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She sees him, and she is at the helm of a wooden ship, the sun beating down on her shoulders like a promise, her cheeks warm and brown. He is golden, reclining on a rock slick with the salt of the water, and when he turns his face to her - curious and ethereally bright - his eyes speak of the thousands of girls who have dashed themselves on the rocks, caught up in the diamonds glimmering on the water by his skin, just in the hopes of being a little closer.
His eyes catch on hers, his chin tilts, the sun kisses him like a lover. She takes a breath, and her feet are on the railing, the waves open their arms. She moves a foot off, salt droplets reaching up to caress her soles.
“Marinette,” he says in greeting, and she is sitting at a desk chair, her breath slamming into her like a hurricane. Her cheeks rage, a forest fire, and she only just manages to lift a hand in greeting before turning her face away. His smile is too bright for her, burning the skin of her cheeks. A solar flare bringing sunburn and embarrassment - she refuses to be another girl dashed onto the rocks, but she knows she’s no better than them.
He leaves her alone, and she misses his air as sorely as if she were to miss oxygen, and she watches him go, watches everyone swarm around him. Bees to honey, moths to the bonfire in the dark. He has long since established himself here, but he is still a novelty, a wonder. She sees a boy reach a hand out and touch his shoulder, reverently jealous.
“Marinette,” someone else calls, across from the honeycomb cluster, and she stands, following the voice. She keeps her head ducked, determined to move past the flame without being drawn into the honey’s orbit, and is rewarded for her trouble by stumbling into someone who gently nudges her to the side.
“Marinette,” he says, and her ribs crush her lungs as she lifts her head and finds eyes the color of an ocean of a meadow, black pupils the rock she catches hold onto amid the unending warm summer of the grass. His cheeks, smooth gold, the candor of marble, lift, and he tilts his head at her. “Okay?” he asks.
And she looks around, and she sees the eyes of the honeycomb, staring with rapt attention. Blood rushes to her face, her ribs squeeze tighter around her lungs, and she nods. She tears herself away from his meadow eyes, and she tries her best to leave his orbit.
There are times where she considers the origins of him. What stars and planets had to align in order for his face to be found in the glimmering marble he was carved from. And then she remembers the cruel heat of fate, the sun-crossed tragedy he’s lived through.
His mother, with her yellow hair that fell into place as easily as dominos, perfectly lined up and struck down. He is beautiful because she was. There is evidence of her in him, in the face he makes looking up into blue skies.
There are reasons for the way things happen, for the way the dominos fall, but she wishes, selfishly, this beauty could exist without the tragedy, if only to see him smile without a dam behind his eyes.
She disappears into imagined domestic kitchens, the sun shining through stained glass above the sink. A radio crackling through a song with twinkling piano keys, his fingers drumming on her hip as they slide across the wood floor in socked feet.
And then there’s the familiar comfort of dreaming up them sitting across from each other at dinner, the jolt of seeing him raise an eyebrow at her, lips quirked up one side. And her chest is as light and bubbly as the gold in their glasses, and she kicks her foot against his shin, relishes the way his laugh bursts up from his heart, rosy and flushed.
And of course there’s the much-returned-to sea, where she dreams them up a thousand and one ways, but here she dreams of them walking barefoot, sand squishing up between their toes, salt sticking their laced hands together, the sun showering over them both as they listen to the waves, quiet and content.
And then she blinks, and she’s staring at a cold cup of coffee, and he’s across the room. Her face burns, solar flare of the heart, and he is still across the room.
Every time their eyes catch, her mind slows it down, double exposes the movement, until it’s too bright to look at. And she can never decide if it’s worth it to keep staring, to turn her eyes to the eclipse and be blinded or to look away and miss even a second.
It would be better to look away, to move her hand away from the rose bush and its inevitable thorns.
It would be better, wouldn’t it?
His greenhouse eyes, his sunkissed smile. She lets herself jump into the thorn of loving the star of countless orbits, over and over, and she still winces when her bones break her fall.
His gaze meets hers, her cheeks flush, her body braces for impact.
He has to have loved before, being so beautiful, he has to have loved before. What must it be like, to be loved by him? She imagines the way he would fix his hair, if he was in love. The way he would sit straighter, comb piano key fingers through gold, tilt his face to the side and smile.
His life, prior to when she first met him, is a mystery to her, a blurry vision of tragedy and beauty. Did he love, was he loved? How did everything fall into place so that he became a vision of gold marble in an ocean meadow, filled with solar flares and honey lamps? What made him? What makes him?
She wants to know. She spins hair into gold thread and pretends she gets the privilege to know.
“I know you must be disappointed to find out it’s me,” he says, and all she can think about is her daydreams, rose colored to a fault, being dashed on the rocks, porcelain shattering to a fine dust mixing in with the salt.
No wooden kitchen and stained glass piano key fingers drumming on her hip - now there’s the open air and the stars singing the melody while he hums the harmony, moonlight fingers outstretched to her, evergreen eyes smiling like roses.
No dinner and seats facing each other - now there’s the thrill of the world on their shoulders, the way his mouth moves around bad jokes, sunbright laughter as they run through a concrete and glass constructed forest, bells chiming in time with their heartbeats.
No ocean salt wave background noise to the feeling of her hand in his - now there’s the threads of his gold hair tickling her cheek as she rests her head on his shoulder, the sunset a symphony on her skin, his breath the steady metronome of her life.
She blinks, and he is right in front of her, and all her daydreams are porcelain dust on the rocks. "Adrien," she says. He is still right in front of her.
She sees him, and she is at the helm of a wooden ship, the sun kissing down on her shoulders like a promise, her cheeks flushed and red. He is golden, reclining on a rock slick with the shimmer of the sun on the water, and when he turns his face to her - close bright and warm - his eyes speak of the evergreen meadow she lays in with him, the gold of the day flush with warmth, soft as rose petals and the glint of a gaze returned from across the room..
His eyes catch on hers, his chin tilts, her smile kisses him like a lover. He takes a breath, his feet are already in the diamonds of the waves, he dives toward her. She opens her arms.