Archive of Our Own

He’s a day early.

The schedule he keeps to isn’t a strict one; at least, not to the extent of his schedule in his civilian life. That’s one he has to dodge around, sometimes neglecting completely due to his other persona’s obligations. He’s been caught nearly one too many times by Nathalie showing up haggard to an interview or somewhat out of breath to an executive’s meeting (a more recent addition in the preceding months) with tie askew and hair dangerously ruffled - a hint to what he was doing, but with enough reasonable doubt that he gets off scott free. Typically he’s greeted with a clipped remark on his tardiness, laced with redundancy, but on other occasions all he receives is a questioning quirk of one of her thinly penciled brows, an insight to her suspicions of his whereabouts and activities. 

But she doesn’t voice them and he doesn’t offer much else in return besides a sheepish shrug and brilliant boyish grin. Nowadays, he doesn’t even prepare excuses because she never asks for details. It’s simple. 

Unlike before.

Or….maybe it’s so complicated that they’ve both decided to file it away for the unforeseeable future. Secrets have been abundant in the Agreste household for such a while that it almost seems natural. A cold marble mansion, devoid of life and light, became the ideal habitat to harbor secrets, regardless of reason or intention.

Sometimes, he sees an exhaustion in her eyes when the barrier crumbles. He also notices the way she idly rubs circles around her knees (she’s in and out of physical therapy and the doctors have said with solemnity that although she’s improved, she’ll never be quite as before). A frown mars her features, gaze forward but absent in the present.

Perhaps it’s also guilt.

Adrien isn’t really sure why she came back or why she chose to stay. By all means, he had figured he’d seen the last of her some years ago, when she chose to stay in London (on the trip meant for him). Later on, he realized he couldn’t blame her for leaving so abruptly.

And despite all the conflicted feelings he’s suffered through the years, learning of her involvement and just how little he’d been privy to as a child, Adrien concedes that her presence is a welcoming one. He appreciates her dedication to their family, despite being given all the reasons and more to avoid the Agreste legacy and all that came with it like the plague.

(A plague, indeed. He still remembers receiving a call from a hospital in London, her weak and apologetic voice static in his ears and daggers in his heart. He almost didn’t go. She almost didn’t make it.)

That was nearly two years ago. Since then, everything has been relatively peaceful, in terms of daily Parisian life. There was a bit of adjustment, weighted by trepidation for the next thing to go wrong, a disbelief that things had really ended so suddenly. Eyes glued to the sky, a collective breath held as the days ticked by, anticipation dampening any sense of victory or relief.

Eventually though, enough time went by that people grew comfortable in their routines again. Akuma attacks became a memory, Hawkmoth a distant phantom, and the heroes of Paris a lingering security blanket - not particularly needed, but always appreciated.

Life became more manageable. The balance between his superhero life and life as Adrien Agreste (now former model, primary shareholder in the Agreste brand, and aspiring university student) was finally leveled. He still has obligations to fulfill such as schoolwork, college prep, and the odd press conference or executive meeting for Agreste as the inheritor of the company. He doesn’t mind it, not really, considering he has far more freedom then he did as a teenager - doing what he wants as he pleases (within reason), more time to spend with his friends doing all sorts of activities that his father would have scoffed at the mere thought of Adrien partaking in any of them.

But he also knows that this isn’t the future he wants to build for himself. Though the overbearing weight of his father’s expectations have dissipated in the calamity that was the aftermath of Hawkmoth’s defeat, reveal, and arrest by proper Paris authorities, Adrien hardly had any sort of reprieve before public opinion and demands for explanations took their place. Thankfully, Nathalie and the few kind souls of his PR team that remained helped him navigate the worst of it. Truthfully, the negative remarks of faceless people on social media and the scathing op-eds published by gossip journalists don’t impact him all too much. He’s Chat Noir, co-savior of Paris and the one who put an end to Monarch’s grief-driven reign over all the citizens within it. 

Not that any of them know that, but as long as he remains confident in the side he’s on, it doesn’t really matter. He’s content with himself, despite all odds being against that very simple fact.

But still. He doesn’t want to carry the legacy his father created, regardless of the hand his late-mother had in building it. He doesn’t want to be confined to a life that was decided for him, over and over and over again in lieu of his own happiness. For the first time in so many years, he has the chance to carve out his own path, influenced by his decisions and his alone.

It’s part of the reason he’s genuinely considered on multiple occasions on conceding to Felix’s requests to take his place. Like when they were kids, his cousin offered to step in and take over what Adrien would rather not deal with, except this time without the lies or guises of pretending to be each other. And, despite the rough patch they went through as teenagers fueled by Felix’s bitterness at always being overlooked and Adrien’s demureness as a result of always being monitored, he knows that Felix really does mean well with his offer.

And what a tempting offer it is. It’s been a long time since Adrien’s wanted to run away from all his problems, to leave the harrowing battles to others to fight on his behalf. He’s grown a lot since then, facing his own problems head-on, staring into their faces no matter how much it strained him to do so.

(He still remembers his father’s eyes. The grief and pain, the hollowed defeat, but a significant lack of remorse. He wakes up some mornings, rubbing fruitlessly at the ache the memory leaves him after a restless night.)

That’s not what’s happening this time. He’s not running away, rather abandoning a path that was laid out for him - brick-by-brick, cobblestone-by-cobblestone, mapped and guided towards a destination he had no desire of reaching. He’s close to giving in to Felix’s demands, has spent much of his idle time thinking over the pros and cons, trying not to let his own selfishness cloud his judgment.

Ultimately, he doesn’t particularly care what Felix does with the business. He’s in no way attached to it and never really was, despite how much his father tried to involve him. The industry was never his home and the people within it never the type he felt any connection to.

No, his hesitancy has nothing to do with the company’s future. But it certainly has everything to do with Ladybug.

Aside from Nathalie (whose presence is awkward even on the best of days) and his friends (who are sweet and understanding and so much more than he could have ever dreamed of as his life flipped upside down), she’s been his only constant. The pillar that always stood so strong in the face of adversity, someone he learned to lean on throughout the years, knowing he’d do the same for her in a heartbeat. Ever since the loss of all the Miraculous, she’s trusted him with a larger share of the responsibility, letting him in and including him every instance she could.

When he’d learned the awful truth about his father, the shame drowning him as all the evidence piled on and he’d realized that all those years he’d been blind, so blind and so stupid , she was there. Strong and steady, soft and sympathetic, without an inkling as to the secrets trapped in his throat, wrenching his vocal chords with the fear that if she knew it all, he’d be left truly alone.

He didn’t tell her.

He didn’t need to.

Her eyes, so vibrant in the moonlight with the late night Parisian breeze tussling her pigtails, told him that she was there to stay. Shrouded in red speckled with black, they implored him to believe this as the truth.

He did. He does.

Even with absolutely nothing to keep them together - no more akumas, no more Hawkmoth/Shadowmoth/Monarch, no more threats that required the intervention of the Parisian superhero duo - she stuck by his side and he stuck by hers. (Well, clinged more-like, afraid that one day she would change her mind and ask for the ring back and he’d be right back where he started at thirteen years old with nothing and no one).

His worries were unprecedented, of course. Ladybug kept her promise, sticking by him, arranging rooftop rendezvous to discuss patrols and sometimes even lamenting the deafening silence that blanketed Paris brought on by the victory of their drawn-out battle that spanned their teenage years. They don’t miss the akumas per se, but something, something nostalgia?

