And Now the Weather, a radio dramas fanfic

Disclaimer: I don't own Welcome to Night Vale.
A/N: It's about time. And yes, the numbers are supposed to be out of order.

Title: And Now the Weather
Summary: Today's weather forecast: a love story unlike any love story you know Welcome to Night Vale.
Pairing(s): Cecil Palmer/Carlos
Warning(s): slash, Night Vale's craziness, little dark, little gloomy but there's always hope, disjointed narrative style that I'm really starting to take a liking to, nonhuman!Cecil . . . yeah, I think that's it

Xxxx

No one remembers Before; Before with a capital "b" because Before is something mysterious, something that people chase like after like an elusive dream. Old Woman Josie says the Erikas tell her about Before, about what once was and will sometime be again. They tell her about the ocean and then the sand and then the creatures that crawled out of the wet mud and began to breathe as they were shaped by whoever existed in the Before. The Erikas don't tell her who existed in the Before.

Cecil doesn't remember Before, but he remembers Something; Something with a capital "s" because this Something feels like it should be important, like it should be something worthwhile and wonderful. But every time he tries to recall it, it leaves him as quickly as it came—another ghost, another dream, another Something that was probably important but no longer isn't.

Cecil thinks he should want to remember the Before, but he can't bring himself to care about or worry about it because Before is a memory; and memories are always changing.

Carlos asks him one night, "What was your family like?"

They're not on a date, just hanging out and enjoying the presence of another person who may or may not be real. The light blinks not very hypnotic but like the pulse of a steady heartbeat.

Cecil stares at him through the steam of his late-night coffee, counts the waves in Carlos' hair and says, "If I told you, I'd be telling a lie. I don't remember them."

Carlos blinks like an owl coming out of his daytime slumber, and then he smiles—loose and easy. It's beautiful on his face thinned from worrying about things that shouldn't be worried about. He says, "Then tell me something lovely."

Tonight's weather forecast: a soft story with a country soul, the sound of wind rolling on something solid, guitars twanging out low and high notes that make you think of home even when it isn't.

Carlos is in the shower when Cecil wakes up in a house that isn't is home. It's a nice place to be, though. It makes Cecil feel safe in the same he feels safe inside the booth with the headphones drowning out the hiss and growls of management as they roll around inside their office—the one with the broken door that Cecil's tried fixing but chooses to stay broken. The room is sparse and neat, white marbled with blue waves like the sky in summer, a dresser, a square window that's a little lopsided because the walls melted around it, a patch of colorless sunlight on the floor and a bed that's too small for two people to fit comfortably in it.

Cecil stretches his limbs and then rolls into the spot where Carlos was sleeping. It smells like him; it smells exotic and hot and a little bit like sweat. It smells like Carlos' aftershave, and a strand of Carlos' hair clings to Cecil's lips; and when it slips into Cecil's mouth and curls on Cecil's tongue, he can taste the shampoo and conditioner Carlos used—something with mangos and some flower that most people would associate with men. The aftertaste is sour and bitter, ammoniac and heavy with chemicals; but Cecil doesn't mind—doesn't think he'll ever mind.

"This morning's forecast," he says into Carlos' pillow a little damp with sweat, "a love song no one's heard before, something with a lot of guitar and sunshine. There'll be a little thunder on the horizon, and the sky will be dark and bloated; but the sunshine will rim the clouds like a halo, and everyone will know things are going to be alright."

Carlos comes out of the shower, and Cecil looks up. Carlos has a towel slung around his waist, his thick dark hair long again and curling around his face, his eyes just as dark as his hair and a little red, his bones long and sheathed in skin a dark shade of brewed coffee. He smells like steam and everything wonderful.

Carlos says, "Cecil, I'm worried."

This is nothing new. Carlos is forever observant, and forever observant people have a tendency to worry about every shift, every wrinkle, every glow cloud that drifts across the city. But there are advantages to being that observant. Carlos knows Cecil's skin better than Cecil knows it. He knows every spot that will make his breath hitch, what kind of touch will make Cecil's back bend, how much suction and how much tongue is needed to perform the perfect blow job that will make Cecil come so hard his vision is overflowing with stars and galaxies—all the color of Carlos' eyes. Cecil loves him for the familiarity, for the unknown, for the beauty and sheer perfection that he brings and exudes.

Carlos says, "Cecil, I'm worried." He drapes the towel across the chair and says, "I'm worried that I'm not worried enough."

