Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.
She heard them in the early morning hours through the back wall of her bedroom, cooing in each other's ears and giggling like two school girls. Around six, once she was sure that Tate and his guest had fallen asleep, Constance took the key from the secretary in the hall and unlocked his door. She had never told him about that key; she never could. As she crept into the room, she tried to imagine the girl that would lay beside her son. Surely, she would be good looking, deserving of a night with her boy. He had always been her golden child, yet she had this irking feeling that, true to form, he would disappoint. He almost liked to do that to her, to aim low just to spite his mother.
When she rounded the corner into the room, she found exactly what she had been expecting. There she was, curled up into his side, her head on his chest, her long brown hair slayed over his skin. Constance thought she was average, at best, very small and very thin: her figure was certainly nothing to be marveled at. And, on her wrist, was a poorly done tattoo of a black rose. Constance scoffed, seeing that, again, he had done just exactly what she would have hated for him to do. He had been so pure, so flawless, and then he had ruined it all. This only further cheapened his legacy in her mind, further obstructed the vision of what she had always hoped and dreamed and pushed for him to become.
A bag was thrown against the wall, beside a heap of the girl's clothes. Constance went there immediately, searching for some sort of evidence as to who she was. The satchel was full to the brim and very heavy, and, as she tore through its contents, she was only further perplexed by what had attracted her dearest son to the young girl in the first place—clothing, a few books of the more sinister nature, horror genre, a very small amount of money, bottles of pain medication, several of which were completely empty. The prescriptions were made out to Vivien Harmon, Carl Richmond, a boy whose mother Constance happened to be acquainted with. There were other names, but she didn't bother to read them. The cocktail of pills was deadly enough without the small shot bottle of vodka in the bottom on the bag. It was only half full.
As she dug deeper, she found a pocket knife, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a bus ticket from there to the down town section of Los Angeles. Shoved into one of the pockets, Constance stumbled across a journal. As she read the words, she understood. She decided it was best for her to keep it.
Constance stuck back out of the room, locked the door behind her, moved silently down the stairs and out of the house, but only after placing her finding in a safe place in the very back of her cosmetics drawer. Tate had done what he always did. He'd destroyed everything—her life and his. And, likewise, that little trollop that lay beside him in his bed had destroyed her own. Perhaps, she might have said that they deserved each other. But no one deserved her son, particularly not Violet Harmon.
Tate woke up a few hours later to the sun shining in his window. When he looked beside him, there was Violet, positioned comfortably in his arms, her eyes batting with the newness of the morning. Her skin was entirely bare, illuminated by the natural glow, and Tate couldn't resist the urge to run his fingers up and down her side, making her shiver. She smiled up at him, all the recollections of the previous night flooding back. She hadn't meant to do it, hadn't planned it at all. It had just happened. But Violet was glad that it had, glad that she had followed her instincts—almost as glad as Tate was, but he was ecstatic.
"Morning." He said, grinning like she'd never seem him grin before. It was such a natural expression. It complimented his face in a way that amazed her, as though he were meant to do it, to flash her crooked smirks, to beam at her very presence. She didn't doubt that he had told her the truth, that he truly did love her. She thought that she might love him too, but how could she ever be sure? She had never been in love before. And Violet wondered what that would feel like. That moment certainly seemed like a good place to search for the answer.
"Hey." It was a broken mumble, but it fit. She couldn't help how her lips turned up at the corners, how she wanted to get closer to him, to be with him the way she had been just hours before all over again. It had been more than she had expected, more than she had ever hoped it could be. So why would she ever want to surrender that? The idea of giving it up seemed impossible. "What are you thinking? About…last night, I mean." She couldn't decide what to think, what to expect from him. Suddenly, Violet was overcome with fears, of whether she had done the right thing, whether Tate had enjoyed it all as much as her. She wondered if he would still want to be with her now, or if he had already gotten what he had been yearning for all along.
Tate felt his cheeks flush as he thought about it. To tell her seemed too difficult, just the same as telling him that she loved him had been too difficult. She had showed him, and now he wanted to show her. Tenderly, he kissed her lips, almost suffering from the bittersweet nature of the kiss. She was everything to him now, all that he had or would ever have. She was eternal, in his eyes at least. "I love you, Violet." He told her, not because he wanted to know if she reciprocated the feelings, but because he wanted to say it, because it felt right.
Then, Violet, as always, surprised him. "I love you." And there was no turning back from there. They were spinning out of control, but they liked the way it felt. Until the very last second, they would enjoy the ride. Until their hearts stopped beating.