(They ignore the darker reality that they’d been so consumed and enveloped by a childhood plagued with their closest friends and innocent civilians being exploited at the hands of an embittered man that they basically don’t know how to function with it all gone.)

Months passed like this. Then a year. And then two.

Now they’re both on the cusp of adulthood, considering their next phases in life, discussing the prospects without really doing so with vague words and even more vague details. They’re closer than ever, settling into a comfortable flow without the stress of heavy-duty superheroing where they can be themselves without anyone trying to tear it all down.

It’s nice. It’s light and jovial and everything Adrien ever wanted for the two of them: an indestructible bond, one bursting with trust and void of secrets.

Except for one.

That one.

Driven by his all-consuming love and adoration for Ladybug, he griped and begged to share that secret, to reveal themselves to each other so they could be together without any barriers. No masks, no secrets…just the two of them against the world. Adrien would’ve given anything and everything to know the face behind that mask, to clutch her name to his heart with all that he had. 

She’d been adamant - with good reason, of course, even if it only spelled out his disappointment - that not even they could know their identities. It was too dangerous. Hawkmoth was too big a threat. It could be the end of everything.

Admittedly, it was frustrating. To be held so close yet so far away, to be on the brink of discovery only to have it snatched away each time. Rejection became frequent, and - he winces at the memory - he had reacted poorly. Akin to a toddler being denied a sweet before bed, only concerned with what they want and upset about it being withheld. He’s not proud of his behavior and even less so of how he almost let that wreck their friendship on more than one occasion.

His one consolation, what brought him back every time, was the hope that their day would come. When it was all over, when there was nothing to hold them back, they would finally take off their masks and their relationship could flourish.

The sickly sweet dreams of a boy madly in love. The fantasies conjured by his younger self before he could be himself with anyone else, dreaming of the day that he could be someone he wanted to be with her .

It never came up.

When the dust had just barely settled and everything started to pick back up, with Paris rebuilding itself in the wake of a new era without terror, it finally occurred to Adrien that all those daydreams, those wishes and desires to share with Ladybug in which he shared with no one else, could actually become a reality. With nothing actively threatening their safety, with all of Ladybug’s reasoning now flat and irrelevant, the two of them had all the opportunity to make that reveal. Everything had been leading up to this.

And he had been terrified.

Too much had changed. Too much had been unraveled. His life as he knew it had been revealed to all be a lie, smoke and mirrors to the dark truths that painted his past and everything behind the scenes. 

If he told her now, would she hate him? Would she suspect him? Or would all that trust, everything they worked tirelessly to build…would it just wither away the second she glimpsed his face?

He spent many nights turning over every scenario, filling himself with a dread that never alleviated with the break of dawn. 

Around her, he kept his lips pinched, cautious, waiting for the hammer to come down, to shatter it all. To pepper him with cuts and gashes, left to clean up the mess and pull himself back together. To watch helplessly as her back turned on him, unforgiving.

She never brought attention to the matter.

And, in his selfish cowardice that stuck to him like a tiny parasite, starving and greedy after being neglected for so long, he never did either.

So here they are. Two years of peace. Two years absent of akumas.

And they still have no idea who each other is.

If there’s one positive thing to come of all this, it’s that in letting go of his obsession with his crime-fighting partner and every aspect about her, he was able to really engage with his friends more. Of course, it certainly helped that when news broke about his father, everyone was sympathetic to a fault. He’d appreciated the sentiments expressed by his classmates and took all of their apologetic glances in stride, using them to override the glimpses of hushed whispers that always halted when he entered a room.

He knew they weren’t being mean or malicious. He knew that they only approached him with the best of intentions and the utmost kindness they could offer. He knew all this, reminded himself constantly it was all because they cared, even if they were just unsure how to go about showing it. He regretted the spikes of annoyance that occasionally sprung up, wanting nothing more to be another faceless person in the crowd, to vanish into the background and become inconsequential.

The only ones who treated him like normal after everything were Alya and Nino. With Nino having revealed both of their superhero identities to him in a bout of weakness some years ago, they both offered their condolences, but reasonably knew that everything was as it should be. Doubling as Chat Noir, he agreed with them, but was also thankful that they sympathized with his situation and the upheaval of his…well, everything .

Instead of whispers and side-long glances, however, their only goal was to provide him with distractions. They took fast advantage of his free schedule, dragging him across the city and down streets of Paris he’d not often visited before. They never broached the topic of his father, not unless he mentioned it first. And when he did, they never held back in their true thoughts, which he respected them all the more for.

Nino had been fantastic in particular. It was never a secret that he disagreed with Gabriel Agreste on a variety of levels (with Adrien’s poor upbringing being all of the top thirty) and with the reveal that he was Hawkmoth all this time, that list became endless . And by god was he upfront about it. He never sugarcoated his words, never tread on eggshells around him like Adrien was made of porcelain where so much as a breath would shatter him. Others would wince at his sharp comments, but all Adrien could ever do was laugh.

He also often whisked Adrien away, leading the way to his apartment like one would to a stray kitten. They would play video games or Nino would mix music while Adrien listened, offering up critiques every now and again. Sometimes, if they were feeling up to it, they would do their homework before easily getting distracted by something online, be it a video or an update on the Ladyblog. Nino’s parents would invite him for dinner, every single time, and Adrien remembers the true euphoria that came with the first time when he realized he didn’t have to ask for permission only to be denied.

It was the best meal he’d had in a long time.

Other times, Nino would have Adrien tag along on something he’d have planned with Alya. Nothing too romantic, but Adrien could tell he stuck out like a sore thumb while walking sort of behind and beside them. He never complained and truthfully didn’t see anything to complain about, but somehow the couple got the impression that he was uncomfortable being a “third wheel”.

Soon enough, Marinette was always there too. 

According to Alya, it had taken some major convincing on her part. She’d said it with a light heart coupled with a sly wink, but Adrien couldn’t help but feel awful that she’d felt forced on his behalf. When he tried to say as much, Alya cut him off, tone quieter and more serious.

“I didn’t do this for you.”

He’d been so caught off guard he never asked for clarification.

Even still, it never stopped the guilt from creeping in every time they went on an outing and Marinette silently enforced this distance between the two of them. Granted, that little detail hadn’t really changed from before; she’s always been nervous around him. For why, he had no clue, and no amount of prodding ever got Nino to sing (even though Adrien knows, he knows that Nino isn’t telling him something). But there was something about the distance, the charge it held, that wasn’t like before. Something he hasn’t been able to put a finger on, but can still feel the static pricking the hairs on the back of his neck that lets him know that something had been disrupted.

His guess? She was afraid of him. Legitimately and terribly afraid.

He’s never forgotten Alya’s response when he had jokingly brought up that hypothesis one day to the two of them as they waited for her arrival.

“She’s going through a lot right now. Give her some time.”

The guilt only grew. Not only did she seem uncomfortable around him to the point of fear, but on top of it all she was dealing with other problems? With everyone doting on him, placating him and assuring him throughout his father’s arrest and subsequent trial, had there been no one there for her?

He remembers wanting to apologize and working up the words to do so when she had looked at him suddenly, a brief moment of eye contact that shook Adrien to his core.

Because he saw his own guilt reflected back at him.

After that day, it had been pure impulse that drove him to his next actions. With much internal debating that eventually became audible so that Plagg complained about his “endless whining”, he’d decided that damn it he wanted answers. And he knew just the person to get those answers.

That was the night the visiting started.

It hadn’t been the plan. Initially, Adrien had only wanted to have a conversation with her that spanned more than small talk or clipped sentences. He wanted to be someone that Marinette felt she could confide in, someone that she could trust with her troubles.

