Archive of Our Own

Marinette notices a lot of the little things since the Seine.

She notices that, in the mornings when she and Alya arrive at school and she peeks into the courtyard, Luka’s face lights up just a little bit as soon as they meet eyes. Maybe it always did that, whenever he looked at her, but it’s easy, now, to clue in on the things she’s looking for. She notices how, instead of scrambling to gather himself and jog to her like she might expect from a jittery first love, he keeps that easygoing way about him, scoots to the side of the bench and pats the empty space next to him. It’s for whenever she has a moment, she knows, but nowadays it only takes a look from Nino and a nudge from Alya before she’s stumbling toward the courtyard and taking a seat beside him, wondering what colors he feels like playing today.

There are never any colors when she gets there, regardless of whether she can hear them or not, because he always puts his guitar away, keeps his attention on her, and dares to slide his hand into hers as they chat. And he always walks her to her first class. And he always leaves her with a squeeze to her shoulder and a wink and the kind of gaze that gives a thousand kisses, because he has the modesty not to give one with the mouth in front of a teacher.

She notices that, at midday, he’s started to join her group of friends for lunch in the cafeteria. He doesn’t pull her away to some other table, or look only at her, or talk only to her. He melds with the rest of the group pretty easily, which is probably by virtue of the fact that he’s in a band with three and a half of them. It’s easy for him to talk to Juleka, of course, but they don’t bicker, and they’re not too quiet. They’re in some happy medium together, and Juleka, thank God, doesn’t show any signs of discomfort. He can carry a conversation in a bucket with Mylène, he can keep up with Alix’s wit and snark—something that took the majority of them weeks or even months to master—and, most importantly, he gets Alya’s seal of approval when he expresses genuine interest in how she runs the Ladyblog.

“I gotta admit,” Alya murmurs once out of the corner of her mouth, “he’s kind of a catch.”

“He’s—”

Marinette starts to say something, but then Luka catches her eye as he gets to his feet and mentions needing to check in with a teacher before his next class. He waves and salutes around the table, slings his bag over his shoulder, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Later, Marinette,” he says, and bends to quickly kiss her without a second thought. She’s left stammering for a few seconds, but he’s already on his way out of the cafeteria, and he doesn’t pause to look back. She’s sure that if he did, he’d be smiling.

“Ooh,” Alya says among Rose’s coos and Adrien’s wide-eyed, modest shock. “He’s good.”

She notices that, in the afternoon, Lila’s wiles and Chloe’s snide comments roll off of her like water off a duck’s back, like the word “synesthesia” off Luka’s tongue. Lila can say whatever she wants about how much she knows Jagged Stone, or how much she and Gabriel Agreste are in cahoots; Marinette finds herself nodding, without even bothering to look up from her work, and saying, “That’s nice, Lila.” And Chloe can swear up and down that “that Couffaine guy is just as much of a freak as his sister,” that punks like him are “ridiculous, utterly ridiculous;” Marinette only shrugs and laughs to herself and mumbles, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Chloe,” on her way down to the courtyard.

It’s not that she isn’t angry about it. It’s not that she doesn’t want to defend him, or uncover the uglier sides of them. It’s just that she’s spent so much time with him that she knows how to pinpoint exactly when people hurt so much that they only know how to try and hurt other people in turn. She knows that all she has to do is refuse to give them the volatility they want, so that they do themselves in instead.

And it infuriates them.

And it delights her.

She notices that, in the evening, Luka has a habit of texting her after dinner, when she’s chipping away at her homework assignments or sewing or getting ready for bed. It’s never intrusive, or annoying, or… or obsessive. It’s a gentle nudge, like most everything he does, and eventually it becomes routine. She comes to expect it, even, and when her phone vibrates and lights up with a photo of him on her screen, she smiles instead of screaming. Sure, she smiles so wide it makes her face hurt, but she doesn’t space out so much, or giggle so loud or uncontrollably that it probably concerns both Tikki and her parents.

He’s picked up the habit of video calling her the last couple of Fridays, just to see how she’s doing and to spend some time with and without her. They’re not dates exactly—she and Luka have only been on one or two more since the Seine—but looking up every so often and seeing him on her phone screen is enough. Hearing his music, either the electric kind he makes or the kind that comes from his speakers, over the whir of her sewing machine, is enough. And maybe the connection is strong enough that sometimes he can see her mouthing the lyrics to her favorite songs, about medicating when she’s pretty sure neither of them have prescriptions, and being seventeen when they’re both shy of it, and the best of times, the best of times. But if he catches her, she never knows it, because the words make themselves on her lips so naturally that she’s only dimly aware of them as she works. And she’s too busy being more aware of the low velvet of his singing voice. Which she didn’t even know he had.

And it’s entirely unfair. Because it’s good. She doesn’t know a thing about liquor—and she’s pretty sure that he doesn’t, either—but she’d imagine that his voice goes down slow and smooth like the stuff.

It might not be the most important thing in the end, but she does notice, no matter what time of day it is, that Adrien Agreste is a person to her now. A classmate, sure, and a friend who just so happens to be the son of a fashion mogul and who just so happens to have his face plastered all over Paris and who just so happens to be her first wild and crazy love. But he’s a person, someone who lives and breathes and makes mistakes as much as she does, and she sees them every day. And, in the end, she just so happens to keep him somewhere in her heart. Because, in the end, everyone is probably kept that way.

“Like I said,” he tells her once, on their way out of the school building. “You look happier these days.”

Marinette stops, right on the steps where she told him she loved him, and finds herself shyly rubbing the back of her neck. “I guess… I feel happier these days.”

“I’m glad for you,” he says, and pats her oh-so-gently between the shoulder blades. “I’m really glad your… boyfriend…? Makes you happy.”

She chokes—“My”—but it’s as far as she gets before she stops herself.

