Radio Dramas All About Your Heart

_based off two prompts: the first time they spend the night together, and Carlos having scars from the bowling alley. title from "All About Your Heart" by Mindy Gledhill, the unofficial theme song for this ficlet._

__disclaimer: Night Vale belongs to Commonplace Books. __

* * *

"Sorry my place is a little…" the rest of Carlos's sentence goes unspoken as he busies himself tossing notebooks in the corner. If he had planned ahead of time to ask Cecil in for a coffee at the end of their date, he would have picked up a little better that morning. Instead the decision had been unanticipated, prompted by a kiss goodnight outside the lab that lasted a little longer than usual. "Organized is the third thing a scientist is," he offers sheepishly. "Or maybe the fourth."

"No, this is fine," Cecil insists as he shrugs out of his jacket and surveys the small living room in near-adoration. Carlos can't seem to stop fussing with the room, mostly he knows out of nerves. Only three dates into their relationship, and everything with Cecil is already completely foreign territory for the scientist. After all, pretty high up on the list of what it is to be a scientist is _busy_, and also _terribly awkward_, though he's often suspected that last one might be specifically just him. But three dates is a normal point for this sort of thing in a relationship, three dates is expected, or at least he assumes as much; the closest Carlos has ever come to a relationship was one uncomfortable date at senior prom, two nights in college that he only remembers as being incredibly drunk, and a third night that he spent a whole semester drinking in an attempt to forget. Finally he forces himself to stop straightening messy stacks of equations and turn back to Cecil with a smile. He thinks the silence should be more uncomfortable; instead Cecil just hums happily when Carlos reaches for his hand to pull him closer. Carlos kisses him once, chastely, then again with a bit more passion, even wrapping his arms around his neck because he thinks maybe that's romantic. In turn, Cecil slips his arms down around the scientist's waist, and suddenly everything is butterflies in his stomach. There's something warm too, liquid curiosity that sloshes erratically when Cecil licks at his lips tantalizingly. Carlos allows the sensation to linger on for a moment before breaking away with a stumbled apology that feels necessary for reasons he can't place. Immediately he regrets his attempt at being romantic, because now Cecil's eyes are wide and curious and too close and Carlos thinks he's going to be sick.

"I just-" Carlos stutters "I just like you and I don't want to mess this up." It's not exactly what he wanted to say, but it feels right. Cecil simply nods in understanding, his face displaying anything but the disappointment Carlos is used to. "I haven't really done this since college," Carlos explains. "Any of this. I mean, science has been my main preoccupation for years now, and I just don't want to go too fast getting back into things." Again, it's a saccharine alternative to the truth - synthetic and far too sweet, but Cecil simply nods again, letting go of the scientist's waist only long enough to tuck a few silvery strands of hair behind his ear.

"Okay. We can wait if you like, take it as slow as you want. There's no reason anything has to happen until you're ready." Cecil's voice is calm and warm and even if it makes the butterflies flutter slightly worse, it seems to settle the uneasy sloshing. "I happen to like you a lot too, and it's important that you're comfortable, alright?" Carlos lets out a relieved sigh. It's not that he should have expected any different; after all Cecil has never been anything but a perfect gentleman. Third dates may still be foreign territory, but at least he doesn't feel like he's stumbling quite as blindly along now.

"So, did you actually happen to want a cup of coffee?" he asks in a much steadier voice. Cecil plants a kiss to the tip of his nose before relinquishing his grasp on the scientist's waist.

"Coffee would be lovely."

Carlos busies himself in the kitchen, emerging several minutes later with two beakers of coffee. Cecil has settled in on the sofa, still taking in the sparse decor and mismatched furniture with an expression of delight. "So is this how all scientists live?" Cecil asks, nodding towards the scientist's choice in glassware.

"Living above your own laboratory has it's advantages. I promise these have never held anything toxic," he adds with a nervous little laugh. "Except Dave's attempts at microwave baking." He rambles when he's nervous, which is almost always, but Cecil just smiles every time and gently redirects the conversation back to something Carlos can easily latch onto.

