[From the transcript of Welcome to Night Vale, a production of Night Vale Community Radio, as transmitted on what, if time were not meaningless, may have been called August 1st, 2013:]

. . . the City Council also announced that –

– No. I am sorry, Listeners, but I just have to get something off my chest. Today, I was with Carlos – you know, my boyfriend (I still can't get used to saying that) – and I sneezed. 'Well Cecil,' you say, 'That's a perfectly normal occurrence. Why are you interrupting important news bulletins to tell us about this?'

Because, dear Listeners, Carlos didn't say 'Bless you.' Or 'Gesundheit,' or even the less popular, but still acceptable, 'May the Dark Lord Moloch accept your child sacrifices with good favor.' He just stared at me with an expression of creeping, existential horror. I don't know about you, but I found this out of character and frankly, very rude.

.

.

.

Carlos can't stop shaking.

He's never had much luck with relationships. If he manages to start one (or rather, if someone manages to start one with him and he happens to notice) it never lasts long. He's not great with things which can't be measured and tested and quantified – or at least, he wasn't, before he came here. He's had to adapt quickly.

He chokes on a laugh as he stares unseeingly at the papers in front of him. Transcripts, from Cecil's show.

Cecil, Cecil. No last name, and Carlos has no idea why he's never asked. Cecil, a soothing voice on the radio. Cecil, a phone number resting heavy and comforting in his pocket. Cecil, inexplicable and barely restrained adoration. Cecil, a smooth and dry hand in his. Cecil, a port of sanity in the storm that is Night Vale.

Or so Carlos thought. Now, with the words typed out in front of him, printed neatly in black and white, he can't remember why. Reading them himself, without Cecil's deep, steady voice below them, he can see that they're just as mad and dark and twisted as everything else in this town.

That voice is speaking through the radio right now. It says something about child sacrifices, and Carlos almost hums in agreement before catching himself.

No. God. What's wrong with him?

He tries to listen to Cecil's words, to hear what he's really saying, but the meaning slips from his minds like fresh organs from an ill-designed cutting board, and that . . . is not the comparison he meant to make. This place is getting into his head. Or maybe it's always been there.

That doesn't even make sense. Nothing makes sense. He shakes himself, struggles to steady his trembling hands.

Cecil is still talking.

Cecil. From the Latin 'caecus,' meaning blind. Cecil who is not tall or short, not thin or fat, not old or young. Cecil whose face is not handsome or ugly, whose hair is not wavy or straight, whose eyes . . .

Carlos frowns. He can't remember what Cecil's eyes look like. He thinks maybe he noticed them when they first met . . . ? He tries to reach back to that town meeting over a year ago. He recalls a black silk tie against a purple shirt, a firm if slightly over-enthusiastic handshake, and a strange feeling of reassurance, like hearing his father come home just as he drifted off to sleep . . .

Carlos snaps back to himself, digs his fingers into his scalp. The more he thinks about it, the more discrepancies he finds. Tears of frustration and fear and crushing disappointment are burning his eyes. He thought he had something good here, despite the surreal and often menacing surrounds, despite his own dismal track record. He thought he found someone just odd enough to put up with Carlos' own idiosyncrasies, someone who wouldn't take it personally if he was distant or preoccupied. He started to think that this might actually last, and then –

Well, then Cecil sneezed.

Then Cecil sneezed and for an instant he wasn't Cecil anymore, for an instant he was something else, some thing of glowing darkness and staring eyes and writhing appendages which moved without any regard for the laws of physics. And then, just as abruptly, it was Cecil again, sniffing primly and beginning to look miffed as the silence stretched.

On the radio, Cecil is saying goodnight. Carlos buries his face in his hands.

There is a knock on the door. Carlos ignores it. There is another knock.

"Carlos?"

Carlos jerks up. It's Cecil's voice.

"Carlos, are you alright?" the voice inquires, and Carlos is on his feet, rushing to the door, flinging it open –

"How did you get here so quickly?"

