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Chapter Text

George yanked the hood of his coat up over his head, trying to shield his face from the biting February wind as he trudged up the front steps of Francois Dupont High School. He pulled the door open, walked across the atrium, put his coat in his locker, and… was that the time? Shit! He raced up the stairs and burst into the classroom. “Sorry I’m late, Miss Bustier!” No sooner had he finished speaking than his foot caught on something on the floor and he hit the ground hard, books and papers flying everywhere.

He lifted his head and looked over his shoulder to identify the offending object. A designer backpack stared back at him, the owner of which he was—unluckily for him—all too familiar with.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. Gosh, I should really stop leaving my bag there so that George Davidson doesn’t trip over it every time he’s late.”

He glared up into the smug face of Chloe Bourgeois, the bratty daughter of the mayor of Paris. Ignoring the twinge of irritation in his chest, he gathered his papers and books and sank into the seat beside his best friend, Alya.

Miss Bustier was unfazed, since this kind of commotion was an everyday occurrence in her class. “Alright, guys. Back to Baroque art! So when we see this type of pillar in the background of a piece, we can tell that…”

“You’re late,” Alya whispered.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” he shot back. “Hello to you too.”

“What happened this time?” Alya whispered.

George shrugged. “I may have gotten slightly sidetracked on the way to school. There’s a new billboard up on Rue de Rivoli.”

Alya raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You were late because you were drooling over a new picture of Clay?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut all the way up. He is right there,” George hissed, gesturing at the blonde model sitting in front of them. “I was just… studying it. For fashion purposes. You know I want to be a designer.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. You’re ‘totally over him’, right.” Alya mocked his British accent.

George ignored her, pretending to listen to what the teacher was saying, and letting Alya go back to kicking the back of her boyfriend Nino’s chair.

Alya was George’s best friend, sure, but sometimes (like right now) he wished she didn’t know him so well. But that’s just how they were—he knew her curly brown hair and signature colorblock hoodie as well as he knew his own face in the mirror—and he wouldn’t give her friendship up for anything, not even to get her to stop being right all the time. Even when she teased him, he loved his seat beside her.

What was so great about this seat, besides being right next to his best friend, was the view. George sat right behind Clay Agreste, and stared at the back of his head all day, every day—and it was a very nice head. Some days, the sun would hit him just right, enveloping him in a golden halo, making him look positively angelic. Clay looked angelic all the time, really. He had this sandy blonde hair that looked impossibly soft, and it was all too easy for George to imagine sinking his hands into it. It fell in soft curls without a hair out of place, and whenever Clay moved his head, it seemed to sway around him. The fluorescent lights of the classroom were harsh and cold, but even with the awful lighting, Clay’s hair seemed to glow with warmth. Through silky waves peeked out the tips of two ears, and George didn’t know how ears could be cute, but on Clay, they were. In a completely friendly, 100% platonic way, of course.

If George was being honest with himself (though he rarely was), he would have to admit that he was not ‘totally over’ Clay. His silly crush had continued to plague him ever since he had first met Clay, three years ago, when the boy had shyly greeted him with a salut! and George had promptly tripped over his own feet. Since then, he had avoided Clay like the plague—he was clearly a safety hazard—and observed from a safe distance.

George watched the back of Clay’s head in a daze until Alya elbowed him. “Assignment,” she hissed in his ear. George glanced down in surprise at the worksheet that had appeared in front of him. He looked sadly at Clay’s head. Oh, well. It would still be there to stare at when the worksheet was finished.

George picked up his pencil and sighed. He scrawled his name and the date, vendredi, 21 février, then glanced at the page heading. It said, Les 10 bâtiments les plus célèbres de Jules Lavirotte à Paris, followed by ten blank lines. Immeuble Lavirotte, he wrote on the first line. Numero 3 Square Rapp …

George was on the verge of falling asleep through Miss Bustier’s lecture on l’art et l’architecture when the bell rang. He jolted awake and stuffed his papers into his bag, hurriedly scrambling out of his chair. His foot caught on the corner of his desk and his heart leapt into his throat as he lost his balance–

“Whoa,” a deep voice said as he suddenly stopped falling. “Careful there.”

He looked up into green eyes and a perfect smile and suddenly realized that Clay— Clay! —had caught him and was currently holding him in his arms. The very same smooth, toned arms that George had seen just the other day in a shirtless photo on the cover of Vogue France. George, determined not to drool over Clay’s arms, decided to look at his face. He instantly regretted the decision when Clay tossed his head in slow-motion, removing a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes. George’s mouth went dry. Oh, hell.

George suddenly realized that he still lay in Clay’s embrace. His face burned. “Oh– er– sorry I fell for you– I mean, fell on you! Thanks for… er, yeah!” he squeaked, freeing himself from Clay’s hold and hurrying away. He went straight to his next class, knowing that if he went to his locker, he would just climb in and never come out. Every time he came face-to-face with Clay, he stumbled and stuttered, tripping over his words and his feet and humiliating himself completely. When he got to science, he sat down and pulled his navy blue hood over his fluffy brown hair, trying to disappear until the end of class when he could go home and get some lunch.

.   .   .

George hurried through the busy Parisian streets, anxious to get home for lunch. He dodged an old lady with a quick Pardon, Madame, and squeezed past a group of tourists. He was almost home when a distant crashing stopped him in his tracks. His stomach growled in protest. So much for my lunch. With a sigh, he ducked into a nearby alley. See, George had a big secret. Most of the time, he was just your ordinary clumsy high schooler, but when Paris was in danger, he took on another role. He unzipped his backpack and whispered, “Tikki, spots on!”

In a flash of red light, George transformed. His hair got a little shorter and neater, and he was coated from the neck down in a skintight red suit with black polka dots. A mask covered the top half of his face, leaving only his eyes, mouth, and chin visible. His magic weapon, a yo-yo, appeared at his hip, ready for action at any moment. His superhero costume was perfect for him—it was thick and solid enough to protect him from most attacks, but thin and malleable enough to allow him to move around easily when he needed to fight.

His Miraculous, the object that allowed him to transform, also gave him superpowers. When he was George, it was just an ordinary watch. However, when it was activated, it gave him enhanced speed and strength, protected him from extreme conditions, and magically concealed his identity. He also had a signature power, his Lucky Charm, which gave him the ability to summon an object to help him against anyone who threatened the safety of the city.

That was his job: defeating villains. With his superhero partner, he fended off every foe Hawk Moth threw at them, protected the magic wristband that gave him his power, and found akumatized objects, freeing and purifying the evil butterflies that took control of otherwise harmless Parisians. The city knew him as Ladybug, and revered him as their savior. To him, this was silly. He just used his powers to do what needed to be done.

Speaking of which, he had a job to do. Using his yo-yo, he swung onto a rooftop to find the source of the panic, and saw smoke coming out of a familiar building. With his enhanced speed and strength, he leapt across rooftops until he saw a familiar black-clad figure on the street below. He leapt down to where his partner, Chat Noir, waited.

“Hey, Ladybug. Happy Friday,” his partner greeted him, American accent prominent as ever. Ladybug wasn’t short by any means (he was average, okay?), but Chat Noir towered over him, well over six feet tall. The way his tousled blonde hair stuck up all over the place made him even taller, and his tanned, muscular build made him look like a stereotypical American ‘surfer dude’. Well, if surfer dudes wore full-body black leather, complete with claws, cat ears, a mask over their eyes, and even a tail.

Years of working closely together as they fought crime and akumas in the city had created a strong working relationship between them. Ladybug could recall countless times when Chat Noir had saved his life, and he had saved Chat Noir just as much. He would give his life to protect the city, and he trusted completely that Chat Noir would do the same. They knew each other, as well. A lot of the time, they worked together so seamlessly and naturally that people wondered if they could read each other’s minds.

But where the city-saving stopped, so did their friendship. Sure, they bantered and had a sense of camaraderie, but it would never go further than that. The problem was, Chat Noir seemed to have a bit of a crush on him, and he didn’t—couldn’t—like the other boy back. Ladybug would never let feelings be a part of his superhero identity. The only thing his suit was for was fighting crime. Anything else he wanted to do, including picking up guys, he could do as George. So no, he couldn’t return Chat Noir’s feelings. If Chat Noir wanted to find love so much, why couldn't he just do it as his civilian identity?

Ladybug knew where they stood—where they always would. The tall, blonde American was one of Ladybug’s best friends, and their easy, simple relationship allowed for effective teamwork. Because teamwork was the most important part of their partnership.

“Hello,” Ladybug replied. “Know anything yet?”

“This is Immeuble Lavirotte. It’s an apartment building.”

“I know,” Ladybug retorted, leaving out that he had only just learned about it himself. “It’s a very famous building. And, I was asking if you know anything about the explosions, not the local architecture.”

“Well… no. I don’t. Do you?”

“When I was on my way over, I noticed that the smoke seems to be coming from the roof, so we could start there,” Ladybug suggested. Together, they vaulted up to the top of the building, where a man and a woman were already standing.

“Darryl, please,” the woman was crying out. “You don’t have to do this!”

She was addressing a man in a black and red costume with a hood and devil horns. “Darryl is gone,” he spat back. “My name is… BadBoyHalo! And I’m going to punish all the muffins who don’t watch their language.”

Chat Noir blinked. “Interesting. Okay, game plan, we just curse at him.”

“Er, is that really such a good idea?” Ladybug asked, but Chat was already leaping at the villain.

“Hey, BadBoyBitch!” He yelled. Trying not to cringe, Ladybug put his head in his hands. “Why do you give a shit what people say? Shouldn’t you let them do whatever the fuck they want?”

BadBoyHalo roared with anger. With every swear that Chat Noir threw at him, he grew taller and taller, and angrier and angrier. He pulled a muffin from the pouch that was slung across his chest and hurled it at the superhero’s feet.

Ladybug, seeing that Chat was merely going to bat the muffin away, felt alarm bells go off in his head. The building was half-destroyed. There was no way that was an ordinary muffin. “Chat Noir!” he yelled, hurling his yo-yo with all his might. The toy wrapped around his partner’s waist and pulled him away in the nick of time. The muffin hit where he had been standing and instantly exploded, obliterating the corner of the building. Even though Ladybug had pulled him away in time, the blast sent out a wave of heat that slammed Chat Noir right into him, knocking them both over.

They hit the ground. Hard. Once Ladybug regained his senses, he realized he had landed flat on his back, pinned under his partner’s chest. He groaned out loud. “Are you serious, Chat Noir? You can’t just go rushing into things without me. We’re a team and neither of us can do this alone.”

He suddenly noticed that his partner, still far too close for comfort, wasn’t listening. His eyes were heavy-lidded, a little glazed over, and fixed on his mouth. He swallowed. “Hey Chat, eyes up here.”

“Huh?” Chat Noir finally looked away. “Oh, um. Sorry.” He clambered to his feet and extended a hand to Ladybug, pulling him up with ease.

George was well aware of Chat Noir’s crush on Ladybug, and he wholeheartedly disapproved. Sure, the other superhero was tall and muscular and graceful (and totally his type), but something put George off from liking his partner that way. Maybe it was the way he rushed into situations and made mistakes, desperate to impress Ladybug. Or maybe it was because Ladybug was all business, even when pinned to the ground by a man in a catsuit, and Chat Noir was unable to strategize because he was distracted by the compromising position. And besides, “Ladybug” was just a role George fulfilled. He knew that if Chat Noir knew the real him, he wouldn’t be so interested.

George realized Chat Noir was looking at him expectantly and snapped back into Ladybug mode. “Okay, so we’ve learned that swearing at him does not help. We’ve learned that he can throw exploding muffins. Now, we need to find the object the akuma’s in.”

Chat Noir nodded. “Yes, find the akuma. Do you think it’s in his fanny pack?”

“His what ? Do you mean bum bag?”

“You’re so British, oh my God.”

Ladybug scoffed and rolled his eyes. He figured this was as good a time as any to get some help. “Lucky charm!”

A foldable pocket mirror dropped into his hand. He looked at it, puzzled. What could they use a mirror for? Well, the sun was right overhead, so it would be fairly easy to use it to reflect light at someone. If Ladybug distracted BadBoyHalo by flashing the light in his eyes, Chat Noir could get the Akuma with ease.

The American looked over, flicking his eyes down to the mirror and then back to Ladybug’s face. “This is no time for mirrors, princess,” he teased. “I can’t blame you, though, you’re definitely nice to look at.”

Ladybug rolled his eyes at the nickname. “I’ll distract him,” he said, choosing to ignore his partner’s comment, “and you get the bag.”

“Heh. You get the bag and fumble it, I get the bag and flip it and tumble it–”

“Chat Noir.”

The superhero stopped rapping immediately. “Right. Sorry, on it!” He turned to the left and crept behind a chimney, out of BadBoyHalo’s sight. “Cataclysm!” His black-gloved hand began to smoke and Ladybug knew his power of destruction had been activated.

Ladybug began to use the mirror to flash sunlight into the villain’s eyes. He roared in anger, turning towards Ladybug and preparing to throw another muffin, and Chat Noir struck.

His smoking hand connected with the pouch crossing BadBoyHalo’s chest, which blackened before crumbling to dust. A black and purple butterfly emerged from the ash, and Ladybug pulled out his yo-yo, capturing the insect. “Gotcha! Time to de-evilize!”

He swung the yo-yo in a circle, sharing a smile with his partner at the familiar ridiculousness of the entire process, and released the butterfly into the sky. “Bye-bye, little butterfly.”

He threw the mirror into the sky, ready for the city to revert to the way it had been before the attack. “Miraculous Ladybug!” The last part of their post-akuma routine was Ladybug’s favorite, though. He walked over to the cat superhero and held up a fist.

“Pound it!” They chorused.

“Ugh, I’m so hungry,” Ladybug groaned as the city repaired itself around them.

“Go eat then,” Chat Noir laughed. “Dumbass.” He froze. “Uh– I didn’t mean– That was rude of me, I’m sorry.” His brows pinched together in worry.

Ladybug tried not to roll his eyes. “Chat Noir, quit babying me. I can take a joke.” He winced a little at his own harsh tone. Another way Chat Noir’s feelings for him got in the way of their partnership was that just as soon as they would relax and start talking normally, Chat Noir would suddenly remember to walk on eggshells around Ladybug and avoid insulting him. He takes me way too seriously, George thought. Does he think I don’t have a sense of humor? He knew their friendship would come easier if his partner wasn’t always so careful around him.

Ladybug glanced at Chat Noir, who had fallen uncharacteristically silent. His head of unruly blonde hair was tilted down, obscuring his face, and his broad shoulders were curved inwards. Ladybug felt a sharp stab of guilt. He should probably be nicer, right? Sometimes he forgot that even if Chat Noir was well over six foot, all arms and legs and muscles, he was only a teenager, just like George.

“Hey, Chat,” he called. His partner looked up. “Nice job today.”

Slowly, Chat Noir’s posture straightened out and he smiled tentatively back. “You too. See you next time?”

“À plus tard.”

Chat Noir dashed away, springing from rooftop to rooftop until he was out of sight. Ladybug watched him go. He turned and hurled his yo-yo in the direction of his house, hooking it on a chimney and swinging through the streets as fast as he could. He was hungry. In the alley next to his house, he quickly transformed back into George, then dashed inside.

“Hello, darling!” His mum greeted him. “You’re very late, where’ve you been?”

“Loads of… traffic,” he panted. “What’s for lunch?”

As George ate his lunch, he wished Chat Noir wasn’t so obvious all the time. And he wasn’t being insensitive—he knew what it was like to have a crush, okay? But at least George was subtle with his, keeping to himself at school, rather than throwing himself at Clay. Well, he did fall on him occasionally, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, if he had to work with someone he had feelings for, he wouldn’t let it get in the way of the job they had to do. He was sure of it.

Chapter Text

By the time Clay got back to class, he had only managed to eat a few bites of his croque madame. He ignored the way his seatmate and best friend, Nino, was watching him in horror as he crammed the rest of it into his mouth.

“Don’t forget to breathe, dude,” he joked, making Clay choke on his food. “Hey, whoa, take it easy!” A firm hand patted his back, and he finally managed to get the mouthful down the right pipe. “Why are you eating now? Didn’t you have lunch at home?”

Clay rubbed his chest as he caught his breath. “Nah, got… sidetracked before I got home. So I only had time to grab something from a sandwich stand on the way back here.” He noticed his kwami, Plagg, starting to emerge from the folds of his jacket, and he pushed the creature back. He hoped his friend hadn’t spotted the kwami, or seen through his flimsy excuse of being ‘sidetracked’. See, for most of lunch, he had been Chat Noir, fighting an akumatized villain with his superhero partner (with whom he was hopelessly in love) Ladybug.

But Nino didn’t seem to notice, preoccupied with other things as he jabbed a sharp elbow into Clay’s ribs in excitement. “Bro. Lemme tell you about my lunch.” He was beaming. “Me and Alya went and ate together on the steps of the Musée D’Orsay.” He sighed dreamily.

Clay frowned. “It’s cold as fuck outside.”

“Yeah, but with her there, somehow it wasn’t as bad.” Nino turned away from him to watch Alya walk in. “Long time no see,” he called to her, and she giggled.

Clay shuddered. “You guys are revolting.”

Nino scoffed. “Whatever, bro. Sounds to me like we need to get you a girl.”

“Oh, come on.” Clay rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but on the inside he was frozen by the reminder that Nino, his best friend in the entire world, thought he was straight. It wasn’t that he thought Nino would have a problem if he came out as bi—Nino himself was pan—but he worried about how everyone else would react. The rest of the class, his father—the whole world, really. He was the son and most famous model of Gabriel Agreste, a well-known fashion designer with a notoriously large temper. If he came out, it would be a huge deal. It would be in the news, and all the magazines, and it would hurt his father’s brand. As one of the most high-profile models in the industry, his biggest asset was his universal appeal. Everyone liked him; if he came out, people might boycott the Agreste brand, bringing himself and his father down.

It just wasn’t fair. None of it was. Why should he have to hide his identity just for his father’s stupid brand? God, he was tired of his father always bulldozing over his life without a care or a glance spared in his direction. As he felt his anger build, pressing at his chest, he forced himself to stop and breathe. It wasn’t his father’s fault, not really.

Deep down, Clay was terrified of showing people who he truly was. What if they hated him? What if his friends treated him differently? What if his fans found out and harassed him? No, he wasn’t ready for that yet. He wasn’t ready to face the way the world treated people who were different.

One day, he thought to himself, he would come out. One day, Nino would talk about finding him a girl or a guy. One day, he would be able to be gross and couple-y, like Nino and Alya were, with whoever he wanted. But that day wouldn’t be today. For now, he was forced to keep that part of himself hidden, for his father’s sake if not for his own.

At least, as Chat Noir, he could use the anonymity of the mask to be himself and advocate for the LGBTQ+ community without fear. He could go to Pride events without risking his career or his father’s brand. He could freely express his attraction to Ladybug, and then go home to his normal life as Straight Clay. God, he was such a hypocrite. Despite all of Chat Noir’s talk about loving who you love, no matter the consequences, Clay was still a coward.

In some ways, he was even a coward as Chat Noir. He’d led his partner to believe it was just a crush, strictly based on attraction. And sure, that was part of it. Maybe Ladybug was delicate, and gorgeous, and just the right size to pin against a wall. But that was just a tiny, tiny part of the kaleidoscope of feelings that rushed through him every time he saw him. Because Ladybug was his everything. Being a superhero might be dangerous and scary and hard, but he wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world. It was worth it to work with Ladybug.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind as the bell rang and Miss Bustier moved to the front of the room. “Alright, class. Since today is Friday, we’re working in groups with the people who sit near you. So—Chloe, Sabrina, Mylene, Alix, you’re a group. Clay, Nino, George, Alya, you’re a group. Ivan, Max…”

Clay tuned her out as he turned to face his group members. Score! He got to work with his best friend. But his best friend had already started whispering back and forth with Alya. So he decided to talk to George Davidson, the fourth group member. He had never really spoken to George, but he knew he was Alya’s best friend. “Hey!” he said, smiling brightly.

George’s eyes widened, his face turned red, and he looked down, not replying to the greeting. Clay’s heart sank a little, but he tried not to let the rejection get to him. Then, just as he was about to try to get Nino’s attention and get them started on the project, he heard George quietly respond, “Hey.”

“Okay, let’s get started.” Nino suggested, reaching out and lacing his fingers with Alya’s, his chipped black polish contrasting with her pastel.

Alya nodded, sipping from her white can of Monster Energy Ultra. She glanced over at them. “You guys ready?”

“We are,” Clay said. “So, she said we have to make this outline based on the prompt.” He leaned over the paper. “We have to talk about the Mongols’ influence on the Ming Dynasty. We need a thesis, three examples, and something to establish context.”

“We should start with context, right?” Alya asked, taking a sip of the drink in her hand. “Any ideas, guys?”

“Context?” George frowned. “How do we put context in an essay?”

George wasn’t looking at him as he spoke, and Clay suddenly realized that he had avoided eye contact before as well. He brushed it off and turned his focus back to the project just as Miss Bustier swooped in to answer George’s question.

“Very good question. You want to look at this either as part of the history of China as a whole, or the goings-on across the globe in that time period. So you want to pick one of those, and find something to compare it to.” With that, she continued her trip around the room, stopping to talk to other groups.

“We don’t have to come up with something good. We should just put something about the Renaissance in,” Nino suggested once she was out of earshot. “We’re talking about history and the Renaissance is… also history?”

George rolled his eyes. “Very intellectual, Nino. Come on, guys, let’s actually find something relevant. Should we–” he finally glanced at Clay, and cut off abruptly as their eyes connected.

Huh. George really didn’t want to be near him, did he?

Alya jumped in without missing a beat, almost like she knew that might happen. “Should we work with the time period or the region?”

“The time period is probably easiest.” Clay mused. “Ming Dynasty… that’s the mid-1300s to the mid-1600s, right?”

“Yeah…” Alya was already giggling. “Know what else was going on in that time period?”

“The Renaissance!” Nino crowed, punching his fist into the air.

“Ugh, fine. I s’pose we can do the Renaissance,” George finally grumbled, and they got to work.

.   .   .

When Clay opened his locker at the end of the day, his kwami flew out of his shirt and up to his face to pester him.

“I’m hungry.”

Clay leaned closer to his locker, trying to block anyone around him from being able to see inside. “Cut it out, Plagg,” he scolded, swatting the little creature away before grabbing his coat and pulling it on. “I’ll get you some cheese at home.”

“But I want cheese now.” The tiny black cat crossed his arms, and Clay had to suppress a groan. Sure, Plagg was responsible for all of his superhero powers, but he was also a giant pain in the ass.

“No. Now come on, you’re making me late. Nino’s gonna leave without me.” He slammed his locker shut and ran to catch up with his best friend, who was already halfway out the door. “Nino! Wait up!”

“Sorry, bro, I was distracted.” Nino admitted sheepishly.

Clay followed his gaze to see Alya standing on the steps, laughing with George. He clapped his friend on the shoulder with a chuckle. “Dude. It’s okay if you want to walk her home, she’s your girlfriend.”

Nino frowned. “I’m not gonna ditch you, man. And I wouldn’t ask her to do that to George, either. You’ve been my best friend since, like, kindergarten. We always walk home together. Just because me and Alya are dating doesn’t mean that’s gonna change.”

Clay smiled, giving Nino’s shoulder a squeeze before dropping his arm. “Who knew you were such a sap?” He teased.

“Shuddup.” Nino shoved him away, and they headed off down the street together in amicable silence.

“I am happy for you, y’know? I’m glad she makes you happy. You deserve that.”

“Bro. Don’t be gross,” Nino scolded. He was emotionally constipated like that.

“Yeah, yeah. I just wanted you to know.”

“What about you, you got your eye on anyone special?”

Ladybug, his mind helpfully supplied. Clay sighed. “I don’t know. There might be someone. But I know that they don’t like me like that.”

Nino was quiet for a moment, and Clay knew that he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He finally settled on, “that sucks.”

“It’s not so bad,” Clay admitted. “I mean, I still get to see them, and stuff. And I’ve kind of accepted the fact that it’s never going to happen. I just wish it didn’t get between us, y’know? It’s something that’s always there, in the way of our friendship.”

“Well, I don’t know who it is—and I’m not gonna make you tell me—but whoever it is, they’re an idiot to turn you down. You’re Clay Agreste: a famous model, and the best friend in the universe.”

“Believe me,” Clay deadpanned, “I could be a superhero and they still wouldn’t want me.”

Chapter Text

George woke up on Sunday morning to sunlight streaming in through his window. Crap. He’d forgotten to close the curtains the night before. George’s window faced southeast, so the room got dark earlier in the evenings, but it was also very bright in the mornings. The clock on his wall confirmed his suspicions that it was way too early to be awake. He sighed, knowing he probably wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Was it worth trying?

Deciding he should probably just get up, he rolled over and picked up his phone to check his notifications.

[07:03] Mum: Pain au chocolat for you when you wake up x

[03:49] Alya: https://vm.tiktok.com/TTPdCd8tjc/

[00:18] Snapchat: 32 new snaps!

[23:47] Twitter: @ClayAgreste tweeted: “thanks Vogue Paris for the awesome shoot :) [1 attachment]”

[22:25] Alya: GEORGE I HAVE TEA CALL MEEEEE

[21:57] Mail: 10 unread messages

[21:34] Twitter: @TheRealChatNoir tweeted: “i rlly wanna change the world but can’t change my clothes… no srsly im pretty sure this suit is attached to me :p”

George sighed and clicked on the “Mail” notification. He should probably check his email before he fell down the rabbit hole of scrolling through all of Clay’s modeling pictures on Twitter… again.

He scrolled through his emails, stopping when one from his favorite fashion magazine caught his eye.

Win €10k in Upcoming Design Contest!

He opened it, scanning over the contest’s details. He would have to design and create a couture dress, then submit it to a panel of notorious fashion critics for judgment. The first prize was ten thousand euros, second was five thousand, and third was one thousand.

George’s eyes widened. Ten thousand euros? He wasn’t poor by any means, but he wasn’t made of money, and fabric wasn’t cheap. Velvet and satin, his favorite fabrics to work with, were especially expensive. He often spent entire weekends in the bakery trying to fund his latest idea.

With ten thousand euros, he’d never have to use rayon because he couldn’t afford silk, or stay up doing homework late into the night, having spent his evening working. He might even be able to afford to start his own clothing line, like he’d always dreamed.

He had to enter. The deadline was Friday, May 23rd, so he had—he checked his calendar—exactly three months to design and sew something good enough to win. He jumped out of bed, grabbed his sketchbook, and got to work. Alya and her “tea” could wait.

.   .   .

Rue de Rivoli was normally one of the busiest streets in the city, but at quarter to eleven on a Sunday morning in February, it was pleasantly deserted. The biting winter wind tore down the long, straight road, but bundled up in his nicest coat, with the sun warm on his face, George couldn’t bring himself to mind it.

Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a flash of color break into the line of sophisticated beige buildings. He turned to look, and oh. It was the billboard he’d seen on Friday morning. The one of Clay. Had that picture gotten even more captivating in the last two days? The model’s tan skin and blonde hair were blown up to cover an entire facade, and George couldn’t help but stare. He had no idea what the billboard was advertising, despite whatever he’d said to Alya about “fashion.”

Clay was just… stunning. It wasn’t George’s fault he became a stuttering, stumbling mess whenever they interacted. After all, anyone would. He was tall—so tall, in fact, that he towered over George. His blonde hair was long, longer than George’s, and it looked so soft it was all George could do not to reach out and touch it. He often imagined running his hands through it; how it would feel against his palms. Clay had strong, distinctive features: arched eyebrows and a long, straight nose. He was, at least to George, the epitome of perfection.

He was rudely jolted from his reverie when a man started shouting at him in angry French, no doubt berating him for standing in the middle of the pavement. He apologized and hurried the rest of the way to his favorite fabric store with his head down. The bell on the door jingled cheerily as it closed behind him.

He’d sat at his desk for most of the morning, designing and redesigning the dress until it was perfect. As soon as he saw the email, he knew he wanted to make something red and gold, but the rest of the dress had been a mystery to him until he sat down and started to draw.

When he was finally satisfied, he had sketched a gold satin bodice and a long red skirt  (with a train!) covered in gold embroidery. He’d originally planned for the skirt to be satin as well, but he decided that velvet would do a better job of holding the embroidery, and also make the dress heavier, so it would drape more nicely. He’d also chosen to have the velvet come up higher in the front, so that it tapered into a point just above the sternum rather than being a perfectly horizontal seam all around the waist of the dress. Once he’d sketched the embroidery, the bodice looked a little plain, so he’d decided to add little jewels all over the bodice, and maybe a big red one in the middle where the velvet tapered to a point.

The most difficult part of the dress was going to be the embroidery, for sure. The pattern had taken him nearly twenty minutes just to draw, so he couldn’t imagine how long it would take to embroider it onto a massive skirt rather than a tiny diagram in his sketchbook. And the skirt was definitely massive. It had an eight-foot-long train, and the curling lines he’d drawn had stretched from the waist of the dress all the way to the hem. If he had an embroidery machine, he’d probably be able to finish the entire dress in less than a month, but those were expensive. Since he was doing all of the embroidery by hand, he was going to need every minute of the next three months.

When he emerged from the store an hour later, he was significantly poorer and laden with heavy bags. The trek back to his apartment wasn’t going to be fun. Deciding he may as well walk home with a full stomach, he bought a crêpe salée from a nearby shop and sat down to eat it before continuing on his way.

He had only made it a few blocks when he heard a crash nearby, most likely an akuma attack. He ducked into an alley and stood for a moment, torn between the bags in his hand and the city around him. He didn’t have time to take the shopping home, but he couldn’t just leave it. What if someone stole it? Another crash rang through the air. He needed to act fast.

George scanned his surroundings, looking for something he could use. Then, he spotted two dumpsters nearby. Score. “Tikki, spots on!”

He jumped over to the space behind the dumpsters, and deposited his bags there, in a spot that only Ladybug could get into or out of. The dumpsters were too smooth and tall to climb, and there wasn’t enough space between them to squeeze through. He could trust that his belongings would be safe—even if someone did manage to get back there, they wouldn’t be able to get out without superpowers.

He followed the crashing sounds until he found the source of the noise. A giant man—well, half-man, half-pig, it seemed—stood in the courtyard of the Louvre, wearing a crown and waving a sword in the air. So it was definitely an akuma attack. The iconic glass pyramid at the center of the square had several panels missing, their shattered remains glittering on the cobblestones.

That must have been the crashing I heard, Ladybug realized.

Fortunately, the square was fairly empty. He didn’t see very many tourists, and the few that were still there were rushing out, eager to avoid being caught in the crossfire. There was only Ladybug, the akumatized villain, and a few scared-looking police officers. Ladybug glanced around, but he didn’t see Chat Noir yet. He wasn’t worried—he trusted his partner to always show up when there was an attack.

The pig-man looked down at Ladybug and grinned. He wasn’t a giant, or anything, but he was still several times taller than a normal human. “Ladybug! So nice to meet you. My name is Technoblade, and I’m an anarchist. Since the establishment would be nothing without their devices, I’m going to shut down every electronic device in the city, starting with that watch of yours.”

Ladybug glared at the villain, knowing Hawk Moth could see what Technoblade was seeing. “You can pry this Miraculous out of my cold, dead hands.”

Technoblade sneered, twirling his sword threateningly. “That can be arranged.”

Then, his partner landed beside him. “Happy Sunday, mon amour! Not quite a day of rest with Hawk Moth around, is it?”

Thank God. “Morning, Chat Noir.” Ladybug offered the other hero a cordial nod, then turned back to face his opponent. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. I was just about to kick your arse.”

The two superheroes flew into action, running and jumping and hitting and blocking like a well-oiled machine. They were fast, but Technoblade was faster, dodging every strike and hitting back twice as hard. Together, they backed away, knowing their strategy wasn’t working.

“What’s… the game plan?” Chat Noir panted.

“Er,” Ladybug began, similarly winded. “Let’s use… my lucky… charm.”

At those words, a small, rectangular, red-spotted object dropped from the sky. He turned it over in his hands. A deck of cards? What was he meant to do with that? He searched the street for anything that could help him, but he couldn’t come up with any ideas. He tucked the small box into his suit and turned, helplessly, to his partner, who seemed to understand that he was out of ideas.

“Where do we think the akuma is? I could use my C-A-T-A-C-.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Er, we could try that. Do you think it’s in his sword?”

Chat Noir nodded. “Cover me. Cataclysm!” He ran full speed at the villain, and Ladybug chased after him, swinging his yo-yo to block Technoblade’s strikes. Chat Noir’s glove connected with the flat of the blade, and it crumbled beneath his fingers, revealing… nothing. The akuma wasn’t in there. So where was it?

The two superheroes shared a look of dismay, but the moment was broken when Technoblade’s large fist wrapped around Chat Noir’s waist. All Ladybug saw before his partner was hurtling through the sky were two green eyes filled with pure panic. Oh, shit. He flung his yo-yo as hard as he could after his friend, letting out an audible sigh of relief as the cord wrapped around the cat’s waist. Then, he yanked the yo-yo back, pulling Chat Noir towards him and pulling himself up off of the ground. They collided in mid-air, his arms wrapping around Chat Noir protectively.

