#dr carlosrobles

[thevoiceofnv]

[ @dr-carlosrobles — ]

Cecil just likes to feel the rain, sometimes.

He is so horrendously old— older than the winds, the storms, the rains under his command. There is so much he has done, and still he feels a lack.

It is not unlike the vacuum he first awoke in, this feeling. It is an untethered feeling, unanchored. He feels tossed on the waves his own storms create, and still no closer to steady ground for it.

Flat on their back in the sand, Cecil sighs, eyes wide open, staring upwards into the storm clouds they've gathered over themself. Over this section of the beach, it pours; a storm rages, and Cecil, spread starfish on his back, lets himself absorb the sand, lets the waves lap against them as high tide comes in, lets lightning crackle and snap down into the ocean with every flash of their tattoos and heavy rumble of thunder.

They just feel this way, sometimes. It's better to let it out like this than keep it in too long.

The air pressure changes on the beach. Cecil feels it— of course, he feels it. He feels every lick of wind everywhere, every change in temperature, every shift in density; the air, the winds, the clouds, the storms, the weather, the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the magnificence, it is all theirs.

Lifting her near-nonexistent head, Cecil blinks through the driving rain in search of the source of the shift. She doesn't need to have a human body— or a human name, or anything human at all, really— but, it's something to do. And it all feels far more properly theatrical when she's fling out on the sand physically, not just metaphorically.

There is a shape down the beach, it realizes.

It'd thought this stretch was empty, remote; that's why it came here, specifically, when it realized it had to release: to hide. It'd hate to hurt somebody who wandered over just because it doesn't have control.

Cecil begins attempting to calm the storm, to quell it, to stuff it back away for now. It's an effort; he sits up in the sand, fists gripping the wet granules in gritty palmfuls, and concentrates, scars and tattoos and markings flashing with each bolt of lightning, head pounding with the rumbling thunder, until the rain has begun to subside, his emotions compressed backwards— and the weather with it.

With this lessened rain, Cecil can see so much more.

He can see a… a person.

A person?

He thinks they might be a person. Maybe.

Are they, though?

[thevoiceofnv]

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Oh, my—

𝑂ℎ.

Cecil is struck 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 when Carlos leans over and kisses his cheek in return.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was kissed. Literally, he does not remember it; the last time he was kissed was years ago, by Earl Harlan, and Cecil doesn’t remember a single second of it, wiped clear from his mind after several ensuing— though unrelated— sessions of re-education that left Cecil blank, Earl heartbroken, and their relationship a broken, half-gone mess.

Regardless.

Being kissed now— and being kissed by perfect, perfect Carlos— on the cheek is the most tremendous feeling he’s ever had. And he had such fear when Carlos didn’t respond, at first, but now—

He couldn’t be more thrilled. He couldn’t be happier, really, and—

And he gets a second kiss.

And a third!

And three is one of his best numbers. He can’t help but sigh happily, tugging Carlos’s lab coat closer around himself. It feels so grounding, perfect, warm.

Though Cecil has never liked facial hair on men before— oh, he loves it on Carlos. He loves the friction against his own skin; he hopes it leaves a mark behind. He hopes Carlos is burnt into his skin forever.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Cecil insists, blushing furiously. His blood is rushing so fast he feels like he might lose consciousness— but, he can’t! Carlos is here! He wants to spend every second he can together with him. “I’m just so grateful you’re coming! Thank you, Carlos! I’m—”

He hesitates, then admits— “Prophecies are never guaranteed. Nothing is ever guaranteed. But I… I saw you, and I couldn’t live without you anymore. I feel so lucky that… that this prophecy was guaranteed. That you are…”

He doesn’t want to say guaranteed, even though he, himself, is guaranteed. He’s not going anywhere, not while Carlos is anywhere else.

“There are many prophecies,” Cecil informs him, rather than picking up his previous line of thought. “And many of them… Many of them, I hope would not come true. But I would have endured any of them— all of them— to make sure you would.”

The smile that comes onto his face is sharp-toothed and inhuman and irrepressible.

“But I didn’t even need to. You are your own force of nature, aren’t you, Carlos?”

Just like Cecil is. They are meant to be.

[thevoiceofnv]

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Esteban always comes up with such creative ideas— and so does Carlos. He’s so scientific, of course— both he and their son can be so scientific!— but that means they’re inventive, too, and Cecil loves to hear every idea they come up with.

Like names in a hat! What a dangerous idea! But Cecil loves how dangerous Carlos can be, how risky and reckless and fascinating he can be!

Carlos’s voice is so soft when he speaks, like a blanket wrapped around Cecil— and then he promises real blankets, even, and Cecil smiles, sighing, relaxing into Carlos, half-aware of what’s happening around him.

“That sounds 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒,” Cecil murmurs. It’s the perfect night, really; it’s his favorite sort of evening between them. “What food do you think the baby wants? Maybe I’m just… just not giving them the food they want.”

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel well. Maybe he’s just doing this wrong already. It was easier with Esteban— he had just been born when he came into their lives. Cecil’s not used to doing everything that comes before a baby is born instead of after; maybe he’s already messed it up, somehow?

“What do babies need? Before they’re babies?”

[thevoiceofnv]

@dr-carlosrobles—

Cecil holds the black rag against his hand, letting it absorb his blood until it clots.

The rag would be stained, if it weren’t black— and it’s black because Cecil has done this many times, and will do it many times more, and he knows that he may as well choose a fabric that won’t leave such obvious marks behind. He can be sort of classy like that.

His blood is dribbled all over his bloodstone circle, frosting the stones and pooled in their center, a layer held in by the energy of the circle.

It’s too bad he’s one of the Night Vale citizens who can feel pain— but, at least he’s had to make offerings to the bloodstone circle so many times in his life that he knows exactly how much to focus on his hand to clot the blood and stitch the wound back over, pulling the skin into one unit again. It still hurts, but at least he doesn’t have to keep bleeding all over the place.

He’s been acutely aware of his ability to feel pain, lately. Near-constant nausea, and headaches, and superlunary vomiting, and flesh hazing, and the aching need to chew on things, and just being so exhausted! It’s all typical pregnancy stuff, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s not tired of it! And Esteban is going to notice soon, if he hasn't already...