(Okay, maybe going as a masked vigilante instead of his civilian persona to trick her into talking to him wasn’t someone worthy of her trust but as he said before… pure impulse .)

To be fair, he hadn’t even really expected it to work. They weren’t close when he was on this side of the mask, save for the odd time here and there during akuma attacks where she offered her assistance or required his help. And with Hawkmoth out of the picture and a relative peace falling over Paris, they didn’t cross paths that often when he was Chat. There wasn’t much of a bond to base his half-baked plan on, and in retrospect he really should’ve received nothing less than a swift kick to the curb for encroaching on her personal matters.

But Marinette. Sweet, loving Marinette isn’t the type to turn anyone away, regardless of how close she is - or in this case, is not - to them. 

So they’d talked. Into the late hours of the night (or, perhaps the early hours of the morning) they sat on her balcony, a plate of croissants between them with mugs of tea clasped in their hands, talking about…well, everything.

She’d asked about him. His life outside the suit (insisting that he keep the details brief and vague), his interests (he remembers the fond eye roll when he told her of his love of anime, stating “and now everything makes sense” with a laugh at his pout), his dreams (he’d gotten stuck on that question and had quickly changed the topic).

She also asked about his superhero life. Moreso, what his plans were with the defeat of Hawkmoth and a future without akumas. 

It’s something he’d thought about himself time and time again. Each time he donned the suit and leapt over rooftops, with no set destination in mind, he wondered to himself if maybe Chat Noir’s time was over.

When he voiced as much to her with eyes gazing out to Notre Dame just across the way, he’d felt a gentle hand on his. There was a jolt, one he hadn’t been able to explain then, that struck straight through his core. He didn’t dare look over at her.

“Paris will always need Chat Noir,” she’d said, her soft lilting voice so firm he almost believed her. “Ladybug too.”

He had scoffed and shook her hand off, choosing to grab another croissant instead. “I feel like Ladybug is more useful than me. Paris would be fine with just her, I’m sure.”

Chat hadn’t meant to throw his own pity party, especially when the sole reason that he was there was to help Marinette with her struggles, but with everything going on in his life, it was all too easy to slip into a spiral of self-pity. He’s not proud of how he acted, no matter what justifications he may or may not have had. 

Marinette had gone quiet after that. A moment had passed with the two of them sitting in silence with Chat picking at the croissant in his hand, not too keen on actually eating it. He had just been about to place it back down and excuse himself for the night when finally, Marinette did speak.

“I meant that Ladybug needs you .”

Three months. Three months, two weeks, and four days had gone by since Hawkmoth’s downfall. Three months enduring the press slandering his family’s name (okay, not “slandering” since most of what they reported was the truth). Three months of graciously accepting everyone’s condolences which slowly but surely began to sound as if his father was dead and not just imprisoned for crimes against the city (and Adrien seriously had to consider whether or not he preferred the former scenario). Three months of the stares, the whispers, the hate, the sympathy, the confusion, the fucking confusion of it all.

Three-and-a-half fucking months of just pure and utter bullshit that he never asked for.

And all it had taken were six words to bring him crashing.

Chat isn’t proud of how he acted that night. Isn’t proud of the fact that it took six measly words to devolve into a mess of tears, falling so easily and thoughtlessly into Marinette’s outstretched arms and tucking his head beneath her chin as she spoke to him, the words which he has long forgotten but remembers the affection packed into each one. Isn’t proud that something so simple and near inconsequential had such an effect on him that not even three months of miserable survival had been able to pry from his chest.

But the worst of it all? He regrets falling back so cowardly on his promise, one unspoken but stitched into his heart, that he was going to be there for her .

So he vowed to visit again.

And so it quickly became a habit. Every so often, he’d take his sudden abundance of free time to check in on her. Sometimes they’d talk like the first night. Others would involve more mindless activities, like streaming tv shows or playing video games. She never divulged her troubles to him, if only occasionally mentioning something offhandedly or with a stubborn vagueness. 

Chat never wanted to pry, but he can’t help but feel that she might not ever open up without the extra shove. He tried starting out gently, making open statements or posing seemingly hypothetical questions based on what he knew about her as Adrien (she would narrow her eyes and press her lips into a line if he accidentally said something too specific), but never got far. He knew that it was time to up his game without outright showing his hand.

Which….is still a work-in-progress. He hasn’t come up with anything solid enough that it would either be worth the risk of pissing her off or would have any actual chance of working. The hours and hours of sleep he’s lost thinking over different situations, checking the pros and cons, and conjuring worst case scenarios. Matter-of-fact, he’s sure that a few of his brain cells have withered off and died from how much overthinking he’s committed to this one person.

He’s considering putting an ad in the paper.

Teenage boy who’s recently found out his father is a criminal that’s been terrorizing the city of Paris as a costumed villain while fighting daily against his son who doubles as a costumed superhero needs help with a girl.

With just a bit of workshopping, it could be printable.

Either way, in the meantime he’s keeping to the safe method of approaching cautiously, looking for opportunities in which she may be particularly vulnerable. Which sounds slimy, sure, but it’s for all the right reasons?

The ends justify the means or something to that order?

Which brings him back to the present.

He’s a day early.

Chat is perched on a rooftop across the way, using the shadow cast by the billboard behind him as camouflage. His eyes are trained on the balcony, noting the closed skylight. A warm light glows underneath, signaling that his princess is hidden away but very much awake. He imagines her fluttering around, working herself into a tizzy with some new design, headphones on and at full blast to block out the world.

(He’s found her like that a few other times, figuring out that they coincided with the days her behavior was especially odd or she was abnormally tense. Perfect opportunities that quickly melted away when she caught sight of him, expression immediately relaxing into something warm and guarded, locking him out when he’d just barely reached the door.)

Today was one of those days.

Admittedly, he doesn’t have much clue as to what set her off. It’s difficult to tell really, when she slips into it so quietly and slowly that he isn’t even sure when it began. Adrien looks for a pattern but finds none, unable to pin it on anything in particular. He’d almost call it random, but grasps at the reasoning behind it only to fall short and disregard the thought entirely.

But she’d certainly been in a funk all throughout the day. Even upon arrival, Adrien sensed an air about her that didn’t mesh quite right with the soft and bubbly image of Marinette in his head. He knows he wasn’t the only one because he noticed Alya and Nino share a look as Marinette trudged to her seat. But, as usual, neither commented, and he felt it would have been out of place for him to do so.

So he waited.

Adrien fought off the urge to twist around in his seat and reach out to crush her to his chest, asking - begging - for her to confide in him. He wanted to watch her unravel, to just let go and let something hold her for a change.

He waited and fidgeted and fought, counting the seconds as they went by, begging time to warp and send him into the night. A night with his princess, where maybe just maybe she’d allow him to be her shining knight, if only in the anonymity that only the night provided. If only then.

Chat takes a deep breath. And a second one. And a third, just in case.

He lands lightly on the balcony, his heavy boots making not a sound. Listening for the muffled music from headphones or even the shifts of her movements, he’s somewhat surprised to find none. Peeking through the skylight, he finds her bed empty, but eventually locates her sprawled out on her chaise. For a brief moment, he’s disappointed to think her asleep, but catches a quick movement as she sits up to take out her pigtails.

Not wasting another second, he raps thrice on the glass. Chat sees her jump, looking around her room frantically before tilting her head up and back to catch him waving at her.

“Chat?”

He hears his name clear as bells, but knows that she doesn’t have that same ability through the thick glass. He waves again before pointing to where the latch is, indicating that he wants to go inside.

