Carlos likes to listen to Cecil's shows. He always has, even since the days when the flowery descriptions of his appearance and daily activities made him uncomfortable, but even moreso now that the voice on the radio has a name and a face and a hopelessly inescapable grasp on his heart.
Some days science interferes with listening, but Carlos does what he can. In the lab, he leaves a radio next to his desk that is on at all times and records the station directly onto his laptop. Occasionally if he works late, he'll fast forward through the hours of NVCR's blank static to hear a re-run of Cecil's voice to keep him company in the empty laboratory. On days when the scientist knows he has to head out into the desert for some tests on the talking cacti or across town to check on the zero-gravity patches surrounding the local Starbucks, he keeps a portable radio in his satchel. It stays packed between the collection of empty test tubes and the handheld seismometer - right next to a carefully tucked photograph. Cecil took the selfie of the two of them making ridiculously cheesy smiles as they sat together waiting for the Thanksgiving Day Dead Citizens Impersonation Contest to begin. For Christmas Carlos slipped a copy of the photo into a frame that Cecil keeps diligently on his desk, claiming that it is all the proof he will ever need that existence is almost definite, and that he isn't simply alone in an empty universe onto which he has projected his own delusions of reality.
Sometimes Carlos misses the shows anyway, despite his best efforts to catch every one. Today is one such occasion. Most days the fault lies in Night Vale's fluid and unstable concept of time. The nights they spend together, Carlos always leaves first in the morning. Cecil heads to the station an hour or so later, but his shows start in the afternoon, the evening, late at night, or sometimes all day. Regardless of the scheduling, they always feel like they maintain the same duration, and he almost always comes home in time for dinner.
Home.
As Carlos unlocks the front door, his mind resonates with the word. It's strange, he thinks, that two lives can become so tangled and then learn to grow up and around each other in climbing tendrils so quickly. Six months earlier, supper was something he forgot existed until he emerged from a fog of scientific enigmas near 3 AM realizing the obnoxious sounds distracting him were coming from his stomach. And today he has spent the first afternoon of the new year pacing up and down emptying grocery store aisles in search of some simple ingredients to make a proper, nice meal for someone he can't imagine his life without anymore.
Home.
They do not live together. In fact, he can't remember at what point they both started calling Cecil's place home. As far as he can tell, it was a natural, unnoticeable progression, like much of their relationship so far. The keys he drops in the dish by the door are technically illegal, the nights he spends at Cecil's apartment carefully monitored and strictly limited to a specific number per week. The authorities are not entirely without sympathy. For nearly a month now, they have faithfully slid suggestions beneath the door of his laboratory every morning. Pamphlets for new housing developments, want columns for duplex renters, advertisements for refurbished bungalows along the harbor and waterfront recreation area that doesn't exist and never officially did to begin with, which considerably discounts the price. Carlos always sighs, rolls his eyes dramatically, and pretends to throw the flyers in the recycle bin, but several of the more interesting prospects are sneaked into the top drawer of his desk when the secret police aren't watching. He hasn't spoken to Cecil about it yet. He doesn't know the right words to tell his boyfriend that the apartment may be cozy and comfortable, but something about it will always be Cecil's home. And the little efficiency above the lab will always be his home. And he wants to find somewhere that will be their home. There are a lot of things he doesn't know quite how to tell Cecil.
By the time he switches on the antique radio in the living room, Cecil is reading off the text he just sent, complete with a description of the most ridiculous emoji the scientist could find, and promising to be home for supper. Carlos smiles to himself and heads for the kitchen to be sure that supper will be ready in time. The first batch of stovetop-pop imaginary corn is currently drowning beneath the faucet to put out the imaginary smoke when the front door opens.
"I'm in the kitchen!" Carlos calls as he shakes the second tin of popcorn over the glowing crimson of the burner. He looks up at the jingle of keys in the dish. It's clear from the slight droop to his shoulders that Cecil's day has been long, but he smiles anyway when he sees Carlos, and the expression is genuine. "How was your day? I caught the very end of the sho- oh." The side hug he is pulled into is unexpected and surprisingly tight. Carlos wriggles around in his boyfriend's grasp until he can slip his arms around Cecil's neck. "Hey," he asks gently. "You alright?" Cecil leans back just far enough to look into the scientist's eyes.
