Of all the trials Zevran imagined he would face within his lifetime, blindness had never been one of them.

Blinking at his sleeping girlfriend, he tilted his head back in an attempt to have a glimpse of her. A blip of clarity startled him, and his heart leaped with excitement; for just a moment, he saw her. So perfect. It was common for him to see her pretty face and feel instant attraction. He loved her pouty lips and big, dark eyes. The shape of her face always did things to him especially when she wore her hair down. To see her sleeping so peacefully next to him, perfect lips as relaxed as her breath; this was the face of the woman who loved him, and he couldn't pinpoint the moment she became more than a pretty face.

He imagined there was no moment, only the culmination of shared experiences and vulnerability. She was so much more than a pretty face; she was everything. Is this why people get married? Is this why she wanted to marry Alistair?

Expression of his love seemed to be through art, and he had drawn her since he met her. Love at first sight? Maybe, and it wasn't important; such stories were cute, and he didn't feel particularly drawn to them. Wasn't it better to work for it? Healthier? He shuddered to imagine staying with someone solely because of an instant attraction, making a habit of them.

With neither of them working, they had become even closer, more intimately familiar, and he was not at all sick of having her around. They didn't seem to need alone time or any of the things he been afraid of. What was it he used to say? In too deep? Such a fear-based sentiment; in reality, he was in just right.

For how close he felt to her, he could almost call his injury a good thing apart from her tears and the anxiety medication she had started taking. What happened to Zevran rocked her world in such a way she couldn't seem to stabilize again, her wounds torn wide open. Lots of therapy, lots of medication, and given Zevran had no memory of what happened to him, he could not relate. Zevran brushed his nose against hers, and kissed her. She returned his kiss with a sigh.

"Sleep well, amor?" He spoke softly, running his fingers down her face, trying not to poke her in the eye again; he brushed her hair with his fingers. "You just sleep kissed me." He chuckled, pulling away from her. If she wasn't ready to wake, he wouldn't force it upon her. "You're so fuckin' cute," he whispered, sitting up.

He turned on the bedside lamp, more of a habit than helpful; an illuminated blur wasn't much better than a dark one. He felt around his table for his pencil and sketchbook. Squinting at the tip of his pencil, he couldn't tell if it was sharp enough so he tapped it with the tip of his finger. Whatever, close enough.

The familiar sounds and sensations of pencil on paper satisfied something, and he tilted his head to try to see what he was doing. Far too difficult to contort his neck and hold the paper and pencil the way he was accustomed, but he was determined to make it work. Squinting, head tilting did little to help him feel as if he was actually drawing something, and he had to chuckle at himself; it still felt amazing to try.

He had a sense of learning again as he held the pencil with an iron grip. Several times, his pencil drifted off the paper as he scribbled. I'm drawing nothing, he smiled, and kept going; it still felt like creation. He heard her waking sigh, felt the bed shift with her stretch.

"Hey pumpkin," she whispered with a yawn. Her hand ran affectionately along his leg. "You're drawing?"

"Si." He held it out toward her. "It is supposed to be you."

"It's going on the fridge," she giggled, scooting closer to him. So precious and sweet, Nyla could not fucking believe someone would hurt him, taking his eyes and his livelihood. Career over, hobbies gone… she watched him try to reinvent himself time and time again and it infuriated her, gave her a sense of helplessness, and despite what logic told her it felt like it was all her fault.

"No, really amor, tell me what it looks like." Without being able to see her face, Zevran couldn't tell if he had been understood.

Nyla did not want to be slapped in the face with everything first thing in the morning… but there it was. "It looks like when you picked up the pencil and put it back down, you put it down in the wrong place. I imagine it would be quite good if you did it… linearly? Does that make sense?"

"Yes." He smiled for her. "From one end to the other without lifting the pencil and losing my place."

"Yeah! It looks fantastic here, and there's too much distance between these two points, and here, you started again too high." she stopped pointing, and palmed her face. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm pointing. That was so dumb."

"No, everything made sense… I did not have to see to get what you are saying." Her quivering breath told him she was withholding tears again, and he moved to place the sketchbook on the table, missed completely and it hit the floor with a loud thud. "Shit."

"Dammit, I'm sorry."

"Don't cry, amor, everything is okay," he spoke urgently, moving toward his lovely, weeping blur.

"Nothing feels okay right now." She tried to pull her shit together, letting out a choked up sob. "Sorry."

"Here is how I see it," he began, cutting himself off with a chuckle. Reaching toward her, he felt around for an identifiable limb.