She doesn’t move immediately. They become locked in some sort of…stare-off? If it can even be compared to that. She blinks up at him, owlishly, brows furrowing deeper and deeper as he watches the cogs in that big, beautiful brain of hers stutter and screech trying to start up motion. Coupled with the disheveled state of her clothes - the same ones she wore to school earlier - and her now loose but still very messy hair, he realizes she may have been asleep just minutes before his arrival. Before the guilt can set in at the realization and he can backpedal into the cool Parisian night, she’s on her feet and halfway up the ladder to her lofted bed. As her fingers work deftly with the latch to the skylight, she fixes him with her lazy smile, fondness leaking from every pore and he knows he’d feel worse if he turned tail and ran now.

Chat is about to drop down when she pokes her head through on her way out. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

He scratches the back of his head, caught red-handed not even ten seconds in. “Yeah. I had some extra free time. I can go, if you want?” He gives her an out, convincing himself it’s for her sake that he does.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s shaking her head and her fingertips grace his bicep as she blindly reaches out. They’ve barely found purchase when she’s leaning forward into his space and he gets a strong whiff of her fading perfume when a breeze passes through them. Something….flowery, though he isn’t well-versed with botany enough to make a distinction. 

Blue eyes bore into his own and something

Shifts.

“No! Please, Chaton,” she almost purrs his nickname and he wonders if she always has or that something in the air is just…different tonight. “I always enjoy your company, you know. I just…” and she trails off, gaze far away as she loses herself in her own thoughts and Chat perks up considerably.

Was this finally it? 

Was tonight the night she would lay bare all of her sorrows, her worries and frustrations, every pent up emotion she’s been concealing from everyone no matter how he’s tried to pry them away?

“Sorry,” she breathes. And that pensive look is gone, replaced with a brilliant smile. “I honestly forgot what I wanted to say. Um…” She twists her neck around to look back into her bedroom for just a moment before turning back to him. “If you give me…ten minutes? I can get changed and grab us some snacks if you wanted to hang out out here.” Her gaze lifts to the twinkling sky, the starlight barely just pinpricks visible through the light pollution. “It’s nice out,” she muses, voice soft and for no one in particular.

So, in practically no time at all, they’re seated on her balcony, in a nest of cushions and throws, with plates of baked goods, cut up fruits and cheeses, and a fresh pot of brewed tea between them. The fairy lights strung up around the terrace speckle her in starlight and Chat decides that Paris doesn’t need a midnight sky when Marinette Dupain-Cheng exists.

He also decides that one of these days, when the past is the past and things don’t suck anymore, he might like to sit in this spot as Adrien Agreste instead.

But it’s not that simple, so right now he focuses on plucking an apple slice from their makeshift charcuterie board and bites it in half. “My, my what a feast! Is there a special occasion, my princess?” And then he throws in a wink. For extra measure.

It gets him the reaction he’s looking for. Marinette is rolling her eyes dramatically at him and even audibly groaning at his theatrics. The first thing that she grabs is a chouquette which she pops into mouth around a large grin. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet here I am.” He tosses the rest of the apple slice into his mouth like she had with her pastry, but adds in the extra flair of licking his lips. “So obviously not bad enough for you to quit letting me in?”

Marinette hums, focusing on her next chouquette instead. “You’re toeing the line.”

Chat nods with a serious expression. “The optimal place to be.”

Marinette doesn’t even bother responding this time. They drift into a brief silence, but Adrien isn’t the biggest fan so he pushes onward.

“How’ve ya been?” Keep it light. Keep it casual . “Anything exciting going on?”

And she shrugs in that way he’s grown accustomed to that sparks just the tiniest bit of annoyance within him. The motion physically looks like she’s rolling back her stress and troubles, hiding them behind her in favor of putting on a face - a barrier between the two of them that feels gaping and echoing no matter how gently her knee brushes his thigh as they sit side-by-side. She deflects his question with such a simple motion and he can’t stand it.

“Not really,” she adds, voice neutral and almost sounding bored. “How are things with you?” And she turns her eyes to him, alight with a genuine desire to know that skipped past any thoughts of it being just pleasantries. “What has the savior of Paris been doing in his sudden abundance of free time?”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “You know well enough by now that that title isn’t mine.” He ignores the slight pout to her lips, unwilling to waver on that subject. “And I don’t know. Hanging out with friends. Writing college application essays. Pole vaulting rooftops. Just the same old stuff as always.” He keeps his answers as short as possible, wanting as little focus on him tonight as possible. “You really haven’t been up to anything lately?”

Chat looks over to see her chewing almost thoughtfully on another chouquette, one half delicately pinched between her fingers. “I mean, I guess it’s about the same for me, too.”

“Including pole vaulting over rooftops?”

She nods and pops the second half of the chouquette into her mouth with a grin. “Every night.”

He faux scratches at his head in bafflement. “Funny. You would think we would’ve run into each other by now.” Then he leans in close, internally chuckling at the way her breath hitches into a squeak at their proximity. “Unless you’re avoiding me on purpose?”

He waits for the equally witty comeback, anticipates the playful bite that will have him reeling and licking at fake wounds. Instead, she watches him silently, face somber and eyes searching for something within his own.

“Never you, Chaton.”

Chat doesn’t know what to do with their usual pattern broken and stumbles back to regain his bearings. He considers asking her to elaborate, because there’s so much she isn’t saying with those three words. A part of him realizes that an opening doesn’t get any better than this. This is his chance .

“You…” His eyes drop and with his gaze goes his shoulders and he chickens out fucking again . “You’ve got chouquette crumbs on your lip.”

It seems she hadn’t been expecting him to say that either. While she cleans herself off, he turns his head to the looming shadow of Notre Dame, following the twists and turns of the scaffolding with his eyes - anything to keep his shameful gaze away from her.

Just what is he doing ?!

The whole purpose of his coming here - from the beginning of his visitation to throwing off their schedule to come on this day today - was to find that crack in Marinette’s armor, to be a shoulder for her when the dam burst because in all his time of knowing her he isn’t sure she’s ever allowed herself to be in such a state.

At least….never around him. But even talking to most of their classmates, it seems seeing Marinette as anything other than kind, friendly, and fiercely protective of those she cares about isn’t really the norm. She’s had off days here and there, but it sounds like no one has seen her at her worst.

Except for maybe Alya but that’s not a cage he wants to go poking around in.

The scummy feeling returns and settles like cement in his stomach when he realizes that he wants to see her at her worst. And it’s getting harder and harder to rationalize it being for her sake.

“Sometimes I wonder if they’re going to be able to fix it.”

He blinks out of his stupor, unaware he’d even slipped into it. Turning around, he finds that Marinette had followed his gaze out to Notre Dame, locked in on the scaffolding as well, skeletons crawling the monolithic cathedral. Her head is tilted in thought, the breeze lifts her loose hair around her cheeks, and Chat has a brief thought of what her hair would feel like wrapped around his fingers. 

“I did some reading on it, you know.” She continues on, not waiting on an answer from him. “The carpenters working on the reconstruction are using traditional methods, back from when it was originally built. That’s why it’s taking longer.” She reaches down and grabs the first thing her fingers find purchase on - a strawberry. “There’s also still concerns about the structural damage done in the fire, so there’s still a high chance that it can’t be saved. Unless they do everything perfectly it’ll all just….” She bites harshly into her strawberry and juice pools around her fingertips and drips down.