Luka’s not her boyfriend… is he? Sure, they’ve gone out a few times, and sure, things like holding hands and kissing are becoming more of a comfortable, habitual thing. But he’s never called her—and she’s never called him—and they’ve never even talked about—

“Sorry—” Adrien clears his throat and looks away, a little… uncomfortable? “Did I say something wrong?”

"No, no, I—”

Adrien’s bodyguard honks from the sleek black car up ahead, and it startles Marinette into clutching the stone ledge and her heart. But she manages to laugh in off, in spite of her burning cheeks, and Adrien laughs, too. And it is easy, like this. Easier. “I should let you go,” she says.

“See your tomorrow.” He smiles, something knowing and bright, and as he’s heading down the steps, he adds, “I meant what I said.”

Of course he did.

She just doesn’t know if they’re there yet.

And when Luka coos her name later and thumbs the wrinkles from her forehead—“Ma-ma-marinette, what are you thinking so deeply about?”—she smiles and nudges his hand away and doesn’t bother to ask, then. Because if there’s one thing that she still holds about Adrien in her heart, it’s that there’s a right time for most everything, and slaving over an algebra problem in the library isn’t it.

Once, Marinette stops him in the hallway, with her hand curled around his wrist, and says, “Will you stay in the art room with me for a while?”

Luka casts a glance behind him at the neck of his guitar case, then back at her. He probably didn’t need that much convincing to begin with, but a warm smile creeps across his face, and he takes her hand and says, “Sure, Marinette. Anything.”

Which makes her stomach flutter, even though she really should be used to him and most things he says by now. It’s just that, for all her pursuits and wishes and little-girl hopes, she never really expected any boy—not even Luka—to say something like anything to her, to ask how high if she ever needed him to jump. But she lets him lace their fingers together anyway, and he lets her lead the way, and the first thing the art teacher does after welcoming them at the doorway is drop his gaze to their joined hands with a smile.

Which only makes Marinette stutter, find the nearest paint-covered stool, and fish out her sketchbook to work on some designs. “Is it all right if he stays?” she asks softly, even though her voice echoes off the painting’s and Alix’s latest street piece. It’s funny; all those feelings for Adrien made her loud and blabbery and impulsive, and all these feelings for Luka—even though she’s pretty sure they’re the same thing—keep her quiet and reserved, like only a select few get to know the honor of what it is exactly that she carries in her heart.

“Well,” the art teacher says, kindly glancing Luka up and down. “Anyone who has art to work on is welcome. What about you?”

“I can play,” Luka says, unslinging his guitar case with a noncommittal shrug.

The art teacher smiles just a little wider. “Oh, you must be from Rose’s rock band. Make yourself comfortable.” Without missing a beat, he goes back to surveying the room, checking in about Alix’s gas mask over here, offering his thoughtful critique on Nathaniel and Marc’s comic over there. He’s light, but he makes himself known with every step; he doesn’t say much, but it isn’t hard to see that the space he keeps in Room 33 is where most anyone might want to be.

“You’ve never come here before?” Marinette asks, confused.

“Nah. Usually I just play at home or in one of the empty classrooms. It feels calmer that way.” Easily, Luka greets Rose with a fist bump and finds a sturdy seat on a black wooden crate across the room. He studies the atmosphere himself as he takes his electric guitar out and begins to tune it, his leg bouncing all the while. He plugs in the amp but turns the volume down low, probably because he doesn’t want to cause too much of a disturbance as other people work in such a contained room. But it doesn’t matter; as soon as he starts to pluck out the first few testing notes, the students around them look up from their work and turn toward the sound. It’s not a disturbance, no. More like a curiosity. One that’s easily satisfied.

“I’m feeling orange,” Luka says with a smile that looks knowing, almost sly, and he leans back and lets the notes come out more fluidly. Like he’s welcoming an old friend of his own.

Marinette would recognize those notes anywhere. She just didn’t know that he heard orange the first time he met her. And she doesn’t know what he must hear once he ventures into a melody she hasn’t quite caught up with. And she doesn’t know how he can smile at her while he plays; she’s pretty sure it would take one million percent of her concentration if she tried it herself. The playing, she means—it doesn’t take much for him to make her smile these days. What she does know, because she’s so distracted from her own work and doesn’t care, is that his fingers move almost effortlessly across the steel strings, and that his eyes start to close like he’s sleepy, and even though his shoulders go slack he still keeps most of the posture that he needs.

That’s the other funny thing: Luka doesn’t play like he wants an audience, but he gets one all the same.

“Wow…”

It isn’t until Marc breathes in awe beside her that Marinette realizes just how tightly she’s clutching her sketchbook and pencil. And how she’s not the only one watching Luka so intently, or so mesmerized. Reserved as he is, Marc is practically committing the scene to memory, probably to write later. Alix is swaying on her feet, drumming her fingers against her hip as she stands back to survey her work. Rose pauses her music and tugs her huge headphones down, still poised with her pen and notepad. Even Nathaniel’s moved his seat to the other side of his worktable so that he can watch with his chin in his hand.

“He’s incredible,” Marc finally says as the music dies away and gives way to faint applause. Rose is already bounding over in the meantime, chattering with Luka about new pieces for their next rehearsal, and the two of them fall easily into working together. Marc looks over to him, then down at his own hands, picking at his nails. “Do you think he… that maybe he’d want to…”

“We’ve been wanting to introduce a new character into the comic,” Nathaniel explains, twirling his pen. Marc looks at him like he’s mildly surprised that this is a we thing—like they haven’t been working together on a weekly basis since the got over their whole misunderstanding. “He looks like he’d be a great fit for the team. He could use, I dunno, guitar powers or something? Marc’s the writer, not me. So…” He flicks his gaze toward Marinette. “Who is he, anyway?”

