A/N: I simply love WTNV. Usually, I don't write for things I'm so enamored with, for fear of not being able to articulate up to my personal interpretations. But the vague canon of WTNV makes it naturally forgiving, and the mood struck me. I hope this doesn't seem OOC or dull - I know the lack of dialogue is unappealing to some, but I really wanted to focus on the comforts of touch. So boy-howdy, strap yourselves in for the PWP-equivalent of hurt/comfort!
(Cross-posting from AO3, where I am "Somnambulist." Tumblr is the-flotsam-junk)
xoxo
The silence of their darkened living room was poignant that night, punctuated only by the hum of the old a/c unit (literal humming, an old fugue by an 18th century composer who punctuated his notes with bursts of thunder) and the chatter of Carlos' teeth. He sat on the electric green couch, hunched into himself with arms collapsed over his chest, head drooping towards the stained carpet (last week's ectoplasm, when all the appliance's bled out for Sentient Saturday). Cecil kneeled before him, hands on his shoulders in unwavering support, gaze patched with a haunting relief.
It had taken Cecil ages to find Carlos. His signal had turned to static nearly three days ago, when he was last seen walking an indeterminable direction towards the desert, bound with a silent determination that turned him deaf to anyone who might protest. Cecil had been broadcasting at the time, and as per strict new Strex Corp regulations, his frequency over the town was not permitted while he was On-Air. His face had blanched once he exited the studio and Intern Nadine had raced up to him, feverishly whispering the news of Carlos' trance-like trek towards the desert.
And so the race had begun. 3 sleepless nights of illegal vigilance, Cecil never once releasing his grasp on Carlos' fuzzed-over signal and desperately hoping his voice could ring louder than the doppelganger who called Carlos away. Renegade angels hiding underneath Old Woman Josie's now-abandoned house seeped out like Rico's newest Liquid-Crust, and Cecil may or may not have foregone his loyal refusal of their existence to accept help in clearing the Strex frequencies contaminating the airwaves.
Hours of intense, meditative concentration had finally paid off, as a low vibration with Carlos' unique note punctuated the days-long line of static. Cecil flew off into the night, towards the rim of the mountain that did not exist, and into the vortex of wind and sand that had been whirling just out of sight. Amongst the ruckus stood a single silhouette, his chest heaving and his eyes rimmed red from unblinking, caramel skin buffeted by the ongoing storm.
Without hesitation, Cecil charged into the flurry, approaching Carlos' outline, which was just beginning to double. As he approached, a strangled silence began to overtake the commotion, the sand pebbles frozen in mid-air as small orbs of black and red began to emanate from them. The strong, metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, putrid and unyielding, frightening in its familiarity, and Carlos' two pairs of unseeing eyes - one set soft and amber, the other set foggy-white - fought for dominance, phasing in and out like a mirage. Cecil grabbed the darker shadow emanating from Carlos' body and shot forward into the Void, wrenching the terror in and cutting every frequency within a mile's radius, shutting the portal with a sickening "schoop."
The sandstorm dissipated, crystalline pebbles evaporating with little pops of crimson. Cecil turned to Carlos and caught him just before he fell, his own head pounding with pain, but overshadowed by the dull, throbbing ache of terror still drumming in his heart. With the silence of night now bearing thickly down on him, he hauled Carlos over his shoulder and snuck speedily through the desert home.
And there he currently sat, having just returned to consciousness as though breaking through the surface of a lake. His eyes - blessedly brown, and smooth as chocolate - sat atop huge bags of purple, giving him the illusion of bruising. Shock and horror still gripped his features, disorientation in light of the lost 3 days intermingling with exhaustion and pain. Cecil had let him come out of it naturally, thankful that the increasingly long nights (the oven had announced it was 8:45am when Cecil inquired politely) provided cover from the prying yellow helicopters. But his return to present-time (or what could be considered left of it) was hardly an escape from his close encounter with Replacement.
"Carlos...?" Cecil dared to ask, his voice strong and silky.
