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“Can I borrow this one?”
After browsing through the wardrobe of her best friend and roommate, Alya Césaire pulled a long-sleeved striped shirt out of its infinite depths. The ravenette shrugged, looking at the somewhat ragged piece of clothing with curiosity. It was one of her older creations, from her early teens, and she’d worn it only a couple of times.
“Go ahead,” she said, watching the journalist shake it off the hanger. “I forgot I even had it.”
Alya barely glanced at her before slipping the blouse on and posing for her friend. “Look at how nicely it fits!” She twirled, earning a small laugh from the designer.
Blue and white weren’t Alya’s usual colors but even so, Marinette had to admit the marinière looked good on her.
“You can keep it if you want.”
Alya frowned. “Girl, no. Don’t get me wrong, I love this, but… I don’t have enough space in my wardrobe as it is and this is a Marinette Dupain-Cheng original…” She shook her head sorrowfully. “It’s too valuable to be just given away.”
“You’re a valuable friend,” she retorted. “And it looks good on you. You’ve earned it, Al. Believe me.”
Alya inspected the blouse in front of the mirror. Marinette’s offer was tempting. Not only did the horizontal lines make her look a little thinner and compliment the dark denim skirt hugging her butt, but they also filled her with a feeling that something good was about to happen. The fabric tickled her skin but in a good way, like the wings of a butterfly reposing on a hand.
“If you say so…” She mused, distracted by the feeling. Then she turned, eyes sparkling behind the round glasses. “Come on, let’s get you ready, too. Have you decided what to wear yet?”
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The fairy lights attached to the balconies of Le Grand Paris shone brightly on a late spring night. Alya noticed Marinette gazing at them and stopped, smiling softly. After a moment, she gave her friend a small nudge, urging her forward. Marinette threw her an annoyed glance, looking then left and right before crossing the street in two quick steps.
Alya followed her giddily to the hotel where they removed their overcoats and dropped them off at the unofficial cloakroom of the François-Dupont high school dance and sleepover party. Chloé’s butler greeted them politely, though his eyes held a disapproving look when he judged their outfits.
Alya ignored it and pulled Marinette away too before she could feel too self-conscious about the skimpy black dress she was wearing. They had all agreed that this year since it was their last, they would party the hardest. And to make sure Marinette had enough time to work magic on her own dress, they had decided not to dress up like they had in previous years.
If you asked Alya, Breton stripes were chic enough for any party.
The restaurant was half-empty. Alya’s gaze passed over the empty tables, looking for familiar faces. She spotted Rose and Juleka by a stand of yellow and white roses. Max Kanté was sitting at a table, uncharacteristically early, configuring Markov. At another table, Chloé and Félix were arguing in hushed voices; whatever the boy had said had put a scowl on Chloé's face. Finally, Alya's eyes found Nino's. They wandered over her body and she smirked knowingly.
Nino waved them over with a grin.
“Hello there,” he greeted them once they were close enough. Alya lifted herself to the stool next to his booth and leaned over to give him a quick kiss.
Marinette pointedly looked away from that scene. Her eyes found Félix again and a soft smile crept on her face, accompanied by a light blush that deepened when he noticed her staring. His brow furrowed and he lowered his gaze. Marinette considered going over to him, then taking a seat across from him and finally being honest with him about her feelings. As soon as she thought about that, she shook her head.
“You’ll ruin the hair I worked so hard on,” teased Alya from behind her. Marinette’s eyes widened and she stilled, her embarrassment transforming into panic. “Relax, girl, you still look good. Come on, Adrien, tell her.”
“Alya’s right,” said the boy warmly. Marinette nearly toppled over, turning around to hug him. “You look fantastic.” He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear before whispering against it. “Between you and me, Fé’s a little bit of a fool.”
Marinette smacked him lightheartedly. “Thanks, Adrien.”
“He’ll come around,” Adrien looked at his older brother wistfully. Marinette followed his gaze, then patted the boy on the shoulder again. “I’m sure of that.”
The ravenette didn’t voice her opinion on the matter. Félix had had plenty of chances to join them if he wanted, but the more time passed, the more it seemed that he was content in his solitude. It was clear that he liked to keep his distance.
