[Castiel] Kiss: 36 - 65 - 64. Make it painfully angsty... love in the wrong time.
36. “We can never be together” kiss / 64. Being Unable To Open Their Eyes For A Few Moments Afterward / 65. One Small Kiss, Pulling Away For An Instant, Then Devouring Each OtherÂ
It’s midnight. Castiel feels it somewhere in his bones. This time of night always felt a little too familiar. Sometimes permeated by cigarette smoke and dive bars, others the last coffee before bed.Â
But this one was a different feeling. Like he’d stepped through a different time, where everyone sat up a little straighter. Too polite, idle conversation with different crowds. Castiel couldn’t recognise a single face, not really, too far in his own mind to notice just who he was bumping elbows with. In the back of his mind, his agent gripes about his lack of interpersonal manners, and Castiel only laughs politely at the joke being told.
So he finds the corner. Safe. No monsters here. Holds the glass carefully, mindful of how many sips he’s had. Pretends it’s something stronger than water, when someone walks past. Raises his glass in a congratulatory toast - for who, he wasn’t sure. Castiel just watches himself move and breathe and think from somewhere to his right, not quite there.
Lost somewhere, in the blue. Satin, perhaps? Silk? Castiel sips his drink, eyes finding that particular shade amongst the rest. Burned into his soul, and he remembers how the material felt under his hands. Not like he was every going to forget (and irony alone almost took him out, when he knew his most recognised song was about blue). But they were standing at the other end, one again. Another night of simply staring, wondering, reminiscing.Â
Except this time, no longer content with spinning just outside each other’s orbits, she got closer. Carefully teased hair, professionally applied eyeliner. Castiel would know, she never had quite the steady enough hand for it, once upon a time. The smile is a little too forced, too polite. A duck of her head as she passes by a waiter, until she’s before him once more.
Castiel just watches her over the rim of his glass, as he downs the rest of his water. Well? What was the next move? Whatever they had was gone. Pushed into music and art and those little ask columns he knew she wrote. Gone in the way his glass went, as he had barely put it down. Taken away, leaving him to simply fold his arms over his chest.
There’s no words, but there never was. What was there to say? Far too much baggage on either side to work through, to understand. Whatever happy place was once there, Castiel wasn’t sure if he could say it still existed. And it cuts into him, just a little, just enough, that he can’t help the way he takes her extended hand despite himself.
Oh, he tries to be resolute. Constantly. To tell himself that each and every time they happened to bound into each other, full force, no holds barred, it meant nothing. Don’t linger, he tells himself, as they find a nice little hallway, far from the main thoroughfare. Don’t give in again. Castiel leans against the wall, she on the other side. Mimicking each other’s position, as if looking away might just make this easier.Â
It’s no surprise when she makes the first move. Steps into his space, effectively removing the idea of a personal bubble, as if it was a ridiculous concept. And she’s not trying to be slick, not with how she stares, eyes slightly narrowed, brows furrowed in the middle. Castiel remembered a time he thought she looked absolutely adorable like that. Now, he couldn’t say.
There’s no romance. No sweet talk or flowers or dinner. Her hands on his face, his hands at her waist. He thinks, ah, satin. Not quite the same. Never was going to be, anyway. That time was locked away in memory and song. Nose to nose, he can see how her lashes were too clean, eyes a little too flat.Â
There’s no emotion. Not really. The first touch almost has the hint of a spark, like it would need a fanning of a lifetime to hold on. Castiel closes his eyes, and remembers how to do this. That if he tilted his head a little to the left, she used to respond well. That she liked when she was held close, almost suffocating the both of them. But his hands don’t move from her waist, careful not to bunch up her dress. She’s clinical, practiced. Only faltering when she pulls away, that half a second betraying her. Betraying him.Â
Where did it go? Castiel wants to ask, except he’s the one taking the lead. Pushing her back, against the opposite wall. Kisses her furiously, attentively, an imperfect replica of time long ago. What happened to us? It’s what he thinks, and perhaps it translates into how he holds her. So careful, so distant. She’s hands in his hair, and he’s digging his nails into her back. But the kiss was cold, and her lipstick barely stained.Â
