I can't decide if it's a good thing that the vision bestowed upon me by the almighty Lord is basically useless.

Don't get me wrong, being next to blind isn't a bundle of laughs in most cases – but every now and then, it proves to come in pretty handy. Like when Lindy used to trick me into binding ropes and attach me to her car so I had no choice but to attend the stupid, overrated parties all teenagers live for. Back then, I refused to allow any of my so called 'friends' to dress me up (assuming they were my friends, as anyone all but dragging me to ridiculous get-togethers wouldn't generally be transferred to my good books). I did, however, grant them the small mercy of removing my glasses from me and placing them on the sideboard before we went on our way.

Glasses, I was told, are not sexy.

We now come to one of the good points about being visually impaired.

It's nice to have everything in sharp focus all the time, but a bonus of being short-sighted is that stepping outside without visual aid, everything is a blurry mess. The lights from speeding cars and buildings and street lamps blend together into a cacophony of rainbows. Being an art student, I could appreciate this singularly pretty look at the usually boring roads of London. It was nice.

How about when you step into the loud and (not that you would ever admit it) kind of scary home, where underage drinking and smoking and drugs and sex seem to be part of the terrifying norm?

If a guy approaches you, the probability of you accepting his invitation to dance is greater than if you could actually see – basically because you don't have the opportunity to question his looks. His face is simply a blob, and dancing with a blob makes life sweetly simple.

Then this unnamed, dashing blob of a fellow offers to take you home.

Do you accept? Of course. Everyone is beautiful and kind in your unfocused world.

As you step outside with this mysterious male, there is a delightful pre-written rule that you can hold onto his arm for the entire journey home. You're practically blind for Christ's sake! You need his manly assistance!

Then again, if he tries anything, you can do little more than swing your arms around madly and hope that the resounded thunk! is you shoving him down. If that doesn't work, it's alright. Scream bloody murder.

Two years after the house party which I've used as an example for the Beautiful Benefits of Blindness, I, Lucy Hawpworth, at the fun age of eighteen, invested in contact lenses.

Despite all of the perks of blurry night-time strolls and dancing blobs, being practically molested in the street and bumping into every damn thing in the house turned my favours against living blindly.

We come now to the fateful day when the doorbell rang at two in the morning.

I exaggerate. It was six am, but as I rolled out of bed and smacked against the hard, lino floorboards, the pain and anger and murderous thoughts filling my body and mind were identical to what they would have been four hours earlier.

I was tired and pissed off. And the doorbell thought it had a right to ring so fucking early.

The cheek of it.

My psychotic art teacher had forced me to stay out particularly late the night before for some sort of an exhibition. A 'once in a life time opportunity', as he called it.

The result of sticking around for this spectacular display was a notebook filled with nonsensical notes and sketches, a banging headache and my drunken mouth spewing bullshit at every breathing thing which passed me on my way home.

Being woken up disgustingly early the morning after did nothing to brighten my already depressingly damp mood.

Whoever it was embracing the doorbell didn't seem to want to let up. It continued to ring in the next sixty seconds that I lay on the floor and contemplated suicide. On the fifth round of blaring noise, I pushed myself onto my feet and stumbled and tripped and cursed my way attractively to the front door.

"Whoever you are, I hate you."

It was then that I noticed my current predicament. After pulling the door open, I found myself glaring grumpily at a slouching blob. I didn't have contact lenses or even my emergency pair of snazzy glasses handy. I was blind and even more unhappy than I had been ten seconds ago.

"Guten Morgen, sunshine."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Really Harvey," I glared at the shapes which made up his face with distaste. "Your frustrating personality knows no bounds."

I think he bowed at that point. "For you, sweet Lucille, anything."

"Would it be rude if I demanded that you sod off?"

A disarming strip of white appeared near the top of his blobby self, indicating that he was smiling. "Perhaps, but I'd be expecting it."

"Sod off, then."

"I think I might ignore you." He replied in an amused voice. "I need you."

I rolled my eyes. "You can have me after a couple more hours of sleep."

He shook his head, and I heard the jingling of coins in his pocket. "I need you now."

I sighed. "Harvey, as romantic as that is, I'm not having sex with you."

"I never asked you to."

"Fine." I huffed, ignoring the disappointed swell of my chest. "Then whatever it is, it can wait."

"No it can't." Harvey put a foot in front of the door frame so I couldn't lock him out. "Durkin's making me come in every Saturday to show him my shit – he says it's because I'm failing spectacularly."

"You are." I said curtly.

The blob that was his head moved. "It's clearly because he's gay and fancies the absolute crap out of me."

I couldn't help snorting at that. I tried desperately to control my laughter around Harvey, just to prove that he wasn't actually as funny as most people made out, but that generally made the amused noises I couldn't keep in check escape as unattractive chortles. It was only slightly humiliating.

"As much as I appreciate you sharing your revelation with me, I really don't give a fuck." I smiled at him sweetly before attempting to shut the door.

It bounced off his shoe.

