Perspective
The first time begins the very day he comes to town.
It takes Cecil five minutes to plunge into the net of his enthusiasm, embracing him fully — his status of stranger, his hair, the elegant waves of his speech. He slowly appreciates how science sets his eyes aflame, a shine of modest brilliance, and he identifies a pattern of interest in his words.
What makes Cecil hopelessly fall for him, however, is the way he talks about Night Vale. It is nothing like anything he has heard so far, not even from the most enthusiastic of the citizens. Carlos speaks with a surge of raw freedom — something unrestrained by government agencies and mystery and fear. He is open and pure, his voice fueled by a need for discovery.
It is the complete opposite of what Cecil was always taught.
That is why he lets him ramble on, in the weeks and months to come. He, too, has chosen discovery — he wants to learn how this man works, what connections his brain embroiders when he discusses the density of the sand or the impossible refraction angles of the hooded figures' dark cloaks.
He loves to hear Carlos speak. For once, Cecil is the listener — the only one. They silently agree to each other's company.
Yes, he is beautiful. Everything is beautiful in those involuted speeches Cecil doesn't get half of. They slowly erase every aura of menace and grief with their amazed calculations, and laughs, and isn't that great and neat.
Through his eyes, Cecil learns Night Vale all over again. It is a different place, under a new moonlight, with new, wonderful people.
Now that he has Carlos to tell him, he loves his town like never before.
It happens again in a purplish Saturday night, the hue of the sky in tune with the sound of their voices. They have been arguing about distance and closeness, about redrawing the boundaries of their freedom.
Their embrace is slow, appreciative, yet full of existential sadness. It is not easy, to grow up as two and one. Still, as long as they are together, they know it is worth it.
Carlos' voice is serious and tender; the hurt note has given in to understanding hours ago. His constant fear of mistake, of failing such a perfect experiment, truly cannot hold a candle to his patience. It is a labour of love, and it receives all of his dedication.
He holds Cecil in the bubble of warmth of their sofa, wrapping a soft voice around his depression; he teaches respect to the eager child in him, and shows him what it means to live separate lives together. Science takes time, takes love, just as much as he does. He needs to look at both of them as two whole identities — the blurred line between their skin, the careful touch, they will always have time to share.
Deeply convinced, his lover nods. He knows; his feelings will eventually follow. He thanks Carlos for the thousandth time, with his voice and his heart.
In the languid sleepiness of their kiss, Cecil remembers the vast universe out there, and how the stars used to have evil prying eyes in his mother's fairytales. Soon, the words of a handsome scientist play over them — he tells him of gas and fiery energy, the balance that keeps celestial bodies in shape.
He lazily thinks that people truly are like stars, and that maybe, just maybe, they are better than that. He thinks of people as a million other worlds — each with its truth and its love and its creed, things they can share, and not always connect with.
Cecil sees the true power of difference anew, with wonder and only just thinning fear, in the vast universe out there. He thinks of Steve, of his nonsense about other realities. After all, he might be less wrong than he thought.
It is the first and last time he thinks of Steve Carlsberg with a smile.
When the truth smacks him hard in the face, Carlos isn't even there.
It is not enough to chase his memory and his voice away from Cecil's soul, from every burning inch of his skin, now frozen in realization. He faces a raging crowd, disbelief sticking to his heart like a fresh stain, and there is no denying it; as far and unreachable as he might be, it is his love — once more — to lighten his gaze and turn the eyes of his people into beasts.
Cecil thinks of his own voice, flowing like honey from the speakers of his town, and terror arises as he fully sees the implications. So close, so disconnected from them all. He spoke of mutual bonds and feelings and chains, so dangerously unaware of his own weight on the structure.
What he sees now is not the town he loves. It is not the town he led to victory, guiding each of them and himself. It is a town of slaves, a town that does not need ideas — they were always placed straight to their minds, ready and complete, and he was one of the first to think for them.
How stupid he has been, he only ever sees in difficult times. He places his body between the people, no longer his friends, and the strangers, the only hope to lead Carlos back. He observes Night Vale's conditioned anger, wondering, with a shiver, how many.
How many good things were lost to that irrational fear — how many ideas and changes, how many enrichments, how many lingering kisses in the summer — he will never know. They always chased everyone away. There were no regrets.
Cecil makes his choice, selfish and selfless. For the very first time, he pushes his town away; he runs to a place he has known for years, looking to the future in a drastically new perspective. In the noise of the helicopter, he feels a new parenthesis of growth has come to claim his thoughts.
Once again, his tight chest laments, it was all thanks to him.