After a few seconds have passed, Chat realizes that she isn’t going to finish her sentence. But he gets the gist of it and it invokes a feeling within him so deeply he doesn’t press her for more details. So they sit in silence once more, the faint sounds of traffic and nightlife around them barely a buzz compared to their own screaming thoughts.

Admittedly, Chat doesn’t really know where to go from here. Once more he’s in the optimal position to press her for what’s bothering her, on the cusp of unlocking what he’s worked so hard at for what is now months. But being here, finally on the brink of a breakthrough, doesn’t fill him with the euphoria and accomplishment he had always imagined he’d feel.

No. He feels…

“Can I tell you a secret?”

And he shoves that thought train aside for now, because it feels larger than this space and he needs the room if he’s going to sort out whatever direction that was headed in. Easily switching back to the present moment, he tilts his body, hands wrapped around his crossed ankles and cheshire grin painted on as he invades her space. “A secret? Now what kind of secrets could a damsel like yourself be carrying around?”

She giggles and swats him away before changing her mind and grabbing his shoulder and pulling him closer to her. The whiplash catches him off guard and this close he can smell her hair product intermingling with her perfume. None of it’s discernable (he was the poster child for his father’s fragrance but all-in-all never took any interest in any of that stuff), but it does provide him with a weird sense of serenity. 

An involuntary shudder wracks his torso when her lips nearly graze his ear and he can’t decide if he wants to shove her to the other side of the terrace or reel her in closer and wrap himself around her, molding molding molding to her touch and scent and breath….

“I’m pretty high right now.”

She giggles again but doesn’t pull away, hand still gripping onto his shoulder tightly. For the briefest of moments, Chat doesn’t register the rest of the sentence past “I’m pretty”, officially intoxicated by their closeness and dumb to everything else. Then it all catches up to him, painfully at once and he jerks away in shock.

“You’re what ?” 

Marinette tilts in head in her own confusion. “High? You know like…” She pauses and immediately gives out a harsh laugh, barely covering her mouth in time to muffle it. “Faded? Weed? Marijuanna? Cannabis?” Then she throws up a peace sign - a fucking peace sign - with another laugh. “Blaze it?”

“I…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up though truthfully he hasn’t been too concerned with keeping it pristine lately. In fact, it’s the messiest it’s ever been. “I know what it means I just…didn’t expect that you would…” he trails off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Sure, Marinette wasn’t the kind of person he would’ve pegged to do recreational drugs but at the same time, wasn’t it superficial of him to assume as much?

And why did he only care about these things when it came to her ?

Another question occurs to him suddenly. “Wait, how did you… where did you even get weed from?”

“What are you? A cop ?” 

He can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “I mean, technically? No.”

She purses her lips together, almost as if she doesn’t believe him before she’s laughing uncontrollably. She falls into him so easily, so naturally, as if there was no other option except for him to catch her. There’s truth to that, but the thought does give him pause. Something jumbled, something discombobulated, and he just needs the time, the time and the space to piece it all together…

“What’s so funny?” Because he can’t. Not right now. Not anytime soon.

All Marinette manages to give him is a shake of her head as she continues to laugh, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes that she paws away through deep breaths. “It’s….” Then she stiffens, briefly, slightly, so little that if he weren’t so attuned to her in this very moment he wouldn’t have even noticed. “Nothing. Inside joke.”

“With yourself?” he asks, incredulous.

“Is that a problem?” she fires back and he throws his hands up in mock surrender.

And then everything returns to how it was just a moment before with the two of them sitting side-by-side, a respectable distance between them, munching through more of their snacks as they take in the night. Chat’s eyes roam over all the plates in front of him and something else clicks.

“That’s why you got so much food tonight.”

She’s licking strawberry juice from her fingers while the other hand is reaching for a chocolate eclair. “I don’t see you complaining.”

“It wasn’t a complaint.” He smiles while weighing his own options, settling for a croissant like he knew he inevitably would. “Just an observation.”

It really is just that, too. There’s been a couple incidents in the short time he’s been here, and he feels like just about all of them can be attributed to Marinette’s current state of being. A shallow sense of relief fills him, but it’s easily clouded by the other mess of thoughts and feelings that have been plaguing him most of the night. 

When did things stop being so simple?

When did his life turn in such a horribly mangled way that something that should be simple and easy become a puzzle for him to decipher and pick apart? 

When the hell did Marinette become so….so…..

“Oh! Try this one.” A croissant is being impatiently pressed against the full of his lips and he slides his eyes to look at her, stunned. “My dad tried something new with the flour! He hasn’t put it on the shelves yet because there’s still some kinks to work out but…”

He smiles easily, leaning back just enough to speak. “So I’m your dad’s guinea pig?”

She smiles with a short shrug. “He believes Mama and I are too biased.”

“Hard not to be when he’s a culinary genius.” And he takes a bite gingerly of the pastry that she’s still holding. It’s flaky and golden perfection, and he’s ready to say as much when there’s something else. Something new and subtle that grows stronger the longer he chews.

Passionfruit?

Looking down at the pastry, he glances over for some sort of filling he might’ve missed, but sees only bread.

Marinette is watching him eagerly, carefully, gauging each and every one of his minute reactions. “So…?”

“Is that…?” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.

“Passionfruit?” She confirms with a nod. “Yeah, he’s been thinking about making them subtler than having some kind of filling. Part of the croissant…flavored dough! My mama dries out the fruit and he mashes it up into a powder that he mixes with the flour.” She furrows her brow briefly. “And…some other stuff which I can’t really remember right now. But!” Her moods change quickly again and her face is alight with passion and warmth and she’s leaning in close, closer, closer . “What do you think?”

“Amazing.” He nods before realizing that’s not enough. “Phenomenal. Five stars.”

Marinette giggles and Chat knows that was somehow the correct answer. “Is that your official Yelp review?”

“Princess, I will create a thousand burner accounts all with five-star reviews and it still won’t be enough to convey how much I love your parents’ bakery.” Finally, he plucks the croissant from her grip, trading it with the other one he’d barely started. “Especially their croissants.”

“Well then,” she purrs again and seriously, since when has she been doing that? “I’ll be sure to let them know their new recipe has earned Paris’ greatest superhero’s stamp of approval.”

He scoffs around a mouthful of his croissant. “Another bout of praise I’m undeserving of. But yes, please let them know just how good these are and that I’ll be the first in line when they start selling them.”

There’s no response, not that he was really looking for one. He continues to slowly eat his croissant, savoring as much as possible, focusing on staying rooted in this moment instead of letting his mind wander like it’s been doing most of the night.

“You’re not undeserving, you know that?”

He pauses, pastry held just inches from his mouth. Tilting his head and turning just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye, he sees how serious she looks and knows that it would be beyond inappropriate to pass it off as a joke. So he swallows his self-pity, swallows it deep to hopefully not resurface for a good while, and nods.

“I know. It just feels like it sometimes, I guess.”

Because he remembers that none of this is about him.

“I know what you mean.”

It never was.

“By the way, I never asked. And feel free to tell me off for this but, is there any particular reason you get high in secret?”

For all of his claims of wanting to be there for her, to be her knight in shining armor or a shoulder to cry on, to relent all of her worries and allow herself a vulnerability that she’s never shown, he really hasn’t been going about it in the best way.

Marinette picks at some lint on the blanket they’re sitting on, her hair framing her face like dark waterfalls, and he thinks again of how soft her tresses must be. “I dunno. Just because?”

“And the secret part of it?”

She takes another moment before answering him, eyes trained on the space between them and the invisible lint she’s set out to eradicate. When she does answer, her voice is quiet, subdued. But Chat hears her loud and clear.