"Harvey." I said calmly, staring down at his blurred feet. "Move."

They disappeared.

His feet just disappeared.

I panicked for a moment, snapping my head around to see where he had gone, but to no avail. It was only when I heard a throaty chuckle from behind me that my nerves cooled slightly and I calmed myself with the knowledge that no, Harvey hadn't been zapped into space by green men in flying saucers. I wasn't going crazy.

Fuck, I hated not being able to see.

"Harvey!" I wailed, spinning around and stumbling back into the flat.

"You said move."

"I meant move away! I meant you should leave!" It was pointless. I couldn't find him. It was all a God damned blur!

I heard him laugh. "You can't see, can you?"

No way in hell would I let Harvey Sampson laugh at me. I hadn't experienced his mocking of my disability since I was seven years old, and I wasn't planning on allowing it to repeat any time soon.

"I can." I said quickly, lowering my flailing arms and attempting to focus my vision on something. "I can see very well, thank you."

"Then where am I?"

Again with the panicking. I stuck out my arm and waved it vaguely. "Over there." I muttered. "Obviously."

I let out a startled shriek when I felt his breath on my left cheek.

"What the absolute fuck!" I leapt away from him, rubbing frantically at the spot on my face he had warmed. He chuckled again, the evil git.

"I need your help."

"With what?" I yelled, wrapping my arms around myself.

"Art." I heard his feet shuffle as he moved closer to me, and I instinctively stepped backwards. "You're good at the whole essay writing thing. Help me analyse the shit and I'll go."

"No." I said immediately. "It's six in the morning and I'm tired. And anyway, the whole point is that you do it yourself."

"I only came early 'cause I knew you'd kick up a fuss."

"Of course I'm going to kick up a fuss if you wake me up at the crack of dawn, asswipe!"

I screamed again.

In the almost non-existent moment after I shouted at him where I attempted to catch my breath, Harvey had moved forward swiftly and grabbed me around the waist. I swung my limbs around pathetically as he slung me over his shoulder, moved towards the door to take something large in his free hand, and carried me back to my bedroom.

"RELEASE ME THIS INSTANT, HARVEY SAMPSON, OR I WILL KILL YOU IN THE SLOWEST AND MOST PAINFUL FUCKING WAY I CAN THINK OF!"

"It won't take long." He said calmly. "I just need help wording it."

Just outside my bedroom door, I spotted a strip of brown on the rickety table I had dragged in from a jumble sale.

Hallelujah.

I quickly shoved the glasses onto my face, blinking as everything came into sudden focus. Glancing down, I ran my eyes over the back of my captor's person.

"Harvey, pull your trousers up."

I could picture the smirk on his face as he replied easily, "No hands."

It was true. His right hand was holding me down onto his shoulder, the warmth of his palm burning through my Mr Men shirt, while the other clutched what I could now see was a canvas. A moment later, he had dumped me on my bed and placed the painting in front of me.

I had been planning on shouting and yelling and marching him out of the apartment by his ear, but the large piece of artwork staring me in the face snatched my attention without the slightest amount of hesitance.

I could see it was oil paint almost immediately – the thick and textured brushstrokes that gave the image life gave it away. It was a portrait of his mother, and by God was it good. Good couldn't even explain it. The features were proportioned perfectly, the sea-green eyes pointing towards me directly, the mouth quirked upwards into that charming smile I had loved to see throughout my childhood - and her head was hairless, just as it had been ever since she had begun chemotherapy.

Madelyn Sampson was the most important person in Harvey's life, and if this painting didn't show his love for her in every heated stroke, nothing ever would.

"Oh my God." I whispered the words as I exhaled, and scooted to the edge of the bed so I could reach out a hand and run it across her face. I hadn't seen Madelyn in so long, and seeing her face painted so realistically made my memories with her come flooding back.

I was vaguely aware of Harvey kneeling down so only his eyes were visible above the canvas. I glanced up, and felt my heart constrict.

It was for more than one reason that I felt like crying at that moment, and most of it was in his eyes. Harvey was heterochromic – one of his eyes was green, and the other a navy blue – they had never ceased to amaze me and make my breath catch every time I ended up looking at him. Now was no exception. Then there was the fact that I hadn't seen him in an age either... he had been busy, taking care of his sick Mother, while I was busy, trying to sort out my mess of a life. Suddenly, looking into his beautiful eyes, I felt disgusted at myself for not being around him more. Harvey and I argued incessantly, but he had been a constant figure in my life who never seemed to have trouble in making me smile. I should have been there to do the same for him.

And the love. Harvey's eyes had always been a give-away of his feelings – and now, those soft orbs positively shone with adoration for the woman he had painted.

"Hey, four eyes." He said gently. His voice was deep and teasing. I felt a rush of affection for him so strong that it startled me.

"Wanker." Even I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice. I might as well have called him Sweetheart.

"What do you say?" The voice was like a caress. "Help me analyze it?"

