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Faintly, he recognizes that parents are supposed to love you.
He knows this from stories and real-world examples, shows and movies and lives of those around him that tell of happy families in where nothing was wrong, in where love was pervasive and all-encompassing like a warm hug being wrapped around your shoulders. He knows this from being around the families of his friends, of seeing the clear love and affection displayed on their faces as their parents loved them with undeniable feelings. He knows this from reading books with kids who have parents who would burn the world for them, who would cross valleys and bridges and unturn stones just to give their kid everything that they never got. It’s in this sense that he wonders why his father never loved him, of why his father danced on the line of being loving one moment and being hateful the next.
The line was always danced, always toed around like a balancing act between pretending that you loved them and realizing that you hated what they were and what they stood for. He remembers being compared to other people’s children, to those that have always done better than he did. He remembers the expectations, the silent disappointment of when those expectations were failed. He remembers the distancing love, the affection that still danced on that line. He remembers his father carrying him to bed, contrasted with the memories of his father screaming in his face. He remembers his father holding him as he cried, contrasted with the hands that lashed out against his body when the sins of what he had supposedly done wrong were presented.
He remembers seeing the papers, the news articles of how being hit from your parents wasn’t really abuse and how it was a proper form of punishment. He remembers accepting that explanation, of how he nodded his head and moved on with his day because he already knew that he was a bad child, had already known that he deserved every inch of what he had gotten. He remembers when he had told Plagg this one night when he was nursing a bruised cheek and burning eyes, of how he explained it away as it being his fault for making his father angry with him. He remembers the look of horror, the look of fury that rested somewhere in that tiny body of his that wasn’t directed at him.
How many times he had justified it? How many times had he thought that it was okay? How many times did he think that he deserved it? The number reaches into the countless, moments spread across childhood and teenagehood as he grew up under the roof of a parent who was starting to convince him that he was never wanted. He remembers the photos of his father holding him in his arms, tiny and small and held with such gentleness that seemed so different from the harsh brutality that would meet him later. Was it his fault that his father changed? Was it his fault that he had become something that upset his father? Was it his fault for not being the perfect son?
He wonders if being the perfect child would have stopped the abuse, if being the child they wanted would have made things better. He wonders if being less of a disappointment would have made his father proud, would have made pride shine in his chest. He wonders what his life might have looked like without the abuse, without the trauma that became one with his bones. He wonders what his life might have looked like if he had healthy functioning parents, if he had a home that felt safe and secure instead of it feeling like cracking eggshells. He wonders the kind of person he could have been if he had parents who loved him unconditionally, if he had parents who gave him affection without attached strings.
It wasn’t until after his father’s death, until after he found out the truth, until after he found himself in Jason’s apartment that he realized that being the perfect son wouldn’t have changed anything. Changing himself to suit his father’s standards wouldn’t have stopped the abuse. Molding himself into the perfect child wouldn’t have stopped the abuse. Becoming all of the things that his father wanted him to be wouldn’t have stopped the abuse he suffered from.
The reality, the most painful one, was that the abuse was never dependent on him being the good child. It was never dependent on him being the mold that his father wanted him to slot himself into. The reality, the most harsh one, was that it was all dependent on his father. Nothing he could have done could have stopped the abuse, not his compliance nor his submission. Nothing he could have done would have changed what happened to him, not one thing. He remembers how hard he cried himself to sleep in Jason’s apartment, of how wet his cheeks had been and how many tears of pain had flowed when he realized that he had done the best he could with the paths that he had been given.
He remembers the stories of people who had questioned whether the destiny presented to them was chosen by them or given to them, if the person that they had become had been shaped by that destiny.
He’s always questioned if he’ll ever end up like his father, if he’ll ever take something from his father and make it into his own. He’s always questioned if he’ll take his father’s anger, his father’s short temper, his father’s lack of empathy and care. He’s always questioned why his father never loved him, of why that love only came when he was in danger or sick or when the moment felt right. He’s always questioned if his father’s love was real or if it was just something that he felt in that moment. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get an answer, but it doesn’t hurt to hope for one that will never come to him.
“He was supposed to love me.”
The candy coating drips from the apple to fall back into the pot, much like the tears that roll down his cheeks. Felix stands next to him, the backdrop of Paris’ sunset leaking through the windows to cover the room in a light orange hue. He swallows around the lump in his throat, putting down the apple to wipe off his cheeks. It doesn’t really work, not when more tears come to cover those same spots. It feels like something broke inside of his chest, something that he can never take back. He turns his back to the counter, sinking down to the floor to hold his knees under his chin, legs tucked against him as he cried.
