Title: Mistletoes
Summary: In which it takes five obligations under the mistletoe for Marshall Lee to realize that, yes, he really can't live without Gumball's kisses, can he?
Warning: Oneshot, M/M, kissing, mistletoes, fluff, excessive fluff, literally so much fluff it sickens me, dumb boys, denial, human AU, OOC probably.
Word count: 1,129
AN: My obligatory Christmas contribution. Wrote it lazily in twenty minutes, tops, didn't proofread properly, plus I haven't written in past tense for a long time, so it's not really in superlative quality but oh well.
The first time was disgusting.
At least, it was to Marshall Lee's fourteen year old mind. Kiss Gumball, of all people? He couldn't think of anything more disgusting! Well, he could, but that was beside the point. It seemed like the latter shared his sentiments, though, because he met the realization that they had been caught underneath a mistletoe—a most careless mistake, among all careless mistakes—with a distasteful scowl. They only did it because Fionna, darn her, caught them in the position and wouldn't stop pestering them if they wouldn't do it. They were trapped. And so, they both leaned forward and met each other's lips, just for a second, before parting like each other's touch had scorched them and wiping their lips vigorously like it would make a difference. It was cold medicine and vegetables and all the things they didn't want to take. It was an event they swore that they would bury in the recesses of their minds and never dig up, never ever, no matter what, forever.
The second time was impulsive.
The crime scene was more private than the first; it was a secluded corner of the mansion. Marshall had gotten lost and who knows what Gumball had been doing there, because does it really matter? It was a matter of turning corners and collisions, of chiding exclamations like, 'Dammit, watch out next time, will you?' and reluctant statements of acquiescence like, 'Fine, I'm sorry, too.' Then, like it was somehow orchestrated or even expected, they looked up at the same time. Lo and behold, there it was, hanging from the ceiling innocently like it wasn't messing with them and stirring up all these weird, confusing emotions and stuff like that. They really didn't have to do it. Really. Only the two of them knew. A deal could have been struck, like, 'Hey, I know we're under a mistletoe right now, but no one else is here and we can just pretend that we were never under the mistletoe and, therefore, are not obligated to kiss or anything,' but for some reason, that didn't happen, and what followed was a flurry of shy touches and three seconds of exploring each other's mouths like two virginal teenagers on their third date. Or something. Then after that they broke off and Gumball ran away, his face as pink as his hair, leaving Marshall stunned and unable to keep his fingers from reaching up and touching his lips. Was it just him, or did Gumball taste sweet?
The third time was deliberate.
And after a year of awkward sidestepping, shying away from the topic, and trying to forget the totally spur-of-the-moment-and-that-is-it-no-arguments incident they found themselves underneath a mistletoe once more. Really, they shouldn't have been surprised. If anything, they should have expected it, and deep inside, they both were. This time was an affair of curiosity, most of all. They both wanted to know something. He didn't know about Gumball, but Marshall wanted to know if the other boy's lips really tasted as sweet. And so he leaned in. It was a slow burn, searching, and he was scared of taking it further because Gumball felt so fragile in his arms. Like the wrong move would break him into a thousand pieces and bring eight years of bad luck—or eight years of no Gumball; he didn't know which was worse. (And he's pretty sure that it was in this moment that he realized it: he totally liked Gumball more than just as a chum.) He felt like smoke and mirrors, an illusion; like if Marshall pushed too much he would disappear. But in the end he got what he wanted. He found out that Gumball did taste sweet.
The fourth time was sweet.
The location was the exact opposite of the second kiss'. Public and open; smack dab in the middle of the living room. Who in their right mind would put a mistletoe there? There was panic in his eyes and his hands were sweating, for he was certain that Gumball would scurry away, because hell, this was so fucking public and everyone would see and that would be the end of their weird little tradition. It was selfish, but he didn't want it to end. He wanted another taste, and he had waited for a year—a year of shy smiles and occasional more-than-friends meetings at the local coffee shop, and once at a rock concert; that was it, because Gumball wanted slow and if that was what it took, then it was fine with him. However, the subject of what exactly was their relationship had seemed too sensitive to approach, even for him. But then now he looked in the other boy's eyes and saw nothing but contentment and flickers of amusement. Would it be okay, then, if he leaned forward and kissed him, right in front of everybody and their judgmental eyes? There was only one way to find out. And the world melted away at once. Gumball tasted sweet, as per usual. Sweet like sugar and candy canes and cotton candy and sugar, and Marshall hated sugar, but when it came to the pink-haired boy, he couldn't seem to bring himself to mind.
The fifth time was plain fucking beautiful.
More kisses had followed last year's; angry, passionate, soft, warm. He was no stranger to Gumball's mouth. At least, not anymore. It was hard to recall what before was. Before, when avoidance was the key and he didn't get to taste Gumball's lips every day. He was looking forward to tonight's kiss, of course; the entire jig seemed too sacred to pass up, and he looked forward to any kind of kiss that involved Gumball. So he dragged his boyfriend—God, that word excited the bats in his stomach so much, it was unfair—through a few hallways and sure enough, thanks to Fionna's penchant for placing mistletoes in just the right places, they found themselves in the balcony. And there it was, shining and dancing with the snowflakes. The whole thing was so cliché. He didn't care. The sky was blue, the sun was a star, it was raining snowflakes and Gumball was beautiful.
"This is number five," Marshall whispered, betwixt gasps and the synchronized beating of their hearts. Idly, he noted that they were outside in frigid weather and he was supposed to be cold, they were supposed to be cold, but he only felt fire in his veins, his lips, and on every part of him that met the other boy. "How many more do you think we have?" And he felt the smile tug on Gumball's lips, tasted that sugary taste he loved so much, before the reply came:
"A lot, sweetheart. A lot more."