"Do you like living above your lab?" he asks with a sip of too-hot coffee.

"I enjoy it. It's convenient for work, and I just go tinker with projects some nights when-" a cough to clear his throat before he wanders further from the question. "Anyway, yeah, it's nice. Do you...like the station?" Cecil's face blossoms immediately into flustered excitement.

"I_ love_ the station. I love investigating and reporting. I love language and words, and weaving the world into stories for my listeners. I just love communication, you know?" Carlos nods, even though he doesn't know at all. The majority of his conversations are one-sided exchanges with equations scrawled on paper and minuscule creatures beneath the glass plate of a microscope. With people he stutters and trips and says things in passing that he spends hours afterwards berating himself for. But with Cecil things are different. Cecil talks enough to carry the bulk of conversation, then leads him to responses in such a way that the words seem to flow naturally and evenly. And unlike the people Carlos does converse with regularly, Cecil listens with attentiveness, even nods occasionally as if the complicated scientific words mean something to him. "I also happen to quite like french toast," Cecil adds after a long moment spent sipping coffee in silence. "I've never had french toast _coffee_ before though, I have to admit. Before the wheat ban I would just make french toast and cinnamon buns for supper before going in to the station. I'm not much of a morning person, really." Carlos had been too busy focusing on the way Cecil's lips wrapped the edge of the makeshift mug with each sip of coffee to come up with a proper response. Instead he says the first thing he can think of.

"Never a bad time for sweet things though is there?" Immediately he regrets every word of the sentence. He's sure that it came across as either juvenile or brazen; either option is equally uncomfortable in his opinion. But Cecil just smiles into his empty beaker, managing as always to smooth the conversation over without making Carlos feel like an idiot.

"No, I suppose there isn't. And really aren't they so much better at night anyway?" His smile is sweet and genuine, but mischief flickers somewhere in his eyes.

Decency be damned, Carlos is threading his fingers through Cecil's hair and kissing him again before he can overthink anything. In fact he doesn't think at all until they're in a tangle on the sofa, and even then all he can think is that he's been dreadfully missing out since college. Cecil's just trailed kisses all down Carlos's jaw before stealing the little gasp from off his lips and pulling away. "You'll tell me if you need to stop?" Cecil asks. His voice still purrs seductively, but his expression is serious. In the perpetuated absence of words, Carlos gives a little hum of assent. Cecil pulls back a little further, refusing to continue until somehow the scientist manages a stuttered '_yes, of course_.' In response, Cecil tangles his fingers briefly in the scientist's hair and kisses him so sweetly that Carlos can't imagine ever asking Cecil to stop. Curious hands meander over soft flannel, teeth catching and snagging in all the right places along the scientist's lips, down his neck, every little mark eliciting breathy sounds that he's sure he'll regret once he can think coherently again. He's dizzy from the butterflies that he's beginning to question the literal existence of, the taste of coffee still in his mouth but mostly on Cecil's lips, the warmth and weight of the man so carefully balanced on his lap. When Cecil's fingers tug at the hem of his shirt in a silent request for permission, Carlos doesn't think twice before nodding. Cecil's hands are cool against his skin as long fingers ghost curiously over the soft edges of his stomach, across sparse patches of dark downy curls. It isn't until they're nearly to his chest that something in his mind switches back on, reminds him exactly_ why_ he hasn't done this sooner. Out of instinct his hands are grabbing at Cecil's wrists as simultaneously he's fumbling through the prelude to another apology. Cecil backs away at once, and then they're both apologizing over each other.

"I didn't mean to freak out," Carlos manages to choke out after they both pause to let the other speak.

