Fic: Tupperware
Back to weird silly kinky Night Vale fic! This fills the food and service top (formerly caregiving dom - I found a better/more common name) squares in my idfic bingo.
Tupperware
Welcome to Night Vale
Rating: adult
(swearing, explicit sex, canon-typical weirdness. Let me know if you need details.)
Characters: Carlos/Cecil
Wordcount: 8,100ish
Summary: Carlos is really terrible at taking care of himself. Fortunately, Cecil is happy to do it for him.
A/N: Thanks so much to the inestimably rad narwhale_callin for the beta!
Carlos stared through the microscope, taking notes with one hand and adjusting the focus with the other. He'd chipped a piece of wood out of the radio station door, just on a whim. At first the wood had seemed perfectly ordinary, but this close he thought he could see the wood shifting, as if it were growing.
The doorbell rang. Carlos didn't look up, just shouted "could someone get that?" to the room at large.
No one answered. Now Carlos did look up, and he realized the lab was deserted. He could've sworn his colleagues were here just a minute ago. Or a few minutes ago. Justin had definitely said something, like, an hour or two ago. Shit, how late was it?
The doorbell rang. Carlos slid off his lab stool, staggering as his weight hit his stiff knees. He'd obviously been sitting for way too long. Should've taken a break, but the wood was so interesting. Carlos was already writing the paper in his head: 'The Undead: Dynamic Change and Growth in Lifeless Organic Material.' He could take some stone and plastic samples too, see how far this effect extended-
Cecil beamed as Carlos opened the door. Carlos tried to smile back, but mostly he just leaned against the doorframe and squinted at the rising moon. It had definitely been daylight last he recalled.
"Do you have any dietary restrictions?" asked Cecil.
Carlos snapped his attention back to earth. The moonlight was glinting from Cecil's glasses, his teeth, his cool black skin. Carlos had never had such a reflective boyfriend before.
Cecil rocked back and forth on his heels, looking at a point above Carlos' head. He was holding a Tupperware container, and Carlos realized that Cecil had asked him a question.
"I'm allergic to shellfish," he said.
"Great!" chirped Cecil. "Or, ugh, obviously not great. But I made tofu stir-fry with coconut milk and green curry for dinner and I always have leftovers, and I thought you might like some? Have you eaten?"
Cecil pushed the container at Carlos. It was still warm, and there was a pair of chopsticks taped to the lid. Carlos realized that he was starving.
"You're an amazing boyfriend," said Carlos, and kissed Cecil on the cheek.
"Oh." Cecil pressed his fingers against his skin, right where Carlos had touched him. "Um. I have to go do my show."
"Go." Carlos waved him off. "I'll be listening."
"I'll make it especially good for you." Cecil started for his car. "Don't stay up too late sciencing!"
"I won't." Carlos smiled and shook his head. Sciencing. Adorable.
He retreated back into the lab, flicked on the radio, and sat down again at the microscope. He stared at the wood as he fumbled the Tupperware open and ferried food into his mouth without looking away. The chip of wood definitely seemed bigger than before, but when he tried to measure it there was some kind of, what was the technical term, wobbling, and the measurement came out 'three.' Which wasn't right. Carlos measured another sample, which was also 'three,' and a piece of lint, and then, with increasing desperation, his own finger. Three. Three what? Carlos jerked open his desk drawer, scrounging for a measuring tape. He'd just get one set of proper measurements, and then he would go home and get some sleep. He just needed the measurements first.
When Monique the Scientist opened the lab the next morning, she found Carlos slumped over the microscope table, three broken tape measures and a half-eaten container of stir-fry scattered around him. The radio was on, blaring a program of squealing brakes and lion roars. Monique prodded Carlos, and he groaned.
"Go home!" she shouted, into his ear. "No sleeping in the lab."
"Resting my eyes," mumbled Carlos. He pushed himself up, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. He'd fallen asleep with his contacts in, which always made him feel gummy and miserable.
Monique shook her head and turned off the radio. "I don't understand how you can sleep with that racket on."
"Not very well," said Carlos. His back ached, he had a crick in his neck, and his mouth tasted like mud. He looked around the table and noticed the Tupperware. At least he had breakfast.
"You need a work-life balance," said Monique. "You need a life. You need to not be sleeping and eating in the lab. It's unhygienic."
"Mhm." Carlos had his eye pressed to the microscope again. He put a bite of cold, slightly soggy stir-fry in his mouth.
"I mean it," said Monique. "Go home. I'll call Cecil and tell him to pick you up."
"I'll go nap in the break room if it makes you happy," said Carlos, muffled by stir-fry. "But come here and look at this. I think these molecules are replicating."
"What?" Monique pushed Carlos away from the microscope. "Where?"
"I've already got a paper title," said Carlos. "'The Undead: Dynamic Change and Growth in Lifeless Organic Material.'"
"Pretty good," said Monique, and then she frowned. "Maybe 'Dynamic Change and Combustion in Lifeless Organic Material.'"
"What?" said Carlos, and then realized that he could smell smoke. "Oh, Christ. I'll get the fire extinguisher."
"And the video camera!" called Monique, still glued to the microscope despite the rising haze and audible crackle emitting from the wood sample. "This is fascinating!"
Eventually they had to call the fire department. The blaze was put out in minutes, but finding the right combination of chants and sacrifices to placate the firefighters was more difficult. A few hours and a few chickens later, Carlos and Monique were back at work, trying to salvage the ash from the radio station wood sample. Both of them had forgotten about Carlos' nap.
---
Carlos' record in college for most days working without real sleep - where 'real sleep' is defined as more than three continuous horizontal hours - was five days. By the end of it, his hands were too shaky to hold a test tube, a pencil, or a cup of coffee. He aced the Advanced Atmospheric Sciences and the Earth Dynamics finals, had a fight with his French TA, turned in his honors thesis, and had no memory of any of it. The world seemed muted and soft and unreal.
Carlos is pretty sure he broke up with his first boyfriend during an all-nighter induced fugue state, or maybe his boyfriend broke up with him because of an all-nighter induced fugue state. It was kind of an issue.
He doesn't have a great history with food consumption either, but Carlos got his dad's heavy build in the genetics lottery, and he figures he carries enough weight that he can miss a meal or two. Or three. In college he bought boxes and boxes of granola bars and huge bags of trail mix, because time in the dining hall was time away from work.
In grad school Carlos calmed down, started eating fresh fruit, slept more. Not in his bed, though, and not in anyone else's bed either - there were a lot of convenient couches in the department. Post grad school, Carlos got a couch in his office. Heaven.
Carlos is aware that he is getting older and developing back problems and should probably sleep more often and more comfortably. But there's so much work to be done, and so little time. Something has to go.
---
Carlos glared at the test tube in his hand, which was glowing bright orange. He carefully squeezed a few drops of fluid from the syringe in his other hand into the test tube, then gently shook it. The fluid began turning dark brown, almost black.
"But it's just water," Carlos muttered. "Just water. People drink this. I drink this."
He put down the test tube and syringe and rubbed at his forehead. It was late, and the lab was empty and quiet except for the soothing sounds of Cecil's radio show. It was odd how Cecil claimed to keep a regular work schedule when his show was on at a different time every day. Maybe that was another function of Night Vale's odd relationship with chronology.
At least Cecil had dropped off some pesto chicken lasagna before he'd left for work. Carlos was pretty sure he'd left it over by the geology samples/rock collection.
His stomach growled, as if on cue. Carlos decided that he needed a break, just a short one, just to refuel. Then he could get back to whatever was going on with the water.
Carlos sorted through the clutter on his lab bench, finally unearthing the container of lasagna out from under some rocks. He was pretty sure the rocks had been inside a closed box earlier, but he wasn't really surprised that they were attracted to Cecil's cooking. Carlos found a probably-mostly-clean fork and sat down on a stool. He could listen to Cecil's show during his break. Cecil would like that.
"-getting reports that there are still lights emanating from the laboratory next to Big Rico's. I'm afraid this means that beautiful, dedicated Carlos is still working."
"That's not news, Cecil," Carlos mumbled through his food. It was really good.
"Listeners, I'm afraid I have to address Carlos directly here. I know that it's unprofessional, but I also know that Carlos must be listening to this broadcast. He told me he listens to all my broadcasts."
Cecil's voice was warm, but a little disbelieving. "I do!" protested Carlos. "I don't always pay attention, but I do listen." He tried to take another bite of lasagna, then realized he had somehow eaten it all already.
"Carlos!" snapped Cecil, and Carlos jerked and sat up straight on his stool. "Carlos, it is two in the morning. Stop working. Go home. Go to bed. Your eyes are mesmerizing even when dulled with sleep deprivation, but they're much more gorgeous when you are bright and rested and happy. Science can wait until the morning, dear Carlos."
"Just another hour," mumbled Carlos. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, he could feel it. The water might turn taupe soon.
"Also, Carlos, I just thought of this, but you are technically breaking curfew and several labor laws, and I just publicly broadcast evidence of your violation. The Sheriff's Secret Police say they'll give you a five minute head start, just to be fair. Sorry about that!"
Carlos blinked at the radio, then scrambled away from the stool, dropping the former lasagna container on the floor as he grabbed his car keys. He lived four minutes' drive away. He could just make it.
"And now, listeners, the weather. Incidentally, Carlos, the weather is exactly four minutes and thirty seconds long tonight. Try to be home before the last chorus."
Carlos locked the lab door, dashed into his car, and turned it on. The radio crackled into life, playing a Portuguese rap song that was apparently his countdown.
"Thanks, Cecil," Carlos mumbled, only half-sarcastically. He stomped on the accelerator and squealed out of the parking lot.
Carlos made every light, was in his apartment building with five seconds to spare, and collapsed on his bed. He was dozing almost immediately, still fully dressed. The radio in his apartment flicked on by itself.
"A correction - the Sheriff's Secret Police have reminded me that it is now Tuesday the fifth, and thus all curfews and labor laws have been suspended since midnight. My mistake, Carlos! I hope you didn't run any red lights, although that is also legal for the day. And with that reminder of the inevitable mistakes inherent in existence, let me tell you good night, Night Vale. Good night."
"Good night," groaned Carlos, into his pillow, and fell asleep.
---
Carlos' apartment is full of empty Tupperware containers, stacked in the sink, on the counter, on the table. Carlos always means to do the dishes, but good intentions only go so far. Once every two weeks or so, Cecil comes over to wash up and retrieve his Tupperware. He pulls on yellow gloves, brandishes a scrubbie, and fights off the non-sentient but very hungry bacteria that gather in the particularly old containers.
