Chapter Text
Patiently, Adrien held a spoonful of ice cream up to Marinette’s mouth.
She sighed.
And yet, she opened her lips, accepted the spoonful, and even managed a smile when Adrien chuckled, eyes crinkling up like the moment she fell in love with him.
Peach pink like his lips and green like his eyes.
Ice cream couldn’t clog a throat, so that lump Marinette felt must have just been her. She swallowed it without tasting it, and found him prepared with another helping. She braced herself for the same ordeal.
The whole evening was an ordeal, but she’d walked right into it. Not blindly, like most ordeals were walked into, but with her eyes wide open, heart helpless and bared on her sleeve — as it always was with Adrien.
“Do you think this is too cheesy?” he asked her.
“Of course not.” Marinette took the spoonful, and when he went to give her another, declined with the raise of her hand. “Plus, it’s meant to be a little cheesy. It’s a first date, right?”
He smiled. “Right.” Adrien sucked some of the ice cream off the spoon — the one he used to feed her. “I really hope she’ll like it.”
Marinette fiddled with her hands.
Playing pretend was getting her through the evening. Pretending they were on a real date. Pretending that when Adrien pulled her aside at school, to the bench he had last brought her to tell her about Kagami, he had asked her out — for real . Pretending that he wanted to walk along the Seine with her, and feed her Sweetheart’s Ice Cream, and brush his knuckles against hers in that tentative way lovers did.
He wanted to do all that. Just not with her.
Marinette should’ve bolted the other way as soon as he sat her down. That bench always meant heartache.
But the girl? The girl, the one he was in love with, whom he was rehearsing this whole date for, must have been made of luck.
“I don’t actually know her favourite ice cream flavour,” he said. “Should I get this for her as well?”
“Sure.” Marinette gulped at the thing in her throat: the lump that wasn’t ice cream. “Everybody likes peach.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.” He nudged her cheek with the plastic spoon. “Want the cherry?”
She turned, and opened her mouth. He fed it to her, and he was smiling at her again, and Marinette found herself dabbing her lips with a napkin to stop herself from spitting it back out.
The cherry wasn’t for her.
But Marinette adored being fed by Adrien.
It was too much, however; too sweet, and Marinette had a tummy-ache. She stood to watch a boat break through the horizon and glide towards the bridge. Slender and elegant, body shot with royal blue, it carried a few passengers holding champagne flutes and leaning as far forward as they could to look at the waves. Marinette started doing the same — leaning as far forward as she could to peer down at them. There was a couple, probably around the same age as her and Adrien, kissing by the lanterns.
Marinette pulled herself away from the railing.
She whipped around at the sound of a guitar. She looked towards the end of the Pont des Arts, where a busker with a classical guitar sat across his lap strummed — a love song she hummed along to whenever it came on, but never knew the words well enough to sing.
Adrien let out a breath. "It's such a romantic night."
And he was right. The ice cream, the boats, the guitar — it was all perfect.
Except for the girl he was with.
No , Marinette wouldn't go down that route, she decided when tears burned at the backs of her eyes. She may have not been perfect for him, but he was something like that for her.
The city lights, the sunset, the boats, the guitar, Adrien — it was a dream come true, and dreams usually lasted one night.
“Wanna dance?”
Marinette turned around. Adrien had set the ice cream down on the bench, and was standing behind her, offering his hand.
She looked at it, then looked back up at his face.
For practice. He wanted to practice.
“She’s a dancer?” Marinette asked, and took his hand.
“Maybe.” He pulled her in by the waist. “I’ve never really asked her to dance before. She’d probably say no.”
“You don’t seem to know a lot about this girl,” Marinette said.
There was a flicker in Adrien’s expression.
If their hands weren't clasped, hers would have flown to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “I just— I’m sure you know a lot about her, like—like most people don’t know I like dancing.” Only you do, in fact , she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. “It’s not something that comes up often.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re right. I don’t know much about her.”
Not knowing how to respond, Marinette looked down at their feet.
"If you don't mind me asking…" She felt Adrien's hand tense in hers. "How come?"
The smile he gave her was so sad, she could've reached up and touched his cheek. "It's hard to explain."
So Marinette didn’t push it. She had a few things that were hard to explain herself.
The water susurred beyond the bridge. Marinette’s eyes turned to the Seine. Another boat, with all its glorious lanterns and thick, full horn, approached the bridge. Passengers gathered on the deck, and waved up to the Pont des Arts as they passed. Marinette took her hand off Adrien’s shoulder, smiled, and waved back.
Once the boat disappeared beneath the bridge, she didn’t dare turn back to Adrien.
Because he was watching her.
She wanted so badly to see the look in his eyes. See if they were as loving as she wanted them to be. But she wasn’t sure if she would be able to take it if she turned around, and he was just smiling that smile Adrien often smiled, the one for a friend, caring and loving but not enough to hold her.
And she wanted him to hold her. God, her whole body itched for it.
She played pretend again as she looked out at the river. Pretended that, soon, he’d call her attention back, with tenderness in his eyes, by telling her—
“You’re beautiful.”
Marinette’s eyes snapped back to him.
He was watching her, softly and quietly, the way she had watched the boats. They stood, the guitar behind them, as they stared at one another.
Marinette was the first to look away. “You should say that to your girl. It’d make her happy.”
“That…” He was the next. “That wasn’t a practice.”
Stunned, she almost let go of his hand.
And instead of letting the pain fester, swell, infect, she allowed a realisation to glide up to her, as those boats glided up to the bridge.
She didn’t need to pretend.
Because there: above the Seine, in Adrien’s arms, watching the boats go by and sparkle in the city lights — he was hers, and she was his. He wouldn’t be tomorrow (and neither would she), but this moment belonged to them, because Adrien did choose Marinette, just not in the way she expected. He chose her to share this evening with, to entrust his secret, to dance with her like he loved her and call her beautiful like that, too.
Marinette took her hand from his, and clasped both around his neck. She lay her head against his collarbone, and closed her eyes.
Adrien cupped her waist. The guitar had stopped minutes ago, but they were happy to resume their dance.