"Too soon," she sniffled, reaching out to guide him as he seemed to be a bit lost in trying to find his way to the cuddles.

"Here is how I see it." He hummed appreciatively as he curled into her arms; always so warm, always smelling so good, like lavender and peppermint; his storybook princess. "I have been through worse, with less Nyla."

"Just because you've had it hard and had less support, that doesn't make this good."

"You know I'm not saying that," he insisted. "Work with me here, amor. Things are not so bad. Problems are so much easier to deal with when you have tons of money to throw at them. We have a safe place to live. We have each other. I have no clue what this would be like without you."

She backed away from him, trying to process a million thoughts and a million little pains. He could have died, but he didn't, and he's blind now but what if it is forever? What would he do? Can I take care of a blind man? Can I be everything to him? What if I can't? What if I fuck it up? What if I'm the worst possible thing for him? What if the doctors aren't doing enough? What if there's more going on and he just falls over dead? They always fucking die!

"Zevran?" She stammered wondering if perhaps she was finally going crazy. "There's something wrong with me."

"Apart from your heart beating too hard, no." He pulled her head to his chest. "I don't know what's happening in that pretty head, and whatever it is, I still love it."

She laughed and cried in his arms. "You're so much more sane than me."

"It has nothing to do with sanity. Do you remember the other day when I tried to paint?" He stroked her hair; a gesture that calmed her in the worst of times.

"That was fun," Nyla chuckled with a sniffle. "We looked so cute. All naked and covered in paint."

"Mm hm," he felt her soften in his arms.

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Waking on the couch curled up with his head on her lap, he could hear her sleepy breath over the low volume of their television. For the first time since being home he didn't feel like throwing up as he moved.

"I feel a bit better, amor," he whispered, caressing her bare thigh. Mmm… tiny shorts.

Deep in sleep, Zevran didn't feel good about waking her. Standing tentatively, he followed along the couch with his hand and closed his eyes as it felt much easier to get around without so much visual nonsense throwing him off.

Along the wall, up the three stairs, down the hall, the second door on the right, Zevran went into his studio. His personal space, filled with his paintings and everything he needed to create them. The scent of dried acrylics relaxed him, like finally coming home after being away for so long.

With arms out in front of himself, he opened his eyes, sunlight pouring in through bay windows made him hiss with burning discomfort. He stood still for a few moments, listening to his breath and the pitter-patter of kitty paws on the wood floor followed by a gentle mew. When he finally opened his eyes again, Zevran smiled at a momentary glimpse of a blank canvas on his easel and all his brushes laid out. For just a moment he saw the world with picture perfect clarity; this was good.

Zevran picked up his brushes one at a time, felt the familiar softness of bristles, frowning at one he had forgotten to clean. Dried oil paint; this brush deserved better.

"Dammit, Zevran," he whispered, tossing it back to the table with an irritated sigh; it was going to bug him until he had a chance to fix it.

Choosing a fat brush, he felt around and found a single tube of paint. Holding it up he saw no indication of color, and gathered it must be white.

"Lame," he whispered, putting it back and felt around at his feet for his paint box.

Pulling out another color, he tilted his head and squinted; blue, or perhaps green. With a shrug, he felt around for his palette, and disregarded the lumps of dried paint on it. He had no intent in painting any particular thing, only wanted to feel a brush on canvas, to enjoy himself, and perhaps have a memento of the silly thing he made when he was blind.

"It will go away," he whispered to himself, reaching out. With a confused glare, his brush never landed on its target. "What the fuck."

Stepping closer, he overcompensated, hitting the canvas with his outstretched brush. Giggling at himself, Zevran caught the canvas with a clumsy grasp and balanced it back on its easel. So, his depth perception was a little off, he could deal with that. A line drawing; he could pull off basic lines, couldn't he? The sounds and sensations of a brush on canvas relaxed him, and he sighed with contentment as he painted in big broad strokes.

"Mi amor," he whispered, uncaring if he painted her lips in the right place. "Preciosa."

Leaning his head back and a little to the right, he tried to see, wondering why it worked so much better with Nyla's hand beneath his chin. "Nyla makes everything better," he whispered, straining to see his progress.

With a sharp intake of air, Zevran dropped his brush and pallet, vision in his right eye suddenly half gone. He backed away in startled amazement, tripping over the stool Nyla sat on as she watched him paint. Landing hard on his ass he caught himself on his hands, the stool clattering away.

"Zevran?" She called out to him.

"Nyla?" He called back, hearing the loud footfalls of her running through the house.