“He’s…” Marinette hesitates, and her eraser drops to her desk with a thud. How is she supposed to answer that? She can’t say he’s her boyfriend, because he’s not… is he? And he’s more than just Juleka’s older brother, and she wouldn’t dare call him just a friend, because she’s been on the receiving end of that far too many times to inflict that on someone else, especially when they’ve… well…

“I mean,” Nathaniel jokes, “I hope you know who he is. Didn’t you two come in together?”

“Yeah,” Marc points out, chewing his lip. “And you were holding hands. Are… are you two…?”

“He’s Luka,” Marinette says a little too loudly—which probably isn’t the best answer she can give, but at least it’s a good one. Almost instantly, an embarrassed heat crawls up the back of her neck; she glances Luka’s way, and he only shakes his head with a little smile before returning to his conversation with Rose. “He’s… s-someone important? To me?”

Nathaniel and Marc share a knowing look and a smile, and before Marinette can say anything else, Nathaniel’s out of his seat and halfway across the room to talk to Luka. She’s noticed that from time to time, that he’s quiet himself but will take more initiatives for Marc’s sake. Which Marc looks… grateful for, as he stares at both boys from a distance.

“He paints his nails like me,” he says, and he stops picking at his hands.

Marinette smiles to herself, and her heart feels as warm as her face. “Yeah. He’s pretty cool.”

Luka isn’t waiting for her in the courtyard the next morning.

At first, Marinette thinks he must have overslept, or had some kind of appointment before school. She doesn’t think much of it, even if walking to her class is a little quieter and a little lonelier than usual. At least, not until lunch rolls around, and he still hasn’t joined their table, and it occurs to her she hasn’t seen a single flash of blue-green all day. Alya mentions offhand that it’s a shame, because she was finally going to ask to interview him about his experience as Silencer. When Marinette asks about it as casually as she can manage, Juleka only shifts uncomfortably and mumbles that he’s sick.

Which is… weird. He didn’t look sick yesterday when they left school. Did he eat something funny for dinner? Or catch a chill from the river air?

“I was gonna pick up his homework for him,” Juleka says, just as Rose gives her a concerned, almost sad look. “I usually do, but…”

“I can do it.” Marinette blurts it out after letting out an excited hum while her mouth is full. She figured that moment in between would actually give her some time to think and not overreact about it, but who is she kidding?

Juleka looks at Rose, and then back to Marinette. “You sure?”

“Positive. Just tell me who I need to talk to.”

Admittedly, Marinette hasn’t spoken much to the ninth grade teachers, even if she’ll have to get to know them next year. She stammers around them, the way she always does around new people, even if they probably already know her as the representative for Miss Bustier’s class. But it’s a lot easier to introduce herself as Juleka’s friend, that she’s picking up her brother’s homework assignments as a favor, than to try and configure exactly how she can relate herself to Luka. Still, the teachers are kind enough to her, and slot all of his homework into a folder for her to take. The only thing that concerns her, in the end, is when his history teacher pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “I worry about that kid sometimes.”

Marinette has no idea what that means, and she can’t speak around the nervousness and the growing pit in her stomach, so she only excuses herself with a muted thank you and the folder clutched to her chest.

It scares her a little that Luka still hasn’t answered any of her texts, even as she semi-frantically checks her phone on the subway ride over to the river. It scares her even more that she can tell that the messages have been delivered—and that they’ve been read. Is… is he ignoring her? Is he upset that she just called him by name the day before? Or is there something else she did wrong?

There’s a nudge at her thigh through her pocketbook, and she snaps it open to find Tikki smiling up at her. She must have felt her bouncing her leg, and she frowns and mouths an apology.

“It’s okay,” Tikki whispers. “Shouldn’t you try and trust him?”

She has a point, but it doesn’t worry Marinette any less. Lightning-fast, she taps out one more message that she’ll be over soon with his homework, and to ask if he’s okay. Within the course of several minutes, the text goes from Delivered to Read, and she’s about to lose hope all over again before a thought bubble with an ellipsis shows up on the left side of her screen.

He’s typing.

I’m okay. I’ll see you soon.

That’s all he says. It’s the only thing he’s said all day. And it’s not that Marinette doesn’t trust him, exactly. It’s more that there has to be something he’s not telling her.

The walk out of the subway station and along the Seine is near-silent, save for the general sounds of the city and the murmur of the water, and by the time she reaches the houseboat, her hands are trembling so much that she has to shove them into the back pockets of her jeans. There’s no sign of the captain, who’s probably either working or running errands in town, so she has to text him to open the gangplank, counting her breaths and swaying from foot to foot all the while.

After a moment or two, Luka emerges from below, still in casual pajamas, to maneuver the ramp. He catches her gaze and holds it, but he doesn’t say anything; he only works, and makes sure it’s steady, and waits. And Marinette is sure that she’s never seen him so… empty-looking. Or vulnerable. She isn’t even thinking about his assignments when she boards the boat. She’s thinking about holding his hand, or thumbing the bags under his eyes.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, first thing, like an idiot.

Luka looks confused at first, but then smiles weakly and shakes his head. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Then…” Marinette fidgets, gripping the straps of her backpack tight, tight. “Can I stay with you for a while?”

His hands are twitching with some kind of want that she’s not sure she can name; if she squints then, at least according to wishful thinking, he looks like he’s centimeters from scooping her up and holding her close. Instead, he locks up the gangplank again, quiet but proficient, kicks some wayward papers aside, and nods toward the cabins downstairs. “C’mon,” he says, and his hand is cold and trembling when her fingers slide between his.

One text to her parents, and her attention is all his for the afternoon.

