A/N: I wrote this little one-shot (Romeo and Juliet-themed) and figured I may as well put it up here. I've got a few more stashed away, and I might turn this into a drabble sort of thing, a collection of one-shots, depending on how people respond to this one. At any rate, enjoy!

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I claim no rights nor ownership to the Lunar Chronicles franchise nor any of its consequent subsidiaries.

On Stars

"When he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he shall be the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun."

-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare Collection)

WHEN I WAS a little girl, I used to fall asleep not by counting sheep, but by counting stars. I would press my nose to the window of my satellite, glass cool against the flushed tip of my nose, and face the empty black void. It seemed to twinkle, winking coyly at me with a flirtatious smile. Stars are not made of light and color, but of every shade missing from the rainbow, a lack of life. Indescribable, unexplainable, one of those mysteries destined to remain a mystery.

I am not little anymore; I am grown big. My blue dresses are snug on my figure, my toes too big to pinch into my tiny shoes. I am free now, in space by choice instead of imprisonment.

But even grown women are sometimes haunted by the nightmares that lurk in the dark, and in such times I wrap a blanket around my shoulders, creep to the window of the Rampion, and watch the world pass by from afar, numbering the stars until I fell asleep.

When I was young, I memorized the names of stars and constellations. Pegasus, a winged horse, made of stars called Markab, Scheat, Algenib, Enif, Homam, Matar, Balham, and Salm. Cassiopeia, the cursed queen in her throne, made of Shedir, Caph, Ruchbah, Segin, Achird, and Marfak. They light a trail through the sky, the stars and the constellations they weave, and one day I dreamed of having a star to myself, an indescribable void of my own called Cress.

I sit now by the window, cross-legged on the floor, leaning my head against the glass. There's some serenity in open space, a gaping maw. Beautiful, peaceful. Dangerous and cruel. Beauty is not soft and round, it is sharp as a razor.

"Cress?"

I startle, head snapping up. Thorne stands a few feet away, in plaid pajamas and a rumpled t-shirt, hair sticking up in disarray. His eyes are bleary from sleep. A tingle runs through my arms, burrowing itself in my belly in pleasure. "Cress," he said again, clearing his throat. "What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

"It's always the middle of night in space."

His lips quirk upward, and even in his sleep-muddled state, he is so devilishly handsome that for a moment, my breath snags. "I suppose that's true," he mutters.

"I couldn't sleep," I confess, looking down at my hands. "I came here to count stars."

He walks over to me, bare feet padding on the floor. He sits down next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder, and an electric jolt travels through my skin, making me more awake than ever. "Is that so?" he whispers, blue eyes brighter even than the brightest star.

I clear my throat. "When I was little," I say, "I learned the names of the stars and the constellations. Like that one, there," I say, pointing to a white-silver pinprick, "that's Gemini, one of the Zodiac constellations. Stars are Castor, Pollux, Alhena, Wasat, Mebsuta, Mekbuda, Propus, Tejat Posterior, and Alzirr."

Thorne smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My locks are shorn close now, hanging near my collarbone, just brushing against my shoulder. He seems entranced by it, and for the barest whisper of a moment, a hairsbreadth of a hint of a millisecond, the light of the stars catches on the golden strand, silver against gold, and it glimmers as if it were a star itself. "Tell me another one," he murmurs.

"Oh," I say, my voice unsteady. "Well, that, there, that one's Ursa Major. Stars are Dubhe, Merak, Phad, Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, Alkai, Talitha, Tania Borealis, Alula Borealis, Alula Australis, Muscida, and Alcor."

Thorne leans in and presses a kiss to my lips, impossibly gentle, impossibly sweet. His arms wrap around me, soft and safe and warm, so much more reassuring than the window, so much more intoxicating than even the stars in the sky. He tastes of mint toothpaste and smells of aftershave, his stubbly chin scratching against the softness of my own cheek.

"You know," I whisper, our noses touching, our breath ragged, "there's an old second-era play by a man named Shakespeare called Romeo and Juliet. The two are lovers, trapped in an impossible love. And when things come to worst, Juliet says, 'Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-browed night, give me my Romeo. And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.'"

Thorne's blue eyes flash. "Cress," he says, voice raw, looking, for an odd moment, completely vulnerable, "were you to ever become a star, the sun would cease to exist. It would wither up and die in envy, because you would outshine everything in the sky."

My lips part. "'Oh, I have bought a mansion of love, but not yet possessed it, and though I am sold, not yet enjoyed.'"

"Love," Thorne says, his mouth so near to mine that his upper lip brushes against mine, "I've always been yours for the taking."

And then there's no more time for talking, no more time for counting stars, because Thorne's arms have ensnared me, brought me home, and his kisses burn brighter than the sun.