The bloodstones shine, the muted glow taking on the color of his blood, cast between a deep violet and a rich red, coming out wine-dark and strange. The circles reflect in his pupils, rimming the crescent moons.

Closing his eyes and letting the third one open, he blinks to the bloodstone circle and begins his prayer.

He’s so used to praying by now, he can almost do it on autopilot. His voice is an intonation, a hum, sonorous and deep and vibrating. He speaks in the tongue of the bloodstones, asks his questions, gets some answers— receives some additional questions of his own.

The bloodstones are losing their shine, the prayer and exchanging of information (practically descending into gossip, by the end, but then— Cecil does love gossip, and so do the bloodstones) coming to a close, when Cecil feels Carlos’s presence close by. A smile flickers onto his face; this, too, is automatic.

He lets his awareness spread to engulf Carlos, encompassing him, enveloping in a soft, warm greeting in his direction. Excitement is buzzing in him; he’s just learned so much! Carlos will be so excited!

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil just melts right into Carlos's touch, an absolute dissolution, barely able to keep himself whole and in a semi-coherent form.

He's just a bit hazy, too delighted to remain fully human, when he steps in closer to Carlos in return, drinking in the flush of his beautiful and patterned face, wanting to just— grab him, embrace him, hold him close. He makes himself stay apart; he doesn't want to scare him off, as much as he just wants to be close to him!

How has he not known about Carlos for this long? How has he never known? He is so old, and he has wasted so much time without him. It just isn't fair—

The world is full of weather and storms and surprises. Cecil can control some of it, and some of it he can't. Some things just happen.

Carlos is just happening.

Cecil couldn't be happier for it.

"We were," Cecil insists. He can't think of anything better than being meant to be with Carlos. He wants so badly for their souls to match; he thinks they are made of the same fabric, the same initial creation, the same meaning. He thinks he loves him already, God, he cannot get enough— "We were bound to meet. Always. I can feel it."

He can. He means it. Deep in his bones, he means it.

"I want you," Cecil insists. "I want you with me. I don't care if I'm busy. I don't care if I'm working on the weather. Carlos, I want you with me. No matter what."

It's maybe too intense, and maybe too much, but so is Cecil, and he cannot do anything but lay everything out for Carlos. He cannot help but cling to him, and they may be new, and they may be raw, and they may have only just met, but Carlos—

To Cecil?

Carlos is everything. Already, he's everything. They're meant to be, and he knows it.

"Are you sure you want— me? To stay with— You don't even know me."

Carlos seems so absolutely perfect, and he doesn't even know Cecil, but— maybe Cecil shouldn't protest against that. Maybe he should accept this divine love as offered.

But he wants Carlos to be happy. Can't stop himself from wanting to give it.

"I feel like I know you already." A whispered confession, honest, true. Everything he wants to be for Carlos and more.

[ @dr-carlosrobles — ]

Cecil just likes to feel the rain, sometimes.

He is so horrendously old— older than the winds, the storms, the rains under his command. There is so much he has done, and still he feels a lack.

It is not unlike the vacuum he first awoke in, this feeling. It is an untethered feeling, unanchored. He feels tossed on the waves his own storms create, and still no closer to steady ground for it.

Flat on their back in the sand, Cecil sighs, eyes wide open, staring upwards into the storm clouds they've gathered over themself. Over this section of the beach, it pours; a storm rages, and Cecil, spread starfish on his back, lets himself absorb the sand, lets the waves lap against them as high tide comes in, lets lightning crackle and snap down into the ocean with every flash of their tattoos and heavy rumble of thunder.

They just feel this way, sometimes. It's better to let it out like this than keep it in too long.

The air pressure changes on the beach. Cecil feels it— of course, he feels it. He feels every lick of wind everywhere, every change in temperature, every shift in density; the air, the winds, the clouds, the storms, the weather, the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the magnificence, it is all theirs.

Lifting her near-nonexistent head, Cecil blinks through the driving rain in search of the source of the shift. She doesn't need to have a human body— or a human name, or anything human at all, really— but, it's something to do. And it all feels far more properly theatrical when she's fling out on the sand physically, not just metaphorically.

There is a shape down the beach, it realizes.

It'd thought this stretch was empty, remote; that's why it came here, specifically, when it realized it had to release: to hide. It'd hate to hurt somebody who wandered over just because it doesn't have control.

Cecil begins attempting to calm the storm, to quell it, to stuff it back away for now. It's an effort; he sits up in the sand, fists gripping the wet granules in gritty palmfuls, and concentrates, scars and tattoos and markings flashing with each bolt of lightning, head pounding with the rumbling thunder, until the rain has begun to subside, his emotions compressed backwards— and the weather with it.

With this lessened rain, Cecil can see so much more.

He can see a… a person.

A person?

He thinks they might be a person. Maybe.

Are they, though?

[thevoiceofnv]

"Don't be sorry," Cecil insists. "It's a good thing, it—"

He puts both hands on the wheel, then— removes one to set on his own thigh, antsy, then— removes it from his thigh to set on Carlos's, and that is reassuring enough that he sighs and leaves it there, driving one-handed.

The two of them tangle in each other like this; Cecil tips his face into Carlos's hand, letting him dry away the last of his tears. Even when there are no tears left, Carlos doesn't retreat or release him; he just keeps touching him, and Cecil could just melt for it. It's nearly a fight to keep himself whole.

'Someone like you.'

What does Carlos mean, someone like him? Why does he say it so fondly, how— how can—

"I would've waited as long as I had to," Cecil tells him, because he wants him to know, "but I'm glad I don't have to anymore. You're right, I— I needed you, we— We needed us."

And now they have them, and they can start being them. Cecil isn't so good at existing, and Carlos isn't so good at being, and they are going to figure this out, together.

Cecil recognizes the structure with his third eye before any of the others— which is good, he thinks, because he might have blown right past Carlos's house without stopping or even slowing, too determined to get to Night Vale.

Crunching the brakes and pulling the stop mechanism on the left side, Cecil pulls an absurd grinding noise out of his car before it comes to a halt on the street.