Once they had safely landed, Chat Noir breathed out shakily. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, I think we need to use my lucky charm.” He glanced down at his watch, which only had three bars left. Three minutes until I transform back.

He pulled the pack of cards out of his pocket, trying to forget the look of fear in his partner’s eyes. With their Miraculouses, they were definitely tougher than the average person, but that didn’t make them invincible. Though he didn’t often admit it, he really did need Chat Noir. After three years of working together, he’d be lost without him.

He opened the box of cards, then frowned. “They’re all… kings? Why is this a full deck of kings?”

“Do you think it has something to do with the crown he’s wearing?”

“Oh, it must be a hint that the akuma’s inside his crown. We have to break it.”

He dropped the cards and ran towards Technoblade, spinning his yo-yo menacingly (well, as menacingly as you can when you’re a person in a ladybug costume carrying a yo-yo). The second the yo-yo came down on his head, the crown shattered. A black and purple butterfly emerged from the shards.

“Time to de-evilize!” He swung his yo-yo, capturing the akuma. “Gotcha. No more evildoing for you. Bye-bye little butterfly!” Once the now-white butterfly had gone, he knelt down on the ground where he had dropped the deck of cards, scooping them up in his hands before tossing them into the air. “Miraculous Ladybug!”

Chat Noir offered him a goofy grin as the Louvre pyramid was repaired before their eyes. He held up a fist. “Pound it?”

“Pound it.”

Ladybug dropped back down into the alley. He used his superstrength to vault back over the dumpsters to grab his shopping, but as he was grabbing the bags, he heard his watch beep and his disguise melted off. Now he was just George, stuck behind two dumpsters.

He looked at Tikki, who had appeared in front of him when he detransformed. “I don’t think I can get out of here without becoming Ladybug again.”

“Do you have any food? You know I need to recharge.”

He dug in his pockets, groaning when he only found the empty wrappers from his lunch. “Nothing. Guess I’m stuck here.”

He was blocked in by a dumpster on either side. He tried to squeeze through the tiny gap, to no avail. He tried to climb one of the dumpsters, but there were no handholds or footholds. As he looked around helplessly for a way out, he saw his partner walk past the entrance to the alley, a bounce in his step. A few seconds later, Chat Noir reappeared, peering curiously into the alley.

George cringed. There was a way he could get out, but he wasn’t going to like it.

Chapter Text

Chat Noir dropped down to the street, satisfied after another successful de-akumatization with the love of his life. God, even if Ladybug would never truly be his, he’d still have these fights to hang onto. The stolen smiles, the moments where they moved in perfect sync, every second they spent together meant the world to him. Autonomous, bonded by trust, and super-efficient, someone had once called them. And it was true—there was nobody he worked better with than Ladybug. Almost every time he saw the boy, he was reminded of how special their bond was. Why couldn’t Ladybug see that? But while he still ached for something he couldn’t have, the good they did together was enough to temporarily dull the pain.

As he strolled along, his super-hearing picked up a hushed voice coming from the alley he’d just passed. Doubling back, he peeked into the alley to see that it was completely empty, other than a few dumpsters and a layer of grime. As one of Paris’s heroes, it was his duty to investigate. He walked farther into the alley, and was stopped in his tracks by a voice calling out to him.

“Chat Noir?”

“Hello? Is someone there?”

“Over here! I’m stuck.” The voice seemed to be coming from between two of the huge, stinky trash bins. He took a few steps forward and burst out laughing at what he saw. His classmate, George, was trapped in a tiny space, surrounded by shopping bags.

He doubled over and gasped for breath, unable to contain his amusement. “Oh my… gosh. I’m sorry, this is so unprofessional of me. How… did this happen?” He tried to rein it in, but the laughs kept spilling out until his stomach hurt and there were tears in his eyes. He had never seen George do anything but sit quietly in his seat, or trip over his own feet. To see him now, trapped in a smelly, dirty place, blocks away from school or his home, was too surprising. He wiped his eyes. “Ah, oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. To be fair, though, this is–” another laugh burst out of him– “hilarious.”

George glared at him. “I dropped my shopping back here and had to get it. Can you please shut up and just help me?”

For someone who could barely string a sentence together at school, George was surprisingly calm talking to the hero of Paris. “What, no ‘please, Chat Noir’, ‘you’re my hero, Chat Noir’?” Chat Noir teased.

“I prefer Ladybug.”

Yeah, me too. “Alright, let’s get you out of here, Geor– uh, sir.” Grabbing the corner of the dumpster, Chat Noir began to lift… until he was cut off by a sound coming from his hand. His ring! “Oh, shit, I’m about to change back.” George was about to see his face. He looked at George, a plea in his eyes. “I…”

As best as he could while still in the small space, George squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. “Do what you need to do. I’m not going to look.”

Chat Noir was struck dumb. George wasn’t going to look? He wasn’t going to take the chance to discover one of the biggest secrets in Paris? With my identity, he could do anything. He could have decided to expose me, or blackmail me, and he’s… not going to look? His disguise melted away, and George stayed still, face hidden, no trace of temptation.

Chat Noir—or rather, Clay, for the moment—pulled out a piece of cheese and handed it to his kwami, who seemed to be similarly speechless at the sight of the civilian. Plagg ate the cheese, took a deep breath, and nodded to Clay. “Claws out,” Clay murmured.

When he was sure the black costume covered him completely, he stepped towards the boy again. “You can look again now.”

George turned back and opened his eyes, right as Chat Noir hoisted the dumpster over his head. They were face-to-face, and only inches apart. “Geez, at least take me to dinner first,” George joked, slipping out and ducking under Chat Noir’s arm. He quickly grabbed his shopping bags and dragged them to safety.

“Did you get all of your stuff?” Chat Noir set the dumpsters back down and turned to face George.

George checked, counting the bags. “Er, yeah, it’s all here.”

Chat Noir peered at the bags curiously, wondering what his mysterious classmate could have possibly bought so much of. “What’s in there? Uh, I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.”

George’s cheeks looked a little bit pink, though it could have been from the bitter February wind. “It’s, er… fabric. I sew.” He set the bags down and handed one to Chat Noir.

He pulled it open to see a red bundle. Huh. “That’s really cool!” He handed it back, and they stared at each other for a few seconds. Chat Noir wasn’t sure what to say. “Um, what’s your name?” His face reddened. Nice going, Clay. He sounded like a kid on the first day of preschool.

George raised an eyebrow. “George.”

" Enchanté, George. I’m Chat Noir.”

“Yes, I’d figured that bit out,” the Brit said, lifting up a hand and pushing his brown hair back into place. “Nice to meet you, though.”

“You gonna be okay if I leave you alone? Not gonna get stuck again?” For some reason, Chat Noir was possessed by the urge to make this conversation last, to use his alter ego to talk to the boy when his civilian side never had.

“Well,” George conceded, “I’ve certainly learnt my lesson. I think I’ll make it out there by myself.” He brushed himself off and staggered away, weighed down by the bags he was carrying.

No, wait! Chat Noir knew that if he let his classmate walk away now, he would never find out why he was so quiet at school, or what he had to say when he wasn’t stumbling over every word. Besides, his disguise would be safe—he wouldn’t run out of time as long as he didn’t use his cataclysm, his special power of destruction. He scrambled to follow the shorter boy. “Quelle coincidence,” he said as he caught up to George, taking half of his shopping so he didn’t have to carry it alone. “I’m going this way too.”

.   .   .

And that’s how Clay ended up spending his entire Saturday night with George. As Chat Noir. He had only been planning on accompanying him for a little bit, but before he knew it, they were outside George’s parents boulangerie, and he heard himself jokingly requesting ‘the grand tour’. George had snuck him upstairs, and was showing him around when something caught his eye.

“Wait, is that the new Mario Kart?” Chat Noir yelped. “How did you get it already? It doesn’t come out for another two weeks!”

George grinned smugly. “Jagged Stone needed a pair of Eiffel tower glasses, but no stores sold any, and so I came back here, and…” he trailed off. “It’s a boring story. The point is, Jagged Stone owed me a favor, and he bought me this.” He fanned his face with the CD case. “Good deal, huh?”

“Have you played it yet?”

“Actually, no. It just arrived today. Shall we give it a go?”

“Shaall we give it a goo,” Chat Noir mocked, laughing. “You’re so British.” He stopped laughing when he saw George’s unamused glare, and straightened in faux-seriousness. “Um, I mean, certainly, we shall. Lead the way, my good sir.”

George wordlessly removed the CD from its case, and almost reverently slotted it into the box under the TV. Chat Noir stood behind him, watching. The screen flickered to life, and George tossed him a remote. “I call Walugi.”

“What?” A laugh burst out of Chat Noir, and the remote bounced off his chest and fell to the floor. “What is wa-loo-gie? It’s Wa-loo-WEE-gie, like Wa plus Luigi.”

“That’s what I said. Walugi.”

“YOU SAID IT AGAIN! Oh my God,” he burst out between laughs, flopping back onto the couch and grabbing the controller off the carpet. “I’m telling Jagged Stone that you don’t even know how to pronounce Waluigi. He’s gonna take the game back.”

Now George was laughing too, barely able to set up his controls with how his shoulders shook with giggles. “Just– just imagine… ‘You’re not a real mario fan. That is so not rock’n’roll!’ With his horrible–” he giggled again– “fake Cockney accent. And then he makes Fang eat the disc.”

The superhero had just begun to gather himself, but the image of a rock star feeding the game to his crocodile sent him over the edge again, and together they descended into hysterics. They started the race, still laughing. Chat Noir accidentally drove his character off a cliff as he gasped for air, trying to pull himself together.

“You’re… in twelfth place,” George wheezed. “How are you so bad?”

They giggled their way through the entire first round, finishing in eleventh and twelfth place. At the end, George stood up. “I’m gonna go get us water.”

By the time they had finished their glasses of water, they had finally stopped laughing. Stomach aching, Chat Noir wiped his eyes. “I don’t even remember what you said. It probably wasn’t even funny.” He almost started laughing again, but suddenly caught himself. “No. I’m gonna keep it together. I’m gonna destroy you in the next round. Just watch.”

“Oh yeah? Because you were terrible last round. You literally came in last place.”

Chat Noir scoffed. “Well, to be fair, it wasn’t–” he was cut off by George’s snort. “No, shut up. To be fair, that wasn’t representative of how I play, cause I was laughing, and–”

“Sounds like someone’s competitive,” George said, eyebrows raised.

“Whatever,” Chat Noir shot back lamely. “I’ll show you ‘competitive’.”

And he did. George was pretty good at Mario Kart, but Chat Noir knew he was better. He came in first place the next round. 

And the next.

…And the one after that.

Before he knew it, the room was growing dark. The sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, and neither of them moved to turn on the lights, too immersed in playing round after round.

“Oh my GOD! NO!” George was shouting, British accent plain as day even over the cheerful game music. “NO! STOP!” He groaned in frustration as, on the screen, Waluigi drove into yet another banana peel. “Why is Yoshi completely owning me right now?”

Chat Noir chuckled. “You just suck.” He put on an extra burst of speed as his own character crossed the finish line. 1st place . “Let’s GOOOO!”

George finished that round in fourth place, and was just about to click play again when a box popped up on the screen. You’ve been playing for four hours. It might be time to take a break!

Chat Noir froze. Four hours. He had been sitting in his classmate’s bedroom, in his superhero costume, playing Mario Kart for four hours? What was he doing? He had invited himself over, invited himself inside, and now it was basically sunset and he’d been there since mid-afternoon. He felt like an asshole. Not to mention what a bad idea it was to spend time with a civilian that he actually knew in real life.

George seemed shocked by the message too. He was staring at the box, cursor hovering over the ‘dismiss’ button. Chat Noir stood up. He’s probably been looking for an excuse to kick me out anyway… “Uh, George, I should probably…”

“Oh! Yeah, you’ve probably got loads of important things to do.”

They climbed up the ladder onto his rooftop and stood there for a moment awkwardly. “Thanks for…” Chat Noir faltered. “Showing me your game,” he finally finished. He turned to leave, climbing up onto the railing at the edge of the rooftop.

“Wait, Chat Noir.”

“Yeah?”

“I know you’re a busy person, but if you’re ever bored and you’ve got a moment, would you maybe like to, er, play again sometime?”

Relief flooded his chest, assuaging the guilt of intruding in George’s home and momentarily making him forget that being friends with someone who knew him in real life was a bad idea. He turned to look back over his shoulder at George. His face was illuminated by the setting sun and painted with tentative hope, brown hair moving in the breeze.

A grin stretched across Chat Noir’s face. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” And he sprang off into the sunset.

.   .   .

George was already in his seat, talking animatedly to his best friend, Alya, when Clay walked into the classroom the next day. They had been in the same classes for years, so Clay knew what George’s laugh sounded like, but hearing it that morning was a completely different experience. Clay was reminded vividly of bright eyes and a brighter smile, and when tinkling laughter was directed at him rather than Alya.

Clay had never paid much attention to George at school before. Of course he was curious, since the two of them had never properly spoken and George didn’t really seem willing to, but it had always stopped there.

Today, however, Clay’s curiosity was burning. He could hear every movement George was making behind him, and it was driving him insane. He’d never really noticed before that George sat right behind him, but today, it was all he could think about. He wondered if George had ever noticed that Clay sat in front of him. Did George ever look at him, or would he just stare right through him to the front of the room? I mean, it wasn’t like they were friends or anything.

Clay swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling tight at the reminder that George wasn’t his friend. He wanted to talk to him so bad, knowing now how funny and kind he was, and how easy he was to be around. But George had never spoken to him before, and every time he tried to start a conversation, George would make some excuse to leave in a hurry.

He debated turning around right then and there, just to look at the boy he knew was behind him, but he didn’t know how he would explain the sudden movement. Instead, he tried to imagine what George might look like right now.

 His soft brown hair rumpled and eyes wide, looking back and forth between the board and his homework as he checked his answers. Hearing the scratch of George’s pencil behind him, he imagined delicate hands forming neat words and sentences in looping cursive.

Clay had known it was a bad idea to befriend George as Chat Noir. It was, quite frankly, irresponsible of him. Not only was he using his powers for personal gain, but he was jeopardizing his secret identity by interacting with people who knew him in real life. What would Ladybug say if he knew about it? He’d probably be furious.

Still, he desperately wanted to go back. Playing Mario Kart with George had been so much fun. They had gotten along so well (better even than Clay and Nino did, and Clay had known Nino for years), and he didn’t want to throw that away. It would be fine. George didn’t really know him, he reasoned, since they never spoke, and his Miraculous came with all sorts of enchantments to stop people from figuring out his identity, so it would be fine, right?

Besides, he couldn’t just leave George hanging. He could still see George’s hopeful expression when he’d invited him to come over and play again sometime. Every time he thought about never going back, he saw George’s face, so open and unguarded, like it was burned into his mind. He just couldn’t disappoint him.

Besides, as a superhero, wasn’t it his duty to serve the civilians? And George was a civilian. So going and seeing George and just, y’know, making sure he was okay, was practically his job, right?

So it was settled. He would go back to George’s as soon as possible, out of a sense of responsibility. He was only going because he felt obligated to. It was part of his duty. It certainly had nothing to do with the way George’s eyes twinkled in the light of the TV, or how his laugh made Clay feel like he was flying.

An elbow in his side jostled him from his thoughts.

“Ow! What the hell?” Clay scowled at Nino.

“Class is over, dude. You okay? You’re acting kinda strange.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. C’mon, let’s go.” He grabbed his backpack and walked out with his friend.

Chapter Text

When he got home from school and sat down in front of his sewing machine, George was still sort of reeling from his spontaneous hangout with Chat Noir the night before. He wasn’t really sure how it had happened, but one moment he had been trying not to accidentally reveal his secret identity to his partner, and the next thing he knew he was playing video games with him on the couch.

George knew it was a bad idea—after all, if he was interacting with Chat Noir as Ladybug and as George, it was only a matter of time before he slipped up and said the wrong thing at the wrong time. But he couldn’t get over how nice it was to spend time with Chat Noir with no villains threatening them, and no irrational crushes. They both could relax, George not having a façade to maintain, and Chat Noir just being himself without trying to impress George.

He cringed a little as he recalled the way he had asked Chat Noir to visit him again. But he couldn’t help the urge to hang onto this opportunity, the chance to talk to Chat Noir as a friend. Besides, he didn’t really expect the cat to show up again. He definitely had a life—no, two lives—to attend to, and there was no way Mario Kart was particularly high on his list of priorities.

George couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he shifted his foot onto the pedal, pressing lightly while he guided the fabric through the sewing machine. He reached the end, reverse-stitched a centimeter, and unclipped the piece from the mechanism, bringing it up to his face to examine the seam.

A dull thud broke his concentration, and he jumped so hard he almost ripped the brand-new stitches. He laughed a little sheepishly at his own overreaction, then jumped again as he heard a knock on his trapdoor.

He opened it cautiously, wondering who could possibly be on his roof. “Chat Noir!” He said, trying—and failing—to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Er, come on in.”

Chat Noir breezed past him, plunking down on his sofa. Part of George wanted to be irritated at his forwardness, but a much bigger part wanted to dance around with glee at the way Chat Noir already seemed so at home in his room. George loved making new friends, and weird teen superheroes were no exception. Besides, he had only ever seen his partner on edge before, constantly alternating between being stuck in life-or-death situations and being stuck talking to his crush, so this was completely new territory. This was a Chat Noir he didn’t know, an easygoing, relaxed teenage boy, and it was kind of thrilling to see this new side of him.

George started up the Mario game without another word, and together they sat, watching the loading screen in silence. Is this going to be awkward? The last time hadn’t been, but the last time had just kind of… happened. George wasn’t sure how to pick up where they had left off, so he just stared blankly at Chat Noir.

“Is this… a bad time?” Chat Noir asked.

George crossed his arms and glared at the cat, secretly relieved at the opportunity to chastise his new friend. Being friendly was daunting, but feigning irritation was familiar territory, something he knew how to do. “Well, you did scare the shit out of me when you got here. Almost made me mess up my sewing,” he grumbled, turning back to the screen and pressing the “A” button to open the game.

Chat Noir perked up. “What are you sewing? Is it what you bought yesterday?”

George reluctantly set his controller aside and stood, picking up the section he had just finished from his desk and passing it over his shoulder. “Careful with the claws,” he warned. “If you rip that, I’ll rip you. This dress is more important to me than your life.”

“Dress, huh?” Chat Noir sounded surprised. While he continued packing away the rest of his sewing, George saw a black gloved hand gingerly return the silky bundle to the desk.

George felt his face heat up. “It’s not for me,” he assured him. “It’s for a design competition in a few months.”

“Ah, sure, sure. I bet you’d look adorable in a dress.” George didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to see the wolfish grin he knew was on Chat Noir’s face.

“Shuddup,” George retorted, pushing past him and flopping back down on the couch, but keeping his face turned away to hide his reddened cheeks. Familiar music began to play from his TV’s speakers. He glanced over his shoulder to see Chat Noir still standing there, looking at the small piece of fabric. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to play, or…”

Chat Noir flushed and moved to the couch. “Sorry.”

By the time they crossed the finish line at the end of the first race, it was like the superhero had never left. “Yes! Let’s go!” He cackled, throwing his head back in triumph.

“No,” George whined, “that was so not fair. This is rigged, I swear. I need a rematch.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

One lap into the next race, the music stopped and the TV went black. The lights clicked off, leaving them only in the natural light streaming in through the windows. George’s ears rang with the sudden silence. He turned to look at Chat Noir and found him already looking back. His stomach did a weird sort of flip at the closeness, but he ignored it. Chat Noir looked just as stunned at the sudden stop as he did. They looked at one another for a few seconds before bursting out laughing.

“The power’s out?” Chat Noir groaned. “Oh, I was so hyped up for some Mario Kart.”

George laughed. “Serves you right for just using me for video games.” He hesitated. “Since… since you came here to play Mario and we can’t play it now, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want. I get it if you want to come back another time–”

“No way,” Chat Noir interrupted. “I’m sure there’s lots of other fun games we could play to pass the time.” He leaned closer, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Spin the bottle?”

George shoved him away. “You wish. No, let’s play…” He looked around his room, searching for a game that didn’t need electricity.

“Truth or dare!” Chat Noir shouted, startling George.

He scoffed. “You’re, like, what- sixteen? That’s way too old to play Truth or Dare.”

“What the hell, George? I’m literally eighteen! And come on, we have to. Truth or Dare, George, let’s go.”

“Not a chance.”

But in the end, George couldn’t find a better game, so Truth or Dare was what they played. They went back and forth for ages, coming up with ridiculous things to make each other do and say. At one point, Chat Noir asked George what he was afraid of, to which George replied, “your ugly face.” George dared Chat Noir to eat a piece of Plagg’s camembert, and he did, but not without plenty of grimacing and complaining.

“Quit picking Truth,” Chat Noir complained after George had answered the same way for the fourth round in a row. 

“Can you blame me? Last time I chose Dare, you tried to force me to compliment you.” I dare you to tell me how hot I am, the cat had said, batting his eyelashes. George feigned a shudder at the memory.

“Okay, well, to be fair...” Chat Noir spluttered. “Listen, okay, I have a good one now. Can you please pick Dare?”

George sighed. “Fine. Dare.” He couldn’t help but be a little nervous. Normally, in front of Chat Noir he was on guard, worrying about keeping his identity secret. Now, he had nothing to hide, but he couldn’t fully shake the invisible shield he always made sure to keep between them.

“I dare you to DM your Instagram crush and ask for their Snapchat.”

“I thought you said you had a good dare!” George’s face felt hot. Chat Noir seemed to know exactly what buttons to press. Not only was George putting himself out there by agreeing to play Truth or Dare, leaving himself at Chat Noir’s mercy, but now he was supposed to literally put himself out there by asking someone out. “How would you know if I have an Instagram crush or not? Maybe I don’t stalk anyone’s Instagram.”

“This is a great dare. And you are definitely the type of guy to have an Instagram crush. Come on, you have to,” Chat Noir cajoled, nudging George’s phone towards him.

George caved, pulling up the account of a cute guy he had seen on his explore page. He hesitated before showing Chat Noir the profile. My crush is a boy, what if he says something? Sure, George was out to his family and his classmates, but he always worried when he met someone new that they might be homophobic. Then he remembered, Oh yeah, he’s literally in love with Ladybug, and Ladybug’s a guy. And Chat Noir is the biggest LGBTQ+ advocate in Paris.

He tilted his phone so the superhero could watch as he navigated to the boy’s DMs. hey :] he messaged, heart leaping into his throat as he saw the text bubble deliver. Was that the first time he had ever made a move on someone? He knew that a simple ‘hey’ was hardly a declaration of love, but he had never even tried before.

Chat Noir elbowed him delightedly. “See, was that so bad?”

George swatted him away. “Ow, cut it out!” But both of their attention was recaptured when George’s phone chimed.

Hi! The boy had replied.

George was frozen. “What now?”

Chat Noir snatched the phone from his hands, typed for a moment, and handed the phone back. i saw your page and i thought you were cute.

George blushed furiously. He fixed the text to say i saw your page and i thought you seemed cool. He chewed anxiously on a fingernail. “Do I send it?”

“Yes, go!” Chat Noir grabbed his hand and guided it to the send button. Before he could overthink it, George pressed his thumb down. Whoosh .

They broke into giddy laughter like girls in middle school. 

“Okay, Chat Noir, Chat Noir. Truth or Dare.”

“Uhh, Truth.”

George thought for a few seconds. He could feel the power going to his head. “I could ask you anything right now, and you’d have to answer,” he sang. “Who do you like?” He joked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Ladybug,” Chat Noir replied automatically, then turned pink as George snickered. “Oh, wait, you were kidding… um, never mind.” He hid his flushed face behind a couch cushion, tucking his knees into his chest.

But George had already perked up. “Why do you like Ladybug?” He asked, a little impulsively. “Like… what about him?”

He knew that this was risky, and it wasn’t worth revealing his identity over a silly ego boost, but he just couldn’t deny his own vanity. Besides, he wanted to understand if Chat Noir actually liked Ladybug, or just the idea of him. To… improve their working relationship. This questioning was just part of his superhero business. Nothing else at all.

Chat Noir fidgeted, then dropped the pillow. “Well, he trusts me,” he started. “Like, really trusts me. Which never sounds like a big deal, but then when you experience it, it’s, like, oh. And I owe him my life a thousand times over.” He let out a breath, offering George a sheepish grin. “And there’s this way his hair looks after a fight, when it’s all windswept and soft. And I know he doesn’t like me—I don’t think he even likes guys—but he’s never mad at me or mean to me about this hopeless crush. He doesn’t have to let me down easy all the time, but he always does.”

George was floored by Chat Noir’s honesty, the way vulnerability came so easily to him. He felt a rush of affection for the superhero. Sure, Chat Noir got on his nerves sometimes, but he was probably the best person he knew. All the time they spent fighting crime together meant that Chat Noir was probably his closest friend other than Alya, and George cherished their cautious friendship just as much as their unwavering partnership. He felt a little guilty for knowing that Ladybug did, in fact, like guys, but he pushed the guilt aside. ‘Ladybug’ wasn’t even a real person; he was just a role that George fulfilled, almost more of an idea than a reality, and ideas couldn’t have girlfriends, or boyfriends, or any friends at all. When he was Ladybug, George deliberately skirted around the topics of dating and feelings, because those were all George things. And if people knew anything about Ladybug, it would affect his ability to do his job properly. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because Chat Noir was still talking.

“And I like it when his cheeks get all red and he’s out of breath.” Chat Noir blushed. “Um, never mind, let’s pretend I didn’t say that. He’s… he does this thing where he sort of has a mask.”

George squinted. “You both wear masks. They’re part of your costumes.”

“No, like a figurative mask. Like he’s got this wall he puts everything behind and then he picks the parts of him the world gets to see. And I wish he didn’t—I wish I got to see all of him—but I can’t help but be so impressed because hiding himself away must be so difficult. I don’t get how he can just smile for hours at a time, holding back what’s really on his mind. He honestly just–” he puffed out a whoosh of air and flopped back dramatically onto the couch cushions– “blows me away. But I guess that’s what the point of the mask is. He knows how to protect himself from getting emotionally involved in this stuff. I wish I could do that.” He sighed.

“He’s not just a pretty face, y'know? I mean, he does have a pretty face, but he’s brave and fearless and strong. And I feel like a complete dipshit for simping over him when he obviously is just trying to keep the city safe, and it’s like, getting in the way of our crime-fighting. Ya know? It must make it hard for him to respect me. But he’s always so professional about it…” he trailed off.

George was speechless. He had been half-expecting Chat Noir to blow the question off with a joke, or say something stupid about Ladybug’s tight red costume, but the superhero had actually opened up to him, giving him a genuine, honest answer. He wasn’t even going to begin to acknowledge the depth of Chat Noir’s affection for Ladybug—the thought of it made him dizzy—but he was touched that Chat Noir trusted him, George , enough to share his feelings and be vulnerable, having only met him the day before.

There was also the matter that even with George’s ‘mask’, the walls he put up, Chat Noir saw him, and seemed to know everything about him anyway. He’d never known that his partner paid such close attention to the things he said and did.

“I just wish I knew the real him, without the masks and the city to worry about.” Chat Noir sighed. “But with all the identity-protecting magic of our Miraculous, I probably wouldn’t recognize him if he was sitting right next to me.” He chuckled ruefully.

George laughed along nervously. He has no idea how close he is to the truth. “I–” George started, but he was interrupted by the ping of his phone.

“Oh my gosh, did he reply?” Chat Noir asked quickly, and George pretended not to notice how eager he’d been to change the subject.

“Lemme see. Oh, he did.”

You seem cool too! :D

“Ask him for his snap!” Chat Noir egged him on.

George squirmed, but begrudgingly typed out, do you have snap? Send.

The message was read instantly, and a bubble appeared indicating the other boy was typing. Both George and Chat Noir were leaning over the phone, holding their breaths in anticipation. The reply popped up a few seconds later:

I don’t use Snapchat

But he was still typing. They watched silently as another message rolled in. Matter of fact, I don’t even have a phone.

George blinked. Still typing. The next message popped up.

I have a beautiful girlfriend, it said.

Then, a few seconds later, Bozo.

George and Chat Noir simultaneously burst out laughing, gasping for air and clutching at the couch and each other for support.

“He just called you–” Chat Noir wheezed– “a bozo!” He had completely lost control of his hysteria, rolling around so much he fell off the couch, and then laughing even harder.

George wasn’t doing much better. His entire body shook with the force of his laughter. “Oh… my God,” he gasped. “I’m literally getting hate-crimed over Instagram DMs.” 

Chat Noir was just hysterically repeating the messages over and over. “I have a beautiful girlfriend… Bozo,” he kept saying, and then losing it all over again.

“Oh my God,” they said together as they both finally calmed down, wiping tears from their eyes.

“I can’t believe this,” George said, a little indignantly. “During Pride Month?”

“What? ” Chat Noir doubled over and gave up on wiping his eyes, tears rolling freely down his face as he wheezed again. “George, it’s February!”

George grinned, then remembered he was pretending to be upset. He bit back a giggle and pouted. “I can’t believe this,” he repeated. “I can’t believe you dared me to do this, knowing I could get my feelings hurt! That’s so uncaring of you, Chat Noir. You’re not my friend anymore.”

“I’m not your friend anymore? I only came back here because you begged me to come back, and you were making goo-goo eyes at me.”

“Making–!” George’s face warmed, and he looked away so he didn’t have to see Chat Noir wheeze even harder, clutching his stomach. “I was not, shut up.”

“You were, you so were.”

“Shut up, Chat Noir. Truth or Dare?”

Chat Noir sat up, catching his breath. He sniffled and wiped his tears away. “Wait, it’s not my turn.”

George rolled his eyes. He turned to look at Chat Noir and was surprised to see that the superhero was already facing him, although he seemed to be staring into space. He poked him on the nose, making him snap to attention. “You’re such a crybaby. It totally is, I just DM’d that guy.” He grabbed his water glass off the nearby table and took a sip.

“Yeah, and then I gave you a monologue about Ladybug’s sweet, sweet ass.” 

George choked on his water. After his coughing fit had subsided, he grumbled, “Ugh, fine, whatever, just ask already.”

“Okay, okay, I’m asking. Truth or Dare?”

Later, when the power finally came back on, they didn’t even notice. They didn’t go back to Mario Kart that night.

.   .   .

Over the next few weeks, they fell into a sort of routine. Chat Noir would barge in through the trapdoor, George would pretend to be annoyed, and then they’d end up on the couch together, playing video games, talking, or just enjoying each other’s company.

One particular afternoon in early March, when they were both exhausted from a long day at school (well, George assumed that Chat Noir had been at some kind of school, anyway), the two lay sprawled across the couch. At least, George did. Chat Noir seemed to have mostly recovered from his fatigue, and George was vaguely aware of the cat perching on the arm of the couch, tail flicking absent-mindedly.

“Wait, how does the Among Us music go again?” Chat Noir was lightly pulling on a strand of George’s hair. When he received no response, he tugged harder.

“Ow, stop that.” George swatted his hand away. “It’s like doodoo doo-doo-doo doo, dooo, I think.”

Chat Noir laughed so hard, he fell off the arm of the couch. “That’s the Wii Golf music, you idiot.”

George tried his best to look annoyed, but Chat Noir’s laughter was contagious. “Well, how am I meant to know?” he giggled.

Chat Noir pulled himself off the ground and extended a hand to George. “Come on, let’s do something.”

George sighed and begrudgingly accepted the hand, allowing the superhero to pull him to his feet. He’s strong, a part of him noticed, but he batted the thought away. Chat Noir literally had superpowers. Of course he’d be strong.

Dropping George’s hand, he bounded across the room towards the darkest corner, where a large chest sat in the shadows. George felt a stab of panic at seeing long, sharp claws near his fragile treasures, but he tried to ignore it as the superhero pulled open the chest.

“What is all this?”

“Get out of there. That’s my sewing chest. It’s where I keep my material and my unfinished pieces.”

“Like the dress you were making last week?”

Deciding that Chat Noir wasn’t going to drop this anytime soon, George caved. “You wanna see where I am with that dress now?” He came up behind him and carefully pulled the bodice of his competition dress from the box.

It wasn’t much—just a carefully constructed section of pale gold satin, a gap in the middle he planned to fill with red velvet. Boning on the inside provided structure and shape in elegant, meticulously crafted lines. One half was covered with jewels he had sewn on, curving up the bodice in an intricate pattern, and the other half was bare. The velvet skirt was in the chest, measured, cut, and sewn, but George didn’t bother pulling it out. It wouldn’t be much to see until he started on the embroidery.

“George, you made this?”

His face reddened. “Well, I mean– I need to finish sewing the jewels on the bodice, and I have a whole skirt to do, and it still needs sleeves… and I think I should realign the–”

Chat Noir cut him off. “It’s incredible.”

