Disclaimer: All characters and the original story belongs to Rick Riordan. Plot line is mine.

Chapter One

Hazel

I was there with Frank when his mom left to fight in Afghanistan, I was there all the years when she was gone and Frank didn't know who to turn to, I was there when Frank found out, and now I'm here for him, at his mother's funeral. It is not the first funeral I've attended, and certainly not the most painful for me, but watching Frank as he tries his hardest to be strong breaks my heart in a way I've never experienced before. Maybe it's because I know that it doesn't matter how strong you pretend to be, there's always going to come a time when you break down.

The funeral and graveside service went by in a blur. I hardly heard anything the speakers said, I was too focused on Frank. Now I'm sitting next to him in the reception hall, wishing there was some way to take away his pain. I scan the room, taking in the white orchids placed carefully on each table, the slideshow projected on one wall, showing all kinds of pictures of Frank's mom, and the mourners all dressed in black. In one corner there's an L-shaped table displaying different photo albums and honors Mrs. Zhang received in the military. I spot an old oil portrait I did of her. I made her pose for it last Christmas, planning to finish it as fast I could and give it to Frank as a gift. I can feel my eyes burning as I remember how alive she was then, she could barely sit still for the painting. I can't help but think about how quickly all of that life had been shut out.

"Hazel, are you okay," I hear a timid voice beside me.

I jerk my head around to face Frank, blinking the tears away. "Yeah, I'm fine, thank you. But- how are you doing? You seem so. . . closed off."

His eyes meet mine for a brief second before they snap down at his hands. "I just, want this all to be over."

I continue to stare at him, begging him to say more. I haven't seen him cry since the day we walked into his house and found his Grandmother sobbing into her handkerchief on the couch. Almost right away he figured out what had happened. The joy that was previously in his brown eyes was shattered by deep sorrow. I could see everything written on his face. All of his hopes that his mother would come back, healthy and alive, seemed to be pouring out of his eyes, leaving wet streaks on his face. He sank to his knees, crawled over to his Grandmother, and sobbed into her lap. They cried together. Before that day, I had never seen Frank's Grandmother show any hint of sadness. She was made of iron. I stood there, listening to the ugly, heartbreaking, sobbing, and even though I didn't completely understand, I felt tears streak down my face too. Feeling like an intruder on that intimate moment, I went into the kitchen. Mindlessly, I began to make tea for both Frank and his Grandmother. I knew it wouldn't help, but I needed to keep my hands busy. I stayed the entire day, determined to be strong for Frank. He's never really talked to me about it, or asked me for any kind of help since.

Today his face is a closed book. His features are all carefully schooled into a blank expression. I can tell how much he's focusing to keep his eyes trained downward, and his mouth a straight line. I reach over and lift up his chin, just a little bit so that he's forced to meet my eyes.

"It's okay to cry, Frank, it's okay to be sad," my voice breaks a little at the end, and I drop my hands into my lap. He gives me a short nod, his eyes shining from unshed tears.

"I feel like everything has changed, Hazel, like even the parts of my life she hasn't touched are never going to be the same," he says desperately. He looks at me like he's begging for some kind of an answer, any solution to this all too permanent problem.

I try to not look as broken as I am at the site of him so desperate as I say, "It won't be. Nothing feels the same. But I'm still going to be here, I promise. "

"I know," he whispers hoarsely. No doubt there was a painful lump in his throat. "I know I can come to you, if I need you. I'm okay right now."

He just barely manages the saddest smile I've ever seen. Right now, I want to shake some sense into him. I want him to see that there's no reason for him to lie to me. I want him to be able to talk to me. Instead, I just give him a small smile.

"Just tell me when you're not okay, okay?"

He nods again, and we spend the rest of the reception in silence only broken by people coming by and wishing Frank the best. They all keep telling him he's so strong, his mother would be so proud of him. None of them seem to notice how much pain Frank is in, and in that moment I wish I wasn't the only one who could see the mask he's putting on.

I wish Frank would take off the mask and talk to me.

By the time I get home I'm exhausted. My black dress falls onto the bed around me as I collapse into it. I sigh and cover my face with my hands. The house is so quiet most days, it has been for years, ever since my own mother passed. As much as I was focused on Frank today, I couldn't help remembering my own mother's funeral. There were so little people there. Looking back, I realize that I didn't have the kind of support Frank has. My father was around so little (something that hasn't changed) that he seemed like a complete stranger. I had lost the person I was closest to, and moved across the country so that my dad could at least pretend he was taking care of me. Then I met Frank. He was always there, just as I'm determined to be there for him.

Eventually, I fall into a fitful sleep, still wearing the dress I wore to the funeral, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day.

A/N: Hey, this is the first story I've done on my own. I hope you enjoy it!