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He was fourteen, sneaking into the woods behind the town’s only schoolhouse with the woodcutting apprentice. He smelled heavily of sawdust and campfire smoke, and he had a gap between his two front teeth. They had kissed for two weeks and a couple of odd days, disguising their escapades as little fishing trips or hunting outings. This boy was the best thing he had since his brother left home. However, this ruse could not last forever, and soon enough, he found his mother tearing him away from the boy, dragging him back home, forcing him back to his studies, and expressly forbidding him from ever kissing another boy ever again.
Years later and many miles away from that small seaside town, his lips have never touched another man’s since.
He was just shy of sixteen years old. Maria was barely older than him by six months. They’d been courting for a couple of months by now, and they were picnicking by the river he and Sam liked to fish in. He was holding her hand when she asked if they could kiss. It was sweet and chaste just as she was, but so fleeting that it could've been mistaken for the spring breeze brushing against his lips instead of a girl. He recalls the butterflies in his stomach, the flush against her freckled cheeks, and how he couldn't look her in the eye for the remainder of the day.
How old was he? Twenty three? Twenty four? After his mother died, the days simply blended into each other, and she was the one who kept track of those sorts of things. Maybe it was all the concussions and blood loss finally messing with his brain. After all, he could hardly remember kissing anyone before drunkenly practicing with Rori. Or perhaps he didn't remember liking to kiss anyone until he kissed Rori.
He hoped and prayed that this wouldn't change anything between him and Tommy.
He was nine. Long, long before the hell he had come to know with the Socios, he had Ophelia. Pretty, kind, and fun Ophelia. He was young, oblivious to the romantic workings of fairy tale princes and knights-in-shining armor, but his sisters said those types of things made girls happy. And so, he had gotten the bright idea of dressing up as a knight, in ill-fitting leather armor and a wooden sword, so he could be Ophelia’s prince who could keep her safe. Upon seeing him, she laughed and had thought he was silly and looked ridiculous, but as all princesses do when their dashing princes please them, she gave him a quick peck on the lips.
He tries not to dwell on that day whenever Brooke asks him about his first kiss. After all, he had burned those bridges long ago.
She just turned twelve, running away from all the responsibilities Dear Ol’ Dad tried to put on her. So here she was, at Lake Aethra with the stupid bookkeeper’s son, Jupiter “Somethingsworth”, all because he wanted to kiss her. It was as bad as first kisses go: a horrid angle, his tongue was just too much, and their saliva dripped together from her chin. Yeah, he was definitely the wrong first kiss, but you know, her teachers always did say “Practice makes perfect”.
She ended up staying with him until his twin sister came calling for supper. She would say she was a far better kisser after that.
Twenty years old, and Adam finally proposed to him. It was a simple silver ring with not a jewel or gem in sight, but nonetheless, he was absolutely elated, excitedly kissing his newly-dubbed fiancé under their weeping willow tree. He could already picture the white suits, the bells, and the champagne toast in their honor. There would be lilies and silver candles decorating the tables, and perhaps Jonathan could be their little flower boy.
Little did he know those bells never rang for them, but rather, an execution horn bellowed for his dearly beloved. A cruel reality that he believed only could happen in fictional tragedies. Perhaps that's why he always kept that ring in the pocket closest to his heart.
They were barely eighteen. A regular at the Fiends’ Keep, a hunter by the name of Cal Wesrune, had kissed them. She had caught them by surprise, and it most definitely was not unwelcome; however, they couldn't shake the feeling of not feeling any of the sparks or fireworks they had heard so much about. Afterward, they tried kissing a few more people a few more times just to make sure there wasn't some sort of fluke. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, and they began to question if they were somehow doing things wrong again.
The pieces began to click the night their best friend drunkenly kissed them at some stupid celebration in the middle of the ocean, and for the first time, they found themself wanting to chase after those feelings from that kiss. They had to remind themself of how much Jack drank that night, and it was foolish to believe that he would recall anything the next morning.