"I am so sorry," Carlos always says, hovering behind Cecil's shoulder. "I was going to deal with this yesterday, but then-" insert Night Vale crisis here, preferably involving an interesting mammal/amphibian hybrid "-and it completely slipped my mind."
Cecil just hums along to music that Carlos can't hear, ignoring Carlos' attempts to help as he stacks Tupperware in the dish drain and sets more in the sink. Cecil is always smiling, even as flecks of water splash his glasses and his hair gets in his face and soap suds spill from the sink onto his purple denim vest.
"Did you like it?" Cecil asks. "The food?"
"What?" says Carlos, always surprised by the question. "Obviously, yes, Cecil, you're an amazing cook. I've never eaten so well. You saved my life this week."
Cecil always looks like this is the most wonderful thing he's ever heard, and Carlos takes one of Cecil's wet yellow-gloved hands in his and kisses Cecil's nose and his cheek and the corner of his mouth until Cecil chuckles and pushes him away long enough to finish washing up.
They find other things to do while the Tupperware dries.
---
"My dissertation was actually on acceptable levels of background radiation in nature, and my postdoc work primarily focused on radiation shielding for spacecraft. I guess I'm a radiation specialist, but I've found that Night Vale isn't very good for specialization."
Carlos had finally dragged himself out of the lab to go on a proper date with Cecil. They were getting dinner at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner - or, at least, dinner was sitting there while Carlos babbled about his work and Cecil gazed at him with adoring and slightly glazed eyes while absently cutting up his steak.
"Sorry," said Carlos, struck with self-awareness. "I'm probably boring you. And the food's getting cold."
"You're never boring," said Cecil. "But I am a little hungry. Here." He pushed a plate at Carlos, and Carlos realized that Cecil had been cutting up Carlos' steak for him. Cecil's own chicken and dumplings didn't need the application of a steak knife.
Carlos looked at his steak, looked at Cecil. Cecil toyed with one of his dreadlocks, stared at the table, and seemed contrite for no readily apparent reason.
"Sorry," Cecil mumbled. "I should have asked."
"It's fine." Carlos picked up a fork and took a bite of steak. "I really appreciate your thoughtfulness. And this is delicious."
Cecil grinned a tentative grin. "We should compliment the cook! Just fold a napkin into the shape of a circle enclosing a pentagram, then knock over the salt and set fire to your water glass. Pass it to your waitress during the resulting commotion, making sure that no one can see. No one can ever see."
"I don't know if the steak is that good," said Carlos, already halfway through.
Cecil shrugged and started on his own dinner, still smiling softly to himself.
Later they went on a walk through Night Vale's dusk, as the eerie green and bronze streetlights began to glow. It was getting cooler, and Carlos shivered - he was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans under his lab coat. He still wasn't used to how much the desert's temperature changed from day to night, especially since he spent most nights in his climate-controlled lab or in his apartment which was always kept at 70 degrees by the Faceless Old Woman who hogged the thermostat.
Cecil rummaged in his canvas messenger bag and produced a massive, bulky sweatshirt. It was orange and brown and said 'Scorpions' in bright pink letters and was obviously much too big for Cecil, even too big for Carlos. It was hideous, but it looked really warm.
"Here," said Cecil, offering it to Carlos.
"You should keep it," said Carlos. Cecil was only wearing a tank-top and shorts, and it made Carlos feel even colder just looking at him.
"I'm fine." Cecil didn't move, his arms still out-stretched, his hands swallowed by the sweatshirt. "I brought it for you, because you always- oh. I. I mean, I just happened to bring it, or maybe I, uh, hm." Cecil lapsed into silence, biting his lip and doing his contrite face again.
Carlos hesitated, but he really was pretty cold and he didn't want Cecil to have gone to any trouble for nothing. "Thanks," said Carlos, and took the sweatshirt. He pulled it on immediately, over the lab coat. He probably looked absurd, in a sweatshirt two sizes too big and with the white tails of his lab coat trailing out from underneath, but he felt comfortably warm inside and out. He grabbed Cecil's hand and started walking again. After a moment, Cecil twined his long fingers with Carlos' stubby ones, pressing their palms closer together.
"Did you mean it?" asked Cecil. "When you said you appreciated my, um, thoughtfulness?"
"Absolutely," said Carlos. "Especially if thoughtfulness is code for bringing me dinner, reminding me to sleep, and lending me a sweatshirt. I'm glad you care about me, Cecil." He tried to look Cecil in the eye as he said this, but Cecil glanced away, down the road toward the house that wasn't there.
"I don't want to be smothering or anything," said Cecil, with a shift in his voice that made Carlos sure that he was quoting someone. "If you want me to give you some space-"
"I'll let you know." Carlos leaned up and kissed Cecil on the cheek, his nose almost poking Cecil's eye because Carlos wasn't actually coordinated enough to walk and physically demonstrate affection at the same time. "Don't worry."
Cecil smiled at Carlos, the green-bronze streetlights glinting off his beautiful, reflective teeth. "I'll try not to."
Carlos purposefully forgot to return the sweatshirt when he went home. It smelled of Cecil (applesauce and petroleum), and Carlos fell asleep curled around it, feeling a bit ridiculous and a bit like a teenager and mostly content. His boyfriend cared about him. That shouldn't have been a surprise, but at least it was a pleasant one.
---
Carlos' mama calls once a week, just like clockwork. For a while Carlos thought that it was a sign (finally! a sign!) of temporal regularity until he realized that his mama thought she was calling at random, once a month, every other day. Just another anomaly after all. But the conversation is always the same.
"You eating?" asks Mama.
"Yes," says Carlos, picking up whatever Tupperware container Cecil has left him this time. "Vegetables and everything, Mama."
"You sleeping?" asks Mama.
"Usually," says Carlos. More than he used to, he doesn't say. "But I've got a lot of work, you know how it is."
Carlos' mama has a doctorate in biochemistry and has been chair of her department three times and still managed to raise and feed and clothe three kids. She grunts. "You got a girlfriend yet? Someone to take care of you?"
And Carlos always catches his breath, remembers that he never bothered to come out to his mother. He thinks- he's pretty sure it would be fine. Especially if he could say that Cecil is the reason that he's been eating better and sleeping more, that Cecil is amazing. But it would be a Conversation, and Carlos hasn't had a Conversation with his mama since his step-father passed.
"Sorry," he always says. "I'm kind of busy right now - can I call back later? I want to hear how things are at home."
"How soon is later?" asks Mama.
"Soon," says Carlos. "Soon. Love you."
"Okay. Te quiero. Te extraño.." Mama hangs up first.
Carlos sits on the stool in his lab, or on the couch in his apartment, or, just once, on a chair in the radio station lounge while Cecil waits patiently in the hallway. Carlos breathes.
When he calls Mama back, she sounds a little apologetic while talking about the zucchini in the garden and his cousin Isa's baby and department politics and no girlfriends, no mention of girlfriends. Carlos tries not to sound guilty every time he leaves Cecil out of his own stories. He'll tell Mama soon. Soon.
---
At some point Carlos promised Cecil that he wouldn't pull any more all-nighters. He agreed that all-nighters were a game for teenaged undergrads with a paper due and not for thirty-something researchers who had eight months left on their latest grant. The science would be there in the morning.
That was before the crane cough hit.
The crane cough wasn't deadly, not directly. You just started coughing, and then sprouting feathers, and then talons, and then you started trying to peck everyone who came near you with your brand-new beak. The fatalities were all pecking deaths.
Carlos wasn't trained in epidemiology or medicine, but Monique was and she enlisted Carlos and the rest of the team to help synthesize and test potential cures. Which was why Carlos was bent over a really complicated machine that he didn't actually understand, trying to chromatograph some possible vaccines. Chromatography? Chromatographize? Carlos slid another set of test tubes into the sampling machine. He was pretty sure the grammar didn't matter.
Monique had scribbled down some directions, and Carlos rechecked the sheet, trying to make sure he hadn't missed any steps. He'd have to talk to Monique after this was over, maybe borrow some books. What would they have done if she had gotten sick? Would they have been able to do anything? Night Vale wasn't good for specialists, Night Vale was actively hostile to specialists, and that scared Carlos if he let himself think about it for long.
Carlos started preparing the chromatography column and tried to remember his Intro to Biology class. Birds were more related to dinosaurs than humans - how could people be turning into even approximations of cranes? Why would turning into a crane also make you murderous? Why cranes in particular, why not roadrunners or eagles or-
"Hi," said Cecil. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Jesus Christ," said Carlos, and nearly knocked everything over. He grabbed at the column to steady it, and Cecil grabbed Carlos to steady him, and Carlos took several deep breaths and decided that the answer to the fight or flight response was 'not right now, thanks.'
"Sorry," said Cecil, letting go of the back of Carlos' lab coat. "I brought you a sandwich."
"How did you get in here?" asked Carlos. He started pouring the slurry into the column, hoping that he hadn't messed anything up. How would he be able to tell if he had messed something up? "We're supposed to be in quarantine."
"Monique said that your quarantine was already f----d since Justin the Scientist caught the crane cough. And also I brought enough sandwiches for everyone, so I'm basically exempt."
The way Cecil combined a not-imitation of Monique's voice with an effortless beeping sound to cover his swearing was a little weird. Carlos frowned at Cecil as he tried to get past the surface of the sentence and actually understand it.
"Justin has the crane cough?"
"Yeah, he's making the banging noises." Cecil nodded at the door to the storeroom, and Carlos realized that the pounding in his ears was real and not just his headache.
The centrifuge beeped, and Carlos moved over to it, watched his hands take out the last set of experimental solutions and slot in the next set. He could tell how long it had been since he slept just by the way his mind-body connection was beginning to fray. It felt like he was floating.
"I have hummus and red pepper and ham," said Cecil. "High in protein, as mandated by the City Council. Or peanut butter and jelly, if the hummus thing sounds too complicated. It's gluten-free bread, obviously, but the new bakery in Old Town is really getting the hang of wheat-substitutes-"
Carlos shut the centrifuge a little more loudly than necessary, trying to bang himself back in sync with his senses. Cecil winced.
"What," said Carlos, slowly, "are you talking about?"
"Sandwiches," mumbled Cecil. "You should eat."