“Alya knows.”

It’s not quite an answer, but it’s what he needs to hear. 

So for now, he decides to leave it at that. “Okay. That’s good, then, at least. Just in case something happens?”

He watches her nod absently, still not quite looking at him, and he takes that as a solid cue that this conversation is officially over. 

Because he can’t force her to open up. He can’t prey on her weak moments and hope that he’ll align it in a way that he’s her only option when she finally lets it all go. There’s things that he’s learned about Marinette over the years, most of that having been in just the past few months, but even though his actions were…. questionable at the very least, he realizes that it taught him a very valuable lesson.

He’d grown up in a household where feelings and emotions were repressed for the sake of an outward image. In ad campaigns, fashion events, business trips, the whole fucking thing that was a life under his father’s thumb, he was expected to behave a certain way. Emotions were never allowed to influence his actions, he was simply to obey and never question .

Getting out of that environment, especially in such a rushed and violent ordeal, put him in a spot that he was finally free to do so, to be his own person and express himself however he saw fit. But with so many years being molded into his father’s blueprint, Adrien realized that he didn’t know where to begin.

And Marinette….sweet, sweet Marinette just had the misfortune of being someone close to him that was going through her own mess of emotions, ones she was clearly hiding from him, and he had hoped that in getting her to find a release, that he might be able to steal some of that for himself so he could just stop feeling so shitty . That if she could figure out her mess of a life, then maybe just maybe there might be hope for him yet.

Coming to this realization brings an awful pit to his stomach and everything he’s eaten so far roils uncomfortably. He wants to throw up. He hates himself.

So much for swallowing all that self-pity, huh?

Chat’s about to excuse himself, thumbing through a list of reasons for the one that seems the least suspicious and has the best guarantee to ensure no follow-up questions are asked, when he feels a warm hand on top of his own. It’s muffled, through the glove, but it burns him all the same. What he sees when he turns around makes him choke on air.

Marinette is looking up at him, so sweetly with pink-tinged cheeks (and, oh gosh he’s just now noticing that her eyes are actually pretty red). Doe eyes blink up at him shyly, but never waver from his gaze now that she’s managed to capture it.

“And now you know, too.”

None of this had ever been about him.

She’s smiling at him, lips stained red from all the strawberries she’s eaten, and he’s never been a fan of strawberries but he wants to know if her lips taste just as sweet. He tries to shake the thought away, but his heart is pounding so loudly that it barely matters.

This was always about her. And yet so many selfish thoughts keep crossing his mind.

They’re close now. Like they’d been so many times before. But this time….

He wonders if she would pull away if he leans in right now.

He wonders if her lips are as soft as her heart.

He wonders where he’s supposed to go from here.

Logically, Chat knows that this is a very dangerous path to trek down. He also knows that even if that is something they could both want, he definitely shouldn’t experiment with anything while she is quite literally not sober .

Still, he finds himself falling forward, unable to tear his eyes away from her lips. All he can register is the tightness in his chest, coiled tightly around his heart and soul and has it always been so difficult to breathe? When did he forget how?

He can smell her perfume….and then he can’t anymore.

Chat wasn’t even aware that he’d closed his eyes at any point of all that, but he opens them to find that Marinette has pulled away, putting a significant amount of distance between the two of them and is avoiding his gaze. Guilt resurfaces and he considers playing it off as a fluke to save them both the embarrassment, but he knows that’s just the coward’s way out.

And he really wants to be better than that.

Better for her.

“Marinette, I’m -”

“Sorry.”

Chat blinks once. He blinks twice. He stares at her, dumbfounded.

“ You’re sorry?” he asks, to be sure he heard her right. 

She quickly nods and her fingers twitch in her lap. “Yeah. About….yeah.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” The question is out of his mouth before he can even really think about it. He’s still processing the shock and utter confusion of everything that has transpired up to this point. 

Marinette peeks at him through her eyelashes and Chat realizes once again that there’s so much that she still isn’t telling him.

“I have nightmares.” She isn’t looking at him. “Panic attacks, too.”

It’s a clear deflection, but one in a very odd direction that Chat can’t help but allow himself to be steered in the way she’s pulling. Because this is it. She’s opening up to him, of her own volition, which is everything he had been working towards. 

But with a glance at her lips, Chat is reminded just how selfish he is.

Licking his own, he tries to stay focused on what she’s saying. “So, the weed?”

Marinette nods. “It helps.” 

There’s a small part of him that knows that her approach isn’t exactly the healthiest in dealing with something of that magnitude. He also knows that it really isn’t his place to give out mental health advice when his own is a toxic cesspool that he’s always on the verge of drowning in. So he keeps it to himself, instead telling her without words that he’s there to listen if she wants to keep going.

She doesn’t move her hand away from his own placed on top of it.

“I really only try to use it when things get especially bad.” She sighs and runs her free hand through her hair, fingers snagging in a few places. “And today was a day .”

Chat could understand that. More than she probably knows. “Did something happen?”

A shake of her head. “No.” A pause. “Well, not exactly.” A longer pause where she purses her lips in thought, looking towards their school. “It’s complicated.”

And he nods, because there is no vague statement that he can agree with more wholeheartedly. They’re all around the age where things are changing, quickly and quicker as they begin to contemplate the outward trajectory of their lives - who they are, who they want to be, who they can be. It’s a lot of self-reflection, molding passions and desires into tangible paths to lead them into the adults they have no choice but to become. 

It’s enough to make any of them a little ( a lot ) anxious, but coupled with the fact that they all traversed their teenage years being subject to a heartbroken man’s (no, no that’s too nice but dammit if he doesn’t somewhat understand what his father was going through) acts of malice day after day after day…

It’s safe to say that many of his close friends he’d grown up with were varying levels of “very much not okay”.

Out of all of them though, he figured that maybe Marinette had been doing the best. She’d always been the one to lift all their spirits when things got dreary or seemed their most hopeless. That quick-witted brain of hers was always churning out solutions, advice, encouragements….

He really should’ve known that all of that had been taking its toll on her. To have so many people rely on you as their beacon of light, the one they could turn to in times of darkness….

Briefly, a shadow image of a time long past, he remembers a night shower that did nothing to conceal the tears flowing from baby blues framed in red…

Chat glances at Marinette, her own blue eyes shining in the dim glow of fairy lights, red-rimmed from drugs, and realizes just how uncanny it all is.

“I understand complicated,” is what he says because he doesn’t know how to be her. How to be an unwavering support, a steady glimmer of positivity because all of that burned out with the death of his mother and turned to ash with the reveal of his father.

But he does get it. The bone-crushing pressure to be what everyone wants from you, expects from you because you’ve been painted a certain way in their eyes and now they won’t see you any other way. And after enough time, you play the role so well you almost don’t know how to be anything else. Can’t be anything else.

Her head drops onto his shoulder and he scoots closer until their hips knock together so she won’t strain her neck. Her arm sneaks around his own and he reaches over with his free hand to tuck her hair behind her ear so it doesn’t tickle her face. The tresses slide easily over his gloved fingers and he thinks again about doing this as Adrien.

A comfortable silence falls over them. Each are lost to their own trail of thoughts and Chat tries not to count how many times his circle back to Marinette and her pretty pink lips or the way her warmth seeps into his arm or the way her hair tickles his jawline or…

“You’re about to go to college too, right?”

Chat jerks back to the present. “Wh-huh?”

She giggles and he has half the mind to spend the rest of the night figuring how to bottle it up to help him whenever he struggles to sleep. “College? We’re the same age, right?”

