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Summary
Love is often imagined in the form of soft skin in dark times, words yelled into the rain, and pastel colors. It is often lived through deep breaths, clear sight, and green moors. For Castiel Novak, however, Love was something unimagined, unthought of. And it certainly didn’t warp itself into rusty spikes on dry leather, choked words quieter than silence itself, and dark greens and reds. His life was breathed through wheezes and coughs, seen through thick-framed glasses, and the only blue skies ever noticed were the ones captured in his eyes, always half-lidded and looking down.