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The first time it happens, Bartolomeo can feel the discomfort on his face long after, but doesn't touch it. Can't. If he touches right there, that spot past his cheek but not quite at the ear, then he might remember it. And he doesn’t wanna do that right now.
But eventually the sensation persists into an itch about to drive him mad, and with some time to spare before heading back out for the final round in the colosseum, he pops into the little pirates’ room for a look. Not to remember it. Or think about it. No. Fuck no, and fuck that. Just gotta check and make sure he ain’t breaking out in hives from it, shouldn't introduce himself for the first time to a superstar like Mistah Luffy looking anything other than his best-
A turn of the face, and his eyes go wide and wild in the mirror. Because even the shitty lighting in this crapstain of a bathroom cannot hide the shiny mark of sticky sparkles glaring back at Bartolomeo from their spot at the edge of his cheekbone.
What the fuck. He scowls, check lifting along with his fangs with an answering shimmer-shimmer in the light , gross, some fucking lip crap, he can’t believe Cavendish left a mark-
Then there is some high pitched sound echoing across the broken tile, and that’s Barto’s own voice shrieking something awful, but he can barely hear it over the cacophony in his own brain, shouts of NO NO NO DON’T THINK ABOUT THAT but it’s too late because now that the memory has reemerged from its hiding place, Bartolomeo cannot force it back down.
Cavendish, his perfect glossy curls cascading along his shoulders and smelling of sun drenched florals as he leans in close to whisper into Bartolomeo’s ear.
Cavendish, one hand on the other man’s shoulder, hypothetically for balance but actually as a threat, a smirk in his voice as he says, “Don’t cry too hard when I defeat you and take the Flame-Flame Fruit as my own.”
Cavendish, turning his head ever so slightly, the ghost of the curve of his lips barely gracing the cannibal along the high point of a cheek as they form a perfect and hushed, “Bartolomeo.”
Smacking his own forehead doesn’t make the memory leave him permanently, no matter how much Barto wishes it would, but he tries very hard to destroy it with multiple hits anyway. It didn’t mean anything, whatever the fuck that was. The brat of a man had just been his usual dramatic self and probably thought proximity would be intimidating, but it most definitely wasn’t, Bartolomeo’s heart is not pounding with fear, or even racing super hard at all, no sirree, he’s cool as a cucumber and gives no fucks or thoughts for that stuck up rose chomping freak and the sweet smell of him and the small burning points of contact between them even though Cavendish has never touched him before and-
Bartolomeo howls again, to drown out his internal spiral. No no NO, he’s NOT gonna think about it, ain’t worth the brain power. Especially not when he needs to get his game face on, to make sure the Flame-Flame Fruit ends up in the right set of hands. There’s no time for the frou-frou horse riding fool.
Not that Bartolomeo even wants to give him any attention at all. Or receive any in turn. Nope. None, nada, not a drop.
He whacks his head into the wall, a solid thwack to drive the point home and make it real in his head and his heart, to make it truthful. Ignoring the strange aches in his chest is easier with a throbbing knot on his head. Bartolomeo gives one last glance in the mirror, to make sure he’s presentable for the fans, absolutely not to spot that sparkly nonsense on his cheek again-
It’s gone.
Bartolomeo’s stomach does a nasty little summersault as he looks down at his hands. One palm, previously slapped to his face in torment, is now sporting the smear of what Cavendish would surely identify as lipgloss.
And if, like the royal little snot he is, Cavendish bent over to properly press his lips to Barto’s hand in greeting, the plush give of them marking his skin in a fiery brand, a perfect shimmering outline of his lips left behind, letting the whole world know who Bartolomeo the Cannibal belongs to-
Bartolomeo hurriedly wipes his hands on the thighs of his pants, then again to be sure the sensation of lips and the slick of gloss are both gone. And then he swaggers out into the hallway, ready to make Luffy proud.
His eyes do not search out blond curls and flashy smiles as he gets in place for the final battle. No they do not.
-
The “first time” shouldn’t have even been the first time. If labeled anything at all, it should have been The One And Only Time Somethin’ This Weird Woulda Happened Ever.
But now it has happened again, a disbelieving second occurrence that Bartolomeo has to actually acknowledge, mainly because he’s pretty sure Miss Robin saw and heard everything, which means he cannot dump the whole situation into the back of his mind in a locked box and go about his lovely business.