"No, it's okay. I'm sorry I was getting carried away," Cecil admits with a nervous little laugh. It's odd to hear him nervous, Carlos thinks absently. He's once again reminded just how little he does know about communication, since the silence stretches on long enough to finally descend into the bulky awkwardness he's so familiar with. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Carlos registers that Cecil's asking if he's alright, shifting his weight back to his knees, taking away the comforting warmth that Carlos didn't realize he was so grateful for. But his mind can't decide whether to say anything, much less exactly _what_ to say. Instead he says nothing at all, just stares down at his hands and tries not to fidget. Finally Cecil leans in, this time carefully, and kisses his forehead. There's another quiet apology and a promise to call him in the morning, a shuffle as Cecil slides off the sofa and retrieves his jacket from the back of the armchair where he left it. Carlos is still in the same spot on the sofa, shirt still half-unbuttoned, mind vaguely processing words he doesn't get out until Cecil already has one hand on the doorknob.

"Please don't leave." The words sound even more pitiful and small aloud than he had anticipated. He shakes his head to clear the residual bits of hazy memory. "I'm sorry, y-you should go, I'm sorry." He tries to dismissively wave Cecil out the door before he can give him some sort of emotional whiplash, but he retracts the gesture once he realizes his hand is shaking. Confusion floods Cecil's face as he takes a cautious step back into the living room. Carlos isn't sure if he can manage looking up at him, so instead he drops his head into his hands and stares intently at the floor until he feels the pressure of Cecil settling in next to him on the sofa.

"Talk to me?" The words slant upwards at the end, framing the suggestion into an open question that Carlos has no idea how to answer. Cecil hesitates momentarily, shifts position slightly, and finally rests a gentle hand on his back. "Talk to me." It's not as much a question this time as a soft imperative. "Please, just tell me what you're thinking."

"I don't sleep, Cecil. I can't sleep." A pause as he practices the next words in his head before saying them aloud. "I've been doing well since the bowling alley, but sometimes when it's dark and I'm alone I just lie there questioning everything and it all just becomes too much." Not entirely true, but logical. "But when I'm with you everything makes sense. Even things that have no possible way of making sense." At least that much _is_ true. Carlos still can't bring himself to peek out from behind his curls. "I'm sorry, you didn't sign up for my personal drama," he adds with a choked laugh and a brush through his hair.

"Stop apologizing for existing," Cecil chides gently. "You're entitled to feelings and boundaries and problems. You're allowed to exist exactly as you are." The hand at the small of the scientist's back has begun slow, soothing spirals. "And I'm your boyfriend," the word pulls Carlos's gaze up instantly. They've never used any official terms for each other, and although it feels right, it also feels like a further step into uncharted territory. Cecil moves a hand up to push back a few tangled curls. "I knew what I was getting into. Whether we're making out or experiencing existential crises or sprouting extra limbs. I signed up for all of this, alright?" Cecil's eyes are kind, and Carlos desperately wants to believe him, but he shakes his head.

"Cecil, I'm a mess. I've always _been_ a mess. I don't know how to just _say_ things unless I think them through a hundred times first, I don't know how to be in a relationship, I don't know how to do any of this. I'm going to mess it all up."

"Being a mess is a prerequisite of being human," Cecil says, a soft laugh coloring the edges of his words. "Nobody ever knows if they're doing it right, but we'll figure it out together." His fingertips trace along the frame of the scientist's face, and Carlos leans into the touch and lets the warmth of the contact spread through him with a shiver. "We'll start with something simple, and all you have to say is yes or no: do you want me to stay with you tonight?" Carlos is lost again, in the way Cecil's gently brushing through his hair, in the way his voice sounds like whispered honey, in the possibility of waking up next to someone without regret weighing heavy in his stomach.

"Yes."

* * *

As far as Cecil is concerned, Carlos is perfect in every way. He's perfect when he rambles on about science, when the tips of his ears go red when he's flustered, when he talks about the moon as if it actually exists. Perhaps the most perfect thing about him yet, Cecil thinks, is the way he looks next to him in bed. The lighting in the cramped little bedroom is dingy and the sheets smell like cheap detergent, but Carlos is warm beside him, and the light plays across his caramel skin in a pleasing way. The scientist's dark eyes are wide and expectant for something Cecil can't figure out. Although he possesses several mild psychic tendencies, none of them approach telepathy. "Tell me what you're thinking now," he murmurs, the words again arching their way into an interrogative.