The partition that separates Luka’s and Juleka’s cabins is still up, and it looks like there’s more clutter than usual. His bed is still unmade, and his guitar is laid across his desk instead of propped up in its case. In fact, the one thing that still looks orderly is his collection of decorative picks displayed on the wall. He sinks onto his bed, pats some wrinkled space beside him, and Marinette follows suit almost robotically. With some fumbling and no words, she pulls out the folder of assignments and notes from teachers and hands it off to him. He thumbs through the pages, scans them more than he actually reads them, and then drops his forehead to the folder with a sigh.

Marinette ventures to speak. “Juleka said you were sick. But you don’t look… I mean… Is everything… okay?”

His shoulders, bare from his tank top, go stiff, and he grips the folder a little too tight, and for a moment she regrets asking, because the answer might very well be no and she should have known it. But he sighs again, and when he lowers his work he’s looking down at his lap, like he’s refusing to face her. “I haven’t slept.”

What?

“How… how come?” She raises a tentative hand to lift his head, get a better look at his bloodshot eyes and the dark circles underneath them, but as soon as she touches his cheek, he takes her by the wrist and his eyes dart away.

Almost like he’s… ashamed.

She tries again. “Luka?”

“I get shaky,” he confesses, and gives her wrist a squeeze. It’s the kind that feels like he’s trying to make sure she’s really there. “I’ve been having this dream every so often, ever since I was…” He trails off, takes a breath that sounds ragged. “I remember what it was like now, what I did. I remember everything, and I don’t want to, and I… I—”

“Hey…” As soon as his grip loosens, she takes his face in both hands, tips his head up. This close, he looks so exhausted, and she’s not sure what breaks her heart more: that anyone at all feels this way, or that it’s Luka who does. “You’re safe now. Everybody’s safe. You’re not going to hurt anyone.”

“Don’t get hurt—” He blurts it out, and before she can piece together what he means, he has his arms around her waist, and he’s yanking her into his lap, and he’s holding her so tight that she’s sure she can hear the thundering of his heart. It’s not uncomfortable, though, and she settles into his arms so easily after the shock wears away. “Don’t go,” he says, and he sounds so small, so emotionally winded, and maybe it’s just easier to feel everything so loudly when you’ve been alone for so long. “Don’t go, Marinette.”

She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. “Don’t… don’t you want to get some rest?”

“I want to, but every time I close my eyes I see this… flickering. I see everything, sped up times ten, over and over, but everything sounds so slowed down. I could hear him.” His fingers curl tight into the back of her blazer, and even though his face is buried in her shoulder, she can hear his muffled attempts to even out his breathing. “I hurt Ladybug, you know. I took her voice. And when I close my eyes I see myself hurting you too, like that, and I can’t—I can’t hurt you. I can’t be the reason you leave.”

Marinette’s heart sinks. She wouldn’t have the heart to tell him, even if she could. “Is… that why you didn’t text me back?”

He goes stiff again, and she does the only thing she can think of doing: she threads her fingers through his hair, from dark to teal, and cradles the nape of his neck. “If I feel like this,” he says, “I could… Hawkmoth, he could get me again. And I’ve been shaky about that too, and it’s only gotten worse all night, because I haven’t refilled my prescription yet. I only take it when I need it, and I forgot I was out, and…”

“Prescription?” Her brow furrows. “Prescription for what?”

Luka freezes in her arms like he’s said too much, and for a while he doesn’t speak. He isn’t… punishing himself, is he? “For my anxiety,” he finally says, weak and quiet.

Something sinks like a stone in Marinette’s stomach, and she’s only dimly aware of how she holds him closer then. “Oh,” she whispers, and her lips brush the shell of his ear.

“I mean…” Luka fumbles for words—which is probably the most un-smooth she’s ever seen him—but she isn’t about to fault him for it, or hold it over his head. He must have enough cruelties in there. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I’m two years older than you and only one grade ahead?”

“I… never thought to ask.”

His fists clench again. “I missed a lot of school.”

“Oh.”

“And we can’t afford a therapist. Or homeschooling. I just get my medicine from the doctor because it’s free.”

“Luka, you don’t have to tell me everything if—”

“You should know this,” he says. “If you’ve seen this much of me, then you should know this.” It isn’t too soft, isn’t too stern. It almost sounds like some part of him has been taken away when he didn’t ask for it to be.

Like she’s uncovered his biggest secret, and he’s trusting her to keep it under lock and key. Not threatening her. Trusting her.

That seems like a boyfriend thing.

And that seems like a wrong time thing.

“Luka,” she murmurs, worming a hand between them to tug the creased folder of assignments aside, and then she’s stroking his hair again. It’s shaky, and it’s probably not a cure-all, and she doesn’t know the first thing about medications or therapy or anything beyond free checkups and pharmacies. But he’s relaxing. She can feel it. And of all the people to feel this way, it kills her that it’s him. “You care so much about the people around you. We all see it, we know you wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I was so angry,” he says, and he sounds as drained as he looks when she shifts back. No wonder he’s said as much as he has; he must be so tired that all the filter is gone. He looks softer now, around all his edges. Breakable, even though she'd never ever want to break someone with a soul like his.

“I know,” she says, and dares to press a long kiss to his forehead, and by the time she pulls back she can feel the tears welling up and leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“Hey—” Luka’s eyes widen, first in confusion and then in horror, and he scrambles to wipe her face. “No, no no, Marinette, don’t cry, please—”

“You’re safe,” she tells him, and squeezes his hands in hers. “You’re safe, he’s not gonna get you. Or me. I won’t let him. And I’m not… I’m not gonna tell anyone, about this. Okay?”

“Where are you going?”

“To put your guitar away. Were you playing?”

“Yeah.” He leans back on one hand; it fists in the sheets as he rubs at his eyes. He’s not wearing his ring, she notices, even though sometimes he flicks the base of his index finger with his thumb out of habit. “Your song helps.”