After a moment in quiet, Cecil asks, "Do you want any help with your things? Or packing? Or— Anything?"

He has the terrifying, ridiculous feeling that, if he lets Carlos out of his car— out of his sight— he'll lose him forever. It can't be true— and he can't let himself believe it to be true; he has to believe Carlos will come back when they're separated— but it doesn't stop his terror, all the same.

They just found each other; he can't lose him already.

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Oh, my—

𝑂ℎ.

Cecil is struck 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 when Carlos leans over and kisses his cheek in return.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was kissed. Literally, he does not remember it; the last time he was kissed was years ago, by Earl Harlan, and Cecil doesn’t remember a single second of it, wiped clear from his mind after several ensuing— though unrelated— sessions of re-education that left Cecil blank, Earl heartbroken, and their relationship a broken, half-gone mess.

Regardless.

Being kissed now— and being kissed by perfect, perfect Carlos— on the cheek is the most tremendous feeling he’s ever had. And he had such fear when Carlos didn’t respond, at first, but now—

He couldn’t be more thrilled. He couldn’t be happier, really, and—

And he gets a second kiss.

And a third!

And three is one of his best numbers. He can’t help but sigh happily, tugging Carlos’s lab coat closer around himself. It feels so grounding, perfect, warm.

Though Cecil has never liked facial hair on men before— oh, he loves it on Carlos. He loves the friction against his own skin; he hopes it leaves a mark behind. He hopes Carlos is burnt into his skin forever.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Cecil insists, blushing furiously. His blood is rushing so fast he feels like he might lose consciousness— but, he can’t! Carlos is here! He wants to spend every second he can together with him. “I’m just so grateful you’re coming! Thank you, Carlos! I’m—”

He hesitates, then admits— “Prophecies are never guaranteed. Nothing is ever guaranteed. But I… I saw you, and I couldn’t live without you anymore. I feel so lucky that… that this prophecy was guaranteed. That you are…”

He doesn’t want to say guaranteed, even though he, himself, is guaranteed. He’s not going anywhere, not while Carlos is anywhere else.

“There are many prophecies,” Cecil informs him, rather than picking up his previous line of thought. “And many of them… Many of them, I hope would not come true. But I would have endured any of them— all of them— to make sure you would.”

The smile that comes onto his face is sharp-toothed and inhuman and irrepressible.

“But I didn’t even need to. You are your own force of nature, aren’t you, Carlos?”

Just like Cecil is. They are meant to be.

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil can barely focus on the road, whether or not Carlos is touching him.

It’s just so much better when he is touching him.

“Of course, I came to get you,” Cecil insists. “As soon as I saw you— Oh, Carlos, I had to. I couldn’t live another minute without you. I think I would’ve felt the same if I saw you in passing. On the street. Or in a dream, even. I would’ve had to come find you.” He sighs, content. “Thank you for being you.”

Even their quiet is comfortable. It’s nice.

Cecil does like Carlos’s voice, though, and his words, and the things he has to say. He listens closely and falls a little bit more in love with every word Carlos says.

And by the end—

He thinks he might actually cry.

He’s thinking about how he’s been told since before he can remember that he doesn’t really exist. He’s thinking about how he hasn’t seen his own reflection, and isn’t sure what he looks like, if he even looks like anything. He’s thinking about how he would often come back into himself halfway through the woods, led there by his mother in the hopes he wouldn’t return home. He’s thinking about being ignored and abandoned by his mother, and considering that a good thing, a positive sign, a promising omen.

He thinks about how, sometimes, he can’t remember whether or not he’s real.

And here is Carlos, telling him that he’d never stop trying to find Night Vale— to find him. Telling him he’s worth searching for.

Cecil blinks, then scrubs roughly under his eye with the back of his wrist. His third eye blinks just the same, though its budding of tears are above the car more than within it, white rain-clouds wisping above the car, leaking a couple of drops he can’t wipe away as easily.

He can’t help but huff a wet laugh. “Carlos. I… I think you’d be able to find me even with just two eyes. They’re really, really perfect eyes.”

Chewing on his lip with a sharp tooth, drawing blood— then licking at the cut, letting it stitch back up and heal over— he tells Carlos, “I’m not really good at… at this. At things like—” This laugh is half-humorless. “I don’t even leave Night Vale. But I didn’t wait to come get you. It’s like… It’s like I’ve waited my entire life for you, like I’ve— I’ve been waiting around for you for centuries, Carlos. I… I always knew. I just didn’t know.”

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Oh, my—

𝑂ℎ.

Cecil is struck 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 when Carlos leans over and kisses his cheek in return.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was kissed. Literally, he does not remember it; the last time he was kissed was years ago, by Earl Harlan, and Cecil doesn’t remember a single second of it, wiped clear from his mind after several ensuing— though unrelated— sessions of re-education that left Cecil blank, Earl heartbroken, and their relationship a broken, half-gone mess.

Regardless.

Being kissed now— and being kissed by perfect, perfect Carlos— on the cheek is the most tremendous feeling he’s ever had. And he had such fear when Carlos didn’t respond, at first, but now—

He couldn’t be more thrilled. He couldn’t be happier, really, and—

And he gets a second kiss.

And a third!

And three is one of his best numbers. He can’t help but sigh happily, tugging Carlos’s lab coat closer around himself. It feels so grounding, perfect, warm.

Though Cecil has never liked facial hair on men before— oh, he loves it on Carlos. He loves the friction against his own skin; he hopes it leaves a mark behind. He hopes Carlos is burnt into his skin forever.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Cecil insists, blushing furiously. His blood is rushing so fast he feels like he might lose consciousness— but, he can’t! Carlos is here! He wants to spend every second he can together with him. “I’m just so grateful you’re coming! Thank you, Carlos! I’m—”

He hesitates, then admits— “Prophecies are never guaranteed. Nothing is ever guaranteed. But I… I saw you, and I couldn’t live without you anymore. I feel so lucky that… that this prophecy was guaranteed. That you are…”

He doesn’t want to say guaranteed, even though he, himself, is guaranteed. He’s not going anywhere, not while Carlos is anywhere else.