He hesitated. “Really?”

“Yes, really, you idiot, this is like, the coolest thing ever! You made it? There’s no way you could ever lose that competition. What’s the rest of it going to look like?”

George returned the piece to the chest and pulled out his leather-bound sketchbook, flipping through its pages until he found the one he was looking for. On it was a drawing of the bodice he had just shown Chat Noir, this time attached to a flowing skirt covered in intricate squiggles. It was only a pencil sketch, but on it were scribbles of gold embroidery floss—need to buy and train: 6 feet?? and red satin velvet, among other notes, reminders, and ideas.

He spun the book around to show Chat Noir, who took it gently, cradling it in his gloved hands. The superhero examined the drawing, eyes wide. He ran his thumb down one side of the dress’s silhouette in wonder, claw moving against the paper with a shh sound. George half expected him to rip the paper, but he was surprisingly gentle. As he continued to pore over the notebook, taking in every detail, George began to shift uncomfortably.

“Holy shit, George.” Chat Noir said, finally looking up from the design. “I’m not an expert on dresses, but I can tell this is going to be amazing. When’s the competition?”

“I have to hand in the dress on the 23rd of May. Today is… what’s today’s date?” He glanced at the calendar on his wall. “The fifth of March. So I’ve got the rest of March, all of April, and most of May to get it all done.”

“It’s so cool. I can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

George usually hated showing anyone his designs, but a part of him glowed at his new friend’s approval. He slowly took the book, put it back in the chest, and  then pulled the lid back down, sealing his work away. “Yeah, whatever. Come on, idiot, let’s play something. I bet I could beat you in Minecraft, PVP.”

“Oh, you’re going to regret saying that.”

George would never admit it, but even after his sixth consecutive loss, the warmth blooming in his chest was stronger than any regrets could be.

Chapter Text

“Pound it!” Chat Noir fist-bumped his partner, after they had saved the city once again. God, Ladybug was stunning. He felt a familiar stab of guilt as his eyes lingered a little too long on the superhero’s lithe figure. He was jolted back into his body by a shout from a bystander.

“Ladybug! Chat Noir!” He recognized a PR representative for one of Paris’s most famous designers, waving them over.

His partner sucked in a breath. “Chat Noir, that’s the PR guy for–”

“I know.” As they walked over to speak to the man, he briefly wondered how Ladybug recognized the man too, and why he seemed so star-struck. He hadn’t even been this excited the first time they had met Jagged Stone.

“Hello,” he greeted politely. “Is there something Ladybug and I can do for you?” He slung a casual arm across Ladybug’s shoulders, but his partner was too shaken to even shrug it off, so it stayed there. Ladybug was so warm, and he fit so perfectly against Chat Noir’s side. The cat’s heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he almost didn’t hear when the man spoke.

“You might be aware of the fashion show taking place on April seventeenth, two weeks from now, in the Carrousel du Louvre. It would mean a lot if you could be there.” The man handed each of them a slip of paper.

His heart sank. Yes, he would be there—as Clay, modeling. He hated to disappoint any civilian, but there was no way he could get out of modeling to go watch. “I’m so sorry, I can’t. I’ve got… work that evening. But I appreciate the invite.”

“I understand. If you do find your evening freed up, the invitation stands.”

He gave his best gracious smile, and turned to look down at Ladybug, who hadn’t opened his mouth at all for this whole interaction. He squeezed his shoulder. “Ladybug?”

“I’ll be there,” Ladybug breathed.

The man beamed. “Fantastic! You know, we appreciate everything you two do for the city. À plus tard!”

Ladybug echoed the goodbye, and Chat Noir watched him, stunned. Once the man was gone, he gently released Ladybug’s shoulder from his grasp. “You’re, like, starstruck. Over a PR rep.”

“Shuddup. I’m… I just like fashion.” He was looking at his feet, face flushed.

Chat Noir laughed. “I get it. One of my friends is really into fashion, and he gets like this sometimes too.” He imagined how George would react if he got to talk to anyone involved in the inner workings of Paris’s fashion scene. Probably exactly like that. After over a month of spending almost every day in George’s company, he had come to know him pretty well.

Panic seemed to flicker across Ladybug’s face, but Chat Noir blinked and it was gone, replaced by that familiar teasing smirk. Maybe he had imagined it? “You have friends?”

“Wha– Hey!” He scoffed, insulted. “Whatever. See you later.”

Ladybug hurled his yo-yo into the sky, and it wrapped around a chimney. “Uh-huh. Have fun with your imaginary friends!” He gave the yo-yo string a tug, and he was gone.

.   .   .

Before Clay knew it, he was riding down Rue de Rivoli in the backseat of his father’s car on the way to the fashion show. He watched as building after building passed them by, identical except for those that were being renovated and were concealed by large billboards. To his surprise, one of them featured a massive picture of himself. He’d forgotten about that advertising campaign. Ugh. Hopefully they’d take it down soon.

Clay was nervous. He was trying not to be, but as he was escorted out of the car and through a side door, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He had never walked on a runway before, and he spent most of his time in the makeup chair trying not to panic. He was no stranger to modeling, being looked at, wearing designer clothes, but somehow this felt so much bigger and scarier than that. He might trip, or bump into someone else, or sneeze in the middle of the runway.

While a short, plump man smoothed his hair into place, he pulled out his phone and opened Google. How many times a day does the average person sneeze? The answer was four. He considered it. If he was awake sixteen hours a day, he probably sneezed about once every four hours. He would probably be on the runway for a full minute, so he had a 0.4% chance of sneezing during his walk. So it wasn’t likely… but it still could definitely happen. His father would kill him.

He knew all this panicking wasn’t productive. As silky makeup brushes traced powder over his cheekbones, he closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing. Maybe he could talk himself out of it? I’m going to be fine. I’m going to walk down the runway, turn around, and walk back. I’m not going to fall, or rip my clothes, or sneeze. He wished, not for the first time, that he had someone he could talk with about all of this. He wished he had some of his friends there with him. Well, one friend in particular. I wish George was here. He would love all this.

If the brown-haired boy was here, he would stare in wonder at all the spotlights, the glamorous models, and the lavish clothes. Clay would probably tease him about something he secretly found endearing, and George’s only defense would be to scoff and say, “during Pride Month?” because he knew it would always make him laugh and distract him from making fun of George.

Clay jolted out of the daydream when the makeup artist yelled at him to keep still, since his giggling was making it difficult to work. Oh, well. It was an impossible scenario anyway, since George wanted nothing to do with him unless he was Chat Noir.

He had thought about talking to his father and getting an invitation for George, but he knew he couldn’t. How would he explain where he had gotten it from? George didn’t know that Chat Noir was secretly a model, or that he was the son of Gabriel Agreste. But still, he wished he could have brought his friend. All he wanted was to look out into the front row, see fluffy brown hair and a radiant smile, and know that everything was going to be fine. He wanted George to be able to look up and see him , not some costume. But he couldn’t just reveal his identity to some random civilian, and he couldn’t get anywhere near George as Clay with the way he avoided him at school.

The second the hair and makeup crew shooed him out of the chair, his father dragged him out of the models’ trailer, insisting he accompany him to greet the guests.

While his father exchanged wooden pleasantries with the city’s elite, Clay stood at his side silently and obediently, to be seen and not heard. When Mayor Bourgeois and his wife, the world-famous fashion designer Audrey Bourgeois, approached his father, Clay made knowing, commiserating eye contact with their daughter, Chloe. Long years of painful events just like this one had given both of them a lot of sympathy for each other. Even if he didn’t agree with all of her actions, he was glad to have some company in sad, lonely places like this one.

Okay, maybe it was unfair to call the Carrousel du Louvre, one of the most iconic runways in Paris, ‘sad’. In reality, it was a cavernous space, with dozens of spotlights lining the ceiling, and it might have been the coolest place Clay had ever been in. But it was hard to enjoy all the splendor while rich, emotionless robots made small talk and ate hors d’oeuvres.

Well, they weren’t all robots. He peeked over at Jagged Stone, who was busy trying to pour a glass of champagne into his pet alligator’s mouth. He stifled a laugh, and wished for what must have been the thousandth time that George was there to see it. He remembered the way they had dissolved into giggles together, picturing the pop star feeding Fang a video game. As the alligator snapped up the alcohol, it wasn’t very hard to pretend it was a Mario Kart disc.

He would much rather be with George right now than be with his father. Actually, he would rather do anything else than stand quietly with his father, who had probably forgotten he was there.

He snuck a glance at his father, who was engrossed in a conversation with a socialite that Clay vaguely recognized. He wouldn’t mind if Clay wandered off, right?

He slipped away, careful not to be noticed by his father, and began to roam the room. As he snuck his way through the crowds, someone stepped backwards, almost bumping into him, but he managed to sidestep them. Unfortunately, he side-stepped right into somebody else.

“Oh, I’m so sorry–” The words died in his throat as he turned around and saw who he had knocked into. Familiar, mesmerizing brown eyes blinked up at him from behind a red mask.

“Oh! Uh, Ladybug!” He stuck out his hand, hoping it didn’t look too frantic. “Nice to meet you! I– uh, I’m Clay, I’m a big fan.”

Ladybug reached his hand out to accept Clay’s, brown eyes wide. “I know! I mean– er– I’ve seen your work, not like I stalked you or anything, you just have, like, billboards, and…”

“I do,” Clay agreed, stupidly.

He and Ladybug just stared at each other for a minute, and Clay cursed his racing heart. He knew his partner valued composure over everything else, but he still couldn’t seem to pull himself together and act normal in front of the beautiful superhero. His brain was shutting down just looking at him.

“So–” they both started at the same time, then immediately cut off, looking everywhere but at each other.

“Nice… weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Clay managed.

There was an excruciating pause.

“We’re inside.”

“Oh. Uh, right.”

His partner stretched his lips into a grimace that was probably supposed to be a smile. “But– I mean– Sorry, you’re right. It… It did seem pretty warm earlier. For April.”

“It is. Light jacket weather, I would say.” Jesus Christ. Clay was finally getting the chance to speak to his crush as himself, and he was talking about the weather? He scrambled for another topic. “So, are you excited to see the show?”

Ladybug’s smile seemed a lot more genuine this time, and it had to be illegal for someone’s smile to be so perfect. “Yes! This is actually the first fashion show I’ve ever been to. I can’t wait to see the collection on the models.” His eyes widened. “Not that I’m here to look at models. Wait– not that you’re not attractive, you definitely are! Wait– that was a general ‘you’, not you specifically! Although, I am attracted to you– I mean–”

“You are?” Clay interrupted. “You’re… I thought you were straight.”

Ladybug stiffened (which, with how tense he already was, was an impressive feat). “Well, I’m not. Is that going to be an issue?”

Oh, shit. Clay had opened his big mouth, and now Ladybug thought he was homophobic. “Wha– no– I– no! I was just, um–” he flailed for an excuse– “wondering if you would want to go out sometime?”

Big brown eyes blinked in confusion.

Clay wanted to kick himself. Why the hell did he say that? Was the best way to convince Ladybug he wasn’t homophobic really by asking him out?

As far as Ladybug knew, this was the first time they had ever spoken. And the entire world, Ladybug included, thought he was straight. Clay wasn’t even out, and he was impulsively asking another boy on a date, the same boy who’d rejected him endlessly as Chat Noir.

“Um. I…” Ladybug started.

“I mean, only if you want to,” Clay backpedaled, panicking. “I know you’re like, busy, and stuff, and you probably wouldn’t want to anyway, I just–”

“I want to.”

Clay stopped, meeting the superhero’s eyes. “You do?”

Ladybug smiled shyly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Clay’s heart soared. The rest of the fashion show passed in a blur. The good thing about accidentally asking out the love of your life, Clay mused later, is you stop worrying about little things like fashion shows. So his first time being a runway model was, all things considered, not the worst night ever. And, to make a fantastic night even better, he didn’t sneeze once.

Chapter Text

George was going to kill Chat Noir. Paris would have to make do with only half of its superhero duo, because George was seconds away from strangling Chat Noir to death with his bare fucking hands.

“Chat, I swear to God. Can you please stop tapping? I’m trying to concentrate.” He carefully pushed the needle through the velvet and pulled until the thread was taut, following the pattern of chalk.

From somewhere behind him, the superhero groaned melodramatically. “I’m bored, George. This is your fault. Why are you working on your dress when you could be entertaining me?”

“That’s your own problem,” George scoffed. “I told you I was going to be sewing today, and you came over anyway. Get a hobby or something.”

Chat Noir didn’t reply, but the tapping had stopped, so George returned to his embroidery, satisfied. He was halfway done with the next detail when he started to grow suspicious of the silence. He turned around.

“What are you doing?”

Chat Noir looked up from where he was sitting on the carpet, surrounded by pieces of cardboard. “You said ‘get a hobby’. This is a hobby.” 

George blinked. “You’re doing a puzzle? Where did you even find that?”

“What? I’m great at puzzles.” The superhero returned to his work, painstakingly lining puzzle pieces up with laser-focus.

“I meant a real hobby. I’m a literal fashion designer. Get on my level.”

Chat Noir flopped back onto the ground, ever the drama queen. “I don’t know how you do that, it’s too hard. A mere mortal like me couldn’t do that.”

“Um.” George wasn’t even sure where to start. “You aren’t a mere mortal.”

He sat up, his pout gone. “You think I’m special?”

“You’re the self-proclaimed ‘hero of Paris’. You think you’re special. And you literally have superpowers. Besides, sewing really isn’t that hard. I bet you could make this same dress if you tried.”

“Can I?” Chat Noir jumped to his feet. “Can you teach me?”

“Well…” George hesitated.

“C’mon, please? I can’t do it without you,” Chat Noir wheedled, and well. How could George say no to that face?

.   .   . 

By the next day, George already regretted agreeing. Sure, he was just sitting at his desk embroidering like normal—he couldn’t even see Chat Noir—but he knew that the childish hero would eventually get up from his new sewing station on the floor and start pestering him.

Sure enough, he heard shuffling behind him, and then Chat Noir’s voice, right over his shoulder. “Remember when you agreed to teach me to make a dress?” Chat Noir inquired, in a deceptively polite tone.

George rolled his eyes. “Obviously. It was yesterday, not ten years ago.”

“Well then why aren’t you doing it?” Chat Noir yelled, smacking the back of his head. “You told me it would be easy, and now I’m stuck and I need your help.”

“Ow, Chat Noir, what the hell?” George turned around in his desk chair and glared up at his friend, rubbing his head. “If you need my help, ask like a normal human being. You don’t need to shout at me.”

Chat Noir batted his eyelashes, which was strangely distracting. “But I’m not a normal human being. Yesterday, you said I was special.”

“Yeah, very special,” George deadpanned. Idiot. But he got up anyway, and walked over to Chat Noir’s makeshift workstation in the corner. Surprisingly, he had already measured and chalked out shapes, even cutting a few of them out and sewing them together. Judging by the fabric stuck halfway through the sewing machine, he was in the process of sewing two more. “This is good! You’re making loads of progress.” He couldn’t stop the proud smile that spread across his face. “Where are you stuck?”

“Look,” the superhero whined, pointing at the mess of strings spilling out of the sewing machine. “It got pulled into the thing and now it’s all messed up.”

George got to work, pulling apart the plastic base of the sewing machine and opening the mechanism. “I don’t understand how you do this all the time. I literally wrote you incredibly detailed, specific instructions for every single step. Look—right there, it says hold the two threads out of the way or they will get sucked into the machine and I’ll have to come fix it.” He waved the handwritten instructions in Chat Noir’s face. “You’re meant to keep them in your hand so this doesn’t happen.”

Chat Noir didn’t say anything, just silently watched as he cut the strings out, then re-threaded the needle and secured the bobbin back in place, pulling the two threads over to the side. George closed the machine back up and swept the scraps into the trash.

“Better?”

Chat Noir beamed. “Thank you, Georgie, my savior, my angel. The light of my life. My best and closest friend.” He pulled George into a side hug.

“Hey, hands off the merchandise!” George pushed him—and the strange warmth in his chest—away. “I have a beautiful girlfriend, Bozo.”

Chat Noir broke into hysterical, wheezing laughter. “Bozo,” he gasped. “Oh, that gets me every time.”

“You’re an idiot. I’m going out to get some more thread. I’ll be back.”

Chat Noir stopped laughing, standing up from his spot on the carpet. “Wha– Can’t I come with?”

George crossed his arms. “Oh sure, let me just go for a walk down the Champs-Elysees, arm-in-arm with Chat Noir.”

“Would that be so bad? You kinda need some street cred.”

George grabbed his wallet. “Bye, Chat Noir.” The trapdoor thudded shut behind him.

He always liked Rue de Rivoli—as one of the most famous streets in Paris, it was a hub of fashion and designer stores—but it was always best at this time of year. It was famous for its rows of identical buildings, elegant facades and smooth pillars making the whole street feel decidedly Parisian. Especially today, with the soft spring breeze sweeping through it, Rue de Rivoli was George’s favorite place to walk. And, luckily for him, it was also where his favorite fabric shop was.

As he made his way down the street, he closed his eyes to feel the wind across his face, then he stopped in his tracks. Something was different. His eyes flew open. That billboard—the one of Clay that had been there for so long—had been taken down. He had spent so much time looking at it that he practically had it memorized: the dazzling smile, the windswept hair, the mouth-watering expanse of unblemished skin. It almost felt like a part of him was missing now that it was gone.

He was being silly, he knew he was. He hadn’t expected the billboard to stay there forever, it was just… strange to see it go. The front of the building was repaired now, perfect and unblemished like Clay had never been there in the first place.

He brushed off his surprise and continued on his way to the fabric store. He didn't have time to think about Clay. Chat Noir was waiting for him, after all.

.   .   .

George showed up to school early on Monday. Normally, punctuality was the furthest thing from his mind, but there was something different about today. Maybe it was the fresh spring air, or all the interesting things to learn at school, or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that Clay would be there. The same Clay who had asked him out on Friday night. And sure, maybe he didn’t know that he was asking George out, but that wasn’t important, was it? What mattered was that they were going to go on a date.

And he knew Clay—he’d sat behind him all year—but he had never seen any clue that Clay might like guys. He’d thought he was straight the entire time. The whole class did. Even Nino, his best friend, thought he was straight. Holy crap. Did that mean Clay cared more about dating Ladybug than keeping his own secret? George wanted to squeal.

He settled into his seat, ignoring Alya’s questions about his out-of-character timeliness, and pulled out his phone. Not his normal phone—no, there was nothing interesting on that—but his special phone, the one he only used for Ladybug things. There were only three contacts: Annoying Loser, Gorgeous Beautiful Angel <3, and 112 (Emergency Services).

He stared at the contact he had added most recently, Gorgeous Beautiful Angel <3, the way he had been ever since he and Clay had exchanged numbers at the fashion show. He had been meaning to text him, but he was nervous. What if Clay had changed his mind?

Then, he had an idea. A terrible, horrible, beautiful, fantastic idea. From where he was now, he had a perfect view of Clay. If he texted him right now, he would get to watch Clay receive each text. That way, he could gauge how the boy was feeling about it and be sure he was saying the right things.

A thrill ran through him. This was a very bad idea. He was going to do it.

He selected the contact and thumbed out a text.

Hey :] How’s it going?

He watched intently, holding his breath as he saw Clay pick up his phone from his bag and physically jolt at the notification. The boy replied immediately.

hi, i’m just bored in class. what about you?

He saw Clay bring a hand up to bite his fingernails. Was he nervous? Did George make him nervous?

George’s heart pounded. He couldn’t believe he was finally getting a chance with Clay, someone he had wanted for so long. He knew that he was maybe, technically, sort of a little bit abusing his superhero identity for personal gain, but he couldn’t help himself when personal gain looked like that.

He was getting distracted. A reply—he needed to reply.

Just staring at you, he typed, then backspaced it. I’m at school too, he sent instead. Then, on a whim, Wish you were here! He stifled a giggle.

He wanted to see Clay’s face. Unfortunately, all he could see from where he was sitting were the tips of two very red ears.

Clay typed for a very long time, and when his message arrived it only said me too.

George tapped his toes on the ground, bursting with nervous energy. We still have a date to plan ;) Something about hiding behind a screen and his superhero identity made talking to Clay much less daunting.

yes!! when do you want to do it??

Is ‘right now’ an okay answer? George joked. Well, half-joked. If Clay had said yes, George would have gone on a date with him right then and there.

haha i wish. i’m kinda super busy with photoshoots and stuff right now,,,,, is it okay if we do it in like two weeks? like maybe may 3rd??

It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven.

In front of him, Clay squirmed in his seat, giggling to himself. Nino turned to him and asked, “Who are you texting?” and George delighted in the way the blonde flinched, turning his phone over.

“Nobody,” he said. As soon as Nino turned away with a shrug, George’s phone buzzed with another text.

i can’t wait :)

Clay’s face was still hidden, but his neck and ears were bright red, and George was sure his own face was a similar shade.

“What is happening right now?” Alya whispered in his ear. “You look like you just won the lottery.”

Instead of answering, he grabbed her hands and did a little happy dance, letting the smile take over his whole face. What was happening? The best day of his life, that’s what.

.   .   .

George pushed the needle through the velvet for what felt like the millionth time, following the intricate pattern he’d chalked out over the fabric. He loved his design, he really did, and the dress was turning out exactly as he’d hoped, but sometimes he questioned if the luxurious feel the gold embroidery gave the dress was really worth the hours it required. He’d been going for so long, and he was still less than a quarter of the way through.

The embroidery was taking a lot longer than he’d expected. The whole dress was, actually; but mostly the skirt. There were just so many stitches. Plus, the judges would be evaluating his craftsmanship, so each stitch had to be as neat as possible, both inside and outside the dress.

With an embroidery machine, he’d have finished weeks ago, but he knew that would never happen. Those cost thousands of euros. If he had to save up to afford basic supplies, he’d never be able to afford an expensive piece of machinery like that.

What if he ran out of time? He had a little over a month left to finish, and he was seriously behind schedule. He was starting to feel overwhelmed, stretched thin between dress-making, school, being Ladybug, and trying to have a social life. He was lucky that Chat Noir was so understanding, always happy to sit in George’s room while he worked, but most other things couldn’t just be put on hold for his sewing. Hawk Moth wouldn’t stop sending akumas, and Miss Bustier wouldn’t stop assigning homework. He also couldn’t ignore his responsibilities to the people he cared about. He couldn’t just stop eating meals with his parents and spending time with Alya every time he had work to do.

And his date with Clay. How was he supposed to finish on time if he was spending his weekends gallivanting around the city with his insanely hot celebrity crush? He didn’t want to spend the best night of his life, his one chance with the Clay Agreste, worrying about deadlines. Should he try to reschedule? Clay would understand, right?

Looking back down at the dress, he put his head in his hands and groaned. How had he messed up again? He picked up the seam ripper from the edge of his desk and began pulling out the stitches for a third time.

“Jeez, George, do you need a break or something? You’re, like, moaning over there,” Chat Noir joked. “You’re going to make me act up.”

If George had been drinking something, he would have spit it out all over his desk. “What the fuck? Why would you say that?”

Chat Noir cackled. “You’re the one over here who’s moaning. All I did was point out the obvious.”

George’s face was so hot, it felt like he could fry an egg on it. “You’re disgusting,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t a moan, it was a– a groan or something.”

“Same thing, Einstein.” Chat Noir was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “Seriously, though. You sound a little frustrated. Do you need to stop? Do you want to talk about it?”

“I think a break would be good.”

“Then come sit.” He set his sewing down on the floor and turned, lifting his feet until his legs were sprawled across the length of the couch. “Come on. Have a seat and tell your Auntie Chat all about it.”

With an exaggerated eye-roll, George stood up from his chair and plopped down beside Chat Noir’s boots, back against the arm of the couch and legs beside Chat Noir’s. He pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch and tossed it over their legs, then looked back up at his friend.

Chat Noir folded his hands in his lap. “Okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

George sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just- ugh. I’m like, freaking out a little bit. What if I don’t finish it in time? There’s so much going on with school and my friends and everything, and I’m behind schedule. What if the deadline comes and I’m not finished?”

“You’ve come so far with this already. And you put, like, three extra days into your plan, just in case this happened. You’re going to be fine. And if hanging out with your friends is making you more stressed, ask them to reschedule. If they’re your real friends, they’ll understand how important this dress is to you.” He paused. “Do you think it would be easier for you to finish on time if I didn’t come over as often?”

“No!” George said, a little too quickly. “I get a lot done when you’re here. I definitely could push a few other things back until after the deadline, though.” I should text Clay, he decided. I’d have a lot less on my plate if we pushed back our date a while.

They sat for a few minutes, just relaxing in each other’s company, before George spoke again. “It’s starting to get a little bit frustrating how long the embroidery is taking. If I had an embroidery machine, the entire skirt would take hours instead of months. I could do the skirt in a week and finish the entire dress in less than a month, while still having plenty of time for school and friends and everything else. They’re literally so expensive, though. They’re like five thousand euros or something, and I just don’t have that kind of money.”

Chat Noir nodded understandingly. “That really stinks. I think anyone would get frustrated if they’d been working as long as you have, though. We should do something fun, and you can come back to the dress feeling a little more enthusiastic about it.”

He smiled in relief. Chat Noir always knew what to do. “Yeah, that actually sounds… yeah. So, what did you have in mind?”

Chapter Text

“I cannot believe you just said that to me.” Chat Noir hurled a handful of popcorn at George’s head. “During Pride Month?”

“You’re just jealous that I’ve got better taste,” George retorted, and Chat Noir had to resist the urge to throw more food at him. “It’s time for you to face the facts: Chris Evans is objectively hotter than Chris Hemsworth.” It was a little hard to take him seriously with little pieces of popcorn in his hair.

Chat Noir gagged. “No. No. Absolutely not. I refuse to believe I could ever be friends with someone who’s so completely wrong about something so important.” He could believe it, actually. He would probably still adore George even if he thought the sun was green.

George shook the popcorn out of his hair. “Suck my dictionary.”

“Maybe I will,” Chat Noir challenged. He couldn’t stop the smirk that spread across his face. “Will I retain the information?”

“Ew, what? What does that– Why would you– You’re so gross, that doesn’t even make sense. Plus ratio. Plus Chris Evans is better looking than you will ever be.”

They were, of course, having an Avengers marathon. Chat Noir had suggested the idea for a nice, calming break from all the sewing they had been doing. George had settled in on the couch, and Chat Noir had sat down on the carpet at his feet. He had expected them to finally have a moment to unwind as they watched the movie (well, as George watched the movie. Chat Noir was a little more interested in watching George, for some reason). Unluckily for him, he hadn’t predicted the huge debate they would end up having over which Marvel actors were the most attractive. But it wasn’t his fault, it was George’s. What kind of idiot preferred Chris Evans over Chris Hemsworth?

“I should have known this friendship was too good to be true,” he mourned. “Nobody could get along with me so perfectly and have good taste in men.”

“Aw, poor Chat. Come and sit up here, I’ll make it better.” George patted the couch next to him, and he played along, fake sniffling as he clambered up to cuddle with the smaller boy.

“Thanks, Georgie. Love you.” He pressed his face into George’s chest, involuntarily breathing the boy in. He smelled like strawberries and warmth and home and George.

“Ugh, yuck, get off me, you oaf,” George grunted, wriggling away, but Chat Noir held on.

“Nope,” he said happily, muffled by the fabric of George’s shirt. “You invited me to sit with you on the couch. No takesies-backsies.”

“You are so juvenile,” George scoffed, acting annoyed, but his arms were already slowly snaking around Chat, pulling him closer. Chat Noir nestled his head into the Brit’s chest, letting his eyes flutter closed as he listened to the steady thrum of George’s heartbeat. 

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but George was so reassuringly solid and warm that he couldn’t help but melt into the embrace, relaxing more and more until he floated away on a strawberry-scented cloud.

.   .   .

For a week and a half, Clay texted Ladybug on and off. Their conversations were a little awkward, and they never went past surface level, but that was normal, right? As soon as they went out together, as soon as he looked into Ladybug’s beautiful eyes, everything would be fine.

“He’s so cute, Plagg,” he lamented to his kwami one afternoon as he lay on his carpet. “I just want him to love me. What do I do?”

“Well, I want some Camembert, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?” Plagg scoffed. When Clay looked at him pleadingly, he sighed. “I don’t get why you’re dating someone who likes your perfect model persona. You want a real relationship, you have to let someone in. Show them the real Clay, the ugly, stupid one.”

“Ugh.” He hurled a pillow at the kwami, who easily dodged the projectile. “You’re so annoying. I need to find someone who gives better advice.”

No sooner had he said that than his phone dinged, and he lunged for it so quickly that he hit his elbow on the leg of his bedside table. “Auuugh,” he groaned, grabbing at his elbow. “Plagg, I’m dying.”

“Clay, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine.” Plagg’s voice was irritatingly smug. “Her name is Karma.”

Clay ignored him and opened the text from Ladybug. Bad news…

He held his breath. what’s wrong? is everything okay??

Yeah, don’t worry. Everything’s fine. I just don’t think I can make this Saturday anymore.

Clay’s heart sank. how come? For a moment, he had really thought he would have a chance with Ladybug. But the superhero must have changed his mind.

Ladybug at least sounded sorry. I have a really huge project deadline this month and I just have so much work to do on it still.

i get it, Clay lied, hiding his disappointment.

Can we reschedule to after my deadline so we don’t have to worry about time? I’m around on the 31st :]

Oh. Ladybug didn’t want to cancel, he just wanted to reschedule. Clay felt like a complete idiot. The butterflies in his stomach came back to life as he breathed a shaky sigh of relief. A grin spread across his face, and it occurred to him he would probably send himself to an early grave with all these mood swings.

the 31st is perfect. i’ll see you then.

He giggled like a lunatic. “Plagg, he still wants to go out with me!”

“Oh, thank God,” Plagg deadpanned. “Here I was worried sick about the fate of your date with Ladybug. I just need him to love you.”

He shot the kwami an exasperated glare. “You’re just jealous nobody wants to date someone with camembert breath and a permanent scowl. Maybe you should use that power of destruction to destroy your bad attitude. Turn that frown upside down, y’know?”

.   .   .

“Everything okay, dude?” Nino asked him one day during lunch. They were eating together, for once, since Alya was eating with George that day. While walking down a wide, tree-lined boulevard, they had found a bench with a perfect view of the Seine. Although he should have been enjoying the view, Clay had spent half of lunch eating his sandwich silently, staring at his shoes as he absently kicked at the gravel in front of him. It was a warm day, but neither of them seemed to be able to break the ice and get rid of the awkward silence between them. “You’ve been kind of squirrely lately. Well, more than usual, I guess. Busier, too.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Clay replied automatically. With all the secrets between him and Nino, he knew that he couldn’t tell him anything that was going on. “I just have a lot on my plate right now.”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Seriously. I’m not gonna pressure you if you don’t want me to know, but… I’m here, okay?”

Clay almost brushed him off, but then he looked up and met Nino’s open, earnest gaze, and the words got stuck in his throat. Was he really letting his secrets come between him and someone who had been in his life as long as he could remember? Nino was kindhearted and generous, and Clay was hurting his feelings by hiding things and lying.

He knew better than to put Nino in danger and jeopardize the safety of his Miraculous, but not all of his secrets were about his superhero identity. Let someone in, Plagg had told him. Maybe he was right. “There… is something,” he admitted. “I’m actually–” oh god why is this so awkward– “um, bi. I’m bisexual.”

Nothing happened. There was no fanfare, no blaring alarms. No reporters popped out of the bushes to expose him. Nino didn’t gasp, or end their friendship; he just smiled. “Cool, dude. It means a lot that you told me. I hope that’s not why you’ve been distant, though, cause I’m always here for you. No matter what. You know that, right?”

Clay smiled tentatively back. “I know. The reason I’ve been so busy is that there’s… someone. Kind of. A guy.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re blushing!” Nino elbowed him excitedly. “Who is it? Tell me everything.”

“Well, um, it’s sort of… a secret. Just ‘cause, I dunno, he’s a really private person. And we haven’t really talked about telling people yet. But I’ve liked him forever and recently, I asked him to go on a date with me, and he said yes.”

“Clay, you dog,” Nino gasped. “My little baby’s all grown up and going on dates.”

“Shut up. We just rescheduled the date, actually. It was supposed to be, like, this week, but he pushed it back to the end of the month.” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

Nino hesitated. “That’s fine, right? That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“No, it’s fine, I just…” he sighed. “I just– I’m suddenly rethinking it all. Like, what if he only said yes because he felt bad? And he’s pushing it back because he doesn’t actually want to go? What if… what if I don’t want to go? If we started dating or something, it might have to be a secret, because of who he is, or who I am, and…” he sighed. “Is it worth it?”

“That makes sense. I think it’s still worth going, though. You should feel it out, y’know? Just go on the date, and have a good time, and talk to him. If you don’t want to go on another date, you don’t have to. But don’t avoid it just because you’re nervous about it.”

“Yeah…” he sighed. “That makes sense.”