Carlos brought his head up slowly, as if pulled by strings (Cecil shuddered to think who the puppeteer was), and squinted at Cecil as though seeing him for the first time. His breathing was heavy and labored.
"C...C-Cec...il?" he croaked out, his throat sounding as though it too had been buffeted by the sandstorm.
Cecil shot a radiant smile, relief glowing through his teeth and eyes widening with nothing short of wonder. Not everyone who was wrenched out of the grips of the Void returned back to Night Vale fully intact, though Cecil would expect nothing less from his brilliant, enigma of a boyfriend. He brought his hands to the side of Carlos' head, thumbs brushing his cheekbones and nails nearly digging into the nape of his neck. Carlos responded by clenching his hands over Cecil's wrists, shock still weighing heavily on him, but not enough to hide the ghost of a smile struggling to eke through his chapped lips.
Cecil almost chuckled, the waves of relief bubbling to his throat and making him feel lighter than he had in weeks. He could have kissed Carlos right there, sunk to the floor and into the carpet with him, but he knew better than to rush. The fact that he could even think of there being opportunity for that later was enough to make him giggle again.
Carlos echoed his breathless laughter, which quickly turned into a crackling sob. He closed the gap between him and Cecil, their foreheads now resting like yin and yang, tears seeping out of his eyes and onto his dehydrated skin.
"Cecil...I heard you. You were calling me...but it-it wasn't you. I knew it wasn't you...but I followed anyways. I thought m-maybe...maybe they had finally taken you too. And I...I..."
The rest of his sentence trailed out in a shuddering sigh, and Cecil's hands cupped the back of his neck protectively. He shook his head minutely. "His grasp stretches farther than our humble desert burg, my dear Carlos." He still couldn't bring himself to say that name, and even if he could, he wouldn't repeat it in front of Carlos.
Carlos' head suddenly felt as though it weighed 90 pounds, and it fell onto Cecil's shoulder with a soft thump. Cecil pulled him from the couch and into a tight hug on the floor, knuckles white against Carlos' back where it gripped his dusty labcoat. Shock led way to memory, and the memories of 3 days of visceral carnage and gore - most of it centering around Cecil, his Cecil, maimed and massacred, painting abstract images of a desolate Night Vale strewn with Cecil's limbs, strings of blood and muscle matter draping the town square - flooding his head. The feeling of being ripped in two still echoed through his bones, the sensation of being torn a graft on his skin. Shocks of pain rippled through him, and slow heaves began to overtake his breathing. Cecil tightened his grip, then moved one arm around Carlos' shoulders, the other encircling his waist.
"You need something in you before the shock completely wears off. You have already survived so much, my love." Cecil ushered softly.
He waited for Carlos' slow nod before tightening his grip and raising Carlos off the couch, his weakened state more apparent now that he had to call on his muscles to act. Bit by bit, they shuffled down the dark hallway to the bedroom, Carlos' feet leaving tread marks in the plush carpet behind them. Cecil whispered encouragement along the way, at last setting Carlos down and guiding his body toward his pillow. He brushed his fingers along Carlos' fevered forehead before he rushed back off to the kitchen, only promising to be a moment.
He didn't even need to open the fridge; sitting on the counter sat a small glass of cloudy-pink drink, waiting for him. Cecil thanked The Faceless Old Woman (which made the stove beep cheerily) and raced back to Carlos, who was lying on his back in an eerie, exhausted stillness. Cecil placed a hand on the side of Carlos' head, stirring him from an uneasy doze, and held the glass to his eye level.
"For the pain." Cecil explained, and Carlos felt warmth and concern and stability in his voice. He attempted to raise his head, but even the simplest of actions sent his muscles into spasms, and Cecil, as though anticipating his discomfort, brought the glass to him and gently tilted it down his throat. The drink was strange, disappearing like mist into the roof of his mouth and leaving behind a lingering taste of cucumber. Carlos drifted in and out as Cecil, so gently and cautiously, removed first his labcoat, then his shoes. He felt a rush of gratitude as air rushed between his sand-trapped toes, only to be replaced moments later with the cool wave of a sheet.