Alya's arm snaked around Nino's wrist.
"At least you two have each other," she commented with a grin. As she said that, Marinette and Adrien separated, cheeks a pale pink. "You know, your pact."
Marinette rolled her eyes. "Well, I plan to be married by the age of forty."
"To my brother," teased Adrien, taking advantage of the opportunity.
The girl blinked before the blood rushed to her face, then nodded, having accepted the fact that none of her friends would let her live down her crush on quite possibly the most unattainable boy in their school.
"Yeah, but if it doesn't work out, you'll still have second best. Who else will kick your ass at Ultimate Mecha Strike when we're both old and in a nursing home?" Adrien patted her on the back.
Marinette laughed heartily. "Assuming you'll ever beat me, kitty."
"Hey! I've been practicing!" He nudged the girl affectionately. "I'll get you next time, Bugaboo!"
Alya and Nino exchanged a look.
"Dude, I know you said nothing is going on between you two," Nino broke their moment as kindly as he could. "But are you sure about that?"
It was Marinette who answered. "We're just really good friends, you know?"
"With a pact," quipped Adrien helpfully. "Which we'll never have to uphold because I have total confidence in my best friend's abilities to woo my brother. The pact is just in case Chloé kills him before he can say I do. "
"In that case, you should probably go and save him," laughed the journalist, eyeing the two blondes across the room with amusement. "She's about to do something ridiculous, utterly ridiculous ."
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Marinette and Adrien arrived on the scene just in time to hear Félix hiss at Chloé like an offended kitten: "Don't call me that. You have no idea who might overhear you."
When he noticed the two, his face flushed, though he kept glowering at the blonde girl, willing her to shut up.
"What do you two want?" Chloé snarled at the newcomers. "Adrikins, I love you and all, but you really need to stop bringing garbage along."
Adrien frowned. "Chlo, don't call her that. Marinette is my friend." He wrapped an arm around the ravenette's shoulders, giving her a comforting side hug. "We were just curious about what you guys were up to."
"Nothing," replied Félix harshly. He gripped the table, visibly on edge, and all Marinette wanted in that moment was to take his hand in hers, to distract him from whatever Chloé had said to irritate him so.
Adrien grinned mischievously. "How about a dance then? We could do pairs and then switch, how about it? Félix?"
"No thanks," replied the boy curtly just as Chloé let out a delighted squeal. She grabbed Adrien by the arm and dragged him to the dance floor, ignoring his raised eyebrows that were directed at Marinette. She could almost hear him say "what are you waiting for?"
A jazzy pop song came on and Marinette gave up before asking. She shuffled uncomfortably towards the empty seat at his table, then sat down, fiddling with the hem of her dress skirt.
"I'm sorry," she blurted, not meeting his eyes. "About Adrien. I know you don't like to dance."
At first, he said nothing. Marinette peeked up through her eyelashes to see his reaction. His face was unreadable but she had known him long enough to realize that he was deep in thought.
Then he spoke.
"That's not the problem, Dupain-Cheng. It would…" He was about to explain his conundrum but changed his mind a moment later. His gaze dropped to the white tablecloth and didn't rise again. "It's just not a good idea."
"But why?" Marinette whined involuntarily. As soon as she realized what she had done, her hand flew to cover her mouth, and her cheeks flooded with a vivid burst of pink.
Félix's lips twitched as if he wanted to smile but was trying to hold it back. He pressed them into a thin line, willing them to stop moving.
Marinette wanted to kiss that look off his face.
"Because it would complicate things," he revealed in a quiet voice. His grip on the table loosened. He stretched his fingers, then placed the hand on top, close to where her hand was resting. "And we don't want to do that."
"We don't?" She squeaked at the sudden proximity. Afraid of doing something unthinkable, like holding his hand, she pulled hers to her lap. “Y-yeah, we don’t.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, disappointed, then stood up. “I’ll see you later.”
Marinette felt a lump rise in her throat, as she watched him go. Her eyes followed his straight back until he was out of her sight.
“No luck?” Adrien reappeared next to her.
“No luck,” she echoed, looking away. He brought a hand to her back and rubbed it in soothing circles.