Carlos looked at Cecil, while Cecil stared fixedly at the column. Cecil looked worried - the lines around his eyes and on his forehead were creased, he was biting at his lip, and his skin seemed dimmer than normal. Carlos looked at his own hands, which were gloved and shaking. He looked at the zip-loc-bagged sandwiches that Cecil was clutching. He realized that he was starving.
"I'm supposed to be working," said Carlos. "And I'm wearing sterile gloves, so I can't-"
"I can help!" said Cecil, quickly. "I'll be very careful around your science."
For a moment Carlos thought that Cecil was going to pull on a pair of latex gloves and join in the hunt for a cure, but then Cecil opened a sandwich bag and pulled off a chunk of PB&J. He held it up to Carlos' mouth.
"Open," said Cecil.
Carlos' eyes darted from side to side. No one was looking at them - everyone was busy with their own work. He glanced at Cecil, who was looking uncertain and awkward and still worried. Then Carlos opened his mouth.
Carlos expected Cecil to push the bite of sandwich into his face or something, but instead Cecil held carefully still, his hand trembling a little and his eyes fixed on the wall behind Carlos. Carlos leant forward and caught the sandwich in his teeth, pulling it from Cecil's hand. It was delicious. Wonderful sugary salty PB&J.
"Close your mouth when you chew," said Cecil, and smiled at Carlos when he obeyed.
It was easy for Carlos to let Cecil feed him as he worked. Cecil was careful not to interfere with the operation of the centrifuge, or the column, or the blinking box that Carlos couldn't remember the name of but was probably really important. All Carlos had to do was open his mouth and chew (with his mouth closed). Fiamma the graduate student came to get the latest batch of solutions and didn't even glance at Cecil. It was like she expected to see him there, helping Carlos. It was nice.
Carlos checked on the column, tapping the glass. He closed his eyes and felt Cecil's hand pressing another bite to his lips. Open, chew. Cecil's fingers were still touching Carlos' lips, and Carlos licked them with his peanut-butter-coated tongue.
"That's all of the PB&J," said Cecil. "Do you want the hummus sandwich? Or maybe you could take a nap, you look exhausted-"
"Working," said Carlos, and opened his eyes.
Cecil was looking right at him - not down at the ground, or at the air beyond Carlos' left ear. Cecil's warm brown eyes were looking into Carlos' own, and they had steel in them. Warm steel. God, Carlos was tired. He coughed into the elbow of his lab coat.
"Monique said that people have been taking naps in the break room. She also said that it's free if you want to use it, and that you're no good exhausted and making mistakes. She said-"
"Spare me the pull quotes." Carlos coughed again, felt it catch and drag at his throat. "I'm not exhausted, I'm just-"
"How long have you had that cough?" Cecil frowned, reached out and put his cool hand on Carlos' forehead. "You feel warm."
"I'm fine." Carlos stifled another cough. The centrifuge beeped. "I need to work, Cecil."
"Take off your gloves," said Cecil.
Carlos stared at him.
"Take them off," insisted Cecil, and something in Carlos broke and twanged.
"Look," he said, "I was fine with all of this, with letting you make me dinner and give me clothes and hand-feed me, sure, great, but that doesn't- that does not mean you can order me around while I'm trying to do my job. Or treat me like I'm a child, or, or incompetent. I know what I'm doing!" Carlos made an angry gesture and Cecil carefully leant away, which somehow just made Carlos more upset. "There are people turning into birds out there, Cecil, and I have to find a cure, not take breaks or chat with my boyfriend. Do you understand that? We can talk about this later, but right now you need to, you need- What are you doing?"
Cecil had a twist to his lips, a hurt glint in his eyes, and his hand on Carlos' wrist. "Sorry," he said, and stripped the glove away.
Carlos stared at his fingers, soft with feathers and sharp with the suggestion of talons.
"Oh," he said. He tried to sit down, missed the stool, and collapsed heavily on the ground. "Oh."
Cecil crouched next to him - Cecil's arm around Carlos' shoulders - Cecil's hands pressing Carlos' face into Cecil's chest. "Deep breaths," said Cecil. "It's going to be okay, I promise."
"It's not going to be okay, it's really not." Carlos tried to breathe deep, but he could only manage short gasps. "Cecil, you need to get away. I might attack, or-"
"It will be okay," said Cecil, and squeezed Carlos' shoulder. "Just let me take care of it. Where's your intern?"
Carlos could feel himself giving up, letting Cecil take charge of the situation. It was oddly nice. Carlos didn't have to panic. Cecil would take care of it. "Fiamma's a graduate student," said Carlos, just because Cecil should have accurate information.
"Right, right," said Cecil, vaguely. "Fiamma!"
Carlos coughed into Cecil's shirt and closed his eyes. People were talking and moving around him, but he didn't have to do anything. Carlos' skin itched as feathers grew in, but Cecil's fingers were rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck, so Carlos concentrated on that instead. More talking. Monique's voice. Carlos opened one eye.
"I think we're close to- I don't know, to something," said Monique. "Carlos, I'm going to give you a sedative until we can begin treatment. It should keep you calm, and we'll move you into the break room where you can't do any damage if you don't stay calm."
"I'll go with you," said Cecil. "I won't leave. You'll be fine."
"Okay," said Carlos, to Monique, to Cecil. "I trust you."
Cecil's face flickered into a smile, just for a moment, and Carlos tried not to flinch when Monique injected the sedative into his arm.
---
Carlos woke up in his own bed, discarded feathers all over the covers and Cecil curled up at his side. They were both still in their clothes, and Cecil was even wearing his glasses, the frames twisted slightly from the way his face mashed into the sheets. The nosepiece squashed into Cecil's nose probably explained why he was snoring so loudly.
Carlos blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the sticky/itchy feeling that came from sleeping with his contacts in. The last thing he remembered was lying on the break room couch, Cecil holding tight to his hand as the talons grew in. Carlos sat up and wiggled his fingers, which were definitely normal human fingers.
Cecil made a weird hiccupping sound and then snored louder. Carlos poked him and Cecil jerked awake.
"What happened?" asked Carlos.
Cecil tried to wave his hands without sitting up, failed, sat up, and waved his hands. It was an intricate wave and might have meant something in interpretive dance. Carlos wasn't getting anything out of it, though.
"Use your words," he said, poking Cecil again. Cecil squeaked.
"Monique found a cure," said Cecil, at last. "It was actually in your centrifuge. She injected Justin and his feathers started falling out and he didn't die, so then she injected it into you and everyone else in town. I had to leave and do a special broadcast, but it was only an hour and Fiamma stayed with you the whole time. And while I was gone all your feathers fell out. I mean, I guess you can see that. You've been sleeping for a while. You still look tired, though. You should take a shower, and-" Cecil stopped himself, crossed his arms one way and then the other way, stared fixedly at the ceiling. "I," he said, "I shouldn't tell you what to do."
Carlos tried to sort all of that out. It was hard, and his brain felt like mush, but he was pretty sure there was something important in there.
"No more crane cough?" he asked.
Cecil nodded, but he still looked anxious. Concerned. Jittery. Like he wanted to do something that he wasn't allowed to do, and he was keeping himself tightly under control.
Carlos rewound through what Cecil had said, then further back to their last conversation. Carlos winced when he remembered what he had said to Cecil.
"About earlier," began Carlos, and Cecil cringed. Carlos hesitated, then reached out and took Cecil's hand before continuing. "I was sick and tired and freaking out. I don't really feel like that. Like you were taking... liberties, or anything."
Cecil's fingers were loose in Carlos' grip, like he was afraid to really hold Carlos' hand. And Cecil wasn't looking at the ceiling anymore, but he was staring resolutely past Carlos' left ear. Carlos fought an impulse to move, to put himself in front of Cecil's gaze, to force the eye contact. As if that would help.
"You were right," said Cecil, softly. "We didn't negotiate, or set boundaries, I just kept pushing and taking, and I know I need to back off, but I-"
"I don't want you to," said Carlos. Cecil's eyes flicked to his face and away again, startled. "I mean it," said Carlos. "I- I like it when you take care of me. I like letting you be in charge and knowing that you'll catch me if I fall, if I push myself too hard. I get touchy when I'm really stressed and trying to work and I guess we'll have to talk about that. Set some, um, boundaries. But I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."
Cecil's hand turned, his fingers twining with Carlos'. "You have me as long as you want me. Until the desert turns to ocean or the City Council loses an election or gravity stops working and the earth tumbles into the sun."
Carlos kissed him. It wasn't a great kiss - Cecil still seemed nervous and tentative, and Carlos felt weak, and they were sitting in a bed of grimy feathers. But it was still a good kiss, and Carlos felt something loosen in his chest.
When they broke, Cecil was smiling and making proper eye contact, which made it a great kiss after all.
"So," said Carlos. "You said something about a shower?"
Cecil grinned and the light bouncing off his incisors was dazzling. Carlos smiled back and let himself be pulled up and out of bed.
Now that Carlos thought about it, it was easy to see how Cecil changed when he was taking care of Carlos. He was more certain of himself, less prone to stumbling over his words or tripping over his own feet. He knew exactly how things should go, and all Carlos had to do was relax and let himself be moved.
Cecil ushered him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. This was a long process, involving lots of knob-turning and chanting as the water cleared slowly from brackish purple to clear with just a hint of pink.
"Will you teach me how to do that?" asked Carlos. "I knew the color changed, but I didn't realize you could normalize it."
"Of course." Cecil turned to him and started pulling Carlos' t-shirt over his head. "Though I wish I could always do it for you."
Carlos was stuck with his shirt half off and covering his eyes, so he couldn't see how Cecil said that. But he could definitely imagine it - Cecil's eyes fixed on the ground, his cheeks warm with shame and embarrassment at his boldness.
"I wish you could too," said Carlos, muffled by shirt. "Though it's kind of impractical, since we live in different apartments and also I usually shower in the morning and you don't get up until noon."
There was a moment of silence, just long enough for Carlos to regret his flippancy. Then Cecil laughed and pulled Carlos' shirt off the rest of the way. "I'll teach you," Cecil assured him. "Anything to avoid waking up at six."
Cecil tossed the shirt into a corner, then unbuttoned Carlos' cargo pants and pushed them down, along with Carlos' boxers. Carlos shifted, ready to step out of his clothes, but Cecil was dropping to his knees, his fingers skimming down Carlos' calf.
"Hands on my shoulders," said Cecil, and then he picked up Carlos' left ankle and pulled the clothes away as Carlos steadied himself, resting his weight on Cecil. Then the right ankle, and then pants and boxers were pushed over into the corner with Carlos' shirt. Cecil nuzzled against Carlos' leg, one hand still curled around his ankle.