"Honey," she knelt by him, speaking gently, but with urgency. "Honey, did you hit your head?"

"No," he replied breathlessly, his heart beating hard as he stared at the new anomaly in his vision. "I made it worse, Nyla. I can't see here, it's black. Like I only have half a fucking eye, I made it fucking worse."

"No baby, this isn't your fault." Folding her arms around him, he clung to her, his cheek against her breasts. "Just breathe, it's okay. It's a vision cut, like the doctor said might happen. Remember?"

"No!" It felt like he couldn't catch his breath. "What if this is my fucking life now? I thought I was improving."

"I know you're scared." She spoke in soothing tones as he held tighter to her. "It's okay to be scared."

"I don't know what to fucking do with myself." He wept, and could not be held tight enough. "I am so fucking bored. I don't want to be fucking blind."

"I know. I'm here." She could hear the grief and fear in his tears, recognizing it to be so similar to her own. "I'm here, honey pumpkin. I love you so much," she whispered, cooing at him, reassuring him and letting him purge. "I'm here."

He calmed after a time, feeling shaky, vulnerable but safe in her arms. "You are very good to me."

"I think I could be better," she sighed, kissing the top of his head.

"You do everything for me. How could you possibly do more?"

"Inviting you into things other than cuddling and meals." She smiled, let him go, and tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Taking the lead and doing things with you so you don't feel so bored and lost."

He chuckled tearfully with a sniffle as his shirt slid over his head. She guided him to lay back.

"Wait right here, sexy man," she purred, kissing his belly. "I'm going to paint you."

He pursed his lips, wiped fresh tears away and then tucked his clasped hands behind his head as a pillow. "I wish to see what you paint, amor."

"I'll take pictures." Backing away from him, she saw tears drip down his temples. "You'll see them when you're better."

He heard her grunt as she dragged his box of paints, heard her gathering paintbrushes. In his mind's eye he could picture her holding several brushes in her fist and he didn't have what it took to explain how badly he hated it when the bristles of one brush touched another.

"Here," she whispered, touching the crown his head with a throw pillow. As he tucked it behind his head, she dragged her fingertips along his bare torso. "Would you like some music?"

"No, thank you, mi vida." He took a deep, calming breath, in through his nose and out his mouth.

"What does that mean?" She asked, gathering several tubes of paint, she squirted a rainbow of dots around the teal blob of paint Zevran had placed on it before.

"Love of my life," he smiled when a cold brush touched his skin and dragged along his belly. "What are you painting?"

"Can you guess?"

"A heart?" He sniffled, tears ceasing as she blew on the paint, making it feel colder.

"Guess again, pumpkin."

Nyla made the familiar shape again and he furrowed his brow. "Two hearts?"

"It's a butterfly," she whispered, blowing on the paint again while watching his smile. The crease between his eyebrows smoothed out. Grabbing a second brush, she began painting on him with both hands.

"Now that feels wild," Zevran said with a sigh. "What are you painting now? Another butterfly?"

"A heart." They both giggled, and she nudged the hem of his sleep pants down. "I think I'll draw a flower next."

Gentle strokes soothed him, each line of paint turning cold as she blew on it. She used a larger, soft brush, gliding it along his arms without paint, a smaller paint-covered brush following it. Focusing on so many sensations, she occasionally surprised him with a soft kiss.

"How long have I been sleeping?"

"Like, ten seconds, sugar." Nyla chuckled, continuing a line along his arm. "It's okay if you want to sleep."

"I sleep too much," he whispered with a sigh, both brushes trailing across his collarbone. "Are you painting something now? Just a design?"

"Now I'm just giving you something to feel, my love." She kissed the tip of his nose as she shuffled to the opposite side of him on her knees. "I love how relaxed you look."

Hearing her speak it, he felt permission to relax into it further, his shoulders releasing tension he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Thank you, Nyla. I love you."

"I love you." She kissed his shoulder and proceeded to squirt paint across her fingers. "Fingerpainting time." Her wide grin matched his, and she drew a violet colored line across his forehead. "I'm going to draw a purple dick on your forehead."

Zevran snorted, laughed, his face scrunched with his wide grin, and he grabbed at her wrist playfully. "How dare."

"Too late to complain, I've already drawn like eight dicks on you."

"You didn't!" He pulled her hand to his mouth to bite her, and she squirmed and squealed, trying with minimal effort to pull away from him.

