He stood by the fax machine, counting the seconds as they blurred past. Excitement trickled through his wide eyes.
What next? A declaration of war between citizens? Rico Senior organizing a special deal on pizzas on behalf of the mayor's birthday? Another herd of glow-in-the-dark sheep?
Cecil Baldwin beamed at the memory of the bioluminescent sheep. They lit the way home last week when they escaped the local ranch at the west side of town. His own inquiry into the late-night matter revealed yet another insight: they were very polite sheep, more than welcome to light the way home when the streetlights exploded from the seasonal night fog.
The fax machine whirred, lights pulsating. Cecil ran his fingers over the numbered buttons before plucking the newly printed news. He whipped around, eyes glossing over the faxed paper. With the air-conditioned tundra of the Night Vale Community Radio station, the warmth of the paper renewed the life in his fingers.
Cecil rushed down the hall, turning the corner. He knocked once before entering the recording office. The current Voice of Night Vale glanced up, continuing to speak into the microphone. A soothing voice for the midnight slot, lulling you to sleep despite their silvery, disembodied voice prodding you awake.
It was a voice Cecil listened to each and every day, when he woke up and as he fell asleep.
He handed the radio host the fax, bowing and exiting in one fell swoop. His heartbeat raced even as he rushed down the hall, back to the tech room where he meant to spend the remaining half hour of his internship shift.
A hand snapped out and latched onto Cecil's wrist, whisking him into the break room. The radio's words drifted into the air via the machine to his right, and Cecil's head turned to listen to that even as he bumped into his fellow intern partner.
"How's my cherry pie?" Steve Carlsberg asked.
Cecil looked up at the lanky intern in front of him. "Distracted, thank you for asking," he said as he straightened. "City Council just banned the left side of our main street."
"How do you determine the left side of a street?" Steve asked. He reached over and turned down the volume dial of the radio.
Cecil leaned over and turned it back up. "The side with the street lights, of course," he said, as if it were as obvious as he meant it out to be. "Which, if you listened, you would know."
"My apologies," Steve said. "I was busy preparing a gift for you."
Cecil's eyebrows raised. "Surprise? Me?"
Steve nodded. "Close your eyes," he said.
Cecil nodded, lowering his eyelids. He listened to his radio host superior, the voice soothing Cecil's senses with the flow's nuances. Calming his pulse. Sending waves of lullaby-like tones.
A quick peck. Vitalizing. Sending a subdued shockwave through Cecil's skin. Steve's soft lips brushed over Cecil's chapped ones. The flutter of embarrassment choked Cecil's words in his throat. He opened his eyes, realization settling that Steve stole a kiss when Cecil totally wasn't prepared and surely Steve could not acknowledge Cecil anymore after finding out Cecil's lips were horrendously dehydrated and as dry as the desert.
Steve pulled out a box from behind his back, tied with a purple ribbon. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself to that. But in case you didn't like that, I brought some scones."
"'Scones'?" Cecil repeated.
Steve's smile vanished as his jaw dropped. "Don't tell me you've never had scones."
Cecil swallowed, panic clogging his throat. He shook his head.
"Ever?" With another shake of Cecil's head, Steve chuckled. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. "I can't believe this." He shrugged. "Guess I'll introduce you to the wonders of my scones."
"Well, what are they?" Cecil asked.
"They're these sort of biscuit bread things," Steve said. "Hard to explain really. But these are blueberry ones."
"Weren't blueberries decried extinct the other day? That's what the mayor said."
Steve pursed his lips. "Just pretend we saved these particular berries before they went extinct," he said. "Taste them. I made 'em myself."
Cecil took the box and removed the purple ribbon that matched his eye color. He tried his best not to think about the repercussions of this meal. Blueberries having been declared extinct in Night Vale, it meant Steve Carlsberg believed Cecil was worthy of having the very last blueberries in all of Night Vale.
Cecil. Worthy. He was honored at the very notion. But for Steve to think of Cecil so highly, when dozens admired Steve Carlsberg's very presence, the dulcet tones of his voice, the persuasive abyss of his eyes? The perfection of Steve Carlsberg attracted many, and with the added perk of him baking?
Steve Carlsberg was so cool.
Cecil opened the box, ribbon hanging on his arm, and picked up one of the triangular biscuit bread; its crumbly exterior resembled cookies more than biscuits. Cecil saw the spots where the endangered blueberries sunk into the scone's crust, and he took a bite. Crumbs trickled from his lips, the light, buttery taste pleasing to his taste buds.
"So?" Steve smirked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "How do you like them?"
Cecil chewed and swallowed, looking up to Steve and smiled. "They're fantastic." He took another bite, holding the box in one hand and his scone in the other.
"Let's just keep those here in the break room," Steve said, taking the box away with Cecil flustering because it made him look immensely gluttonous over delicious scones. "If we get crumbs all over the tech room, Station Management'll have my head."
"They'll have our souls, too," Cecil said between bites.
Steve sighed, leaning against the counter with the coffee dispenser. He set the box of scones down behind him, then folded his arms across his chest. "Don't you think the voice is a little... weary?"
"Pardon?"
Steve nodded his head in the direction of the radio beside him. "Sounds more and more tired with each and every broadcast."
"Perhaps it's the time period," Cecil said. He checked his watch. "It'll be one in the morning soon. Some people get tired, and some do not."
"Why talk on the radio if you're tired?" Steve asked.
