Disclaimer: tfios belongs to john green and not me.

Hazel picked the pepperoni slices off her pizza and balanced them in a teetering stack on her napkin.

Isaac was sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed, eating a slice of pizza and singing along to punk music. It was terrible. Both the song and his voice, which was muffled with pizza.

"Hey!" she yelled. "Turn it down!"

Isaac cocked his head to the left, pausing for a moment. Then he launched straight back into the song and screamed out the lyrics.

It sounded as if there were a dozen exclamation marks at every syllable.

She could leave right now, when two of his senses were pretty much annihilated. That would give him a real scare.

But she didn't want to. Not when there was so much pizza left.

Isaac finished his pizza and wiped the grease on his jeans. "Ba dum! Bang!" He felt around for the box and grabbed another slice. "Hazel!"

She didn't answer. Just to mess with him.

"Hazel?" His fingers found the remote controller and turned down the volume. "You there?"

Silence. Broken only by a screeching electric guitar solo.

"Lancaster!"

He shakily got to his feet and stumbled in the general direction of the stairs, tripping over an empty soda bottle and nearly falling. At which point Hazel called out, "Yeah?"

A smile stretched his lips. Hazel thought that it went well with the long, floppy blonde hair and dark sunglasses.

"To hell with you."

-
Isaac

Isaac really hated Support Group. Never mind the girl with the hot voice, who wasn't even hot anyway, according to Hazel.

First off, it didn't help. For someone who held weekly gatherings about life improvement, Patrick wasn't doing very well. Apparently, he was divorced, single and hopelessly addicted to video games and soda.

Secondly, Hazel wasn't even there. And even if she was, it wasn't like they could entertain each other by infinitesimal head shakes anymore. (Though he would have appreciated the car ride home. Really.)

Third, it reminded him of Augustus. Every time someone mentioned sleeping pills or anaesthetic, it brought to mind thoughts of earthly oblivion, and then – inevitably – of his friend. Who was selfless and thoughtful and charismatic and heartbreakingly handsome. Who was his other friend's first love. Who no longer existed. Who now lived in the great Something he'd always believed in.

Fourth, it made him keep trying to picture what the Literal Heart of Jesus looked like now. What colour was the argyle sweater Patrick was wearing? (He always wore an argyle sweater.) Had the perpetually flickering fluorescent lights been repaired or replaced? Who had taken the elevator today?

He really missed being able to see.

Thinking back, Isaac realized that he hadn't prepared himself for the surgery enough. He'd squandered all of his preparation time on grieving the loss of his trashbag, apathetic ex-girlfriend Monica. He should have realised that he would never watch his parents grow old or his little brother grow up, or play The Price of Dawn and pretend to be Max Mayhem.

Fucking cancer.

He would give practically anything to live in the visual world again, even if it was a world without Augustus.

And for some strange reason, he really missed looking at Hazel. At her plump baby cheeks and wide brown eyes. He couldn't understand why. Before that surgery, they'd hardly met up outside of Support Group.

He took a swig of his beer.

Isaac had stolen a six-pack of his dad's beer and was sitting outside on Hazel's doorstep at half past two, drinking away the pain. His headphones were on his lap, the music still playing. He could hear the drums, and the singer's s's.

The night was still and warm, strangely reminding him of pudding mixture that had been left to cool. He imagined that the sky was black and moonless, the streets empty but for parked cars and pools of light from streetlamps. Typical horror movie setting.

Maybe it was a little dangerous, but the alcohol was draining him of rational thought and he honestly couldn't care less. Maybe his life had hit its suckiness limit.

Another drink. A canful of yellow, bubbly intoxication.

Isaac shifted in his seat and ended up falling over the side, spilling beer all over the ground and his own face. He could feel it flowing over his hand.

Then he started to cry – flat-out sobbing that shook his whole body. He pulled his knees to his chest and cried for everything; the gasping loss of his vision, the absence of his best friend, the hopeless void that was now his future, the ball of cruelty that this damned planet had become. Tears flowed down his face, mingling with the alcohol on his lips and in his hair. He wanted to smash something. Anything. He wanted to yank the grass out by their roots and throw them at the neighbour's dog. But this wasn't the Night of the Broken Trophies – this was the Night of Lonely Grief, and Gus wasn't here to let him destroy his basement. Gus. Gus.

He finally fell asleep at about four, when his raging emotions had calmed enough for him to contemplate the odd taste of alcohol and human tears on his tongue.