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Dust Motes

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Cool dawn light filtered between the shades hanging over the bedroom window. Ghostly and pale in its ethereal glow, it dappled the carpeted floor of the room, picking out the discarded clothes of the bed’s occupants. Unbuckled belts and unbuttoned shirts lay strewn around, having been so carelessly hurled from their bodies as the need for physical intimacy became too strong for their wearers to resist a minute longer.

Dust motes drifted around softly, bobbing in and out of the dawn light and twinkling like stars in the night sky. The light was hued purple, as was most things in Night Vale. The ceiling was black, speckled with tiny constellations that glimmered silvery white in the approaching daytime. Even though the sun was rising and bathing the tiny town in its rays, the stars still shone as bright as ever, watching over the two figures lying curled up in the bed.

Like the discarded clothing littering the bedroom floor, the bed’s sheets were crumpled and twisting around their interlocked bodies. One of these bodies, with its caramel brown skin and smattering of dark hair on its chest and arms and legs, was curled inward, basking in the warmth provided by the other.

The other body was much bigger, almost too big to actually fit on the bed itself. It was a shapeless shape, with a body not unlike a human man’s. Except this human man was over ten feet tall, and was bound in skinless muscle. Except this raw, pulsating muscle, with its pale sinews that slowly stretched and contracted as the body slept soundly, was dark purple instead of angry, welted red. It shifted steadily from shade to shade.

Sometimes the body was so dark it was almost black. Sometimes it was a rich, awe-inspiring purple. Other times it was a colourless, stone-slate grey.

There were some constants, such as the multitude of tentacles protruding from the figure’s back. There were slimy, and slick, and sleek. Oily black and rippling with shades of purple that only ever showed up when the dawn light dappled them in tender kisses, they were entwined softly yet lovingly around the smaller body that was being spooned by the bigger.

The smaller body, whose identity was Carlos, stirred slightly when the sunlight shafting between the gaps in the blinds touched his face. The soft, yet intrusive, light caused Carlos’s eyes to flutter meekly open. Brown eyes surveyed the room. For a few seconds he wasn’t entirely sure what time it was. Time in Night Vale was non-existent, after all, yet the sun still rose and fell like it would everywhere else. So that was enough of a measurement of time for Carlos.

Judging by the amount of darkness that still lingered in the bedroom, coupled by the pale light shining in through the shutters, Carlos supposed that it was around early morning. He had no alarm clock to look at, so it was hopeless to try and make sense of the world.

Yawning, Carlos adjusted himself. He rolled over onto his other side, trying his hardest to not awaken his sleeping husband, whose name was Cecil Palmer. His dear, dear, honey-voiced husband.

Carlos pulled up the duvet to cover his legs and torso, which were totally exposed to any secret cameras observing them. He tucked himself in so that he was nice and snug, and observed Cecil as he slept. It wasn’t very often that Carlos managed to awaken before Cecil, since Cecil usually had the omnipresence to awaken them both if his abilities called for it, so he savoured these rare moments for all they were worth. Time slowed to a crawl with Cecil in these early mornings. Rather, if time existed, then it would have. Instead, Carlos just made the best of their situation. It was a fruitless attempt to try applying interloper logic to Night Vale.

He’d learned that a while ago.

Carlos tenderly reached out and thumbed Cecil’s cheekbone. His cheekbone was present; he could feel the hard, jutting bone underneath the colour-changing muscle. The raw flesh itself was slightly sticky, but Carlos didn’t mind. He loved every aspect about Cecil, even the things that scared him initially. How he’d ever thought of Cecil as unnerving seemed like such a distant and foreign concept to him, now that they were happily married and sharing the same bed. Just like how Cecil loved Carlos and his perfect imperfections, Carlos loved Cecil the same way.

Cecil’s head, which was crooked down to accommodate the narrow confines of the bed, was featureless and smooth. He lacked ears, and eyes, and a nose, and a mouth. He lacked lips, and teeth, and hair, and eyelashes, and everything. He wasn’t quite like the Faceless Old Woman That Secretly Lived In Their Home. She would have been offended at such a comparison, and would have replaced their milk with goat’s blood as a punishment. No, Cecil was very different from the entity that neither of them could ever really see.

Carlos did see Cecil’s face, however; it was on his chest. His broad, raw, pulsating chest, which was bound with large protruding ribs that enclosed his throbbing organs. His eye, singular and large, was shut. Whenever Carlos gazed into Cecil’s eye, he saw his own face reflected perfectly back in its glassy purple iris. He saw his dimpled cheeks, and his pleasant smile, and his crooked glasses. Carlos enjoyed pressing butterfly-soft kisses on Cecil’s eyelid whenever he allowed him to. It was such a soft and intimate thing for them that Carlos could never picture himself ever stopping.

Below Cecil’s eye, which was shut in his slumber, was his mouth; a large, crooked crack in his flesh that bristled with countless glinting teeth. They were long, and sharp, and impossibly white. They dribbled with saliva, but Carlos found himself perfectly capable of pressing kisses against that mouth, whether they were soft pecks or passionate make-outs. The teeth didn’t hurt, the near-constant running saliva didn’t taste rancid or unpleasant, and the swelling black tongues that curled out to lap at Carlos’s exposed skin and taste his arousal drove Carlos wild.

Everything about Cecil drove Carlos wild.

“Gods, I love you,” Carlos breathed. His voice was hoarse from sleep, as well as from the intensity of the previous night. But he still managed to rasp the words out, and he carefully leaned over to press his lips against Cecil’s mouth. His beard slightly tickled Cecil’s chest, and that was enough for Cecil to stir slightly. His eyelid fluttered momentarily, but didn’t open. He half-mumbled something incomprehensible, but deflated with a heavy exhale and sank back into the solace that accompanied sleep.

Carlos smiled to himself. He counted his lucky stars; he truly was lucky to have Cecil in his life. His beautiful, perfect, honey-voiced Cecil.