Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. The author does not own any of the following names or personalities. The author does not imply that the people mentioned within would act or have acted in the ways depicted. No money has been made from this.

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"Lars. Look!" Kirk tugged the sleeve of my jean jacket.

I opened my eyes and blinked at the stars above us. "What?"

Kirk fluttered his hand toward the sky. "See that?"

"What?"

"That!" He jabbed his finger in the air.

"Oh, yeah. A plane. What about it?"

"It's not a plane, Lars." Kirk rolled over on his side, picked a blade of grass from the leg of his jeans. He pushed his face into my hair so that his nose rubbed against my ear as he spoke. "You wanna know what it is?" His fingers crept up the lapel of my jacket.

I sighed. "What is it, Kirk?"

"It's the mother ship coming to take us home!" Kirk pounced on me, and I had just enough time to pull my arms out from under my head before he had me pinned to the ground.

"You silly fucker." I wrapped my arms around him, tried to throw my weight against him and maybe get him to let the air back into my lungs.

Kirk wiggled against me. "Aww, I love you too, Lars." His hand was wedged between us, yanking at the hem of my t-shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing?" And then I felt it. Kirk's cold, agile fingers, skating across my belly. I bit down on a peal of laughter. "Stop it!"

Kirk grinned. "Ooh, stop it, stop it, Lars is ticklish."

"Fuck you." I managed to catch him off guard this time, rolling him onto his back and pinning him. His chest heaved underneath mine. "I win." The moonlight made Kirk's teeth look especially white as he smiled at me. Then he hooked his leg around mine. His hand slid up to the back of my head.

"Yeah, you win." His gaze slid away from my face and fell to rest on the stars above us.

"Kirk?" I was distinctly aware of his heartbeat thudding against my chest. His eyelashes fluttered as he turned his head back toward me.

And with that look, it happened. I touched my cheek to those parted lips, felt their fullness and their firmness against my skin. "Kirk," I whispered again, my own lips barely brushing his cheek. His fingers pushed against the back of my head, and suddenly I was drinking him in, tasting him, running my tongue along the sweet curves of his lips and then deeper still, tracing the contours of his mouth, letting my tongue slide over his crooked teeth.

He gasped when I pulled away, left hand tightening its grip on the fabric of my jacket. Our faces were so close that I felt his panting breaths against my cheek. "About fucking time, Lars."

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