Thank God her grip on the guitar tightens—she wouldn’t know how to deal with herself if she dropped it. “Y-you… are you able to sleep now? At least a little bit?”

“Yeah,” he says again, though he looks a little uncertain of himself, and pats the folder. “A nap. I’ll do this when I wake up.”

“Can…” She scrunches up her lips in thought, holds her breath until the guitar is zipped up and stowed away. “Can I stay?”

“Please.” Marinette’s never heard Luka’s voice crack; now she never wants to hear it again. Carefully, like a part of him is still scared she might go, he shifts back to make room for her on the bed—not that there’s much to begin with.

“Oh—” She swallows hard. “You meant—”

“You don’t have to,” Luka says, either because he’s really that kind or because he’s afraid that too much pressure might send her home. It could be both, but maybe he thinks it’s the second one. “I could just have my head in your lap. If that’d make you more comfortable.”

She nods, dumbly, even though she’s definitely thought about sharing a bed with Luka no matter how much she wants to deny it. Little by little, she crawls in to press her back flush against the floral tapestry, and his head nestles easily in her lap. His eyelids look so heavy, like he’s struggling to keep them open to remind himself that she’s here and she’s fine, but his chest flutters with a sigh of relief all the same. She’ll have the decency to take out her tablet for homework once he’s asleep, but for now, she shyly pushes his bangs back and presses her lips to his forehead again. They kiss pretty often, anyway; it shouldn’t be a big deal.

It’s just that it is a big deal. Because she can feel every drop of the intimacy of it in her blood, for someone who isn’t his girlfriend.

Is she?

She’s not about to ask him now. He has enough. This is enough.

Before his eyes fall shut and his breathing evens out, he nudges her mouth toward his—it’s quivering, she can feel it every second they’re connected, like he’s afraid, afraid, afraid. “You’re a superhero,” he murmurs against her lips, so simple, and her breath catches as his hand falls away and laces with hers. And the smile she gives him would be so tender if it didn’t feel so sad.

It’s as Luka shudders in his sleep and clings closer to her waist that Marinette starts to think he’s the only boy she’d ever want to do this for.

As far as Marinette is concerned—and as far as Luka will admit to her—it’s the little things that matter the most after that. In the mornings, after all the greetings and idle chat, she gravitates toward the bench where he always sits. It becomes habit now for her to wrap his arm around her and lean against him, with her ear pressed right to his heartbeat, and make sure that he slept well. During their lunch or their free periods, they touch base again, through simple conversation, a laugh, a touch or two; he looks frayed at the edges sometimes, but it rarely takes more than a look or a smile for him to settle back into his own body, into the coolness Marinette knows and—and knows.

Lila’s stopped trying. It’d be hilarious if that weren’t so sad, too.

Sometimes in the afternoons, Chloe’s comments get to her a little too much, and her chest tightens as much as her grip on Luka’s wrist. But she’s had enough conversations with him, and with Miss Bustier, to remember to pick her battles, to remember that Chloe hurts because she hurts. All Marinette has to do, really, is look up toward him, and feel his hand in hers, and that’s all it takes for a dopey smile to stretch across her face and a stupid giggle to bubble from her lips. He always asks her what she’s laughing at, and she always tells him it’s nothing, and all it takes is a lazy smile and his hand at the small of her back for Chloe to announce her disgust and her exit. So maybe it is true what they say about the best kind of revenge.

Sometimes in the evenings, just before bed, Marinette texts him and asks him what he sees when he closes his eyes. It’s not that she wants to dredge anything up for him. It’s only that she wants him to see the good things, the things that make him happy, and maybe if she reminds him of those things, or lets him find them himself, it won’t be so scary. And more often than not, he texts back one of three things. He sees his guitar—he can practically feel it in his hands—and all the colors he makes with it. He sees the night sky, black and starless from the city lights, and how it all sways in the cool air when he lies back on the deck. And he sees her, smiling affectionately and leaning over him with her hand in his hair, telling him to sleep now, that she’ll be there in the morning. And when he sees her, he says, he doesn’t think there’s anything that could make him feel more secure.

They must look like stupid, lovesick fools to literally anyone who sees them, but Marinette doesn’t know how to tell them it’s deeper than that. She’s not even sure they deserve to know. They have to keep some of their secrets.

She keeps some more of his, too, even the ones Juleka already knows, or probably does. He tells her, in empty classrooms and the ring spinning rapid-fire, about how his father left them when they were young—when Juleka was just learning how to walk and talk, and he was learning to turn up the music loud so he wouldn’t hear the yelling. That sometimes he shakes on the stage in the café, no matter how many people are there, but he’s gotten better at cancelling out the noise. He tells her, over the pulse of some American singing and all its colors, about how he can’t stand the people who make his mother cry, almost as much as he can’t stand how much she sacrifices to make sure they’re healthy, and decent, and sort of living the free lives they want to. He tells her too, while twisting his wristbands and finally making his way to the pharmacist, that he dreams about black butterflies and fingers on lips and her scared blue eyes, and that he’s terrified that Juleka’s conscious enough on the other side of the curtain to hear him wake up shaking and crying.

Sometimes he jokes about it. Imitates comical TV noises, flashes a peace sign or a couple of finger guns and a staged nervous laugh. One time, he takes one look at a deflated balloon strewn near the fountain in the park and deadpans, “Oh, mood.” Another time, he mentions something about “The Insecurity Monkeys,” whatever those are. She doesn’t always understand, at least not in the moment, but some part of her is grateful that he’s allowed her to take these few steps inside of him, that he’s let her in to peek at the idiosyncrasies he’s probably never shown anyone else.

Like how, as he’s playing out the rain with a bouncing leg, and then playing her song to calm it, he tips his head back to look at her upside-down and says, “Can I tell you something? I always wanted to try the Spiderman kiss.”

