carlos has a voice of oak, like the creaking wood in cecil’s staircase—it will not shake the earth, but it is solid. he is solid, as corporeal as anything in night vale could be. you can tell, says the formless entity beside him, by the way his feet remain planted on the ground. he has exactly the right amount of teeth and eyes that, for once, do not call to mind the intangible void that lies within them all.
cecil listens to him talk (less the words, though he will remember them all later, but the tone) and he closes his eyes. everyone around him shrieks in unison, so he thinks he will have to add hilarious to the ever-growing list of things that carlos most certainly is. when he opens his eyes again—all three of them, today—carlos is grinning, and already cecil can feel the arrows of cupid themself, flying straight and true into his fast-beating heart.
…although that could just be the ceremonial end-of-meeting knife fight, but that’s a little less poetic.