“Okay, now tell me all about him. How long have you liked him?”

Clay thought about it. “I guess, like, three years. Wow, it’s been a long time. It kinda started around the time I started going to Francois Dupont.” He smiled to himself, remembering the moment he’d gotten home from school on the first day and found the ring in his bag. From the very first akuma attack that he and Ladybug had stopped together, he had been head over heels for his partner.

Nino’s eyes were wide. “You’re kidding.”

“And at the time, I thought I was straight. I hadn’t even considered liking guys. And then I met him, and it wasn’t even a question. But he’s, like, so out of my league it’s not even funny. And now we’re going on a date.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s actually so nice to finally be able to talk to you about all this.”

“Clay,” Nino looked at him guiltily. “We’re still best friends, right? I know I’ve been kinda distracted, with Alya and stuff.”

“‘Course we are,” Clay assured him. He meant it, too. Even though he’d been spending a lot of time with George lately, Nino was always going to be his best friend. Besides, with George, it was different. “Love you, bro.”

“Love you, too,” Nino said. He smirked. “No homo.”

Clay laughed out loud at that. “You’re so dumb.”

As they returned to their sandwiches in a comfortable silence, Clay felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He cared about his friends more than anything, and the strain his secrecy had put on his and Nino’s friendship had bothered him more than he’d realized. Of course, he still couldn’t tell Nino who the “someone” was, or how they’d met, or anything that might risk his secret identity, but it was a relief to at least be able to tell his best friend about his feelings.

For the first time in a while, Clay went back to school after lunch feeling happy. He paid attention in class, answering questions and doing the work, instead of the aimless sulking he’d gotten so used to. He felt so much better when he walked out with Nino at the end of the day that he suggested, “Why don’t you walk home with Alya today?”

Nino turned to him, a hesitant expression crossing his face. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man! It’s only fair, I got you during lunch, she can have you this afternoon. Besides, George’s house is on my way home anyway, so I’ll walk with him.” Clay tried to sound nonchalant, but he couldn’t ignore the way his heart leapt at the idea of walking with George, spending time with him as his civilian self. His heart did that—that strange, unfamiliar stutter—every time he saw George at school.

Nino shot him a grin and took off. He watched him catch up with Alya and ask her to walk with him, and she looked at George reluctantly, asking him something Clay couldn’t hear.

He could just make out George’s reply. “I’ll walk alone today. I don’t mind.”

As Nino and Alya left together, Clay found himself strangely unable to move. Anxiety seized at his chest and stopped him from approaching George. When Clay was Chat Noir, they would always laugh and banter like they’d known each other forever, but George was never like that with Clay. Why wouldn’t he open up to him?

Clay took a deep, steadying breath. He was being ridiculous. He approached George with his friendliest smile. “Well, looks like we both lost our walking buddies. Do you mind if I walk with you?”

George’s eyes widened. “Yes! I mean, no! I mean, only if you want to, it’s not like you have to or anything, I’m fine by myself–not that I don’t want you to walk with me, or anything like that!”

Clay blinked. “I’m asking because I want to, George.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The two spent most of their walk in silence. Clay could see George stealing glances at his face out of the corner of his eye, and when he glanced over, George’s face was flushed and he was gripping the handle of his lunch box as if it would try to escape. Even with the awkward silence between him, it was nice seeing George outside of his room. The sunlight brightened his features, showing off a faint smattering of freckles dotting his cheekbones. George was always beautiful, but Clay couldn’t get over the way he looked in the sun. I’ll have to find a way to go outside with him as Chat Noir, he thought. Maybe if he could disguise himself?

When they arrived outside the bakery, Clay couldn’t help but feel relieved. “See you tomorrow, George.”

“Er, you too!” George blurted before darting in through the door. By the time it swung shut, he had disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom.

Clay sighed unhappily, staring at the closed door. The awkwardness between him and George had been suffocating, despite his best efforts to be friendly. George was quickly becoming one of Chat Noir’s closest friends. How was that possible, if he wouldn’t even make eye contact with Clay?

What was Clay doing differently that made George hate him so much? He’d always thought that George was just a quiet person, but now that he knew him, he knew that wasn’t true. So what was it? Why would funny, confident, warm George turn so uncomfortable and distant whenever he was around?

Maybe he’d ask Nino. In the last few months, he’d almost forgotten how good Nino was at giving him advice. Plus, Nino was friends with George. He might have some insight into what was going on in George’s head.

He waited a few seconds before walking into the boulangerie himself. “Hey, Mr. Davidson.” All the time he had spent with George as Chat Noir had led to his inevitable obsession with the bakery’s pain au chocolat, and he’d become quite the regular there.

“Hi, Clay! The usual?” The tall, burly baker didn’t even need to ask what Clay wanted, already preparing his regular pastry.

“Yes, please. How’s business?”

“It’s good, actually! I’ve been working on my baguette-making technique recently.”

Clay grinned. “Getting ready for the Grand Prix de la Baguette de la Ville de Paris this fall?”

“Uh-huh. We’re going to win this year, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, even if you don’t end up winning the title of ‘Best Baguette in Paris’, you still have the best pain au chocolat.”

Mr. Davidson laughed, accepting Clay’s compliment and his crinkled 5-euro note and handing him a small brown bag. “Have a good rest of your day, Clay.”

Clay waited for the door to thud shut behind him before ducking into an alley, transforming into Chat Noir, and leaping up to George’s rooftop.

“Special delivery,” he said, swinging in through the trapdoor. He held the paper bag up for George to see. “Got you a pastry.”

“Ugh, thank God,” George said, snatching the bag from his hands. “I need one after the afternoon I’ve had.” He took a bite and his eyes fluttered shut as his head fell back. Chat Noir tried not to look at his exposed throat.

It was jarring, how sharp the contrast was between this George and the one he had just parted with in the street. Chat Noir felt—not for the first time—a sharp stab of frustration at his inability to crack George as Clay when it had been so easy as Chat Noir. He resolved to keep trying, to figure out why George didn’t like him and what he could do to fix it. But for now, the George right in front of him had had a bad afternoon, and he was going to do everything he could to make it better.

“What happened? Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I just walked home with one of my classmates and he’s so–” George’s face was bright red. “It’s fine. Never mind.”

Chat Noir’s curiosity was burning. He wanted so badly to press George for more information. But he said he doesn’t want to talk about it…. No matter how much he wanted to hear George’s real feelings, he knew that using his secret identity to find them out would be crossing a line. Plus, he didn’t want to make George uncomfortable by pushing him to talk about something he obviously didn’t want to.

George ripped the pain au chocolat in half and handed him the other half (the bigger half, he noted), offering him a smile. “How was your day?”

“It was really good, actually. I… came out to my best friend.”

George blinked. “Aren’t you already out? You’re, like, one of the biggest LGBTQ+ activists in Paris. It’s pretty common knowledge that you’re in love with Ladybug.”

“But that’s Chat Noir,” he explained gently. “When I’m Cl– Uh, my civilian identity, I’m not like that. I’m more private, I guess.”

“Wow. I never would have guessed that. You’re shy? The Chat Noir?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What did they say? Your best friend?” George asked him, and Chat Noir’s heart warmed at the memory of the conversation.

“He was really cool about it. He wanted to talk about boys with me,” Chat Noir laughed. “Which was totally weird, but kind of nice.”

“You can talk about boys with me,” George wiggled his eyebrows. “Actually, wait—I thought I was your best friend. Who’s this other guy?”

“No way. You’re definitely not my best friend. You’re probably…” he tilted his head and pretended to count on his fingers. “You’re probably not even in the top ten.”

George threw a pillow at him. “Yeah, whatever. You know, I’ve got a best friend, too. Her name is Alya. I kinda wish you two could meet. She would love you.”

Chat Noir’s heart leapt into his throat. George wanted him to meet his friends? She would love you, his mind echoed. Love you, love you, love you. “She would?” Did that mean that George…?

“She would love you because she loves everyone,” George said quickly. “Not because you’re particularly lovable. In fact, you’re actually detestable. Alya is just special enough that she’d be able to stand you.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Chat Noir’s cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so hard. “Tell me about her.”

George scoffed. “You probably already know about her. You probably stalk me and know everything about me.”

“I do, I do,” Chat Noir agreed. “Your name is George Davidson, you go to Francois Dupont High School, your best friends are me—obviously—and Alya, your address is numéro 404 Rue de–”

“Oh my God, you weirdo, shut up.”

“Seriously, though.” Somehow, they had ended up sitting the way they always did, facing each other on George’s couch, legs tangled together beneath one of George’s dozens of blankets. “I wanna hear about your friends. I wanna hear about your life.” Let me know you.

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.” And he did. Even when they finally got up and got back to sewing, George kept talking, describing all the years Chat Noir hadn’t been there for, until he felt like they’d been together for it all. He’d known some of the basics, just from being in George’s class and being close with Nino and Alya, but there was so much more that he didn’t know. He heard stories about England, and moving to Paris, and Alya, and working in the bakery. George even recounted a story about one strange day that a superhero had followed him home and rudely demanded his friendship.

Weeks passed like this: sitting together, sewing together, as they grew impossibly closer, both to each other and to the May 23rd deadline. Chat Noir wasn’t worried about the nearing design deadline. He knew George had it all under control. The other part was the part that scared him—the part where he could spend practically all of his time with George and never get tired of him; where he could learn new things every day and still want more and more and more.

And even though he couldn’t share his name with George, or his face, that didn’t stop him from opening up. He couldn’t talk about his family, or his friends, or his life the way George could, so he talked about himself. He showed George his thoughts, his feelings, his hopes and dreams, even things he’d never said out loud before.

Those weeks, the ones spent on George’s couch, or sprawled out on his carpet, or sitting at his desk, were some of the happiest weeks of Clay’s life.

Chapter Text

It was two days before the deadline that George finished the dress. He tied up the final stitch with shaking hands. “I did it,” he said to himself, hardly daring to believe it.

Chat Noir was there, of course, and he didn’t look up from where he was sitting in the corner, sewing a jewel onto the bodice of his version. “Did what?”

“The dress. I’m… done.”

Now Chat Noir looked up. “No way.”

A slow grin spread across George’s face. “Yeah way.”

“Oh my God. You’re kidding. You’re kidding.” Chat Noir jumped to his feet and was by George’s side in the blink of an eye, gaping at the finished product. “You did it.”

“I did it!” George threw his head back, laughing in pure relief. Finally.

“You did it!” Chat Noir shrieked again. He started laughing too, and his excitement was so contagious that George jumped to his feet, starting to dance. Chat Noir started yelling the words to “We Are The Champions” and spinning George around the room in celebration until they fell on the floor, dizzy with breathless giggles. George clutched at Chat Noir’s shoulder to support himself, and then they were hugging, and he didn’t think he’d ever felt so much joy at once.

It had taken month’s of George’s blood, sweat, and tears, but he did it. He finally did it. And the dress was a masterpiece. It was George’s pride and joy, his greatest achievement. It was the best thing he’d ever made. The hundreds of tiny jewels glittered with every movement of the fabric, and the velvet skirt was perfect. It was truly a dress fit for a queen. Whether or not he won the contest, George was going to keep this dress forever.

He was going to show it to his kids, and his grandkids, and his great-grandkids, and say, Look! I made this. The whole thing. I designed it, I made it—look at it.

And they’d look at him and say, No you didn’t, you crazy old man. That dress is way too cool for you to have made it yourself.

But it wouldn’t matter, because he did. He made it, and it was done, and he thought he might die of happiness. He turned on a Jagged Stone album, and then they danced around the room again, spinning and spinning until they were exhausted.

They collapsed on the couch in a jumbled heap, worn out from all the excitement.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this smiley before,” Chat Noir said. He reached over and clicked the music off.

George giggled. “Leave me alone, I’m happy. I did it. We did it.” He snuggled into Chat Noir’s side, and he felt like he was floating.

“Yeah, we did. I can’t even imagine how this feels for you.”

“Yeah. It’s my design, and it’s right there and it’s real. It’s like a dream.” He closed his eyes, soaking in the triumph and the warmth of his best friend’s chest. “I spent so long on it, you know? Some days I thought it would never be done. But it is! Hours and hours later.” He let out another laugh, and it was like he was exhaling all of the stress of the last few months.

“It is,” Chat Noir agreed. “This has been your main focus for a really long time. As long as I’ve known you. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Hm. I never thought about it that way. Though it was a few months before we started properly sewing together.” He opened his eyes, looking up at Chat Noir’s face. “I didn’t think you’d be able to do it. You and those claws.” He reached down and took Chat Noir’s hand, threading their fingers together.

Chat Noir gave his hand a squeeze. “See? After all the time you spent warning me about ripping it, it’s finished without a single thread out of place. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” George sighed happily. “It is, isn’t it?”

“You did good,” Chat Noir agreed. “You know what this calls for? A pain au chocolat. I’ll be right back.” And he jumped out the window.

George laughed out loud at the sight, and spent the whole time Chat Noir was gone admiring every inch of the dress. It really was the best thing he’d ever done.

When Chat Noir swung back in through the trapdoor, tossing George a paper bag, the two settled into their familiar spots on the couch, legs overlapping. George ripped the pain au chocolat in half, then gave his friend the other half. He took a bite and wow. He was sure the treat had never tasted so good.

“I can’t believe it’s finally over,” Chat Noir mumbled around a mouthful of pastry.

George shut his eyes and leaned his head back in bliss. “Neither can I. I’ve spent so many hours on this.”

They finally fell silent, savoring their pieces of pastry. After a few minutes, George’s eyes fluttered shut, and he drifted into a comfortable half-sleep, dimly aware of Chat Noir standing at his desk, leafing through the designs and marveling at each page.

Then, he picked up the dress, gingerly running a hand over the intricate embroidery, and George sat up on the couch, suddenly significantly more alert. 

“Chat Noir, get away from that! I spent so long working on it, you cannot rip it,” he warned.

“George, chill out. It’s not like I’m going to cataclysm it or anythi–”

The layers of velvet and satin crumbled in Chat Noir’s hands. In an instant, hours and hours of hard work were reduced to a pile of dust on his bedroom floor. The only signs that his beloved dress had ever existed were a few scraps of spare fabric, a sketch, and the faint burning smell filling the room.

No. George could almost feel his heart disintegrating, crumbling to ashes on the floor just like his dress had. He sank to his knees, not sure if he was even still breathing. He was numb, just floating there in a haze of shock and disbelief. He stared blankly, not willing to comprehend what had just happened.

“Oh my God, George, I’m so fucking sorry. Holy shit, I can’t believe I did that. I’m so sorry. It just came out, I didn’t– I didn’t mean to.”

The apology snapped him out of his daze. “You’re… sorry,” he parroted emotionlessly. Then, the meaning registered. “You’re sorry?” Grief clawed its way up his throat, and burst out of his mouth in biting, harsh words. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t give me back my months of work that you just destroyed.”

“Please let me help you fix it, please say there’s something I can do.”

At the distress on his friend’s face, George’s anger faltered, but he clung to it for his own sake. If he wasn’t angry, he would have to be sad, and he was determined not to let Chat Noir see him cry. “Sure, let me just pick up these ashes and we can sew them back together,” he spat, feeling a twinge of triumph at the hurt on Chat Noir’s face.

“There has to be something we can do, right? Could you try to make it again? I can pay for all of the materials.”

George rose to his feet, shaking with anger. “I’ve been working on this dress for months. You told me to chill out. Do you know how much work I put into that dress? I spent weeks embroidering that skirt. Every single fucking stitch of that, I did myself, by hand. The competition is on Friday. I can’t just ‘make it again’. I could work non-stop between now and then and I still wouldn’t finish in time. And you think I would trust you to help me after you did this?” He scoffed. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? That’s your… your trademark, isn’t it? Rushing into things without thinking?”

Chat Noir took a step back, but George wasn’t done. He was picking up speed now, voice thick with malice. “You just do what you want without asking. You never take things seriously, and it always ends just like this. I can’t just magically pick up the pieces all the time! God, I just wish for once you could have controlled yourself, thought about the situation, instead of diving in headfirst and fucking it all up!”

Chat Noir looked like he’d been punched. “George, where is this coming from?”

George didn’t say anything.

“Fine,” Chat Noir said, voice hardening. “Just push me away, right? Just pretend I don’t exist, since you’re so great at that already. Just, just ignore me, since I’m clearly not worth your precious time.” George didn’t know what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to hear another word out of Chat Noir’s mouth. With every second, his heart sank further, and he could feel the beginnings of tears pricking at his eyes.

“Chat Noir, I… I want you to go.”

The superhero didn’t move. “George–”

“I said get out!” George shouted, voice breaking. No. No. He was not going to cry in front of the boy who had just betrayed him. Before Chat Noir disappeared from his room, possibly forever, he lashed out one final time. “And don’t come back.”

As soon as he heard the trapdoor shut, he broke. He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Once he started crying, choking on tears and gasping with the force of his sobs, there was no stopping. Unable to stand, he crawled over to where the ashes of the dress lay on the floor. He combed his hand through the pile, hardly able to believe that this was all that remained of months of hard work.

In one afternoon, he’d lost the best thing he’d ever made. He’d been so excited to enter his dress in the competition, but there was no chance of finishing it by the deadline now.

Worse still, it was destroyed at the hands of his best friend in the entire world. When they were making it, each stitch felt less like building a dress and more like building the best friendship he’d ever had. It was such a big part of their bond that it felt like their friendship had crumbled to ash even before George had yelled at Chat Noir and kicked him out.

He squeezed his eyes shut as loud, shuddering sobs tore out of his throat. His tears were hot on his face, and ashes from the dress stuck to his wet tear tracks where his cheek was pressed into the carpet. 

He picked his head up and raked his fingers through the dust. No, not dust, he reminded himself. It’s hundreds of euros and hundreds of hours of my time. It’s my entire heart that I poured into caring about Chat Noir.

He tried to stop the tears. Chat Noir didn’t deserve them. That asshole had destroyed his hard work, destroyed their friendship, without so much as a backward glance. Except… no. No. He couldn’t afford to feel sorry for Chat Noir. He was too heartbroken to be sorry. He had the right to be angry, didn’t he? Chat obviously knew how much the dress meant to him.

George had thought the dress meant that much to both of them. Chat had even danced around the room with him when it was done. But he was wrong. The superhero had proved how little he cared about the dress when he incinerated it right in front of George’s face.

His heart clenched at the memory of celebrating finishing the dress with Chat Noir. They’d been so happy. Now, George was alone in his room, with no friends and no dress. He cried harder.

He stayed there, curled up on his side on the carpet, shaking and quietly crying, for a long time. Once his sobs had slowed, he sat up and leaned against his wall, staring blankly across his room.

The door to his room creaked. “George, would you be able to make dinner tonight?”

George scrambled to his feet, scrubbing his tears away and hoping his red eyes wouldn’t be too obvious. “Sure, Mum,” he tried, voice coming out thick with disuse.

“Is everything okay, darling?” She stepped through the door and rounded the corner, freezing when she saw his face. “Oh, George.” She crossed the room and crushed him in a hug, rubbing a hand soothingly over his back.

He clung to her desperately, determined to never let go. At least this was something he could hold on to. But no matter how hard he squeezed, he couldn’t press away the tightness in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he croaked into her shoulder. He wished she hadn’t come in, so she wouldn’t have to deal with him like this.

“Don’t apologize. Do you want to talk about it?” His mother asked, reaching a gentle hand up to smooth over his hair.

He shook his head slightly, movement restricted by the tight embrace. He felt like talking about it so soon would just be rubbing salt in his fresh wounds.

She loosened her arms and stepped back, hands settling on his shoulders. “Can I get you anything?”

“Can I– er, can I have a cup of tea, please?”

“Of course, darling. I’ll bring it right up.”

Once his mum was gone, George looked around the room. He retrieved the vacuum from his closet and cleaned up the ashes the best he could, then went to the bathroom to wash his face. By the time she reappeared, he was sitting in his desk chair in a clean jumper, fiddling with a safety pin with shaking hands.

A steaming mug was set down on his desk, as well as a small parcel in a napkin. Mrs. Davidson pressed a gentle kiss into soft brown hair. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, my lovely. I’ve ordered a pizza for dinner, so I’ll bring some up for you when it gets here.”

George gulped down a sip of piping hot tea, and for a moment the heat it brought to his chest was enough to stave off the empty feeling. He sniffled. “Thanks, Mum.”

As her footsteps receded down the stairs, George pulled on the napkin, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a pain au chocolat. His heart twisted painfully in his chest at the reminder of the pastry he and Chat Noir had shared so many times, but he pushed it down.

Distantly, he wondered where Tikki was. He’d told her that she could get some fresh air, since he’d been cooped up making the dress for a while now, but he expected her to be back by now.

As if she’d been reading his mind, Tikki drifted in through George’s open window and perched on his shoulder. “Hi, George. I heard about what happened.”

Of course. Tikki was pretty close with Plagg, Chat Noir’s kwami, so she’d probably heard about it from him.

A fresh wave of tears sprang to George’s eyes. “My dress,” he said, and Tikki flew up to his face, putting one of her tiny hands on his cheek.

“Oh, George. I’m sorry. If it means anything, Chat Noir feels awful.”

George sniffed. “No he doesn’t. He’s not the one who put hours and hours into something and then watched it go up in flames.”

“Isn’t he?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tikki studied him for a moment, then pulled back with a sigh. “Never mind. George, you’re a superhero. You’ve made a mistake before. And you only wanted one thing. Do you remember what it was?”

“I wanted…” George looked away, unable to meet his kwami’s eyes. “I just wanted people to imagine how I might be feeling. To know that I would do anything to go back and fix it if I could.”

“So why doesn’t Chat Noir deserve the same?” Tikki pressed gently. “He’s a good person. I know that you know that.”

“He…” George felt a stab of regret as he considered for the first time how his friend must be feeling. George knew what it was like, being a superhero. He knew the feeling of making mistakes, the feeling of not being able to control his powers, not being worthy of them. “He must feel bad,” he mumbled. “He didn’t mean it.”

“And?” Tikki prompted.

George hesitated. The very worst thing was when he messed up something he cared about. And Chat Noir had cared about the dress. He had been there for George every step of the way, and by the time it was done, it meant almost as much to him as it did to George. “And sad about the dress. He put a lot of time into it, too.”

“And what else?”

“I don’t know,” George huffed, running out of patience. He didn’t want to think about Chat Noir right now. He wanted to curl up in his bed and never come out.

“George. I don’t know exactly what happened, but he was pretty upset over your conversation after. What did you say to him?”

“Oh.” He cringed. “Um. Is he alright?”

“Not exactly. He–”

“I told him to get out,” George interrupted. “I said, ‘Get out and don’t come back.’ He wanted to help me make it again and I told him I didn’t trust him not to destroy that, too.”

“George. That explains it.”

“Explains what? Were you with him? Tell me what you saw. Tell me what he said.”

“He was pretty bad. Plagg asked me to come help, because he didn’t know what to do, and I sat with them for a little while. It’s… not good.”

George’s heart sank. This was all his fault. Chat Noir had stood by him for months, and was without a doubt the best friend he’d ever had. Even though Alya was technically his best friend and the two of them had always been close, what he had with Chat Noir was… different. Chat Noir understood him in a way she never had.

And George had just thrown him out without a second glance. His stomach turned as he remembered the way Chat Noir’s face had fallen as George took out all his anger on him. Get out and don’t come back, he had said. What if Chat Noir actually never came back? What if he had destroyed the best friendship he’d ever had, and the hero never forgave him? He hadn’t really meant it. He hadn’t meant any of it… had he?

He played back his own cruel words in his head, and realized with a start that he had actually meant some of it. When he was Ladybug, George usually tried to avoid criticizing Chat Noir, conscious of the boy’s feelings for him and not wanting to hurt him. But as he remembered more of the things he’d yelled at Chat Noir in his anger, he realized that a lot of it had come from Ladybug’s frustrations with him, not George’s. He’d known that treating Chat Noir like a child wasn’t the right solution, and now, in trying to avoid upsetting Chat Noir, he’d really hurt him.

Besides, if George trusted Chat Noir, he wouldn’t have yelled at him for touching the dress, and then none of this would have happened. God, it really was all his fault. He needed to make things right with Chat Noir. 

“Tikki, can you take me to him?” He begged. “Please? I need to– to apologize, I need to make it okay– I was awful. I really hurt his feelings. I need to see him, and you’re the only one who knows where I can find him.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Fine, then tell him to come here.”

“George,” she admonished him, “how do you plan to explain why you’re in contact with Ladybug’s kwami?”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “Then you go. Take care of him.” Sensing her hesitation, he pressed his hands together, pleading. “For me. Please. I need you to be there for him, if I can’t.”

“You’re upset too,” Tikki reminded him. “Are you sure you want me to go? You don’t usually want to be alone when you’re sad.”

That was true—he usually did want company when he was feeling down. But his own well-being was the furthest thing from his mind now. Chat Noir needed Tikki more than he did. “I’m sure. I want to know that he’s in good hands.” Her resolve was weakening, he knew it. “Please,” he added again, for good measure.

“Drink water. And maybe get an early night,” Tikki said, in lieu of an agreement. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” She zipped off into the fading twilight.

George sucked in a deep, calming breath, and took a sip of his tea. He let himself think of the dress again. God, that dress had been his pride and joy, his magnum opus. Now that it was gone, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He could make it again, he supposed. He certainly had enough fabric to, layers upon layers of satin and velvet spilling out of his supply box. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Every stitch would remind him of Chat Noir, who he had yelled at, who he hadn’t trusted, who he had now lost forever.

Even if he had enough time to remake the dress, he knew he never could. He wouldn’t be able to stand the feeling of doing it all again, but this time in deafening, suffocating silence, all by himself.

Being alone never hurt this much before, did it? He cursed Chat Noir for ruining him, for letting him get used to shared space and amicable silence, and then taking it all away. And then he cursed himself because he knew none of it was Chat Noir’s fault.

He took another sip of his tea, trying to focus on the way the drink warmed him down to his toes rather than the horrible emptiness inside. Feeling sufficiently comforted by his tea, he pulled his jumper off. No sooner had he set it down than he heard a crash behind him. He spun around in his chair to see what had caused the noise, but before he could get a proper look, something heavy and hard thudded into the back of his head. A searing pain flashed behind his eyes and everything went black.

.   .   .

The first thing that George registered when he woke up was that his head really hurt. Actually, his entire body hurt. His ears were ringing, his stomach churned, his shoulders were sore, and something was pinching the skin on his wrists and ankles. Wait, was he… tied to a chair? He tried to shake his head to clear the mental fog, but the pain in his head increased tenfold at the small motion, and he let out a weak groan. The sound echoed around the room. Where the hell was he?

He forced himself to open his eyes, then squeezed them shut again as the bright light triggered a wave of intense nausea. Once it faded, he slowly raised his eyelids, blinking until he could see without wanting to puke. The room had concrete floors and harsh industrial lighting, but other than that, it was completely featureless. The air had a sort of musty smell, and a small draft made George shiver in his t-shirt and sweats. He wished he hadn’t taken his jumper off.

Oh God. Think. He should transform, right? Being Ladybug would give him a clearer head and a physical advantage if he had to fight anyone. But… he was here, tied to a chair, as George. To transform, even if Tikki found him, would be to reveal his identity. We’ll call that Plan B.

So… he was stuck. For now. “H–Hello? Is anybody there?” He called, flinching as his voice echoed off the bare walls, ringing in his ears. Other than his own words bouncing around the room, he received no response.

He was alone. In the corner, water dripped from the ceiling into a puddle on the floor. The zip ties cut into his bare wrists, leaving them–

Wait.

Bare wrists?

Where was his watch? The simple piece of jewelry was the source of all his powers, and it was gone. For all he knew, it could be in Hawk Moth’s clutches by now. He could be using it to take over the city, or the world. Oh God. His one job, the only thing he was supposed to do was protect that Miraculous. But who had taken it? Who had taken him? What was he doing there? His breathing got shallower, more desperate, as he pulled at his restraints.

He forced himself to take deep breaths. He had heard his window break. So when Tikki went back to his room, she would see the broken glass and come looking for him. Except… Tikki was gone. Now that his Miraculous had been removed from his wrist, she would have disappeared into the kwami realm, like the other kwamis without holders.

So he really was stuck. Nobody was going to find him. Nobody was coming to rescue him. He was going to die here. What would his parents do without him? Or Alya?

And what would Paris do without its superhero? What would Chat Noir do?

Oh no. Chat Noir. George had just screamed at him, and now he was going to die, and he’d never be able to tell Chat that he was sorry.

George gasped, no longer able to get enough air. He vaguely registered the tears streaming down his face, but he was more preoccupied with the part where he was going to die. Whoever had taken him must know that he was Ladybug, and now they were going to kill him. Panic rose in his chest, and his throat constricted, as if there was a hand wrapped around his neck, squeezing. His nausea from earlier came back in full force.

He was going to die without apologizing to Chat Noir. The thought was suffocating—what if Chat Noir thought George died hating him? He gasped and hiccuped as his body shook with sobs. As if George hadn’t hurt his friend enough, what would happen next time there was an akuma? Chat Noir would show up and be on his own, forced to deal with the city’s problems all by himself. Without Ladybug, he wouldn’t be able to de-evilize supervillains, and he wouldn’t be able to fix the damage done to the city.

He struggled against his bonds, wanting his hands to be free so he could claw at his throat, but the zip ties just dug in more, making him cry harder. He sagged against the chair, shaking and gasping for air.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and he was back to almost-normal, although he was still tied to a chair, and trembling slightly. Had he just had a panic attack? He had thought he was past those. He needed to calm down. He needed to think rationally. It’s physically impossible to panic when you’re in your rational brain, he remembered his childhood therapist saying.

Okay, facts. The sky is blue. I live in Paris. My name is George. My best friend’s name is Alya. My other best friend is Chat Noir. I hurt Chat Noir’s feelings today. Chat Noir hates me now. I’m going to die without telling Chat Noir I’m sorry–

His breathing sped up again, and he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed those thoughts from his mind, making himself start over. It’s Friday, May 23rd. My name is George. Y equals mx plus b. Onomatopoeic phrases follow the phonetic sequence I/A/O. Nobody’s hurting me right now. I'm here alone.

No sooner had he thought that than a bang sounded behind him, and he just about jumped out of his skin. Footsteps echoed through the room, growing closer and then stopping. Determined not to lose control, he took slow deep breaths, following a 4-7-8 pattern he’d learnt in therapy. In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

He reopened his eyes, blinking away the remnants of his tears. In front of him stood a figure dressed in a crisp black suit. The man was tall enough to tower over George if he came any closer. George hoped he didn’t.

The man spoke, his voice thick with feigned sympathy. “Oh, Mr. Davidson, are you scared? Poor thing.”

George glared at him, pushing away the fear. “You wish. Who are you? Where have you taken me?”

The man’s pale face twisted into a sneer. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be asking questions, Mr. Davidson. Besides,” he continued, walking forward until he was an arm’s length from George, “your little tough guy act isn’t as convincing when you still have tears on your face.” He dragged a rough thumb across one of George’s wet cheeks with a cruel laugh.

George fought back the urge to squeeze his eyes shut again, preferring the horrible sight in front of him to the danger of not being able to see what was coming.

“Okay, Mr. Davidson. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to call Mayor Bourgeois, and either he’s going to do what I say, or I’m going to kill you.”

“Wait, what? Why would Mayor Bourgeois care about me?”

“How could he not? That little brat—what’s her name? Cleo? Carly?”

“Chloe?” George supplied politely.

“Yes! That brat Chloe has him wrapped around her finger. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to make her happy.”

“I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“You’re one of her classmates! She’d be devastated if I killed you. The mayor simply would not allow that to happen.”

A hysterical laugh escaped George. “Great. Well, you might as well kill me now, because Chloe hates my guts.”

The man’s smile vanished, and he was suddenly in George’s face, roughly grabbing his chin. “Don’t. Lie.” The man spat, close enough that George could see the little red veins in the whites of his eyes. He let go, and George’s face stung where his fingernails had been. “You think I’ll let you go just because you claim she doesn’t like you? Nice try.

“And,” he continued, on a roll now, “no one is coming to save you. Even if anyone noticed you were gone, Ladybug and Chat Noir themselves could be looking for you and they wouldn’t find you.”

George blinked. Ladybug? So he doesn’t know that he took my Miraculous. He doesn’t know I’m Ladybug.

“I doubt anyone is looking for you. I had my men take all of your electronics off of you in your room, so any trackers you might have will say you’re safe and sound in your bed right now. You’re regularly late to school—we’ve been watching—so no one will pay too much attention if you don’t show up right away in the morning.”

George began to tremble. No one was looking for him. And Mayor Bourgeois had to know that Chloe didn’t like George, so he was basically dead already.

He swallowed. He was going to die. At least his identity was safe, and his Miraculous was in his room. Hopefully one of his parents would put it on, on a whim, when they were cleaning out his room, and then figure out what it was and give it to Chat Noir.

Oh God, Chat Noir. No, he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about Chat Noir, or his parents, or Alya, or his date with Clay, or any of that.

All of a sudden, a caller tone sounded, echoing through the room.