"Never shave your legs," said Cecil. "And please don't grow feathers again."
"I wasn't planning on it," said Carlos.
Cecil kissed Carlos' hairy leg and stood up, pulling off his own t-shirt and shorts as he went. He folded up his glasses and put them on the sink counter, then went to pull Carlos into the shower.
"Contacts," said Carlos. "I'm not supposed to shower with them in."
"I forgot." Cecil blinked at him, short-sighted. Then he bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, doing the arm crossing and re-crossing thing again. It actually looked pretty silly when he was naked.
"What?" asked Carlos, when it became obvious that Cecil wasn't going to say anything else.
"I want to," began Cecil, and then stopped, still staring at the ceiling like it held a mysterious secret. It probably did. "Never mind. It would be too much."
"What?" asked Carlos, again.
"I want to take your contacts out for you," Cecil told the ceiling.
There was a silence, and the noise of the shower reminded Carlos that they were wasting water and should probably hurry up. But he couldn't bring himself to rush this, this moment of realization. That he would be absolutely fine with Cecil taking out his contacts, with Cecil's fingers on the softest parts of his body. It actually sounded... really hot. And difficult. But mostly hot.
Carlos was pretty sure that he could suppress his reflexes and not blink too much or jerk away. He'd been sticking his own fingers in his eyes for more than fifteen years, after all.
"Wash your hands first," said Carlos, getting his contact fluid and case out of the medicine cabinet.
Cecil took a deep, shuddering breath. "Of course," he said.
Cecil scrubbed at his hands until Carlos was a little worried that his fingers would be raw. But then Cecil was pushing Carlos back against the sink and carefully pulling up one eyelid. Carlos flinched involuntarily, and Cecil dropped his hands to Carlos' shoulders, murmured something that Carlos couldn't understand but made him feel better anyway. Cecil pulled up Carlos' eyelid again and this time Carlos didn't flinch. Cecil moved slowly, making sure Carlos had time to think about it, to change his mind, but Carlos didn't say anything and finally and Cecil pressed his index finger against Carlos' contact. For a moment Carlos could feel the pressure against his eye and then it was gone as Cecil plucked the contact out. Contact in the case, Cecil rinsing his hands again. Repeat. Carlos could feel himself slumping against the sink, warmed and chilled by the ghost of Cecil's finger pressing against his eye.
"Shower," said Cecil. Without contacts his smile was a little fuzzy but obviously ecstatic. "Ready?"
"Mhm," murmured Carlos, and let Cecil pull him into the cubicle.
The water was hot, the clean wet perfect hot that Carlos craved even in the desert. Especially in the desert, where heat was dry and dusty and generally gross. The shower wasn't actually big enough for two people, especially when one of them was Carlos' size, but Cecil seemed to fit into all of the left-over space without crowding Carlos or knocking over his shampoo. A miracle.
"Soap?" asked Cecil, and Carlos handed him the bar of orange anti-bacterial Dial. Cecil made a disapproving noise, started talking about the effect of harsh soaps on the skin and how they were selling local handmade soap at the Green Market Co-op now and each batch contained only trace amounts of human fat. He'd buy some and bring it to Carlos. Carlos nodded along, focused more on Cecil's soapy hands on his chest than anything else. Carlos felt warm and sleepy and more than a little aroused - he was naked in a shower with his boyfriend - but he didn't feel any need to do anything about it. He relaxed into Cecil's hands instead.
"Is this your shampoo?" Cecil waved the blue-and-white bottle at Carlos. "Head and Shoulders?"
Carlos closed his eyes and bent down as Cecil muttered about bringing him better hair care products too. Cecil massaged shampoo into Carlos' scalp as he talked, and eventually Cecil's calls for biodegradable shampoo and maybe some conditioner devolved into breathy moans as he untangled Carlos' hair with his fingers. The water pounded against the back of Carlos' neck, making him melt into Cecil, face pressed against Cecil's collarbone, chest sliding against Cecil's chest, increasingly-erect cock shifting against Cecil's thigh.
"Hello," murmured Cecil. "Let me do something about that."
"Please," said Carlos, mouthed it against Cecil's collarbone, tasting soap and water and that inexplicable hint of applesauce and petroleum. He hissed when Cecil curled his fingers around his cock.
"Shh," said Cecil. "Shh. I've got you."
Cecil stroked him gently, undemanding, his other hand still twined in Carlos' hair. It felt like only moments before Carlos was coming, his orgasm spreading warmth from his stomach to his toes to his cheeks.
Cecil shut the water off.
"Can I," began Carlos. "I mean, what do you want me to-"
"Shh," said Cecil, again, and flopped Carlos' biggest and fluffiest towel over his head. Carlos stood still and let Cecil dry him - first his hair, then down from his shoulders to his toes and back up to his hair again. Finally Cecil draped the towel over Carlos' shoulders. He pulled Carlos' glasses out of their case in the medicine cabinet, settled them on Carlos' nose, and said "wait here" before grabbing his own towel and disappearing into the bedroom.
Carlos waited in the bathroom for a minute, but the room was hot and fogging his glasses, so he soon ventured out the door. Cecil had put on a pair of boxers - Carlos' boxers, given the way they were almost falling off Cecil's slimmer hips - and he was changing the sheets. The top sheet went in the laundry hamper, and the bottom sheet was bundled up, feathers and all, and tossed into a corner to be dealt with later.
"I don't have spare sheets," said Carlos.
"I brought extra from home." Cecil pulled a set of maroon and mauve striped sheets from his backpack and started putting them on the bed. Carlos watched the muscles shift under Cecil's skin as Cecil stretched to tuck the corners under the mattress.
"Are you sure I can't," he began again, but then Cecil was done with the sheets and holding out Carlos' softest sleeping shirt.
"Time for bed," said Cecil. He took Carlos' towel and tossed it at the laundry hamper, missed. Carlos didn't point this out. He didn't want to disrupt Cecil's flow, so on the floor was fine.
"I was just asleep," Carlos protested, but he held his arms up and let Cecil pull the shirt on.
"For five hours." Cecil fussed with the hem of the shirt, settling it over the swell of Carlos' stomach. "You need more rest. You need to catch up."
He was looking directly into Carlos' eyes, warm flickering steel, and Carlos surrendered. He didn't feel defeated, though, just- content, maybe, happy that Cecil cared enough to fight him on his own well-being. Carlos let Cecil help him into a pair of boxers, let Cecil lead him to bed, let Cecil push him down onto the mattress until Carlos was luxuriating on the ugly-but-soft sheets with Cecil half on top of him. Cecil had his chin on Carlos' shoulder, one arm thrown across his chest, and one leg pressed between Carlos' own. Carlos could feel Cecil's hard-on against his thigh. He slipped two fingers on the loose waist-band of Cecil's boxers, stroking skin.
"Do you want me to," he started for the third time, and stopped when he felt Cecil shaking his head.
"Not tonight," said Cecil. "I know it's a bit selfish, but I don't want you to do anything tonight." He paused, grinning against Carlos' shoulder. "Maybe in the morning." Cecil's lips moved against Carlos' skin. "Maybe in the morning I'll wake you up with my mouth on your cock, get two fingers in you while you're still drowsy and warm and relaxed. I'll f--k you into the mattress and then bring you breakfast in bed, feed you pancakes with syrup while you're still aching and open."
Carlos' breath hitched and his fingers tightened against Cecil's back. Cecil stiffened, pulled away, said, "I mean, I don't, I would never do anything without prior negotiated consent. It's totally up to you! And I, like, don't want to get too intense. And I don't even know if you like being f-----d, I guess we've been mostly sticking to handjobs, and-"
"I don't like the gluten-free pancake mix," said Carlos. "It has a terrifying rodent mascot."
There was a pause. Carlos could practically see Cecil's mind working, and he could actually see Cecil's lips moving.
"Everything else about that scenario sounded great," Carlos clarified.
"I really do want to get intense," said Cecil, relaxing down against him. "Like, a lot."
"I know," said Carlos. "The thing with the contacts was already pretty intense. Also everything else that's happened today. It's fine."
Another pause, but this one was less thoughtful, more of Cecil pressing kisses against Carlos' shoulder and rubbing his cheek against the side of Carlos' neck.
"How do you feel about oatmeal?" asked Cecil. "Wait, I forgot - we're in your apartment. What's in your kitchen?"
Carlos wiggled his toes, thought about the half-full bag of coffee beans, the inedible blackening bananas that were more of an observational study than potential food, and the box of illicit Poptarts in his cupboard. "Not a lot," he admitted.
Cecil started pushing himself up. "I can run home and grab something," he said. "Grapefruit? That's probably too messy for bed. I have grits, but they're actually a little too gritty. I don't know how sand keeps getting into the sealed container, but-"
Carlos grabbed Cecil's wrist before he could leave the bed. It was interesting, the way Cecil reacted to that - he slid his fingers around Carlos' wrist in turn and kept holding on when Carlos let go, so that finally Cecil was only anchored to the bed by his own fingers clasped on Carlos' skin.
"Stay," said Carlos. "You can worry about it in the morning."
"In the morning I'm taking you grocery shopping." Cecil settled back down on the bed, draping himself over Carlos again. "Don't you even have eggs?"
"They hatched," said Carlos. He could feel Cecil's murmur of sympathy better than he could hear it.
The dawn light was beginning to shimmer through the blinds, and Carlos drowsed, breath comfortably constricted by Cecil's weight on his chest.
Carlos felt like he should tell Cecil something important before he fell asleep. About his past, maybe, missed meals and all-nighters and relationships that failed when Carlos prioritized science over most of the rest of his life. Or about his mother and how happy/shocked she was going to be when Carlos finally got his courage up and told her that he had a boyfriend. Or maybe he should mention the Poptarts - Cecil probably wouldn't turn him in to the anti-wheat commission.
But Carlos was warm and sleepy and all of those conversations sounded like work. Later. They had plenty of time.
"Do you remember what I said about self-reliance?" Carlos asked, because he still felt the urge to say something.
"Mhm, I guess," mumbled Cecil, with his eyes closed. Then in his not-imitation of Carlos' voice: "'A scientist is self-reliant. That's the first thing a scientist is.'" Cecil's eyes were still closed, but he was smiling.
"That's such bullshit," confided Carlos. "You have no idea."
"I think I have some idea," said Cecil, and then hummed and went a little transparent as he fell asleep.
Carlos smiled to himself and followed, consciousness fading as the sun inched up the horizon.
