Chapter Text
Heart pounding, she wanders through the colossal halls, only wishing that the marble could crack open under her, swallowing her whole and rendering her existence void. If that happened, at least Marinette wouldn’t have to go to her next class, much less return to her dormitory. She thinks back to her first evening in the dining hall, squished in between Cartier bracelets and Maison Margiela blouses, forced to wither beneath her peers’ judgemental stares.
“Hey, nouveau riche!” A shout draws Marinette out of her thoughts. “Remember to tell your mother to add more coffee into the opera cakes - they were a little bland, even if it were by your family's standards.”
Her eye twitches while she turns, Chloe's offensively bright jacket and sniggering adding onto her growing headache. “You know that she doesn't make the cakes herself, Chloe. Or is your ego too loud to hear me?”
Chloe Bourgeois is next to Marinette in an instant, and her head swims with the dizzying power of Chanel No.5. Marinette almost rolls her eyes amidst the intimidation. “You may think that you belong at Ouran, Dupain-Cheng, but your dad earns chump change in comparison to mine. Remember that.”
Her seething tone surprises Marinette, and she steps back. Chloe's already halfway down the hall, her clacking heels a hammer on Marinette's skull. The conversation renders her brain still but buzzing, and she almost doesn't know where to go next.
Alya Cesaire meets her in the stairwell, and her sympathetic gaze from above is a welcome change. “Who cares what Miss Bumblebee thinks anyway? I, for one, am not listening to a mindless drone with no imagination. Chanel No.5? Can you be even more predictable?”
She chuckles and replies, “That's what I was thinking!” Marinette’s so energized that her foot almost slips off the smooth marble step, and her life flashes before her eyes while Alya tugs on her arm for safety. “Well, thanks for looking out! In more ways than one.”
Alya can't help but roll her eyes, both fear and endearment entwined while she says, “Girl, you need a bodyguard watching your every move. You're an accident just waiting to happen.”
“You can say that again,” Marinette answers absent-mindedly as the pair enters the north wing, the amber light of sunset casting a peaceful glaze over the floor. “Do you still have the school newspaper election this evening?”
“Of course!” Alya's eyes blaze, enthusiasm lighting them with the temptation of the nearest scoop. “I'm not letting Sabrina Raincomprix be the editor. You know that she's in Chloe's pocket, anyway. Journalism will die as we know it if we let her anywhere near the paper.”
Marinette nods, and Alya begins in a hopeful tone, “Our fashion and culture spot is still open. If you're interested?”
The responsibilities and duties form a pile in the forefront of her mind, and Marinette sways along with it. She cups her forehead, and she replies, “I can’t. I have the fashion internship run with Matoshi Corp, not to mention helping my family with the business. And what about tutoring Kim? And my classes?” Her words speed up as she continues, and she spins to Alya emphatically, her breathing heavy.
“Okay,” Alya responds, putting an arm around her best friend’s shoulder in an attempt to quell her anxious buzzing. “Here’s what we’re not going to do. Go into a stupor when you’re perfectly capable of doing all of these things and being amazing at them.”
Marinette sinks into Alya’s side, leaning on her with most of her weight. “Thanks, Alya. You’re right.”
“I always am,” Alya squeezes Marinette’s shoulders, and the tenderness makes Marinette’s heart a little lighter. “So, I'll see you tomorrow after the Global History test!”
“Yeah, tot -” Her heart skipping a beat, Marinette screams, “After the what?”
“Bye, girl!” The humour in Alya's tone can be caught even as her voice fades down the corridor, and Marinette's chest closes up a little. She squeezes her eyes together for a second before breathing deeply, allowing some air to reach her lungs.
Wishing that she had a map to figure out this gigantic school and her way to either the library or dormitory (either works), Marinette is drawn by the sound of violins floating in the hallway, their symphonic melodies relaxing her shoulders. Her feet move without her thinking, and she stands in front of a door with gilded handles. Music Room 3, she reads from a sign hanging above the entrance, embossed in solid gold.
“Maybe I can find some peace and quiet in here?” she mumbles to herself. “Or at least the music will help me focus.”
With a small grunt, Marinette pushes the door open - it swings open, quick on its hinges. A floral scent overwhelms her, and she’s enveloped by the smell of cherry blossoms. As her senses adjust to the bustle inside, Marinette hears a chorus: “The Host Club welcomes you!”
*
She coughs lightly from the perfume. “What?” Marinette barely has time to take in her surroundings before someone has her hand in theirs, and she’s steered to a plush seat, sinking into the velvet in an instant. “Who are you people?”
A boy with crimson hair and slim blue eyes stares back at her, a pensive expression cast over his features. “You haven't heard of the Host Club?” Marinette expects to feel annoyed by this boy's condescension, but the curiosity from both his side and hers quell it. “We've been part of Ouran's history for generations, helping young ladies adjust themselves to the forays of high society.”
“Oh, okay,” Marinette squeaks in reply, now even more confused. “So, who are you?”
The boy smiles warmly, and Marinette feels at ease. “Nathaniel. Nathaniel Kurtzberg.”
Marinette extends a gloved hand to shake his, but she pauses midway. “You're of the Atlas Kurtzbergs? The comic book company?”
“I guess my reputation precedes me,” he responds, a hint of bitterness amidst the charm. “I've only seen glimpses of you before, Miss. I should be asking who you are.”
“Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” She attempts to sound excited. “I only came here this semester.”
Nathaniel raises his eyebrows until they disappear behind his fringe. “A latecomer. I wonder who else knows about you.”
It takes a moment for the statement to sink in. “Knows about me?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but French horns sound in the background, and Marinette whips around in her seat.
Time slows down - Marinette is aware of every single hair standing on end. Her mouth is dry, and air is refusing to enter her lungs. How could she breathe when… when someone that beautiful has entered the room? She watches the blonde boy travel through the growing crowd, the people in the room seemingly thickening until it’s difficult to breathe altogether. Marinette rises to her feet, both out of fear of getting stuck in her chair and to catch a glimpse. A flicker of recognition dashes through her mind, but it’s forgotten once she loses his face in the crowd.
She can only whisper, “Who is that?”, almost as if the clutch around her heart is preventing her larynx from making sound.
It only takes Nathaniel a moment for his eyes to narrow and suck the air around his teeth. “It’s surprising that you wouldn’t know.”
“What,” she replies, allowing a bit of hostility to enter her voice, “do you mean?”
Nathaniel lifts his chin in the direction of her collar. “A vintage Yves Saint Laurent brooch, and you don’t know the heir and figurehead of Gabriel?”
Blood rushes into her ears and cheeks, and Marinette leans in, clutching Nathaniel’s arm as she pulls him closer. His breath hitches as she hisses, “You’re meaning to tell me that the Adrien Agreste goes to the Academy?”
There’s only a hint of humour when Nathaniel says, “You’re a fan?”
“I’ve only been trying to get an internship under Gabriel’s haute couture division for months!”
“If there's a place for networking, then this is it.” He nods at the room at large, and he presses his lips together before saying, “You could talk to him.”
Marinette feels her cheeks heat up even more, and she shakes her head with such force that her brain shakes around, giving herself a slight headache. “I- I- There are just so many people, and he just looks really busy! How could I bother him when he’s surrounded and probably talking about such important things. I couldn’t - that would be -”
“Unless you’re scared,” Nathaniel cuts off her rambling, tilting his head towards her conspiratorially.
She stops in her tracks before spluttering, “Sc- sc- scared? How can you even - Watch me!” Marinette lifts up her arms and walks with purpose into the crowd, and she is immediately surrounded by girls’ twittering and fluttering around. Marinette catches a whiff of expensive perfume and coughs. That catches the attention of Adrien, a few metres away, who waves at her kindly. He raises his eyebrows while doing so, the lack of recognition confusing him. She freezes in her tracks, saying to no one in particular, “You know what? I actually don’t need that internship. I’ll just -”
Marinette makes a 180, attempting to speed through the throngs of people but feeling like molasses instead. She feels the muscles of the other guests tense as she bumps into them, and of course she hears a “Watch it, Dupain-Cheng!” float out of the crowd. As she reaches the outskirts of onlookers, she’s so relieved to make it out that she barely looks where she’s going. Marinette only feels the pain spreading across her hip before seeing the crockery and silverware fall to the ground in her peripheral vision.
Everything in the room is frozen, including Marinette’s muscles. The gramophone stops abruptly, and Marinette feels the eyes of onlookers turn to her. All she wishes is that she can sink into the marble yet again. Footsteps click against the floor, and a boy approaches her, his turquoise hair matching the accents of the porcelain shards on the ground. She gulps, noticing his piercings and studded jewellery. He kneels and picks up a piece of the shattered teapot, scrutinizing the ornate details left behind. Marinette’s shocked when all he says is, “What a shame. I really liked this one,” in an almost playful tone.
He looks at her and the corner of his mouth quirks up, Marinette’s cheeks heating up yet again in the process. If only the reception to her actions were that good, she realises as a shorter blonde boy that looks disturbingly like Adrien swerves past the blue-haired boy, eyes filled with disdain.
“Have you any idea what you just broke?” He responds, a hint of a British accent coming through. Marinette gives him a closer look, noticing the sharpness of his gaze, making his identically green eyes look far colder than Adrien's. “That was an Edwardian from John Pennington House for the exhibition next week. Not priceless, but far more valuable than what you can afford, I presume.”
Marinette’s confusion turns to rage, turning to the boy with fists curled. Even the other boy whispers, “Félix,” with a warning tone.
Attempting to retort, she’s surprised into silence when he says, “Ah, the baker girl.” A slim file is slightly ajar in his hands, her student profile being visible to only him and Marinette. Her eyes flit through the open page, her grimace growing at the excruciatingly detailed descriptions that the Host Club has on her.
“How did you -”
He snaps the file shut, an unkind smile gracing his lips. “It's my job to know. It's also my job to figure out what to do with you.” Marinette widens her eyes as he continues, “If you are at liberty to pay the 680,000 US dollars in cash, then be my guest.”
Her ears pop while he says, “But as I doubt that, given your family's status, I am generous enough to propose a fitting alternative.”
“Go on,” Marinette lifts her chin, eyes narrowed at the boy. “I can't be one of your Hosts, can I?”
“Who would be suggesting that?” His smile turns into a grimace, as well. “You don't fit the criteria for that, but there's a position you'll fit nicely.”
“Which is?”
It seems that his eyes become even icier as he replies, “Baker girl, of course.”