George looked up. The man was holding a phone in his hand with a wicked smile on his face. At the top of the screen were the words, Mayor Bourgeois: FaceTime Video. He closed his eyes, unable to continue watching the phone ring.

After what felt like forever, a crackling sound came from the speaker. “Hello?”

George opened his eyes. That was definitely the mayor’s voice.

“Good morning, Monsieur Bourgeois. I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh, yes? And what would that be?”

“I want you to outlaw gay people. Ban them from the city.”

George blinked. For a moment, he considered being offended by his kidnapper’s blatant homophobia, but then he decided against it. He had bigger problems to deal with. Namely, the fact that no politician in their right mind would comply with a demand like that, not with the active LGBTQ population in the city. So he was as good as dead.

The mayor’s reply held a tinge of amusement. “Ah, oui? And why would I do that?”

“Because,” the kidnapper bared his teeth. “I have one of your daughter’s friends here. I’m holding them hostage, and if you don’t do what I say, I’ll kill them.”

“No, not one of Chloe’s friends! Please don’t hurt them!” The mayor sounded panicked. “Who is it? Clay? No, you wouldn’t kidnap a celebrity. Sabrina?”

“No, not Sabrina. It’s George.”

Silence. Then, a few seconds later:

“...George? George Davidson?” Mayor Bourgeois laughed out loud. “My daughter can’t stand him. If you killed him, you’d probably be doing me a favor. You’re not gonna get me to do anything over that kid.”

The kidnapper reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. “I’m calling your bluff, Bourgeois. I mean it, I’ll kill him. And then I’ll find another one of your daughter’s classmates. And then another. And then we’ll see how happy she is.”

The click as he cocked the gun echoed through the room. George squeezed his eyes shut, blood roaring in his ears.

“I’m going to shoot him. Three, two–”

A deafening crash shook the room, knocking George, still tied to his chair, on the ground. Everything happened all at once, dizzyingly loud and bright and sharp. Two blurry figures struggled with each other, there was a gunshot, then silence. One of the figures came into view, and George flinched away, terrified. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for an impact.

The figure spoke. “George? George, look at me.”

George opened his eyes reluctantly, and- oh.

Kneeling at his side, covered in dust and looking absolutely breathtaking, was Chat Noir. Through the haze of it all, George dimly registered a frown of concentration crossing Chat Noir’s face, then the feeling of his tight bonds snapping, finally releasing his aching limbs. He was lifted into a warm, solid embrace, barely comprehensible words ringing in his ears.

“George, oh my God, George. George.” There was some jostling, a few seconds of weightlessness, and then… daylight. His bare feet touched solid ground. His knees immediately buckled, unable to support his weight, but he didn’t fall. “I’ve got you, I’m holding you. It’s okay. Look at me, George. Look at me.”

He looked up to meet vivid green eyes, and their clarity brought him back to Earth somewhat. Chat Noir. At some point—he wasn’t sure when—Chat Noir must have brought him outside. With Chat Noir supporting most of his weight, he staggered to a nearby bench and collapsed on it in the blinding daylight. Awareness came back to him in bits and pieces, and as the stress of the night started to catch up to him, he began to cry. He was so cold and tired and scared, and his head throbbed and his arms ached. Before he could suppress it, a quiet sob escaped his chest. And then another.

Next to him on the bench, Chat Noir pulled George close with a strong arm around his shoulders. George gasped and hiccupped and sobbed into Chat Noir’s chest, and the superhero just stroked his head, murmuring reassurances into his hair. “Shh, you’re okay, It’s okay. I’m here, I’ve got you, I promise. You’re safe, baby. You’re safe.”

George cried harder. Why was Chat Noir comforting him, after everything he’d said? But that was just who he was. The superhero had the biggest heart out of everyone George knew, and he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” George sobbed, words rushing out of him. “I was awful, I said all those horrible things and I didn’t mean any of them, and then– and then I thought I was going to die, and I’d never be able to tell you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He burrowed further into the comfort of Chat Noir’s arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please forgive me. I never meant–”

“Hey, hey,” Chat Noir interrupted softly, rubbing a hand up and down George’s back. “Of course I forgive you, George. I made a huge mistake and you had every right to be angry. I’m sorry I was touching your stuff, I know how careful you are with it.”

George shook his head into Chat Noir’s chest, his sobs slowly subsiding. “I should have trusted you with it. If I hadn’t told you off for touching it, this never would have happened.”

Chat Noir smiled. “Okay, you’re right, it’s your fault.”

George pulled back and swatted at him, still sniffling. Chat Noir caught his hand as it made contact with his chest, and kept it there. Now, they were face to face, and George drank in the sight, feeling as though he hadn’t seen the hero in weeks, even though it had only been…

“What–” George’s voice failed him at first, and he cleared his throat to start over. “What day is it?”

Chat Noir smiled down at him, tracing a careful thumb across the back of his hand. “You were gone all night. It’s almost nine o’clock on Thursday morning. The competition deadline isn’t until Friday morning, right? We can make something new, I know we can.” George resisted the urge to shy away from Chat Noir’s intense gaze. “You are brilliant, and creative, and resourceful. If anyone can do this, you can. And I’m gonna be with you until the end of this.” He faltered. “If… if you want me there. But if you want me to give you some space–”

“I don’t want space.” I want YOU, George thought. “I want your help,” he said instead.

“You’ll have it for as long as you need it,” Chat Noir pledged, still holding George’s hand against his steadily beating heart. Somewhere in the back of his mind (maybe slightly overshadowed by the feeling of Chat Noir’s warm, solid chest under his hand), it occurred to him that he had never seen his partner so serious about anything before.

“Thank you.” George smiled weakly.

“Let’s get you home.” Chat Noir said, scooping him up again.

“You don’t have to carry me,” George tried to protest, but he could already feel his eyelids getting heavy.

“Shh. It’s okay, get some rest.” Chat Noir started walking down the street towards George’s house, a place of Mario Kart and Minecraft, and pain au chocolat and George’s ratty old couch, and the slow blossoming of an unexpected friendship.

As he nuzzled into Chat Noir’s chest, the steady rhythm of footsteps lulling him to sleep, he began to think that maybe things would be alright.

Chapter Text

Chat Noir had never, ever been as scared as he had been that night. He would never forget the way that he’d felt when he realized George was in danger. It was like the world had suddenly stopped spinning and he’d kept going, his momentum sending him hurtling into space. He was out of control, out of his depth, out of his mind with worry.

The most ridiculous part was that he was a superhero. He was accustomed to danger and high stakes, and he had seen people get hurt before. But none of that had ever been like this. Even now, with the danger long gone, his stomach churned and his heart hammered in his chest.

He swallowed the feeling. There would be plenty of time later to panic about what could have been, but the only thing that mattered in that moment was the boy in his arms. With each step down the deserted street, he tried to keep George as steady as possible, not wanting to disturb his sleep.

He looked so small and fragile that Chat Noir had to fight the urge to hide him away where nothing could ever hurt him again. The fear and confusion had disappeared from his face as soon as he’d fallen asleep, but it was still clear he’d been through a lot.

His too-pale face was filthy, tear tracks cutting through the dust and grime coating his cheeks. His clothes were in a similar condition, and his shoes were nowhere to be found. A welt had formed on his temple—as if he’d been punched—and there were angry red marks on his wrists where the zip-ties had dug into his skin. Scratches littered his face and arms, likely from the rubble and the fall when his chair was knocked over. Worst of all, there were four dark, red, crescent-shaped marks along George’s jaw, like someone had grabbed his face and dug their nails in. Chat Noir’s heart clenched, and he held George tighter. At least he was sleeping now, so he wasn’t in pain. His head lolled into the crook of Chat Noir’s neck, brown hair brushing against the superhero’s ear.

Chat Noir selfishly wished he wasn’t wearing his superhero costume, so he could feel the boy’s soft exhales on his neck. He could see George’s chest rising and falling, but he still wanted the extra reassurance that George was still breathing. When he’d found him, there had been a few awful, heart-stopping seconds where he hadn’t been sure if he was alive or not. The whole time he was fighting the kidnapper, George was on the ground, motionless. He’d nearly cried with relief when George had finally moved.

His eyes welled up with tears at the memory, but he shook his head to clear them. George is okay. He’s okay. He’s alive, he’s here, and he’s in my arms.

Thanks to his enhanced strength, George seemed to weigh almost nothing. But Clay would have carried him home even if he weighed a ton, even if it broke his back. George meant the world to him—all of his friends did. He loved Nino, and Alya, and Plagg, and even Chloe, in her own special way, but with George it was huge, all-encompassing. He could barely contain his affection for George, and sometimes it spilled over, in little bursts of fondness, or jokingly flirtatious comments, or, when he thought he’d lost him, crushing grief that nearly tore him apart at the seams. He just… cared about George.

I mean, how could he not? George was his best friend. He had this adorable little giggle that could cheer Chat Noir up after even the very worst day. One day, he left school feeling like the world was ending, but after a few minutes in George’s room, legs tangling on the couch as they shared a pain au chocolat, he was smiling and laughing as if nothing had even happened.

George was so smart, too. When they played video games, he’d often catch Chat Noir by surprise with his out-of-the-box strategies. He was also an incredible designer, and he always worked so hard creating each intricate piece. But his intelligence came out most in his humor. He always held his own against Chat Noir’s teasing banter, hitting back with witty jabs and feigned annoyance.

Not to mention, George was absolutely gorgeous. He had the tiniest little freckles dotting his cheeks, and he scrunched his nose when he was thinking, and he had the sweetest smile in the world, one that made his eyes go all crinkly at the edges.

Clay wasn’t a stranger to good-looking people. As a bisexual model, he was used to spending time with people that he was attracted to and not letting it affect him. But holy shit, George was on another plane. It was getting harder and harder for him to ignore it. He’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat every time George flashed him that brilliant smile. And when they hugged, George fit so perfectly in his arms. A few times, Chat Noir remembered having to restrain himself from pouncing on George and kissing him senseless.

Wait, what? Kissing him?

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. In an instant, he understood why he wanted to hang out with George so badly, why he was so distraught over losing him, and why he had to catch his breath every time George sat a little closer to him than usual on the couch.

He wanted to kiss George. He wanted to pin him against a wall and leave him breathless. He wanted to trace his lips over every inch of George’s stupid, perfect, beautiful face. He wanted… he wanted George. And that wasn’t all. He wanted to hold him close, and take him on dates, and help him with his designs, and make him feel special, and tell him he loved him, and celebrate anniversaries, and propose, and get married, and have three kids and a hamster named–

A soft sigh into his neck distracted him from his thoughts. Oh. Oh.

He was carrying George. George was sleeping in his arms.

Oh, God. Having acknowledged his feelings gave the situation a whole new level of meaning. George was so real and alive in his arms that he could hardly breathe with the lump in his throat. But it was fine, he reminded himself. Everything was going to be fine.

George was going to be okay. He was going to make sure of it. He released a shaky breath when he realized some of the color was returning to George’s face. His dark eyelashes rested on his cheeks, and he looked content, at peace. Chat Noir never wanted to see him any other way.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he choked out. George’s eyes stayed closed; his breaths stayed even, and maybe that was what gave Chat Noir the confidence to keep talking, to bare his heart to the sleeping boy, his mouth speaking before his brain could even catch up. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Oh, god. This was bad. This was very, very bad. That was exactly what was happening, wasn’t it? It was the only possible conclusion. He wanted George to be happy, and safe, and a part of his life forever. He wanted George to be cared for, and successful, and by his side. He wanted George to be his.

Shit. He was in love with George. Sickening, terrifying, shout-it-from-the-rooftops love. There was no way this was going to end well. 

.   .   .

When Chat Noir opened the door to the boulangerie, George’s parents were huddled behind the counter; disheveled, exhausted, and so, so worried. The moment they spotted Chat Noir, they rushed towards him with tired, panicked eyes.

“George,” Mrs. Davidson whispered, grabbing her son’s limp hand. “He’s unconscious?”

“He’s sleeping,” Chat Noir assured her. “He was a little out of it when I talked to him, but I think he’ll be alright.”

“Where was he? What happened?”

“He was being held hostage when I found him. I don’t know who kidnapped him yet, or why. I handed the man who was keeping him there over to Officer Raincomprix, but I think until we know more about who was behind it, I should stay by his side to ensure his safety.”

“Is he hurt? Should we take him to the hospital?”

Chat Noir shook his head. “Scrapes and bruises. The best thing we can do for him right now is let him get some sleep, and we can figure the rest out when he wakes up. Definitely no school today or tomorrow.”

Oh, crap. School. Clay’s dad was going to kill him. Not for disappearing from the house for a few days—he would never notice that—but for the call he would get from the school when Clay was marked absent.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. His school canceled classes for today and tomorrow, because they knew none of his classmates would be able to focus with him missing.”

Chat Noir blinked. “Oh. Okay.” He glanced down at George’s face, mouth curving into a fond smile as he took in the peaceful expression on his friend’s face. The welt on his head was starting to bruise, and he was covered in scratches and scrapes, but he was still sound asleep. His brow was completely relaxed and his lips were parted, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

When he looked back up at George’s parents, both of them had tears in their eyes. Mr. Davidson gave a solemn nod. “Thank you so much for bringing him back to us. I don’t know what would have happened if he didn’t have you looking for him.”

Chat Noir gave a tired smile. “Of course. I’ll always be here for George. Or, uh, for any citizen of Paris. Is it okay if I take him up to his room and stay there with him? He should get some proper rest, and I should start figuring out what happened to him so it doesn’t happen again.”

George’s mother smiled. “You don’t even have to ask. We appreciate everything you do for the city, and everything you’ve done for us. You should get some rest as well. Stay as long as you like. We’ll be down here if you need anything, and if you’re hungry or thirsty, just let us know.”

As Chat Noir walked up the stairs, he realized how tired he was. With the adrenaline gone, his legs felt like they were made of lead and he struggled on each step. Running around all night had taken its toll. How long had he been awake? He’d gotten up at six for school on Wednesday morning, so… 27 hours. Jesus. He’d been through enough bad things in the past 27 hours to last him the next several years.

He nudged George’s door open with his toe, then stopped in his tracks to take in the destruction. Pieces of broken glass from the window were still all over the floor, and without the window to block the wind, the room felt like a freezer. He walked across the room to George’s bed, grateful for the way his costume’s thick boots protected him from the glass.

Should he put George on his bed, or in it? He didn’t want George to be cold, but he also didn’t want to get the sheets all dirty. Most of the dirt was on George’s clothes, and Chat Noir didn’t want to disturb him by making him change. He considered carefully changing George’s clothes but he shut that idea down quickly. Maybe it would be okay if he didn’t like George so much, but with how he cared about his friend it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to do. Oh well. He could always change the sheets after George woke up.

He pulled back the covers and set George down on the bed, not missing the way George’s sleeping face twisted in discontent at the loss of Chat Noir’s warmth. He slid the quilt up over George’s sleeping form, but the discomfort didn’t leave his face.

He frowned. How could he make George more comfortable? Was he still cold? The wind whistled through the barren window frame, freezing the room. He leaned out and closed the battered shutters, then drew the curtains to block the light from coming in. In the darkness, he crept over to a closet in the corner of the room to find a blanket. Once he found one, he laid it down on top of George’s quilt, the soft fabric brushing against the bottom of his chin. He looked a little more relaxed now, Chat Noir decided.

In George’s bathroom, Chat Noir found a stack of washcloths, making sure to pick out the softest one. He turned the knob labeled chaud and held his hand under the tap until he deemed the water sufficiently warm. Then, he wet the cloth and returned to George’s bedside.

When he brought the washcloth up to brush over the sleeping boy’s cheekbone, his eyelids fluttered, but stayed closed. “Chat– Chat Noir?” he mumbled.

“It’s okay,” he whispered back, wiping the same spot again. “I’m here. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

“M'kay.” With every gentle stroke of the warm cloth against George’s face, he looked more and more relaxed. Chat Noir felt better, too, happy to see George without the tear tracks or the grime. He gently cleaned up each scrape and cut, bandaging some of the bigger ones with a first aid kit he’d found with the washcloths. “Don’t see why you have to do all that,” George said sleepily at one point. Chat Noir hadn’t realized he was still awake. “Can’t you just kiss it better?”

“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Chat Noir replied, pressing a soft kiss to the top of one of the bandages. “Better?”

“Mm. Much better.” And George relaxed into the bed again, falling asleep for real this time.

When Chat Noir finished with the scrapes, he wiped as much dust out of George’s hair as he could, then took the cloth back to the bathroom.

He looked around the room. What else could he do to help?  He realized with a start that there was still broken glass everywhere, and George was barefoot. What if he got out of bed and stepped on some?

He quickly knelt down and picked up the pieces with his gloved hands until only glittering specks remained. Then, he found a roll of tape on George’s desk and wrapped a piece around his fingers to pick up the last of it. Sure, it would have been much faster and easier to use a vacuum cleaner, but the noise would have woken George.

By the time he rose to his feet and returned the roll of tape to George’s desk, his eyes would barely stay open. He felt like he was going to drop dead at any moment. With his last remaining energy, he stumbled over to the couch and collapsed onto it.

He twisted and turned, trying to find a comfortable position in the tight suit. His clunky boots dug uncomfortably into the blisters that had formed the night before, and the thick leather felt suffocating where it stretched all the way up to his neck. Then, he sat up. He thought back to the time he’d first met George as Chat Noir, and how he’d been about to transform back. George had shut his eyes and turned away, not even tempted to sneak a peek at Chat Noir’s real face. He could trust George. He did trust George.

He struggled to his feet, grabbed a sharpie and a paper shopping bag from under George’s desk, and messily scrawled a cat face on the front before pulling it over his head. “Claws in.” Finally able to relax, he dropped back onto the couch and promptly lost consciousness.

.   .   .

Clay awoke to the sound of a door clicking shut. He didn’t want to get up. He was so warm and comfortable. A faint, soothing strawberry scent floated through the air, and he curled further into his cocoon of warmth, pulling his blanket tighter around him. Wait… blanket? He didn’t remember going to sleep with a blanket. In fact, he didn’t remember going to sleep at all. Where was he?

He opened his eyes, but everything was pitch black. He twisted his head, blinking in confusion, and heard the crinkling of paper. Oh. It all came flooding back. The dress, the fight, the kidnapping, and falling asleep on George’s couch, the only thing protecting his identity being a paper bag.

“Plagg, claws out,” he groaned, sitting up. The transformation woke him up fully, his enhanced senses washing away the last traces of sleep. Once he was sure his face was covered, he pulled the bag off and opened his eyes.

George was still under the covers, sound asleep. So what had woken him up, if it hadn’t been George? And how long had he slept? He looked around the room. The clock on the wall read 16:29. That made sense, since the room was no longer as bright as it had been in the morning. On George’s desk, he could see a collection of things that hadn’t been there when he last saw it. He stood, biting back a yelp at the pain that shot through his exhausted legs, and hobbled towards it to investigate.

On the desk were two steaming mugs of tea, a plate of pastries, and a note labeled Chat Noir. He picked up the note and unfolded it.

Chat Noir,

Thank you for taking care of George. He’s lucky to have someone like you. Today AND over the last few months. You’ve made him happy, and that means the world to us. We hope to see you around a lot more. Here’s some tea and breakfast—you must be starving.

Love,

Mr. and Mrs. Davidson

P.S. You can use the front door, if you want. You don’t always have to jump up onto the roof ;)

His eyes burned and he blinked them rapidly, trying not to cry. He knew George hadn’t told his parents about their friendship, which meant they must have figured it out themselves. He hadn’t thought he cared all that much about their approval, but he couldn’t ignore the tightness in his chest, or the way his eyes welled up. In an effort to distract himself from how much their words meant to him, he turned his thoughts to the other things on the desk. Ooh, pastries. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, but it was Thursday afternoon—nearly evening—and he had barely eaten since lunchtime on Wednesday.

He picked up one of the mugs of tea. One of George’s parents must have woken me up by accident when they came in, he thought. He took a cautious sip, not sure what to expect since his family never drank tea. It was hot, and kind of bitter, but with the first swallow, he already felt slightly better. He could feel the warmth traveling all the way down his throat and into his chest, making him sigh in contentment. He had always made fun of George for drinking tea, but now he could see why he called it his “comfort drink.” It’s like a hug in your esophagus, he had said. Chat Noir had just stared at him in horror.

He looked down at the pile of croissants and pains au chocolat, and his stomach growled. He picked one up and was about to bite into it when he remembered the dress they needed to make. How the hell would they fit three months of work into one night? His mind wandered back to a conversation he’d had with George a month earlier.

If I had an embroidery machine, the entire skirt would take hours instead of months, George had said. Chat Noir hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but it was almost funny how well that applied to their current situation. Making the dress in hours instead of months. It was almost like George had predicted the future. Except, of course, they didn’t have some magical machine that could do all of the work for them.

Well, wait. Why didn’t they have an embroidery machine? They must have been able to find one somewhere, they were in Paris, for God’s sake.

And how much had George said they were? A few thousand euros? Clay had plenty of money saved up from modeling, so he could definitely afford to buy one.

The more he thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed. The embroidery had been the most important part of that dress, so George would be thrilled if they could recreate at least some of his hard work. Chat Noir knew enough about sewing to know that embroidery was slow work. They’d barely be able to even start embroidering the skirt if they tried to do it by hand.

Okay. So it was settled. He was going to try to buy an embroidery machine for George.

He crammed the pastry into his mouth and scrambled onto the roof. Despite the protests from his aching muscles, he ran as fast as he could to Rue de Rivoli, knowing he and George needed as much time as they could get.

The person in the fabric store helped him find what he was looking for immediately. (It may have helped that Clay had an extremely recognizable face, especially in the fashion industry.) Twenty minutes later, Chat Noir was attempting to carry a large, heavy cardboard box down the steps of George’s ladder without waking him up.

He finally made it inside and got to work setting up the machine. It was computerized, so all George would have to do was put in the pattern and it would take care of the rest.

He’d looked at all of the models, trying to figure out which one would be best for George, and this one had been the clear winner. It had ten needles, for maximum speed, and the sleek red exterior was so painfully George that he just had to buy it.

And okay, maybe it was a teensy bit more money than he could really justify spending on a friend (or, y’know, eight thousand euros more), but George deserved it. He’d worked so hard on the dress that it was only fair he have the best machine available.

Once he’d made sure the embroidery machine would work and gotten rid of the packaging, he reluctantly looked over at George. He’d have to wake him soon if they wanted to finish the dress by eight o’clock the next morning. Well, he could at least reheat George’s tea first.

Once the tea was hot, he ran out of excuses to delay waking his friend, so he set the mug down and knelt by George’s bedside. Even in darkness, his friend was so beautiful. His heart twisted at the idea of disturbing George when he looked so peaceful and comfortable, but he knew he had to. “George, baby, time to get up, okay? Come on, George.” He worried that George would notice the absence of his usual teasing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be anything but gentle when George was so soft and vulnerable in front of him.

“But ‘m tired,” George mumbled, frowning and sinking deeper under the covers with his eyes still closed.

“I know, honey, but we have to get up, okay? We have a dress to make.” Chat Noir reached out and rested a hand on George’s shoulder. “There’s a cup of tea for you here. Why don’t you sit up and I can bring it over to you?”

Something in Chat Noir melted as dazed brown eyes opened to meet his own. He was suddenly gripped by the irresistible urge to lean down and plant a kiss on George’s forehead, and he yanked his hand back, standing up. Why had he even been kneeling in the first place? He was waking George up, not proposing marriage. Clearly, Chat Noir couldn’t get too close, or he would start having irrational, crazy, sappy thoughts about kisses and weddings and hamsters. He just needed to focus on his job—waking George up.

Blearily, George sat up, scooting backwards until his back rested against the headboard. He blinked. It was quite possibly the cutest blink Chat Noir had ever seen. “Tea?”

Chat Noir stepped over to the desk and grabbed George’s tea and the plate, then handed the mug to him with a smile, setting the pastries down on the bed. “Careful, it’s hot.”

George took a cautious sip and sighed, still looking weary. “Thank you,” he croaked, clearing his throat when his voice came out thick and gravelly. Chat Noir sat down on the edge of the bed and drank his own tea so he wouldn’t have to say anything. He didn’t trust his voice not to come out all gooey and soft.

They silently sipped the hot drinks as George woke up, his eyes becoming brighter, less glazed-over. “Jesus,” George mumbled, reaching for a pastry. “Feel like I slept for years.” He took a bite and started chewing, then abruptly stopped, reaching out and latching onto Chat Noir’s arm. His eyes bugged out.

Chat Noir understood. “Do you need to spit it out?” But George shook his head, chewing the rest of the bite almost robotically and wincing as he swallowed.

“I– Yesterday–” He choked out. “Did I– Was that real?”

“Yeah. It’s okay, you’re safe now.” Chat Noir tried to sound reassuring, but it didn’t seem to work.

George patted at his wrist and pockets frantically. “My watch– My phone– Where’s my stuff?”

Chat Noir couldn’t help but think that looking for his belongings was an unusual response to being kidnapped, but he wasn’t really in a position to judge. “I’m sure they’re in here somewhere. I’ll find them for you.” He stood up and started scanning the room. “Oh. Here they are.”

“Thank you,” George said, with a shaky exhale. He put the phone and watch on his bedside table. “Thanks for… a lot of stuff.”

Chat Noir wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. You’re welcome, George. Any time. Really, it was no trouble. I would do anything for you. On account of the fact that I’m madly in love with you. “Uh, is there anything else you need? Tylenol? Bandages? …Therapy?”

“No, I’m… I’ll be alright.” George said. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry today. Unless…” he faltered. “Did I sleep through the competition deadline?”

“Nope. It’s five o’clock on Thursday night right now. That means we have fifteen whole hours to make this dress.”

“Okay. We can do this.” George squinted in thought. “There’s no way I’ll be able to get any real amount of embroidery done in one night, so I think we should just focus on the bodice, and leave the skirt plain.”

“Or…” Chat Noir pointed over at the shiny machine in the corner. “We could use that?”

.   .   .

Chat Noir was halfway through sewing a jewel onto the bodice when he was pulled out of his focus by a yelp of glee behind him. They had agreed to use Chat Noir’s version of the bodice, the one George had been teaching him to make, and he was working on that while George coded the pattern into the embroidery machine. He turned around to see George dancing around next to the machine.

“It worked! Chat Noir, it worked!”

Chat Noir leapt to his feet, ignoring the way his legs screamed in protest at the sudden movement. “The pattern’s in? It’s ready?”

George nodded, beaming. Maybe it was just because Chat Noir was so tired, but all he could think was, holy shit his smile is so pretty oh my god i love him i love him oh my god.

“Uh… so that means, um,” he said, trying to ignore his racing thoughts, “the skirt. We need to put the skirt in. I have, um, that here for you.” He pushed a heavy bundle of velvet into George’s arms.

He sat back down to secure the jewel he’d been halfway through sewing on. In the two hours it had taken George to program in his intricate pattern, Chat Noir had been able to follow George’s careful instructions to finish constructing the bodice, and sew on a few lines of tiny jewels. He still had hundreds to do, but he was getting somewhere.

Behind him, he heard George clicking a few buttons, and the machine whirred to life. Chat Noir rushed over, and they both stared in wonder as the machine started to fill in the red with lines of gold.

“It works,” George breathed, laughing in relief. “I can’t believe you bought me an embroidery machine. Where did you even get the money from, you lunatic?”

Oh, I just used the money from one of my Agreste ad campaigns for my father, Gabriel Agreste. Did I mention I’m actually Clay Agreste? Chat Noir thought. “It’s a long story,” he said instead, picking at his glove. “I kind of… can’t tell you? I’m sorry.”

“Oh, a man of mystery. I bet you’re actually a billionaire. Jeff Bezos’s secret love child. And he’s paying you for your silence.” George didn’t seem too concerned by Chat Noir’s secrecy. “It’s gonna take me ages to pay you back. You know that, right?”

“Pay me– No, no, I’m not going to ask you to do that, George.”

George scoffed. “What, so you’re just going to give me an embroidery machine?”

Chat Noir didn’t say anything.

“...You’re just going to give me an embroidery machine?” George repeated, dumbfounded.

“Well, it doesn’t match my room decor. C’mon, stop wasting time being a dumbass.”

George stared at him for almost half a minute, then shrugged. “Okay. Cool, I guess. Next thing on the to-do list is the rest of the bodice.” He started towards it, but Chat Noir held an arm out to block him.

“Oh, no you don’t. Next thing on the to-do list is a shower. Go.”

“Are you trying to tell me I look gross?”

Chat Noir shot him a look. “You look ravishing, George. I’m just trying to let you know that you should probably get all the dirt off your arms before you get it all over the dress. There’s still dust in your hair, too. And you need to put on clean clothes anyway. Just go. You’ll feel a thousand times better, I promise.”

George hesitated. “But… what about the bodice?”

“I’ll take care of it. Now scoot.” Chat Noir lightly shoved George in the direction of his bathroom, and he caved, closing the door behind him. Chat Noir waited a minute until he heard running water, then turned back to the task on the floor.

He fell back into the work easily. The spring breeze floating in through the window, the slowly fading daylight, the scratch of the carpet under him, all fell away as he got lost in the repetitive motions. The sound of the bathroom door opening and the shuffle of bare feet didn’t draw him away from his sewing. What finally pulled him back to reality was the strawberry smell that wafted over to him. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, before looking up at George. “Feel better? You look better.”

“Sure, whatever, idiot,” George deflected. A shower and a change of clothes had done him a world of good, and his damp hair hung over his eyes, sending out waves of that tantalizing smell that Chat Noir had grown to associate with the shorter boy. Oh, god. He was screwed.

“Smell better, too,” he muttered. “Is that your shampoo?”

George’s face tinted pink. “My mum buys it.”

He was too tired for this. He needed to change the subject before he blurted out something he couldn’t take back, like you smell so fucking good or will you marry me? “Come look at this. Is it okay?”

He instantly regretted the decision when George came up and stood behind him. The smell of the shampoo was twice as strong now, twice as heavenly, and he could actually feel the warmth radiating off of the boy. It took him a minute to remember what George was talking about when he said, “This is perfect. You got a lot done while I was gone. And I don’t see any mistakes. Do you want to keep going with this while I make some sleeves?”

Chat Noir nodded, mentally cursing himself for the way his brain had fogged over at something as trivial as some strawberry shampoo. Strawberry shampoo was basic, anyway. He should be criticizing George’s choice of hair products, not going all ga-ga over it.

“Okay, let’s get to it. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Once again, Chat Noir lost himself to the steady back-and-forth of each stitch. In, out. In, out. It was comfortable there, with the gentle breeze and the hum of the machinery. In, out. Almost too comfortable. Knowing he was slowly losing his grasp on consciousness, he worked as fast as he could. In, out. In, out. In, out. He was trying to hang on, but he could feel himself slipping, slipping away.

In, out. In… out….

.   .   .

Ding! He jolted awake, gasping.

In his sleep-addled haze, he looked around for George, finding the other boy slumped over his desk, also sleeping. “George– I– We fell asleep, wake up!”

George lifted his head. Bloodshot eyes blinked owlishly at him. “Huh?”

“What time is it? We must have both fallen asleep.” 

Realization flooded George’s face as his eyes began to clear, and he fumbled for his phone. “Oh, God. Oh, shit. We have so much less time now.” He looked at his screen. “Okay, it’s midnight. Um. What are we going to do?”

“Midnight?” Chat Noir felt like he had been sucker-punched. “We’re so lucky we woke up. Can you imagine if we slept through it after all this?”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing I have my phone set up to chime at midnight, every night. That must be what woke you up.”

“Why does your phone chime at midnight? That’s, like, so weird.”

George reddened. “I stay up late a lot, so if my phone isn’t on Do Not Disturb by then, it’ll chime to tell me to go to bed.”

Chat Noir nodded and struggled to his feet. “We should stand up. Stay awake for a second and figure out what we’re gonna do.”

They went to inspect the embroidery machine together. “Still going strong,” George remarked. “It’s got a little over six hours left, so it should be done with enough time to spare.”

He nodded. “I’m, like, a third of the way done with the bodice. Should we work together on that? We can keep each other awake.”

“Okay. We can do this.”

Chat Noir hoped he was right.

.   .   .

“Hey, how did you find me?”

“Huh?” It took Chat Noir a moment to process the question, since what little brainpower he had left had been fixated on sewing for several silent minutes. “Oh. Well, I was talking to Plagg and Tikki in my room, and Tikki left to go check on Ladybug, and then only a few minutes after she came back, she just vanished.”

George looked up. “What does that mean? Plagg is your animal-thing, right?” There was something strange in his tone, but Chat Noir couldn’t quite decipher it.

“My kwami, yeah. Tikki is Ladybug’s kwami. Our kwamis are always around, unless we transform or we take our Miraculous off. And Ladybug can’t transform without Tikki there, which means–”

“He had to have taken his Miraculous off,” George finished.