“Next time then. After all, the knight is still young.”
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
Alya wasn’t sure what came over Nino. Not that she minded, when he kissed her like this, fervently, full of love. His hands cupped her face while his tongue hungrily explored her mouth, bodies pressed together, as they stumbled up the stairs towards the bedrooms.
When Alya tripped, Nino caught her by dropping one hand to her waist. They broke the kiss only for a moment, letting their breaths mingle between giggles, then dove in just as desperately as before.
Nino’s fingers slipped under her blouse. They brushed gently against her warm skin, each touch sending tingles down her spine. Her hands had found a way around his neck; they pulled him closer until the space between them disappeared completely and she had him backed against a wall.
It was not enough. With every kiss, with every touch, Alya craved more.
Letting out a frustrated groan, she pushed him away. Nino’s eyes widened in surprise, unsure what to make of her sudden change of mind, then wandered down to her breasts and stomach as she flung off the borrowed marinière.
Their eyes met and a foxy grin spread over her face. With one hand, she took hold of Nino’s, with the other, she pulled out a thin plastic card. Nino barely had the time to notice the gold-engraved Le Grand Paris on it before she unlocked the door behind him.
They vanished into the darkness right before another person turned the corner.
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Marc Anciel stared in confusion at the pile of stripes in the middle of the corridor. He approached it cautiously as if afraid it would bite. Once he was close enough, he could see the bundle for what it was and his face flushed at the implication.
Marc’s eyes shifted to the closed door. He didn’t even want to know what was going on behind it, yet the images flooded his brain, faceless bodies belonging to his schoolmates.
Before he could think his actions through, he picked up the marinière and hurriedly walked away, slipping it on as though under a spell. It was still warm from the body heat of whoever had worn it before him. It was comforting in a way, like being wrapped in a hug by someone with a lot of love in their heart. Love that was filling him from the outside in.
Inadvertently, he inhaled the intoxicating scent of flowers and macarons, and wondered briefly if the garment was Marinette’s. But Marc had seen Félix downstairs and he sincerely doubted the baker’s daughter would jump into bed with anyone else. The natural conclusion was that the marinière belonged to someone else.
He justified his claim on it with his lack of desire for anyone else to walk into that awkward, embarrassing situation. He told himself that he'd just keep it safe and wearing it was the best way not to misplace it as the previous owner had.
With that in mind, he strolled down the corridor and down the stairs to rejoin his friends from the art club in the restaurant.
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Marc spotted his boyfriend at the crowded table conversing with Rose. The girl was speaking enthusiastically and Nathaniel seemed to have a little bit of trouble following the conversation. Despite that, Marc could tell from the shy smile playing on the redhead’s lips that he was enjoying the girl’s company.
Though the seats on Nathaniel’s either side were taken, the one from across from him was empty. Marc headed for it slowly, slumping a little more with every step he took.
The marinière hung off his body, not quite the perfect fit it was intended to be.
“Hi,” he said quietly. Nathaniel’s smile widened and a warm pink colored his cheeks, as he glanced at Marc who planted himself on the empty chair so unnoticeably that most would have looked right past his arrival.
"Rose here was telling me about how much she adores the latest installment of our comic," Nathaniel informed him, cheeks turning pink. "She thinks the storyline is adorable and well-executed."
"And the art is divine!" Rose inserted, watching them both turn into a puddle at the flattery. Marc visibly sank in his seat, red as a rose in the face. Nathaniel was faring only a little better. The only thing anchoring him was his pride over Marc's work, especially since it was one of the few times he'd seen him write.
"Well," Marc choked out huskily. "The art reflects the artist."
Nathaniel hunched over the table and pulled him closer by the striped shirt, crashing his lips against Marc’s, a sudden wave of desire washing over him like the morning tide rising to meet the shore. The blood rushing to their heads drowned out all sounds, including Rose’s surprised but enthusiastic squeal at the sudden display of affection.
A flute of faux-champagne was caught in the action. It tipped over, flooding the table with its contents.
The boys allowed it to happen, oblivious to the growing stain on the tablecloth.
