"I think you're made of the stars themselves, Ace."
The statement brings a questioning hum from him, luring him from the limbo of sleep and consciousness as he looks at you properly. "Oh yeah? How do you figure that?"
You stare back, adjusting the way his head is cradled by the fold of your legs beneath him, reaching to touch your fingertip to his cheek.
"Your freckles," you answer. You let your finger drift, swirling over, tracing constellations (Orion's belt. Ursa major, Ursa minor. Lyra. Cygnus.) over the bridge of his nose to his other cheek. "I hope the cosmos look down at you and smile at their handiwork."
He stares back, reaches to guide your palm to his cheek and leans into it. You thumb at the plush of his skin, savoring the warmth. "Sentimental," he chastises. "Thought I was supposed to be romantic. What would that make you?"
He hopes, idly, that you'll say the sun – a fellow star, but burning brighter than he ever could. Or the moon – easing the ebb and flow of his emotions so easily.
Your thumb stops, and he leans up as you lean down, meeting for a soft, sweet kiss. He tastes like sea salt and ash. You taste like – he isn't sure what to identify it as, only that he always wants more.
"The sky," you answer when you pull away. "I think I'd like to be the sky for you."
Ace frowns. "That's--"
Boring, he wants to say. He doesn't, though. Instead, he leans up again, pulling you to meet him. You don't protest, let yourself be engulfed by him – stars or wildfire, the comparisons don't matter much in the end.
You just hope that whenever he decides to burn out, he takes you with him.