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“Stars are made of fire, right?”
The two of you are sitting on top of the van, looking up at the night sky together. It's rare that you get moments like this, where they're able to sneak away from their base and meet you in the desert, and it makes you treasure them all the more.
“Nah, man,” they reply. “They're not made of fire, they're made of gas. Really, really hot gas.” You nod, feeling a bit stupid. Of course they're not made of fire; fire can't exist in space, there's no air. You're 32 goddamn years old, why can't you-
“Hey.” Pyro is staring at you intently, their brow furrowed. “I know that look. You're beating yourself up again, aren't you? Cut that shit out.”
You sigh, nodding. “Okay.” It's become habit after all these years, taking yourself down a peg. But there's a difference between keeping your ego in check and letting it hit rock bottom. At least that's what Pyro keeps telling you.
They cup your cheek with a gloved hand, the rubber squeaking against your stubble. “You're not stupid, Blue,” they say quietly. “I didn't even know that until I asked my Engie.”
You try to keep your gaze from their full, soft lips as they talk, try to keep your thoughts on the conversation. But you can't help but wonder what kissing them would be like; what their lips would feel like against yours, what their mouth would taste like. How they would kiss. You don't know how they would react, though, and you're not willing to risk the rejection of the only friend you have in this awful place.
“Are you even paying attention?” Warm blood heats your face as they pull away, laughing. “You look like a deer in headlights, oh my god!”
“Ugh,” you mumble, looking away. You can hear their laughter increase in volume, and shame burns as radiates from your face down to your twisting stomach. You doubt they mean to make fun of you, but the embarrassment that they caught you red-handed makes you want to dissolve into nothingness.
“So, what do you want?”
Oh no. “Nothing,” you squeak, your voice strangled. “Stop...stop laughing. It's not funny, dammit!” Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you thank god for sunglasses. You feel like a teenager at the end of a date, too shy to see their suitor off with a kiss.
“Blue...” You feel their gloved hand on your cheek again, and they force your head around, to turn and look at them. Their expression has turned from laughter to soft, gentle sympathy. It's not the expression you want; you don't want pity, not even from them. “Tell me what you want.”
“I...I...” The words feel trapped in your throat, choking you even as they try to get out. “I want to kiss you!” you finally blurt, curling in yourself, shaking with anxiety. “I'm sorry, I know we're just friends, but you're the only person who's been kind to me in ages, and I guess I...I don't even know, okay? I'm so bloody sorry, Pyro. Fuck.”
Their hand is still cupping your cheek, and they hook their thumb under your chin as they tug you forward. Their lips are as soft as they look, and their other hand moves to the nape of your neck as they pull you even closer. They taste like burnt sugar and black pepper.
Their kisses are warm, passionate, a little sloppy. You bump noses at least twice, which only makes them giggle and kiss you harder. They're so wonderful, and this is all you wanted. You never want this to end, you never want to stop kissing them.
But it ends, slower than it began, as they pull away slowly, smiling. “Fuck,” you whisper, as if speaking any louder will break the spell over you and ruin the moment forever. “I...I wasn't expecting that. No, not at all.”
“We don't have to be just friends, Blue,” they say. “We can be whatever we want. As long as you want it as much as I do.”
“I do want it.” More than anything, you want it. Whatever it is. You may even need it.
They silently curl into you, and resume staring up at the night sky. And you know that you no longer have to worry about what stars are made of, or what exactly Pyro thinks of you. You already know.