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“Why are you being so secretive?” Alya asks, wiggling as Marinette tries to pin the fabric of her gown. When Marinette glares up at her, she stops moving, though she still adds, “Are you ever going to tell us? Or is this going to be one of those unsolved mysteries that they put in your biography? No one quite knows why Marinette Dupain-Cheng chose such a bizarre color scheme for her wedding, but historians have speculated that—”
“Alya,” Marinette says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not a secret. If you figured it out, I’d tell you that you were right.”
“Then why don’t you just tell me?”
“Because it’s personal,” Marinette says. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to tell people.”
For weeks, Alya has begged Marinette to explain the color scheme for her wedding—and of course, the moment she set foot in the fitting room, the litany of questions began again. At this point, Marinette’s really just keeping it a secret as a matter of principle.
“I swear,” Alya says, “you always said that Nino and I were bad back in collège, but you and Adrien are even worse. Sometimes I think the two of you share one brain.”
“That,” Marinette says, pinching a piece of fabric, “would be a nightmare. Adrien only says half the puns he thinks. I don’t think I could handle double the wordplay.”
Alya cackles. “Yeah, okay. Fair.” She hums to herself. “Okay, so, I get the pink and blue. Those are your and Adrien’s favorite colors. Right?”
Marinette shakes her head, then removes a pin and holds it with her teeth. As she gathers the fabric to re-pin it, she mumbles, “That’s not why.”
“And why yellow?” Alya says. “You hate yellow. It’s Chloé’s color.”
Sighing, Marinette plucks the pin from her mouth. “I don’t hate any colors,” she says, slipping the pin throuh the fabric. “They all play an important role in design.”
“Is it because Adrien’s blond?”
Marinette snorts. Alya has to know that they wouldn’t have based their color scheme on Adrien’s hair, of all things. But she does wonder how Alya’s reporter eyes haven’t latched onto the only other yellow thing in the room right now: the golden beads sitting against Marinette’s wrist.
“Your eyes are blue,” Alya says. “And Adrien’s eyes are green! I’m onto something, aren’t I?”
“You caught us,” Marinette says drily. “And the pink is for my hair, obviously.”
Alya groans and stomps a heeled foot against the platform she’s standing on. “Damn it!” she says, and Marinette can see her frustrated face reflected in one of the fitting room’s mirrors. “I thought I had it.”
Laughing, Marinette stands and circles Alya, observing her dress. It’s one that Marinette designed herself, of course—she wasn’t going to let her best friend wear something by some other designer. The honey yellow fabric contrasts well with Alya’s skin and hair, much better than any of the other wedding colors, and the snug bodice and slightly-flared column skirt emphasize her curves perfectly.
“I wouldn’t look as good in the other colors,” Alya notes, regarding herself in the mirror. It’s almost like she read Marinette’s mind. “Is that why you chose yellow?”
“That’s right,” Marinette says. “You figured it out.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Dude,” Nino says, as Adrien shows him pictures of the prototype floral arrangements that Rose has created for the wedding. He’s slouched next to Adrien at a table in their favorite coffee shop, his cup drained long ago. “I thought Marinette was a designer.”
Adrien frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know much about design,” Nino says. “Like, I’ve never put much thought into what I’m wearing, or whether the colors go together. But…pink, blue, yellow, and green? You’re just two colors shy of a rainbow, man.”
“Technically three,” Adrien says. “Red, orange, and violet. And pink isn’t officially a color of the rainbow.” He swipes to the next photo. “Okay, so, Marinette and I are stuck on this one. I think it’s the best, because it features roses, which are her favorite flower. But she doesn’t like it, because she says that the roses are overpowering the arrangement.”
“Colors are overpowering the arrangement,” Nino says. “You realize that the four of us are all wearing different colors for this wedding?”
“It’s just accent colors,” Adrien says, waving Nino off. “It’s not like I’m wearing a bright green suit. Marinette would kill me if I did that.”
Nino shrugs. “I don’t care one way or the other, but Alya’s going crazy. She hates that she can’t figure out the color scheme after knowing you two for a decade.”
“Oh,” Adrien says. “Right. I forgot about that.”
He smiles fondly at the bracelet wrapped around his wrist, the same one he’s worn ever since Marinette gave it to him back in collège. Back before they were dating, back before he figured out that she was his superhero partner and the love of his life. He should have realized sooner why he cherished Marinette’s lucky charm so much.