Marc’s lips parted in a content sigh, allowing Nathaniel’s tongue to dart inside, hungry for a taste of the man he loved. His skin tingled, the feel of the other boy feeling nearly forbidden, the heat spreading from his lips to the rest of his body.
“Get a room, Christ!”
Chloé pulled them apart with a sneer. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and waved over a waiter, commanding him to clean the table and replace the ruined tablecloth. Then she gave the boys a once-over.
“Laundry room is on the third floor,” she informed them with a huff. “Ugh.”
Marc glanced down to see the large stain on the marinière. His cheeks flushed and he quickly took the blouse off.
“She’s overreacting,” commented Marinette, coming over to see what the issue was.
“Don’t mind her. I can go and throw it into the washing machine,” she indicated at the familiar piece of clothing. “It’s Alya’s, isn’t it?”
“Uhh, yeah, maybe.” Marc’s blush deepened, as he handed the marinière over to the girl. “Thanks, Marinette.”
“No problems. See you!”
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
Marinette sighed, as she climbed up the stairs, slightly disappointed in the party. Everyone was having fun, and she wanted to be part of that crowd. Yet something was holding her back. It loomed in the back of her mind, reminding her that things weren’t the way she wished they were.
She crumpled up the marinière, then resisted the urge to fling it at the door.
The laundry room wasn’t empty, as Marinette had expected. Surprise lighted up her face when she saw Félix sitting on top of a washing machine, reading a book.
She smiled: of course he’d bring a book to a party.
“Having fun?” she teased him.
Félix looked up, eyes widening at the unexpected company. Seeing it was Marinette, he lowered the book instead of burying his nose deeper in it. His eyes zoned in on the shirt in her hands.
“Did Chloé…?"
“Oh, no! Not this time.” Marinette threw the marinière into an unoccupied washer, added detergent, and turned the machine on before turning to face Félix again. “Marc had a bit of an accident.”
“And you volunteered to help,” Félix stated the fact as it was, his voice indicating no admiration or respect for the behavior. He dropped his gaze, a soft smile crossing his face. “Of course you did.”
“Yup!”
Félix’s eyes focused on the book in his hand. Les Enfants Terribles wasn’t thick, and he was already more than halfway through.
“Whatcha reading?” she asked, suddenly appearing next to him. Félix lifted the book so she could read the title, hiding his pink cheeks from her view. His heart fluttered at her sudden closeness, both from excitement and fear.
“Fascinating choice.”
“What can I say, I’m a fascinating person.”
Félix smiled at the sound of Marinette’s soft laughter. It had the power to lift his spirits, spreading warmth from his heart to everywhere else, crowning his cheeks with pink.
“That, you are,” Marinette confirmed lightheartedly. “Do you mind if I hang out with you here for a while?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be at the party?” He turned the page.
“It’s quieter here.”
Félix hummed in response. “I don’t mind your company.”
He scooted to the side, making enough space for Marinette to hop onto the washer he was sitting on. Shorter than him, she had a little trouble getting on, but in the end, she managed to settle on the makeshift chair, a couple of inches from her crush.
She was so close that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Th-thanks.”
Silence filled the room, as Félix continued to read. Marinette fidgeted, wanting to say something, yet lacking the bravery, unaware that next to her, Félix was going through something very similar.
“So… how’s the book?” she asked eventually, interrupting the boy’s reading mid-sentence.
“It’s alright,” he answered, unperturbed. He turned his head to look at her, not expecting to find her so close and stilling when he did. He could count the freckles on her cheek if he wanted.
His burning gaze made her shift. Their eyes met, and she began to pull away. Félix grabbed her hand, bringing her to a halt. Shyly, she glanced at him again, hopeful and excited, when she caught his eyes flickering to her glossy lips.
Félix lost himself in the blue of her eyes. Viewed so up close, they resembled bluebells less and the ocean more, with almost invisible specks of grey adding depth to the enthralling color.
Mesmerized, he forgot to breathe.
As soon as he realized it, he averted his gaze, suddenly fascinated by his shoes.
The washer beeped, the click of the door unlocking announcing the end of its work. Marinette jerked off her seat, rushing to move the marinière into a dryer.
