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Carlos’ breath came in short, hard pants. The walk up the mountain to the lighthouse was long and steep, and with his friends from the masked army off on some sort of mission, Carlos was forced to do it himself. Under normal circumstances, Carlos would have simply asked Alisha or Doug to give him a lift, as the mountain wasn't even as tall as the shortest warrior. Carlos could fit easily in the palms of their hands, and the journey took less than a minute with their giant strides.
During his first few weeks here, when his size was still new and novel to the masked army, they’d amused themselves by making him tiny replicas of their own everyday objects. He quickly acquired a rudimentary set of pots and pans, a wardrobe’s worth of giant-dog hair tunics and soft leggings and - most practically - a leather water pouch. While it had appeared barely fingernail sized in Alisha’s hand, the thing fit like a small satchel on Carlos.
Brushing his dirty hands on the dirtier labcoat he still carried, Carlos surveyed the desert spreading around him. He manipulated his water satchel to drink, enjoying the feel of the cool water on his dry throat. The height of the mountain made Carlos dizzy, but he was slowly getting used to it, and could now appreciate the orange-brown infinity without feeling like he was about to faint. Fear of heights aside, it really was a rather spectacular view.
With a deep sigh, Carlos splashed some of his water on his hands, and ran one over his forehead. The heat of his palm nearly overpowered the coolness of the water, but combined with the slight breeze, it did have some effect. He deemed his lungs ready for the final push, and turned away from the view to climb the last steep bit of trail.
(Not that there really was a trail. The masked army, being taller than the mountain itself, had no need to climb it, so the “trail” I refer to is simply where Carlos had decided was the easiest place to climb, the few times he had to do it without help. But I digress.)
Carlos let himself have only a second in the cool, dusty silence inside the lighthouse before stepping confidently toward the closest picture frame. He peered in, still slightly out of breath from his trek up the mountain. Inside, John Peters - you know, the farmer - was having an argument with a pimply sales clerk at the Ralph’s. Nothing unusual. Not what Carlos was looking for. He moved on, crouching down to look into the next one, which was only about knee-height above the ground.
Several Erikas were dusting Josie’s house to something playing on the radio, while the Old Woman herself dozed on the battered sofa. A grandmotherly smile played on her lips as the huge, ethereal beings twirled like clumsy four-year-olds to the music, brandishing their dustcloths and brooms like wands.
Carlos grinned, but moved on quickly after taking in the scene. He loved Old Woman Josie dearly - he'd gotten to know her quite well, through Cecil - but she wasn’t what he was here for. She wasn’t Cecil.
Carlos glanced into the others on the first floor to find similar scenes - little, silent snippets of everyday life in Night Vale - before moving on and climbing the dusty spiral staircase to the second floor. He approached the picture frame hanging closest on his left, and finally found what he was here for.
Cecil, his own beautiful Cecil, his pointed chin resting on his hand near the microphone, talking conversationally with a mass of people he couldn't see or hear. His tattoos meandered aimlessly on his arms, like leaves on water on a breezy day, occasionally curling up his pale throat, onto his chin, or gliding across his highboned cheeks like shooting stars.
Oh, how Carlos missed those cheeks, that throat, those slender, artist’s fingers tangling with his own. He watched Cecil run his fingers through his hair, take a paper from his newest living intern, pause to drink from his ever-present cup of black coffee, with unabashed yearning.
Apparently, Carlos had caught the tail end of the broadcast, because now Cecil was switching off his microphone, getting up, gathering his things. He walked out of the frame and Carlos watched for a few seconds as the scene began to play itself over before turning to find the next Cecil-themed picture.
Here, Cecil was walking through Old Town Night Vale, and whatever was providing these windows through the dimensions seemed to be following him. Carlos settled crosslegged in front of the picture frame, ready to watch the scene play out. Sometimes, he found, time would line up in such a way that he could call, and the Cecil in the picture would pick up. Even though Cecil couldn’t see him, it was rather pleasant when he couldn’t get astral projection or skype to work. But Carlos got the sense this wasn’t one of those times, so, in true scientific fashion, he simply observed as his boyfriend made his way up Main Street.