“Exactly.” Chat Noir looked back at the fabric to carefully push the needle through, pulling the thread taut. “And he’s taken it off before a few times, and there are plenty of non-emergency reasons he could have taken it off, so it’s not immediately a bad sign. But either way, I like to patrol the city if I know Ladybug is out of action for the evening. Just so that if anything happens, I’m ready to handle it.” He kept sewing, eyes fixed on the jewel he was attaching. Recounting that night was difficult enough—he certainly wouldn’t be able to meet George’s eyes on top of all that.

“Makes sense. So you went out to patrol?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to be sure the city was safe. And usually when I want reassurance, I go see you, but, uh–” his voice wavered ever so slightly– “I was pretty sure I wasn’t welcome in your room. So I was just gonna go by your house and look in your window–”

“Like a stalker?” George interrupted.

“What? No, not like– Okay, I was just– I was just gonna, like, peek in and make sure you were still okay, y’know? Because if you were okay, then I’d feel okay. But… your window was broken, and you weren’t in your room, so I went in the bakery and your parents told me you were missing.”

He stopped talking for a moment to rein in the panic clawing its way up his throat. George is safe. It’s over now. George is safe. Everything’s going to be fine. He sucked in a shaky breath, hating the tears that stung at his eyes. “Sorry, um, yeah. So I ran up and down pretty much every street looking for a sign until I found you, and I guess you know what happened then.”

He tried to sync his breathing to the steady rhythm of his needle, still not meeting George’s eyes. After a few seconds, though, when George’s hands still hadn’t resumed their smooth movements, curiosity forced him to look up.

George’s face was unreadable. He stared at Chat Noir silently, and Chat Noir was just about to ask if he was okay when George spoke. “You ran? Like, flat-out sprinted?”

“Wha– Yeah, of course I did. You were kidnapped, George. Did you think I’d just go for a little nighttime stroll when you’re in trouble?”

George wrinkled his nose. “You ran… the whole time?”

“Yes,” he said, starting to get annoyed. He didn’t want to relive that awful night any more than he had to.

“But….” George sounded confused. “I was gone for, like, fifteen hours. You ran around the city looking for me for all that time?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Oh.”

George’s confused expression had turned to one of gratitude and awe, and Chat Noir looked at his hands, embarrassed. “My Miraculous helps me with stuff like that. Like, my legs don’t really get tired when I’m wearing it,” he lied. Being Chat Noir helped a little, of course it did, but it couldn’t change the fact that his legs were killing him after the first half hour, and probably would be for the next two weeks. “Same with sleeping. I can go a lot longer without sleeping as Chat Noir than I can as my civilian self.” This part was mostly true—the Miraculous boosted his survival skills, so he could go much longer without collapsing from exhaustion, but he still felt every bit of the weariness and sleep-deprivation that he would have as a human. George didn’t need to know that, though.

Pale hands began to move again, carefully sewing jewel after jewel onto the delicate fabric, so Chat Noir resumed his work as well, recognizing the end of their conversation. Something small fell onto the fabric, on George’s side, and he thought he’d imagined it until it happened again. Where they had fallen, the vibrant red darkened into a deep burgundy. Wait, was George crying?

Stunned, Chat Noir looked at George. Although he was still looking down, working on the dress, his cheeks and nose bore red blotches and his dark eyes glistened with tears. As Chat Noir watched, another tear formed on George’s lower lashes before dropping onto the bodice like the others.

He put a gentle hand on George’s knee, and George looked up at him as if he’d been caught. “Sorry,” he sniffed, quickly bringing his sleeve up to scrub at his eyes.

“Hey, no.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t be sorry. Why are you sorry?”

“I guess that’s… not what I mean.” George shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“Thank you,” George whispered, voice breaking.

“Oh, George,” he said. “Baby, don’t cry.” He put his sewing down and scooted a safe distance away from the dress, pulling George into his arms.

George’s arms wrapped around him, squeezing tight as he shuddered and sobbed into Chat Noir’s shoulder. It was a few minutes before he spoke again. “Thank you for looking for me,” he choked out.

He rubbed a soothing hand between George’s shoulder blades. “I’d always look for you, yeah? I would run for as long as it takes to find you.”

“I’ve– I’ve never felt–” George got out through his sobs– “I’ve never felt like I needed someone to come save me. I can– can always do it myself.” His shoulders shook.

“You’re just as strong as you were before, y’know?” Against his better judgment, Chat Noir pressed the faintest whisper of a kiss into George’s hair. “You can still save yourself. But you don’t have to do things by yourself anymore. Let me help you.”

George pulled back, wiping his eye with his sleeve again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now come on. We have a lot of sewing to do if you’re going to win this competition.”

.   .   .

“Thank God that’s over,” Chat Noir sighed, flexing his exhausted fingers. “Why did you decide the bodice needed a hundred million tiny little fucking jewels? Giving me fucking carpal tunnel.”

“Quit swearing at me,” George yawned, in a way that was definitely not cute or endearing or attractive in any way. “You’re such a baby. I’m gonna finish those sleeves, you tie up the loose bits of string on the bodice.”

He complied, following George’s instructions without question. When all the strings were trimmed and tied up, he finally straightened, looking around for the first time in hours. The clock on the wall read 05:26. That meant two things: first, they still had two and a half hours until the dress was due; and second, the Davidsons’ bakery was open.

Quietly, so as not to disturb George, he stood and crept over to the ladder, then climbed up and out, shutting the trapdoor as silently as he could. Using his staff, he jumped down to the street below.

He was about to move towards the entrance to the bakery when he thought better of it. Sure, George’s parents now knew that it was Chat Noir who George spent all his time with, but if he stopped going as Clay, he’d miss chatting with the Davidsons every time he went to buy a pain au chocolat.

Besides, he didn’t want them to make the connection between his identities. It would be suspicious if Clay suddenly stopped coming in and Chat Noir suddenly started, especially since he came in at the same time almost every day and always ordered the same thing. It would be careless of him to risk it. He ducked into an alley, looked around to make sure he was alone, and whispered, “Claws in.”

Chat Noir—Clay, now—pulled open the familiar glass door, smiling when he heard the bell jingle. When he stepped inside, out of the early morning chill, he was delighted to see rows and rows of fresh pastries under the counter. And they smelled amazing.

George’s dad gave him a weak smile, looking exhausted. “Morning, Clay.”

Clay felt a stab of guilt when he realized that he’d been so focused on the dress that he’d almost forgotten how difficult the last few days had been for the Davidsons. The normally chipper baker was looking a little deflated, dark circles around his eyes.

“Hey, Mr. Davidson. I heard about your son. How are you holding up?”

“I’ve… had better days. But he’s okay now, and that’s what matters.” He looked like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Clay. “So, just a pain au choc, then?”

“Actually, could you make that two? And two coffees, as well.” Normally, half a pastry was enough of a snack for both of them, but today George needed his energy.

“Sure thing.” Mr. Davidson went straight to work.

Once he had paid and left, he transformed back and jumped up onto the roof, spilling a few droplets of coffee in the process. When he pulled the trapdoor open, George was sitting criss-cross on the floor, working on the tiny sleeves. He watched for a moment before dropping down into the room.

George looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was a mess, and his hoodie was a little crumpled from being in the same position for so long. God, he was beautiful, and Chat Noir was way too sleep-deprived for this. George tipped his stupidly gorgeous head, looking confused (and so fucking cute). “Where’d you go?”

“I got us some breakfast.” Chat Noir held up the drinks and bags of food he was awkwardly juggling. “C’mon, take a break. Come eat on the roof with me.”

“Okay. You have to help me up, though.” He lifted his arms up and looked up at him with those manipulative doe eyes he always used when he wanted something. Chat Noir was a weak, weak man. His heart expanded in his chest, and he was helpless to deny him.

 He grabbed both of George’s hands and pulled him to his feet, trying to hide the softness in his voice as he chided, “Your coffee’s getting cold, idiot. Come on.”

They climbed up the ladder, careful to not spill their drinks on George’s carpet below. Above them, the stars had mostly faded in the morning light, but Chat Noir didn’t mind much. As he locked eyes with the brunette beside him, the rest of the world faded away.

“You brought me out here to watch the sunrise?” George asked.

Huh? Chat Noir turned around, and sure enough, the first pink hues of sunrise were emerging along the Parisian skyline. It was almost the same pink as George’s lips. “Oh, well, I–”

“You’re such a romantic.” George jokingly batted his eyelashes. “If you wanted to get in my pants, all you had to do was ask.”

He choked on his coffee. “What?”

George burst out laughing. “Oh… my God,” he gasped, “the look on your face.”

He rolled his eyes, but failed to suppress the laughter rising in his throat. And as he sat there, laughing with George, eating pain au chocolat in the morning light, he knew that this stupid British idiot was going to be the death of him.

.   .   .

“Okay, can you get the bag?” George asked. “I’m almost done.”

“Yup,” Chat Noir said, holding the protective bag for the dress and waiting for George to tie up the last stitch. The clock on George’s wall said 07:51. He swallowed, shifting his weight as he watched George’s delicate fingers work.

“Done!” George shouted.

The two boys practically crammed the dress into the bag and sprinted across the room to the ladder. Chat Noir caught sight of the clock. 07:53.

On the roof, George held the bag tightly and jumped into Chat Noir’s arms. If they weren’t in such a rush, he might have focused on how much trust George was putting in him, but he was only thinking about getting to the Carrousel du Louvre as soon as he possibly could.

He used his superhuman jumping abilities to spring from roof to roof, boosting each jump with his baton. With his powers, they could get across the city much faster than George could have on his own. That was why he had volunteered to carry George there. But he wasn’t complaining about the other benefits: the feeling of George clinging to him, soft hair tickling his chin; the way his traitorous heart was threatening to beat out of his chest when George’s face pressed into his neck; and the glowing warmth in his chest from finally, finally being able to help George with something.

They touched down next to the Carrousel du Louvre at 7:59, and Chat Noir ducked into an alley to hide while George burst into the building, bundle clutched in his arms. He crouched behind a trash can and trained his eyes on the doors, nervously awaiting George’s return.

At 8:02, the door swung open and George re-emerged, his face inscrutable. Chat Noir pulled him into the alley.

“Did you make it?” He asked, heart in his throat. “Did they accept it?”

George broke into a dazzling smile. “Yes! We did it!”

Without thinking, Chat Noir scooped him up into a crushing hug, spinning him around gleefully. “You did it, George!” He did it. I knew he could. “I’m so proud of you.”

George laughed and shrieked, grabbing onto Chat Noir. “Chat! Put me down!”

“Fine, fine, okay.” He set George on the ground, a safe distance away. “Next order of business–”

“What? We handed in the dress, I thought we were done. What else could we possibly have to do?”

“We’re going to the doctor.”

George immediately stepped back, crossing his arms against his chest with a scoff. “Do not even say that. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been through a lot. It’s worth going, just to get checked out,” Chat Noir argued. “You could have a concussion, residual trauma, broken bones, dehydration, high blood pressure–”

“But I don’t have any of those. Come on, let’s just go home and sleep.” Chat Noir was well aware that George was stubborn to a fault. Arguing with him was usually futile. Usually. But Chat Noir had one card up his sleeve now that he’d never had before.

“George. Do you trust me?”

George didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“Good. Then we’re going to see a doctor.”

.   .   .

Over the next few days, they fell into a new sort of normal. It was a lot like the old normal, except now that Chat Noir knew what George meant to him, seeing him felt… different. More important, somehow. At the same time, though, it was exactly the same as it had always been. Hanging out with George had been the best part of his days for a while now. The way his heart soared when George blushed and the little flip his stomach did when George’s eyes glittered with hidden amusement were nothing new. He was just… putting a name to it, that was all. Love.

Another difference was that Chat Noir could touch all the sewing he wanted, and George wouldn’t bat an eyelash about his claws. Having George’s full trust was… different. Good-different. George seemed freer and more relaxed. Before, there had been times where he would treat Chat Noir like an annoying little brother. But now, they were equals, even when they were sewing. He even sent Chat Noir out to buy supplies a few times, and trusted him to buy the right thing.

All this started on Saturday, of course. After George’s doctor appointment on Friday (he was fine after all, although the doctor wasn’t too happy about Chat Noir running almost 300 miles), they barely made it back before crashing in George’s room and sleeping the rest of the day away. When they finally recovered, they spent Saturday and Sunday just sitting together, talking about everything and nothing.

“My legs hurt,” Chat Noir complained for the millionth time as they sat on the couch together. He planted his feet in George’s lap. “You should kiss them better.”

“You’re disgusting. You should have thought about your stupid legs before you ran up and down every single street in the city.” George grabbed one of Chat Noir’s ankles, moving it up and down experimentally. “Did you know there are over one thousand miles of streets in Paris?”

Chat Noir rolled his eyes, but allowed George to push and pull his leg as he pleased. It was kind of worth it to see the curiosity in George’s eyes as he rapped his knuckles on Chat Noir’s ankle bone. “I obviously didn’t run down every single road. I’m not, like… the Flash. Besides, you should have more faith in my tracking skills. I only went down a few hundred roads before I smelled you.”

George’s hands froze where they were poking at his shin. “You what? What do you mean you smelled me?”

“How else did you think I found you?” Chat Noir tried to pull his leg back, but George held on, going back to his strange exploration. “You were in a basement, not the middle of the Trocadero.”

“Wha- I don’t know, just not by smelling me,” he retorted. “What are you, a dog?”

“George, cats can– agh! ” Chat Noir yelped when George’s fingers jabbed into his sore calf muscle. “Ow, what the hell?”

George giggled. “Whoops. My bad. Go on. Cats can…?” he prompted.

“Um. A cat’s sense of smell is seventeen times stronger than a human’s. So when I’m in an emergency situation, acting on instinct, I can use my sense of smell if I need to. To…” he trailed off when George started poking at his calf again, but much softer this time, gentler. He pushed a thumb in and moved it in a slow circle, loosening the tight muscle. Almost like… was he doing something nice? Chat Noir realized he was staring and forced himself to continue. “To, um, guide me in the right direction. So when I smelled you, I knew which way to go.”

“Freak.” George continued his slow massage, like each press of his nimble fingers wasn’t pushing Chat Noir further and further into insanity. “So.” He smirked. “What do I smell like?”

“Fuck off,” Chat Noir mumbled, because otherwise he was going to say heaven. Especially with the way George’s hands were sliding against the smooth leather of his suit, finding all of his weak spots. He would run hundreds of miles every night if it meant he got to have this after it. George’s touch was electric, and he knew he should pull away, but the contact was too good to refuse.

George smirked. “You just don’t want to admit how amazing I smell. Like a freshly baked pain au chocolat. Like a honey-sweet madeleine.”

Like a gâteau fraisier, Chat Noir wanted to say. Good enough to eat. But then it occurred to him that platonic friends don’t usually tell their other platonic friends that they smell like a strawberry cake. Even if it’s true. “That’s exactly why,” he said instead, trying to make it sound like a joke. “You got me.”

.   .   .

On Monday, they finally went back to school. Even though they were technically still in the same room, Clay had never felt farther away from George. After Thursday’s ordeal, George was surrounded by his friends all day, and Clay could barely see him through the crowd. The one time that George was alone, he had tried to go up and start a conversation, but George practically turned and ran away. It was the first day they had spent apart in a while, and he suffered from acute George withdrawals the whole time.

After school, Clay rushed home to drop off his backpack and transform. He forced himself to finish a history assignment, but squirmed the whole time, anxious to visit George. The minute he was done, he leapt to his feet, transformed, and jumped out of his window. He couldn’t wait to go talk to George. Except… they had basically spent the last four full days together. What if George was getting tired of him? Maybe he should stay home, give him some space.

His feet touched solid ground, and… oh. He was already on the street in front of George’s house. His feet had followed the familiar path across the city without even thinking about it. He couldn’t go home now, could he? It would be a waste of energy to come all the way here just to leave. Oh, well. He had a feeling that George probably wouldn’t mind another day of his company anyway. And while he was here, he might as well duck into the boulangerie and pick up a pastry or two.

Chapter Text

“George!” The trapdoor banged shut behind Chat Noir as he came barreling into George’s room.

He nearly jumped out of his skin, spilling his tea all down his front in the process. “What the hell, Chat Noir? You literally scared me half to death. Look, I’ve gone and spilt my cup of tea all over myself.”

Chat Noir paled. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, George. I completely didn’t think about how you would feel about someone bursting into your room like that after-”

“That’s not what I meant, idiot. You startled me, I’m not, like, traumatized or something.” He pushed back from his desk. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m fine.” He gave Chat Noir a little smile. “Now that I know I have you. Go sit. Did you at least bring me food?”

Chat Noir produced a small brown bag from behind his back, and George’s face split into a grin. He grabbed a tissue to wipe as much tea off of himself as he could, and then plopped down on his couch, where Chat Noir was already waiting.

“How was your day at school? Did you get in trouble for missing on Thursday and Friday?” George asked through a mouthful of pain au chocolat.

An unreadable expression flickered across Chat Noir’s face, before quickly giving way to his usual easy smile. “Not too much trouble. Um, my day was pretty good, I guess.” His smile widened. “Would have been better if you were there.” He laughed to himself, though George was pretty sure there was nothing particularly funny about that.

“You’re stupid,” George said. What he didn’t say was I missed you today, too.

“You love me, though.”

He shot Chat Noir a glare. “You need to check your sources, because that’s definitely not true. You’re the absolute worst and I hate you.”

“Don’t worry, I love you too.” Chat Noir smiled fondly at him, seeing right through his weak attempts to deflect his affection.

“I don’t want your love.”

“George, has anyone ever told that you you’re a terrible liar?”

George rolled his eyes and looked away, trying not to smile.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Chat Noir nudged George’s thigh with the corner of his boot. “What were you working on before I got here? You were sitting at your desk.”

“Oh, I was sketching a new design.” He smiled. “The dress that we made was the first, like, huge project I’ve ever done, and I kind of liked it, so….”

Chat Noir perked up. “Show me it.”

“It’s all the way over there. I’m not getting up to get it.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Chat Noir used a hand to brace himself on the arm of the couch, then gently extracted his legs from where they’d been tangled with George’s. He put his feet down behind the couch and trotted out of George’s field of vision.

George scowled. “Come back. My legs are cold.”

“You’re so dumb, George, literally give me one second.”

Sure enough, Chat Noir reappeared a second later, sketchbook in hand. He flopped dramatically onto the couch, coming down hard on George’s legs.

“Ow, you dick,” George said, aiming childish kicks at the backs of Chat Noir’s knees. It didn’t actually hurt, of course, Chat Noir would never hurt him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t complain about it.

He briefly considered starting to cry, so that Chat Noir would feel bad, and hug him and call him baby again. Or, uh. Just to make Chat Noir feel bad. Not for any of those other reasons. He decided the safest option was to just keep kicking, and save the fake tears for another time.

Chat Noir, annoyingly, seemed to be completely focused on the sketchbook, eyes glowing with excitement. “George, this is so cool! Can I help? Please?”

His heart jumped. He couldn’t believe that Chat Noir wanted to make another dress together. He wrinkled his nose, hiding his excitement. “No. You smell.”

“Please? We made a good team last time, you have to admit that, you can’t even say it’s not true.”

He rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could. “Fine, whatever. I guess you can help.”

.   .   .

“You know what you should do?” George asked on Wednesday, in the middle of a heated game of Mario Kart.

“Hm?”

“You should– ah, shit,” he swore as he accidentally ran his character off the side of a bridge. “You should use your superhero powers to take out this horrible girl in my class, Chloe Bourgeois, since you want to be my protector and all.”

“Ha-ha,” Chat Noir deadpanned, but George could feel him tense up a little from where their shoulders were pressed together. “If you just got to know her, you’d realize what a nice person she actually is.” He finished the game in first place, but instead of jumping up and yelling his victory, he just put the controller down. “I mean, uh, I assume. I don’t, like, know her personally or anything. She’s the mayor’s daughter, right?”

George could feel frustration rising in his chest. “Ugh, Chat Noir, you don’t understand. I’m not the problem here, she is. She terrorizes me for literally no reason.”

Chat Noir laughed. “Oh yeah? What did she do? Pull your hair? Draw something inappropriate on your math homework?”

Why wouldn’t he take George seriously? For someone who had sworn to protect him, Chat Noir was doing a horrible job so far. George was sick and tired of everyone always taking Chloe’s side. It was bad enough that Clay defended her all the time—now Chat Noir was doing it too? “ No. For starters, she pushes her backpack out to trip me every time I walk by.”

“How do you know that’s not an accident?”

“She also sabotages me in front of my teacher on a daily basis, and she stole my birthday present, and she tried to use her father’s influence to blackmail the headmaster so he would expel me. One time, there was a hat-designing contest, and she had an exact copy made of my hat and told Gabriel Agreste that I stole her design. Do those sound like accidents?”

Chat Noir’s eyes flew wide. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He sighed, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushions. “I know that I should just ignore her, but… I dunno. It’s hard to not care.” He tried to keep his face blank, to avoid letting Chat Noir see any hurt in his eyes, but he could tell the superhero saw right through him. “She’s just always saying mean things, and I wish she would stop.”

“Okay, I’ll fix this. I’ll keep you safe, Georgie,” Chat Noir pledged solemnly. “Tonight, Chloe goes to sleep in Paris. Tomorrow, she wakes up in Antarctica.”

George laughed. “How do you plan to do that?”

“I’m gonna–” Chat Noir was cut off by the sound of screaming civilians. He jumped to his feet. “Uh, looks like duty calls. But don’t worry, I’ll get Ladybug in on our plan, too. Maybe he’ll help me teleport Chloe to another continent.”

“How could he possibly refuse?” George waited until Chat Noir had disappeared past the next row of buildings before standing up himself. “Tikki, you can come out now. We’ve got a villain to catch.”

.   .   .

The next day, George arrived at school on time for once. Before class, he stood in the courtyard, chatting with Alya and pretending not to stare at Clay.

“So then, we were eating lunch and he gave me a cookie. Can you believe that?” Alya gushed.

“Wow,” George said. Across the courtyard, Clay was walking up to Chloe Bourgeois. Ugh. It was so weird that someone as cute and nice and perfect as Clay could be friends with a monster like Chloe. Now he was talking to her. George couldn’t tell what he was saying, but Chloe didn’t seem to like it. She shook her head, scowling.

“He’s just such a good boyfriend,” Alya giggled. “He bought me a pokemon card, too.”

“Uh huh.”

It looked like Clay and Chloe were—well, not arguing, per se—but having a serious conversation. He was gesturing a lot, waving his hands around, and her hands were planted firmly on her hips. You’re being ridiculous, she seemed to be saying. Utterly ridiculous.

“His birthday is coming up, I think I’m gonna buy him–”

“What do you think they’re talking about?” George interrupted.

Alya stopped talking abruptly. When George turned to look at her, she was glaring at him. “Are you serious? Were you even listening to me?”

“Well– Okay, listen. Look. Clay’s over there talking to Chloe. Don’t you think she looks mad?”

“We were having a conversation, George. I don’t care what Chloe looks like. She looks the same as she always does. What I care about is that you were ignoring me.”

George groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry, Alya. But all you ever want to talk about is Nino.”

“All you ever want to talk about is Clay,” she shot back. “At least I’m in an actual relationship. You’re just obsessed with a guy who barely knows you exist!”

George opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t know talking to me was such a hardship, he wanted to say. Instead, he looked at the floor. “Whatever. See you in class, Alya.” And he turned around and walked away.

“Wait– George– I didn’t–”

He went into Miss Bustier’s classroom, letting the door slam behind him. For a few minutes, he sat alone and listened to the other students slowly trickle in. He put his phone on the table in front of him and spun it on his pop socket. When Alya came in and took her seat next to him, he turned slightly so he couldn’t see her out of the corner of his eye.

Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.

George knew that sound well—it was the sound of Chloe’s stupid Manolo heels marching up to him to insult him. He didn’t look up, just kept spinning his phone around and around and around as he waited to hear the meanest thing Chloe could come up with.

“Hi, George. Your hair looks nice today. I guess.”

He waited for the punchline. And waited some more.

And… nothing.

He finally looked up, astonished. Chloe’s face was contorted into a strange sort of grimace, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. Wait—was she smiling at him? (It was a strange smile. It looked painful. But… it was a hundred times better than her usual sneer.)

George flailed around for something to say. “Oh,” he finally came up with. “Thanks, Chloe. Your hair looks good, too.”

She scoffed. “Well, duh. My hair always looks good.” And she marched back to her seat.

George blinked. “What the fuck just happened?” he hissed, turning to Alya.

She just looked at him, and he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be mad at her. Oops. The whole world was on its head today. How was Chloe being a better friend than Alya? Instead of being the supportive best friend he knew her to be, Alya had just made fun of him for his feelings for Clay. The fight was all her fault.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe it was a tiny bit George’s fault as well. Alya had been trying to talk to him, and he’d ignored her to stare at Clay. That wasn’t exactly supportive best friend behavior, either. Shit. He should apologize.

Alya finally found her tongue. “George–”

“I’m sorry,” he cut in. “About earlier, I mean. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I do care about you and Nino, and I’m happy for you guys. And I promise I always want to hear what you have to say. So… yeah,” he finished lamely.

“I’m sorry too,” Alya said. “I’ve had a bit of a one-track mind lately, and I shouldn’t have gotten defensive.”

“So we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

This was the beauty of being friends with Alya. They could never stay mad at each other for long. They didn’t fight often, but when they did, they could almost always fix it with a simple apology.

“You’re right,” Alya suddenly said. “Chloe is being really weird today. Maybe she’s just in a really good mood.”

“Probably because she was talking to Clay,” George said wisely. It was a reasonable conclusion—Clay could probably instantly brighten anyone’s day.

Alya rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Oh my God. You are insufferable. Can you shut up about Clay for one freaking second?”

George laughed. “Okay, okay. Only because class is starting.”

While Miss Bustier talked, George made full use of the opportunity to stare at Clay. Wow. He was gorgeous. (Well, the back of his head was, at least. That was the only thing George could see at the moment.) How insanely lucky was George to be going on a date with him? He just hoped he wouldn’t be too nervous to talk to Clay. That would be embarrassing.

.   .   .

“You’re never going to believe what happened today,” George said that afternoon.

“What?” Chat Noir asked from somewhere behind him, where he was cutting swaths of fabric into carefully measured shapes.

“Chloe complimented me. And she didn’t do anything mean all day.”

Chat Noir chuckled. “Gosh. I wonder why.”

George laughed out loud in pure relief as he chalked out what would eventually be a hemline. “Like, she didn’t even trip me or anything, Chat. You should’ve seen it.”

“I should’ve,” Chat Noir agreed. “Aren’t you gonna thank me?”

“What for?”

“Well, that obviously wasn’t the real Chloe,” he explained. “I kidnapped her, just like I said I would. And then I switched her out with a fake Chloe who doesn’t hate you.”

“No way. You’re truly the hero of Paris.” George opened his case of pins and started securing the seam in place. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d probably be sad, and lonely, and bored. And you’d have nobody to help you on your sewing projects.”

“But I’d also have nobody annoying me all the time,” George mused. “Nobody to babysit, nobody taking up precious couch space. Y’know, now that I think about it, maybe I don’t want you around. Maybe you should piss off.” He turned around, just to see the horror on Chat Noir’s face. “Idiot,” he added, for good measure.

“That’s it,” Chat Noir snarled. “I’m not bringing you a pain au chocolat for three whole days. They say fasting is supposed to clear your mind, so maybe you can use those three days of being hungry to think about what you’ve done.”

“No, please!” George cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! Please don’t stop bringing me pastries. I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh. You should be sorry.” George heard Chat Noir putting the scissors and the fabric down behind him, and then firm, strong arms were wrapping around his shoulders, hugging him from behind. He leaned into the embrace. “But I guess I can forgive you. If you admit that I’m not annoying.”

“Fine. You’re–” George winced– “not annoying. Happy now?”

The arms around him tightened, and he felt Chat Noir’s chin resting on top of his head. “Always.”

.   .   .

“I have an idea,” Chat Noir announced as he swung in through the trapdoor that Friday. (He had, in fact, brought George a pain au chocolat after all.)

George groaned. “God, please, no. I don’t want any part of this. Don’t even tell me what your idea is. I’m not helping you. I’m not going to help you.”

“Please, George. I need you for this.”

And so, George ended up spending his Friday night at the movie theater, catching the latest Marvel movie. He wasn’t alone—no, instead he was accompanied by a shadowy, mysterious figure in a top hat, sunglasses, and a trench coat.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing a disguise over your disguise,” he hissed as they stepped out into the warm night air at the end of the movie.

“To be fair, it worked, didn’t it? That was a great movie and nobody noticed I was there. I would call that a one-hundred-percent success.”

“A one-hundred-percent success?” George couldn’t contain his laughter. “Chat Noir, you look–”

“Jean-Francois!” Chat Noir corrected, pointing to the homemade name tag he had pinned to the trench coat. “Remember, I’m incognito. You’re supposed to call me Jean-Francois.” Now he was laughing, too.

“Jean-Francois, you look like a serial killer. This whole ensemble is the opposite of inconspicuous.”

Somehow, they made it home without Chat Noir being recognized, or arrested as a suspected felon. Triumphant, they finally collapsed onto George’s bedroom floor together in breathless giggles.

Chat Noir discarded the coat, hat, and glasses. “Who knew I was a master of disguise,” he bragged. “If you ever need a wingman, Jean-Francois’s got your back.”

George scoffed and climbed up onto the couch, which felt luxuriously soft compared to the scratchy carpet. “I don’t need a wingman. I’m already in a committed relationship with your mother.” He sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes, sighing. “All this espionage makes me tired.”

Chat Noir laughed. “You’re such a baby.” But after a moment, George felt the couch dip slightly as the superhero settled next to him. He expected him to stop moving, but the shuffling continued. Irritated, he opened his eyes to see what was going on.

Chat Noir was moving around on the couch with his eyes closed, positioning and repositioning himself as he looked for a comfortable spot. It reminded George of a dog walking in circles on its bed before laying down. He watched in fascination as his friend finally curled up next to him, on his side with his fluffy hair brushing the fabric of George’s jeans. Then, even more strangely, Chat Noir turned his head slightly, bumping into George’s leg. He pulled away for a moment, eyebrows pinching together in concentration, before he was back against George’s thigh, and he sighed as he pressed into the contact, harder this time.

“Did you just head-butt me?”

Chat Noir’s eyes flew open. “Sorry.”

A slow, delighted smile spread across George’s face. “Like a cat? Oh my God, are you like an actual cat?” His jaw dropped open. “Do you purr?”

“Oh my God, no! I’m not a cat.” His face was bright red. “Okay– Well– Only a little. There are some days I feel like a normal human in a cat costume, and there are some days I catch myself acting like some ridiculous half-human, half-cat. Like, when I’m tired, I guess. And obviously I don’t purr. If I did, you would have seen me purring a lot of times by now.”

George laughed out loud. “You would have been purring? You–”

“Wait, no, I meant–”

“You love me, you love me! You can’t take it back. You would just be constantly purring if you could because you just love being around me,” George crowed. “You would, you would. You’re a cat and you love me.”

“George.” Chat Noir turned his face a little, pushing it into the couch cushions. “Come on, I don’t even act like a cat.”

George perked up. “You know… I bet I could make you act like a cat.” He scooted closer, and Chat Noir’s head ended up in his lap.

“Please don’t.”

But he was already reaching for the boy’s blonde hair, sinking his hands in and petting his head. He felt Chat Noir pushing into his hand, chasing the touch. There was a lump in his throat, surprise and amusement mixing with something else that George couldn’t quite place. He peeked at Chat Noir’s face and saw that he had closed his eyes, and his mouth had fallen slightly open. Chat Noir tilted his head, pushing into George’s hand and guiding it where he wanted it. Remembering when he used to have a cat, George used his fingernails to rake lightly across the top of Chat Noir’s head. The hero shivered, and George couldn’t hold back a snicker.

“Okay, cut that out. This is embarrassing.” Chat Noir pulled his head away, sitting up.

George burst into giggles, delighted. “You’re a cat, you’re a cat, you’re actually a cat!”

“Stoooop.”

George leapt off the couch and danced around, unable to contain his triumph at uncovering this secret about Chat Noir. “You’re a cat, you’re a cat! You’re a cat,” he sang. 

“Shut up,” Chat Noir groaned, but he was laughing, too. George was right in the middle of an epic spin move when Chat Noir grabbed his wrist to pull him back down, and he stumbled, his foot catching on the trench coat sleeve. His world tilted as he fell heavily onto the couch.

His laughter slowly faded as he took in the new situation. Chat Noir was leaning back against the arm of the couch, somewhere between sitting and laying down. George had ended up on top of him, his face pressed up against Chat Noir’s chest. Every point of contact sent heat shooting through him, and he flushed bright red. Oh. This was… oh.

George needed to get up. He hurriedly jerked back, needing a bit of distance from the superhero’s leather-clad muscles. Only now, he was practically sitting in Chat Noir’s lap. He looked up to apologize to the other boy, but the words died in his throat when he found himself looking into deep green eyes. With all the time they had spent together fighting crime, George had never noticed the intensity of Chat Noir’s eyes. Ladybugs can’t see color, so neither could George when he transformed. But now, he could see every fleck of color in Chat Noir’s eyes. For the most part, they were a smooth, light green, almost yellow in the middle, but around the edges they took on a darker, earthier hue. George felt like he could stare into those eyes for days on end, learning them millimeter by millimeter.