“Oh.” Did he tell her that? Maybe. He can’t remember. “Yeah. Next year.”

She hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything else. It seems like they might fall into silence once more, but his stupid mouth decides to say stupid words he didn’t authorize.

“I’m thinking about becoming a teacher.”

This catches her attention if the fact that she lifts her head and stares at him in shock is any indication. “Really?”

He tries to smirk, give off a light air in a joking manner, but he can’t deny that something in her expression is making him a little self-conscious. “What? You don’t think I’d be a good role model for future generations?”

“No!” She tightens her hold on his arm, eyes wide in panic. “No, I…” Her eyes pierce into his own, brilliant, beautiful blue turning him to stone and he knows he’s officially a goner. “I actually think that suits you perfectly.” She punctuates her sentence with the softest smile he’s ever seen her wear and it’s just for him .

A goner, a goner, he’s such a fucking goner ….

He clears his throat and cracks a wobbly smile, willing and willing that she doesn’t notice the way she unravels him so completely to wind around her finger like thread. “You mean puuurrrfectly ?”

Immediately her smile gives way to exasperation and he can physically feel his heart calm down. “Nevermind, I take it back. You’ll poison their minds with your unfunny jokes.”

He gives a dramatic mock gasp. “Unfunny? I’ll have you know my jokes score big laughs with the kiddos-”

She snorts. “‘Kiddos’?”

“- especially my puns!”

Marinette shrugs and plucks a grape from one of the plates, all the food half-eaten and nearly forgotten by this point. “It’s not their fault they don’t know any better.”

“Oh yeah?” he huffs. Crossing his arms, he leans forward with an indignant pout. “So what’s your plan then?”

Chat regrets asking almost immediately.

Something shifts and then she’s falling. Falling into thought, a pensive look on her face as she studies the grape pinched between her finger and thumb. Falling into silence as her lips press into a thin line. Falling, falling, falling away as she begins to recede and distance herself. 

Chat wants to reach out, to grab onto her to stop the descent or fuck if he could just take that stupid question back…

“I don’t know.”

He reels himself back in from the spiral of self-deprecation he was beginning to traverse ( thanks Dad ) and focuses back on her. Her posture is already somehow more relaxed than it was seconds ago and he begins to wonder if he imagined the dark cloud that had begun to settle overhead.

“I don’t know.” A breathless laugh falls from her lips and she throws her face up to the night sky. “I have…. no fucking clue!” 

There’s a moment where Chat realizes he has no idea what to do with himself. The whiplash from having fun to sending her into a depressive state to now….the beginning of what could be a psychotic episode? He’s never seen her like this. He’s never seen anyone like this.

“Um…” He tries to think of something to say, tries to channel his inner-Marinette but that’s ridiculous because there is no one on this earth that could ever hope to emulate her energy let alone him . 

“I used to…” She pauses, thinking for a short moment, before nodding to herself and continuing. “I used to have this dream. Everything mapped out from middle school to high school to college and then…life.” She chuckles softly, dropping her head back down to look at him. “I actually had this binder. With everything I wanted to do and how I’d get there.

“Get good grades, build a solid portfolio of all my designs and get accepted into one of the top fashion schools in Paris or Milan. I’d even considered New York. Score an internship with The Gabriel Agreste.” Her voice wavers at that part and he can’t stop the flinch from hearing his father’s name in such a mundane way so far after everything. “I was going to become a successful fashion designer. Get married and have kids.” She waves her hand in a circle. “You know. Typical stuff.”

A couple of moments go by and he waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t seem like she has anything more to say. Chat considers leaving it there, not too eager himself to broach the topic of his father and all that comes with that can of worms, but he’s never heard her speak so candidly and he doesn’t want it to end.

“So…since Gabriel Agreste….?” She doesn’t move, but he can hear from the way she breathes she’s listening. He licks his lips and decides to just go for it.

“There are other fashion designers out there. Better ones too. Any of them would be lucky to have you as their protege.” He places his hand gingerly on her shoulder, wary of scaring her off but wanting to offer some form of comfort where he feels his words are lacking. “You can still-”

“I can’t .”

Chat is shocked into silence, but before he can venture with a question she’s tumbling down and down and all he can do is watch.

“It’s….too much has happened. Everything has changed and it’s too much and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now that it’s all over.” She has an almost wild look in her eye, but it’s far away from him. “Everything just got so complicated and I can’t figure out what to do with myself because everything has been such a mess for so long and now I don’t know who I am or what I want or what I’m even allowed to do moving on from here especially…” He hears the first hitch of her breath and he’s moving before rational thoughts can hold him back.

“I ruined his life,” she cries into his chest. “I ruined his life and I can’t even tell him I’m sorry.”

Chat doesn’t know where to begin. Each of his thoughts is a half-finished question, working out how to piece everything together to try and decipher what she’s talking about. But…

No. No, that’s not the focus here and he has to remember that.

So he holds her silently, letting his questions lay unasked, unformed, and tries to focus on steadying her trembling body. His hand threads through her locks of hair and he tucks his chin atop her head, doing all that he can to serve as a reminder that she’s not alone. That regardless of what thoughts she has of herself, there is someone around that is willing to stay and care for her through it all.

And if his arms squeeze her a little tighter, press her a little closer to his chest where her warmth burns him, scalding but heavenly, it’s just because the chill of night is beginning to seep in.

Only when her trembles have nearly stopped and the squeaks of her sobs are fewer and further between does he try to prod her, open it up in case there’s anything else she needs to get off her chest.

So he takes a deep breath.

And she pushes him away.

“No.” Her head is ducked down, avoiding any chance of eye contact and her arms are holding him away from her. “No, don’t I….” She lets out an animalistic grunt of frustration, loud and violent enough to almost make him jump. “ Dammit . I…Forget it. I wasn’t supposed to say that please just forget it.”

Chat frowns and places a hand on top of one hers still resting on his chest. “Princess…” He clears his throat. “Marinette, you…” He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to comfort her. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in this situation. For all his planning and scheming, he never really considered what would happen if he got to this point. There are no words that he can conjure that would offer her any solace. There’s the little niggling feeling of failure and he scrambles to stifle that because they can’t both be out of commission and out of all people in the world that he could fail, Marinette is one that he never wants to. He’ll do anything, everything to ensure that she never feels like he isn’t enough to step up.

“You’re worrying me,” and it’s the truth, even if it’s not what she needs to hear. But he doesn’t know what she needs, doesn’t know how to ask. “Marinette, please, don’t feel like you have to-”

“But I do!” Her breath hitches and fresh tears drip off her face, a face that he still can’t see because she won’t look at him. “I, I…..I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much and-” 

He doesn’t want to let her spiral again. He can’t because suddenly it feels like he’s losing her; she’s retreating and leaving him behind and he doesn’t want to imagine a world without Marinette in it. Especially not when she’s been one of his constants through all the bullshit going on in his own life. Not when letting her go would be just as painful for her as it would be for him.

Not just when he’s beginning to realize just how much she means to him. How much she’s always meant to him. How much he wants to mean something to her, too.

“Marinette, please,” he’s speaking softly, hands encompassing both of hers still on his chest. “It’s okay. Just….just, um….breathe with me? Yeah. Breathe with me and relax.” 

It feels performative when he takes in a large gulp of air and holds it, but he’s more than pleased when he sees Marinette finally looking up at him, mirroring his actions with only a second of hesitation. He lets out his breath slowly, watching Marinette follow behind with only a second apart and then he’s breathing in again and so is she. It’s calming, the silence that accompanies their exercise, and Chat realizes that it’s helping to clear his head too. He still has questions, more than he could properly word, but taking a moment to just breathe allows him to narrow it all down to whatever is the most beneficial for helping Marinette in this situation. 

