In some ways, even running from the cops is happier than Marius' actual childhood back in Paris, where all he did was hide from his tutors and grandfather, who would eventually pull him out of whatever cabinet he'd climbed into to laugh at in front of all his friends. So Marius supposes the indignity of a pillow tunic and a scraped knee is one he can live with. For the moment.

"Dieu," he breathes, glancing down as Dorian magics away his injured knee. "Merci, Dorian." His tendency towards French becomes more pronounced the longer he remains as young as he is.

"That sounds good," he admits, running a hand awkwardly through his hair.