“There are many prophecies,” Cecil informs him, rather than picking up his previous line of thought. “And many of them… Many of them, I hope would not come true. But I would have endured any of them— all of them— to make sure you would.”

The smile that comes onto his face is sharp-toothed and inhuman and irrepressible.

“But I didn’t even need to. You are your own force of nature, aren’t you, Carlos?”

Just like Cecil is. They are meant to be.

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil meets a pair of eyes, and his breath is stolen, and he could swear, he falls in love instantly.

It's the sort of love that feels like recognition, like familiarity, like 'oh, I think I know you, I think I should know you, I think I've always known you—'

He is air, and the breath is stolen from his lungs— how?

This person is not a person, Cecil can feel that much in the electric, pressurized moment their eyes meet. This person is so much more than a person, and the ocean responds as if it knows them, respects them, loves them, and Cecil can't help but respond in kind.

The rain picks up, excited now. He's pushing to his knees, then to his feet—

—but the stranger is turning away from him.

He didn't know that heartbreak was literal. He's heard mortals use the word, but he didn't understand how a heart could actually break.

Watching this stranger turn away from him feels so much like that.

"Wait!" he shouts, unable to stop himself. Lightning touches down just behind him, a bolt to wet sand, in time with his heart; he doesn't notice, doesn't see anything except the stranger leaving him, and he throws the mess of his soaked hair back so he can see the way forward, moving towards him, calling again, "Wait! Don't— Don't go! Please, don't go—"

[ @dr-carlosrobles — ]

Cecil just likes to feel the rain, sometimes.

He is so horrendously old— older than the winds, the storms, the rains under his command. There is so much he has done, and still he feels a lack.

It is not unlike the vacuum he first awoke in, this feeling. It is an untethered feeling, unanchored. He feels tossed on the waves his own storms create, and still no closer to steady ground for it.

Flat on their back in the sand, Cecil sighs, eyes wide open, staring upwards into the storm clouds they've gathered over themself. Over this section of the beach, it pours; a storm rages, and Cecil, spread starfish on his back, lets himself absorb the sand, lets the waves lap against them as high tide comes in, lets lightning crackle and snap down into the ocean with every flash of their tattoos and heavy rumble of thunder.

They just feel this way, sometimes. It's better to let it out like this than keep it in too long.

The air pressure changes on the beach. Cecil feels it— of course, he feels it. He feels every lick of wind everywhere, every change in temperature, every shift in density; the air, the winds, the clouds, the storms, the weather, the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the magnificence, it is all theirs.

Lifting her near-nonexistent head, Cecil blinks through the driving rain in search of the source of the shift. She doesn't need to have a human body— or a human name, or anything human at all, really— but, it's something to do. And it all feels far more properly theatrical when she's fling out on the sand physically, not just metaphorically.

There is a shape down the beach, it realizes.

It'd thought this stretch was empty, remote; that's why it came here, specifically, when it realized it had to release: to hide. It'd hate to hurt somebody who wandered over just because it doesn't have control.

Cecil begins attempting to calm the storm, to quell it, to stuff it back away for now. It's an effort; he sits up in the sand, fists gripping the wet granules in gritty palmfuls, and concentrates, scars and tattoos and markings flashing with each bolt of lightning, head pounding with the rumbling thunder, until the rain has begun to subside, his emotions compressed backwards— and the weather with it.

With this lessened rain, Cecil can see so much more.

He can see a… a person.

A person?

He thinks they might be a person. Maybe.

Are they, though?

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil absorbs every word about Carlos from his own mouth with absolute delight. And Carlos says he talks a lot! Cecil’s looking forward to that! He wants to hear it all, he means it.

And Carlos has been around for so long! It’s incredible just how old he is; just hearing him talk, it sounds like he’s as old as Cecil is! They’ve both lived such long lives, and never crossed paths, and how is this possible?

Maybe this is the right time, maybe they needed to wait until now. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to wait anymore!

Carlos is just so fascinating. He has seen so much— so much he can tell Cecil about, so much Cecil wants to hear about!— and done so much, too! Wow, he even explores human technology, and can invent new things— all Cecil does is explore, all the same, and poke around the Earth, and introduce himself to random people.

And mope. Lately, lots of moping.

Cecil is all-seeing, but not all-knowing. He can see anywhere on this planet in the blink of one of his (many) eyes, but that doesn’t mean he understands what he sees. It doesn’t mean he can look at the ocean and know that it contains multitudes like Carlos.

He should have dived deeper. If only he wasn’t so nervous—

Oh, and Carlos is so good to his people— and he has people!— and Cecil just adores him more and more with every word from his mouth, and he—

He is scrunching his nose.

Carlos is scrunching his nose, a cute little wrinkle, and it is literally the most adorable thing Cecil has ever seen. The coo that comes out of him is so enthusiastic and affectionate that rain spills more heavily over their heads in response.

“Right here!” Cecil insists. “Right here, right— right with me! Where is here— I just mean, here is where I want to be. And want you to be.”

He tilts his head, curious. The rain tilts with him; the cloud is cock-eyed above them, following like his shadow.

“You haven’t gone far from here? From this beach? Carlos! There’s a whole world to explore! And it’s— Honestly, it’s mostly water.”

He nudges at the tide lapping around their ankles with a bare foot.

“You’d probably really like it! …If you want me to show you. I’ve seen a lot of the world!”

He’s seen so much of it, but not all of it. Not yet. There’s so much of the ocean he hasn’t explored, but, well—

Well, when Cecil first woke up— first came into being, or what have you— it was in the abyss of the desert. Sand, and darkness. He felt as if everything had dried up, and he had nothing. Lifeless. He wanted something that didn’t make him feel that way—

—And then, there was rain.

And then, there was Cecil.

And everything just sort of kept going from there.

With the existence of Cecil came the existence of air; his birth— if it was a birth, as it was, so full of unknown origin, from unknown sources, holding unknown meaning— brought with it that first rain, true, but also a gathering of clouds, and an increase in pressure, and a charging of electricity, and a striking of lightning, and a rumbling of thunder, and a swelling of sound—

—and so on, and so forth.

But it all started in that hot, empty wasteland. The nothingness from which his something originated.

And—

Well, he never learned how to swim.