I nodded quickly and leaned over the bed to grab a pen and pad of creased paper. Harvey smiled a bit, laying down the painting on the floor. I tried desperately not to let her face distract me.

"Start by explaining the subject of your painting." I looked up at Harvey who had given me his undivided attention.

"My Mum." He said promptly.

"That's right." I battled the stupid emotions screaming to be let out. "Your media is oil paint, right? And the painting is pretty big. Explain why, and the effect on the audience."

"So people will see it." Harvey said in an amused tone. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Her face fills the canvas. That makes it eye catching and makes sure the audience's attention isn't taken by any other components on the plane. It could also show just how important she is, or how she is all you see." I scribbled the points down quickly. "You have to explain line, colour, brushwork... then finish off with the interpretation. So basically why you painted it." I swallowed a bit to clear my throat. "Why did you paint Madelyn?"

He shrugged. "Because the theme title was something significant in your life, and she's pretty fucking significant."

It was a blunt and simple phrase, but the passion in his eyes really got me. Before I could stop myself, I was leaning forward and clutching his hair, pulling his face up to mine.

I had kissed Harvey before. Once when we were three years old, so our mothers told us. Once when I was twelve and I was accused of being a lesbian because I didn't like any boys – I had blackmailed Harvey into kissing me to dispel the rumours. Then there was the Christmas party when we were fifteen, and the mistletoe which had caught us off-guard. I had made him kiss me a year after that to ward off Luca Polleti, a short boy who had decided to ask me out whenever I passed him in the school hallway. And the most recent, on my seventeenth birthday, when Kia, a beautiful girl known for her skills in gymnastics (and therefore in bed), set her sights on him.

Of course I slapped Lindy when she suggested that I might have been jealous.

So this was our sixth kiss, but something about it was utterly new and unexpected.

It started as a simple press of lips, my twisted way of showing him all the feelings he had awoken within me through that painting. I held one hand against the back of his head, while the other clutched at my bedspreads.

But just as my face had warmed and I was ready to pull away and face the music, Harvey wound an arm around my waist, pulling me right off the bed and onto his lap. His lips massaged my own gently as his other hand lifted to take my glasses from my nose and place it to the side. When I pulled away to take a breath, I opened my eyes and stared at him.

Even though everything in the room was back to a hazy mess, his eyes remained just as sharp and bright and in focus as they had been with my glasses on.

I took no time in placing a hand on either side of his face and kissing him again. Our mouths parted slightly this time so hot breath seeped in between, and our tongues touched very tentatively. Harvey pulled me tighter against him and I wrapped my legs right around his body as our mouths melted into one. I was shaking very slightly beneath his tight grip, and felt my insides burn into nothing when one finger slipped beneath my Mr Men pyjama shirt and stroked my hip, and the other ran the course of my spine several times.

"I'm going to combust." I gasped suddenly, releasing his lips from my own.

Harvey chuckled, his green and blue eyes twinkling mischievously. I couldn't help wondering why I wasn't embarrassed at straddling this boy so boldly, but all thoughts evaporated right out of my mind when he kissed my nose.

"You know," Harvey began conversationally, allowing his hand to trail further up beneath my shirt and run his nails enticingly down my bare back. "You said the painting is big because my Mum is all I see."

I nodded, trying to calm my laboured breathing.

"She's not." His voice went suddenly low and husky, as his exploring hand moved to the front of my shirt and traced the soft skin beneath my breasts. My efforts were thrown to the wind as my breathing rocketed once again. "She's fucking spectacular, but she's not the only person I see."

I made a strange noise in the back of my throat.

"You're kind of great too." He said at last, leaning even closer so his beautiful eyes were all I could see. "In fact, I like you quite a bit."

If he doesn't stop this instant, I will rip his clothes off regardless of any protests he may make.

"Do you?" I whispered, clutching at his shirt to keep my balance as I became decidedly light-headed.

"Yep." He grinned. "Even though you shout at me quite a bit."

He was purposely trying to smush my heart with his stupid pretty eyes and his nice voice and his warm hands and the sappy shit he was throwing all over the fucking place.

I'm officially whipped.

"The way I see it," I said at last, my voice strained and my breathing laboured, "We're just wasting time that could be spent in various other ways." He raised an amused eyebrow as I spoke. "Like engaging in mind-blowing sex."

"Is that so?" His smile was so wide and his eyes were shining so bright that I was almost thrown completely off track.

"Yes." I said quickly, before I fainted. "Yes, let's stop talking and do it now."

And another one-shot for your beautiful selves.

Just a heads up, I do write longer stories, but it's all these stupid exams and the revising I'm obliged to do for said stupid exams that don't really give me the time. One-shots are all I can produce at the mo.

All the same, I hope you liked it. I got inspiration for the whole 'visually impaired' thing because of my own terrible eyesight. It's quite a burden, but the thing about blurred lights when you go out at night is from my own experiences. It's really pretty.

Thank you for reading, and a review would be loved and cherished and never forgotten. :) x