radio is a living art (try to get the words right), by byzantienne (PG)
Fandom: WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Length: 2,081 words
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: works on AO3
Warnings: a lovely inhuman creature of the radio, technically fluff
Notes: set after “First Date” (ep. 27), retells events from the pilot
Why this must be read:
This eerie, gorgeous story was one of the first fics I read in this fandom, and it has remained one of my favorites. The author does wonderful things with point of view; as she notes in a reply to one of the comments, “this has 1st, 2nd, and 3rd-person POV bits, and the 2nd-person is what I'd call 'coersive 2nd' (where the narrator is telling another character what they feel) as opposed to 'audience-oriented 2nd' (where the 'you' is the reader) or 'transparent 2nd' (where the 'you' is the (unreliable) narrator.” This is in an attempt to convey a bit of how Cecil, who occasionally demonstrates some form of clairvoyance, omniscience, or omnipresence in canon, experiences the world as he has Carlos over for a dinner date.
You use the hand that you've cupped behind my neck to pull me forward, and I end up a little bit in your lap, with my knees on either side of your hips and rather precariously balanced on the picnic table bench. Your eyes are very wide, and very dark, and not at all like the void inside the microphone, except that I think they might go on forever in much the same way.
You say, "You're broadcasting right now, aren't you," and you sound delighted.
How else would I be here with you? I say. Except by being the voice of Night Vale Community Radio, reaching out over the sand wastes forever -
I kiss you again to the sound of my own voice wrapping gently around us from the radio on the kitchen counter. You're a really enthusiastic kisser and you have a tongue. Neat.
-- over the sand wastes forever, and right here, right now with you --
“radio is a living art (try to get the words right)” on AO3
There is an incredible noise, or rather, a nightmarish conglomeration of sounds: a roaring, and a screeching, and a rubbery thudding. Suddenly, the source of the cacophony appears. It is a van, skidding around a corner and racing down the block and into the garage, stopping just inches short of the far wall. A spiderweb crack in the windshield is barely visible under the dead bugs and other, less readily identifiable things that have been swept aside by the wipers. (Some of them are still twitching.) White whisps escape through the vents in the hood, and some liquid drips onto the concrete floor. One of the headlights has been shot out; the other is flickering. The words ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD have been written on the left side of the van in spraypaint (are the letters changing color?), while a pair of huge staring eyes have been daubed on the opposite side in stark black and white. Later, you will find the mural of birds of prey on the vehicle’s roof, but it isn’t visible right now. One of the rear tires is flat, and all the hubcaps are gone. There are sucker marks and marinara sauce stains on the upholstery, but oddly the interior smells pleasantly of vanilla.
“Um. Sorry about...” the driver says once she’s removed her gas mask, gesturing at what had been a very nice van five weeks ago. She takes off a scorched lab coat, revealing a hooded cloak that had been tucked haphazardly into her waistband so it wouldn’t show when the coat was on as she adds, “Just, Night Vale, you know? At least I got it back before curfew. Had to blow through some stop signs to do it, though, so...” She takes off the Night Vale Community Radio visitors pass that had been clipped to her shirt, hesitates, shrugs, and drops it into her messenger bag. Then she looks up, and catches your eye, and grins.
“Okay, a few last words and then I’m out. This has been a blast. I have had loads of fun and learned a lot, this time and on all my earlier forays, and I’m really going to miss it. Even if I find another group, it won’t be the same. I’m glad the records will be kept, and who knows what they’ll inspire? I guess this chapter is closing, but the story will continue, right? We’ll keep writing it.”
She tosses the van’s keys up, catches them, and hangs them from their ring on a hook, one of many set into the wall.
“Good night, Night Vale.
“Good night, Crack Van.
“Good night.”
Today’s proverb: It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness, especially since the darkness has a much better command of profanity than you do.
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Length: 2,081 words
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: works on AO3
Warnings: a lovely inhuman creature of the radio, technically fluff
Notes: set after “First Date” (ep. 27), retells events from the pilot
Why this must be read:
This eerie, gorgeous story was one of the first fics I read in this fandom, and it has remained one of my favorites. The author does wonderful things with point of view; as she notes in a reply to one of the comments, “this has 1st, 2nd, and 3rd-person POV bits, and the 2nd-person is what I'd call 'coersive 2nd' (where the narrator is telling another character what they feel) as opposed to 'audience-oriented 2nd' (where the 'you' is the reader) or 'transparent 2nd' (where the 'you' is the (unreliable) narrator.” This is in an attempt to convey a bit of how Cecil, who occasionally demonstrates some form of clairvoyance, omniscience, or omnipresence in canon, experiences the world as he has Carlos over for a dinner date.
You use the hand that you've cupped behind my neck to pull me forward, and I end up a little bit in your lap, with my knees on either side of your hips and rather precariously balanced on the picnic table bench. Your eyes are very wide, and very dark, and not at all like the void inside the microphone, except that I think they might go on forever in much the same way.
You say, "You're broadcasting right now, aren't you," and you sound delighted.
How else would I be here with you? I say. Except by being the voice of Night Vale Community Radio, reaching out over the sand wastes forever -
I kiss you again to the sound of my own voice wrapping gently around us from the radio on the kitchen counter. You're a really enthusiastic kisser and you have a tongue. Neat.
-- over the sand wastes forever, and right here, right now with you --
“radio is a living art (try to get the words right)” on AO3
There is an incredible noise, or rather, a nightmarish conglomeration of sounds: a roaring, and a screeching, and a rubbery thudding. Suddenly, the source of the cacophony appears. It is a van, skidding around a corner and racing down the block and into the garage, stopping just inches short of the far wall. A spiderweb crack in the windshield is barely visible under the dead bugs and other, less readily identifiable things that have been swept aside by the wipers. (Some of them are still twitching.) White whisps escape through the vents in the hood, and some liquid drips onto the concrete floor. One of the headlights has been shot out; the other is flickering. The words ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD have been written on the left side of the van in spraypaint (are the letters changing color?), while a pair of huge staring eyes have been daubed on the opposite side in stark black and white. Later, you will find the mural of birds of prey on the vehicle’s roof, but it isn’t visible right now. One of the rear tires is flat, and all the hubcaps are gone. There are sucker marks and marinara sauce stains on the upholstery, but oddly the interior smells pleasantly of vanilla.
“Um. Sorry about...” the driver says once she’s removed her gas mask, gesturing at what had been a very nice van five weeks ago. She takes off a scorched lab coat, revealing a hooded cloak that had been tucked haphazardly into her waistband so it wouldn’t show when the coat was on as she adds, “Just, Night Vale, you know? At least I got it back before curfew. Had to blow through some stop signs to do it, though, so...” She takes off the Night Vale Community Radio visitors pass that had been clipped to her shirt, hesitates, shrugs, and drops it into her messenger bag. Then she looks up, and catches your eye, and grins.
“Okay, a few last words and then I’m out. This has been a blast. I have had loads of fun and learned a lot, this time and on all my earlier forays, and I’m really going to miss it. Even if I find another group, it won’t be the same. I’m glad the records will be kept, and who knows what they’ll inspire? I guess this chapter is closing, but the story will continue, right? We’ll keep writing it.”
She tosses the van’s keys up, catches them, and hangs them from their ring on a hook, one of many set into the wall.
“Good night, Night Vale.
“Good night, Crack Van.
“Good night.”
Today’s proverb: It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness, especially since the darkness has a much better command of profanity than you do.