This makes Cecil laugh a little, and he crawls out of the warm sheets and comforting scent to perch on the edge of the bed. "Oh, my perfect Carlos," he says, "I have never been so in love with you."

Carlos blushes and the smile he gives is crooked and perfect in a way that leaves Cecil breathless.

"Oh, Carlos," Cecil says, "I love you more than you will ever know."

Carlos pauses in pulling up his pants, his fingers caging the shiny bronze button, and he goes to Cecil—his fly still undone, the zipper sliding further and further down until his clean boxer shorts—white like bones left to be bleached by the sun—peek through the v. Carlos places his hands in Cecil's hair and holds his head. He doesn't card his hands through Cecil's hair or scratch Cecil's scalp. He just holds Cecil's head like he's worried today is the day that it will be too much for Cecil to bear.

Carlos leans in to kiss Cecil, and his mouth is alive with the taste of toothpaste and five a.m. coffee. Cecil kisses back, drinks and drinks until he feels like he'll drown on Carlos, on his love.

"I love you," Cecil tells him.

Carlos doesn't say it back, but it's there. It's there in the way he licks his lips, in the way his hand slides from Cecil's hair and cradles the back of his neck, in the way he kisses him again and again like he's making a promise. And it's enough—it will always be enough.

Old Woman Josie and her Erikas come to the studio. Cecil can't see the angels, but Josie can; and she converses with them as easy and relaxed as she would if he and Cecil were the only ones in the room. She brings with her a cake, something that's orange like the sand as the sun sinks five minutes before it's supposed to. The frosting looks yellow, smells like lemon and tastes like a fruit of some kind. But it's not sour, not at all. It's ripe and fresh and juicy. It makes Cecil's mouth water with every mouthful.

Josie leans back in the chair, her sweatpants swallowing her thin body, her sleeveless shirt showing off her thin arms wrapped inside leather skin spotted with dark kidney-bean shaped puddles. She smiles and shows off all six of her teeth. She says, "Erika tells me you're fond of the new scientist." She has a nice voice, that kind of playful lilt that comes from children when they have a secret.

Cecil spoons in another forkful of the sagging cake and says, "He's perfect, Josie."

Josie hums and nods because she understands. She looks up and smiles, laughs at something and says, "Erika says you're right. He's beautiful."

"I know," Cecil says the tips of the fork in his tongue to prevent him from rambling.

Josie stands, stretches until her arthritic bones snap and crackle like logs in a fire. She glances around the studio and says, "Erika tells me something inside you has shifted, my dear boy. What inside you has changed? Do you even know?"

Cecil pretends to think, looks up at the ceiling and finds nothing but the bones of the support beams and darkness staring back at him. With the fork still in his mouth, he says, "No, I don't."

Josie smiles again, walks to him and kisses Cecil's cheek. Her lips are thin and cracked like over-baked earth. She whispers in his ear, "Oh, Cecil, he's more perfect for you than you'll ever know."

Josie leaves and takes the gutted cake with her, her silver braid swinging behind her like a tail.

With the taste of something fruity and sweet on his tongue, Cecil thinks of Carlos—of his skin, of the smell of him, of his large, dark eyes shifting through the crowded room to settle on Cecil like he's some unique, impressive phenomenon. He thinks of Carlos' hand wrapped around his own, those long fingers curling around Cecil's wrist, his fingers pressing against Cecil's pulse point, the flush that had crawled up his neck when Cecil's thumb rubbed across the bone of his wrist.

"Oh, no," Cecil says and laughs just enough for his shoulders to jerk, "I'm completely, hopelessly in love."

Today's weather forecast: something hopeless yet upbeat, something that's all soul and heart, something that will reach Carlos through static and glow clouds and hooded figures that drown out Cecil's voice with static.

Cecil, while not knowing if he's a virgin or not, is not completely unconfident when he and Carlos make love. He turns off the lights because it feels right. Then Carlos turns them back on, pupils blown wide and says, "No, leave them on. I want to see you."

Cecil kisses Carlos' chin and says, "All right, sweetheart. All right."

Carlos isn't afraid of the dark. Cecil knows this because Carlos looks into his eyes and sees nothing but love and the upmost acceptance. What Carlos is afraid of is the unknown. That's why he's a scientist, that's why he spends minutes upon hours just running his fingers into the drips and bends of Cecil's body, memorizing every curve and line. It's not about deconstruction, it's about forming, reforming and exploration.

Carlos, his hand between Cecil's legs, he says, "You're beautiful. I don't think you know how much."

