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Friends don’t act the way they do.
Maybe it was because of the lack of friendship in his life, but Adrien is pretty sure friendship isn’t quite like this. Friendship is sacred and healing, sure, but not in the way he feels it in Marinette.
Friendship is giving Nino a hug before leaving school for the day, while his best friend tousles his hair and tells him he’ll see him tomorrow.
Friendship isn’t the long, tight hugs he finds himself drawing Marinette into. The hugs where there isn’t any particular reason for them, but just to feel. To absorb one another’s aura--his arms circling her waist while her hands gently palm his back. He breathes in the heady scent of her shampoo while she tucks her head into his collarbone, fitting there like she was created for him.
It started out innocent enough. In the beginning, it really was friendship. A kinship he felt with her, an easiness that has never gone away. When Chat first landed on her roof, he had never expected the baker’s daughter to become someone precious enough to rival Ladybug.
And so, he’d kept coming back. It was irresistible--the promise of a warm home, a loving smile, a kindness he never felt at his own home anymore. And slowly, their friendship deepened.
But even as it deepened, it also faded. Because friends don’t do the things they did.
When he first slept in her bed with her, it was awkward fumbling and nervous laughter and an unspoken agreement to stay as far away from one another as possible.
By the third time, they had been hopelessly entangled in one another, absorbing body heat. Adrien would never forget it. He craves it. His hand resting on her waist, right where her pajamas have ridden up, and he could almost feel the smooth texture of her skin under his glove. The way she’d sigh in her sleep, moving her nose to his shoulder. He could feel the faint puffs of air on his neck from her breathing. He tries to ignore the shiver it sends down his spine.
Friends, perhaps, cuddled in bed. But friends did not press their faces close, desperate for any space between them to disappear.
He isn’t sure when the shift began. They would sit together when they watched movies or played games, but then she leaned against him, and soon she was in his lap. He isn’t sure if he pulled her there or if she climbed in herself. He supposes it doesn’t really matter. His claw barely brushes against her thigh as she leans into his chest, her hair tickling his neck. It’s too warm.
Friends played games together. Friends did not use their movements while playing as an excuse to press against each other.
Friends visited each other’s homes. Friends did not become home the way she was his.
She was his home.
Adrien knew he was too far gone when he realizes he doesn’t just want her near--he needs her. He needs her like he needs air to breathe, like he needs blood in his veins. Her presence was enough. It had always been enough. As long as he could see her smile, her freckles wrinkle when she laughed, her eyes lighting up when she spoke, her voice lilt when she opened her trapdoor for him, then that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Friends become inseparable.
Friends don’t crave each other like he craves her.
The soft touches, the shy smiles, the blushes, the hesitant gazes--it became too much. He doesn’t know who leaned in first, but suddenly it didn’t matter. He was pressing his lips to hers, and she was reciprocating, and that heady feeling was addictive. It was the feeling of being surrounded by her.
She was so soft, unsure of herself, clumsy. And it was endearing. He doesn’t think she could be more endearing than she was in that moment. He cups her face, bringing her closer, and leads the way despite his own inexperience. Gently tilting her face. Letting her card her fingers into his hair. His ear twitches as she releases a breathy laugh, a smile curving his mouth. She was perfect.
He suddenly understood, with a fierceness, what love really meant.
Friends love each other.
Friends don’t love each other the way they do.