"I love you." The words catch Carlos off guard every time, and he doesn't know why. Out of habit, his eyes search for something to lock onto that isn't the sincerity in Cecil's face; his mouth forms wordless shapes to find a response. "It's okay, you don't have to say it back," Cecil gives him a small, reassuring smile. "It just occurred to me today that I should tell you more often than I do. I need you to always know that I love you." Carlos immediately feels horrible. He loves Cecil too. He's known he loves Cecil since their third date; the scientist had said something that came out as an accidental innuendo, and Cecil had laughed so unexpectedly that he snorted lemon-berry tea out his nose. Since then, the words find their way into Carlos's mind in the mornings when he wakes up before Cecil and watches him sleep, all tangled half-in and half-out of the sheets, curled up and quietly snoring. The syllables rest behind his teeth when Cecil goes off in long rambles about how much he loves being a journalist and then catches himself, cheeks flushing pale scarlet as he hides his bubbling enthusiasm behind long, bashful eyelashes.
But there are a lot of things Carlos doesn't know quite how to tell Cecil. There's a difference between tacking x's and o's on to the end of texts or always writing and solving the expression 9x-7i[less-than]3(3x-7u) when Cecil is peeking at his notes over his shoulder - and actually saying the words out loud. There's a difference, and it frustrates him. When he practices the words in the mirror they seem contrived; when he thinks about actually saying them to Cecil they seem downright terrifying. So instead of saying anything at all, he reaches up and pulls Cecil into a kiss and hopes somehow this way his lips will say everything they can't when he's speaking.
The sound of the imaginary corn finally popping breaks them apart. Carlos turns back to the stovetop, Cecil's arm wrapping comfortably around his hip as he rests his chin on the scientist's shoulder to watch him cook. "I found this in one of the remaining aisles at the Ralph's. I thought maybe we could have this and the falafel and some of the seeds, maybe watch a movie. It doesn't have to be a documentary. It can be. It can be whatever you like."
"I can't think of a better way to spend an evening," Cecil hums softly, and he means it which makes the scientist's insides flutter and flail and then cripple as he thinks about how much he really does love the man, how much he can't say it, and how much he hates himself for not trying. He slips his fingers in between Cecil's around his waist and doesn't let go. Cecil seems quiet, thoughtful, and he keeps close to Carlos as they work around the kitchen. It isn't hard to be close in the cramped little room, but there's something else that isn't being talked about, and probably should be. Carlos swears to himself to check the recordings of the show first thing in the morning when he gets back to the lab to hear what's happened. For now Cecil is content to just hold his hand. They settle in on the sofa and switch on the television, and let the static run for a few minutes as Carlos tucks some blankets in around them, bundling the sofa into a little nest. Cecil pulls him close as they flip through the Netflix catalog. "So are scatterplot matrices...will this be like The Matrix, but with more math?" Cecil asks hesitantly and entirely seriously.
The words are there again, crystal clear and beautiful in the scientist's mind - a foreign language on his tongue. He swallows them once more, one-by-one, fully aware of the way their sweetness settles in bitter in the pit of his stomach. Even simple words like yes and no are hard to find, so he shakes his head instead, cuddling closer into Cecil's arms under the fuzziest of the blankets.
"You want to stay tonight?" Cecil murmurs in a voice barely above a whisper that's nearly lost into his hair along with a lingering kiss between the curls. "We have one night left this week."
"I'd love that," Carlos manages. It's the closest he's ever gotten so far - at least one word he meant to say. Though the pit of his stomach is still churning, part of him is hoping that somehow, in some strange way Cecil will know what he means.
End Notes: I couldn't handle all the domesticity in Orange Grove, so I thought I'd write how things would happen if for once, Carlos didn't catch the show. (and predictably it still would end in just as much couch cuddling as if he had heard the whole thing)
I realize this story doesn't really resolve itself, but I guess I'm kinda vaguely setting up for some future stuff. If you know the spoilers you know what I mean. I also tried a new writing style for this, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out. :)
Oh and the equation simplifies to i[less-than]3u for anyone who's never been hit on in algebra class.