Bertolt giggles when Marco kisses him, his hand slipping up to the back of his neck so he could return it only this time with a small, very gentle bite. He would've protested right back that he knew a kid in highschool who was covered in freckles. It ends almost as quick as the first one and he pulls back just far enough so he could quietly count the freckles across his cheeks. Seventy--No, seventeen. Numbers have never been his strong point when he's drunk.

"I wish I had a teacher as cute as you in school. Especially if he looked this nervous all the time."