no, not four, because four is bad luck or something like this, Luffy remembers Nami telling him. and he really doesn't need any more bad luck. so maybe five kisses would do the trick? why not make it a six for a good measure, isn't six devisible by three? then six kisses it is.
zoro kisses luffy always three times.
when they wake up, always intertwined in whatever place they fell asleep that night, zoro kisses luffy's forehead, cheek, and then lips. in that order, holding his face with both hands every time. it makes luffy wake up with a smile.
when he's training and luffy decides it's amusing to watch his boyfriend, zoro stops always three times to kiss luffy. three breaks with each set of exercises. forehead. head, if luffy isn't wearing the hat (if he is, then the cheek). and lips when he's done exercising.
when they're eating, zoro kisses luffy's free hand. then he kisses him on the shoulder. and lastly, on his head. his lips are busy eating, after all, but luffy smiles nevertheless and leans on his touch even if he's focused on the food.
when they win a fight, zoro kisses him three times exactly on the lips. softly. a bit harder. and then more passionately the third time. luffy always returns the kisses with more intensity, between laughs and giggles.
when luffy is the one sleeping after the fight, resting. he's exhausted, but he can somehow feel in his dreams how zoro moves his hair to the side to kiss his forehead. his hand. his wrist.
when they're making love, zoro always kisses the inside of luffy's right leg three times, making his way to his thighs. then does the same with the left one, and proceeds to kiss his scar. his neck. his shoulders. always three times.
luffy notices after some time together, but says nothing. instead, he tries to do the same. he kisses zoro's ear three times (one kiss per earring). he kisses his right hand, the left one, and then his lips (one kiss per sword). he kisses zoro's scar on his eye, the one on his chest, and the one on his shoulder (one kiss per every moment luffy wasn't there to fight with him).
"why are you doing this?" zoro asks one day out of the blue, after luffy finishes with his set of kisses.
the captain tilts his head to the side, frowning. "doing what?"
and the swordsman, for once, doesn't know what to say, so he stays quiet for a few seconds. "the- the thing. with the kisses. three kisses. why? that's a me thing. i do it because-"
"it calms you down!" luffy figures, and due to zoro's eyes, he assumes his hypothesis is right. the captain grins, squeezing his hand three times. "since you like doing it so much, i thought it would make you feel better if i did it too. does it work?"
zoro stares at him with a fond smile, one that he only is able to show when they're on their own. he squeezes luffy's hand back three times. "yes, captain."
...
it happens quick.
they don't see it coming. luffy should have been able to protect them.
and it's stupid, he thinks. it shouldn't hurt this way. he should be focusing on going back to his crew instead of this, but he feels uneasy. uncomfortable in his own skin.
he had only kissed zoro twice that day back at sabaody.
he has to go back to him, so he can kiss him four times. one to make up for the day they were separated, and three more, only because. only because he will be able to do it after two years. it will take two years to see each other again. two. he's starting to hate that number.
but then he thinks about zoro. zo-ro. two syllables. two o's. his second in command. his first mate. one, two, three.
he didn't exactly get why zoro likes counting so much. numbers are something luffy isn't fond of following much. but he thinks he gets it now.
one year. two years.
on the third one, he'll be able to see him. and luffy will kiss zoro one time, to make up for sabaody. and it will be the first kiss of endless sets of kisses coming in three.
and, weirdly enough, it calms him down too.
They could see the stars tonight, bright splatters of light across the shadows of the sky. They don't really know why they decided to come out here, so far from the comfort of their little cottage, but they don't want to return, not yet at least. Wrapped in their cloak, they nestle themselves into the trunk of an old, hollowed out tree as they crane their neck upwards. The stars flicker and blink down at them, almost as if they were waving a hello. A ridiculous thought they don't mind entertaining as they raise their own hand to wave back. Maybe they are a bit of a fool, but they never claimed to be wise in the first place.
