were certain. Though Night Vale’s seismic activity and atmospheric radiation levels were in constant flux, Carlos could always count on a charming voice when he turned on the radio in his lab, a kiss-filled reunion when he parked his truck outside the radio station each evening, and a warm embrace through which to while the cold desert nights. Cecil was his certainty. Well, him and Cecil together was his certainty; there was still so much Carlos couldn’t quite understand about Cecil that made him just as beautifully fascinating as the town they called home.
For as long as he could remember, Cecil had lived in Night Vale. The weirdness that Carlos studied—as well as the more dangerous things he’d learned to tread carefully around (because a scientist would never find all the answers if they gave up just because something was dangerous)—each day was Cecil’s day-to-day. Cecil didn’t understand Carlos’ interest with a very normal desert community, but he did like the way Carlos’ eyes got very bright and words picked up speed when he was excited by a new solution to his infinite questions. And Carlos didn’t understand Cecil, but he loved tackling the challenge with each new hot day.
Cecil had… an effect. And not just on Carlos. Though, admittedly, Carlos could almost never say no when Cecil tipped his head forward and puffed out his lower lip, and butterflies had gotten into the habit of taking wing in his stomach and spreading a smile irresistibly upon his cheeks when Cecil leaned into kiss sweet low whispers into his ears. Those were effects, but actually quite mundane and, frankly, scientifically irrelevant ones (though Carlos had no complaint “studying” them). The effect that made Carlos whip out his academic lens was the one that Cecil had, simply, on reality.
Things just sort of happened around Cecil. Serendipitous things, but not always lucky ones. Things that weren’t what Cecil hoped for, but that he believed would happen. Carlos had his own examples: he believed that when he jumped up, gravity would bring him back down, and when he held his hand under running water, his skin would get wet, and when he told Cecil “I love you,” he’d hear the same right back. Cecil, on the other hand, believed some things that didn’t match up with Carlos’ understanding of how things worked.
Once, the two men had fallen asleep on the couch one rainy afternoon. When they awoke, a warm and lovely-smelling dinner awaited them on the kitchen counter, despite there having been no one else in the house (except Khoshekh, of course, but he floated, as ever, in the living room, and he certainly was not culinarily skilled enough to prepare such a feast). More than once, Cecil would set his phone down beside Carlos’ but neglect to plug it into the outlet. Yet, somehow, his phone never ran out of battery. Each day, Cecil read the news report provided to him at work (over a frequency, he believed, would reach the ears of every listener in Night Vale, even if they did not have their radio turned on), and he believed each story he recited. The fact that Tuesday’s PTA meeting had been rescheduled due to a conflicting sporting event or that the road past the library was under construction were not difficult or bad things to believe. No, it was the impossible things, like the local chapter of the NRA’s public service announcement that people were immune to bullets. He hadn’t tested it himself, but Carlos trusted the research that insisted otherwise, and he told Cecil as much. Cecil was doubtful but thanked Carlos for the information, nonetheless. After all, he trusted Carlos; there was no reason not to believe him. Within seconds, the bullet wound Cecil had evidently sustained that day began to bleed. Excessively. “People aren’t supposed to bleed that much!” Carlos had said, terror coloring his voice and widening his eyes as he tried to push Cecil to the door so they could race to the hospital. Cecil looked puzzled for a moment, taking that into account. The blood that hadn’t already dried on his shirt went back into the wound, and Cecil looked for Carlos’ approval with as easy a smile as ever. And Carlos had thought Night Vale was weird before. He didn’t dare inform Cecil that a bullet shouldn’t stay inside a human body long-term or that getting shot in general was supposed to hurt. He also couldn’t look away as the wound healed itself. With Cecil no longer in critical condition and panic no longer making Carlos’ legs feel wobbly, the scientist felt the familiar flash of curiosity up the back of his neck. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Even so, Carlos was resolute that any of the new questions in his mind would not be researched by shooting his partner. His mind was racing as he relieved Cecil of his shirt and took it to the laundry room, wondering as he washed exactly what and how he could research to know more about Cecil. He could plan later; first he had to fight a bloodstain on the battlefield of his favorite shirt for Cecil to wear. Sometimes, science could take a backseat for important issues.