And her whole body flutters, and her whole face heats up, and she obliges him.

Sometimes he doesn’t have to say anything at all. He only needs to sit beside her in the art room, with his arms slung lazily around her waist and his chin on her shoulder, and split his earbuds with her while she sketches and he makes a dent in his missed assignments. Every so often he’ll rub a circle or two into her back, slow and deep and where no one else can see it, and she’s never sure if he’s doing it to comfort himself or her.

“What’re you working on, anyway?” he asks her once, as she’s evening out the strokes for a dark, skintight suit. “Revamping Chat Noir’s suit or something?”

Marinette giggles to herself, and then nods across the room toward Nathaniel and Marc. They come over almost immediately, Nathaniel with a stack of papers in his hands, Marc with a notebook tucked under his arm, both of them grinning proudly as Nathaniel spreads his papers across the desk.

“We thought you’d want to join the team,” he says. “We just wanted to make sure you looked cool. Cooler than that Silencer guy, anyway.” He gestures toward an array of character designs and the rough sketches of some panels. They all feature a masked boy in gradients of black and teal, donning plated armor that looks like scales, narrowing slitted eyes and grinning with his fingers curled around a lyre.

“We wanted to call him ‘Viperion,’ like a snake-type superhero.” Marc pipes up. “What do you think?”

Luka’s eyes go wide, and he dares to brush gentle fingers against a couple of the drawings, feeling out the texture of the colored pencils. “I think,” he breathes, like someone gave him the gift of life all over. “I think it’s awesome.”

Marinette beams. she can keep some secrets of her own.

It’s once they’re back at the apartment above the bakery that Luka settles on her chaise longue—with the latch door wide open, so Marinette’s parents don’t get any ideas—and says, “You know, you’re always more incredible than I think.” He reclines back a little, and it’s almost as unfair as his singing, how comfortable he looks, how… inviting. “You always outdo yourself, and you don’t even mean to.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” she says with a faint smile, suddenly grateful that she’s taken down all but one or two of Adrien’s photos rom her mini corkboard and filled the gaps with sticky notes and design templates. She hasn’t figured out what to do with the birthday presents yet, but at least she trusts Luka not to open the chest. She hesitates for a moment, then sinks into her swivel chair, watches him watch her.

He looks amused, and maybe even a little nervous, when he slinks back and parts his lips to speak. “Do you… want to come closer?”

Her stomach lurches; she doesn’t know whether to start stammering or laughing. Instead, she nods dumbly, rising to wobbly feet and rounding the chaise. She could let him rest his head again, if they maneuvered this right. But he doesn’t move that way. Instead, he scoots to the slide, leaves a sliver of space for her so that she’d have to nestle into his side and half-sprawl across him if she wanted to get comfortable.

“Do you want to…?” Luka asks again, with all the airs of You can say no if you really don’t want to, but I’m hoping you won’t, and Marinette sinks against his body, and all the butterflies under her skin are pure white. And so are the ones powering the shudder of his heart.

In the quiet, with only the sunset bleeding through the skylight and the window beside them, her hand finds his, and he holds it tight. “What do you see?” she asks him, her voice already heavy with fatigue.

Half-underneath her, his body sinks, and his breathing evens out again. “I see you,” he says. His free arm secures itself around her waist, and he tucks her head under his chin, and it must mean something, about her or them, that she hardly thinks twice about how close together they are. All her thinking goes to the labels they haven’t assigned, and how they’re too tired to think about it. “What do you hear?”

She closes her eyes to the pluck of steel strings, the thud-thud-thud of his heart, the velvet hum of his voice and what he might make words like girlfriend and love sound like. “I hear you,” she whispers back, and waits for him to fall asleep.

There’s one more secret she keeps, when she wakes up tangled in him and inhaling the scent of mid-quality cologne an hour or two later, and it’s this: she thinks she’s starting to see the difference between “love” and “in love,” and she thinks she might be starting to feel both of them.

There’s a box that Marinette keeps on her desk at home; it’s pink and teal, and it’s the size of her hand, and it’s the first thing she’s able to think of when her phone vibrates by her head in the middle of a Saturday night. And then vibrates again. And again.

marinette?

are you there?

please tell me you’re awake

She blinks and squints against the bright light of the screen, but her blood chills, and her heart beats far too fast, as soon as she really processes the messages.

Luka.

As nimble as she’s able, her thumbs fly across the screen: are you okay? what happened?

It’s only moments after she hits SEND that her phone buzzes out a rhythm, and a photo of him takes up her whole screen. Her hands are shaking as she tries to accept the call. “Luka?” she whispers into the receiver, sitting up slowly as Tikki rubs the sleep from her eyes. “What happened?”

“Oh—” There’s a sigh of relief on the other end, and she’s pretty sure that if there’s any fear between them, she’s holding the lion’s share of it. “Did I wake you? God, I’m sorry—”

“No, no.” She huddles up under the covers, and Tikki rests on top of her knees, her big eyes wide with concern and sorrow. “It’s okay. I’m okay. What’s going on?”

There’s another breath from Luka, which sounds less like a sigh and more like a laugh he’s trying to force. And like he might be hyperventilating a little. “All you have to do is talk, and things are a little more okay.”

“Luka…” He sounds shaky to her, like his whole life is rattled. And it’s terrifying, and her heart is twisting in every direction she can think of—and even some she hadn’t. “Talk to me. Please.”

“I saw you,” he says. He’s trying to even out his breathing, and he’s spewing out all his words like the ticker at the bottom of a news channel, and… is… is he crying? “I keep seeing you again, and your voice is gone, and I can’t sleep. Nothing’s working. I took my meds, and I tried playing your song in my head again, I even tried, just, moving my fingers. To play it myself, you know?” He shudders and gasps through clenched teeth, and there’s the rustle of sheets and the creak of his bed and he sounds so. “Why? Why won’t my brain stop? I don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want you to be scared anymore. I just want to sleep. I want to go to sleep.”

