The first time, it was an accident. A bitter glare, twisted by some mockery of fate into a sign of affection. He remembers wondering how so cold a person could have such warm lips. He remembers being frozen, unable to break the gentle, tiny contact. Their second kiss was not an accident, though it would have seemed that way. Even now he isn't sure that it wasn't a mistake. The dark-haired boy had gone away, to be calmed down, but he had gone with a mysterious half-smile playing across lips he now knew were soft and warm and slightly chapped. There third kiss could not have been mistaken for an accident. It was the pale boy's idea, stunning and shocking. It had been fierce and tender and stolen both their breath, and it had been followed by many others. They had kissed and bit and fought, hands in each other's hair, and pressed so tightly together that they could not have been separated. The teacher scolded them, hours later, when both came in covered in dirt and bites, with twigs in their hair. The two had shared the ghost of a smile, and no one suspected a thing.