To My Dearly Detested | ✎

7 | the woes of youthfulness

"What is the meaning of this?"

Adrien and Marinette stood frozen in place, the duo covered in arrays of colored paint, as the king scrutinized them from head to toe. A few of the artists lingered behind the king with their expressions apologetic. Apparently, they hadn't been able to stop the king from entering, and it probably didn't help that the prince and the princess had been laughing to the point where their voices probably echoed off of every palace wall.

All the color in Adrien's face drained in a matter of seconds... as did his happiness. Of course, Adrien shouldn't have expected this rush of happiness to last. When did anything good ever last for him?

Adrien quickly sprang away from Marinette and straightened his stance. He crossed his arms behind his back. "Father, I can explain—"

"Is this how I raised you?" The king interrupted with so much as a scoff. "To be so improper—so immature that you would douse yourself in paint?"

"No father." Adrien bowed his head and fixed his gaze on his shoes. There was no point in trying to explain to his father that they were just having a bit of fun. His father wouldn't understand it, and Adrien knew this because he hadn't understood it himself at first either.

Although it had been his idea, Adrien never used to do things like this—not until he met Marinette; not until Marinette started to show him her ideas of fun. He'd never known true fun until he'd met her. He'd never known freedom before he'd met her, either.

"Clean yourself up at once."

"Yes, father." Adrien quickly said, "I apologize for my behavior. It will not happen again."

The king didn't even acknowledge his son's apology. He left as quickly as he came, and the few remaining artists scurried after him. Adrien only hoped they were trying to ease his father's fury on his behalf.

Adrien's shoulders slouched forward as soon as his father was gone. Now, he was once again irritated, for reasons that completely differed from his sour mood earlier.

"Are you all right, Adrien?" Marinette asked from somewhere behind him. Her voice sounded soothing, cautious even, as she tried to approach the subject with delicacy. He flinched ever-so-slightly when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

He should've appreciated her comfort. It felt... nice... and yet, he reacted in a way he wished he hadn't.

Adrien pulled away harshly and whipped around to face her. He didn't even allow himself time to process his words before he spoke them. "Do I look all right to you?"

Marinette flinched back, and he watched as her eyebrows furrowed slightly. "I...I did not mean to speak in offense. I just wanted to make sure his words did not—"

"Did not what? Hurt me?" He scoffed, hoping the pain of his father's words surely didn't seep through. He didn't need Marinette knowing that his father's words had indeed hurt—so much so that it felt like a dagger had gone right through his back. "You can rest assured that they did not, but they did open my eyes."

Her eyebrows furrowed further. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that he is right. I do not know what I was thinking—as a future king, I should not be acting so childish."

"There is nothing childish about having fun, Adrien. You are allowed to have fun, especially when you are in the privacy of your own home."

His eyebrows furrowed deeper, and against his will, his anger rose by the second. She didn't understand... and he would never expect her to. Marinette had no idea what it was like to live under his father's roof—to be the successor his father expected him to be. To be the perfect son; to be the perfect heir; to be the perfect ruler.