For most normal people, seeing their boyfriend’s chest bleed like it was split open would probably have been too much. Maybe that was another reason Carlos so loved Night Vale; he fit in with the not-quite-normal. And that whole bullet-immunity episode had caught him off guard, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been studying Cecil since they first met. (Carlos had been told by several parties that he shouldn’t misconstrue “studying” with “getting to know” someone, but he couldn’t help if his work mind and his casual mind had a similar proclivity toward perception and a tireless pursuit of knowledge). The tattoos were the first thing that caught Carlos’ eye, probably because they were eyes that seemed to look back at him. Eyes and patterns and inky tendrils that moved freely about Cecil’s body. He’d blink or bat them away if they wandered into his eyes or ears, anywhere that distracted him from what was in front of him. The rest of Cecil’s appearance was not so wont to change. (Well, sometimes, when Carlos caught sight of him in his periphery or turned his head too fast, Cecil looked a little off, but, a second later, he was back to his usual handsome self.) That said, Carlos could occasionally sense things. When Cecil hugged him, Carlos could swear he felt wrapped up in more arms than he could see (which was a little off-putting, but it did make for great hugs). He was sure he and Cecil were the same height, but there were times, usually accompanied by a crooked smirk and mischievous hands, when Cecil seemed to be much, much taller. Carlos would have sworn Cecil was sitting in the living room, only to turn and see him right there in the kitchen next to Carlos. Often, Carlos had fallen asleep at his home office desk and then awoken in bed spooned by his partner. Some “odd” occurrences may have had a normal explanation, but others may not have, and Carlos really couldn’t be sure unless he spent a good long time studying such phenomena that surrounded his partner.
Carlos loved his partner.
Sometimes, the scientist’s study of his partner was a serious affair, with Cecil seated in the lab and happily drinking a smoothie as Carlos measured and calculated and hypothesized in a flurry around him. Other times, the studies were silly enough that Carlos knew his fellow scientists would never be seeing the results of them. Those were usually conducted with Cecil sitting on Carlos’ lap and humming happily as Carlos’ fingers traced his bare arms and back, lips counting his freckles and chasing his wandering tattoos.
It was a silly science day. Carlos and Cecil hadn’t gotten out of bed, much less gone to the lab, but science was definitely happening. Beyond the closed shutters of their bedroom window, the morning sun beat down over Night Vale, hot and happy on this day of no particular days. The gaping air conditioning vent kept the room cool enough to give the couple an excuse to keep their legs tangled beneath the blankets yet not so chilly as to warrant them leaving the bed to put on shirts.
The study of that day was part of an ongoing investigation. For the past few months, Carlos had been on a cartography mission, seeking to map out Night Vale (conveniently via long walks hand-in-hand with Cecil). They’d crossed every street, visited every building (some less than legally), and marked on the map hanging in Carlos’ office all their favorite places to pause and just breathe, just be, together.
That day, Carlos continued his work mapping, measuring and muttering and fluttering, his fingers, currently, tracing Cecil’s bare abdomen. There was little more Cecil could focus on than biting his lip on a smile and breathing.
Carlos took no notes, though he was absolutely committing to memory all of Cecil, who lay on his back with his head tipped back into a pillow, lips wobbling against laughter that built in his heaving chest and made his tattoos wriggle. Humming thoughtfully as his index and middle finger trailed down Cecil’s sternum, Carlos said, “The Night Vale Board of Tourism is pleased to announce the grand opening of its most attractive attraction: Cecil Palmer.”
Cecil sputtered, his cheeks going pink even as he turned his head to try and hide his face in the pillow, and Carlos grinned.
