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IN OTHER NEWS: A LOVERS' SPAT.
[ 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.
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.
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((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.))
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