The weirdo punk with his weirdo little explosions is about to send Cavendish along with his own men sky high, and the blond brat of a man is banging on the walls of his barrier, demanding entrance. A little teasing’s never hurt anyone, plus the Cabbage (haha, Mistah Luffy is so funny for that one, calling Cavendish Cabbage, good one Mistah Luffy) is being a rude little boy, so of course Bartolomeo doesn’t let him in immediately. He does at the last second, and that’s what counts, surely. Not like it was revenge for weird lip touches. Because that never happened. Barto’s just havin’ a bit of fun, promise.
Even though it’s fun and games between not-so-very friendly rivals, he isn’t surprised to get a retaliatory kick to the face for pretending to lock Cabbage out. Whatever, man. As long as he keeps his fingers crossed and the barrier up, it doesn’t matter how much princey-prince complains. It doesn’t bother Bartolomeo at all, the yelling or the proximity behind their wall of safety. And yes, he’s maybe averting his eyes from Cabbage, and perhaps more importantly Cabbage’s mouth, but that’s to focus on that Officer fellow and all of his explosions, not to avoid looking at Caven- er, Cabbage. It’s all gravy back here, in the barrier, no worries whatsoever.
Bartolomeo is not thinking about it, that once in a lifetime touch from a plump mouth, at all.
Well… maybe a smidge. The teeniest bit.
Which is probably how he ends up distracted, with that hot rose smell all deep in his nostrils and the deep cut of that shirt showing off tight muscles taking up all of his attention. That’s how he doesn’t see it coming.
“Let me out!!” Cavendish shouts. His sword is at the ready, heeled boots digging into the earth to launch toward the enemy. The jacket draped over his shoulders parts enough to show the tension in his forearms, holding that beast of a weapon. Bartolomeo tightens the twist of his fingers and doesn’t think at all about what those straining muscles might feel like underneath his fingertips.
The demand to leave doesn't make a single lick of sense to him, Cabbage just got here, doesn’t the dummy wanna be safe? Chill out for even two seconds, what the hell. What a weirdo who isn’t endearing in even the slightest amount.
There’s a huff, from Barto’s right, haughty and stuck up and not cute at all. Such a pissy cat, that Cabbage.
“After you defend-”
Then the front of Bartolomeo’s jacket is snatched, reeling him into Cavendish’s space by a single hand, a curl of the back of a fist brushing against his sternum. It’s so quick, no defending against it, and if this were a real battle between them, Cabbage would have won between one thudding heartbeat and the next. They’re flush, chest to chest, Cavendish’s one hand and Bartolomeo’s crossed two sandwiched between them.
There’s no defense against it. All Bartolomeo can see is those blue eyes glowing bright, fury burning within their cores along with something softer, something lighter, that makes Barto want to search for it and stare forever. He’s shocked board stiff, trying his damndest to make his body respond and shove away, run, curse, something, anything, when Cavendish speaks again.
“-you attack. It’s common sense.”
The space between their lips is so miniscule that Bartolomeo could swear another mouth moves against his. His jaw falls open, startled, and something fruity like strawberries dances on the tip of his tongue.
Then the hand clenched tight to his jacket loosens, and Bartolomeo almost stumbles without the anchor, as Cavendish pivots away. The blond’s lips speak his rival’s name into existence, the perfect formation of each syllable of “Bartolomeo” right there at the corner of said man’s mouth.
Then Cavendish is gone. His sword clashes with the explosion freak’s armor. Blinking slowly, Bartolomeo realizes his hands have gone slack, no barrier around him to keep the haughty prince locked away and safe. Hurriedly, Barto resumes position, barrier up to protect Miss Robin’s ascent behind him, ready to let his new ally back in at the slightest sign of trouble.
He struggles to give the situation his full attention, though. He doesn’t need a mirror, or to lift his hands to the corner of his mouth, to confirm what he can feel there: a sticky little mark of sparkling lipgloss.
The urge to lick it is intrusive and distracting, and only disappears when Bartolomeo wipes blood and dirt from his face later on, the lipgloss gone once more. Disappointment sits in its place.
-
“Any certain reason you have been staring at my face all night, Bartolomeo?”
It’s a lie to say that the sudden voice behind him doesn’t send Barto nearly jumping up and over the Yonta Maria’s railing and straight to the moon in surprise. He tells himself the fib anyway, to make his scowl and the offensive middle finger thrown in Cavendish’s direction a little more believable. “Like hell I’ve been eyein’ you, Cabbage.”
The sauntering click-clack of those boots becomes tantrum fueled stomps at the nickname. “Do not call me that!” Starlight catches in angry blue eyes. They glitter, rare gems bookmarked by long pale lashes, and Bartolomeo feigns a wide yawn as an excuse to shut his own eyes so he doesn’t get caught staring again.
“And cover your mouth, goodness. How a star like me is supposed to put up with a brute like you in this alliance, no one knows, honestly.”
