IN OTHER NEWS: A LOVERS' SPAT.

[evinced]

[ In contrast to Cecil's hitherto ignorant misgivings, Wednesday happened to be a good day for coffee of the indeterminate, lukewarm variety. Weekday evenings were particularly suited for playing catch-up with his defunct social life.

And the current quiet wasn't exactly bad — the act of holding conversational ellipses between their words, a kind of lull that idled somewhere between commonplace and practiced. A sentimental void, of sorts (if voids could be sentimental to begin with, considering that the blank vacuum of space lacked discernible indicators in the way of emotional tactility for any and all material/immaterial beings). Just out the window, stragglers wander the streets with hands flung like transformative birds poised in flight, half-inclined to accost any nearby stranger in a spastic display of arcing limbs. Recently, several elderly people have taken up interpretative sign language as their primary means of communication, but fortunately the fad hasn't caught on with the rest of Night Vale's eccentric residents.

As they sit in a bistro suffused with dimming, homey lighting, Carlos is partially consumed by thoughts of expresso. He isn't in the mood for caffeinated drinks, but that's irrelevant when the server whisks copious amounts of cream and cinnamon extract and processed sugar until it's a ready-made concoction for diabetes as opposed to a manmade stimulant. In the larger scheme of things, that's irrelevant, but definitely worth noting.

He's called Cecil out in proposal of yet another experiment to showcase on his radio show, something the entire community should be well-informed with (right alongside the recent outcropping of shape-shifters roaming backlit alleyways and the newspaper bulletins waxing poetic over the unreality of sentience as a mental construct) but hasn't gotten around to it just yet, which has something to do with the fact Cecil's been ignoring his every advance for the past twenty minutes straight. Not for the first time today, Carlos is at an uncomprehending loss.

Most days, it's not that he worries much for Cecil (even if he genuinely cares for his boyfriend's voice, mortality, and general wellbeing). Cecil can handle himself just fine, proving as much that one occasion he'd fought off a horde of killer manatees running rampant through the town square after a circus exhibition gone awry. They've been dating long enough that Carlos doesn't mind if, and when, their talks wind prematurely wind to a close. They haven't been able to properly meet up for a week now, and frankly, he's missed him.

But there's a clear distinction between comfortable and uncomfortable silences, and to be honest, Cecil's never been quite at ease with either. Something's up with him today. If it isn't the distracted motion that he rips one too many Splenda packets into his mug, wrapping and all, it's his summarily agitated stare at the brindled liquid melting within the cup, like Cecil had a personal vendetta for every hot beverage in existence. His exasperation is weird in and of itself, but even more bizarre is his lack of verbal monologuing. He hasn't spoken once since his arrival, sliding into the proffered seat without so much as a peep.

Whether out of slight or some other transgression, Cecil won't meet his gaze. Understandably, Carlos's determined to wring answers out of him. So it's a fairly pedestrian gesture, his disarming stare he affixes on his face when he glances up at his boyfriend again, keeping his tone insouciant, blithely non-confrontational. ]

Are you alright, Cecil? You seem a little out of it today.

Comments

[hellolisteners]

((Let's add another Splenda package to the coffee while we're at it, torn in half like a prisoner on a rack, the little insides dropping from the packageand it's tormentor feeling very surprised at how wrong this has gone. Cecil looks down, having spilt most of the package onto the table and he scoffs at it and himself and what he is troubled at.)) Crap.

((His eyes look up like a troubled late sunrise at his boyfriend after registering his words, who was always so sweet, so kind, so... well he wasn't actually observant and Cecil had come to accept that because observation is a limited skill pool which for Carlos is drained into the waters of Science. But Cecil is weirdly impressed and infatuated with the recognition. Does one ever stop falling in love? He hopes not. Falling for a year in rouncival space and at unmeasured velocity surely makes for a gruesome inpact. Love ends in heartbreak and death.))

Oh, nothing, ((he croons as he dusts the fallen granules into one hand, opens a napkin, pours it into the napkin, and dusts down the little pieces that still stick to his palm.)) Bad day at work, I suppose. I swear, I've got the most unreas-- ((he cuts himself off, wincing a little. He has no idea who could be listening to him, and knowing that he got into a bit of a scuffle with his shady bosses, today was really a good day to spy on him and eavesdrop. After all, public conversation is public, and meant to be collected, gathered, shared, and mishandled.)) I mean, you say one word wrong and the whole station is in an uproar. I can still hear the hollow screams in the back of my head, be they but an echo of their moans or the moans themselves still bellowing into my cerebellum.

((He plucks his glasses from his face and rubs the bridge of his nose, the corners of his lips taut as he sighs through his nose, and continues: )) I hope I'm not stepping out of line when I say that I believe in freedom of speech, but I do think that a time-limit should be put on transgressive trans-aggression. Or at least provide everyone the facilities necessary to function in these work environments.

Anyway, probably not right of me to let any of that spoil the evening. ((A thin smile. He's still annoyed with his boss.))

[evinced]

[ Cecil's current quandary with the pseudo-sugar packets might be indicative of some greater personal trauma likely associated with his work and perhaps broken mirrors, what with the management supposedly assembled primarily of disembodied Eldritch Abominations from another dimension. As far as he can tell, they don't get along well. But that's only town speculation, in and of itself, and Carlos isn't a betting man but a man of science.