A strange sensation of dampness met his cheek, and he opened his eyes in alarm. Cecil was quick to reassure him with a brush through his hair, his other hand holding a damp washcloth which he was using to sweep away the layers of dust on Carlos' face. Carlos, realizing the feeling of contamination he had carried home with him, silently thanked Cecil for his foresight and tried to convey gratitude with his eyes. Cecil responded with the softest of smiles. Carlos felt his eyes drag shut once more, and either seconds or minutes later felt a dip in the bed as Cecil laid down next to him, not needing to turn off the lights he never turned on, and watched Carlos intently.
For a moment Cecil simply stared, and then, with the smallest of movements that required colossal effort, Carlos turned and inched towards him, now desperate for the weight of another human (a term he supposed was used rather liberally with Cecil) that wasn't his macabre likeness. Cecil took the cue, curling his arm around Carlos' shoulder and pulling him close. Within moments their limbs were entwined, Carlos resting his head against Cecil's chest with his fingers curled tightly around Cecil's rumpled silk shirt. Cecil's heart beat steadily, a lighthouse amongst the waves, and as the throb of pain dulled with the drug, the dredges of his memory opened afresh and poured over him like rain. Carlos screwed his eyes shut tight, unable to wash out the image of Cecil seared across his mind, his pallor ghostly as blood dripped steadily from his eyes - echoes of his name, Carlos, Carlos, sickly sweet and laced with something sour, danced through his eardrums, punctuated by his silent sobs that were now utterly tearing through his body. His aching muscles tried to stave off the grief with shivers, resulting in him trembling so hard, Cecil could feel his own shoulders quiver.
Cecil held him for some time, his grip attempting to stabilize Carlos' shaking, pressing his lips to Carlos' forehead and attempting to emit images of soft of sunlight and the kaleidoscopic skies of Night Vale that the eventual morning would bring. His hands ran through Carlos' scalp, his fingers tingling between salt-and-pepper curls, and Carlos felt new waves wash over him as Cecil's deep cadence calmed the storm within him, taming both the chilled waters and the sharp grains of sand that he still felt tumbling around in his brain.
Eventually the sobs gave way to deep, shallow gasps. Carlos turned on his side, Cecil immediately pulling his back flush with his chest, his hand finding Carlos' calloused fingers and twining them like tree branches. The other hand smoothed at his forehead, and the weight of Cecil's hands felt heavenly. Cecil had stopped his soft whispers, though Carlos swore he could still hear his rhythm hanging heavily in the room, not unlike sensing the empty channels of a television that was never turned off. He wrapped himself in it, swallowing down the rogue shiver that swept through him every time another image of scarlet flashed behind his eyelids, and instead focusing on the hand between his and the weight behind him.
Cecil's hand stopped at Carlos' forehead, and Cecil breathed in his scent - dust intermingling with the acrid scent of chemicals, and the faint, pungent smell of clove. Carlos could feel a gentle hum start behind his ears and slowly seep down his aching limbs, could see the images of fire and red be swept away by calming shades of velvet plum. He gave one final shiver and a bone-deep sigh before falling limp in Cecil's arms, causing Cecil to pull him impossibly closer and tighter. Cecil stared to the shuttered window, brow furrowing in thought.
His eyes turned a violent shade of midnight, reflecting impossible pools of light from unseen sources. Staring beyond the planes of sight, his grip around Carlos' waist tightened, the fingers on his other hand splayed out across his forehead to smooth out his frequency and block the airwaves of the yellow helicopters. With the tremors finally subsiding, Cecil rested his lips on Carlos' head. Rarely had he ever felt so primal in his protection, so fierce in his thirst for justice. A new clarity overcame him as early plots of revenge danced through his head, and with a final sigh, he felt for a familiar heartbeat through ribcage and slept to the blissfully steady tempo of Carlos.