"I'm thinking that I'm nervous," Carlos admits. Cecil cups the scientist's chin in his hand.

"It's okay to be nervous when you experience new things. But please don't ever feel like you have to be anything but yourself with me," he reassures him with a smile. Carlos mirrors the expression, exhaling a deep breath. He presses a kiss to the inside of Cecil's wrist, then wriggles forward to plant one last, soft kiss to his lips as well. As his eyelids flutter open, all Cecil can think is how every kiss from his perfect Carlos melts his insides into jelly, how he's fairly sure he'll never get used to the reality of Carlos being his to begin with.

"Goodnight, Cecil," Carlos whispers with a shy little smile and his voice is beautiful. He reaches over to switch off the light, and even through the dark Cecil is still convinced that Carlos is the most perfect thing he's ever seen.

Until he falls asleep.

It's been several years since Cecil's shared a bed with anyone in any sense of the phrase. Paired with the boundaries Carlos set earlier in the evening, it's a struggle to find a good position in a bed that realistically isn't sized for two grown men to begin with. A long string of halted movements finally ends with his decision to lie parallel to Carlos at a distance he deems close enough in case he's needed, but far enough to avoid the scientist's sporadic kicking. Erratic is a better word, Cecil decides as nearly forty minutes later Carlos has successfully rearranged himself into every possible sleeping position and managed to finagle all the blankets into a bundle. Although he mumbles occasionally, he_ is_ asleep, which is more than can be said for Cecil. The next time Carlos shifts into a new position, Cecil takes the plunge and reaches around him, pulling him close by the middle. For a moment more, Carlos flops around until he's facing away, but then curls inward around Cecil's arm and goes blissfully still.

* * *

"You're still here." Carlos is half-asleep, his eyelids fluttering open only long enough to catch a glimpse of Cecil, who's been casually observing him from a careful distance for a little while. The sun's been awake longer than both of them, but the sunrise was quiet for the first time in weeks.

"Of course I am, you asked me to stay," Cecil murmurs. A smile slips across the scientist's lips as he stretches, then snuggles close to his boyfriend.

"I know, I just had a dream that I woke up and you were gone," he yawns.

"Oh, no, I was trying to make you a cup of coffee. You know, breakfast in bed after our first night spent together. I thought it would be sweet, but your coffee machine doesn't seem to like me. It spit out some sort of lumpy green sludge..?"

"It doesn't like it if you don't use filtered water," Carlos slurs, rubbing at his eyes before blinking them open to fix lazily on Cecil. Sometime in the night something shifted. When he woke up briefly before the sun to find Cecil curled protectively around him, everything seemed to focus a little better in his logic, wiping away the last of his reluctance. One hand brushes across a bit of stubble on Cecil's chin; tangible proof that he really is here to stay. "Morning," Carlos mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Cecil kisses him back, a familiar minty taste of toothpaste on his tongue. Carlos breaks away and immediately begins an apology for the morning breath.

"Don't," Cecil interrupts, kissing him again. "I was thinking we could go out for breakfast," he whispers between gentle kisses to first his nose, then his forehead. "Find some place that serves french toast." Another to his lips. "I know, breakfast in the _morning_. A novel idea," he drawls with a grin. Carlos laughs - all airy and pitchy - at once regretting the sound, but not regretting the way Cecil's expression lights up like it's the best thing he's ever heard. Somehow Carlos's hands find their way into Cecil's hair with the next kiss. Somewhere amid all his discarded inhibitions he finds the nerve he wishes he had last night.

