#I mean I'm having surgery on my eardrum next month... but that's such a short and simple procedure that it doesn't count

[running-in-the-dark]

I'm pretty sure I can never let myself have any kind of surgery that isn't absolutely necessary ever again and it really kind of sucks

[crimsonbluemoon]

terrormoo with ~~(will you still need me, will you still feed me, when i'm)~~ 64?

Hey look, its me not keeping this short because I suck at keeping drabbles short. >,< Please enjoy anyways

Couple: Terrormoo Number: 64 Prompt:“It’s two sugars, right?”

“Good morning, welcome to-oh, hello again.” Brock knew his face turned pink from the familiar edge to the barista’s voice, proving that his frequency at the cafe wasn’t missed. He couldn’t see the face of the man in front of him, his eyes refusing to function no matter how many nights he prayed they’d blink open to sunlight the next day. Doctors and nurses were always supportive that the brain swelling he’d experienced six months ago was fully gone, meaning there was no medical reason that his eyesight continued to elude him. But just like the day before, and the week before, and the month before, nothing had changed. Brock was still as blind as he’d been after getting thrown down a flight of stairs at his collage campus during a mugging gone wrong last winter. 

The worst part was, he wasn’t even the person being robbed; he could have just kept walking when seeing the two guys cornering the freshman in the history building. But his mother always taught him that doing nothing when someone was in danger was worse than being the one committing the crime, and so he’d acted. She got away with her belongings and gratitude, the robbers were still awaiting their trial for their blatant assault, and Brock?

Brock was left in the darkness for another day. 

“Hi Ryan,” Brock said, hoping his smile didn’t show his bleak outlook at the moment. He’s gotten to know most of the cafe workers years ago, so hearing the tones and pitches was enough for him to tell them apart a few weeks after his surgery. 

“Your usual? Or would you like me to put the cream and-”

“Just the black coffee, please.” He knew that putting himself through this embarrassment every morning was borderline masochistic. Evan had told him several times that he wasn’t weak for needing help while his eyes healed. But Brock had given up so much of his rituals and routines for CAT scans and doctors appointments, that he selfishly held onto the one piece of his old life he couldn’t part from. It was the last thing that made him feel normal, even if it was hell to get through it.

 Ryan’s sympathy was bittersweet and silent, but Brock could practically feel it in the slow way he guided the cup of coffee to Brock’s hand. The walk to the condiments island was slow and meticulous, his cane loud when hitting into the edge of a chair and two tables. Losing his sight made the whispers of ‘blind’ and ‘poor thing’ echo like cymbals in his ears, but his hands were too full to block out the words. He nearly tipped over the cup after the edge of it clipped the counter, but he managed to keep it steady. The lid popped off easily, and he managed to pour four creamers into his coffee before a wave of noise threw off his balance. The cafe felt busier than normal, the pattern of hurried feet and cheerful conversations enough to momentarily overwhelm him. He couldn’t see anything, but he still closed his eyes and took a breath to meet the anxiety in his chest. He was okay, he was safe and strong and able to rise above this-

“Jesus, dude, you’re taking up the whole counter.” The entitled voice rang sharp against his eardrum, like a hot sword right off the blacksmith’s kiln. He was bumped to the side, which made him flinch without thought, and yelped at the searing heat that splashed over his hand. It made all of his senses spiral in pain. He froze in panic, even as the coffee burned his skin and rolled down his fingers. He didn’t know where the napkins were, he didn’t know how to stop the pain or the noise or anything-

“Hey, are ye fockin stupid?” A new voice, angry and sweet wrapped into an Irish blend of comfort, peppered Brock’s ear from the other side. A touch he knew from too many mornings (though none before his accident, as the man had only started working there four months ago) dropped to his skin. He didn’t shy away from the soft hand that slid the cup out of his grasp, a cool fabric quick to drape over his burning flesh. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of the palm on his spine, guiding (without any force) to the left until Brock’s shoulder bumped a steady wall that moved with the person’s breathing. “I thought Brocky was the blind one, but your dumb ass obviously can’t see shite.” 

“Wait, he’s-oh, fuck. Sorry, Brian, I didn’t know-”

“Course ya didn’t, cause you’re an idiot. Get out of here before I knock ya head off.” The sharp bite of the accent contrasted the soft thumb absentmindedly rubbing along the bottom of Brock’s back. He tried not to shiver at the touch, knowing Brian could feel his movements from how their bodies pressed against each other. Scurrying steps proved the other man heard the threat, and the slow release of breath from the chest rubbing against his shoulder showed Brian had relaxed. “You okay? That coffee got cha good.” 

“I’m fine, just my hand,” Brock answered quickly, feeling eyes watching them from all over the cafe. But there was no tension in the body that curled around his with a comfort that proved Brian didn’t see him as the blind customer; he just saw Brock. 

“Let me see if we’ve got any burn cream in the back, alright? I’ll bring you a new coffee, too; it’s two sugars, right? With that nasty skim creamer-”

“Stop making fun of my coffee; I am a paying customer and I will report you. With how you just talked to that guy, and all the other people who had ‘bugged’ me, I bet that’d be the last straw before Luke fired you.” Brock’s sass was met with a soft chuckle, and he silently mourned the loss of the warmth along his body when Brian pulled away. But a second later, a soft brush of chapped lips fluttered across his temple, Brock’s air slamming against his chest with enough force to choke him. Because without his eyesight to tell him otherwise, that almost felt like a...

“You’d miss me.” Then the barista was off, taking most of his warmth with him. Brock’s unburnt hand trembled as it brushed his temple, the only place Brian’s heat lingered. 

“I would,” he whispered to himself, praying his eyesight would return soon. 

Because he wanted to look at the man who’d stolen his heart when he told him how much he loved him.