By keeping her back to the boy, she was able to hide her heated cheeks, the memory of his closeness lingering in her close to overheating brain.
“Can I ask you something?”
The sharpness of his voice made Marinette jump, and she spun around, clutching her chest, as her eyes darted to his face, seeking the reason behind it. Félix lifted his chin and their eyes met. Marinette smiled tersely.
“You can ask me anything.”
“If… If I recommended a book to you, would you read it?”
Marinette snorted. “What kind of question is that ? Of course, I would.”
Félix nodded thoughtfully; he’d chickened out and asked a question other than the one he’d been intending to.
He pushed himself off the washer. His feet hit the tiled floor, and he landed on it with a quiet thud.
"Well, I wouldn’t recommend this book,” Félix announced with a heavy sigh, as he walked past her, clutching his book with his index finger between the pages for a bookmark.
Marinette watched him go, slightly confused, slightly amused. Then, wanting explanations, she went after him.
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Alix halted on her rollerblades, startled by the loud beeping coming through the door labeled LAUNDRY. She pushed it open, her curiosity getting the best of her, and turned the damn machine off as soon as she figured out how to do it.
She removed the lonely striped shirt from the dryer with the nonchalance of someone who was used to doing it.
She almost threw it in an empty green plastic basket to separate it from the rest of the hotel’s laundry. But then a thought occurred to her: there was no one at the hotel aside from the students of François-Dupont. And all of them were going to be on the roof watching fireworks together.
Alix might as well take it with her.
Thinking that, she slung it over her shoulder and continued on her way. Halfway to her room to grab another shirt to pull over the dress her father had insisted she wear, she decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The marinière would do just as good a job. And it wasn’t like anyone was missing it—Alix was sure the news would have already reached her.
She took the elevator back to the ground floor, where her old comrades Kim and Max were already waiting, one carrying a sports bag filled with cans of spray paint, a slightly disinterested look on his face, the other rambling excitedly about the statistical probability of love at first sight.
A single glance at Alix was enough to shut him up. A wide, mathematically perfect smile stretched over his face, genuine and free like the heart beating in his chest over a hundred beats per minute, as though he was racing through the night with his two friends.
Alix linked arms with the two boys, grinning at them both. They headed out, eyes sparkling with mischief and promises, hair ruffled by the wind, with only each other to keep them warm.
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Marinette found the all-too-familiar marinière in front of a fresh mural depicting a black coffin chained by bleeding red roses. She could guess who it was for; Alix was never very subtle about the messages she was sending.
She picked up the piece of clothing with a sigh.
“Now I remember why I kept it locked up in my wardrobe,” she confessed to Félix, annoyed. “It keeps escaping. Can’t keep the sailor from the sea, as they say. Ahh, Alya’s going to be so pissed when she finds her shirt missing.”
“It’s just a piece of clothing,” Félix noted.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Clothes aren’t sentient, nor cursed. I think you’re exaggerating.”
“How about we test that theory?” Marinette shot, wiggling to get the marinière on over her dress. “I won’t remove it until you tell me to. Or until we run into Alya or Nino.”
“Alright.” Félix folded his arms over his chest before looking at her. “What exactly are you trying to achieve here?”
Marinette smiled sweetly. “Nothing.”
“Dupain-Cheng…”
“You’re the one who said you don’t believe!” Her laughter was music to his ears. “So there really is no harm, is there?”
“Indeed.” Félix dared a look at her. “Though I must admit, it suits you.”
“Thanks, Fé.” Marinette blushed. “I made it myself.”
“You don’t say.”
Marinette smacked his shoulder lightheartedly, bursting into giggles again. He glanced at her and the corners of his lips stretched a fraction, widening his smile. She was cute, drowning in the marinière that hung off her body, loose and fitting at once.
“I’m going to miss you,” she admitted with a sigh. “When you go to England.”
“I’ll come back to visit.”
“Knowing your father, you’ll be busy with company matters before you can snap your fingers.”
Félix forgave her for the bitterness in which she said the words because she was right. The price of his freedom was his utter compliance as far as their family company was involved.