“Why are you smiling at the table?” Nino asks.
“No reason,” Adrien says. “Now, help me come up with an argument to convince Marinette that we should go with the arrangement I want.”
“An argument to convince Marinette that your design ideas are better than hers?”
Adrien pouts. “She cares what I think. We make all our major decisions together, Nino.”
And Nino doesn’t realize just how true that is. Whether it’s marriage or saving the city of Paris from evil, Adrien and Marinette are partners through and through.
“I don’t think flower arrangements count as major decisions,” Nino says.
Rolling his eyes, Adrien goes back to scrolling through flower pictures.
“Maybe you should take pity on her,” Adrien says one night, as Marinette sits next to him on the couch with a mug of tea in her hands.
“She deserves it,” Marinette says. She snuggles into Adrien’s side, her cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his hoodie. “She spent practically every day of lycée begging me for details about our love life. We’re allowed to keep a few things to ourselves.”
“You know, buguinette,” Adrien murmurs, “I didn’t take you for the vengeful type.” He presses a kiss to her hair. “Aren’t you supposed to be the responsible one?”
“I don’t know,” Marinette says. “It’s exhausting being responsible all the time. And I really enjoy trolling Alya. I think you can be the responsible one, at least until the wedding.”
“I’ll make sure I add that to my vows,” Adrien says. “And I, Adrien Agreste, hereby revoke my role as the responsible one, returning it to my lovely soon-to-be wife…”
Marinette giggles. “Anything else you want to revoke, while you’re at it? Your dishwashing duties, maybe?”
Laughing, Adrien tightens his hold on Marinette. Sensing what he wants, Marinette sets her mug on the coffee table and allows him to scoop her onto his lap.
“Actually,” Adrien says, “there is one other thing, yes.”
Marinette tilts her head back to glance up at him. “And what’s that?”
“My name.”
“Right,” Marinette breathes. “Your name.”
She still can’t quite wrap her head around the fact that Adrien’s going to be taking her last name once they’re married. Of course, all those days she’d doodled Marinette Agreste in her collège notebooks, she’d never actually planned to take his name. She’s proud of her family, her name, of the accomplishments she’s earned under those two words and a hyphen.
But it never occurred to her that one day Adrien Agreste might be signing papers as Adrien Dupain-Cheng.
“You don’t mind?” Adrien asks, his green eyes scrunching in concern. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”
“I love it,” Marinette says. She leans forward to kiss his cheek. “And I love you. I’m more than happy to give you my name.”
“Your name, your designs, your lucky charm bracelet…” Adrien leans forward, his lips brushing featherlight against Marinette’s. “Why, my lady. Pretty soon I’ll be all yours.”
Marinette reaches down to take Adrien’s wrist, her fingers running across the beads of his charm bracelet. “Aren’t you already?”
Adrien’s hand finds Marinette’s bracelet as well, rubbing one of the beads between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve always been yours,” he says, his green eyes shining. “You know that.”
Somehow, even after dating Adrien for so many years—after being engaged to him for almost two—Marinette still finds herself overcome when he turns that soft gaze on her. And so, speechless, she leans forward and captures his lips in a kiss.
Hands wander, clothes disappear, and they quickly relocate to the bedroom. And as they move together, kissing and lost in each other’s bodies, Adrien’s hand stays intertwined with Marinette’s, the beads of their bracelets matched together like their hearts.
Weeks later, when Marinette and Adrien join each other at the end of the aisle—and Adrien does, in fact, revoke his role as the responsible one during his vows—only a few keen eyes catch the gold and blue bracelet hidden under the flowing sleeves of Marinette’s dress, or the pink and green beads peeking out from underneath the cuffs of Adrien’s dress shirt. Even fewer eyes notice that the colors of the bracelets are the accent colors of the wedding.
“Bracelets,” Alya mutters, during the exchange of rings. “It’s the bracelets.”
Adrien takes Marinette’s hand, his fingers slipping under her sleeve to feel the bracelet around her wrist. “You know,” he murmurs, leaning forward, “you’re my real lucky charm, princesse.”
“Kiss me already, you sap,” Marinette says.
Smiling, Adrien does just that.