“He was supposed to love me, Felix.” He sniffs, broken and hurting. “He was supposed to love me and he hurt me. I was his son, his only child. I was supposed to be one of the best things in his life and he…”
It hurts to finish that sentence, a physical ache that washes down his bones and tightens his chest. His father was supposed to care about him, supposed to protect him, supposed to be there for him and he wasn’t. He was supposed to be like those affectionate fathers that he saw on TV and he wasn’t. He was a man changed by death and grief, a man who changed into someone who never stopped to wonder if the pain he was causing his son was really worth it. He was a man who abused him, who made his pain seem like he was making mountains out of molehills, and yet…
Felix kneels down next to him, hand centered on the top of his knee. “He did. He did hurt you and that wasn’t fair of him. But what he did to you does not define who you are.”
“Then why does it feel like it does?” He sobs, thick and heavy. “We’ve both seen my father, Felix. We both know what he did and the actions that he took. We both know that he would have burned the world to bring back my mother and not care a single ounce for the people that he hurt. We both seen the abuse he put me through, the ways of how he controlled me. He’s the person who hurt me, who punished me just for being a kid. How does someone deal with that? How does someone deal with the fact that someone who was supposed to love you and protect you did something like that to you? What if I become like him? What if some part of him got transferred over to me?”
Felix sighs, moving himself to sit next to his cousin. “We have, you aren’t wrong. But the difference between you and him is that you understand what he did was wrong. Gabriel, no matter how many of his mistakes were presented to him, never believed that anything he was doing was wrong. As long as he had gotten what he wanted in the end, it didn’t matter what needed to be sacrificed in the end. Even in his final moments, all he had cared about was making sure that you never found out what he did and who he really was. Instead of accepting that he had done wrong and coming to terms with it, he had made a wish that made him into the hero of his own story, that took the abuse you suffered and invalidated it.”
“But Adrien, you are not the product of that abuse. You are not the result nor are you the reason why the abuse happened. You are not at fault for what Gabriel did and you are not at fault for the atrocities that he committed. You were a child, forced into situations and rules and responsibilities that were never meant to be on your shoulders. You never should have been expected to be the perfect son. You never should have had to mold yourself into something different just so that you could make him proud of you.” Felix’s thumb runs down the length of his shoulder, soft and gentle. “You are not to blame for being abused. Your abuse was not punishment, it was harmful actions placed onto another human being. You are not wrong for feeling hurt and you are not wrong for questioning Gabriel’s love for you.”
He sniffs. “But… what if I end up like him?”
Felix scoffs. “Adrien, I doubt that would happen to you. As I’ve already mentioned, you understand that what Gabriel did was wrong. If you really were to become like him, you would have buried your head in the sand and followed in the same footsteps as him. We know that you would never harm other people on purpose. We know that you would never make wishes to change reality to escape from being held accountable for your own actions. We know that you would never put your child through the same torment and abuse that Gabriel did. Recovering from trauma like that is not easy nor is it a smooth path to walk on. It requires understanding that you couldn’t have changed anything, but not letting that grief weigh on you so heavily that you destroy yourself because of it.”
He pulls away from his cousin, looking up at him. “You really think I can be better than him?”
“I don’t think that you can. I know that you can.” Felix’s hand pats the space between his shoulders. “Just because we are Sentimonsters does not mean that we will end up like the fathers who abused us. I won’t end up like my father just like you won’t end up like yours. We have people who support us, who love us, who will keep us on the right path when we start slipping and that is something that both of our fathers never had. You are a good person, Adrien. Don’t let the world or Gabriel or your own thoughts tell you otherwise, not while we’re still in this together.”
He smiles, eyes back to watering again as he shoves his head into his cousin’s shoulder. “Do you… think I’ll make a good parent?”
Felix laughs, soft and mildly amused. “I think you’ll make for a wonderful parent. Now then, are you in the mood to finish candying the apples? We’ll have to finish them soon if you still plan on taking that nap.”
He nods his head, pulling away permanently to wipe off his eyes. “Yeah… Yeah, I can do it.”
“Good then.” Felix says, standing up from the floor. “We might have to reheat it unfortunately.”
His cousin holds out a hand to him, gentle and pale. He stares at it, the tiredness a weight on his bone but his heart lighter than it has felt in days. He raises his own hand, intertwining their fingers as he’s lifted up from the floor and to his feet. The kitchen is darker now, the light of the fading sunset decorating the room as he plucks one of the candied apples to take a bite of it, humming at the sweet taste before Felix decides to take it away from him.
He thinks he might be okay.