"But I thought you liked-" She squealed again, as he sat up and wrestled her onto her back, his forearm landing on the pallet. "Paint!" Cackling as his forearm swiped across her shirt and along her cheek, she didn't know which to complain about first. "My shirt!"

"I will buy you a new one," he giggled, straddling her squirming form. Pulling her shirt over her head, he felt around to his left for the pallet.

"Toward our feet more. Little further. Now toward us… shit, why did I help you?"

"Because you're too cute." Scraping his fingers across what was left of the pigment on the pallet, he dragged his fingertips along her chest and the swell of her breasts. Nyla's paint covered fingers brushed along his cheek, along his neck, over his collarbones, and he mimicked her movements; lines of paint thinning as they caressed each other shoulders, biceps, inner elbows, forearms, sticky paint-covered palms. Zevran dared to open his eyes, and with a wave of dizziness and nausea he flopped onto her.

"You okay?" Nyla wrapped her arms around him. "Dizzy?"

"No… no, Zevran just felt like crushing the air from you."

"Come on, pumpkin. Let's go get a bath."

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"You were gentle with me. Very sweet." Zevran could feel her heart still beating hard. "You brought the sanity then."

"I did," she sniffled with a deep sigh.

"All kinds of things go to shit, and you're always there to handle it."

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"You okay?" Nyla responded to his sudden shudder and gasp. "Headache?"

"Headache," he sighed.

"I'll get your medicine."

"The medicine makes me feel strange," he whined, wincing.

"They make you act strange, too. Be right back." Retrieving his medicine, a glass of water and two cold packs, she returned to the living room to find him laid on the couch with a palm over his eyes. Pulling the curtains closed, she turned off the television, dimmed the lights and sat on the floor. "Open your mouth," she whispered, dropping two pills in his mouth followed by a straw.

Nudging the hand away from his eyes she replaced it with a cold pack, slipping the other beneath his neck; he let out a strangled groan.

"I promise it'll stop in twenty minutes," she whispered, taking his hand. "Deep breaths, pumpkin."

Time seemed to crawl as he shuddered and groaned, breathing through the ache and pressure; relief snuck up on him.

Zevran rolled onto his side to face her. "You sat there on the floor and held my hand the whole time, it helped a lot. Dimming the lights helped too. Also the cold packs were great, more of a distraction than a relief, though. It kind of felt like my head was being squeezed really hard and my eyes wanted to fall out. I hope they don't, shit. Amor, have you ever had a headache so fucking bad you felt like your head was being squeezed really hard and your eyes might fall out and then you also wish to throw up?"

"I can't say that I have," she giggled, stroking his arm. "It feels all better now?"

"Well, mostly. What's left of the pain I don't give a shit about so yes, I could say it feels all better now. It is wild to be in so much physical pain, I have never been injured like this. I like thinking about how rough it is and how ridiculously awesome things will be when it's over. I miss seeing things, I miss painting. I miss seeing you, especially. And there's this way I feel weird when we are talking and I cannot see your face I have no idea what you must be thinking. I didn't realize how much I rely on body language to feel secure with you."

"You can always ask, darling," she cupped his cheek with her palm. "Does touch feel okay right now?"

"No."

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"See… you help me when shit gets too hard, then I help you when shit gets too hard. You are always there, and always perfect. I am still not over how you called my parents for me and delivered the news gently, so I hear."

"I was just being a decent human being."

"No, listen. One moment they are excited for our visit, the next I am injured. Whatever you did has them completely enamored with you and they demand to know when our wedding is."

Nyla giggled, "God dammit."

"Mamá told me you are a keeper and you will tire of waiting for me to ask you. And while we are on the subject… it occurs to me, we are really fucking good at being partners."

"Uh oh." She giggled and sniffled. "You're about to go there, aren't you?"

"Mm hmm." Zevran ran his fingers down her cheeks and along her smiling lips. "We should get married." The smile beneath his fingertips didn't falter, and he giggled at how tense she became in his arms. "Am I the only one who thinks this, or no?"

"Um…" Fingers brushing over her eyes forced her to close them. "You can't accurately feel what my eyes are doing."

"And still I try." His hands wandered her face, and he didn't expect a yes, or give a shit whatever her answer; all he wanted was for her to know his desires. "You would have a cool name. Nyla Arainai."

"My therapist told me not to make any major decisions under duress."

"You let me know when you're ready, if ever, hmm?"

"So," she spoke with a quivering sigh, "it's my turn to ask you?"

Nyla's finger's caressed his face, across his lips and he caught her finger between his teeth. "Yeth."

"Ow. That's... fair."