And so he’s been nervous, ever since, but there’s been nobody to ask, nobody to show him, nobody to understand.

But…

Carlos is from the water. He is the water, practically.

Cecil can learn for him. Maybe even from him.

“I can show you the world, if you want to see it. And you can show me the parts I haven’t seen yet.” He tips his head towards the ocean; once again, the rain cloud follows. He keeps himself held in Carlos’s hands, enjoying the feeling of him stroking through his hair and holding him so close; he refuses to withdraw from his touch, refuses to exceed his grasp. “Under there.”

[ @dr-carlosrobles — ]

Cecil just likes to feel the rain, sometimes.

He is so horrendously old— older than the winds, the storms, the rains under his command. There is so much he has done, and still he feels a lack.

It is not unlike the vacuum he first awoke in, this feeling. It is an untethered feeling, unanchored. He feels tossed on the waves his own storms create, and still no closer to steady ground for it.

Flat on their back in the sand, Cecil sighs, eyes wide open, staring upwards into the storm clouds they've gathered over themself. Over this section of the beach, it pours; a storm rages, and Cecil, spread starfish on his back, lets himself absorb the sand, lets the waves lap against them as high tide comes in, lets lightning crackle and snap down into the ocean with every flash of their tattoos and heavy rumble of thunder.

They just feel this way, sometimes. It's better to let it out like this than keep it in too long.

The air pressure changes on the beach. Cecil feels it— of course, he feels it. He feels every lick of wind everywhere, every change in temperature, every shift in density; the air, the winds, the clouds, the storms, the weather, the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the magnificence, it is all theirs.

Lifting her near-nonexistent head, Cecil blinks through the driving rain in search of the source of the shift. She doesn't need to have a human body— or a human name, or anything human at all, really— but, it's something to do. And it all feels far more properly theatrical when she's fling out on the sand physically, not just metaphorically.

There is a shape down the beach, it realizes.

It'd thought this stretch was empty, remote; that's why it came here, specifically, when it realized it had to release: to hide. It'd hate to hurt somebody who wandered over just because it doesn't have control.

Cecil begins attempting to calm the storm, to quell it, to stuff it back away for now. It's an effort; he sits up in the sand, fists gripping the wet granules in gritty palmfuls, and concentrates, scars and tattoos and markings flashing with each bolt of lightning, head pounding with the rumbling thunder, until the rain has begun to subside, his emotions compressed backwards— and the weather with it.

With this lessened rain, Cecil can see so much more.

He can see a… a person.

A person?

He thinks they might be a person. Maybe.

Are they, though?

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil takes in the space around them, observes the way Carlos has been living, wonders about how it will fit into the way he lives.

It’s nice to see that the most interesting objects around are the ones that Carlos is packing up to take with him. When he’s chosen everything he wants to take along with him, what’s left is like a shell; there’s no way that this is the place that houses somebody like Carlos.

Cecil’s home will be much better suited to that, he just knows it.

He’s practically vibrating, wanting to be on the road and bringing Carlos along with him, but he makes himself be calm. He’s still dogging Carlos like a shadow, but— calm. Calm as he can be, anyway.

“Oh!” Cecil is learning so much about science today! And even more about Carlos. He thinks Carlos might just be his new favorite subject. Science is a bit further down the list, admittedly, but it’s rising with Carlos’s interest in it, for sure!

“That makes sense.” Cecil understands. People can be way too much, sometimes; they can make Cecil’s head go all fuzzy and his chest hurt and he just needs to be alone for a while. He gets it. “You never have to do anything you don’t want to! Well— Not with me. Life is full of things you don’t want to do but have to. But!” Cecil insists! “I’ll help with them! And never add to them. I promise!”

He vows! He likes to make vows to Carlos.

“Oh,” he says, softer this time, lower. He can feel the rush of heat on his cheeks; his third eye scrunches closed as he blushes. “Thank you. I practiced the whole way here. I knew it had to be really good if I wanted you to come.”

He tucks his hair back, rocks on his heels. The idea that Carlos wouldn’t run away with anyone else— even with how much he says he wanted to change his life— is making his heart do wild things. He thinks it might be strangling his lungs for fun, right about now.

Cecil watches Carlos claim his things, then observe the empty space he’s leaving behind. A quick scribbled note, and that’s it— That’s Carlos’s life here, sealed up and slipped under the door, already becoming a thing of the past even as they linger at the end of its life.

“Neat,” Cecil says, then wants to kick himself. “I mean, uhh— Neat!”

Damn it!

“I just— I’m really excited,” Cecil admits in a flushed rush. He holds his hands out, grabs to help Carlos with his things, offering his arms and palms and shoulders to him in sacrifice. His sensitive hands ache to touch Carlos again, but he contents himself with his belongings instead, each brush of his fingertips like a kiss to the fabrics. “I wouldn’t have come for anyone else, either. I don’t leave home a lot. I had to come get you.” And he grins, all those sharp teeth— “Let’s go. I want to take you home.”

He needs to get Carlos some food first, but— they’re officially leaving! He’s nearly vibrating with excitement again, his edges hazing out just a bit— he’s just so exhilarated, electrified, how can he be expected to keep himself all the way together?

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Oh, my—

𝑂ℎ.

Cecil is struck 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 when Carlos leans over and kisses his cheek in return.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was kissed. Literally, he does not remember it; the last time he was kissed was years ago, by Earl Harlan, and Cecil doesn’t remember a single second of it, wiped clear from his mind after several ensuing— though unrelated— sessions of re-education that left Cecil blank, Earl heartbroken, and their relationship a broken, half-gone mess.

Regardless.

Being kissed now— and being kissed by perfect, perfect Carlos— on the cheek is the most tremendous feeling he’s ever had. And he had such fear when Carlos didn’t respond, at first, but now—

He couldn’t be more thrilled. He couldn’t be happier, really, and—

And he gets a second kiss.

And a third!

And three is one of his best numbers. He can’t help but sigh happily, tugging Carlos’s lab coat closer around himself. It feels so grounding, perfect, warm.