Instead of trying to find something comforting to say, he reached for her hand. His long fingers brushed against hers, hesitant, unsure, and he suddenly became aware that they weren’t little children anymore, walking hand-in-hand to the library, that any onlooker would take them to be a sweet young couple in love, cherishing a moment stolen away from other people.
He withdrew his hand, afraid of crossing the boundary.
“I’d still find a way to come and see you.”
Marinette’s heart fluttered at those words; however, he often said things that could be taken in more than one way, never quite admitting whether he liked her the way she liked him or not.
“That’s what you say now, but I will bet you that when the time comes, you’ll have forgotten all about poor old me.”
Félix came to a sudden stop under a blinking lamp post. He towered above Marinette, who halted right beside him, his eyes pleading her to drop the subject.
“Marinette, I could never forget you.”
Marinette tilted her chin upwards, unwittingly bringing their lips a little closer. He could see the little girl he’d met on a playground all those years ago, with her hair tied up in two identical pigtails, a shovel in one hand, a picture book in the other, her pink fluffy dress worthy of a little princess.
“I would never forget you,” he added, voice softening, as he cupped her face in a gesture of affection. But as soon as she began to lean into his touch, he dropped his hand, as though touching her caused him pain.
His eyes lingered on her face, memorizing all the details he noticed. Her sparkling bluebell eyes, her lips, glistening under the warm street light, a stray strand of raven hair, her small nose, her rosy cheeks and all their freckles, like separate stars in a constellation, were being burned into his memory, as though to add more weight to his words.
She quivered under his intense gaze, yet held her ground.
“You forgot me when you guys were eleven and went to New York for the whole summer.”
Félix groaned at the memory. “I didn’t forget you. I just pretended so I could…”
“So you could what?” Marinette raised an eyebrow at him.
“Nevermind.” Félix intended to take it to his grave that he’d only done it to get his mother to stop teasing him about being in love with the baker girl. “Besides, Adrien will be here and he’ll keep your mind off me. You won’t even have the time to miss me until I’m back here.”
Hesitantly, Marinette reached for his hand and interlaced their fingers.
“Adrien won’t sit with me in cafés and talk about books. He won’t promenade with me by the Seine and he won’t watch chick flicks with me when I’m sad, and he won’t bring me ice cream when it’s that time of the month, or read crappy fanfiction until the wee hours of the morning, because he’s not you, Félix.”
“He would do anything you asked.”
“Sure, but have you ever seen him sit still?” Marinette’s voice cracked. “Your brother is one of my best friends. But he’s not you.”
Félix clenched his teeth.
“I’m in love with you, Félix,” she whispered, the words leaving her in a single breath.
“Marinette,” he started, voice pained. Marinette hushed him by pressing her index finger against his lips.
“Let me finish while I still have the courage. I know I’m just setting myself up for heartbreak here because you’re leaving and nothing I say or do will stop it from happening, but I know what a grump you are in new places, with a lot of new people, and… And I need you to know, I need you to remember that for at least one Parisian girl, you are home.” Marinette swallowed, banishing the painful lump in her throat. “And she would want you to smile and do your best.”
Félix’s heart stirred when her eyes filled with tears. Departing from her was already hard enough.
He squeezed her hand, offering what little comfort he could without making things worse in the longer perspective.
He rested his forehead against hers and murmured her name.
“I’m sorry, I just couldn't let you go without telling you,” she sniffled, wiping a tear with the back of her free hand.
“Marinette… if I could stay, I would stay for you.”
“But you can’t.”
Félix’s thumb found the back of her hand and began to rub gentle circles on it, soothing her the best he could. Her hands had always been slightly smaller than his, always a little more calloused, always as warm as the heart of the girl they belonged to.
“I can’t.” He broke his own heart with those words, and Marinette’s too.
She smiled wryly, then leaned in to kiss his cheek. She moved slowly, giving him ample time to stop her if he didn’t consent. As her hot breath tickled his sensitive skin, Félix’s resolve crumbled. He turned his head deliberately, so she’d miss his cheek.
Their lips met in a soft and sweet kiss. Marinette’s eyes widened in surprise and she began to pull away, ready to apologize. But Félix’s grip on her hand tightened, begging her to stay. He deepened the kiss, slow and hesitant, desperate to extend it, catching her gasp with his mouth, as he slid his tongue between her parted lips.