Cecil looks startled, concerned, and completely, unequivocally human.

"What do you mean?"

"Your show just ended a second ago, and now you're here. How?" He can hear his own voice as if it's someone else's. It sounds much calmer than he feels. Cecil's concern deepens nonetheless.

"My show ended half an hour ago."

Carlos' eyes snap to the clock. Cecil is right. But then, the clock isn't real, is it? It's just an empty case, like a set piece. A face and hands with nothing behind them, moving at the will of some inscrutable Other. Carlos' breathing has picked up. He realizes that he has backed into his lab bench.

"Carlos . . ." Cecil steps forward, and Carlos relaxes. What was he so worked up about, anyway? It's just Cecil. Cecil would never hurt him. Everything is fine. Everything has always been, and will always be, just fine . . .

Carlos meets Cecil's eyes, and the warm calm evaporates like rubbing alcohol spilled across the ruins of an emergency first-aid kit. Cecil's eyes are deep violet, his pupils black, cat-like slits. Carlos jerks backwards, finds the way blocked, and scuttles to the other side of his lab bench by feel.

Cecil blinks, and his eyes are human, not blue or brown, not light or dark.

Carlos wants to ask what he is. The words will not leave his mouth.

"What are you doing to me?" he demands instead.

Cecil's concern collapses into hurt. His eyes fill. His lip quivers.

"What do you mean, Carlos? I would never – I couldn't –" He looks close to tears. Absurdly, Carlos feels guilty.

"But I – I saw you –" he tries weakly.

Cecil blushes, indignation warring with embarrassment on his face.

"Well I didn't think you'd mention it," he says sulkily, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders.

"Um," says Carlos.

"I know that I don't always have perfect control over myself, but really, given the circumstances –"

"Cecil," Carlos attempts.

"—and you know, I don't mention your undignified bodily functions, not that there are many, but there are a few, so I don't see why you should –"

"Cecil."

He stops talking.

"Yes, Carlos?"

"I –" He hesitates. Cecil's eyes have gone strange again, purple tendrils creeping into his irises, pupils subtly elongated. There's . . . something stirring the air around him, not really visible, as such, but still somehow giving the impression of a dusky blue-grey, the color of a bruise.

This, Carlos thinks, is what the inscrutable Other looks like when it pouts.

"I, uh . . ." Carlos is stalling, mind racing. Does he know what he is? Cecil watches him with wounded, hopeful eyes, and Carlos dismisses the question as meaningless. Of course Cecil doesn't know. Of course he doesn't not know. The clocks aren't real, but they still keep time.

Carlos clears his throat.

"I'm sorry. I . . . don't know what happened." True enough. Carlos hasn't known what's happening in a long time. It's strangely liberating.

Cecil smiles. The not-quite-visible something retreats. His eyes shift back to human.

"Well, as long as you feel better," he says magnanimously, and kisses Carlos on the cheek . . . which probably shouldn't be possible, given their respective positions. Carlos finds this doesn't bother him as much as it should.

"Oh, were you looking at my old transcripts?" says Cecil, and the way he moves around the lab bench is probably best described as a slither, but, Carlos reasons, there are worse words. Like ooze. Or stalk. Or metastasize.

"Why?" Cecil asks, and there's no threat in the question, only curiosity. Carlos shakes his head, reaching for his casual lab coat.

"No reason." And indeed, the reasons are already melting from his memory like fat over flames. He thinks he could hold onto them if he tried. He doesn't. "You want to get something to eat?"

Cecil lights up, and it might not be a figure of speech.

"Oh, yes!"

They step into the dark, empty street. The air is hot and dry. In the distance, Carlos can hear wolves, and screams. Beside him, Cecil grins. It is not, exactly, a human expression. Carlos returns the smile, his own words echoing back to him.

"Sometimes, things seem so strange or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure, and innocent."

Carlos takes Cecil's hand, and together, they walk on through the night.