This entry was originally posted at http://neveralarch.dreamwidth.org/71159.html. Comment wherever you want.
Tupperware
Welcome to Night Vale
Rating: adult
(swearing, explicit sex, canon-typical weirdness. Let me know if you need details.)
Characters: Carlos/Cecil
Wordcount: 8,100ish
Summary: Carlos is really terrible at taking care of himself. Fortunately, Cecil is happy to do it for him.
A/N: Thanks so much to the inestimably rad narwhale_callin for the beta!
Carlos stared through the microscope, taking notes with one hand and adjusting the focus with the other. He'd chipped a piece of wood out of the radio station door, just on a whim. At first the wood had seemed perfectly ordinary, but this close he thought he could see the wood shifting, as if it were growing.
The doorbell rang. Carlos didn't look up, just shouted "could someone get that?" to the room at large.
No one answered. Now Carlos did look up, and he realized the lab was deserted. He could've sworn his colleagues were here just a minute ago. Or a few minutes ago. Justin had definitely said something, like, an hour or two ago. Shit, how late was it?
The doorbell rang. Carlos slid off his lab stool, staggering as his weight hit his stiff knees. He'd obviously been sitting for way too long. Should've taken a break, but the wood was so interesting. Carlos was already writing the paper in his head: 'The Undead: Dynamic Change and Growth in Lifeless Organic Material.' He could take some stone and plastic samples too, see how far this effect extended-
Cecil beamed as Carlos opened the door. Carlos tried to smile back, but mostly he just leaned against the doorframe and squinted at the rising moon. It had definitely been daylight last he recalled.
"Do you have any dietary restrictions?" asked Cecil.
Carlos snapped his attention back to earth. The moonlight was glinting from Cecil's glasses, his teeth, his cool black skin. Carlos had never had such a reflective boyfriend before.
Cecil rocked back and forth on his heels, looking at a point above Carlos' head. He was holding a Tupperware container, and Carlos realized that Cecil had asked him a question.
"I'm allergic to shellfish," he said.
"Great!" chirped Cecil. "Or, ugh, obviously not great. But I made tofu stir-fry with coconut milk and green curry for dinner and I always have leftovers, and I thought you might like some? Have you eaten?"
Cecil pushed the container at Carlos. It was still warm, and there was a pair of chopsticks taped to the lid. Carlos realized that he was starving.
"You're an amazing boyfriend," said Carlos, and kissed Cecil on the cheek.
"Oh." Cecil pressed his fingers against his skin, right where Carlos had touched him. "Um. I have to go do my show."
"Go." Carlos waved him off. "I'll be listening."
"I'll make it especially good for you." Cecil started for his car. "Don't stay up too late sciencing!"
"I won't." Carlos smiled and shook his head. Sciencing. Adorable.
He retreated back into the lab, flicked on the radio, and sat down again at the microscope. He stared at the wood as he fumbled the Tupperware open and ferried food into his mouth without looking away. The chip of wood definitely seemed bigger than before, but when he tried to measure it there was some kind of, what was the technical term, wobbling, and the measurement came out 'three.' Which wasn't right. Carlos measured another sample, which was also 'three,' and a piece of lint, and then, with increasing desperation, his own finger. Three. Three what? Carlos jerked open his desk drawer, scrounging for a measuring tape. He'd just get one set of proper measurements, and then he would go home and get some sleep. He just needed the measurements first.
When Monique the Scientist opened the lab the next morning, she found Carlos slumped over the microscope table, three broken tape measures and a half-eaten container of stir-fry scattered around him. The radio was on, blaring a program of squealing brakes and lion roars. Monique prodded Carlos, and he groaned.
"Go home!" she shouted, into his ear. "No sleeping in the lab."
"Resting my eyes," mumbled Carlos. He pushed himself up, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. He'd fallen asleep with his contacts in, which always made him feel gummy and miserable.
Monique shook her head and turned off the radio. "I don't understand how you can sleep with that racket on."
"Not very well," said Carlos. His back ached, he had a crick in his neck, and his mouth tasted like mud. He looked around the table and noticed the Tupperware. At least he had breakfast.
"You need a work-life balance," said Monique. "You need a life. You need to not be sleeping and eating in the lab. It's unhygienic."
"Mhm." Carlos had his eye pressed to the microscope again. He put a bite of cold, slightly soggy stir-fry in his mouth.
"I mean it," said Monique. "Go home. I'll call Cecil and tell him to pick you up."
"I'll go nap in the break room if it makes you happy," said Carlos, muffled by stir-fry. "But come here and look at this. I think these molecules are replicating."
"What?" Monique pushed Carlos away from the microscope. "Where?"
"I've already got a paper title," said Carlos. "'The Undead: Dynamic Change and Growth in Lifeless Organic Material.'"
"Pretty good," said Monique, and then she frowned. "Maybe 'Dynamic Change and Combustion in Lifeless Organic Material.'"
"What?" said Carlos, and then realized that he could smell smoke. "Oh, Christ. I'll get the fire extinguisher."
"And the video camera!" called Monique, still glued to the microscope despite the rising haze and audible crackle emitting from the wood sample. "This is fascinating!"
Eventually they had to call the fire department. The blaze was put out in minutes, but finding the right combination of chants and sacrifices to placate the firefighters was more difficult. A few hours and a few chickens later, Carlos and Monique were back at work, trying to salvage the ash from the radio station wood sample. Both of them had forgotten about Carlos' nap.
---
Carlos' record in college for most days working without real sleep - where 'real sleep' is defined as more than three continuous horizontal hours - was five days. By the end of it, his hands were too shaky to hold a test tube, a pencil, or a cup of coffee. He aced the Advanced Atmospheric Sciences and the Earth Dynamics finals, had a fight with his French TA, turned in his honors thesis, and had no memory of any of it. The world seemed muted and soft and unreal.
Carlos is pretty sure he broke up with his first boyfriend during an all-nighter induced fugue state, or maybe his boyfriend broke up with him because of an all-nighter induced fugue state. It was kind of an issue.
He doesn't have a great history with food consumption either, but Carlos got his dad's heavy build in the genetics lottery, and he figures he carries enough weight that he can miss a meal or two. Or three. In college he bought boxes and boxes of granola bars and huge bags of trail mix, because time in the dining hall was time away from work.
In grad school Carlos calmed down, started eating fresh fruit, slept more. Not in his bed, though, and not in anyone else's bed either - there were a lot of convenient couches in the department. Post grad school, Carlos got a couch in his office. Heaven.
Carlos is aware that he is getting older and developing back problems and should probably sleep more often and more comfortably. But there's so much work to be done, and so little time. Something has to go.
---
Carlos glared at the test tube in his hand, which was glowing bright orange. He carefully squeezed a few drops of fluid from the syringe in his other hand into the test tube, then gently shook it. The fluid began turning dark brown, almost black.
"But it's just water," Carlos muttered. "Just water. People drink this. I drink this."
He put down the test tube and syringe and rubbed at his forehead. It was late, and the lab was empty and quiet except for the soothing sounds of Cecil's radio show. It was odd how Cecil claimed to keep a regular work schedule when his show was on at a different time every day. Maybe that was another function of Night Vale's odd relationship with chronology.
At least Cecil had dropped off some pesto chicken lasagna before he'd left for work. Carlos was pretty sure he'd left it over by the geology samples/rock collection.
His stomach growled, as if on cue. Carlos decided that he needed a break, just a short one, just to refuel. Then he could get back to whatever was going on with the water.
Carlos sorted through the clutter on his lab bench, finally unearthing the container of lasagna out from under some rocks. He was pretty sure the rocks had been inside a closed box earlier, but he wasn't really surprised that they were attracted to Cecil's cooking. Carlos found a probably-mostly-clean fork and sat down on a stool. He could listen to Cecil's show during his break. Cecil would like that.
"-getting reports that there are still lights emanating from the laboratory next to Big Rico's. I'm afraid this means that beautiful, dedicated Carlos is still working."
"That's not news, Cecil," Carlos mumbled through his food. It was really good.
"Listeners, I'm afraid I have to address Carlos directly here. I know that it's unprofessional, but I also know that Carlos must be listening to this broadcast. He told me he listens to all my broadcasts."
Cecil's voice was warm, but a little disbelieving. "I do!" protested Carlos. "I don't always pay attention, but I do listen." He tried to take another bite of lasagna, then realized he had somehow eaten it all already.
"Carlos!" snapped Cecil, and Carlos jerked and sat up straight on his stool. "Carlos, it is two in the morning. Stop working. Go home. Go to bed. Your eyes are mesmerizing even when dulled with sleep deprivation, but they're much more gorgeous when you are bright and rested and happy. Science can wait until the morning, dear Carlos."
"Just another hour," mumbled Carlos. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, he could feel it. The water might turn taupe soon.
"Also, Carlos, I just thought of this, but you are technically breaking curfew and several labor laws, and I just publicly broadcast evidence of your violation. The Sheriff's Secret Police say they'll give you a five minute head start, just to be fair. Sorry about that!"
Carlos blinked at the radio, then scrambled away from the stool, dropping the former lasagna container on the floor as he grabbed his car keys. He lived four minutes' drive away. He could just make it.
"And now, listeners, the weather. Incidentally, Carlos, the weather is exactly four minutes and thirty seconds long tonight. Try to be home before the last chorus."
Carlos locked the lab door, dashed into his car, and turned it on. The radio crackled into life, playing a Portuguese rap song that was apparently his countdown.
"Thanks, Cecil," Carlos mumbled, only half-sarcastically. He stomped on the accelerator and squealed out of the parking lot.
Carlos made every light, was in his apartment building with five seconds to spare, and collapsed on his bed. He was dozing almost immediately, still fully dressed. The radio in his apartment flicked on by itself.
"A correction - the Sheriff's Secret Police have reminded me that it is now Tuesday the fifth, and thus all curfews and labor laws have been suspended since midnight. My mistake, Carlos! I hope you didn't run any red lights, although that is also legal for the day. And with that reminder of the inevitable mistakes inherent in existence, let me tell you good night, Night Vale. Good night."
"Good night," groaned Carlos, into his pillow, and fell asleep.
---
Carlos' apartment is full of empty Tupperware containers, stacked in the sink, on the counter, on the table. Carlos always means to do the dishes, but good intentions only go so far. Once every two weeks or so, Cecil comes over to wash up and retrieve his Tupperware. He pulls on yellow gloves, brandishes a scrubbie, and fights off the non-sentient but very hungry bacteria that gather in the particularly old containers.
