Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, Félix liked festivals. Not being in the middle of the ruckus or getting dragged through boisterous crowds by his self-proclaimed “best friend,” but the calmer experience of being tucked inside a quieter place where he could observe the colors and people from a safe distance.
Colorful coats, bright lights, loud conversations, all of it was bearable—pleasant, even—from the other side of Le Symphonique café’s walls, where he sat by the window frosted in flowery patterns with his head on his hand while the other held a mug of hot cocoa. The faint stir of a coffee machine gently stirred his mind into a peaceful state he’d almost call meditation if he knew what that felt like. The gentle lightning of the place—five ceiling lights with the walls adorned in ineffective, but aesthetically pleasing, specks of yellow and white—engulfed him in a forever sunset as he observed the aurore of the sky in the neighborhood realm.
His colleagues would sneer at him for spending the Festival of Lights tucked away in a secluded café instead of accepting a date with one of the numerous women that unsuccessfully attempted to track him down prior to the Festival, but he couldn’t think of a company that wouldn’t spoil his peaceful night.
The doorbell jingled and a cold gust briefly filled the café’s entrance.
Félix rubbed his ungloved hands together and pressed them to the mug’s ceramic as he brought it to his lips, the steam warming him from the outside as the drink warmed him from the inside. Another jingle as the door clicked shut and the newcomer pulled their light pink scarf higher on their face as they fast-walked to the counter, back hunched.
Félix laid back on his seat, turning his attention to the movement in the snow-painted streets out the window as the soft voice asking for a decaf joined the stir of the café, adding shuffles and clinks to the background lull. It fit, he thought, the voice was quiet and gentle; it perfectly matched with the paused concert of buzzing wall lights, stirring coffee machines, and the shuffling waiter in the place. The chorus of muffled chatters in the street enhanced the new lead singer’s brief, but memorable, solo.
He was tempted to turn and get a look at the owner of the melodic voice; but if the familiarity was anything to go by, he probably shouldn’t bring attention to himself lest he got trapped in a social situation with someone he only recalled the voice of. It usually ended with the person in a fit of rage and/or tears, and him exhausted and/or embarrassed. He’d like to avoid that.
“Félix?”
And here came the shouting and/or tears.
He took a sip of his hot cocoa to buy himself some time to school his expression into something that might be read as polite curiosity and not whatever his aunt called “The Face of a Pretentious Git Pretending He Gives a Damn” but upon sighting the stunned figure halted mid-step towards the door, he wasn’t sure how good a control he managed to keep on it.
She wrapped her grayish-blue winter coat tighter around her stiff frame as her other hand held her decaf. Slightly disheveled dark hair streamed down her back and shoulders—stray snowflakes clinging to it—as she gazed at him, mouth parted, wide gray eyes blinking as if testing if it wasn’t seeing things.
“Marinette,” he said. Not because he was greeting her, but because she called his name in that beautiful voice of hers and it only seemed fitting that he’d return the gesture—whether she’d think the same of him was something he preferred not to dwell on.
A laugh escaped her. Hundreds of bells tinkling in harmony with the glistening in her eyes as she took him in. He focused back on what his face was doing and made it give her a smile he hoped conveyed his delight at seeing her well enough—because he was; even if there were others, harder to discern, emotions sizzling his brain.
“It’s really you!” Her smile widened as she sauntered to his table. His own smile got lighter. “Oh my God! It’s been what? Ages?”
Six years, two months, and seventeen days.
He chuckled. She laughed, it only made sense he tried to replicate it. “It has certainly been a while.”
“You look so tall.”
She made to gesture widely at his hunched frame, but remembered the decaf mid-gesture so she retracted her hands to the cup, then pulled the chair opposed to him when the threat of spilled drink vanished.
“How tall are you?” She squinted at him, sitting down. “Don’t tell me you got taller than me. Félix, you promised you wouldn’t get taller than me!”
He didn’t need to prompt the new fit of giggles.
“Sorry. Puberty didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“Puberty’s so unfair. The only thing I got from it was acne and a ticket for a monthly torture for life.”
“Isn’t it till menopause?”
