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Their first kiss is entirely an accident.
It isn’t a kiss, really, more a painful mashing of teeth as Sasha trips over a root and falls on top of Connie as he’s twisting to help her. There’s a bit of blood in both of their mouths as they pull away, Sasha is apologizing profusely, and they both try to laugh it off.
Their second kiss is a bit less of an accident.
He can’t help it, she just looks so goddamn pleased when he shows her the meat he’s smuggled to give to her, like he’s gone and slain all the Titans or something, so he leans up and kisses the ridiculous expression right off her face.
Their third kiss follows shortly after because Sasha gives him approximately two and a half seconds to regret his decision and try to backtrack before she’s grabbing him by the lapels and kissing him with the same ferocity that she does everything with.
Their seventh kiss comes as a surprise to both of them, but sometimes when a battle ends you just need to have trusted familiar hands on you, even if you are making out to the startled whoops and cheers of the soldiers around you.
Their twelfth through twenty-fourth kisses are stolen, little moments behind the barracks, in empty hallways, while mucking out stables. Each one lasts less than five seconds and each one sends little sparks of electricity through them.
Their thirty-fifth kiss is when things change a bit. They have the time, and no one’s around, and there’s something so right in the heat between them. The kiss lingers, and deepens, and turns into fifteen other kisses, but those are only the ones on the mouth.
Their fifty-second kiss is shared at the dinner table when Sasha leans over to peck him on the mouth for sharing his food. Eren, somehow out of the loop all this time, looks lambasted. Mikasa raises an eyebrow. Armin just smiles at them.
Their sixtieth kiss is interrupted when the door flies open and they scramble to untangle themselves. It’s the corporal, and instead of the verbal lashing they expect he just stares at them, expression unchanged. He shakes his head, sighs, and leaves without a word, and their moment is lost.
Their sixty-fifth kiss is the first time they say “I love you.”
Their seventy-third kiss is their last.
It isn’t a kiss, really, more a press of lips to cold skin. Maybe this is some kind of divine fucking joke, because his mouth is full of blood again, and she’s covered in it, and maybe someone cruel somewhere is laughing at them. Connie is apologizing profusely, but her warm brown eyes will never smile at him again. He’ll never find forgiveness.
They have to drag him away from the body, screaming and sobbing and pressing a hand to his lips because no one else will ever be worth it.