"I am so sorry," Carlos always says, hovering behind Cecil's shoulder. "I was going to deal with this yesterday, but then-" insert Night Vale crisis here, preferably involving an interesting mammal/amphibian hybrid "-and it completely slipped my mind."
Cecil just hums along to music that Carlos can't hear, ignoring Carlos' attempts to help as he stacks Tupperware in the dish drain and sets more in the sink. Cecil is always smiling, even as flecks of water splash his glasses and his hair gets in his face and soap suds spill from the sink onto his purple denim vest.
"Did you like it?" Cecil asks. "The food?"
"What?" says Carlos, always surprised by the question. "Obviously, yes, Cecil, you're an amazing cook. I've never eaten so well. You saved my life this week."
Cecil always looks like this is the most wonderful thing he's ever heard, and Carlos takes one of Cecil's wet yellow-gloved hands in his and kisses Cecil's nose and his cheek and the corner of his mouth until Cecil chuckles and pushes him away long enough to finish washing up.
They find other things to do while the Tupperware dries.
---
"My dissertation was actually on acceptable levels of background radiation in nature, and my postdoc work primarily focused on radiation shielding for spacecraft. I guess I'm a radiation specialist, but I've found that Night Vale isn't very good for specialization."
Carlos had finally dragged himself out of the lab to go on a proper date with Cecil. They were getting dinner at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner - or, at least, dinner was sitting there while Carlos babbled about his work and Cecil gazed at him with adoring and slightly glazed eyes while absently cutting up his steak.
"Sorry," said Carlos, struck with self-awareness. "I'm probably boring you. And the food's getting cold."
"You're never boring," said Cecil. "But I am a little hungry. Here." He pushed a plate at Carlos, and Carlos realized that Cecil had been cutting up Carlos' steak for him. Cecil's own chicken and dumplings didn't need the application of a steak knife.
Carlos looked at his steak, looked at Cecil. Cecil toyed with one of his dreadlocks, stared at the table, and seemed contrite for no readily apparent reason.
"Sorry," Cecil mumbled. "I should have asked."
"It's fine." Carlos picked up a fork and took a bite of steak. "I really appreciate your thoughtfulness. And this is delicious."
Cecil grinned a tentative grin. "We should compliment the cook! Just fold a napkin into the shape of a circle enclosing a pentagram, then knock over the salt and set fire to your water glass. Pass it to your waitress during the resulting commotion, making sure that no one can see. No one can ever see."
"I don't know if the steak is that good," said Carlos, already halfway through.
Cecil shrugged and started on his own dinner, still smiling softly to himself.
Later they went on a walk through Night Vale's dusk, as the eerie green and bronze streetlights began to glow. It was getting cooler, and Carlos shivered - he was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans under his lab coat. He still wasn't used to how much the desert's temperature changed from day to night, especially since he spent most nights in his climate-controlled lab or in his apartment which was always kept at 70 degrees by the Faceless Old Woman who hogged the thermostat.
Cecil rummaged in his canvas messenger bag and produced a massive, bulky sweatshirt. It was orange and brown and said 'Scorpions' in bright pink letters and was obviously much too big for Cecil, even too big for Carlos. It was hideous, but it looked really warm.
"Here," said Cecil, offering it to Carlos.
"You should keep it," said Carlos. Cecil was only wearing a tank-top and shorts, and it made Carlos feel even colder just looking at him.
"I'm fine." Cecil didn't move, his arms still out-stretched, his hands swallowed by the sweatshirt. "I brought it for you, because you always- oh. I. I mean, I just happened to bring it, or maybe I, uh, hm." Cecil lapsed into silence, biting his lip and doing his contrite face again.
Carlos hesitated, but he really was pretty cold and he didn't want Cecil to have gone to any trouble for nothing. "Thanks," said Carlos, and took the sweatshirt. He pulled it on immediately, over the lab coat. He probably looked absurd, in a sweatshirt two sizes too big and with the white tails of his lab coat trailing out from underneath, but he felt comfortably warm inside and out. He grabbed Cecil's hand and started walking again. After a moment, Cecil twined his long fingers with Carlos' stubby ones, pressing their palms closer together.
"Did you mean it?" asked Cecil. "When you said you appreciated my, um, thoughtfulness?"
"Absolutely," said Carlos. "Especially if thoughtfulness is code for bringing me dinner, reminding me to sleep, and lending me a sweatshirt. I'm glad you care about me, Cecil." He tried to look Cecil in the eye as he said this, but Cecil glanced away, down the road toward the house that wasn't there.
"I don't want to be smothering or anything," said Cecil, with a shift in his voice that made Carlos sure that he was quoting someone. "If you want me to give you some space-"
"I'll let you know." Carlos leaned up and kissed Cecil on the cheek, his nose almost poking Cecil's eye because Carlos wasn't actually coordinated enough to walk and physically demonstrate affection at the same time. "Don't worry."
Cecil smiled at Carlos, the green-bronze streetlights glinting off his beautiful, reflective teeth. "I'll try not to."
Carlos purposefully forgot to return the sweatshirt when he went home. It smelled of Cecil (applesauce and petroleum), and Carlos fell asleep curled around it, feeling a bit ridiculous and a bit like a teenager and mostly content. His boyfriend cared about him. That shouldn't have been a surprise, but at least it was a pleasant one.
---
Carlos' mama calls once a week, just like clockwork. For a while Carlos thought that it was a sign (finally! a sign!) of temporal regularity until he realized that his mama thought she was calling at random, once a month, every other day. Just another anomaly after all. But the conversation is always the same.
"You eating?" asks Mama.
"Yes," says Carlos, picking up whatever Tupperware container Cecil has left him this time. "Vegetables and everything, Mama."
"You sleeping?" asks Mama.
"Usually," says Carlos. More than he used to, he doesn't say. "But I've got a lot of work, you know how it is."
Carlos' mama has a doctorate in biochemistry and has been chair of her department three times and still managed to raise and feed and clothe three kids. She grunts. "You got a girlfriend yet? Someone to take care of you?"
And Carlos always catches his breath, remembers that he never bothered to come out to his mother. He thinks- he's pretty sure it would be fine. Especially if he could say that Cecil is the reason that he's been eating better and sleeping more, that Cecil is amazing. But it would be a Conversation, and Carlos hasn't had a Conversation with his mama since his step-father passed.
"Sorry," he always says. "I'm kind of busy right now - can I call back later? I want to hear how things are at home."
"How soon is later?" asks Mama.
"Soon," says Carlos. "Soon. Love you."
"Okay. Te quiero. Te extraño.." Mama hangs up first.
Carlos sits on the stool in his lab, or on the couch in his apartment, or, just once, on a chair in the radio station lounge while Cecil waits patiently in the hallway. Carlos breathes.
When he calls Mama back, she sounds a little apologetic while talking about the zucchini in the garden and his cousin Isa's baby and department politics and no girlfriends, no mention of girlfriends. Carlos tries not to sound guilty every time he leaves Cecil out of his own stories. He'll tell Mama soon. Soon.
---
At some point Carlos promised Cecil that he wouldn't pull any more all-nighters. He agreed that all-nighters were a game for teenaged undergrads with a paper due and not for thirty-something researchers who had eight months left on their latest grant. The science would be there in the morning.
That was before the crane cough hit.
The crane cough wasn't deadly, not directly. You just started coughing, and then sprouting feathers, and then talons, and then you started trying to peck everyone who came near you with your brand-new beak. The fatalities were all pecking deaths.
Carlos wasn't trained in epidemiology or medicine, but Monique was and she enlisted Carlos and the rest of the team to help synthesize and test potential cures. Which was why Carlos was bent over a really complicated machine that he didn't actually understand, trying to chromatograph some possible vaccines. Chromatography? Chromatographize? Carlos slid another set of test tubes into the sampling machine. He was pretty sure the grammar didn't matter.
Monique had scribbled down some directions, and Carlos rechecked the sheet, trying to make sure he hadn't missed any steps. He'd have to talk to Monique after this was over, maybe borrow some books. What would they have done if she had gotten sick? Would they have been able to do anything? Night Vale wasn't good for specialists, Night Vale was actively hostile to specialists, and that scared Carlos if he let himself think about it for long.
Carlos started preparing the chromatography column and tried to remember his Intro to Biology class. Birds were more related to dinosaurs than humans - how could people be turning into even approximations of cranes? Why would turning into a crane also make you murderous? Why cranes in particular, why not roadrunners or eagles or-
"Hi," said Cecil. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Jesus Christ," said Carlos, and nearly knocked everything over. He grabbed at the column to steady it, and Cecil grabbed Carlos to steady him, and Carlos took several deep breaths and decided that the answer to the fight or flight response was 'not right now, thanks.'
"Sorry," said Cecil, letting go of the back of Carlos' lab coat. "I brought you a sandwich."
"How did you get in here?" asked Carlos. He started pouring the slurry into the column, hoping that he hadn't messed anything up. How would he be able to tell if he had messed something up? "We're supposed to be in quarantine."
"Monique said that your quarantine was already f----d since Justin the Scientist caught the crane cough. And also I brought enough sandwiches for everyone, so I'm basically exempt."
The way Cecil combined a not-imitation of Monique's voice with an effortless beeping sound to cover his swearing was a little weird. Carlos frowned at Cecil as he tried to get past the surface of the sentence and actually understand it.
"Justin has the crane cough?"
"Yeah, he's making the banging noises." Cecil nodded at the door to the storeroom, and Carlos realized that the pounding in his ears was real and not just his headache.
The centrifuge beeped, and Carlos moved over to it, watched his hands take out the last set of experimental solutions and slot in the next set. He could tell how long it had been since he slept just by the way his mind-body connection was beginning to fray. It felt like he was floating.
"I have hummus and red pepper and ham," said Cecil. "High in protein, as mandated by the City Council. Or peanut butter and jelly, if the hummus thing sounds too complicated. It's gluten-free bread, obviously, but the new bakery in Old Town is really getting the hang of wheat-substitutes-"
Carlos shut the centrifuge a little more loudly than necessary, trying to bang himself back in sync with his senses. Cecil winced.
"What," said Carlos, slowly, "are you talking about?"
"Sandwiches," mumbled Cecil. "You should eat."
Carlos looked at Cecil, while Cecil stared fixedly at the column. Cecil looked worried - the lines around his eyes and on his forehead were creased, he was biting at his lip, and his skin seemed dimmer than normal. Carlos looked at his own hands, which were gloved and shaking. He looked at the zip-loc-bagged sandwiches that Cecil was clutching. He realized that he was starving.