“Basically life!”
Not even five minutes with her and his cheeks already hurt.
She placed her purse on the table and sighed as she leaned back, loosening the scarf around her neck before pulling out her light blue, almost white, gloves.
“Speaking of, how’s life?”
Félix tore his gaze away from the hands tugging at the cloth from one finger then snatching the whole glove out in one swift movement, revealing her calloused hands—they still looked so small in comparison to his—to look at her eyes.
She smirked. “Still breaking many hearts?”
He’d only need to give a verbal answer if it was a negative one, so he didn’t bother giving any. And, of course, it was answer enough to Marinette, who turned aside to bend over as those laughing bells broke out.
“Ooh, still a hard pick, I see. And Chloé?”
“Got the hint around lycée. Though she still thinks she has some kind of ‘obligation’ to keep tabs on who I see.” Félix raised his mug from the tabletop, swaying it, strings of milk swirling in the chocolate. “Whatever that means.”
“And your father–”
“Doesn’t help.”
The “Moron” he heard reverberating on her decaf tugged up at his lips.
“And you?” he asked. “Are you… Are you here only to visit or–”
She slammed her cup on the tabletop in a second, face beaming. Anyone else and he might’ve found it weird, but with Marinette, it was still weird but it also lightened him up just like her face when she smiled.
“Guess who got an apprenticeship under none other than M. Ramier?”
“Really?” He could feel Marinette’s toes bouncing under the table and his right thigh started to rock left and right with them. “Marinette, that’s amazing.”
“I know! It’s like a dream come true! Remember when I was little and he’d ask me how to make a broken watch or music box work again, and then I’d do it and he’d smile and–”
She pulled her scarf over her mouth to muffle the high-pitched sound she let out. She let it fall around her neck with a sheepish giggle, tucking a stray strand behind her ear, and glanced at him through her eyelashes.
“Suffice to say, I’m excited.”
Félix clamped his mouth shut, sucking in a breath through his nose, and blinked rapidly as he looked around, quickly focusing on his mug once reminded of its existence.
“I’m very happy for you,” he said, gaze on the pale brown of the liquid as it heated his cheeks.
“Thanks.” She sent him that sheepish smile again.
The drink fell through the wrong trachea but he forced himself to gulp down the remaining of the cold cocoa and placed the empty cup on the table, turning to the glass pane as he wiped his sleeve at his mouth.
He was stirred back to the concert of clinks and buzzings and muffled voices; now accompanied by a steady breathing and occasional sips from the seat opposed to him. He couldn’t think of a better symphony to be a part of. His eyes had fluttered shut when a sigh in the piece brought his attention to the soloist looking at the frosted streets, eyes glazed over, and a small slump to her shoulders that wasn’t there before.
“Are you… sad?”
For a split second, Félix worried if she’d be offended at his bluntness. But no matter how much time had passed, this was still Marinette he was talking to. So when she cocked her head to him and asked, “Why would I be?” it was a genuine request for him to elaborate on his query.
“To be back. I know you don’t have the best of memories from here–”
“Oh, no, no, no, it’s fine.” The smile seemed just a bit too tight now as she waved a hand over her face. “I’m– getting there. Maman isn’t over it though. She doesn’t like talking about here. Didn’t like when M. Ramier reached out to me. But one of the few perks of being an adult is choosing where to live. So–” She gestured vaguely around the place. “I’m back, Paris!”
Félix frowned at the tabletop. “So you’re alone here?”
“I’ll be studying most of the time, so it’s no biggie. And there’s also you, now. I– I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me.”
“How could I forget!” Félix snapped his eyes to hers, leaning over the table. “You were my best friend.”
She bit her bottom lip, shoulders raising as she cautiously searched his face. “‘Were’?”
“Well, uh–” Félix blinked, averting his eyes. “–if you’d still like to–”
“I’d love to!” Her hands were grasping his on the middle of the table in a flash, spilling the decaf in the process. “I missed you so much, Félix, you have no idea.”
Félix smiled, shoulders sagging as he raised their joined hands and dropped his forehead on them. “Missed you, too, Mar.”
