Blaine was seven years old when he first fell in love. Well, love was how he saw it then; in recent years, the true meaning of that word had been chiselled down to gritty reality, but back then, when babies were delivered by storks and stars were made of glitter, he was wholly, resoundingly and indisputably in love.

The boy in question sat across the way from him at Sunday school. They had only really spoken once, but that was enough for Blaine. He had copper brown hair, the type that shimmered in sunlight like it was blessed by Midas touch, freckles on his cheeks, and deep caramel eyes that reminded him of the sweets Grandma sometimes kept. Thats how he explained the boy to his mother when he got home that Sunday: "Eyes like those sweets," he said with a beam, standing beside her at the kitchen counter. "The sticky sweets."

His mother kept chopping vegetables, the ones that looked like tiny trees which Blaine secretly piled onto Coopers plate when she wasnt watching. "Toffee?"

Blaine furrowed his brows, then shook his head. "No. Toffee isnt shiny, Mom. His eyes were shiny and sweet-y."

"Caramel?"

"Caramel! He had caramel eyes!" Blaine exclaimed excitedly, clapping his hands. "They were really pretty caramel eyes!"

That was when his mother looked over. "Pretty?" she asked. Her son nodded fervently, and a lump bobbed in her throat. "What do you mean, pretty?"

"Pretty...Pretty means you look nice!" Blaine chirped, looking expectantly up at his mother, as if she would praise him for providing the correct definition. Instead, her face remained stony. "Like when Daddy calls you pretty. Right?"

"You think hes pretty like Daddy thinks Im pretty?" she asked, setting down the knife and turning her body to face her sons.

Blaine blinked, thinking again, then nodded. "Yuh-huh."

"No, you dont."

Blaines eyebrows knitted together. "I...I dont?" he asked, confused. His mother shook her head firmly; then, she wiped her hands on her apron and crouched down to her sons eye-level.

"You dont," she said, her voice taking on the sharp tone that made Blaine feel heavy. "And I dont want to hear you say anything else like that again."

Blaine searched her eyes with big, sad ones. "But I dont understand," he mumbled. "I think hes pretty."

"What did I just say?" Blaine hung his head. "Boys dont look at boys like Daddies look at Mommies. Thats horrible. You dont want to be a horrible boy, do you?"

Blaine gulped, then shook his head slightly. "No, Mommy."

"Do you want to upset Mommy and Daddy?"

"No, Mommy."

"Do you want to upset God?"

"No, Mommy. Im sorry."

"Good." The woman stood up straight again. "Then I dont want to hear you say those things again."

Blaine glanced up to his mother, then to the floor, and a sinking sensation filled his chest thatd stick with him for years to come. "Yes, Mommy."