"I'm supposed to be working," said Carlos. "And I'm wearing sterile gloves, so I can't-"
"I can help!" said Cecil, quickly. "I'll be very careful around your science."
For a moment Carlos thought that Cecil was going to pull on a pair of latex gloves and join in the hunt for a cure, but then Cecil opened a sandwich bag and pulled off a chunk of PB&J. He held it up to Carlos' mouth.
"Open," said Cecil.
Carlos' eyes darted from side to side. No one was looking at them - everyone was busy with their own work. He glanced at Cecil, who was looking uncertain and awkward and still worried. Then Carlos opened his mouth.
Carlos expected Cecil to push the bite of sandwich into his face or something, but instead Cecil held carefully still, his hand trembling a little and his eyes fixed on the wall behind Carlos. Carlos leant forward and caught the sandwich in his teeth, pulling it from Cecil's hand. It was delicious. Wonderful sugary salty PB&J.
"Close your mouth when you chew," said Cecil, and smiled at Carlos when he obeyed.
It was easy for Carlos to let Cecil feed him as he worked. Cecil was careful not to interfere with the operation of the centrifuge, or the column, or the blinking box that Carlos couldn't remember the name of but was probably really important. All Carlos had to do was open his mouth and chew (with his mouth closed). Fiamma the graduate student came to get the latest batch of solutions and didn't even glance at Cecil. It was like she expected to see him there, helping Carlos. It was nice.
Carlos checked on the column, tapping the glass. He closed his eyes and felt Cecil's hand pressing another bite to his lips. Open, chew. Cecil's fingers were still touching Carlos' lips, and Carlos licked them with his peanut-butter-coated tongue.
"That's all of the PB&J," said Cecil. "Do you want the hummus sandwich? Or maybe you could take a nap, you look exhausted-"
"Working," said Carlos, and opened his eyes.
Cecil was looking right at him - not down at the ground, or at the air beyond Carlos' left ear. Cecil's warm brown eyes were looking into Carlos' own, and they had steel in them. Warm steel. God, Carlos was tired. He coughed into the elbow of his lab coat.
"Monique said that people have been taking naps in the break room. She also said that it's free if you want to use it, and that you're no good exhausted and making mistakes. She said-"
"Spare me the pull quotes." Carlos coughed again, felt it catch and drag at his throat. "I'm not exhausted, I'm just-"
"How long have you had that cough?" Cecil frowned, reached out and put his cool hand on Carlos' forehead. "You feel warm."
"I'm fine." Carlos stifled another cough. The centrifuge beeped. "I need to work, Cecil."
"Take off your gloves," said Cecil.
Carlos stared at him.
"Take them off," insisted Cecil, and something in Carlos broke and twanged.
"Look," he said, "I was fine with all of this, with letting you make me dinner and give me clothes and hand-feed me, sure, great, but that doesn't- that does not mean you can order me around while I'm trying to do my job. Or treat me like I'm a child, or, or incompetent. I know what I'm doing!" Carlos made an angry gesture and Cecil carefully leant away, which somehow just made Carlos more upset. "There are people turning into birds out there, Cecil, and I have to find a cure, not take breaks or chat with my boyfriend. Do you understand that? We can talk about this later, but right now you need to, you need- What are you doing?"
Cecil had a twist to his lips, a hurt glint in his eyes, and his hand on Carlos' wrist. "Sorry," he said, and stripped the glove away.
Carlos stared at his fingers, soft with feathers and sharp with the suggestion of talons.
"Oh," he said. He tried to sit down, missed the stool, and collapsed heavily on the ground. "Oh."
Cecil crouched next to him - Cecil's arm around Carlos' shoulders - Cecil's hands pressing Carlos' face into Cecil's chest. "Deep breaths," said Cecil. "It's going to be okay, I promise."
"It's not going to be okay, it's really not." Carlos tried to breathe deep, but he could only manage short gasps. "Cecil, you need to get away. I might attack, or-"
"It will be okay," said Cecil, and squeezed Carlos' shoulder. "Just let me take care of it. Where's your intern?"
Carlos could feel himself giving up, letting Cecil take charge of the situation. It was oddly nice. Carlos didn't have to panic. Cecil would take care of it. "Fiamma's a graduate student," said Carlos, just because Cecil should have accurate information.
"Right, right," said Cecil, vaguely. "Fiamma!"
Carlos coughed into Cecil's shirt and closed his eyes. People were talking and moving around him, but he didn't have to do anything. Carlos' skin itched as feathers grew in, but Cecil's fingers were rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck, so Carlos concentrated on that instead. More talking. Monique's voice. Carlos opened one eye.
"I think we're close to- I don't know, to something," said Monique. "Carlos, I'm going to give you a sedative until we can begin treatment. It should keep you calm, and we'll move you into the break room where you can't do any damage if you don't stay calm."
"I'll go with you," said Cecil. "I won't leave. You'll be fine."
"Okay," said Carlos, to Monique, to Cecil. "I trust you."
Cecil's face flickered into a smile, just for a moment, and Carlos tried not to flinch when Monique injected the sedative into his arm.
---
Carlos woke up in his own bed, discarded feathers all over the covers and Cecil curled up at his side. They were both still in their clothes, and Cecil was even wearing his glasses, the frames twisted slightly from the way his face mashed into the sheets. The nosepiece squashed into Cecil's nose probably explained why he was snoring so loudly.
Carlos blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the sticky/itchy feeling that came from sleeping with his contacts in. The last thing he remembered was lying on the break room couch, Cecil holding tight to his hand as the talons grew in. Carlos sat up and wiggled his fingers, which were definitely normal human fingers.
Cecil made a weird hiccupping sound and then snored louder. Carlos poked him and Cecil jerked awake.
"What happened?" asked Carlos.
Cecil tried to wave his hands without sitting up, failed, sat up, and waved his hands. It was an intricate wave and might have meant something in interpretive dance. Carlos wasn't getting anything out of it, though.
"Use your words," he said, poking Cecil again. Cecil squeaked.
"Monique found a cure," said Cecil, at last. "It was actually in your centrifuge. She injected Justin and his feathers started falling out and he didn't die, so then she injected it into you and everyone else in town. I had to leave and do a special broadcast, but it was only an hour and Fiamma stayed with you the whole time. And while I was gone all your feathers fell out. I mean, I guess you can see that. You've been sleeping for a while. You still look tired, though. You should take a shower, and-" Cecil stopped himself, crossed his arms one way and then the other way, stared fixedly at the ceiling. "I," he said, "I shouldn't tell you what to do."
Carlos tried to sort all of that out. It was hard, and his brain felt like mush, but he was pretty sure there was something important in there.
"No more crane cough?" he asked.
Cecil nodded, but he still looked anxious. Concerned. Jittery. Like he wanted to do something that he wasn't allowed to do, and he was keeping himself tightly under control.
Carlos rewound through what Cecil had said, then further back to their last conversation. Carlos winced when he remembered what he had said to Cecil.
"About earlier," began Carlos, and Cecil cringed. Carlos hesitated, then reached out and took Cecil's hand before continuing. "I was sick and tired and freaking out. I don't really feel like that. Like you were taking... liberties, or anything."
Cecil's fingers were loose in Carlos' grip, like he was afraid to really hold Carlos' hand. And Cecil wasn't looking at the ceiling anymore, but he was staring resolutely past Carlos' left ear. Carlos fought an impulse to move, to put himself in front of Cecil's gaze, to force the eye contact. As if that would help.
"You were right," said Cecil, softly. "We didn't negotiate, or set boundaries, I just kept pushing and taking, and I know I need to back off, but I-"
"I don't want you to," said Carlos. Cecil's eyes flicked to his face and away again, startled. "I mean it," said Carlos. "I- I like it when you take care of me. I like letting you be in charge and knowing that you'll catch me if I fall, if I push myself too hard. I get touchy when I'm really stressed and trying to work and I guess we'll have to talk about that. Set some, um, boundaries. But I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."
Cecil's hand turned, his fingers twining with Carlos'. "You have me as long as you want me. Until the desert turns to ocean or the City Council loses an election or gravity stops working and the earth tumbles into the sun."
Carlos kissed him. It wasn't a great kiss - Cecil still seemed nervous and tentative, and Carlos felt weak, and they were sitting in a bed of grimy feathers. But it was still a good kiss, and Carlos felt something loosen in his chest.
When they broke, Cecil was smiling and making proper eye contact, which made it a great kiss after all.
"So," said Carlos. "You said something about a shower?"
Cecil grinned and the light bouncing off his incisors was dazzling. Carlos smiled back and let himself be pulled up and out of bed.
Now that Carlos thought about it, it was easy to see how Cecil changed when he was taking care of Carlos. He was more certain of himself, less prone to stumbling over his words or tripping over his own feet. He knew exactly how things should go, and all Carlos had to do was relax and let himself be moved.
Cecil ushered him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. This was a long process, involving lots of knob-turning and chanting as the water cleared slowly from brackish purple to clear with just a hint of pink.
"Will you teach me how to do that?" asked Carlos. "I knew the color changed, but I didn't realize you could normalize it."
"Of course." Cecil turned to him and started pulling Carlos' t-shirt over his head. "Though I wish I could always do it for you."
Carlos was stuck with his shirt half off and covering his eyes, so he couldn't see how Cecil said that. But he could definitely imagine it - Cecil's eyes fixed on the ground, his cheeks warm with shame and embarrassment at his boldness.
"I wish you could too," said Carlos, muffled by shirt. "Though it's kind of impractical, since we live in different apartments and also I usually shower in the morning and you don't get up until noon."
There was a moment of silence, just long enough for Carlos to regret his flippancy. Then Cecil laughed and pulled Carlos' shirt off the rest of the way. "I'll teach you," Cecil assured him. "Anything to avoid waking up at six."
Cecil tossed the shirt into a corner, then unbuttoned Carlos' cargo pants and pushed them down, along with Carlos' boxers. Carlos shifted, ready to step out of his clothes, but Cecil was dropping to his knees, his fingers skimming down Carlos' calf.
"Hands on my shoulders," said Cecil, and then he picked up Carlos' left ankle and pulled the clothes away as Carlos steadied himself, resting his weight on Cecil. Then the right ankle, and then pants and boxers were pushed over into the corner with Carlos' shirt. Cecil nuzzled against Carlos' leg, one hand still curled around his ankle.
