Midnight at Midday

Most people receive alcohol for their eighteenth birthday. A carriage, clothes, money...God, Hugo would have accepted air if it meant he hadn't been given **this** bullshit.
To be sent into the lion's den, to be instructed to tear it down, to have the future of your social class rest on your shoulders... to realise everything you have been told your entire life is a lie.
The grandeur of the gold gilded House of King should've been sickening to him, compared to the cramped rooms of his own House of Moore. But how could one hate comfort when ones entire life consisted of discomfort? How could one hate such riches when it was so in reach? How could one hate such beauty when one was finally allowed to appreciate how breathtaking that boy was- ...wait... what?