Chapter Text
As Marinette walks up to her seat, carrying a box of pastries, someone sticks their foot out to trip her.
Marinette sees it too late.
She cries out when she hits the ground, watching the sweets fly out and scatter on the floor. She can feel a distant pain in her knee.
Chloé looks down at her, smirking evilly. Marinette looks away from her. She doesn’t have time for that right now — she has to clean this up before class starts.
She can feel tears welling up in her eyes, but wipes her face in an attempt to halt them. She had brought the food so that she could hand all of it out to the class.
Of course Chloé had to ruin it.
“Let me help you, girl,” Alya speaks up from where she was sitting.
Trying to ignore the throbbing scratch on her left knee, Marinette — with Alya’s assistance — cleans up the sweets quickly. She’s gotten used to this, being clumsy and all — and Chloé certainly liked to take advantage of that.
“Thanks,” she mumbles. Dumping the remains in the trash with a regretful look, Marinette sits back down in her seat sadly.
Alya pats her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “Sorry this had to happen, Marinette.”
Marinette shrugs it off. “It’s fine.”
It isn’t fine, not yet — but she knows how to distract herself.
Pulling out her current sketchbook and favorite pencil, Marinette starts to draw. A smile unconsciously creeps onto her face, and she momentarily forgets about the fall and the feeling of her pants uncomfortably brushing the scrape on her knee — instead focusing on the precise movements of her hand against the paper.
Marinette feels someone tap on her shoulder, and it breaks her out of her focus. Which is annoying, because now she’ll never be able to get it back so easily.
“Marinette, are you even listening?” Alya laughs beside her.
“Y-Yeah,” Marinette says, idly twirling her pencil in her hand. “Sorry, could you say that again?”
“It’s like you’re always lost in your own little world.” Alya smiles and sighs affectionately. “Anyway, as I was saying—girl, I just don’t get how you can do that so easily.”
“…Do what?” Marinette asks in confusion, tilting her head.
“That thing you do—” Alya waves her hands around, as if this will help her message come across, “when you can just brush literally anything off by whipping out your sketchbook and drawing.”
Marinette contemplates this for a moment. She’s always found comfort in it, but has never known it wasn’t normal. If someone was pointing it out, it meant she stood out too much. She didn’t want to stand out.
“Oh,” is all that Marinette says in response. She can’t come up with the words for a response right now, and her fingers are itching to get back to sketching.
Alya chuckles. Marinette doesn’t understand how she’s not done talking about this yet. It doesn’t even make any sense, anyway.
“I swear, it’s like your superpower or something,” Alya says. “Maybe I should get into designing, see if it works for me.”
This gets Marinette’s attention. “Wait, really?”
“Well, I—”
“If— if you really want to get into fashion, I can help you!” Marinette sits up eagerly, finally looking up at Alya. She has to restrain herself from clapping her hands in excitement. “I’ve been waiting to talk about this for forever. I’m so glad you wanna try.”
Alya blinks. Am I being too overwhelming? Marinette thinks. Does she even understand a word I’m saying? Marinette averts her eyes awkwardly, starting to feel uncomfortable. Her hand drifts back to her sketchbook.
“Oh, uh,” Alya stutters, “well, yeah! Sure! It seems interesting.”
Marinette’s face brightens, and she turns back to Alya, hands waving back and forth as she starts to speak. “If you wanna get into fashion, the first thing you wanna do is pick a style — it’s much easier to start designing once you can identify a trend you want.
“I know a lot about sewing and making my own clothes, so if you need any help with anything like patterns, tricks, or techniques, feel free to come to me.
“There are a ton of different fabrics to use for every different style or need. For example, I love to make clothes that are more comfortable for me and still fashionable!
“There are some really good resources for learning and getting inspiration — personally, I first started out by looking at other designers’ portfolios and looking for fabric samples.
“Honestly, a great tip for new designers is to figure out a clear purpose on why you do it — whether it’s for identity, or sustainability, or anything else.
“Again, about fabric — it really depends on what you’re making. I used to study swatch books to understand what I wanted to wear and the appearance. I can give you some resources if you’d like. There are also different sewing guides that talk about everything from types of stitches to how to work a sewing ma—”
“Dupain-Cheng!” someone interrupts. “Quit your rambling. Nobody cares.”
Marinette blinks, caught off guard. Her hands stop in midair. “I—”
“Can you not read anyone’s intentions? Even I could tell that Alya was just joking,” Chloé scoffs. “Nobody wants to hear about your— your ‘designing’.”
“W— What?” Marinette stutters, confused and thrown off. “I was just— just answering Alya—”
“Either way,” Chloé complains, “you’re giving me a headache. You just never know when to shut up, do you?”
Marinette doesn’t respond, putting her hands down in her lap instead and squeezing.
Chloé, having grown tired of Marinette, struts away to wherever she had been before. With her heart bruised, Marinette turns back to her lunch, looking down at it with an expression of hurt.
Alya looks conflicted. “She’s just trying to get to you. You can keep talking; I’m listening.”
Any other time, Marinette might have accepted that offer — but after being cut off, she had no more energy or momentum to continue. Her palms itch. She scratches them. The feeling stays.
‘You just never know when to shut up, do you?’
Is she annoying?
“Am I annoying?” she asks aloud, her words timid and silent.
“Never,” Alya confirms. “You’re so fun to be around, girl. I mean it.”
“Sorry.”
Marinette pushes her meal a bit farther away from herself, picking at her nails. She’s not hungry anymore.
Alya stays quiet, before she says: “Do you wanna keep going now?”
Marinette shrugs, forcefully rubbing her palms on her thighs — the itch is still there — and her voice comes out weak. “No.”
There’s an unsettling feeling making its home deep down in her stomach.
‘You just never know when to shut up, do you?’
She feels sick.