"Maybe we can make it brunch?" It takes some coaxing to get Cecil to let him out of the bed, but Carlos manages to get his teeth brushed before climbing back into his boyfriend's waiting arms. It's inexplicable, the nearly-tangible weight and intensity that both seem to have vanished during the night. In between the mess of lazy kisses, Cecil slips out of his shirt to reveal an intricate pattern of delicate ink beneath his skin. Carlos traces the outlines with a fingertip until they disappear beneath the waistband of his boxers. There's a brief debate in his mind, ending with his other hand reaching for the hem of his own gray t-shirt. Cecil snatches it away almost immediately, pressing the palm to his lips.

"Not if you're not ready," he whispers, and Carlos knows right then that if he were to tell anybody, he would tell Cecil. He wriggles his hand free and ruffles it tenderly through Cecil's hair before resuming removing his shirt.

"They're scars," he explains, slightly dislodging Cecil's balance straddling his hips as he slips the shirt over his head. A messy patchwork of pale puckers criss-cross his chest, the curly dark hair growing in uneven patterns as a result. Little pockets of puncture marks are deeper and look much more raw, some even still-healing.

"The bowling alley," Cecil murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the uneven web of scars and focusing on the scientist's face. Carlos won't look at him, because he doesn't want to see pity in Cecil's eyes. "I didn't think - I mean, I never-" It's odd to hear Cecil stumble over words because Cecil's voice is always smooth and even and measured. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts into a single sentiment, but Carlos stops him first.

"Please don't say they're beautiful or that you don't notice them because I know that neither is true."

"Alright," Cecil says simply. Carlos ventures a glance in his direction and finds admiration in place of pity. "But you _are_ beautiful, Carlos." Hesitating only briefly, Cecil's hands resume their exploration from the night before, more thoroughly this time. "So beautiful," he murmurs again, tracing along the rounded curves, the dimple beneath his sternum, gingerly even following one of the rougher, longer scars. Though the edges of the marks are jagged, the lines are too straight and even to be attributed to accident or chance. "Why are these ones different?" Unlike most of Cecil's questions, this one is an invitation, fully up to Carlos to accept or decline.

"Because they far pre-date moving to Night Vale." It's as in-depth as Carlos is able to delve right now. Someday he'll tell Cecil what happened that night, why he spent six months at the bottom of a bottle, why he _really_ has trouble sleeping; but not on a morning that had so far been filled with nothing but quiet laughter and lazy bliss. He can feel a shiver run through Cecil's body, watches his eyes go sad, then oddly proud.

"You've survived so much," Cecil says softly, pressing his palm flat over the marred skin. His other hand tucks itself behind the scientist's ear, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "That's nothing to be ashamed of." Carlos wants to believe him. He's heard similar sentiments, but never so earnestly, never in a voice bursting with adoration. That same part of his mind that convinced him this was a bad idea the night before still seems to hum somewhere inside. Against his will, he can feel himself crumple inwards bit by bit, but before he can reach for his shirt, Cecil's taking both his hands in his own and placing them awkwardly along his own back. Cecil's fingertips press Carlos's thumb up along his spine as he counts in a barely audible whisper with each vertebra until he reaches _seven_. There's a mark there that Carlos can feel, a deep angled groove. "Repeating Firearms Precision Badge. I was fourteen," Cecil explains. "One of the other scouts didn't hear me say I was down-range." His hands are moving again in a flurry, clumsily repositioning Carlos's fingers over a rough arc just above his left hipbone. "My first day as an intern, Station Management left their office." There are several more scars - '_bloodstone chanting accident on my twelfth birthday_', '_spontaneous combustion of the break room smoothie maker_.' The list ends with an exceptionally perfect, exceptionally deep scar shaped like an eye right over Cecil's heart. It's so precise that Carlos had mistaken it for another tattoo at first glance. The look on Cecil's face tells him that he doesn't want to know about this scar, but he feels he needs to ask.

"And this one?"

"I don't know," Cecil whispers honestly, intertwining his fingers with Carlos's as they trace the precise marking. "But it doesn't matter. The fact is, we survived. _You_ survived. You're alive, Carlos, and that's the most beautiful thing you could ever be."


End file.

Radio Dramas, Romance