She kissed him back. Rising to her tiptoes, she draped her free hand around his neck, pulling him closer. She could smell cinnamon and nutmeg on him; it reminded her of autumn, their endless strolls under the colorful trees, their shared lattes in paper cups.
Her heart twisted, remembering how close she was to losing it all.
Feeling the wetness of her cheeks, Félix pulled away in alarm.
“Marinette, I’m so sorry…” The ending of his sentence was muffled when Marinette mashed her lips against him, not wanting to hear a word of it. When she withdrew, it was only to catch her breath. He used that moment to speak again. “Marinette… I love you. You know I do. If there was any doubt, well… I hope what just happened has banished it.”
She could sense the but coming. She braced herself.
“But this will only make it harder to part later on.”
Her brittle laughter stung his heart like a sprinkle of salt on a fresh wound.
“I’m just trying to protect you,” he reasoned. It only intensified her laughter.
She wiped a tear, then launched herself onto him, wrapping her free hand around his neck. She buried her flaming face in his chest. She could hear his heartbeat thumping in its cage, like a bird trying to get free.
Félix wrapped an arm around her waist instinctively and rested his chin on top of her head.
“I don’t need your protection,” her muffled voice informed him from below.
“I know you don’t. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Then stop hurting me.” She lifted her head to give him a stern look. “Don’t doom us before giving us a chance.” She held up their intertwined hands, showing she wasn’t about to let go of him that easily. “I’d rather we try and fail than not try at all.”
“Okay,” he agreed without a fight, still dizzy from their kiss.
“Okay?”
He withdrew himself from her so she could see the seriousness in his face.
“Let’s try.”
The way her face lit up, as though he’d brought the moon down for her with those three words, made up for all future regrets his decision would bring.
Marinette blinked. Her eyebrows furrowed in disbelief and suspicion. Félix was stubborn as a mule; his decisions weren’t easily swayed. She examined his face for traces of false promises and mischief, for the telltale curved lip corner, and the impossible-to-hide glint in his eyes, but found none, leading her to only one conclusion.
“You’re not kidding.” She respired sharply. The hand behind his neck glided to cup his face. “I even prepared a speech in case you… in case you returned my feelings but objected to, well, this.” She gestured awkwardly.
“I’d still like to hear it.”
“Oh, no, now you won’t.” Marinette pecked his cheek, as she’d originally intended. “With what little time we have left… There are so many other things I’d rather do with you.”
“Like what?” he asked, as she stepped away, pulling him along by her hand.
“You owe me a dance, monsieur.”
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
Adrien grinned when he saw his brother and his best friend enter together, hand-in-hand.
“ Finally ,” huffed Chloé next to him, downing her drink. “He listened.”
“Huh?” Adrien tilted his head, a quizzical look on his face. “What did you do? And since when do you ship them?”
Chloé rolled her eyes.
“I don’t. Their pining was simply beginning to get on my nerves, so I had a few words with Félibear.”
“What did you say to him?” Adrien worried about the girl’s interference which oftentimes did more harm than good.
Chloé placed her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and crossed her arms over her chest defensively.
“That he’s going to England, not dying,” she shrugged. “And that if he wants to make it work, he’ll make it work. I don’t like Maritrash—”
“Chloé!”
“Fine, Marinette ,” she spat the name bitterly. “But she’s got her good points. And caring for Félix is one of them.”
“Aww,” cooed Adrien. “That’s so sweet!”
Chloé smacked his arm, lips in a pout that threatened to twist into a smug smile. Then her eyes focused on Félix’s shirt, narrowing in contempt.
“What happened to his suit ? And where the heck did he find that atrocious marinière?”
Adrien guffawed at her scornful tone, as she began heading towards the new couple, demanding answers. She was stopped by Adrien’s hand on her wrist.
“Oh, let them be, Chloé,” he pleaded softly. “Besides, it’s fitting, isn’t it? The sailor and his sea.”
“I swear to God, Adrien, if I hear one more pun from you tonight…”
Adrien was already heading for the door. Torn between giving Félix a word on his new attire and chasing after his brother, she chose the latter.