Cecil laughs and it bleeds into a groan because Carlos has these wonderful, perfect fingers that know how to stretch and spread without pain.

"Oh," Cecil says, "oh."

There's nothing else to say.

Carlos kisses him again, steals Cecil's voice with his lips.

Tonight's weather forecast: something with heavy bass, something with that's all slide and grind but more than just sex, something that makes your blood boil, something that makes you feel dirty in a way that makes you feel impossibly good.

Cecil realizes how perfect Carlos is. And it's not that first moment where their eyes collide across a crowded meeting room. In that particular moment, Cecil falls in love; but the moment he realizes how perfect Carlos is occurs when Carlos comes to the studio for the first time, a square box balanced in the wide palms of his hands, his perfect teeth framed by his full lips saying:

"Hey, I bought doughnuts."

The doughnuts are filled with jelly studded with nuts while others are empty, glazed with sticky-sweet globs of powdered sugar, melted butter and something spicy that's either nutmeg or some new drug the teenagers thought would be funny to sneak into the recipe.

Cecil picks up a doughnut with orange slices on top and says, "Thank you."

Carlos takes a bite out of his doughnut, and a burst of strawberry erupts from the fried pastry and splatter on Carlos' shirt collar. His eyes go wide, and he cups his hand under his chin to catch the strawberry chunks. The doughnut lands with a wet plop in a pile of strawberry preserves and vanilla.

"Shit," Carlos says a little less neurotic than usual, "what a mess."

And it's not that much of a mess, but Cecil finds himself tracing every movement Carlos makes. As Carlos lifts his hand to his hand to his mouth, lips enclosing around the strawberry chunks, Cecil is memorizing every movement. The wet sucking sound Carlos makes as he inhales and guides the strawberry chunks down his throat, Cecil commits that to memory. Cecil burns into his corneas, retinas and pupils the image of the coma-shaped smear of jelly on Carlos' cheek.

This, Cecil thinks, is perfection.

Cecil, his mouth slick with the sweet glaze and saliva that refuses to stop being produced, he asks, "Do you want to go out with me this Saturday?"

Cecil's expecting a no. This is not the first time he's asked; but each time he sees Carlos' eyes opening up, those walls he constructed breaking down brick by brick.

He's expecting a no and is surprised beyond belief when Carlos, fingers still tucked into the dark of his mouth, gives a little smile and says, "Sure. What time should I come and get you?"

Cecil says seven because that's what all the movies.

Today's weather forecast: something hopeful with either harps or flutes, the voice soft and far-off but ever-present.

Carlos stops by after Josie leaves—frazzled, twitchy, tired and exhausted in a way that makes him beautiful. He doesn't have doughnuts. Instead, he brings something ruby-colored wrapped inside a green bottle with some illegible name scrawled across cream-colored paper.

"It's not wine," Carlos says, "but it's not champagne. I'm not sure what it is really, but it tastes really good."

Cecil knows what it is. It's the farmer's own special drink that he sells mass product on the legal black markets. He gives to teenagers for free when they want to party in their parents' basements.

The show's long over, and Carlos settles himself into a creaking chair that smells like plastic and Josie's stale body sweat. He takes a pull from the bottle, and Cecil taps out the undulations of his throat. The bottle comes away from his lips with a wet pop, and his sigh is heavy and grinds like bones together. Cecil thinks he hasn't heard anything as beautiful.

Carlos offers the bottle to him, and Cecil takes it. The liquid inside tastes like sour strawberries left to ferment with blueberries and raspberries. Rumor has it the farmer puts something addicting in the liquid, but it's never affected Cecil; and he wonders if it will affect Carlos.

They trade the drink back and forth. After swallowing a mouthful, Carlos says, "I'm tired, Cecil. I'm so tired."

Cecil tilts his head and says, "Then rest."

Carlos laughs and it comes from some dark place within his lungs. It's husky and not at all warm, but it still makes Cecil shudder.

"I want to. I want to so bad, but I can't. I can't close my eyes because I might miss something."

Cecil nods his hands in understanding even though he doesn't. They drink until the bottle's gone, and Carlos is on the floor leaning against the wall, his eyes wide and taking in everything and nothing. The bottle rolls across the floor, silent and stained.

"You know," Carlos says—his voice a distant, sloppy mess, "I dated someone like you."

Cecil perks up at that, sits up a little straighter in his chair. He asks, "Really?"