"Never shave your legs," said Cecil. "And please don't grow feathers again."
"I wasn't planning on it," said Carlos.
Cecil kissed Carlos' hairy leg and stood up, pulling off his own t-shirt and shorts as he went. He folded up his glasses and put them on the sink counter, then went to pull Carlos into the shower.
"Contacts," said Carlos. "I'm not supposed to shower with them in."
"I forgot." Cecil blinked at him, short-sighted. Then he bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, doing the arm crossing and re-crossing thing again. It actually looked pretty silly when he was naked.
"What?" asked Carlos, when it became obvious that Cecil wasn't going to say anything else.
"I want to," began Cecil, and then stopped, still staring at the ceiling like it held a mysterious secret. It probably did. "Never mind. It would be too much."
"What?" asked Carlos, again.
"I want to take your contacts out for you," Cecil told the ceiling.
There was a silence, and the noise of the shower reminded Carlos that they were wasting water and should probably hurry up. But he couldn't bring himself to rush this, this moment of realization. That he would be absolutely fine with Cecil taking out his contacts, with Cecil's fingers on the softest parts of his body. It actually sounded... really hot. And difficult. But mostly hot.
Carlos was pretty sure that he could suppress his reflexes and not blink too much or jerk away. He'd been sticking his own fingers in his eyes for more than fifteen years, after all.
"Wash your hands first," said Carlos, getting his contact fluid and case out of the medicine cabinet.
Cecil took a deep, shuddering breath. "Of course," he said.
Cecil scrubbed at his hands until Carlos was a little worried that his fingers would be raw. But then Cecil was pushing Carlos back against the sink and carefully pulling up one eyelid. Carlos flinched involuntarily, and Cecil dropped his hands to Carlos' shoulders, murmured something that Carlos couldn't understand but made him feel better anyway. Cecil pulled up Carlos' eyelid again and this time Carlos didn't flinch. Cecil moved slowly, making sure Carlos had time to think about it, to change his mind, but Carlos didn't say anything and finally and Cecil pressed his index finger against Carlos' contact. For a moment Carlos could feel the pressure against his eye and then it was gone as Cecil plucked the contact out. Contact in the case, Cecil rinsing his hands again. Repeat. Carlos could feel himself slumping against the sink, warmed and chilled by the ghost of Cecil's finger pressing against his eye.
"Shower," said Cecil. Without contacts his smile was a little fuzzy but obviously ecstatic. "Ready?"
"Mhm," murmured Carlos, and let Cecil pull him into the cubicle.
The water was hot, the clean wet perfect hot that Carlos craved even in the desert. Especially in the desert, where heat was dry and dusty and generally gross. The shower wasn't actually big enough for two people, especially when one of them was Carlos' size, but Cecil seemed to fit into all of the left-over space without crowding Carlos or knocking over his shampoo. A miracle.
"Soap?" asked Cecil, and Carlos handed him the bar of orange anti-bacterial Dial. Cecil made a disapproving noise, started talking about the effect of harsh soaps on the skin and how they were selling local handmade soap at the Green Market Co-op now and each batch contained only trace amounts of human fat. He'd buy some and bring it to Carlos. Carlos nodded along, focused more on Cecil's soapy hands on his chest than anything else. Carlos felt warm and sleepy and more than a little aroused - he was naked in a shower with his boyfriend - but he didn't feel any need to do anything about it. He relaxed into Cecil's hands instead.
"Is this your shampoo?" Cecil waved the blue-and-white bottle at Carlos. "Head and Shoulders?"
Carlos closed his eyes and bent down as Cecil muttered about bringing him better hair care products too. Cecil massaged shampoo into Carlos' scalp as he talked, and eventually Cecil's calls for biodegradable shampoo and maybe some conditioner devolved into breathy moans as he untangled Carlos' hair with his fingers. The water pounded against the back of Carlos' neck, making him melt into Cecil, face pressed against Cecil's collarbone, chest sliding against Cecil's chest, increasingly-erect cock shifting against Cecil's thigh.
"Hello," murmured Cecil. "Let me do something about that."
"Please," said Carlos, mouthed it against Cecil's collarbone, tasting soap and water and that inexplicable hint of applesauce and petroleum. He hissed when Cecil curled his fingers around his cock.
"Shh," said Cecil. "Shh. I've got you."
Cecil stroked him gently, undemanding, his other hand still twined in Carlos' hair. It felt like only moments before Carlos was coming, his orgasm spreading warmth from his stomach to his toes to his cheeks.
Cecil shut the water off.
"Can I," began Carlos. "I mean, what do you want me to-"
"Shh," said Cecil, again, and flopped Carlos' biggest and fluffiest towel over his head. Carlos stood still and let Cecil dry him - first his hair, then down from his shoulders to his toes and back up to his hair again. Finally Cecil draped the towel over Carlos' shoulders. He pulled Carlos' glasses out of their case in the medicine cabinet, settled them on Carlos' nose, and said "wait here" before grabbing his own towel and disappearing into the bedroom.
Carlos waited in the bathroom for a minute, but the room was hot and fogging his glasses, so he soon ventured out the door. Cecil had put on a pair of boxers - Carlos' boxers, given the way they were almost falling off Cecil's slimmer hips - and he was changing the sheets. The top sheet went in the laundry hamper, and the bottom sheet was bundled up, feathers and all, and tossed into a corner to be dealt with later.
"I don't have spare sheets," said Carlos.
"I brought extra from home." Cecil pulled a set of maroon and mauve striped sheets from his backpack and started putting them on the bed. Carlos watched the muscles shift under Cecil's skin as Cecil stretched to tuck the corners under the mattress.
"Are you sure I can't," he began again, but then Cecil was done with the sheets and holding out Carlos' softest sleeping shirt.
"Time for bed," said Cecil. He took Carlos' towel and tossed it at the laundry hamper, missed. Carlos didn't point this out. He didn't want to disrupt Cecil's flow, so on the floor was fine.
"I was just asleep," Carlos protested, but he held his arms up and let Cecil pull the shirt on.
"For five hours." Cecil fussed with the hem of the shirt, settling it over the swell of Carlos' stomach. "You need more rest. You need to catch up."
He was looking directly into Carlos' eyes, warm flickering steel, and Carlos surrendered. He didn't feel defeated, though, just- content, maybe, happy that Cecil cared enough to fight him on his own well-being. Carlos let Cecil help him into a pair of boxers, let Cecil lead him to bed, let Cecil push him down onto the mattress until Carlos was luxuriating on the ugly-but-soft sheets with Cecil half on top of him. Cecil had his chin on Carlos' shoulder, one arm thrown across his chest, and one leg pressed between Carlos' own. Carlos could feel Cecil's hard-on against his thigh. He slipped two fingers on the loose waist-band of Cecil's boxers, stroking skin.
"Do you want me to," he started for the third time, and stopped when he felt Cecil shaking his head.
"Not tonight," said Cecil. "I know it's a bit selfish, but I don't want you to do anything tonight." He paused, grinning against Carlos' shoulder. "Maybe in the morning." Cecil's lips moved against Carlos' skin. "Maybe in the morning I'll wake you up with my mouth on your cock, get two fingers in you while you're still drowsy and warm and relaxed. I'll f--k you into the mattress and then bring you breakfast in bed, feed you pancakes with syrup while you're still aching and open."
Carlos' breath hitched and his fingers tightened against Cecil's back. Cecil stiffened, pulled away, said, "I mean, I don't, I would never do anything without prior negotiated consent. It's totally up to you! And I, like, don't want to get too intense. And I don't even know if you like being f-----d, I guess we've been mostly sticking to handjobs, and-"
"I don't like the gluten-free pancake mix," said Carlos. "It has a terrifying rodent mascot."
There was a pause. Carlos could practically see Cecil's mind working, and he could actually see Cecil's lips moving.
"Everything else about that scenario sounded great," Carlos clarified.
"I really do want to get intense," said Cecil, relaxing down against him. "Like, a lot."
"I know," said Carlos. "The thing with the contacts was already pretty intense. Also everything else that's happened today. It's fine."
Another pause, but this one was less thoughtful, more of Cecil pressing kisses against Carlos' shoulder and rubbing his cheek against the side of Carlos' neck.
"How do you feel about oatmeal?" asked Cecil. "Wait, I forgot - we're in your apartment. What's in your kitchen?"
Carlos wiggled his toes, thought about the half-full bag of coffee beans, the inedible blackening bananas that were more of an observational study than potential food, and the box of illicit Poptarts in his cupboard. "Not a lot," he admitted.
Cecil started pushing himself up. "I can run home and grab something," he said. "Grapefruit? That's probably too messy for bed. I have grits, but they're actually a little too gritty. I don't know how sand keeps getting into the sealed container, but-"
Carlos grabbed Cecil's wrist before he could leave the bed. It was interesting, the way Cecil reacted to that - he slid his fingers around Carlos' wrist in turn and kept holding on when Carlos let go, so that finally Cecil was only anchored to the bed by his own fingers clasped on Carlos' skin.
"Stay," said Carlos. "You can worry about it in the morning."
"In the morning I'm taking you grocery shopping." Cecil settled back down on the bed, draping himself over Carlos again. "Don't you even have eggs?"
"They hatched," said Carlos. He could feel Cecil's murmur of sympathy better than he could hear it.
The dawn light was beginning to shimmer through the blinds, and Carlos drowsed, breath comfortably constricted by Cecil's weight on his chest.
Carlos felt like he should tell Cecil something important before he fell asleep. About his past, maybe, missed meals and all-nighters and relationships that failed when Carlos prioritized science over most of the rest of his life. Or about his mother and how happy/shocked she was going to be when Carlos finally got his courage up and told her that he had a boyfriend. Or maybe he should mention the Poptarts - Cecil probably wouldn't turn him in to the anti-wheat commission.
But Carlos was warm and sleepy and all of those conversations sounded like work. Later. They had plenty of time.
"Do you remember what I said about self-reliance?" Carlos asked, because he still felt the urge to say something.
"Mhm, I guess," mumbled Cecil, with his eyes closed. Then in his not-imitation of Carlos' voice: "'A scientist is self-reliant. That's the first thing a scientist is.'" Cecil's eyes were still closed, but he was smiling.
"That's such bullshit," confided Carlos. "You have no idea."
"I think I have some idea," said Cecil, and then hummed and went a little transparent as he fell asleep.
Carlos smiled to himself and followed, consciousness fading as the sun inched up the horizon.
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