He was so close, close enough to see the smattering of freckles peeking out around the edges of his mask. Close enough to feel Chat Noir’s hot breath fanning against his bare skin. Close enough to….

George’s eyes fell shut as Chat Noir closed the distance between them and their lips connected. An almost painful yearning bloomed in the pit of his stomach as a hand slid into his hair, pulling him closer. George kissed Chat Noir desperately, his whole body arching into the embrace. For a few dizzying, devastating seconds, all George cared about was Chat Noir, Chat Noir, Chat Noir: hands in his hair, heart pounding alongside his own, meeting him in this searing-hot kiss.

This was…. Oh God, this was the best fucking kiss of his life, wasn’t it? George was pretty sure he was losing his mind, but he was gripped by the inexplicable feeling that this was his only chance. He was never going to find somebody else who could kiss him like this.

Then, reality hit. What was he doing? He tore himself away, standing up and backing away from Chat Noir in shock. He had just kissed Chat Noir, after years of dodging his advances and pining after Clay Agreste. Oh shit, Clay! He was the biggest idiot in the world, wasn’t he? What kind of moron kisses someone else just when they finally start going out with their dream guy? 

Chat Noir’s face mirrored George’s own disbelief. He swallowed. “George, I–”

“I’m seeing someone,” George blurted out. 

Surprise flickered across the superhero’s face, quickly followed by dismay. “Shit. I’m seeing someone too,” he said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I….” He stood up, backing away. “It’s getting late. I should– I’m gonna go.”

In the blink of an eye, he was gone, trapdoor thudding shut behind him.

George could only bring a shaking hand to his lips. “What the hell?” he whispered.

.   .   .

On Saturday, George woke up slowly, gradually becoming aware of the sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. He rolled over, still half-asleep, and caught sight of something on his bedroom floor. He craned his neck to see it better, and realized it was a trench coat. As soon as the phrase trench coat crossed his mind, the memories of the night before came flooding back.

“Shit.” He sat up, suddenly completely awake.

His kwami, in her usual spot next to his pillow, began to stir. “Hm?”

“Shit,” George repeated. “Tikki, I kissed Chat Noir.” He buried his face in his pillow, hiding from the world.

“Technically, he kissed you,” Tikki offered unhelpfully.

He groaned, muffled by the pillow in his face. “It’s just as bad. I was already going to kiss him, he just got there first.”

“Why is it bad? You spend a lot of time with him. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t like him.”

He sighed, rolling over onto his back. “As friends. If I liked him like that, Ladybug would have kissed him ages ago. And besides, I know what it’s like to like someone. I’ve felt like that with Clay forever. How I feel about Chat Noir is like… the opposite.”

“You the-opposite-of-like him?” Tikki sounded skeptical. “What does that mean?”

“When you really like someone—like when I’m with Clay—your heart pounds, right? And you get all nervous and uncomfortable and tongue-tied. But when I’m with Chat Noir, I’m not tongue-tied at all; talking to him is the easiest thing in the world. And he doesn’t make my heart race, or skip a beat. He… slows it down, I guess. So, I dunno. I couldn’t possibly like him.”

“If you don’t like him, why did you kiss him?” Tikki asked.

George groaned. “I don’t know, okay? He was just right there and I really, really wanted to.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to erase the mental picture of Chat Noir’s lips. “This is a disaster. I was just going to get to know Chat Noir. I wasn’t supposed to kiss him, and I definitely wasn’t supposed to like it.”

“Want to know what I think?” Tikki asked. “I think you don’t like Clay.”

George sat up in his bed, crossing his arms. “How could you possibly tell me how I feel? I know how I feel. I’ve liked Clay for years.”

It wasn’t in Tikki’s nature to ever argue with George, so he was surprised when she shot back, “Do you? I don’t think you like him. I think you like his shiny hair, and maybe one or two of his swimsuit modeling campaigns. But have you ever spoken to him? Really spoken to him?”

George’s retort got stuck in his throat. Have I?

“And,” Tikki continued matter-of-factly, logical as ever, “if Chat Noir is easy to talk to, and calms you down, isn’t that a good thing?”

“Well…” he considered it. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“I wouldn’t rule him out as a possibility just because you’re comfortable and happy around him. I don’t know how you feel, but to me, it seems like that’s what liking someone is.”

George didn’t know what to say. Was it possible that he could like Chat Noir after all?

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” Tikki added quickly. “All of this is for you to decide. But you do have that date with Clay tonight, so that might factor into your decision.”

George paled. “That’s tonight? Oh God, I can’t do this.”

“Want a distraction?” Tikki asked.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

“Great! How about that one?” And she pointed out the window, where he could see strange-colored waves emanating from a building a few streets over. An akumatized villain, no doubt.

“Yeah, that works. Tikki, spots on!”

.   .   .

“This is fine,” he told himself as he leapt from roof to roof. “You’re just gonna see Chat Noir, de-evilize some akumas, just a normal day on the job.” It occurred to him that maybe this was a good thing. Maybe he could use this as an opportunity to see where Chat Noir’s head was at, do a little bit of sleuthing. “What am I even gonna say to him?” Ladybug wondered out loud. “‘Hey there partner, kiss any boys lately? By the way, how do you know if you like someone?’ Yeah, that’ll definitely have him spilling his deepest, darkest secrets.”

Head in the game, he chastised himself. Maybe this could be a good chance to gauge his partner’s reaction to the kiss, but they had a job to do first.

He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, and his heart leapt into his throat. Golden curls shone in the morning light and muscles rippled under black leather as Chat Noir bounded across the rooftops a few streets away. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.  I’m in Ladybug Mode now. It’s go time.

Chapter Text

Chat Noir was an idiot.

He couldn’t believe he had kissed George. He’d actually kissed him. He had given into his selfish impulses, read the signals wrong in the heat of the moment. He had jeopardized their entire friendship, and for what? One kiss? (To be fair, it was an excellent kiss. But still.) He had no idea what was going to happen to their friendship. Could it ever go back to normal? Would George ever forgive him?

He wasn’t sure if he even deserved George’s forgiveness. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, George had said, only a week ago. After that awful night, the two of them had grown so close. He’d truly, fully earned George’s trust. And he took advantage of that—took advantage of George. He felt sick.

And sure, it hurt to be rejected. It was hard to think about the way George had practically leapt off of him, or the way he’d said he was seeing someone. Someone who wasn’t him. Someone George would teach how to sew, and take to the movies, and fall in love with. And why hadn’t George told him? He’d thought that they were close enough for George to tell him these things, but obviously he was wrong. What else was George hiding? Didn’t he trust him?

But all of that was nothing compared to the guilt he felt for betraying his closest friend. He’d completely disregarded George’s feelings to satisfy his own, and it just might have cost him their friendship.

That’s why Chat Noir couldn’t—wouldn’t—go home that night. Instead, he roamed the city for hours, trying to go fast enough to escape his thoughts. His aching legs and the burn in his lungs only made things worse, reminding him of the night he’d spent searching the city for George. He didn’t even notice when the first rays of sunlight shone across the Parisian rooftops, just kept running and jumping from building to building, only stopping when the first strange, neon wave rippled through the air, bringing along with it an eerie, warbling tune.

There was only one thing that could cause a disturbance like that—an akuma attack. But he was almost relieved. Maybe a good fight would pull him out of his head a little, give him some clarity. Spending time with Ladybug almost always made him feel better about things.

He headed in the direction the waves seemed to be coming from, finding a high rooftop with a good vantage point from which he could easily scope out the area.

From the slanted rooftop where he stood, he could see a young boy standing in the middle of the road, hands on his hips and foot resting on a music box on the ground. The morning traffic had come to a halt around him, drivers looking worried and confused behind their steering wheels. Chat Noir surveyed the situation, looking for any injuries. Strangely, the boy didn’t seem to have harmed anyone yet. Were the waves just to get his and Ladybug’s attention?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because a moment later the boy glanced up and saw him on the rooftop. His face was taken over by a self-satisfied grin, and he reached down and clicked a few buttons on his music box, shutting the strange music off. He held eye contact with Chat Noir, crossing his arms expectantly.

In the silence, he heard a pair of boots touch down gently on the roof tiles behind him. “Morning, Ladybug,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Morning, Chat Noir.” The spotted hero flashed him a smile in greeting. Was it just his imagination, or was the smile a little shakier than usual?

Just as Chat Noir was about to ask Ladybug if he was alright, his attention was pulled away by a figure below dashing out of one of the buildings. The man—the little boy’s father, maybe?—began to speak. “Thomas, please. Is getting up in the morning really so horrible? Come on, we’ve got things to do.”

“There is no more ‘Thomas,’” the boy snarled, stomping his bare foot on the cobblestones. “I’m TommyInnit, and I say that it will never be time to wake up again!”

TommyInnit pulled two music disks out of the pockets of his pajamas. (How they had fit in there in the first place, Chat Noir wasn’t sure.) He set aside the first one, which was decorated with green in its center, and placed the second, a black disc with red poppies, in his music box.

Poppies… Chat Noir distantly recognized the flower from a few weeks ago, when he and George had watched The Wizard of Oz together. The gears in his head began to turn. They walk through the poppy field, and then… oh no.

“Well, not for you, at least,” TommyInnit announced, reaching down once again towards his music box.

Realization hit him like a truck. Tommy was going to use the disc to put everyone in the city to sleep. He whirled around, needing to warn his partner. “Ladybug– His music– Cover your ears!”

He clapped his hands over his ears, and thankfully, Ladybug did the same.

His hands were clasped tight over his ears, but he heard the faintest whisper of a melody and his vision swam. Suddenly dizzy, Chat Noir began to sway. His eyelids got heavier and heavier, and the last thing he saw before his knees buckled and everything went sideways was Ladybug’s wide, panicked eyes. As he hit the ground, one of his hands was jolted out of place, and the enchanting music filled his ears completely. He tried desperately to stay awake, not wanting to leave Ladybug to save the city all on his own, but despite his best efforts, the pull of sleep overtook him.

.   .   .

“Chat Noir, wake up! Are you okay?”

“Wha-huh?” He groaned and put a hand to his throbbing head. His face was pressed against the rough tile of the roof, and his other arm was twisted awkwardly underneath him. He blinked his eyes open and pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Are you okay?” Ladybug repeated.

He nodded automatically, ignoring the way his head pounded. “I’m fine. What happened?” Even as he said it, the events of that morning came flooding back. Oh. He had tried to block out the music, but his super-hearing had picked it up anyway. And with his sleepless night, it hadn’t taken much to send him off to peaceful oblivion. “Oh, man. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I took care of the akuma, no big deal.”

His face burned. First he had wrecked his friendship with George, and now he had left Ladybug to protect the city on his own? He needed to get out of there. He was disappointing Ladybug now, and he knew he would disappoint Ladybug again on their date that night. He didn’t know how Ladybug would react to him breaking things off, but he couldn’t lead the hero on. Kiss or no kiss, anything he still felt for the superhero was overshadowed by his feelings for George. It wouldn’t be fair to Ladybug or to himself if he didn’t stop this, whatever it was, as soon as possible.

 He wouldn’t be able to face that without getting some more sleep.

“I’m gonna go,” he muttered, pulling out his staff. “I just– I had a rough night. I’m sorry.”

“Wait! Maybe you’d feel better if you told me about your night–” Ladybug started, but Chat Noir was already springing away, getting out of sight before he humiliated himself any more.

.   .   .

At six fifty-eight, Clay stepped out onto his balcony to wait for Ladybug. He was feeling much better than he had that morning, but even a steaming hot shower and a long nap couldn’t stop the way his stomach churned with nerves. He tugged uncomfortably on his sleeves. Would Ladybug think he was overdressed? He was beginning to reevaluate his crisp white shirt and dark slacks when he heard a soft thud behind him. He turned around.

“Hi,” Ladybug said, shuffling his feet a little awkwardly. The discomfort on his face was doing nothing to ease Clay’s nerves.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“So, um, I was thinking, if you wanted, maybe we could go to the top of the Eiffel tower? It’s closed right now, so there’s nobody else up there.”

Clay blinked. “Yeah. That… sounds great.” Snap out of it, he told himself. Enjoy this one date with your celebrity crush at the most exclusive, romantic spot in Paris. Then talk to him.

“Great,” Ladybug parrotted. “Is it okay if I…” he trailed off, gesturing weakly, “yo-yo us there?”

Clay nodded, trying not to feel completely weird as Ladybug wrapped an arm around his waist and carried him across the city to the Eiffel tower. Sure, he was used to the way superheroes traveled—he did it every day as Chat Noir—but it was strange to move like this without being in control of it.

The top of the Eiffel tower was lit by the setting sun and the soft glow of hundreds of fairy lights. There was a small blanket on the ground, complete with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Did you do all this?” Clay asked.

Ladybug flushed scarlet. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t know they were going to either. I just asked if I could use the top deck for the evening.” He made a face. “This is embarrassing. I… I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah. I need to talk to you too.” Clay moved towards the little picnic. “But we may as well sit down first.”

They sat down, cross-legged on the blanket. Neither of them reached for the champagne.

“I have to tell you something.” The superhero nervously picked at the frayed edge of the blanket.

Clay let out a shaky breath. “Okay.” He wasn’t exactly sure what Ladybug was about to say. He was expecting something along the lines of I decided I don’t want to do this, or I’m actually straight, surprise! or possibly even it’s not you, it’s me, but he never could have predicted what Ladybug actually had to say.

“I kissed somebody else.”

“You… what?” Through the surprise, a little part of Clay wondered if Ladybug’s kiss had gone anything like his, if whoever the hero had kissed had pushed him off and rejected him. Clay felt the sting of it all over again, but he was brought back to reality when Ladybug continued.

“I know, we haven’t really talked about if we’re ‘dating’ or ‘exclusive’ or whatever, but if I’m honest, it doesn’t really feel fair to you if I have something going on with someone else.” Ladybug was still watching his hand pick at the loose threads, not meeting Clay’s eyes. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea with my secret identity and all–”

“I get it.”

Ladybug finally looked up. “You do?”

“I do. I think I might have some unresolved–” he swallowed. “...feelings for somebody else. It’s not fair for either of us if we both have other stuff going on, right?”

Ladybug chuckled, though it sounded almost like a sigh of relief. “I was worried you might be angry with me. But it sounds like we both need some of this.” He reached for the bottle of champagne. “Friends?”

Clay smiled back. “Friends.” He helped Ladybug open the bottle, and as the hero was pouring a little into each of their glasses, he asked casually, “Want to talk about it? Since we’re friends and all now?”

“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt.” Ladybug passed him the champagne glass, taking a sip of his own. “It’s almost funny. It was actually my partner, Chat Noir.”

Clay froze. What? Why would Ladybug lie to him? The only person Chat Noir had kissed recently had been George. He certainly hadn’t kissed Ladybug… right?

Oblivious, Ladybug went on, “He… kissed me last night, and I don’t even know if he wanted to or if it was, like, a heat-of-the-moment thing, but I pushed him away because it wasn’t fair to you, and I was gonna try and talk to him and figure stuff out when there was an akuma this morning, but then he got knocked out so I never could. And now I…. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“George?!”

Ladybug paled. “No – how did you– what?”

“You’re… George,” Clay managed. What were the odds that his superhero partner would be the boy he’d spent every spare minute of the last few months with? It was almost funny. Except, it wasn’t funny. It really, really, wasn’t. “Oh, my God, you’re George. You’re George. You’re literally George.” Clay struggled to his feet, stumbling backwards. “You’ve– This whole time– It’s always been you?”

Every time he had gone to George’s house, every time he had sat with the boy or played video games or just talked, he had been with Ladybug. And, even more unfathomably, every time he had saved the city, every time he had been rejected, every time he had put his life in his partner’s hands, it had been George.

He tried to imagine Ladybug losing at Mario Kart, Ladybug half-asleep on the sofa, Ladybug confessing his worries, but he couldn’t picture that any more than he could picture George being the businesslike superhero who had been keeping the city in one piece for years.

“Clay,” Ladybug (George?) pleaded, rising to his feet and backing away from where Clay stood. “You can’t tell anyone. You can’t. Oh, I can’t believe Chat Noir told you about the kiss. I can’t believe I told you about it.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you hang out with all the superheroes? Were you just trying to find out my secret identity?”

“No! No—I swear. I didn’t mean to find out this way. I’m such an idiot.” Humiliation burned in his chest when he thought about the way he had kissed George, ruining the only true friendship they had been able to have. His stupid crush on Ladybug had always gotten in the way of their partnership, and then he’d gone and fallen for George too. George was probably exhausted from having to constantly reject Chat Noir all the time, now in both of his identities. He laughed a little ruefully as he realized that now, with George as Ladybug basically dumping him at the top of the Eiffel tower, he had been rejected by the other boy in every possible combination. 

He ran through the four situations in his head. All he’d ever gotten from Ladybug was rejection—countless times as Chat Noir, and now as Clay too, here on the top of the Eiffel tower. George was the same: avoiding Clay at school, and practically leaping off of Chat Noir when he’d tried to kiss him…. Oh God, George and that stupid kiss. That one was the worst of them all. Though Clay had always admired Ladybug, it was George he’d gotten close to. He’d spent countless hours with George, playing video games, sewing together, going to the movies. George was his favorite part of every day, the center of his world, and now he’d ruined all four of his chances with him.

He really should have been able to work it out. For weeks he had been constantly getting whiplash trying to connect the sassy, funny George he saw as Chat Noir with the cold, closed-off boy he had been unable to crack as Clay. If George was already pretty much two different people, it shouldn’t have been surprising that he was hiding even more identities. Maybe he was Chat Noir, too. No, wait. George couldn’t be Chat Noir, because Clay was Chat Noir. Dumbass.

He shook himself back into the present, where Ladybug had his head in his hands, muttering to himself.

“I don’t even know how to respond to this,” the hero said helplessly. “I’ve never– you’re the only person who’s ever found out. Please don’t tell Chat Noir.”

“Listen, I’m not gonna tell anyone, I swear.” 

“How do I even know I can trust you? How did you even find out about me and Chat Noir? Did he tell you?”

“Not exactly. It’s, uh…” Clay ran both his hands through his hair, at a loss for words. “It’s a long story.”

Ladybug raised an eyebrow, and Clay felt a pang in his chest as he was reminded of all the times George had given Chat Noir that look, feigning disapproval. But he knew the boy wasn’t feigning anything when he said, “I’ve got time.”

Clay opened his mouth and it all poured out. “I didn’t mean to, okay? You just were such an enigma, and you would always ignore me at school. And when I saw you in the alley, I just had to know more and then one thing led to another, and I couldn’t step away, and I wasn’t gonna come back but then I did, and then you were at that show and I asked you out, but obviously I didn’t know it was you you, and I know I never should have been in either of those situations because I knew better, you taught me to be more careful than that, but it just all happened so fast, and–”

“Wait, slow down. I’m not following you.”

Clay squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all, but now that it was, he couldn’t think of any way to stop it. He just had to take the plunge. Even if it made George hate him. Even if it ruined every last way he could have him. “Um.” He steeled himself. “Plagg, claws out.” He transformed into his alter-ego in a flash of light.

Ladybug looked like he had been punched.

“God, George, I’m so fucking sorry. For everything. Everything I did as Clay, and as Chat Noir, and when you were Ladybug, and when you were George. Everything.” Chat Noir looked his partner in the eyes. “It’s all such a mess. God, you’d think I could take a hint after the first three ways you rejected me, but. Here we are!” He let out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I was always chasing after you as Ladybug, because, well,” he gestured weakly in Ladybug’s general direction, “but I never knew you were into guys. And then when I found out you weren’t straight, I asked you out as Clay, but I was so used to only getting ‘no’s from you that I didn’t think you’d say yes!”

He half-laughed, half-sniffled, not sure when his eyes had gotten watery. “And I was so smitten, I thought all my dreams had come true, but I was starting to get close with George, cause he—well, you—had always avoided me at school, and when I got the chance, I just couldn’t help it. I wanted to know you so bad, and it worked and you’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had, but,” he stopped trying to hold it back, finally just letting the tears fall in earnest, “then I had to go and mess it all up by falling in love with you. Again.”

Ladybug— George —stared at him, still not saying a word.

“And I’m just so sorry, George,” Chat Noir finished. “You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of this shit.”

“Falling in…” George was breathless with disbelief. “You have feelings for… me?”

Chat Noir laughed through his tears. “Of course I do, you idiot. Turns out no matter who you are, no matter who I am, I love you.”

George’s face kind of crumpled, and he looked away, pressing a hand to his chest. “This is all just a lot to process.” His voice was tight.

“I know. I’m sorry. But I’m still your friend… if you want?” Please tell me you want me. Chat Noir wished George would look at him; wished he could read the other boy’s emotions.

George crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to be your friend, Chat Noir. Or Clay. Whichever you are.” His voice was cold, closed off, until Chat Noir could no longer see traces of George in the superhero.

His heart plummeted. “Oh.”

“I’m angry with both of you,” George (Ladybug? George?) continued. “You’ve been a real arse, you know that? Asking out one guy and then kissing another. Did you know that the day that Clay—that you— asked me out was a dream come true? I used to sit behind you in class and just stare at you. I risked my superhero identity just to go out with you.”

Clay was stunned into silence. George had liked him, Clay , the whole time?

Luckily, George had enough to say for both of them. “Then, you swoop in with your hero complex and your superpowers and earn my trust, become part of my life, become the best friend I’ve ever had…. And then you completely blindside me with this ridiculous, idiotic, spectacular kiss, right before you have a date with someone else. Someone who, oh yeah, is also me. Do you know what you put me through today? This morning I had to decide if I was more in love with Clay or Chat Noir, and prepare a whole way to let you down easy, so I could be with the other you instead!” He was panting when he finished, breathless with indignant fury.

Slowly but surely, the meaning of George’s words started to sink in. Clay smiled, wiping his tears away. “I feel like you’re not that mad at me.”

“Stop it! Why are you walking towards me? Just because I’m in love with you doesn’t mean I don’t also completely hate you.” George’s feet betrayed him by taking a step forward, meeting Chat Noir in the middle.

“George.” He leaned down and brushed a soft kiss across his lips. “I’m sorry for being an idiot.”

George opened his eyes and groaned melodramatically. “Okay, fine, I forgive you.”

He laughed. “That easy?”

“Well, I don’t know. I might need a few more kisses before I’m completely convinced.” George was giving him those fucking doe eyes, the ones that he loved, and he felt like his heart was going to explode. “And I can’t be that angry that you’re the cause of all my problems if you’re the solution, too.”

“Let’s get out of here.” He froze. “Wait, not in that way. It’s just– we’re both in our disguises, so–”

George recoiled in mock-horror. “Not in that way? Do I need to be trying harder to impress you? Do I need to use some pick-up lines?” He batted his eyelashes. “Hey there, handsome. Want to take this back to my place? I’ve got the new Mario Kart….”

Clay burst out laughing. “Is that the one that gets you all the guys?”

“Well, it worked on you, didn’t it?” 

He stopped laughing abruptly. “Well– I wouldn’t say– To be fair–” he spluttered, then sighed and hung his head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Told you I didn’t need the wingman-services of Jean-Francois,” George joked.

Clay could see the moment they both remembered what had happened after that. Jean-Francois’s trench coat on the floor. George in his lap, on the sofa. George’s lips, on his. He locked eyes with George. 

“Wanna go home?” They asked at the same time.

They took the bottle of champagne with them.

.   .   . 

When they climbed in through the trapdoor a few minutes later, excitement had given way to awkwardness, and Chat Noir found himself just standing, looking at Ladybug.

“So… what are we meant to do now?” Ladybug asked, tilting his head. He was doing that thing that George always did with his hands when he was nervous, and Chat Noir was frozen in place by the subtle glimpse of similarity.

He swallowed. “We should… transform back?”

“Yeah, we should. Go ahead.”

“Wha– me? No, you do it first.” Chat Noir wasn’t sure why he was feeling so shy, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet the other boy’s eyes.

Ladybug sighed. “Fine. You’re such a baby. Spots off.” The disguise melted away, and there was George, standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants like he had never been Ladybug. Chat Noir’s heart stopped. He felt that familiar ache in his chest, so enamored by the boy in front of him that he could barely stand it. He knew he was staring, but couldn't seem to stop.

“You really are George.” Sure, he had known it, but there was a difference between knowing something was true and seeing actual physical proof of it. Something about seeing him switch between his two identities helped connect them in Chat Noir’s mind. Somehow, George and Ladybug were one and the same.

George, surprisingly, didn’t make fun of him. He just smiled gently, understandingly. “That’s me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chat Noir spotted the reflection of the two of them in George’s closet mirror. “Hey, look–” he pointed until George’s reflection followed his gaze– “It’s us. Just you and me. George and Chat Noir. We’re, like, the original ‘George’s room’ duo. Let’s play Mario or something.”

Now his friend laughed at him. “You know we’re the same people, right? Quit stalling.” His smile turned cheeky. “I promise I’ll still be in love with you, even without the supersuit.”

In love. Chat Noir was half sure he was dreaming, about to wake up any second now. He sucked in a shaky breath. “Claws in.”

George watched his disguise melt away. His eyes widened, raking up and down Clay’s form, taking in his tanned arms and long legs, and finally meeting his gaze. Even though he was fully clothed, still wearing his nice outfit from the date earlier, Clay felt more exposed than ever.

He smiled, suddenly bashful for some reason. “Hi.”

George offered a tentative grin back. “Hey,” he whispered. “I’m George.” He stuck a hand out for Clay to shake, and the awkward gesture reminded him that it was just him and his friend, and as they shook hands, he felt some of his confidence slowly return.

“Nice to meet you, George. I’m Clay. Please love me.”

“Wow, Clay, that’s a big ask. Hm…” George pretended to think about it. “Alright, I suppose that could be arranged.”

“Hey, wait. Was that the first actual exchange between us? Just you and me, Clay and George?” He frowned. “I always thought you hated me. You would never talk to me, or look at me.” His eyes stung as he remembered all the times George had brushed him off at school.

“Oh.” George looked down at the ground. “That’s… I didn’t mean for you to think that. You just made me so nervous that I couldn’t string two words together when you were around. I could barely look at you without losing my train of thought.”

Clay was floored. “That’s why?” He suddenly, inexplicably, started to laugh. “George, you idiot. I wanted to be your friend! You got along so well with Alya and Nino and completely ignored me. You hurt my feelings, you jerk.”

George scoffed. “It’s not my fault you’re so gorgeous it hurts my eyes.”

Gorgeous? Clay was sure he must be hallucinating. He replied, a little more breathlessly than he would have liked, “You’re fine looking at me now.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because now I know that you’re just an idiot. You might still have a nice face, but now that I’ve found out how smelly and annoying you are, I’m totally over you. You’re old news.”

“Aw, George. You think I have a nice face?”

George scoffed. “Don’t get too cocky. Remember, just this morning I was planning to dump your stupid face.”

“I feel like that’s not a bad thing,” Clay said. “After all, you dumped me so you could date the other me. Technically, you just admitted that my personality is even better than my looks. And I’m a model.”

“Oh yeah?” George retorted. “Technically, you just cried and begged me to date you at the top of the Eiffel tower.”

“What? I– You can’t– I did not.”

George smirked. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. After all, I am in love with you.”

Oh. Clay didn’t know if he’d ever get used to those words. But instead of kissing George like he wanted to, he twisted his face into a horrified expression. “Whoa, whoa, back up,” he said.

“Huh?” George’s face dropped, and Clay felt a tiny bit guilty. But only a tiny bit. 

“I have a beautiful girlfriend,” he said. “Bozo.”

George immediately groaned, shoving at his chest. “Oh my God, you scared me. You are such an idiot.” Even in irritation, the statement was so painfully fond that it felt more like another love confession.

“Well, you’re a simp,” he teased through the lump in his throat, stepping forward and letting his hands fall loosely around George’s waist.

“Guilty as charged,” George’s eyes were already fixed on Clay’s lips as his hands snaked up the back of his neck to tangle in his hair.

Clay nervously licked his lips, feeling adrenaline spike in the pit of his stomach as George’s eyes followed the movement. “I love your hair.” He smiled, meeting George’s eyes. “Did I ever tell you that? It always smells so good. Like strawberries. Do you know what a cliche that is? To smell like strawberries? I never knew what a walking cliche you are, but–”

“Clay, can you please just shut up already and kiss me?”

“Yeah, okay.” He leaned down and met George halfway and oh God, it was just how he remembered. It was everything he had been wanting and more. Because George smelled like strawberries, and George had a fistful of his shirt, and George was kissing him, and George loved him. Warmth flooded his chest, and then he had to pull back because he was smiling too much to kiss properly.

“Hi,” was all he could say.

George huffed. “You dork. Quit grinning like that.”

Clay only smiled wider. “But I’m happy.” He leaned in and kissed George again before taking a step back and grabbing a bottle off George’s desk. “Wanna drink this champagne now?”

“Okay,” George conceded. “Let’s go get glasses from downstairs. You can come with me this time, since you’re Clay now.” Now they were both grinning like idiots.

When they got downstairs, George’s dad was standing at the counter, jotting notes in a tattered cookbook. He looked up in surprise. “Clay! I didn’t know you were friends with my son.”

“Hey, Mr. Davidson.” Clay pretended not to notice the way George was staring at him in shock. “I am! It’s sort of a new thing. We’ve been in the same class all year, but we only just got to know each other recently.”

“Dad? Clay?” George had the most adorably baffled expression on his face. “You two know each other?”

“Oh yeah!” George’s dad beamed, clapping Clay on the shoulder. “This guy comes in the boulangerie all the time. Can’t get enough of my pain au chocolat, can you? Just like my George.”

Clay laughed. “What can I say? It’s too good.” He delighted in how off-balance George looked, completely taken aback by their easy familiarity. “Right, George?”

George didn’t respond, too busy looking back and forth between Clay and his father uncomprehendingly.

Mr. Davidson didn’t seem to notice. “I actually just made a tester batch. I’m amending my recipe a little. Do you boys want to take a couple up with you, and you can let me know what you think?”

George perked up, seemingly recovered from his surprise. “Sure! Thanks, Dad!” He dug in the cupboard and pulled out two champagne glasses as his dad heaped a few pastries onto a plate and handed them off to Clay.

“Have fun! Don’t stay up too late!” He yelled after them as they headed up the stairs.

They set up a picnic on the roof, warm pastries and cold champagne in the cool night air, illuminated by the soft glow of a lantern beside them. They brought blankets up from George’s room, and laid them out on the rooftop. The entire time they were setting it up, Clay could feel George’s questioning eyes on him. It was only when they finally sat down and he bit into a pain au chocolat that the questions finally came spilling out around a mouthful of pastry.

“Why do you know my dad?” George’s eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

“George. I literally brought you your dad’s pastries, like, five times a week. Where did you think I was getting them?”

“Well, I thought you just walked in! Why would you transform first?”

Clay doubled over laughing at his stupid, adorable (friend? boyfriend?). “What, you thought I was just going in as Chat Noir, and being like, ‘One pain au choc, please. By the way, have you seen any supervillains around?’”

“I don’t know!” George hid his blush in his hands, but Clay could still see the tips of two very red ears. “I can’t believe you’re like, friends with my dad.”

He smirked. “More than friends. You know, just last night–”

“Stop it. You can’t make those jokes about my dad when you actually know him.”

“George, it isn’t my fault that your dad is a total DILF. Come on, pour the champagne.” He shuffled his legs into criss-cross, and George mirrored his movements.

George did, and they clinked their glasses together before they each took a sip. For a few minutes, they just drank and watched each other, making full use of the opportunity to stare at one another.

“Clay, you have freckles,” George marveled. He leaned forward and reached over, his smooth thumb tracing a tingly path across Clay’s cheek. “How did I never know you had freckles?”

“They edit them out of all my shoots. They’re embarrassing.”

“They’re cute,” George said. “You’re cute.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” Clay mumbled, face burning.

“You’re so shy,” George teased, taking his hand away. “I can’t believe this. You’ve been dishing it out all this time, and now you can’t take it.”

“Well I didn’t know I liked you for most of that time.”

“When did you first start liking me?” George scooted forward until their knees touched.

Clay indulged him. “I admitted it to myself the night we remade your dress for the competition. Right after you got…”

“Oh.”

“But it definitely started earlier than that. I was a little fascinated by you at school, because I thought you were avoiding me.” He set his champagne down and leaned forward again. Their faces were barely a foot apart. “That’s why I…” he gestured vaguely, not even sure what he meant.

“Followed me home and seduced me as Chat Noir?” George teased.

Clay rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “George. As for the feelings, I’m not even sure when it started for me. Remember… remember the first night, after we played Mario Kart, and you asked me to come back sometime?”

George nodded, looking down shyly.