His voice breaks, and Marinette’s eyes well up with tears, and all she can say is, “Wait for me,” before she hangs up and begs Tikki to transform her.

And Ladybug makes sure to tuck her mannequin in and grab the box before she leaps out of the bedroom window, and all across town, with no second thought to who might be scared of the sight of her. Or who might be relieved by it.

Marinette makes sure to thank Tikki with a kiss and a cookie once she’s detransformed along the Seine, and her hand shakes a little less when she taps out another text to Luka with one thumb: i’m here.

The reply comes almost instantly: i… i really appreciate you still talking to me about this. it means a lot that you would stay.

no, i mean. i’m literally here. come open the gangplank.

please?

There’s no response after that, only because within moments, Luka emerges from his cabin, wobbly on his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists again and again. He watches her from the boat, as she’s fiddling with the box in her hands—a silly girl with a silly heart and a silly gift, still in her pajamas like him. And she has no idea how she really looks to him, drenched in all this streetlight and none of the stars, but he’s not opening the ramp fast enough, and it’s starting to worry her.

“Let me in?” she finally says, rubbing her eyes. “Please?”

Luka doesn’t say anything. He only gets right to work. It takes him a moment to get the rigging just right, especially when they’re both trying so hard to keep quiet, but as soon as Marinette can jump to the gangplank, she does. And she’s walking faster than she thought she could ever carry herself as a civilian, and she throws her arms around him, and she cries. And she’s not sure if Luka’s crying too, or if he’s shaking more than she is. She only knows that he’s hugging her back, and that some part of her wishes he would pick her up and carry her away with him somewhere the hurt can’t get them.

“Luka?” she says, and shifts back to look at him.

He doesn’t speak. He only watches her.

Maybe he can’t speak.

Or maybe he feels like he’s not allowed to.

“I’m scared,” she says, “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now. Am… Am I supposed to fix it? I don’t know how to fix it. And I know it was stupid for me to come in the middle of the night, but I do stupid things, a lot of stupid things, and—” She can feel the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again, trickling down her cheeks, and she rubs them away fast because the last thing she wants is for him to feel guilty for making her feel any kind of way. “And I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix you.”

He shakes his head fast, squeezes her hand tight, tugs her down toward the cabins again, like the last time she was here. And this time, when he climbs into bed, she doesn’t hesitate as much to follow suit. He rocks back and forth in his seat, she notices, though not violently. It’s almost like he’s doing it to ground himself, like some coping mechanism he must have learned from somewhere else. Or that his body must have known to do on its own. Maybe he was doing it before. Maybe he was doubled over, with his fists in his hair and tears in his eyes and none of the breath in his lungs. It kills her to even think about, let alone see the dregs of.

“I don’t know how to fix you, Luka,” she says again. “I just want you to be okay. I want it so badly my heart hurts. Is that bad?”

He swallows hard, in the dark, and reaches for his phone. Even in the dim light of his screen, he looks just as exhausted as the last time she was here. Soon ehough, her phone buzzes with a message, and she lays the box she’s been carrying in his lap while she checks it. “Open it,” she whispers in the meantime, and taps on her messages.

It’s from him.

I don’t want you to fix me. I just want you to stay.

When she looks up, he’s poking through the box, shining the flashlight of his phone on the contents. He picks out one slip of paper and unfolds it, folds it, puts it back, takes out another, shakes the box. He doesn’t shine the light on her, but he looks back with questions in his eyes.

“I made it,” she says meekly. “I lost count of how many papers are in there. Y-you’re not supposed to read them all now, I just wanted you to have something for when you’re sad. Or scared, or…”

She trails off, and all these moments tell her that Luka is a boy she would sneak out in the middle of the night for, just to feel him pull her close and hold her. Luka is a boy she would create for, if it meant his heart would feel a little less heavy inside him. Luka is a boy she wouldn’t mind sleeping next to, if it meant they would both be safe at the end of the night.

She can’t see him very well in the dark, no matter how much her eyes get adjusted to it. But he pulls her back against the pillows with him, and presses his ear to her heart even as she stammers and asks if he’s all right, and breathes like he’s pushing out every little terror and tremor and paranoid thought with all the strength in him. It’s a little confusing, and probably—definitely—a boyfriend-girlfriend thing. But she isn’t scared. And she doesn’t have any questions. And this is the only gift she’s thinking of giving for a long time. “I’m okay,” she whispers, sniffles and holds his head close and kisses the top of it because it’s all she can think of doing, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “I can stay.”

What’s one more secret?

What’s something Marinette can do that Ladybug can’t?

He only says one thing. “I give up.” He shudders it out, and it scares her, and then he’s drifting off to sleep within moments, sinking into the bed. And she waits until she’s sure he’s asleep before she holds him close and threads her fingers through his hair and cries all over again. Because she doesn’t need to wake up to know she loves him, and she’s in love with him, and it’s not supposed to make her heart swell and shrivel, all at the same time, as much as it does.

She’s in love with Luka Couffaine, and she wants to go to sleep, too.

All her father has to say the next morning, so evenly she wishes the ground would swallow her up, is, “Where have you been?”

Marinette doesn’t want sympathy for being grounded for a week, but it’s what she gets for bringing it up when anyone asks. She doesn’t want pity, no matter how right her father was about girls going out alone at night and leaving their parents worried sick, because in the end, it was worth it. And if anyone wants to know, she wanted to see what was left of the stars at the Seine.

