Homecoming
It is from the very first night, with the miracle of the sky above their heads, that Carlos does not know what to tell him.
He is used to bargaining with life, to the very last chunk of solitude he can get; he always drifted among the crowds, cutting out a silent universe of his own. He is what his colleagues always whispered about, in the flow of papers and textbooks. Definitely not the best at handling human relationships, head in the clouds, he knows the drill.
He cannot run away from this, nor does he plan to. It is still unexpected, mysterious, the road to dealing with his skin and his hair and the warmth of his hand. Cecil's smile awakens mysteries he does not know how to solve — in his bizarre innocence, his image mingles with the hopeful young heads of the afternoon classes, and he sighs once more.
Carlos tries to figure it out; he uses their gesture to define a plan, to decide what is right to say, what is just too difficult to show him. He tries his hardest to read deep purple eyes, and he fails, failing again and again.
He kisses him, forgets all about it, and the whole thing starts over.
Even as distorted time passes, he finds it hard to decide whether it is a part of Night Vale only — but the delicacy leaves him breathless, and the mutual respect is almost too much to believe. It is incredible, how much Cecil craves to know, and how endearingly slow he takes it.
The way their life unfolds is something he would have never dreamt of; the memories he has of there, of the place he came from, were made of dingy rooms, of crumbling paint from the grey walls, and the voices of tired people in an empty life. It surprises him, sometimes, when Cecil takes the sadness of their little arguments so heavily on himself. Is not this hard, Carlos' eyes promise, veiled with happy tears. Not nearly as hard.
Where he cannot bring himself to tell, where he cannot reconcile with some parts his life — now split in two, before Night Vale and now, and only one of them matters — is where Cecil reaches him, and takes him in his arms. It happens in every second they share, with endless care, endless patience. Carlos can feel the mutual boundaries form there, under the fingers passing on his skin. They both want to know more, and both stop at the edge of each other's comfort.
He cannot bring himself to compare. At one point, he does not want to remember anymore. In the end, Cecil is the one who dances with words — whatever Carlos feels bad about, he will help cope with. Sometime, in their shared future. Together.
He has become a scientist in Night Vale. He has left behind a fleeting apartment, a job, and maybe something else — he does not even remember if he has to go back for some reason.
Actually, he never wants to leave. Not when things are like this, under the same roof, in the same bed, wrapped in one big blanket of warmth.
He doesn't even feel it happen. Like that, touch after touch, Carlos loses the way home.