"Because it is our duty to give the news to our people!" Cecil cried. "Night Vale Community Radio has that responsibility! We must deliver news, keep the community calendar updated, rise to call upon the community in the case of trouble! We save lives, Stevie. We save lives and we keep everybody updated so danger does not reach them. And we help pass on the word of the City Council, as well as the Secret Police!"
"You can't even trust something with a name like Secret Police," Steve said, frowning.
"They are secret so that they can squish the flames of those who seek to do harm to our community," Cecil explained, continuing on with his completely justifiable tirade. "Our radio station helps them! We do good, Steve Carlsberg. But to be the one who tells everybody the truth? Who tells everybody the good news and the bad news? To be the one people fall asleep to, wake up to?" Cecil let out a dreamy sigh, closing his eyes and holding his scone with his knobby fingers. "That's my dream, Steve Carlsberg. That's my dream."
Steve tilted his head slightly and grinned. "You're a real tentacutie when you're off in your dreamland, Cecil."
Cecil flushed. In his moment of agony, he took another bite of his scone, both because it was delicious and because he didn't know what to say. "... Is that referring to the recently acquired tentacles?"
"Well, they're kind of settling around your neck, I would assume so."
Cecil's hand rushed to his neck. He felt the squirming tendrils of the newly awakened tentacles. He gaped, then concentrated on forcing them back. He felt them settle under his skin again, where they mixed in with the several other moving tattoos.
"That's still cool," Steve said. "Normally I'd say something about your undying loyalty to NVCR, but I suppose the baby tentacles can be talked about."
"I-I haven't learned to control them yet," Cecil said as his gaze wandered downwards. He stared at his shoes, mentally kicking himself. Steve Carlsberg must have been regretting his decision to give him scones. Sugar had a tendency to incite Cecil to ramble on and on about various subjects, of anything and everything, such as NVCR, the competition between the Whispering Forest and the Metallic Forest, the missing Apollo tapes, a scientist's death ray, and Rico's pizza slices.
"You haven't learned to control the tentacles yet? That's cute, Cecil." Steve leaned forward and pecked Cecil again. "You should probably head back to the tech room. See if any other news arrived."
Cecil nodded, holding the last of his scone. "T-thanks for the scone," he said, whipping around and zipping out of the break room.
Back in the tech room, Cecil ran his fingers over his lips. A rough, flexible terrain where the softest lips always find their way onto his. It was very easy to forget Steve Carlsberg chose him, of all people, to share an intern shift with. It was hard to remind himself that Steve Carlsberg asked him out all those weeks ago, eager to spend time with Cecil Baldwin, whose ears were glued to the radio and whose gaze rested on a remarkable young man who found his interests scattered with the people and his reasoning, although out of place in Night Vale, being Cecil's object of fascination.
And Cecil, apparently, was Steve's.
The internship shift ended at one in the morning, music filling the air as the talking slot ended for the night. Steve and Cecil left together, the lights from the interior of the radio station lighting the sidewalk they departed from. Miscellaneous insects flew through the air, chirped in their cloaked hiding spots behind rocks and under plants. Winter moisture clung to their skin, their short sleeves revealing raised goosebumps. Chills ran through Cecil's spine, but not due to the weather. Steve's warm hand found their way to Cecil's, clasping around Cecil's fingers and netting with his hand. Cecil watched his tattoos slide around his arms in their flustered flurry, and he stared at the sidewalk ahead of them.
When they had to walk through Night Vale's main street, Cecil convinced Steve [read: after desperate, whispered begging] to stay on the right side of the street.
"I still don't see why we had to stay on the right side of the street," Steve said.
"Stevie." Cecil sighed. "City Council clearly announced a shortage of protection from the sewer dragons. Therefore, we must do our very best, as a united community, to stay alert for one another."
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard." After a glare from Cecil, Steve added, "Okay, it's reasonable with Night Vale, but it's still the silliest thing."
"You have to trust the City Council!"
"You're quick to defend them." Steve walked around Cecil, stepping off the sidewalk pavement.
"Where are you going?" Cecil asked as he yanked Steve back onto the sidewalk.
"To go prove you wrong," Steve said.
"It's dangerous!"
"The Council is just distracting Night Vale from reality," Steve said. "Everyone's insane."
"Careful about what you say," Cecil said. "The Secret Police is very adamant about protecting the town name."
"I'm not slandering. I'm merely expressing an opinion."
"An opinion is a very dangerous thing to hold."
They walked, hands swinging to an unheard rhythm, and only separated when they had to turn in different directions to get home. Steve presented him with one final kiss, one that lasted longer than the others. Cecil realized he tasted of scones, and the echo of the taste followed him home.
Cecil hopped up the steps to his front porch, pulling out a set of keys. He winced at the wood creaking; he hoped not to wake his parents, despite the fact that they listened for his arrival every night.
Pushing his key into the lock, Cecil twisted his key and turned the doorknob. Pulling out his key and pocketing it, he wiped his feet on the welcome mat, keeping his gaze down as he slipped off his shoes and stepped into the lit hallway.
Cecil turned and closed the door, locking it via doorknob and bolt.
"Welcome back."
Cecil's eyes widened and he whipped around, the voice belonging not to that of his parents, but rather, someone else entirely.
"Nice to see you again, too," Steve said.
Cecil glanced around, questions flooding his mind.
He had stepped through the door in his house, expecting to find his parents.
Instead he stepped into the Night Vale Community Radio station, its hallway lit with its bright lights, and Steve waiting for him.