His hands found their way into George’s hair, brushing it back from his face, and the boy met his earnest gaze. “You looked so damn cute in that moment, in the moonlight. I remember sitting in class, replaying your stupid face in my mind, trying not to turn around and look at you.”

“You’re so obsessed with me.” George broke their eye contact and buried his face in Clay’s neck. Clay couldn’t tell if it was because he was feeling shy, or just to be close. Either way, he wrapped his arms around him, giddy with excitement and affection and just a tiny bit of champagne. He could feel George straining to lean over their crossed legs, so he gently pulled him up, guiding him forward until he rested on Clay’s lap, arms and legs wrapping around him. Their chests were pressed together now, and he had to fight back a shiver at the intimacy of feeling George’s chest rise and fall like this.

“And the first time I wanted to kiss you,” he continued, murmuring into George’s ear now, “was the day we played Truth or Dare. That guy called you a bozo, and we were losing it, and then we stopped losing it and we were so close together. I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop looking at your lips that day. I thought you were going to notice and kick me out.”

George just hummed contentedly, still wrapped up in his arms. He thought he was going to melt into a pile of mush, right there on the roof. Simp, a voice in the back of his mind said. But he couldn’t bring himself to care when the boy he loved was warm and real in his arms. Emotion swelled in his chest.

“Hi,” he said, and it was so, so soft.

“You keep saying that,” George said. Clay felt it against his neck. “I feel like you mean something else.”

He wasn’t even sure what he meant. I love you. You’re beautiful. Please kiss me again. He pressed his lips to the side of George’s head—to his ridiculous, cliched, strawberry-scented hair—in lieu of an answer.

Eventually, George climbed off his lap, and they sat in easy, comfortable silence, sipping champagne and eating pastries. When they finished their food, they moved closer together, soaking in each other’s body heat as a slight chill settled in. They ended up sitting curled-up, huddled together under a blanket as they leaned against the chimney, just quietly enjoying each other’s company. Then, George spoke.

“Y’know, last night was the first time I ever thought about kissing you.”

Clay barked out a laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“No– Well– That came out wrong,” George blushed. “I’m sure I wanted to at other times, that was just the first time I realized I did. It came out of nowhere. It was kind of an ‘oh’ moment for me.” He smiled. “I was about half a second away from kissing you myself, but you beat me to it.”

“How about now?” Clay turned to half-face George in their little blanket fort.

“How about now what?”

Clay’s voice was teasing. “Do you want to kiss me now?”

George scoffed. “No.” He looked away, a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

“You sure?”

“I’m positive.” But George was already turning around and leaning in, angling his head up to meet Clay’s, and who could deny him? He tasted like champagne and chocolate and young love, and Clay sighed into the kiss, reveling in the way it was deliciously foreign yet somehow completely familiar. George’s fingers curled into his hair, pulling him down, and they started kissing in earnest.

Clay was a little light-headed, and he wasn’t sure if it was the champagne, the lack of air, the unrelenting rhythm of George’s lips, or the little sounds the boy was making under him. George’s lips grew hot and demanding, and Clay deepened the kiss, licking into George’s mouth and delighting in the way George’s fingers twisted more in his hair, holding him tighter. Desire sparked in his chest, terrifying in its intensity, and Clay fought the urge to kiss harder, deeper. There would be time for that later. After all, they had their whole lives ahead of them.

When they pulled apart for air, Clay took the opportunity to trace a line of kisses down the side of George’s jaw. “Holy shit, Clay,” George panted. “We could have been doing that the whole time?”

He laughed into George’s neck, and the fingers in his hair tugged him back up until lips met lips again, and again, and again.

Some time later, George’s phone chimed, pulling them out of the moment. “It’s midnight,” he informed Clay.

“Huh?” Clay’s brain was lagging a little behind, still stuck on the part where he and George kind of made out (!!). 

“It’s already tomorrow.” George pulled his phone from his pocket and showed him the date on his lock screen.

“June 1st,” Clay read. The realization dawned on him. “Wait, it’s June? It’s Pride Month!”

“Oh yeah, it’s Pride Month.”

“George, it’s Pride Month!” He beamed. “It’s Pride Month!”

George giggled, always willing to celebrate the most ridiculous things with him. “It became Pride Month while we were kissing! We made Pride Month happen!”

He was laughing, and then Clay was laughing, and then somehow they were kissing again, dizzy with the joy of it all.

Chapter Text

It was Monday morning, and George was late. Again. He sprinted up the steps and burst into the classroom, panting. “Sorry I’m–”

“Whoa!” A perfectly-manicured hand shot out to stop him. With an exasperated huff, Chloe pulled her backpack out of his path. “Watch where you’re going, Davidson. You could have tripped.”

“Oh. Thanks.” The words were spoken harshly, but George was oddly touched. He turned back to Miss Bustier. “Sorry I’m late.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s almost the end of the year, George. Can’t you be on time at least once before summer break?”

He ducked his head and scurried to his seat. “Hi,” he whispered to Alya.

“Hey,” she whispered back. “Where the honk have you been all weekend? You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I’m sorry. I have big news for you. So you know how I signed up for that dress comp–”

“Excusez-moi, classe, just because it’s June doesn’t mean we don’t have to pay attention,” Miss Bustier said pointedly.

“I’ll tell you later,” George assured her under his breath, turning to face forward.

“You better.”

George still liked the view from his seat. He still got the urge, every once in a while, to lean over his desk so he could reach out and feel Clay’s silky blond hair. But today he had something a little more important to stare at for the entirety of the class: his email.

He kept his phone open on his desk, half-hidden behind his hand as he refreshed his email over, and over, and over again. They said they would get back to me today, he texted his boyfriend, kicking the back of his chair in frustration.

He was seconds from turning off his phone and trying to forget about it when the loading sign slowed down for a second to reveal a new message in his inbox. He read it quickly, drumming his fingertips on his desk in excitement.

Dear Mr. Davidson, we’re pleased to inform you that you are one of twenty-five finalists that have been selected to attend next weekend’s awards presentation.

He sent a screenshot to Clay, watching the back of his head intently for a reaction.

Clay texted back immediately. oh my god, i KNEW IT!! i’m so proud <33 any chance you’re in the market for a plus one?? i might know a guy…

George stifled a laugh, and he could see Clay shift in his seat, biting his hand to muffle his own amusement. I dunno. The thing is, I only date models. (Or superheroes. I’m not picky.)

call me crazy, but i think i’ve found the PERFECT plus one for you.

Perfect?? Sounds unrealistic, I need proof, George shot back. Then: It’s you, right?

of course it’s me, george. it’s always been me <3

Okay, maybe he was perfect after all. Unfortunately, it was a little hard to focus on their conversation with Alya’s eyes burning into his head. He had planned on telling her about the whole boyfriend thing before class, but then he was late, and had spent the whole period anxiously refreshing his email and trading flirty texts with Clay. Oh, she was going to  interrogate him after class, he just knew it. He hadn’t thought she would appreciate much if he broke the news over text, but now he was regretting waiting so long.

When the bell rang, he scurried to make his escape. But his foot caught on his chair leg and he lost his balance in an all-too-familiar sequence of events.

This time, when strong, tanned arms caught him, he felt nothing but happiness. “Oh, hey there, cutie,” he giggled, laughter coming out easily after a class spent holding it in.

“What– George, has this been a flirting technique of yours the whole time?” Clay scoffed. “Next time, I’m gonna drop you.” He loosened his hold, letting George slip just the tiniest bit.

“No!” George shrieked, clutching at his arm. “No, don’t, you idiot. Stop it!”

Clay chuckled as he set him upright, leaving George in awe at the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and the softness of his cheeks. I love you, he thought. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” he said, pulling George out of his thoughts.

“That is such bull–” he cut off abruptly as Clay leaned down and pressed the tiniest kiss to his cheek. “Oh.”

Clay laughed again. “Oh,” he mimicked. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Good thing I’m your idiot.”

“George, I–”

“A-hem.”

At the sound of someone clearing their throat, they both froze, turning around.

“Oh… hey, Alya,” George said lightly. “Nice weather we’re having today, isn’t it?”

Alya stared. “Lunch,” she eventually said. “We’re having lunch together. All of us. Nino–” she grabbed the back of her boyfriend’s collar as he tried to leave the room– “you’re coming too.”

Clay grinned. George knew full well how excited he was to finally meet Alya properly—he’d been gushing about it for days. “Sounds good!” he chirped. “We’ll meet you out front!” And he grabbed George’s hand, practically dragging him to their next class, science.

“You’re way too happy about this,” George grumbled.

“Are you kidding? I get to talk to Alya, who probably knows all kinds of embarrassing things about you. I think we’re going to be the best of friends.”

George groaned. “What have I gotten myself into?”

.   .   .

He found Alya waiting on the steps after science. “George!” she said, a little too brightly. “How are you? What’s new in your life? Anything I should know?”

“Um, well–”

“Hey, guys.” Clay appeared out of nowhere, saving George’s ass like the superhero he was. George shot him a grateful smile. “Alya, have you seen Nino?”

“Um, no, I’m not sure where– Oh, there he is. I was just asking George–”

“Where should we go for lunch?” George interrupted. “There are some great sandwich stands around the Trocadero this time of year.”

“Fine by me,” Nino agreed, slinging an arm around Alya’s shoulders and using his other hand to adjust the white bandanna on his head.

As they walked towards the Trocadero, Clay slipped his hand into George’s. It was warm and smooth and George squeezed it, grabbing Clay’s arm to pull him closer. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hi,” Clay whispered back. “I missed you in science.”

“I was literally like, ten feet away from you.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t right behind me.”

George smirked. “You like me behind you, huh?”

“What?! George, you–”

“Can you two stop whispering and giggling?” Alya huffed. “We can hear you, you know.”

They stopped. But George still hung on to Clay’s hand for the whole rest of the walk.

They found a nice place on the steps, and Alya, George, and Clay sat down while Nino went to a cart to order. “So,” Alya said. “What’s going on?”

“Um….” George scratched his head. “Well, you see….” He looked at Clay helplessly. Sure, they had talked about how they were going to explain this, but talking about it and actually doing it were two very different things.

“I’m in love with George,” Clay announced. Well, that’s one way to do it.

“You’re what? ”

“Head over heels,” George confirmed cheerfully.

Alya leaned towards George, pulling him closer to whisper loudly in his ear. “Did you put some kind of evil spell on him or something?”

He laughed out loud. “Not as far as I know. He’s just so obsessed with me. It must be my stunning good looks. Or maybe my winning personality.”

“All of the above,” Clay agreed.

“This is just–” Alya rummaged around in her backpack and pulled out a bottle of black nail polish. “I’m so confused.” She unscrewed it and started furiously painting her nails. “You’re busy for weeks, then you’re being held hostage, then you’re back to being ridiculously busy, then you’re MIA all weekend, and now this?”

Nino came back with their bag of sandwiches.  “Okay, I have a ham and cheese baguette, a–”

Alya put the lid back on the bottle, only one hand painted, and grabbed his arm. “Nino. Did you know about this?” She gestured emphatically at Clay and George.

“Huh?”

“We’re dating,” George said, scooting closer to Clay and tucking himself into his side. Clay smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his head.

“Just, like, out of the blue! On a Monday morning!” Alya ran a hand down her face, and George couldn’t tell if she was thrilled, exhausted, furious, or some combination of the three. “Be honest, Nino. Did you know about this?”

“No, I swear. I–” He faltered, glancing at Clay. “Wait, is this– okay, like three weeks ago… were we talking about George?”

George perked up, watching a flush creep up his boyfriend’s neck. “...Maybe.”

He butted in, “Aw, babe, you talked to Nino about me? That’s so cute.” He whirled on Nino with a glint in his eye. “I wanna know what he said.”

Clay buried his face in his hands, but Nino ignored him. “Well, he said that he had liked you for years. Also, that you’re out of his league.”

“All true, all true,” George mused. “You know, that’s simp behavior, Clay. I can’t be dating a simp. You better clean up your act, you hear me?”

Clay saluted. “Yessir.”

“Wh– Years?” Alya looked like she was about to pass out. “And how long has this,” she waggled an accusing finger between the two of them, “been going on?”

Clay counted on his long, long fingers. (George was absolutely not thinking about Clay’s hands.) “I mean, we’ve been friends since, like… the end of February, maybe? Right, George?”

He hummed his agreement, and Alya leapt to her feet. “Wha– February? This has been going on for months?”

“Babe. Chill out.” Nino pulled her back down and handed her a sandwich, passing George and Clay theirs as well.

“Yeah, well, I had to win him over,” Clay said, taking a huge bite and continuing with his mouth full. “It took a while—he’s a tough nut to crack—but after all this time, he finally likes me back.”

George nodded solemnly. “Yeah, desperation wasn’t a good look on you, babe,” he said around a mouthful of food. “But eventually, I took pity on you and gave in.” He managed to keep a straight face, even when he turned and saw Alya’s flabbergasted expression.

Nino groaned. “Dude. Can someone please take pity on poor Alya and tell her what’s going on? The full story, from the beginning.”

“Okay, so, er….” George realized he wasn’t really sure where to start. He took another a bite of his sandwich to buy time, chewing slowly as they all stared. How could he explain the way they had become friends to Alya without revealing Clay’s identity? “Okay,” he said again, finally swallowing his mouthful, “you know that competition I told you about, like, months ago, with the dress?”

“Yeah, you’ve been working on that for ages, haven’t you? When’s the deadline?”

“Yeah, it was just last week, actually. I sort of heard back from them today. But that’s not the point. So, it was February, and I was shopping for fabric—for the competition—and I ran into Clay, and we kind of got to talking, and then he insisted on walking me home. And then we played Mario Kart for, like, the whole day.”

“I won,” Clay added helpfully. 

George jabbed a sharp elbow into his ribs. “Shut up, you’re so dumb.”

“I’m not dumb, you’re dumb.”

“Keep going,” Alya prompted. “I’m still not seeing how that turned into… whatever this is.”

“Then, er, he came over again, and again, and we just kept hanging out. Most afternoons, he would come over and we’d just sit together, or we’d play games, or he would watch me sew, or we’d both sew—because I, like, taught him and stuff. So, er, yeah.” He nodded.

“So… you were, like, close friends? And then what?”

George nodded again. “Yep. And then after I got kidnapped he took really good care of me, and we got even closer, and this past Friday it just kind of happened. We were laughing, and then I sort of fell on top of him, and then he kissed me, and I panicked, so then he left, but we talked about it and we’ve actually both been in love with each other the whole time. So, yeah.” He glanced at Clay. “Did I get it all?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right to me.”

Alya blinked. Then she blinked again. Finally, she said, “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? I just explained it to you!”

“Okay, George, let me get this straight.”

“Gay,” he corrected helpfully.

She ignored him. “You’ve been so unavailable these past few months because you were spending every spare moment with Clay Fucking Agreste, and you didn’t think to tell me until now?”

He cringed. “I mean, when you put it like that….”

“Does he know about the–” she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a stage-whisper– “excessive pining?”

“I’ve been informed,” Clay said, at the same time as George yelled, “It was not excessive! It was a perfectly appropriate amount of pining.”

Nino snickered. “Bro. I can’t believe you guys didn’t tell Alya. George, she constantly complains about how much you drool over Clay.”

George’s face burned. “Please kill me right now. Clay, don’t believe anything they say. They hate me. They’re trying to trick you.”

“He thirsted over you all day, every day,” Alya added.

Clay’s jaw dropped in surprised amusement. “I knew you sort of had a crush on me, but I didn’t know this.”

“Did you know he used to have pictures from your photoshoots all over his wall?”

“For fashion purposes!” George yelped. “I’m a fashion designer, okay? It’s normal for me to have photos of designer clothing in my studio.”

“Okay, but your ‘studio’ is actually your bedroom, and every single designer item on that wall was worn by the same model.”

“Clay, please. They’re making it up. It’s all made up,” George insisted. “Take my side or I’ll break up with you. It’s them or me.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Clay said, smiling. “I’m on their side for this one.”

George gaped at Clay, Alya, and Nino, and all three of them burst out laughing. Despite his best efforts to resist, George found himself giggling along as they wrapped up their lunch.

On the way back to school, Clay and Nino fell into step, and George took the opportunity to have a more private conversation with Alya.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It just– I dunno, it all felt like this big, huge secret, and I wasn’t sure what to say.” That was actually true. He knew that being friends with Chat Noir, even as George, would put him under too much scrutiny, so he’d kept their friendship hidden. If I knew it was Clay I would have told you, he wanted to say. She didn’t deserve to be subjected to all of his thirsting and then kept in the dark.

“It’s okay, George. I mean, I am a little miffed. But I’ll get over it.”

He smiled. “Good. Because I need a best friend right now. I’m dating my dream guy—I need someone to gush to.”

She let out a high-pitched giggle, slinging her arm around George’s shoulder. “Oh my gosh, you’re right. Okay, I’m done being mad at you. Tell me everything.”

“He’s so…” George leaned his head back and groaned. Words had never come easily to him, but he really wanted to tell Alya exactly how he felt. But before he got the chance, Clay glanced over his shoulder.

“George, why did you just make that noise?”

“I’m frustrated, okay? I’m being interrogated.”

“Yeah, but you’re, like, moaning back there,” Clay teased.

“I’m–” George scoffed. “I am not! I was groaning, okay? Why would you even say that? What is wrong with you?”

“What– Me? What’s wrong with you? I’m not the one out here moaning in the middle of the street–”

“Guys!” Alya cut in sharply. “You can flirt on your own time. Clay, go back to talking to Nino. George, talk to me.”

George waited until he was sure Clay and Nino weren’t listening. Then, he quietly admitted, “He’s so sweet. I mean, I always liked him, but I never really realized how funny and kind he is. And it’s weird—like, this whole thing feels like a fairytale. But at the same time, it makes perfect sense. You know? Like, the whole time I was falling in love with him, he was falling in love with me.” He sighed dreamily. “Also, he’s such a good kisser. On Saturday, when we, like, figured everything out, we were sitting on the roof, like, kissing, and he did this thing with his–”

“George,” Alya interrupted. “I really don’t need to know about this part.”

“Shush. Spoilsport.” George rolled his eyes. “Anyway, he’s amazing. Most days, he’ll buy a pain au chocolat after school, and we’ll sit on the couch together and share it. And he always knows how to cheer me up if I’ve had a shit day. He’s just so easy to be around, and he makes me smile.”

“It sounds like you really like him. I guess you’re not as shallow as I thought,” she teased. “Also. You called him babe earlier. Is that… do you really say that?”

“Shut up, that was for comedic effect,” he said defensively. “Sometimes he calls me baby, though.”

Alya slapped his shoulder with her free hand. “George. And you thought you were just friends after all that? I knew you were clueless, George, but not this clueless.”

“Okay, whatever. Shut up. So you know how I told you he took care of me after I got kidnapped? Well, that was kind of an emotional couple of days for me. I finished the dress, and then he… ripped it, but it was kind of my fault. And then we had this huge fight, and I told him to get out, but I ended up getting kidnapped, like, right after that, so then after I got rescued I was like ‘I’m so sorry,’ and he was like, “No, it’s fine, everything’s okay now,’ and the deadline for the dress competition was the next day, so he helped me finish fixing it in time. It was just… a lot. And he was there for me the whole time. Oh, and he bought me a machine that cost thousands of euros. That too.”

Alya laughed. “That’s so sweet, George. You deserve someone who can take care of you like that. And you’ve been in desperate need of a sugar daddy for a while.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m lucky to have him.”

“He’s lucky to have you, too, you know. You better tell him that I’ll kill him if he hurts you.”

George laughed. “I don’t think you really have to worry about that. I trust him.”

They climbed up the steps at the front of the school and parted for their afternoon classes with a promise to walk home together, George with Alya and Clay with Nino.

.   .   .

After Alya dropped him off at home, he headed up to his room. A few minutes later, his door swung open and Clay stepped into the room, brown paper bag tucked in one hand.

“Hi.” He smiled. “Your parents said I could just come up.”

“C’mere.”

Instead of sitting across from George like usual, Clay slid in beside him, snuggling into his side with a happy little sigh.

“Ugh, gross. You’re so smelly. Get off of me.”

Clay half rolled over to bury his face in George’s neck, inhaling deeply. “Well, you smell great. I think I’m gonna stay right here.”

George’s heart soared. “Fine,” he huffed, glad Clay couldn’t see his smile. He slid his fingers into Clay’s hair, twirling soft strands around his fingers and gently scratching his scalp. Clay let out a soft hum and melted into his chest. George kept playing with the blonde curls as Clay relaxed further, listening as his breaths evened out.

“George,” Clay said suddenly.

George didn’t respond, just kept playing with his hair. It was soft and it tickled his palms.

“George.” Clay bit his collarbone. “Pay attention to me.”

“Ow! What the hell?”

“Pay attention to me,” Clay repeated stubbornly.

“I’m literally playing with your hair as you take a nap in my arms. What more do you want from me?” He let go of Clay’s hair to rub at his neck. “That hurt.”

“Talk to me. Tell me about your day.”

You were there for most of it, George wanted to say. Instead he asked, “Did you notice how weirdly nice Chloe was to me today? She even moved her bag out of the way so I wouldn’t trip over it.”

“Mm,” Clay said, sounding happier already.

“Actually, she’s honestly been way nicer in general, ever since I talked to– Wait.”

Clay went rigid.

“Oh my God, wait, what? That was– It was you!” George couldn’t believe it. He had complained to Chat Noir about Chloe being mean to him, and Chat Noir had jokingly said he would make Chloe stop, even though he didn’t know Chloe… except he did. Because he was Clay this whole time. Holy shit.

And the next day, George had seen Clay arguing with Chloe at school, but hadn’t thought much of it. And the whole time, it had been him, telling Chloe to be nicer to George. “You sneaky little–”

“Okay, to be fair, it worked,” Clay argued, picking his head up and giving George a sheepish smile.

George rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “I literally hate you so much.”

“Do you? Because I can get up right now–”

“No!” George grabbed Clay’s arm, keeping him close. “Please don’t move. Can we just… stay here forever?”

Clay opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by the distant sound of screaming. “...I think that’s a no.” He sat up.

George groaned. “Can't the people of Paris fend for themselves? Just this once?”

Clay grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. George tried not to get too distracted by the way the muscles in his arms flexed as he set him upright . “Come on, George. We have a villain to catch. Plagg, claws out!”

.   .   .

The next day at school, George and Clay walked in hand-in-hand to see a flurry of activity in the schoolyard.

“What’s going on?” George asked Alya.

“What’s going on is that you and Clay are old news,” she laughed, holding up her phone. It was a newspaper headline: Happy Pride! The Heroes of Paris—And of Each Other’s Hearts, accompanied by a photo of them—that is, Ladybug and Chat Noir—kissing. “Ladybug and Chat Noir are dating! They announced it last night!”

“Wow!” Clay said. “That’s crazy.”

“Who would’ve guessed?” Somehow, George managed to hold in his giggle. “Certainly not me.”

“Me neither,” Clay said, voice shaking with poorly-contained amusement. He leaned down to kiss George. “You jealous, George? I’ve seen you eyeing up Chat Noir.”

“He’s not really my type,” George said. “I hate tall blonds.”

“I’m sure you do.” Alya scoffed. “You two are gross. I never should’ve expected you to appreciate this news.”

.   .   .

When they walked into the Carrousel du Louvre on Saturday for the award ceremony, a massive stage was set up, the twenty-five finalists’ dresses all on display on a row of mannequins. Each dress was in rich, dazzling colors, ornately decorated. George’s heart jumped at the sight of his own along with them. I might be winning an award today, he thought. Or I might get nothing. Maybe these last few months have all been for nothing.

As they were ushered to their seats in the front row, George could feel Clay’s eyes on him. His anxiety was clearly written all over his face.

He was expecting Clay to try and reassure him, but instead he just took his hand. “Hey. Remember the last time we were in here together?”

“Of course I do. You were so awkward,” George said, laughing. He nudged Clay’s ankle with the toe of his shoe, trying to tamp down his nerves.

“You had to be worse. You told me you were attracted to me!”

“I was attracted to you!”

As Clay burst out laughing, George realized that maybe that wasn’t the best defense. “I mean, I am attracted to you. You’re attractive.”

“That’s, like… so weird. You were talking yourself into a hole and then you were like–” he broke off with a wheeze.

“What were you expecting? ‘Oh, this tall, blonde model is totally not hot at all. I don’t want to have sex with him, like, ever.’”

Clay’s jaw dropped, and he laughed even harder, face flushing red. “George! You can’t just– We’re in public.”

“Okay,” George shot back. “I don’t remember asking.”

Clay hid his face in his hands, ears red. George snickered. He was about to say something else when the lights in the room dimmed and Clara Nightingale, the biggest pop star in the city, stepped out on stage. Oh, shit. The ceremony was starting.

“Welcome, everybody!” she sang, twirling in place. “In front of you are twenty-five of the most lovely dresses in the city. Don’t you think the contestants did a wonderful job?”

Her question was met with polite applause. George scanned the dresses again. They really were exquisite, every last one. There was no chance of him winning. He sucked in a shaky breath. “Clay. What if I lose? What if everything that’s happened this year was all for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Clay whispered back. “What about us? That’s something.”

“Maybe you’re right.” George smirked. “Maybe the real dress was the friends we made along the way.”

Clay rolled his eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. “Shut up. Pay attention to the ceremony.”

Clara smiled. “Tonight, I’ll be awarding third prize, second prize, and first prize, to three lucky designers. In third place…”

George held his breath.

“...is Simone DeMode!”

Oh. Well. Okay. That was fine.

Simone looked much older than George, and much more experienced. As she walked up to the stage, a spotlight illuminated a beautiful purple gown. She shook hands with Clara, accepting her award. George tried to push away both his disappointment and his slowly rising hope. No expectations, he reminded himself.

“In second place,” Clara said, “is Jacques Robesfaire.”

George’s heart sank again as he watched the second-place winner go up on stage. Again, he looked older and much more experienced, and his dress was beautiful. He grabbed Clay’s hand. “Clay,” he whispered.

“I love you,” his boyfriend murmured, squeezing his hand. “And I’m proud of you. No matter what.”

George’s response got stuck in his throat, so he just squeezed back wordlessly.

“And, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! The grand prize of ten thousand euros, the very best dress, the biggest award in the whole competition–”

George felt his breaths coming faster and faster. Maybe– Just maybe–

“...goes to Pierre Cardin.”

George’s heart sank. And, okay, he wasn’t expecting to win, but he couldn’t stop himself from hoping for something—for anything. But no. He wouldn’t be able to pay for the materials of his next dress. Maybe he should sell the embroidery machine. No, that would be ridiculous. He’d just… pick up a lot of extra shifts in the boulangerie. It might take a while, but he’d get there eventually.

He deflated a little at the premise of hours upon hours of sticky hands and grumpy customers.

Sensing his mood, Clay pulled George’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly. “You tried,” he said quietly. “You made an amazing dress. Twice.”

“I could have used the prize money,” George replied, voice weak.

“I’ll buy you anything you want,” Clay whispered in his ear.

“Clay–”

“I’m serious!” Clay promised. “You worked hard. I’ll give you the prize money myself.”

“That’s not the point,” George hissed, trying not to sound like a whiny baby. I lost.

“I know.” Clay wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. “I’m really sorry, George.”

.   .   .

At the end of the ceremony, waiters appeared carrying hors d'oeuvres and champagne flutes, and the guests began to mill around, eating and socializing with one another. They were halfway across the room when Clay stopped in his tracks.

George cocked his head, confused.

Clay gestured around them. “This might actually be, like, exactly where we met. Wait, what if we recreated it?”

“Oh my God, stop,” George complained. “I’m not going to recreate it with you.”

“Why not? Come on, come on. Here, just bump into me and apologize, and I can say, ‘I’m Clay, I’m a big fan,’ and you can say–” he wheezed– “‘I know.’”

George swatted his arm, face bright red. “Shut up–”

“George Davidson, right?”

George whirled around and came face to face with…. Holy shit. Holy shit. It was the world-famous fashion designer (and his boyfriend’s dad), Gabriel Agreste, standing right in front of him.

“Mr. Agreste! Yes, that’s me.”

“Wonderful. Listen, young man, I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition,” George parroted, feeling lightheaded.

“You understand, Mr. Davidson, why I was unable to award you first prize.”

George blinked. “Why you were–”

“There were several small errors in the composition of your dress—as well as a few details that could have been enhanced had you spent more time on them. Although your dress was indeed a vision, our committee agreed that there were a number of dresses that were free of errors and meticulously done.”

George’s heart sank. “But…”

“That being said, I read the note included in your submission, and I was touched by your story. I think you have an eye, very talented hands, and the drive that is necessary in this field of work. It must have been difficult to have a piece of your art ruined like that, and it took courage to try again in such a short time frame. I’m interested in working with you.”

This was too much to process. A note? “Working with… me?”

“Indeed. I understand you’d like to create your own line of clothing. I would be prepared to invest in your business and fund your work for a period of six months. After that, I would check in with you and we could determine if you’re up for a more permanent  place on my team, if that’s something you’d want.”

George was sure he was dreaming. “Oh… okay. Cool.”

“I'll be in touch.” The fashion mogul finally looked up, locking eyes with his son, who was standing right behind George. “Oh! Clay, I didn’t see you there. You know how I get tunnel vision when it comes to work. Did you need something?”

“Hi, Father.” Clay’s voice sounded a little shaky. George leaned a little closer to him so that they were shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to give him strength through the press of his arm. “No, I’m actually here with George.”

“Oh, very good.” Mr. Agreste smiled politely. “You know, George, I thought you looked familiar. You’re one of Clay’s classmates, aren’t you?”

George glanced at Clay, who was already looking at him. “Um.”

“Actually, Fath– Dad,” Clay said. “George is my… boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Mr. Agreste blinked. Then he blinked again. “Oh.”

“Clay helped me remake the dress after it got destroyed,” George said, looking up at his boyfriend and gently lacing their fingers together. “He’s got your talent for fashion.”

Mr. Agreste stood still for a moment, before his face broke into a wide grin. “Well, I guess I’ve got you to thank for getting my son out of the house more often. I’ve been telling him to get a hobby.”

George couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s exactly what I said! That’s actually why I started teaching him to sew.”

“Well, good. George, make sure you put Clay to work when you start designing and making those clothes, okay? Don’t let him just sit around.”

“I won’t, sir.”

As Mr. Agreste walked away, George turned to face Clay, grabbing both of his hands. “Did that really just happen?”

“I don’t know!” Clay’s eyes were shining. “My dad likes you! You’re going to be a fashion designer!”

“And you told him about us.” George lowered his voice, leaning a little closer. “I’m so proud of you.” He tilted his head up and kissed Clay’s cheek.

“Woah! Kissing me in public? Bold moves, George Davidson.” Clay tapped him on the nose.

“Ugh,” he threw his arms around Clay’s middle, pulling him into a tight hug. “Shut up.”

“I love you,” Clay said into his hair.

Something occurred to George and he pulled back, frowning. “What did your dad mean, he read my note?”

“Um…” Clay scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well. So, funny story…”

“Clay. Just tell me, idiot.”

“I wrote it. I stuck it in the bag before we left. I pretended it was from you, and I wrote about how you spent hundreds of hours on a dress that got destroyed, and then you were kidnapped, and you made that dress in a single night.” He hid his face in his hands. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

He took Clay’s hands from his face, pressing a kiss to each of his palms. “I’m not mad, I promise. I’m really, really happy. Gabriel Agreste talked to me. He talked. To me. He liked my dress! And it’s all because of you.”

“Not all because of me,” Clay scoffed. “If I hadn’t destroyed your original dress, it probably would have won first prize.”

“Who cares about first prize?” George sighed dreamily. “He wants to fund my work! He wants me on his team!”

“Hey, Siri,” Clay muttered, pulling out his phone. “What do I do if my boyfriend is about to dump me for my dad?”

George laughed out loud, snatching the phone away. “You’re so jealous,” he teased. “Become a world-famous fashion designer. Then we’ll talk.”

“You’ll definitely get there before I will,” Clay said with a smile. “Especially now that he wants to invest in your work.”

George nodded smugly. “Soon, I’ll be too cool for you. Actually, I’m breaking up with you right now. Sorry you had to find out this way. You’re just not famous enough for the George Davidson.”

Clay sniffed, wiping away an imaginary tear. “I understand. I always knew this was too good to be true anyway.”

“Maybe if you still had that billboard on Rue de Rivoli,” George giggled. “But you don’t, Clay. You’re a loser.”

They walked out into the sunshine, hand in hand. Suddenly, Clay stopped.“Look, George!”

George followed his gaze across the street, and there, right beside the building where the picture of Clay had been, was a brand new billboard. But this time, instead of one of Clay’s modeling campaigns, it had a massive, three-storey photo of Chat Noir and Ladybug.

George’s jaw dropped.

“What was that about not having a billboard?” Clay teased, pulling him in closer.

“Oh no,” George lamented, tilting his head up until they were nose-to-nose. “I guess I have to date you now.”

“Yes,” Clay crowed. “I did it! You’re mine. Forever and ever.”

“Forever and ever,” George whispered back.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” George breathed. And they sealed it with a kiss.