𝑀ark says there's no sight more beautiful than your eyes: full of life and framed by long eyelashes that fan out when you open and close them. He likes watching them best when he's high, when you both are. How your pupils dilate, how they redden and crystallize. How they crinkle when you laugh at the silly things he murmurs in your ear. He can watch them open and close for hours, when his reality is distorted and everything seems to slow down, his senses so sharp he can hear your eyelashes brushing against your cheekbones as they close.

You ran away from home again. You're in Mark's van, which is like his home. He sleeps there, lives there. It's a big van, and your favorite thing about it is that the back opens up and he has a makeshift bed with warm lights.

So there you are, passing a joint around. Now you have it in your mouth, your back is against his chest, you're looking at the stars. You see patterns. They're moving. The colors are more vibrant, brighter.

Mark is behind you, wearing only his underwear because you're wearing his shirt, and his pants and your clothes are... somewhere in the mess of the van. He has one arm in front of you, over your shoulders.

— "Gimme' some, you almost finished it…" — Mark said, taking the joint from your mouth and putting it in his own; it was practically finished. — "Ya’ smoked it all."

Mark clicked his tongue, taking a long drag of what was left of the joint before putting it out.

— "Want another one?" — he whispered in your ear, kissing.