Word Count: 1217


Blaise finds his mother's body. She's draped over the couch, wine glass still held in her hand, delicate fingers curled around the crystal stem. There's a puddle of wine on the polished oak floors.

"Mother?" Blaise's voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He steps closer. "Mother?"

"Mother!" Six-year-old Blaise bounces on the balls of his feet, radiating his excitement. "Mother, you said we could play in the garden!"

Her dark eyes narrow at him, annoyance clear in the hard set of her jaw. She turns, all smiles and charm in the blink of an eye, offering an apologetic smile to Franz, the latest wealthy man to catch her eye. "Excuse me, darling. It won't take but a moment."

She grips Blaise's arm, dragging him from the room. "How many times have I told you that when I am entertaining, you are not to interrupt?"

He wonders what Franz would think if he saw her like this. She's always nicer when the men she likes are around.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

She releases his arm. "Hopsy! Take the boy out to play!"

Hopsy appears at his side, quiet as a mouse. "Master Blaise doesn't need to be seeing this," she says, placing her tiny hand in his. "You need to be coming with Hopsy."

But he can't bring himself to walk away. Instead, he steps closer. There's a glint of bronze in her lap, and he recognizes the vial immediately. How many times has she shown him those vials and told him of the things she could with a little poison?

By twelve, Blaise doesn't question it anymore. When Husband Number Four comes into the picture, he just smiles and plays his part. It's his duty to be the perfect son, to make sure Husband Number Four feels welcomed.

He waits. There is no rhyme or reason to what his mother does. Or, well, maybe there is, but he's never been able to understand it. All he knows is that his mother will eventually pull out one of her many bronze vials, and all that will be left of Husband Number Four will be his fortune in the family vault.

So he does what he does best. He wears his most charming smile and makes himself small, playing the part of the perfect son and waiting.

When Theo arrives, Blaise is more annoyed than he would like to admit. On one hand, he's always happy to see his boyfriend. On the other, Theo worries too damn much, and Blaise hates it. Everything is fine; he is fine.

But Theo doesn't give him a chance to say as much. Within seconds, his slender arms are wrapped around Blaise, holding him right, and his lips trail little kisses over Blaise's skin.

"How are you holding up?" Theo asks, stepping back and offering Blaise a warm smile.

Blaise opens his mouth to respond, but Theo begins again.

"If you want, we can stay at Mother's family's little house in Italy after the funeral," he says. "It's right on this little vineyard, and I think you will love it. You can take all the time you need to clear your head."

"Theo!" Blaise catches his boyfriend by the wrist, shaking his head as he exhales deeply. "Theo, I appreciate the gesture, but my head is perfectly clear. I'm fine."

"You just lost your mother."

Blaise shrugs. Maybe he feels a twinge of guilt for his apathy, but he doesn't voice it aloud. "Yeah, well… Not like we were close."

It's all a show. He stands beside his mother, dressed in his finest suit and holding her gloved hand. The others buy it without question. He is a good son, supporting his mother during such a trying time.

They've done this so many times before that it feels second nature to him now. He wears a brave face, holding his arms out and embracing his mother, showing the world that their pain is real, that he will do anything to help his mother find peace.

But as soon as no one is looking, he knows the masks will drop. He will no longer be an actor, and things will go back to normal.

He stands in the graveyard. By now, this routine has become so familiar to him. People offer their condolences, and he smiles sadly as he thanks them.

Theo stays close, but not too close. There are far too many eyes here, far too many people who may whisper. In the end, he knows that reputation still means everything, and he cannot give anyone any reason to suspect that he isn't a perfect pure-blood.

Words are spoken, and Blaise remains stoic. His posture is rigidly straight, eyes focused straight ahead.

Only when the coffin is lowered in the ground does he feel the first stab of emotion. His chest constricts painfully. Gasping, he slumps forward, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. Blaise sucks in a deep breath, but it does nothing to steady him.

She's gone. Why does it hurt so suddenly?

"Blaise? Hey, Blaise?" Theo is by his side in an instance, seeming to no longer care about what is and isn't proper. His hands are so soft as they find Blaise's shoulders.

Why does he feel like he's falling apart all of a sudden? Why does Theo feel so strong, more like home than anything Blaise has ever known?

He throws his arms around his boyfriend, burying his face in Theo's chest, and he sobs.

"Why don't you ever cry at funerals?" Blaise asks curiously, accepting a glass of wine from Hopsy.

His mother chuckles softly, turning her head this way and that, admiring the emerald necklace that rests on her chest. Her lips purse, and she takes it off, trading it in for something more subtle, something that will not garner too much attention at the funeral.

"Darling boy," she says, catching his eye in the mirror and offering him a small smile, "we save our tears for those we love. Why should I weep for Orlando? He was little more than a means to an end."

He doesn't remember leaving the gravesite, but he finds himself at home once again with Theo fretting over him. Hopsy brings them both a cup of tea before bowing out.

"I loved her," Blaise says, and he feels so stupid for not seeing it sooner. "I loved my mother."

Isn't that the way it's supposed to be? That's what family is all about, but it never has been for him. Not really.

He looks up at his boyfriend, reaching out for him. Theo takes him by the hand, gently kissing his knuckles.

"Was I a bad son?" His voice is small, barely even a whisper. "Is that why she poisoned herself?"

Theo shakes his head. "Of course not."

But Blaise doesn't really believe him. What other explanation is there?

Blaise wipes the tears from his eyes, sniffling. He's falling apart, and he doesn't know what to do. The only thing that makes sense is to cling to Theo, to hold him closer and pray he doesn't slip away.

His world is falling apart. He never expected it to be like this, for loss to hurt this bad. But Theo is there, and maybe, just maybe, he can make it through.