A sleepness night becomes bitter oblivon.
The first timed she kissed him, he tasted of a clean sort of innocence, of spearmint and clumsiness and something she still couldn't place. He smelled like the outdoors and the aftermath of rain and felt cool against her skin, cool and soft and damp, almost like clouds. His hands rested uncertainly on her hips, and she thought of how she liked to see him uncertain, unable to predict what would come next. When he asked about it later, she admitted she was just curious. And that was that.
The second time she kissed him, he tasted of tears and ashy cigarettes. He smelled like fire, felt like tremors of death and burning pride. His grip on her was so tight, both hands wrapped around her and buried in her clothing. She thought of how he was hanging from a thread with his teammates injured and nobody to blame but himself. When he asked about it later, she shrugged, and told him that she would have wanted somebody to be there for her in that situation. He didn't question it any further.
She never did kiss him a third time, because he was the one who kissed her.
It was late, and she was leaving, and he was seeing her off, and in hindsight, it was all so childishly predictable. The way he characteristically walked a step behind her, the way he came up short right before they left the gates. The way he looked at her lips, the way he begged her silently to stay.
When he realized that wasn't working, the way he kissed her made her think twice.
He tasted of longing and masculinity that hadn't been present either of the previous two times. He tasted of confidence too, of fear as well, though, fear of rejection nestled in the overarching confidence. He smelled of his home and cigarettes, and she wondered why she didn't take them too. He felt familiar, strange as it sounded, the way she knew where his cheekbone stretched out to, where his shoulders ended and his arm began. Maybe she felt familiar too, because his hands held her, one at the small of her back, the other holding her cheek. She thought of nothing at first, and then how this wasn't supposed to happen, because when she was initiating the kiss, she knew nothing was going to result because she had control. When she broke the kiss and asked about it, he looked at her and rolled his eyes.
"I never interrupted any of your kisses," he said.
She was about to tell him it was because he was too lazy, but she found herself smiling. And slowly, she leaned forward, and kissed him.
After that, she lost track of how many times she kissed him, or he kissed her.
She could remember the last time she kissed him, though.
He tasted of death, and smelled of it too. He felt like defeat. When she kissed him, she thought of how she wanted to be dead too. But then she thought about what he would ask afterwards, and knew that she couldn't disgrace his memory like that.
He would have asked why she hadn't seen this coming.
And she would tell him she had, had been foolish in marrying another ninja, and she would tell him she had always imagined she'd be the one to die before him. And she's probably cry and say life wasn't fair.
If he had kissed her afterwards, he'd probably say she tasted of bitterness and cigarettes, even though she swore she'd never start. He'd say she smelled of him, smelled of his home and his sheets where she curled up even night after a long day. He would say she felt like too much work and too little love. His hands would be everywhere, because she'd be broken everywhere. And he'd be thinking of how she shouldn't be dwelling on him, because, afterall, it was inevitable. And when she asked about it afterwards, he'd tell her not to let him ruin what she had made of herself, and that there'd be plenty of time to kiss him in heaven.
xx i'm sorry the ending sucks like it does. but i'll change it if i think of a better one.
i... don't really know where i was going with this. the ending wasn't supposed to be sad, but it was. i want to write a lighter piece about this couple without being cliche. we'll see!