“This magnificent attraction has many points of interest,” Carlos went on, trying his best to imitate Cecil’s crooning radio voice (which was made much easier by morning huskiness, but was still shy of Cecil’s smooth, deep voice), “and the Board recommends visiting all of them at least once, and then as frequently as possible.”
The way he lay with one leg hooked over Cecil’s thighs and his arm resting on Cecil’s belly, Carlos could feel the way Cecil’s breathing hitched as those two fingers traced their winding path down Cecil’s stomach. Cecil didn’t push him away, instead grabbing fistfuls of sheets and trying to suck in his stomach. It definitely didn’t stall Carlos’ fingers in their descent, but it did make Carlos’ grin soften. He couldn’t imagine a brighter sight to start a morning.
“This plain here is inhabited by the most beautiful giggles,” Carlos said, tipping his head to one side with a smile as Cecil burst into aforementioned giggles as Carlos drew figure eights on Cecil’s belly. “It’s the only place to find giggles of that kind, so we recommend taking long hikes to increase chances of spotting them.” Carlos’ fingers looped seamlessly to Cecil’s left side, tickling gently up it and then swooping down to his hips. He brought his other hand to play on the right side as well, prompting Cecil’s giggles to grow until they were proper belly laughs. “This area here is excellent for skating and sledding,” Carlos narrated to the tune of Cecil’s laughter. “Of course, being that Night Vale is a desert, you’ll have to be very lucky in terms of weather or very determined. With some creativity, though, you could have all the fun here that your children do in the scrublands.”
Cecil’s hands flew from his pillow to grab Carlos’ wrists when the scientist quickly switched to scrubbing his blunt nails rapidly back and forth on Cecil’s sides. The radio host’s laughter went silent before returning full force, loud and happy and splitting his cheeks in an open-mouthed smile.
Carlos pressed a kiss to Cecil’s stomach, meanwhile repositioning himself to more fully lay over Cecil’s lower half, his hands relenting to smooth gentle circles just under Cecil’s ribs. “For the more adventurous,” Carlos had to stop monologuing to giggle when Cecil, having just gotten his breath back, sighed, smiling all the while. “For the more adventurous, there are excellent ridges to climb to the south of the region.”
“Don’t you—!” Cecil’s words were lost to head-thrown-back chortling as Carlos’ fingers scribbled his hip bones, the poor broadcaster able only to bury his hands in Carlos’ messy dark hair and hang on for dear life. Carlos was doing the same, though by planting his knees on either side of Cecil’s thighs to keep from being flipped onto his back and suffering copious amounts of fond but evil payback. He’d have a much easier time keeping the high ground before Cecil had the advantage of caffeine.
“Some might say ‘mountains,’” said Carlos, giggling both at being in such close proximity to Cecil’s sweet laughing face and for the fact that Cecil tried to rein in his mirth long enough to lean his head forward enough to nuzzle Carlos’ ear in retaliation for what his hands were doing and mouth was saying. “But, scientifically, these are ridges. Because mountains aren’t real.” Carlos wondered briefly what had become of certain national monuments and record-holding high points on earth, if Cecil’s power of belief was far-reaching enough that they would be gone if Carlos ever went to visit friends or family outside Night Vale. Such thoughts were overtaken by adoration as Cecil tried to sit up and kiss Carlos even as laughter already parted his lips. Carlos’ hands shifted from villainous spidering to calming palming, but he could still feel Cecil smiling against his mouth. He almost let himself get lost to the laughter-sweet kisses, but Carlos felt Cecil try to turn onto his side and, surely, reverse their positions and had to send a renewed attack of pinches to Cecil’s hips until he crashed onto his back so fast that the mattress bounced under them.
If not by the fact that he was being straddled, Cecil was pinned to the bed under Carlos’ expression, all grinning teeth and sparkling eyes and tilted head. He gasped as Carlos’ hands began to slide up his sides, unbearably slow in their trek to their next destination.