Cecil was slumped forward, his feet dragged as he walked, and his expression was dull. His tattoos moved sluggishly, tiredly, and Carlos was immediately concerned. He was unable to do anything but look on as Cecil turned into a tiny, dim bar and crumpled onto one of the stools in a hopeless heap. Cecil knit his fingers together, elbows on the bar in front of him, and rested his chin on his hands. Perhaps it the angle from which Carlos was watching, or the shadows in the bar, but Cecil’s face looked sharp, angular, and shockingly thin.
After a few minutes Cecil waved the bartender over, ordered something - Carlos guessed it was his usual scotch - and went back to staring at nothing. Time progressed differently here and there, in an odd, fast then slow way that reminded Carlos of a video game. The 7 minutes his watch said it took for the setting sun to darken the small window of the bar felt like an eternity, even as he watched Cecil nurse three consecutive glasses of his scotch in fast forward.
The small window followed Cecil as he rose, swaying slightly, fumbled in his pocket for the correct amount of money, and left, his jacket draped over his arm. He walked the few blocks home, managed to get his key into the lock, and stumbled in, making a beeline for the bedroom.
To Carlos’ surprise, though, Cecil did not simply collapse into bed as expected. Instead, he went straight to their shared closet and, his arms wide and clumsy, gathered all of the lab coats Carlos had left behind and pulled them onto the floor. Cecil stared at them for a moment, his face solemn before seeming to go boneless, collapsing into the heap with a visible sob. His shoulders shook as he gathered the coats in his arms, hiding his face in them, and Carlos was reminded, suddenly, of an email he’d received a month or so back. All it said was they don’t smell like you anymore, without even a signature, and at the time of its arrival Carlos had been wholly confused. Now, he watched Cecil pull out his phone and type out the message with blurry eyes, painfully aware.
Carlos reached out, impulsively, pressing his fingers against the cruel substance that blocked him from reaching through to his lover. He wanted so desperately to help Cecil, to be there for him, to make this heartbreaking process unnecessary, that for a moment he forgot his studies on the picture frames, thinking only of how he could get to Cecil.
Carlos knew he couldn’t project any semblance of himself into Cecil’s universe in his current emotional state - he would have to meditate for at least an hour to get the calm and concentration needed - but he tried anyways. He shut his eyes and willed himself to see his shared bedroom back home instead of the plain wooden lighthouse walls when he opened them, but to no avail.
As he thought, Carlos could only look on, helpless, as the scene played itself out. Finally, Cecil pulled himself out of the pile and into bed, still clothed, clutching one of the lab coats like a security blanket. He curled himself around it and sobbed into the worn white fabric, pressing his face into it. Then, abruptly, the frame flickered back to Cecil walking towards the bar, and Carlos sat for a moment in shock, before unfolding his legs and making his way outside.
To his surprise, the sun was already beginning to set over his desert world. The masked army was back from their mission, and their huge cooking pires glowed red as blood in the golden dusk. Carlos put two fingers in his mouth and whistled as loud as he could. He felt a bit bad, whistling for these people as if they were animals, but his voice wasn’t strong enough to go the distance, and he'd never make it back to the camp before nightfall on his own short legs.
Doug, however, covered the distance in only a few steps. He scooped Carlos up gently, clasping him in a loose fist so only his head was visible, startling Carlos out of his thoughts about the political correctness of his summoning technique. The giant brought Carlos close to his face, and seemed to notice Carlos’ dejected expression. He stroked Carlos’ longer-than-ever, dark hair with one huge finger, humming sympathetically
“It’s fine,” Carlos said out of habit. “I’m fine.”
Doug nodded, and for once Carlos was glad of the tribe's stoic tendencies. No one in the army talked much, except around the fires at night, when voices rose in more and more absurd tales until long after a scientifically decent hour.
The food smelled delicious, but Carlos hardly noticed. Someone had already filled Carlos’ tiny pot with stew, and it sat steaming on his twig table when Doug set him down.