The yawn morphs into a belch, into a rubbing of the corner of his eye to get the little crusts of sleepiness out with his still proud middle finger, all for the sake of Bartolomeo keeping his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see it, not this close up, not again.
If Bartolomeo opens his eyes, he’ll have to witness it, that shining, shimmering curve of Cavendish’s full lips, covered in a gloss that Barto most definitely does not want stamped on his face once more. Many times more. Naaah, no desire for that at all.
His hands clench into fists in his pockets as he turns to look back out at the ocean, the excuse so obviously false in his own mind. But there’s no use wanting or acknowledging something like that. Not like Cabbage is ever gonna kiss him for real, even thinks about it. His little strategy of getting up and close to intimidate Bartolomeo is just that: a scheme to make himself the center of attention, and nothing more. Barto doesn’t even know what he wants the weird little moments between them to be, and the itch for them to transform into something is strong, but not strong enough to pursue. He’ll get over it, they’ll all separate after the party inaugurating the Grand Fleet Alliance is done.
And he’ll see Cavendish… someday. In the far future.
Before that stray thought can fully start to hurt in his hands and ache inside the cavity of his chest, Cavendish is there. Leaning in too close. A dainty little tap, to the point of Bartolomeo’s elbow, but no other points of contact, nothing that could mark the tall man with a patch of gloss. But he feels hollowed out regardless, when that breathy voice says, “So I imagined your eyes on my lips during the cup ceremony, did I?”
That finally gets Bartolomeo to glance his way. Cavendish is no longer offended, or smirking, but rather all curious and nearly sweet, studying Bartolomeo’s reaction to the accusation as he moves in, coming close, closer. Their difference in height means nothing, as Cavendish has him cowed by intense eye contact alone, demanding an answer with a quirked brow.
“Y-yer little fame-chasin’ fantasies are gettin’ the best a’ you,” Bartolomeo tries to snap back. He’d cap it off with another flip of the bird, but he does not dare pull his shaking hands from his pockets now, where Cavendish can see them.
Fuck, he got caught.
It’s just! Well! The little hot shot wannabe had made sure to look his best for their new leader, so of course all of the peacocking had meant a combing of the hair and a fresh coat of gloss, sparkling in the sea breeze and sheer enough to show off the soft pink of the lips beneath them. The same lips that had gently pressed to the cup of sake, pulling on it just enough to carefully sip the liquor inside. And Bartolomeo had thought of the mark on his cheek, and the smudge at the corner of his mouth, both gone, and the sudden realization of wanting another chance, a third time, to happen, well, that had made him a little crazed in the moment. A little jealous of a cup of all the things. And it left him with an obsessive wondering, a wish to see the shine left behind on the cup, its slickness, to know how it would feel if he brushed his thumb along the rim to pick it up, to rub between his digits that same tacky texture from his own cheek the other day.
“Mmhmm,” Cavendish hums. His lips purse along with the noise, and sparkle. And Bartolomeo realizes he’s been staring at them. Again.
He turns away and kicks the railing. Fucking hell. “Course I had my eye on Mistah Luffy the whole time, like a good subordinate should. Unlike certain rotten Cabbages-”
“Then you gawked even harder, at dinner,” Cavendish continues.
Ah, dinner. A glorious feast, and one Bartolomeo despised a little bit, as a little napkin was continuously dabbed at shining lips after each bite of fried sea king kabobs to pick up the grease, and taking all of the lipgloss away from Bartolomeo’s hungry eyes.
He’s starting to sweat now. “Y-yer imaginin’ things. Just want center stage like always, ya damn fluffed up Cabbage.”
The smirk is back, curling in Cavendish’s voice and down the shivering line of Bartolomeo’s back, as the blond man replies, “And you are attempting to distract me into a fight and away from the subject of your staring, you cocked up Rooster.”
The sputtering and stammering excuses from Bartolomeo’s mouth as he leans away from Cavendish, who ducks in closer to pursue, are absolutely not caused by those full shining lips forming the word cock, no way in hell! No! It’s because he hates that nickname, so inaccurate to his perfect character and looks- ah, no, that’s the most pathetic lie of all so far, he loved every moment the Straw Hats shouted out the pet name and meant for Bartolomeo to come along with them. Warm, joyful, glorious happiness at every call!
Nothing at all like the feeling when glittering pink lips form around the Rooster spoken into the hot night air, making his stomach bubble and brain swirl in a tizzy. Unbearable, that’s what it is, especially with the smell of roses invading his nose again, Cavendish tilting in close to prevent escape. Crowded, overwhelmed, trapped, Bartolomeo yelps and throws up crossed fingers.
