Angels are the harbingers of blessings.

Or, at least, that's how they're described in books that are neither read nor remembered. Perhaps the blessings they bring in Night Vale are more mundane; the gifts of working light fixtures and humdrum slices of gossip.

Old woman Josie declares that her she is under the protection of these angels who don't even officially exist, so I ask her if I can maybe take one and enjoy a day of good (and possibly illegal) fortune.

"No. I'd rather keep them for myself," then she pauses and smiles, "But now that you mention it, Erika is sort of going through that hormonal phase and is a bit of a pain to keep around. If you pay me, then I might think about it."

Politely, I tell her she is too old to be extorting money off her neighbours, but then she gets angry. Not actually angry, mind you, but that polite-and-surprisingly-rather-sassy-old-lady brand of angry. She asks me why the hell I'm here anyway.

"It was the voices."

"That's as good enough a reason as any," she turns back to her kettle, "Do you like chamomile?"

"Thanks, but no. It's far too yellow for my tastes."

"Suit yourself."

I look up at the clock that isn't real, "Besides, I'd better be going. It's time for my dinner."

She warns me not to eat any mushrooms as they've all grown ears and tails, and no one has tested the implications yet. She adds that she rather likes listening to my voice on her battered old radio, before ordering me to just piss off already.

I leave her illuminated house, shielding my sensitive eyes from the brightness- if it weren't powered through the heavens, that amount of wattage would cost her nigh on a million each month- and make my way into the centre of town.

Mandate calls for each citizen to eat Big Rico's pizza at least once a week, but I always find an excuse to visit more often. It isn't the rich tomato sauce with just the right amount of garlic and herbs that tempts me; it's the fact that the pizzeria is less than ten doors away from Night Vale's most beautiful resident.

I'm lucky today; he's in his front lawn and… oh god, he's shirtless. I say a quick prayer of thanks for the desert heat and the hands of a friendly Erika. He is clipping the branches of a barren tree, and even the way his fingers hold the shears- deftly, thumb guiding the dual blades along- is a work of art.

Words are not enough for Carlos, for he is a scientist who believes in certainty, and the feather light touch of letters and emotions are not certain. They are malleable and inconstant, and none are as beautiful and perfect as he appears now.

The eggshell sky rests its head on his shoulders, and the gentle arch of his dark back, and the perfect lines of his delicate legs welcome the weight, tell the sky to settle down, to cry it out. His hair is ebulliently askew, the colour of chocolate, with a composed curl of grey at his temple. His features are feline, aquiline, erinaceous, somehow the features of a magnificent beast. Carlos is stunning, even in profile, when I do not have to feel the full weight of his gaze.

He is undisclosed and unaware.

There is no way to explain the feelings that stir within me. It is as if a desert mist has descended, and the beads of moisture have collected within the sand, crystallised and become pearls beneath our broken bodies, and we are wary; for a single step and this fragile dream disappears and becomes sand once more. But then we carry on, no longer asleep, but still, somehow, always broken.

Now is the time to walk away, before he notices I've been staring at him for the last minute.

But then he turns, and that strong jaw tilts up to smile, and his eyes catch mine. His eyes are brighter than a million summers yet sadder than an infinite autumn, suspended in the absence of seasons or time. They are brown. One colour should not hold so much meaning as they do.

And he mustn't speak. If he speaks, the glass between us breaks and my resolve crumbles and I fall in love with him all over again. And yet, he must speak. His voice is the encapsulation of everything that could ever be loved.

Step away now, I tell myself. And I try to obey my thoughts and move my leg but it just sort of spasms beneath me.

"Hey, Cecil."

And oh god. Carlos's voice. His rich baritone is heady and captivating, and every letter is purred, perfected by the careful formation of his lips and a deft flick of the tongue- things that shouldn't be noticed but are glaringly clear on such a stunning being. There is an oaky tone to his voice, firmly rooted in the depths of wonder, yet it is also as sweet and saccharine as sugar and it melts into my consciousness and I find myself unable to do anything but smile.

He asks me what I'm doing here.

I gesture off into the distance, "Oh, just getting myself some pizza."

"You mean a bowl of stewed tomatoes."

I shrug.

"Did you want to talk about something?"

I frown, "What?"

"You were just lingering outside the gate, so I thought maybe you had something to say, that's all."

I wanted to tell him how perfect he was, how everything about him was art in motion, how he was the best thing that had happened to this town since it was colonised back in the 18th century. I wanted to tell him that looking at him was like gazing upon the dark planet above, an immense, impassable entity which I had no access to; I can only gaze upon his awesome presence and reach out with blighted fingers, never to touch or to hold. I want to tell him that I do not have the keys to unlock his conversation.

But it all seems too heavy and so I say, "I wanted to ask if you've found any other scientific anomalies here?"

"Well," Carlos begins, and his eyes light up with the juxtaposing magic of science, "Right now, we're looking at magnets."

"And?"

"They seem to point to the nearest cactus."

"Is this…" I gesture to something that even I don't understand.

"Frankly, it's not at all important. But it's interesting, don't you think?"

I agree with him, though nothing can be as interesting, as mind tearing, as his face. I try to make my heart beat liquid courage, "Say, can we talk about it over a pizza or something?"

He looks at me and I forget the conventions of breathing, "I mean, some tomato sauce. Maybe a wad of cheese. If you'd prefer it?"

"Oh. I have things to do. Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Of course. See you then."

And then Carlos, lovely Carlos, gives me a twinkle of his eyes and a twitch of his perfect lips, and heads inside. I watch the door for a moment and I think.

Both of us are blessed.

Carlos is blessed with the incontinence of beauty, a radiance that could rival a god, could rival a sun in a system yet unknown, a sun that blazes, free of restraint or jarring watchfulness, a sun that has no use for a life that is false and unfounded.

I am blessed with his company.

Together, we are him. And we are the way his eyes shine and his fingers sing.

A/N: Ah. Yes. This is good. This is how I prefer to write: all weird and drabbly and jumping all over the place. Something about the way Cecil speaks welcomes this kind of style, and it makes it so much easier to write.

This ought to be approximately three parts long. Do not expect me to stick to one fic. It often takes me weeks, if not months, to publish another part, what with the crazed flurry of ideas in my head.