Like everyone else, Carlos ate in near perfect silence, brooding. However, instead of taking his usual spot on Alisha’s shoulder when the masked army turned their attention to campfire stories, Carlos escaped to his tent, intent on calling Cecil before he went to bed.
He dialed and waited as the phone rang once, twice, three times, and then -
“Hello, Carlos,” Cecil’s voice was smooth and deep. “I was just talking about you. Listeners, I’m very sorry, he just calls so rarely, what with the time difference, and all, I’ll - I’ll send you to the weather.”
Carlos waited in silence as Cecil clattered around his desk, suddenly worried that this wasn't a good idea. Finally, the clattering stopped.
"So," Cecil said. "What brings this lovely surprise?"
"It's nothing, really, I'm sorry, I didn't realize your show was going now, I'm fine," Carlos tried to explain, feeling embarrassed. "I just saw something that worried me in the lighthouse."
"Are you alright?" Cecil's voice was instantly concerned. "Is the otherworld safe? Are you safe?"
"Yes, Cecil, don't worry, I'm fine, it wasn't that kind of worrisome. I - I'll tell you about it later, I don't want to be a bother." Carlos wanted to talk about it now, of course, but he didn't want to interrupt Cecil's work. He knew how temperamental station management was.
"Carlos," Cecil said warmly, his voice smooth as melted chocolate. "My perfect, beautiful idiot. You could never be a bother. And I've already got the weather going, we may as well talk for the few minutes we have."
"Okay, fair point. I just - you know the picture frames that show bits of Night Vale, right? Well, I saw something in one of them, and it made me worry. About you, I mean. As far as I can tell the town is fine. Relatively speaking. Are you okay?"
"Of course I am, Carlos. I'm not dead, I haven't lost an intern in over a month, I promise I'm perfectly fine," Cecil assured him.
"Are you eating well? You looked like you weren't eating well."
"Not as well as when you're here, you know I can't cook, but there are plenty of takeout places in town, and Earl comes and cooks things for me to freeze and defrost sometimes, and I've got enough of that sugary cereal you hate to last a lifetime. I'm not going to starve."
"Okay," Carlos still sounded doubtful. He decided to leave out the drinking part, at least until they had more time to talk. "I just - I saw through this window, and you looked so awful and sad, and I wanted to help, but I couldn't, and -"
"Carlos, Carlos, it's okay. I'm okay. I promise. We don't even know if everything in those things is the truth yet, and nothing awful has happened yet, so for all we know, it was all made up." Cecil's voice was low and soothing.
"Okay," Carlos said again. "Well, I'm sorry I've been gone so long. And I'm sorry I interrupted your show. I'll try to astrally project in later in the week, okay?"
"That would be... lovely, Carlos. I miss you a lot."
"I miss you too, mi amor."
Cecil sighed heavily. "It's good to hear your voice, it's been a few days, for me. I do miss being able to touch you, though."
"Me too, Cecil. I'm sorry it's been so long. And I'm trying to find a door, I really am -"
"I know, Carlos. I believe you. I'm not mad at you for it. The weather is almost over though."
"Alright. I'll call you again before I go to bed, okay?"
"Okay. I love you, Carlos."
"I love you too, Cecil," Carlos said fervently. "I'll talk to you soon. Tell your listeners I say hi."
"I will. Try not to worry about me too much. Bye, Carlos."
"Bye, Cecil," Carlos replied easily. He hung up the phone, feeling infinitely better even though he knew what he saw in the lighthouse could be in Cecil's near future. At least now, the Cecil he could talk to, was not drunk and crying on the floor, or so thin his cheekbones stretched his fragile skin taut. His Cecil was acceptably happy, and healthy, and Carlos felt a wave of relief settle over him.
Humming quietly to himself, Carlos tucked his phone into his sleeping bag, and left his tent, following the sounds of laughter to the opposite side of the camp. The stories were bound to last hours more, and with any luck, there would still be some dessert when he got there.