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The room is way too damn hot and Allison could really go for a joint.
There’s a little bit of a breeze stirring Malia’s curtains, but it’s too weak to even brush at the sweat clinging to Allison’s skin. She kicks away the thin sheet, modesty be damned, and rolls over onto her stomach, trying to find a cooler spot on the bed.
It doesn’t work.
By the time Malia comes back from the bathroom smelling like mint toothpaste, Allison's body temperature has finally started to descend, but she still feels uncomfortably sticky, especially on the inside of her thighs. The bed creaks as Malia flops down beside her, still very much naked, their short hair sticking out in every direction. They lean over to rustle through the milk crate serving as a nightstand and come back with a plastic baggie containing a slightly crumpled, already rolled joint.
“You read my mind,” Allison sighs contently, wriggling over and pressing her head against Malia's firm thigh.
“Don’t too get excited,” Malia mumbles, rustling around some more until they find a battered Zippo lighter, slightly tinged with rust. “I bought this off Stiles, so it might be the weakest shit ever.” After a few tries, the lighter finally sparks and Malia presses the flame to the loose paper at the end of the joint until it catches. They take a deep inhale before leaning over and pressing it between Allison’s parted lips.
Malia’s right; it’s pretty damn weak, but weed is still weed, and she fills her lungs with the fragrant smoke. After she's exhaled and passed it back, she rolls onto her back again and stares up at the ceiling. A few old glow in the dark stars dimly shine down at her.
They smoke in silence. Allison keeps staring at the stars, trying to figure out if they're supposed to be arranged in a constellation. Malia strokes Allison's hair away from her face and, every so often, gently nudges the still-healing hoop through their lower lip with their thumb. By the time Malia extinguishes the joint in a glass of cloudy water sitting on the floor, Allison's stomach is starting to rumble. She's sure that there's food somewhere in the room; Malia has a habit of hiding snacks wherever they go, like they're preparing for a long winter.
But, hungry as she is, Allison is also drowsy and getting off the bed just seems so hard.
"Can I draw something?" Malia asks, just as Allison is starting to think she might be about to drift off.
"Sure," she mumbles. "Where?" Malia thinks about it for a moment, stroking their long fingers down Allison's side and over the curve of her hip.
"Your back," they respond. Allison obediently rolls over once more and drags one of Malia's battered pillows under her head. Malia hops off the bed and rustles through the milk crate once more, throwing things across the room. When they come back, they're clutching an old soup can that is now full of colorful pens. Allison gets herself completely comfortable, since she's not sure how long she'll need to stay still. Malia's gotten very interested in drawing lately, ever since they decided to try and become a tattoo artist. Allison isn't sure if it's a phase that will pass (three months ago, Malia had been convinced that they were going to head a roller derby team, and that idea had only lasted a few weeks), but in the meantime, she doesn't mind if Malia uses her as a canvas.
Malia pulls the sheet back up to cover Allison's legs and ass before they get in position, straddling the back of Allison's thighs. Their fingers trace up and down the line of Allison's spine, tracing out patterns that Allison is not nearly awake enough to decipher. It's the very definition of soothing and Allison snuggles further into the bed, burying her face in Malia's pillow.
By the time Malia draws their first line, Allison is too tired to even notice the slight pinch as the pen drags along her skin.
When she wakes up at six in the morning and stumbles into the bathroom, dry-mouthed and sweaty once again, she catches a glimpse of color on her shoulder as she passes by the mirror. She twists around and gasps, taken aback by the sheer breadth of what Malia has drawn.
Her entire back, from the base of her neck to the dip of her spine, has been covered in a forest scene. Trees reach up and curve around her sides, their branches filled with tiny birds. More animals are visible in shadow, although it's difficult to tell exactly what they are; rabbits, maybe, or squirrels. Flowers poke up from the grass and in the middle of it all is a deer with a huge rack of antlers stretching towards the sky. Some of the drawing is slightly smeared from sweat but it's still incredible, the most beautiful thing Allison has seen Malia (or anyone, really) draw in a very long time.
While she still feels disgusting, she settles for just brushing her teeth and putting on some deodorant before she climbs back into bed, making sure to lay on her stomach.
She can wait a little longer to shower; after all, it would be a sin, she thinks, to wash off Malia's art before she at least got a photo of it.