Suddenly Cavendish’s little smirk is spread and plastered on a barrier between them, his pursuit stopped with a muffled oof into the clear wall dividing them.
A perfectly manicured hand smacks the barrier, and Cavendish shouts some curses along with each hit. “Put your barrier down this instant, Bartolomeo!”
“Can’t hear ya, Cabbage,” Bartolomeo lies with a shrug, hoping it covers his shaking. There’s an almost perfect kiss mark floating in the air between them, marking where Cavendish face planted into the barrier, and the glittery shape of it is making the cannibal sweat.
More smacks, an outraged boot stomp. “Stop being a child you fool!” One of his hands reaches for Durandal’s hilt, the threat behind his movement clear. Bartolomeo feigns another yawn, to aggravate Cabbage’s ego, and chuckles when the bait works and the blade appears to shine in the moonlight, ready to swing.
“Take that shiny lil’ toothpick of yours and scoot. Ain’t we allies, brothers in arms? Look who’s bein’ a child now, Cabbage.”
It’s only when Cavendish suddenly smiles wide and wicked that Bartolomeo realizes his mistake. Shit, fuck, repeating the blond’s own words back at him, now that he knows he can ramble and rant at the barrier all he wants and Bartolomeo will hear every word, he’ll never leave.
Durandal is sheathed nice and slow, as that smile ticks up at the corners, to show off Cavendish’s dimples and make Bartolomeo all shaky in the knees. He crosses his fingers tighter and prays to anyone that’ll listen Please leave (please stay) just let it go man (reach for me again) for once just walk away (kiss the barrier on purpose this time lemme see oh god I wanna see it-!)
“Silly Rooster,” that crooning voice says, and Bartolomeo is inclined to do whatever it tells him, if it’ll say his name a couple times like that, “you need to use your words more often.”
Then both of Cavendish’s long fingered hands slide up the barrier, a caress that Bartolomeo wishes he could feel skating up his own torso. They stop, to bookmark the accidental mark of lipgloss shining between the two men, and Cavendish leans in close, as if to place his lips there again, a beautiful target for the cannibal’s own mouth to meet.
But before it can find its mark, that pink mouth opens again to say, “If you wanted a kiss so badly, you could have just asked for one.” Then, exaggerated, showing off the roll of the tongue between shining rows of white teeth, Cavendish fogs up the barrier with the slow way he breathes out, “Bar-to-lo-me-o.”
Everything in Bartolomeo’s head goes lovingly blank, his body lax in shock. He’s about to fall over, maybe even black out, but Cavendish takes advantage of the disappearance of the barrier to dart in. The front of the tall man’s jacket is fisted to keep him upright, the prince’s muscles working to hold all of his weight as those shaky knees finally give up. Like this, the two of them are eye to eye, Bartolomeo stunned speechless by the almost taste of roses on his tongue, the swirling of bright blue eyes taking up his vision. Cabbage is so close, right there, they could kiss just like he offered, he’s about to lean in, and finally Bartolomeo will feel that slick mouth on his, taste it, treasure it-
Cavendish hesitates.
They are frozen in place for so long. Too long, almost. Long enough for the demanding confidence in those blue eyes to turn into something unsure, for the blond’s shoulders to go high and tight in something akin to fear. Bartolomeo cannot comprehend seeing anything other than bold cockiness in Cavendish’s expression, and says nothing.
Eventually, those glimmering lips twist. Open, close. Open again. And Cavendish looks down at Bartolomeo’s own gaping mouth, and asks, “Y-yes?”
And it all clicks into place. Oh, says Bartolomeo’s brain from some distant, far off place, he was wondering and waiting for a kiss, too.
Words beyond his current capabilities, Bartolomeo cranes his head up, to smash their mouths together. It’s all mismatched and awkward, what with his body unable to move still, but Cavendish makes it better, moaning into him and forming his lips around Barto’s top one. They’re a mess of saliva and gloss and curses for a long, long time, until Bartolomeo’s legs finally come back to him and he can stand back up, give as good as he’s getting, and comb his fingers through those long blond curls, finally.
Sometime later, as the sun begins to threaten rising on the ocean’s horizon, they finally separate. Cavendish is all blushing skin and lust blackened eyes, tempting Bartolomeo to dive in for another taste. Instead, he licks his lips, to savor that fruit flavored lipgloss, its sticky pull on his tongue, to make Cavendish watch.
And he asks, “Ya got any more of that lip stuff? Maybe in a darker color.”
The answering smile back promises that Bartolomeo will have lots of chances to taste Cavendish’s mouth, and be marked by it in turn.