i should have noticed.
“our love letters were always written in blood — not each other’s, but our own. that may sound agonizing. hardly. what i gave, he inevitably returned. i was never empty. at least, not of him. the real agony came in healing the wounds from which we bled, and i shamed myself for it. for picking at the scab on my chest, yet reaching out to mend his. for not just healing him, but letting my fingertips linger on his skin. for sinking inside his flesh and building him back even as he became my undoing. i shamed myself for wanting him. i wish i had known at the time that he shamed himself just as much for not having my power — the excuse i used to hold him, touch him, in those fleeting moments, when i was the only one capable of saving us. that didn’t stop him, though. of course it didn’t. when things were dire, he still cradled my face and caressed my arm and embraced me so... earnestly. with some semblance of restraint, but when that faltered, i held onto him a little bit tighter. kept my eyes shut a little bit longer. let him decide when he was ready to let go again — when we were ready, and how high the tide between us would rise. i, the anchor. he, the current. always. i should have noticed, then, the way he’d linger a little bit longer too. fondly when others were around. desperately when it was just us. i should have noticed the warmth in his eyes, not only in his touch. like the glow from my true form, his grace was his concern, and he healed me just by the nearness of him. the very sight of him, even if my wounds laid fresh and open, salved and salted by our silence. i should have noticed the way he anchored me. the way he broke my halo, unchained my wings, and beckoned me downward. stood below me, arms raised like atlas. the deep blues and vibrant greens held in his hands. a world of possibility waiting to break my fall and to swallow me whole. i should have noticed, i should have noticed, i should have noticed it all. but we were just too busy — running, grieving, surviving. allowing hope to collect dust. sparing the air in our lungs to stay afloat instead of to say i love you. no... we couldn’t risk it. not when our last goodbye was always doomed to follow.” Â
— castiel
snippets of a story tainted by fate. (1/?)