Though Cecil has never liked facial hair on men before— oh, he loves it on Carlos. He loves the friction against his own skin; he hopes it leaves a mark behind. He hopes Carlos is burnt into his skin forever.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Cecil insists, blushing furiously. His blood is rushing so fast he feels like he might lose consciousness— but, he can’t! Carlos is here! He wants to spend every second he can together with him. “I’m just so grateful you’re coming! Thank you, Carlos! I’m—”

He hesitates, then admits— “Prophecies are never guaranteed. Nothing is ever guaranteed. But I… I saw you, and I couldn’t live without you anymore. I feel so lucky that… that this prophecy was guaranteed. That you are…”

He doesn’t want to say guaranteed, even though he, himself, is guaranteed. He’s not going anywhere, not while Carlos is anywhere else.

“There are many prophecies,” Cecil informs him, rather than picking up his previous line of thought. “And many of them… Many of them, I hope would not come true. But I would have endured any of them— all of them— to make sure you would.”

The smile that comes onto his face is sharp-toothed and inhuman and irrepressible.

“But I didn’t even need to. You are your own force of nature, aren’t you, Carlos?”

Just like Cecil is. They are meant to be.

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil loves his curious husband so much.

Even now, he can’t bring himself to be upset. Or even annoyed. Carlos examines his vomit like he examines everything about Cecil: as if he finds the minutiae of him— even the most disgusting parts— absolutely fascinating.

Not for the first time, Cecil wonders what it would be like to be pulled apart and put back together again by Carlos. He thinks he’d really like it.

Right now, though, what he’d really like most is to be snuggled and warm with Carlos in their bed, and so he sighs, stepping uneasily out of the bath and into Carlos’s waiting arms, the spread towel, curling right up into him.

“I wanna lay down,” he mumbles into Carlos’s shoulder, muffled. The last of his energy feels like it’s in the form of stars and small galaxies swirling in their waste-bin; nothing’s actually left inside him.

His long arms fold around his middle, and he sighs, shifting to rotate in Carlos’s arms, pulling the towel— and his husband’s hold— more closely around himself, letting him hold him upright. He nuzzles into his throat, inhaling him; he makes him feel so much better. Literally, just the scent of him is settling Cecil’s stomach.

“I love you,” he tells him, bleary. After a moment, he adds, tentative and hopeful, “…Maybe we can stay home tomorrow?”

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Esteban always comes up with such creative ideas— and so does Carlos. He’s so scientific, of course— both he and their son can be so scientific!— but that means they’re inventive, too, and Cecil loves to hear every idea they come up with.

Like names in a hat! What a dangerous idea! But Cecil loves how dangerous Carlos can be, how risky and reckless and fascinating he can be!

Carlos’s voice is so soft when he speaks, like a blanket wrapped around Cecil— and then he promises real blankets, even, and Cecil smiles, sighing, relaxing into Carlos, half-aware of what’s happening around him.

“That sounds 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒,” Cecil murmurs. It’s the perfect night, really; it’s his favorite sort of evening between them. “What food do you think the baby wants? Maybe I’m just… just not giving them the food they want.”

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel well. Maybe he’s just doing this wrong already. It was easier with Esteban— he had just been born when he came into their lives. Cecil’s not used to doing everything that comes before a baby is born instead of after; maybe he’s already messed it up, somehow?

“What do babies need? Before they’re babies?”

[thevoiceofnv]

"More than," Cecil agrees, meaning it down to the airy, loose marrow of their hollow bird-bones. "More than enough."

Cecil wants to know Carlos. Carlos wants to know Cecil. That's more than enough; honestly, that's everything.

"Tell me about you," Cecil asks— pleads— begs. He needs to know, more than anything else. He needs it. He needs him. "I talk too much already. I have plenty of time to talk. I want to listen. Carlos— I want to hear you."

It echoes deep in his chest. It rattles around with Carlos's confessed 'you have me.' Cecil can never forget them. He could die now and die happy.

It might be fast, but— it's also the longest Cecil has waited for anything. The wait for Carlos has lasted centuries, been so horribly slow, he can't help but latch on the moment he is here.

His soulmate, and he believes that. He can't possibly believe otherwise.

"I want to hear your everything," Cecil confesses. "And your nothing. I want to hear your tells and your listens, I— I want you. If I wanted nothing else, I'd want you."

He could love him.

He does love him.

He already knows he won't love anyone, or anything, ever, more than him.

"Carlos. Let me keep you."

Cecil asks too much of beautiful, perfect, spectacular Carlos. But, if he doesn't ask, he'll never know.

"Please."

Where has Carlos been all his life? He's desperate for the creature before him, the match to his soul, so desperate he could break if there wasn't the reason to remain right in front of him—

[ @dr-carlosrobles — ]

Cecil just likes to feel the rain, sometimes.

He is so horrendously old— older than the winds, the storms, the rains under his command. There is so much he has done, and still he feels a lack.

It is not unlike the vacuum he first awoke in, this feeling. It is an untethered feeling, unanchored. He feels tossed on the waves his own storms create, and still no closer to steady ground for it.

Flat on their back in the sand, Cecil sighs, eyes wide open, staring upwards into the storm clouds they've gathered over themself. Over this section of the beach, it pours; a storm rages, and Cecil, spread starfish on his back, lets himself absorb the sand, lets the waves lap against them as high tide comes in, lets lightning crackle and snap down into the ocean with every flash of their tattoos and heavy rumble of thunder.

They just feel this way, sometimes. It's better to let it out like this than keep it in too long.

The air pressure changes on the beach. Cecil feels it— of course, he feels it. He feels every lick of wind everywhere, every change in temperature, every shift in density; the air, the winds, the clouds, the storms, the weather, the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the magnificence, it is all theirs.

Lifting her near-nonexistent head, Cecil blinks through the driving rain in search of the source of the shift. She doesn't need to have a human body— or a human name, or anything human at all, really— but, it's something to do. And it all feels far more properly theatrical when she's fling out on the sand physically, not just metaphorically.

There is a shape down the beach, it realizes.

It'd thought this stretch was empty, remote; that's why it came here, specifically, when it realized it had to release: to hide. It'd hate to hurt somebody who wandered over just because it doesn't have control.