This reminds them of dreams they could have sworn they had forgotten, the wisps of names and faces that linger on their tongue even as the memories faded from their mind. They could almost feel the leathery skin underneath their fingertips, the sharp edges of scales too big. The blooming feeling of awe as feather and fur alike curl around their shoulders. Even the whistling winds, rustling through leaves and grass, remind them of the songs they used to sing, the lyrics long forgotten. Not quite unexpectedly, it hurts. Aching something fierce and bold in their chest, that forces tears to well in their eyes. Logically, they know it's silly to cry over something they can barely remember, over something that the world doesn't remember existing. At least, not in this life.
But they don't swallow down the sob that leaves their throat nor wipe away the iridescent tears that fall from their eyes. They don't mind the chill that seeps into their chest as their tears soak through the thin fabric of their shirt, far too busy watching the stars drift across the skies. They think, at first, only distantly, that they can see the twisting shapes of long serpentine bodies and billowing wings. They swear they can hear the timber of voices overlapped, the shadows of all too human bodies that they should know but can't quite remember. They wonder if they can miss people that don't exist.
They wonder if these memories are what drives them away from the people, the connections, of this earth. Star child, they remember their grandmother whispering to them in the late hours of the night. You are loved, they remember her murmuring to them every day from then on. They remember clinging to her feeble form as she spun tales of mystical beasts and stories of man made gods. Rivers to a lake, spiraling into the deep caverns underneath, hoarding knowledge underneath their silence. They wonder if there was some truth to her tales after all.
Star child, that name, title they suppose, has haunted them throughout their entire life. They wonder if it is why they can taste lightning on their tongue even when the skies are clear, if it is why they can feel the brittle-snap of thunder between their teeth. They wonder if it is why frost cradles their skin even when hearth-warm fire curls in their chest, the duality often leaving them sick and bedridden. Wildfires spark to life, just shy of burning and charring the vulnerable flesh of their heart. That coil around their ribcage and rumble as though the earth was quaking under a cat's quiet purr. All the while, ice forms at the base of their throat, encircling their arms like sharp shackles. They don't mind the chill, even when it hurts to speak. They welcome the frost and the cold, wrapping themselves in snow to stave off the constant heat.
They suppose it is, just like the winds that push for them to wander the world. A wanderlust unseen in their family, where others root themselves into the soil, they take to the skies. Following where the breeze and the gales blow them, the peaks of snow-capped mountains and the depths of oceans. Their body is not meant for travel, frail from the war that wages inside them. But it's not as if they could stop. They ache for the road, to chase after the stars as if they could someday reach up to pluck them from the skies. Their only real companion over the years, the feel of coiled bodies in the palm of their hand and the sound of an echoing roar in their ears.
Sometimes, they still expect a tail to curl itself around their legs even though the creature that tail is connected to only resides in their dreams. They still turn and expect to see the divine tipped claws of monsters, to have to tip their head back to speak to looming shadows of those they should know and still somewhat do, even if they haven't met them yet. Their disappointment when all that greets them is silence and emptiness is often crushing and immeasurable, inconsolable grief that drapes across their shoulders like a dark veil. Those days, they spend their time inside, away from the sun and the stars, away from the gaze of the people that stare and stare. They spend those days painting and writing, over and over, trying to capture the faces and forms of their companions they so desperately want to remember.
But it never looks quite right. Something is always wrong, always off. Failure is a bitter thing to swallow, it tastes of bile and blood and tainted honor. It is the shattering of pride, the sting of human hubris that leads them to bury their half written journals and messily sketched paintings. It is what forces them to grip the few pieces of their memories close, cradling their dreams like the most precious of treasures. Long fluttering scarves and cloaks, flowing fabrics that hide the invisible pouches of chiming bells and glimmering scales. Though they carry little on their journey, they can't help but feel an anchor's weight on their shoulders, Atlas heavy. A worthwhile price for the imaginary companions that drive away the loneliness, even if they do still want to feel the steady heartbeat underneath their hands.
Star child, they muse to themselves, it grows more fitting by the year. Stardust in their veins and the world at their fingertips, it is only a matter of time before they will be cradled in the careful coils of their once lost companions, one way or another.
@n0tamused