Science, rather, given capitalized emphasis and comprehensible meaning, the very quantum mechanics of their universe governed by rationality insofar that he doesn't make leaps of logic that make no sense when they should, like why Khoshekh hovers about four feet off the ground at a fixed point in the men's bathroom at the radio station despite lacking enough traction or discernible antigravity field to warrant that kind of levitation, or why Night Vale girl scouts typically sell their cookies at five bills and a lucky rabbit's foot a pop instead of the nationally-accepted four dollars. Absurdity on an atomic level. It boggles the mind, but that's why he's here, along with his coterie of motley crew of experts garbed in lab coats and the fear of the unknown: to answer what was once deemed unanswerable.

And in this case, he's blissfully unaware of the many, many prying eyes and ears that lock into their social tics and idiosyncrasies as they speak, because he's never had qualms with blunt honesty. Beating around the bush, as far as he's concerned, wastes valuable time better allotted to hypothesizing common principles in theoretical physics and coming up with paradoxes that hold water (on a metaphysical and corporeal level, at that). ]

It's not a political climate, Cecil. If you have genuine concerns, you should be able to bring them up without fear of mortal harm or indiscriminate acts of extortion at the cost of your life.

[ Carlos isn't versed in intimacy — not as well as he'd like to be, all things considered, but he tries all the same. Reaching out over the table and their cups of sludge passing as confectioned coffee, he grasps Cecil's shoulder in what should be a consoling gesture, mouth set into a haphazard smile. ]

No, it's not ruining anything. I can listen.

[hellolisteners]

Oh... you. ((He swats the air bashfully, eyes shifting around, not able to give Carlos his proper gaze, a bit flustered by his own feelings in regard to. On the one hand, Carlos was immeasurably sweet, although he supposes for an instant that Carlos could likely find the quantum length of his own sweetness based on Cecil's blush. But coupled with that comes the embarrassment of how much Carlos does not comprehend, and in that way it's cute. Because of course it's a political climate - and of course one should always fear for mortal harm. The world is vast unpredictable, and there is no man who has all of it in his grasp - perhaps a god, but not the god you might think of. And being but men that they are, what mortal harm is brought to them is not a decision of their own.

But, still. It is pretty cute, and he doesn't want to, like, crush Carlos's hopes for a better world. Cecil did not think himself a pessimist, but Carlos's optimism was... a little farfetched. Maybe that's part of being a scientist? All the truths of the world are no doubt terrifying, and to know so much as he does, he must have to impress upon a little extra hope. It must be what makes him such a good scientist. And Cecil likes it that way. His uneven smile matched his unbalanced view of their collapsing world. And Cecil gives a haphazard pout, his hiding smile drawing back the thinned corners of his lips, and it takes him to recover from a heart reminding him just how alive he is.))

Well, ((his eyes shift momentarily down, thinking. He reaches up to lift that hand from his shoulder and grasp the strong fingers in his own. His thumb smoothes over sturdy knuckles.)) I supposed I should at least say thank you. There are far too many out there who have no one to confine in. ((Always embarrassing, but he manages to offer his gaze near the end, his eyes like the universe, only more full with something the universe could use a lot more of.))

Although, I don't really want to talk about it much regardless! I mean, it's just a bad day at work, and who wants to hear about that? I have survived, and that is a good moment on its own, and the only moment to make worth remembering in hard times. Who needs what's bad?

[evinced]

[ Carlos being a creature of scientific habits and skewed priorities is wholly unrelated to his burgeoning love life, thank you very much.

He isn't the type to willingly take detours for social niceties, either — accommodating what he can as a human being with a hair-trigger propensity for routing out logic and tearing the core of irrationality from its framework, burning his bridges before he's even spanned the distance. A manifesto for the regular working man, one composed primarily of water and a predilection for leaving no rock unturned in the name of discovery. Cecil has his limits, certainly. That goes spoken. But the distinction between is like comparing pomelos to clementines: different consistency, same manner of hybridized citrus.

... Well, they're both orange varieties. How about that.

This is by no means related to John Peters (you know, the farmer), but if he's wrenching nature metaphors out of thin air, he might as well scope out an agriculturist for boyfriend advice. His analogies have already gained sentience. It's only a matter of time before they diffuse into the atmosphere alongside the private, collective hopes of a town revolving solely around its own circuitous, self-absorbed axis. The gravitational force of a community that guards its cryptic secrets to the last. Cecil is no exception.

Gaze flickering, he eventually settles on a stilted grin, addled on both corners by moored resignation. Eyes softening, heart incapable of faltering syncopation but still capable of leaving him weirdly breathless; Carlos really is tactless when it counts. ]

Don't be so hard on yourself. You've had an inordinately long day at work. Like, literally. The afternoon lasted three hours longer than usual today.

[ The air reeks of unspoken avowals, but he isn't unreliable when it comes to promises in the corporeal world. Workplace-related decorum's become slightly stringent ever since the sky bled red during a bout of acid rain that one Sunday, but it feels necessary, somehow, to provide even temporary consolation to his overwrought SO. ]

If it'd help reduce stress, I can spare some time during lunch tomorrow to drop by the station and come see you. Or would that be too inconvenient? I know you've booked that anonymous guest speaker for weeks on end now. I wouldn't want to disturb you in the middle of work.