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Luka finds her smoking in the side-street opposite the bar where Kitty Section’s concert has just finished, the flicker of flame and smoke drawing him in like a moth–
– an appropriate analogy, since he is, indeed, blinded by the image of Marinette’s face smiling at Adrien after their set finished and–
“Hey,” he says, visibly startling the mayor’s daughter out of her reverie. She raises her left arm to clasp her right one, guarding her chest, eyes holding the defiant defensiveness of a wounded animal. He pulls out his own pack of cigarettes nonetheless. “Can I use your lighter?”
She gives him a once-over and straightens up a bit before pulling out a pack from the pocket of her obnoxiously yellow jacket. Everything about her clothes, her hair, her eyes, is stark and bright, as if she’s overcompensating her otherwise ugly – from what he’s heard from the others, at least – attitude–
– though isn’t he only thinking this because it says something he likes about his cold blues and his dark roots?–
He reaches for the lighter but she shakes her head and pulls her hand slightly back. “I don’t want you touching it. You’ll get it dirty.”
– and he should feel insulted by this, but it is somehow the most honest thing anybody’s said to him today and–
He snorts. That snort turns into a chuckle and, luckily, he manages to stifle it before he doubles over in hysteria. The girl’s eyeing him like she’s regretting offering him that lighter, though, which is not helping, but it does serve, at least, to motivate him to try harder at controlling himself.
“Okay,” he says, taking a cigarette out of his pack. “Sorry, it’s been a really long day.”
– and that is also quite possibly the most honest thing he’s said to anybody today–
“Yes,” she says, and he glances up at her, surprised . She averts her face slightly to the side, taking another drag while pressing on the lighter in her other hand, getting the flame to come to life. “The set did go over time.”
–ah, so he hadn’t imagined her glancing at that red-head and her boyfriend across the bar when they’d played the third encore of the last song, the one Rose had written for Juleka–
“I see,” he says and finally, he does.
Luka feels a bit daring, then, and puts the cigarette between his lips before leaning into the flame. He can sense her – Chloé, yes, that was the name Marinette had said that one time –
–no, no, don’t think about those ocean eyes–
–he can sense her turning to stare at him again. He straightens up and takes a step back before inhaling and exhaling for the first time (he doesn’t want to blow smoke into her face, who knows what kind of crime he could be imprisoned for then– ) and her gaze moves to follow him.
And so they stand there, looking at each other, and it’s surreal but also not. She pockets the lighter, but her cigarette continues to hover in mid-air. He takes another drag out of his.
Her eyes flicker to his chest, pause, blink. “Is that jacket a Dupain-Cheng?” she asks, neutrally, as if talking about a brand she has no opinion of–
– and maybe Marinette was wrong about how much she actually hated her, but–
“It is,” he says, and he can feel his voice break a little. Her face seems to soften ever so slightly and she raises her hand to inhale in a manner suggesting she wants to hide behind more smoke. Luka tries not to grit his teeth . “Do you mind me sharing that wall with you?” he gestures towards her left.
She purses her lips, but her hand comes down. The left one is supporting it under the elbow now. “Fine,” she says, and he moves to lean against the spot beside her.
They spend some minutes in silence like this, with smoke in their lungs and above their heads, dimming the stars, the noise of the bar playlist seemingly muted. The doors open, suddenly, and Luka glances at them only to find the red-head on her boyfriend’s arm–
– and he refuses to look at Chloé at this; she deserves whatever privacy she can get–
–and then Marinette emerges holding onto Adrien’s arm and–
“How do you do it?” Chloé mutters. He snaps his eyes onto hers and finds the same sort of desperation he’d seen in the mirror that morning, the domino effect (he now realises) of his mother having sat him and Juleka down to tell them the news from the hospital where his grandfather is – was – staying –
She continues as if she can’t see the metaphorical water filling the metaphorical boat with metaphorical holes they’re both metaphorically standing in. “Much as I’m not...much as these people aren’t my friends, I do hear things. And I do have eyes,” she adds as if they’re not the starkest, coldest blue out there.
–B minor, if that–
She worries her lip and he feels the urge to mimic her, but stifles it as she continues: “You and Dupain-Cheng...how do you stand it? How do you...how do you get over it?”
– and he wants to ask her about Adrien because Marinette has, by contrast, told him of her specifically, but he can see this isn’t the child the former had described, the one desperate not to lose its favourite – really, its only – toy; no, it’s the person who’s suddenly lost their anchor while at sea, and he doesn’t mean to slip into the second person but–
“With practice,” he says, hoping she’ll understand. “Some days are easier than others. You don’t really have much of a choice in these matters, though, so you handle it the only way you can.”
Chloé crushes her cigarette against the wall and drops it to the ground, freeing her hands to rummage through her bag. “What, with silence ?” she says, voice strained. A packet of tissues appears in her hands and she wrenches one out and starts furiously dabbing at her eyes.
Luka pretends not to see that. “Yes,” he says, forcing his voice to come out as calm as he’s told it usually is. “Unless you prefer distance , but that only works as an all-or-nothing solution.”
–and it hurts for a long, long time before it actually properly heals you –
She scoffs through a sniffle; he finds the venom she manages to inject in it impressive, given the circumstances. “No, thank you,” she says, visibly trying (and failing) to keep the tremor out of her voice.
–and that’s just one more reason he wishes he weren’t at the end of his line himself with these things, isn’t it?–
She wipes the last of her tears away and immediately pulls out another tissue along with a small bottle of what looks to be micellar water from her bag, setting to work on removing the smudged mascara and washed-out fond de teint.
“There’s a little bit under your chin,” Luka says once the other tissue leaves her face. She shoots him a scowl but swipes towards her throat again. “Did I get it?” she asks, voice slightly rough.
“Yes,” he replies and she nods brusquely (he appreciates the gratitude nonetheless) before moving to pick up her cigarette from the ground. She throws it with the tissues in a nearby trashcan and comes back to lean on the wall again.
–and it’s a way out not taken, and what was that poem about diverging paths–
She reaches for the pocket where she’d left her cigarette pack; stops, as if considering, then says:
“My ass is going to freeze off in this weather and I need another drink. Come on.”
–and her eyes look brighter despite not being contrasted by the dark of her eyeliner anymore–
“Okay,” she’s already moving towards the bar and he’s already following her, but he voices an acceptance of the unspoken invitation nonetheless because he can–
– or because you never know what might make all the difference.