Cecil begins attempting to calm the storm, to quell it, to stuff it back away for now. It's an effort; he sits up in the sand, fists gripping the wet granules in gritty palmfuls, and concentrates, scars and tattoos and markings flashing with each bolt of lightning, head pounding with the rumbling thunder, until the rain has begun to subside, his emotions compressed backwards— and the weather with it.

With this lessened rain, Cecil can see so much more.

He can see a… a person.

A person?

He thinks they might be a person. Maybe.

Are they, though?

[thevoiceofnv]

The stranger turns back towards Cecil, and doesn't leave him, and Cecil's inhuman heart could just about stop for how thrilled he feels.

He can't stop himself. His momentum is too strong, too powerful; he's already coming forward, and he collides with this stranger, slamming right into him, caught in his hands— his expectant hands, and how did he know?

"You haven't disturbed me!" Cecil insists. "I was just— Ugh. Honestly, I was just moping, but— I didn't expect to find anyone here! I thought there wasn't anybody was here, but—"

Obviously, he was wrong! He couldn't be more wrong. Not only is he not alone, but the most handsome, perfect, beautiful stranger is right here in front of him. He couldn't be happier to be wrong, this time! He hopes he's always wrong like this.

And, oh, he could just explode when this stranger asks where he's been.

In fact— he nearly does explode, thunder rumbling tremendously overhead, making the earth shake with it. A bolt of lightning hits the seam of sand and sea, and he clings to the stranger's shoulders, his fur coat gripped under his fingers, examining the beautiful patchwork of his skin, the dark vortex of his eyes, the way the sea seems to sing around him.

"I don't know," Cecil breathes, and he doesn't. He doesn't know where he's ever been without this stranger. "I don't know where I've been. I'm just so glad I'm here with you now."

The sky lights up, illuminated the electric lightning; Cecil lights up in correspondence, scars and tattoos flashing, and he should let the stranger go, but he can't. He just can't do it.

"I've been looking for you," Cecil tells him. He's been looking for meaning, for something he's missing, for this space inside— and here they are. "I found you. I'm so— I'm so glad I found you."

[ @dr-carlosrobles — ]

Cecil just likes to feel the rain, sometimes.

He is so horrendously old— older than the winds, the storms, the rains under his command. There is so much he has done, and still he feels a lack.

It is not unlike the vacuum he first awoke in, this feeling. It is an untethered feeling, unanchored. He feels tossed on the waves his own storms create, and still no closer to steady ground for it.

Flat on their back in the sand, Cecil sighs, eyes wide open, staring upwards into the storm clouds they've gathered over themself. Over this section of the beach, it pours; a storm rages, and Cecil, spread starfish on his back, lets himself absorb the sand, lets the waves lap against them as high tide comes in, lets lightning crackle and snap down into the ocean with every flash of their tattoos and heavy rumble of thunder.

They just feel this way, sometimes. It's better to let it out like this than keep it in too long.

The air pressure changes on the beach. Cecil feels it— of course, he feels it. He feels every lick of wind everywhere, every change in temperature, every shift in density; the air, the winds, the clouds, the storms, the weather, the rain, the lightning, the thunder, the magnificence, it is all theirs.

Lifting her near-nonexistent head, Cecil blinks through the driving rain in search of the source of the shift. She doesn't need to have a human body— or a human name, or anything human at all, really— but, it's something to do. And it all feels far more properly theatrical when she's fling out on the sand physically, not just metaphorically.

There is a shape down the beach, it realizes.

It'd thought this stretch was empty, remote; that's why it came here, specifically, when it realized it had to release: to hide. It'd hate to hurt somebody who wandered over just because it doesn't have control.

Cecil begins attempting to calm the storm, to quell it, to stuff it back away for now. It's an effort; he sits up in the sand, fists gripping the wet granules in gritty palmfuls, and concentrates, scars and tattoos and markings flashing with each bolt of lightning, head pounding with the rumbling thunder, until the rain has begun to subside, his emotions compressed backwards— and the weather with it.

With this lessened rain, Cecil can see so much more.

He can see a… a person.

A person?

He thinks they might be a person. Maybe.

Are they, though?

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil gasps for breath, for air; what he sucks in tastes of lavender, which tastes like Carlos, which makes him feel so much better.

Carlos's hand on his back and soft sounds in his ear and warmth just behind him go a long way. He's nearly distracted— but returns at the last second, humming against Carlos.

Carlos, who thinks he's fascinating, even as he's vomiting over the side of their bathtub. Carlos, who loves him so much, even in the midst of absolute chaos and confusing. Carlos, who has put the baby in Cecil that is making him feel this way.

Though Cecil attempts to answer, he needs a moment. He ends up coughing up another stomachful of stars before he can breathe again.

"A little," Cecil mumbles. "Guess it really is a baby, isn't it?"

He turns into Carlos with another violent shiver. After a moment, he starts to rise on knocking knees, shaking as he attempts to rise to his feet in the chilly bathwater, now icicles against his skin—

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Esteban always comes up with such creative ideas— and so does Carlos. He’s so scientific, of course— both he and their son can be so scientific!— but that means they’re inventive, too, and Cecil loves to hear every idea they come up with.

Like names in a hat! What a dangerous idea! But Cecil loves how dangerous Carlos can be, how risky and reckless and fascinating he can be!

Carlos’s voice is so soft when he speaks, like a blanket wrapped around Cecil— and then he promises real blankets, even, and Cecil smiles, sighing, relaxing into Carlos, half-aware of what’s happening around him.

“That sounds 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒,” Cecil murmurs. It’s the perfect night, really; it’s his favorite sort of evening between them. “What food do you think the baby wants? Maybe I’m just… just not giving them the food they want.”

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel well. Maybe he’s just doing this wrong already. It was easier with Esteban— he had just been born when he came into their lives. Cecil’s not used to doing everything that comes before a baby is born instead of after; maybe he’s already messed it up, somehow?

“What do babies need? Before they’re babies?”

[thevoiceofnv]

"Sort of," Cecil echoes.

He's been unable to stop himself from rambling about Carlos on the air. He's barely known the prophecy that long, but he still can't help himself. This is the best thing that ever happened to him; how could he possibly stop himself?

