This was all wrote at 2 in the morning with no later editing. So if it sucks that's why.
Cecil sighs as he enters his apartment. Broadcasting had been rather stressful today, and he wants nothing more than to curl up with Carlos and go to sleep.
That's not possible of course.
His bedroom light flickers on a few seconds after he bleeds on the switch but the room still feels empty, impersonal light sliding across cold sheets.
It's not cold. Nightvale is in a desert, after all, but everything feels colder, for no other reason than a pair of strong arms and a heart pushing blood and life are suddenly missing.
His cell had died during work so he makes his way to the unmade bed and sits, grabbing the trailing charger cord and wresting it into his phone.
The phone screen's sudden brightness is almost too much in the watery light from his overhead light. He's going to need to change the bulb soon.
His phone blinks one new message at him, and he hungrily selects it with a quick tip tap of slender fingers. He lies down so the frayed cord can reach as he presses his cell to his ear.
Beep!
One new message
"Hey Cecil, it's me. I both hate and love that I got your voice mail. Hate because this isn't something that should be left to the staticky unreliability technology, but rather something that should be said face to face, so I can struggle to look you in the eyes as I talk. Love because I don't think I could handle saying any of this if you were capable of responding instantly.
I'm watching you right now through the photographs in the lighthouse. You're smiling sadly -that's a strange phrase, isn't it? Smiling sadly? Smiling, the stretch of lips away from teeth, is an expression of happiness, yet keeping your teeth covered with only the slightest curve of lips is sad.
I think it's the eyes.
I'm getting off topic. You're smiling. Let's leave it at that. Smiling as you look through a menu at Tourniquets. You finally got your reservation. Your reservation for one.
Nightvale is a fascinating place, scientifically. You have miniature cities under bowling allies, you have glowing clouds and invisible teleporting clock towers and imaginary corn and a dog park that no one can enter, yet many do.
I'm rambling. I tend to do that sometimes, it's part of being a scientist. You know that.
This... other world, this... separate dimension is also fascinating, scientifically speaking. There's strange earth quakes and a blinking red light and a spiral and photographs that are windows into your dimension. Not literal windows, if they were I would have gotten back to Nightvale a long time ago. They're- well, you know. I've told you about them before.
I haven't been able to find any old oak doors. I have, however, found plenty of interesting science. Sorry, that was redundant. Science is
alwaysinteresting. The cacti still baffle me, though I think I'm getting closer to figuring them out. I can't wait to do that. Then I can move on to the next scientific puzzlement, and the next, and the next.
That brings me to my next point. My only point, really. Everything else in this message has just been inane chatter for armor as I try to prepare myself for this point.
I do not feel prepared, but I am forging ahead with words anyways. Being a scientist does not ready you to deal with words and emotions. I'm not sure what field of study does.
Cecil, I-
I'm not going to return to Nightvale."
There is more to the message, but it remains unheard as his phone slips from suddenly lax fingers. He makes no move to grab it as it bounces off the bed and to the floor.
No.
Nonononononono
He doesn't realize he's clenching the wrinkled bed sheet until he tries to raise his hands to his eyes, trailing the pilled fabric.
With a shudder he forces his hands open, pressing their heels to his eyes, until he sees stars.
There are no tears.
He isn't sure what he's supposed to think. His own personal void yawns in his hands and he is concerned about the lack of water.
Maybe he's all cried out from the past months in an empty home, the lack of perfect hair and science keenly felt.
Maybe he saw this coming, from the very first time Carlos put earthquakes over doors.
And the second time.
And the third time.
He shudders, rolling over, away from his abandoned phone, drawing his legs up and burying his face in his pillow.
He throws the pillow against the wall with a snarl a second later as the smell of Carlos' shampoo fills his nose.
No.