Luka keeps it as much of a secret as she does. And so does Juleka. And Marinette’s not even sure she knows everything. But for the most part, it’s nobody’s business but their own. He still talks to her in the courtyard and walks her to class. He still hangs around at lunchtime, and they still find time in their free periods to do homework and share earbuds or play out their hobbies however they can. Sometimes he asks her about her designs; sometimes she asks him about his music; and sometimes they peek in to check on whatever adventures Nathaniel and Marc have concocted about Ladybug and Viperion. But these days, Marinette goes home by herself after school, and Luka’s comfortable enough to let her go with a hug and a kiss goodbye after the girls have relinquished her.

And he still hasn’t called himself her boyfriend.

And she’s kind of sad about it. Because, wouldn’t he want to, if he really liked her? Or even loved her? Wouldn’t he want to, after taking her out and spending as much time together as they do? After holding each other as much as they have, and sharing—or oversharing—as much as they have?

Isn’t sleeping next to her a boyfriend thing?

Or is it the sort of thing that speaks so many volumes of love that there isn’t even a word for it?

Or is he just as bad at words as he’s always said he is? But that wouldn’t make sense, not after the way he confessed to her so earnestly.

Unless he wrote it down somewhere until he got it as right as he thought he could have, and then just… memorized it.

Which… she probably would have done herself, if she ever told him all those things.

So maybe they really are made for each other, somehow.

There’s a knock on the latch door on the Sunday afternoon that she’s thinking it all over. It’s probably her mother letting her know lunch is ready (she’s not hungry yet), or her father coming to see if she really understands why the consequences are the way they are (she does, but he doesn’t). But it ends up being neither; it’s Luka, poking his head up and looking around until he meets her eyes, and he smiles, faint but warm.

“Thought you could use some company,” he says.

She’s had some; Tikki’s been good to her in the too-quiet moments when she thinks she’s thinking too much. And Alya was nice enough to come over and stay for a couple of hours the day before, even though Marinette didn’t tell her a thing about the box or the music or the attack. They only sprawled themselves across the floor, and scrolled through their phones with plates of snacks and pastries between them, and they talked about how there was considerably less Adrien in her room, and surprisingly not enough Luka. And Alya laughed when Marinette weakly thumped her chest and said, “He’s in here. That’s good enough.”

Which was why she was thinking about this at all. Because Alya was the one to question exactly what was going on between them. Not exactly surprising for someone who pulled Luka aside at lunch, showed him a picture of Nora and a pleasant smile, and said, “Don’t break her heart, okay?”

He hasn’t broken it. She’s just still shaping it. And she’s not upset about it, even if she might have been before. It’s more alike a hopeful kind of sad that only talking might fix.

She welcomes him with a faint smile, and he hoists himself up with his classical guitar, making sure to leave the door open as he takes up his place on the chaise longue. Legs crossed, body slouched. Casual. Like he doesn’t even know what anxiety is. It makes her wonder how often he’s had to cover it up. Or how she never noticed before.

“I’ve been using the box,” he tells her. “It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, exactly—she’s not sure whether it’s a compliment or a slight. But she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, because it’s what he deserves.

“I feel bad,” he confesses next, somewhere between tuning the third and fourth strings. “It’s my fault you’re grounded.”

“I know you do,” she says, because they’ve danced this dance before. “But I’ll forgive you if you stay.”

He looks surprised for a moment, then settles back against the chaise with a soft laugh, and looks up at the ceiling while his fingers dance across the strings, the way they always do. “I’m feeling orange,” he murmurs. “I’m feeling safe,” and he plucks out the first few notes of her heart.

It sounds different this way. Without the steel. Without the electric. He’s made more out of her song, sure, but she’s come to recognize even the parts he sees in her that seem so unfamiliar. He plays, and it feels like they’re sitting by the Seine again, letting the breeze carry every thought and worry and question so that all that’s left are the truest parts of themselves. It feels like they’re in the café again, that under a blinding sweltering spotlight he’s baring his heart and hers for any patron willing to pay a few euros for a cup of coffee. It feels like he’s pulling her toward him, affection and caution and care in every note he dares to play with his eyes shut to the world.

When Luka finishes, and the last of the notes ricochet off the walls, he sighs out, and his shoulders go slack. He slumps against the chaise, sure, but he’s gripping the guitar like his life depends on it. When he finishes, she’s rubbing her eyes, and her heart is swelling. She makes her way to the end of the chaise, careful not to startle him, and when he opens his eyes again, she’s resting a shaky hand on his knee.

“I want to hear yours,” she stutters. “I want to hear what your heart sounds like.”

He laughs, weakly, and bites his lip when her fingers brush the bare skin of his knee. “It’s a mess in there. You’ve seen.”

“I know. But I want to hear it anyway.” She tilts her head, and pats her heart. “Besides. Mine’s a mess, too.”

“It’s beautiful,” Luka blurts out, and in the seconds it takes her eyes to widen and the heat to spill over her cheeks, he presses his palm to his mouth and looks away with a disgruntled expression.

Marinette swallows hard, reaches up to pry his hand from his mouth. “You make it beautiful,” she says, and then, “I want yours.”

“My what?”

“Your heart.”

He freezes there, with his hand still in hers, and she’s pretty sure she’s either made the best or worst decision of her life, even if it was entirely an accident. It takes him a moment to soften around the edges, but he doesn’t look breakable this time. He looks human. Like he is where she is and he has no intention of moving. “You’ve had it,” he says like his throat is dry. “You’ve had it, so take it.”

“So—” Marinette clears her throat. “So you’re my… b-boyfriend? Now?”

He cocks his head, brow furrowed and smile amused. “Have I not been?”

“Oh, I—Oh… Oh.”

Luka laughs through his nose, the way he usually does, and keeps the guitar between them when he shifts closer for a kiss. It’s soft, and his lips are still trembling, and it’s his first kiss as her Capital B Boyfriend. Or maybe it’s not. And he's the same. He's all the same. “Take it, Marinette,” he says. “It’s yours.”