“Cecil,” said Carlos.
“Carlos,” said Cecil, giggles evidently ready to spill from his mouth just from anticipation.
“This is a very important cartographical study,” Carlos said, trying to be serious as though he wasn’t smiling as widely as his partner was. “I must complete it.” He leaned in to brush the tip of his nose against Cecil’s and speak more gently. “Albeit we can put a pin in it, if you want.”
Pressing his smiling lips together, Cecil shook his head. “How many more points of interest can there be, really? A public service announcement can only be so long a segment.”
Carlos chuckled. “Oh, believe me, I could spend all day advertising this.” He pressed a kiss to Cecil’s cheek. “But, for the sake of good radio, I’ll only mention a few more highlights.”
Face going red at the sentiment, Cecil snort in response to Carlos’ professionalism and for the fact that he continued kissing, hopscotching down with each one, visiting the sensitive spots beneath Cecil’s ear, on the side of his neck, in the hollow of his collarbone, in the middle of his chest. “You can go as long as you want,” Cecil hummed, adding, “if the advertising is paying for it.”
Rolling his eyes, Carlos rested his chin on Cecil’s stomach and tried not to let those teasing words throw him off. He was a serious scientist and new advertiser, after all; he had a report to get through. “If the more physical activities aren’t your style,” Carlos said, his hands settling to cradle Cecil’s ribcage, “there’s always dining. The Tourism Board assures only the best quality from the up-and-coming little restaurant with the most beautiful view in the area. Not only is their location and service great, but their food is delicious, especially their specialty ribs.” He’d been improving to talk on and keep Cecil in suspense, but Carlos found himself relieved when he could finish his spiel and dive in to gently nibble Cecil’s ribs, his fingers vibrating between the bones as well, garnering a beautiful shriek, jolt, and, finally, a tumbling waterfall of guffaws from Cecil. That was what Carlos wanted to hear.
Cecil was positively howling, kicking his legs the little he could and holding tight to Carlos’ hair. He could feel Carlos smiling against his chest and hear him laughing every time he lifted his head to target another rib or to inhale to plant raspberries that had Cecil bucking. And, in Carlos’ many studies, he was certain of his love for seeing Cecil laugh with such abandon, as well as, complimentarily, how much Cecil loved this kind of play. It wasn’t just that Cecil never verbally asked Carlos to stop, but also, more so, the way Cecil telegraphed his love with his entire body. He pulled Carlos closer rather than pushed him away. He never, for more than a second, blocked any of the many sensitive spots—points of interest—he had. And the smile he wore from being tickled as he so loved by the one he so loved didn’t leave his face for most, if not all, of the day. Carlos loved that smile.
His laughter tipping toward wheezing (and the distant voice in his mind reminding him what station management would have to say if he came into work after losing his voice again), Cecil gave a desperate twist of his hips, and Carlos let himself be turned over with little trouble. Carlos braced himself against an incoming counterattack, but Cecil only shifted to flop on top of him, cheek warm against his chest and smile still wide as his laughter gradually petered out. “I had more to advertise,” Carlos said, unable to pout while still smiling himself. “There’s this wonderful spot in the south for spelunking—” It was also hard to talk when Cecil wormed a wiggling finger under his arm in warning.
“Schedule another segment; I’m sure there will be slots in the upcoming days,” Cecil said, kissing up Carlos’ chest to nuzzle his neck. “Until then, good night, Night Vale.”
“Cecil, it’s nine in the morning,” said Carlos, giggling as Cecil’s nose brushed his earlobe.
“It’s night until the coffee pot goes off,” Cecil decided with a shrug, snuggling into Carlos with a happy sigh. And Carlos almost wanted to peek between the shutter blades to see if the sun had yawned and turned over to darkness and dancing stars. But he didn’t, rather closing his eyes with a chuckle and a kiss to Cecil’s forehead. “So good night, Night Vale. Good night.”