Work Text:
The first thing I remember: your eyes.
When I saw those orbs, everything else lost shape and faded into the background. Only you –and I, as a meager bystander– existed. I remember you, looking back. Those blue –cool as the arctic oceans and soft as the tropical waters– made me wade in through the waves of people towards you.
I remember you, your hair and skin and clothes stuck warmly behind my back as the wind whipped at our faces. So close that it should have been claustrophobic or at least suffocating, but it wasn’t, because it was, well, you.
I remember you, your hands wrapped around that cool milkshake, your voice sounding sweeter than the beverage. You told me…I like Elvis. I said I could, too. I could have done everything and anything for you. Every day.
Any day.
Had my answer been any different, would you still be alive?
I remember your groans, your naked body tight and hot against me. The desire to take all of you in me pooling at the bottom of my belly. You held me in your arms for such a long time afterward, as if you’d saved me from some disastrous accident. I suppose it was something like that. After a while, I’d ask for a second round. Your gravel voice grazing my neck with an affirmative anser, or a complaining moan.
I remember you, running along the coastline, laughing in a lighter tone. The water churning and slapping at your ankles, the clatter of that Polaroid camera as it bounced against your chest. Those were good days, really. Wonderful days.
I remember you, taking a sharp breath when my number was called. I remember you, being strong for me although you could have cried. I remember reading your letters at war. I felt them. Wondering how your hand swept across the cheap paper, leaving prints of carbon along the pencil’s path. I tried to write back so many times. Then I failed, and I left the task to myself at another point in time. I realized then that I had taken your existence for granted. Every time I woke up, I expected you to be at my side, covered in grime and wearing martial gear that didn’t suit you because war was never your thing. I wanted to love you more after I came back. Love you more than how much you loved me.
I’m sorry that it didn’t work out.
I remember the beeping of machines, the cry of nurses, and your weak breath. Your lifeline. I remember your broken fingers tracing my stubble. You disappeared like a flower in winter. You gave back the time you borrowed. I had to give back the love I took from you.
– –
Balthazar told me that everything wasn't my fault, that you drove yourself to hell.
But then, Cas, why, why is everything gray?
Why is everything blanched, except for your eyes?
– –
Castiel died on Thursday.
The letter burned in the fire.