"For you? Anything," Cecil says, and means it, with an intensity and gravity he can't help but feel deep down to the soft, slurpable marrow of his bones.

And Carlos kisses him again, kisses his cheek, and Cecil just can't take it. Oh, he's so flustered, he just can't take it!

His cheek burns where Carlos kissed him, and he practically swans after him, a shadow attached to his heels as he dogs Carlos in his packing process. Lab coats and sentimentals and soft little items go into his bags, and Cecil mentally places him all in his home— their home— one piece at a time.

"I'll keep you safe," Cecil swears, sonorous and intense. "If you want to be alone, I'll make sure you're alone, Carlos."

They're sure they could manage that! And—

Well, if Carlos is home alone, and Cecil's there, that's fine, right? He can help Carlos be alone!

He just doesn't want to leave his side.

"I'll show you around Night Vale!" Cecil insists, excited. "I'll do it all myself. You don't have to worry about anyone else." He hesitates, then adds, "But... If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I won't force myself on you. The prophecy's obviously what it is... But you're not obligated. It can be a prophecy for another us, if you want."

He's begging the universe, please, please, please, please don't take him from me, but he sort of loves Carlos already, and if loving him means losing him, he'd rather Carlos be happy.

Still.

He can't be without him, he thinks. The notion terrifies him.

"But I'm... glad," Cecil ventures to offer. "I'm glad it's you. And me. I'm so glad the prophecy showed me us."

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Oh, my—

𝑂ℎ.

Cecil is struck 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 when Carlos leans over and kisses his cheek in return.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was kissed. Literally, he does not remember it; the last time he was kissed was years ago, by Earl Harlan, and Cecil doesn’t remember a single second of it, wiped clear from his mind after several ensuing— though unrelated— sessions of re-education that left Cecil blank, Earl heartbroken, and their relationship a broken, half-gone mess.

Regardless.

Being kissed now— and being kissed by perfect, perfect Carlos— on the cheek is the most tremendous feeling he’s ever had. And he had such fear when Carlos didn’t respond, at first, but now—

He couldn’t be more thrilled. He couldn’t be happier, really, and—

And he gets a second kiss.

And a third!

And three is one of his best numbers. He can’t help but sigh happily, tugging Carlos’s lab coat closer around himself. It feels so grounding, perfect, warm.

Though Cecil has never liked facial hair on men before— oh, he loves it on Carlos. He loves the friction against his own skin; he hopes it leaves a mark behind. He hopes Carlos is burnt into his skin forever.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Cecil insists, blushing furiously. His blood is rushing so fast he feels like he might lose consciousness— but, he can’t! Carlos is here! He wants to spend every second he can together with him. “I’m just so grateful you’re coming! Thank you, Carlos! I’m—”

He hesitates, then admits— “Prophecies are never guaranteed. Nothing is ever guaranteed. But I… I saw you, and I couldn’t live without you anymore. I feel so lucky that… that this prophecy was guaranteed. That you are…”

He doesn’t want to say guaranteed, even though he, himself, is guaranteed. He’s not going anywhere, not while Carlos is anywhere else.

“There are many prophecies,” Cecil informs him, rather than picking up his previous line of thought. “And many of them… Many of them, I hope would not come true. But I would have endured any of them— all of them— to make sure you would.”

The smile that comes onto his face is sharp-toothed and inhuman and irrepressible.

“But I didn’t even need to. You are your own force of nature, aren’t you, Carlos?”

Just like Cecil is. They are meant to be.

[thevoiceofnv]

Cecil’s eyes narrow slightly, a slight whirl of agitation churning up in his chest.

He loves coffee. Sometimes, it’s all he has until dinner— which Carlos will scold him for, but with how distracted he can get while he’s working on science, it’s not like he can talk.

But… Carlos is smart. If he thinks Cecil should be eating and drinking specific things, he probably should be. Even if he doesn’t want to be.

Though he can’t help the grimace that wrinkles his nose at the suggestions Carlos is making— he’s reassured that Carlos will help him with it. With everything. He doesn’t want to do this, isn’t even sure he’ll remember to do this— and Carlos anticipates everything ahead of time, before he can even think about it, and offers his own solutions.

With a sigh, Cecil lets his eyes close, a smile fluttering across his expression at Carlos’s soft touches and softer kisses.

He has to remember: just because he’s growing the baby by himself, doesn’t mean he has to do all of it by himself. Carlos is right; they’ll figure it out together, like they always do. Their lives are full of first-times, and hundredth-times, and millionth-times. It’s part of being in love.

“I guess,” Cecil murmurs, tilting closer into Carlos, wanting to absorb more of his warmth. “This is going to take forever, Carlos.” After a huffed moment, he adds, “You always keep an eye on me. But— I can check myself, if you want. Then you’ll know sooner, you won’t have to wait.”

It would take some effort, but Cecil could do it! He could turn his focus inwards, try to find the baby, attempt to compare how far along they are with the Internet and Carlos’s knowledge and— well, hopefully that’ll be enough, so he doesn’t have to deal with a dangerous book.

“Maybe it’ll be really soon! Like… tomorrow!” Cecil suggests, optimistic. That’s not how this works, as far as he knows, but he can dream.

@dr-carlosrobles [continued—]

Esteban always comes up with such creative ideas— and so does Carlos. He’s so scientific, of course— both he and their son can be so scientific!— but that means they’re inventive, too, and Cecil loves to hear every idea they come up with.

Like names in a hat! What a dangerous idea! But Cecil loves how dangerous Carlos can be, how risky and reckless and fascinating he can be!

Carlos’s voice is so soft when he speaks, like a blanket wrapped around Cecil— and then he promises real blankets, even, and Cecil smiles, sighing, relaxing into Carlos, half-aware of what’s happening around him.

“That sounds 𝑠𝑜 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒,” Cecil murmurs. It’s the perfect night, really; it’s his favorite sort of evening between them. “What food do you think the baby wants? Maybe I’m just… just not giving them the food they want.”

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel well. Maybe he’s just doing this wrong already. It was easier with Esteban— he had just been born when he came into their lives. Cecil’s not used to doing everything that comes before a baby is born instead of after; maybe he’s already messed it up, somehow?

“What do babies need? Before they’re babies?”