Carlos nods, "He wasn't delicate, but he was sensitive. He was strange but not an alien. He was this beautiful . . . being that I thought was way out of my league." Carlos laughs again, but it's softer this time. He says, "Turns out I was too strange for him. I was too quirky, too odd, too . . ." Carolos' hands flail like maimed birds as he tries to find the word and finally settles with a grunt on, "scientific."

Cecil moves out of the chair and crawls across the floor to sit next to him. He smells like the drink and Old Spice. His profile is soft and curved, his skull a perfect bulge beneath his dark skin glossy with sweat. Cecil wants to brush away a wayward curl off of Carlos' cheek; he wants to kiss the story that makes his mouth twist like he's swallowed something bitter away.

Instead, he settles on saying, "Oh, Carlos. You have no idea just how beautiful and perfect you are."

Carlos looks at him, and his smile wavers and stretches. His chest hitches, and he sighs. He folds over, and his head lands with a soft thud in Cecil's lap. His breaths are soft and gentle, his fingers flexing against Cecil's pants.

"Hey," Carlos says, "wake me up in a few minutes, okay?"

Cecil cards his fingers through Carlos' hair, relishes in the waves slipping through his fingers. He makes no promises.

Tonight's forecast: something slow and warm, something a little sad, something that leaves you feeling slightly bitter but a little hopeful.

They go to the Arby's because it's better than Rico's and the classiest place in Night Vale. They sit at a booth tucked in the back of the restraint, gnawing on roast beef sandwiches slathered and dripping with the tangy, spicy sauce.

Carlos wipes his mouth with his thump and says, "Listen, about what happened."

Cecil cuts him off with a loud pull on his lukewarm soda, the straw rattling with jagged ice chunks. Chewing on ice, he says, "It's all right. You needed the sleep."

Carlos flushes and laughs a little. He's more put-together today. He's abandoned the lab coat and wears a plaid shirt tucked into a pair of khakis and black tennis shoes with white laces. The cologne he wears is something subtle and exotic, and his hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail that follows him with every movement of his head.

Carlos licks his thumb and says, "I really appreciate what you did."

Cecil tilts his head asking, "What did I do?"

Carlos answers without missing a beat. "You stayed with me," he says, his voice this warm firmness that makes Cecil flush. "You stayed with me. No one's ever done that for me before. Then again, I've never been that shitfaced before so, first time for everything I guess."

Cecil laughs and smiles around his straw. The sunlight is the orange of a solid creamsicle and bleeds into raspberry red on the horizon line. Carlos is haloed like on of Josie's angels, and who's to say he isn't one. He's Cecil's own angel just for him, and Cecil feels like being more than a little selfish.

After finishing their sandwiches, they go out to a cliff recently formed by violently shifting tectonic plates and watch the sun finish setting behind the jagged shapes of erected earth. Cecil leans against Carlos and hums a little when Carlos doesn't pull away. Carlos wraps his arm around him, and Cecil feels grounded yet flying high at the same time. He presses his face into Carlos' neck and just breathes.

"It feels good," he says and his mouth fills with the taste of Carlos' skin. "It feels good to just breathe sometimes, you know."

Carlos nods and says, "I know."

Cecil's hand comes to rest on Carlos' chest and his heart is beating heavy and firm beneath Carlos' palm. Carlos' chest is alive with warm, thrumming blood. It makes Cecil want to take him apartment and put him back together.

When Cecil tilts his head up, Carlos is looking down at him. His eyes are darker than dark, black like the sky has never been.

"Can I kiss you?" Carlos asks and Cecil can only nod his head.

Carlos kisses like an observer. Every drag of his tongue, every convulsion of his lips, every tentative bite is like an exploration. His hands don't hold Cecil so much as they cradle him. Cecil threads his hands through Carlos' dark hair, and all around him is the warmth of the desert, the warmth of Carlos' skin, the darkness that isn't really dark. He feels alive and hot in a way that makes him shift and moan, the heat from the car's hood seeping through his jeans and warming his ass and thighs.

"Oh," Cecil says against Carlos' lips, "oh, I'm falling in love with you all over again, Carlos."

Carlos silences him with another kiss; and he kisses him like he's trying to draw Cecil's very being out of his body, like he's trying to become Cecil's sole supplier of air.

"Come home with me," Carlos says against the stretched skin of Cecil's neck, and Cecil responds by slipping his hand past straining jean buttons and elastic underwear to fill his palm with Carlos' cock, heavy and half-hard.

This evening's weather forecast: sultry, hot as hot can be, romantic with undertones of one-true love, glorious and praising the love for being something truly holy.