So for a moment, they take the time to breathe in tandem, reigning in control and calming both of their frantic minds and even more frantic emotions. They move practically in sync, chests rising and falling, his hands still wrapped around hers, and there’s just…a weird sense of familiarity and comfort that comes with it all. 

Once she looks visibly more relaxed and not on the verge of another breakdown, he ventures a question. “Do…you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head and his first impulse is to ask why not before he reels himself in. Then she sighs and with it her entire body seems to deflate and now she looks so…. tiny . “I do. I have but I….” The pause that follows after she drifts off is long enough that Chat figures she’s forgotten the rest or doesn’t want to finish, so he’s about to leave it alone because he can’t force this can’t force her .

Finally, she raises her eyes to his and watery blue shocks him to his core and something

Shifts.

Again. 

More violently. More…

“I didn’t want to do it like this,” she whispers.

The words, though vague in themselves, elicit some type of excitement within him, and his eyes - against his wishes - drift down.

“Do what?” he murmurs, not calling attention to how when he looks back up, he sees her eyes lowered for a split second before returning to his, pink dusting her cheeks and he just wishes and hopes that he’s not imagining it all.

The question prompts her to begin trembling again, just slightly so, but he’s already reeling her into his arms before either of them can say anything, think anything….

Her body melds into his, perfectly, seamlessly. He breathes her in and remembers again just how far gone he is, how he hadn’t even realized until now when it’s all he can think about. Once more, morals and reason struggle to keep him controlled, and he tries and tries and tries to remind himself that he shouldn’t, not when she’s high, not like this …

Not like this not like this not like this not like this even though she feels so petite and right and familiar like he’s already danced this tune before but just can’t place when, can’t place where.

Not like this even though all he can think about, all that plays in his mind is connecting his lips to hers and tasting, comforting, indulging in everything that is Marinette and all she has to offer to him. 

Not like this not like-

“I wanted to tell you,” she breathes. “Wanted…” 

Something about their closeness. Something about her warmth. Something about the way she looks at him. Chat feels emboldened and he doesn’t even care if she sees how openly and hungrily he’s staring at her lips.

“I didn’t know how,” she says, nerves wracking each syllable with a tremble. “After everything…I was afraid maybe you’d be….disappointed. Or hate me.”

“Never.” He cradles her cheek and shivers at the way her breath catches when his thumb grazes the corner of her lip. “I could never hate you. No matter what.” The static between them is buzzing to something more powerful, more tangible, and for all that has been said and done tonight, he knows that this is the point of no return. This is where everything changes, no matter which way it unfolds. “Marinette….”

“I’m Ladybug.”

It’s enough to give him pause, but his mind is still hazy with thoughts of her lips and how beautiful they would look swollen and bruised. He blinks slowly, unsure, and his mind only starts to clear up when she pulls away just so to gauge his reaction.

“You’re…”

Marinette nods and bites her lip and damn he wants to as well. “I couldn’t…I didn’t know….” She sighs, a short huffy sort of thing, before piercing him with her gaze, so fierce and determined but soft and compassionate and he’s hit with the overwhelming familiarity all at once.

“It’s me, Chaton .”

And yes, she has always said his name like that. Just…not like this. Not in the quiet of a late night spread out on her terrace with a small, impromptu picnic laid out for them or even in the confines of her Very Pink bedroom lounging on her chaise when she shouts his name in annoyance when he teases her relentlessly.

No, no but he has heard her say his name like that from atop strangers’ rooftops, legs dangling over the edge while they lay on their backs to watch the city lights dance in the sky. He’s heard it when he’s racing through the streets from above, vaulting and flipping while he chases her laughter, so vivid and captivating that he hears it in his dreams clear as day. She only says it like that when it’s the two of them, partners from day one, his first friend that he made and kept all on his own, a red and black spotted mask the only thing that truly ever kept her from his grasp…

“It…” He looks into those eyes he’s gazed into so many times, the same ones that he’s seen filled with elation, with sorrow, with fear and uncertainty, with boundless confidence, with hurt and kindness and frustration and playfulness and so so much more because he was always staring, always yearning . These are the eyes he fell in love with at the ripe age of fourteen and the same ones he’s falling into right now, pitching forward without a doubt in his mind because it’s her and it always has been and suddenly everything is…

Easy.

It’s all so simple.

Chat huffs out a laugh and Marinette’s eyelashes flutter when it fans out across her face. “Of course, it’s you,” he says and he’s grinning so hard that his cheeks hurt, a soreness he hasn’t felt in ages. “It’s the only thing that seems so right.”

Of course, he’s fully aware there’s so much more to consider and talk about, that the conversation doesn’t actually end here, but honestly? The idea of delving into this deeper, talking with her, all of her, and learning and re-learning everything about her and Ladybug now all mashed into one person, one beautiful, beautiful person…it excites him. Moreso than he’s properly felt in what is far too long.

“So…” She’s looking at him warily, in trepid anticipation and he smooths his thumb over her brow line without even thinking. “You…aren’t….disappointed?”

He frowns, poking out his lip a little bit in confusion, and tilts his head. “Why would I be disappointed to learn that one of the most amazing girls I know is also none other than my partner?” It’s clear she wasn’t expecting so heartfelt or to be lavished in compliments, and her cheeks warm to a soft red that makes her look radiant. She tries to pull away from him in clear embarrassment, but he holds steady and she doesn’t even budge.

“I…” The way she’s looking at him has him unraveling centimeter by centimeter, winding and wrapping, and Chat knows that this has been a process spanning years . “I guess I just thought maybe you’d be…upset to learn that it’s just…. me .”

“Marinette…” His hands rise up to cup her face and something that would’ve seemed too intimate and out of place at the beginning of the night is as natural as breathing in this moment. “In all my time of knowing you - both sides of you - you have never given yourself the credit you deserve. You are amazing and kind and so, so brave and whether you acknowledge it or not, there are so many people you’ve inspired through your actions.” He brushes the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone, swiping across the faint freckles, and makes a note to himself to map them out one day to compare to the constellations in the sky. “Ever since I met you, I have strived to be better and kinder to everyone I meet and I know there’s so many people in our class - hell, strangers even - who have been so much better for meeting you. I have been so much better for meeting you. And if I have to say this to you every single day until you believe it too, I will be out here on your balcony every night until you kick me out.”

Marinette stays silent throughout his short speech, eyes wide in astonishment and those pretty pink lips of hers parted just so. Chat has the brief idea to seal the whole thing with a chaste kiss but then remembers that no, no she is still very much high and he’s compromised enough of his morals the past few months through all his schemes that he’s sure to be damned if he racks up another point.

Another time, perhaps. If he’s so lucky.

“ ‘Our class’?”

Fuck. Fuck.

He’d been so focused on singing her praises he hadn’t been paying attention to what he was saying. Evidently, she had even though realistically shouldn’t she be too high to catch little details like that? Or did it help her to focus on small things like that? Fuck, it doesn’t matter because he’s fucked .

To be completely fair, based on some unspoken agreement of equality, they probably both were prepared that when they revealed their identities it would be both of them, together. At the same time. Back when they were younger, Chat had been banking on it, in fact.

But now, with so much that’s happened and how very complicated things have gotten as they’ve gotten older, dropping his mask seems much more daunting than before. He’d already been nervous for when the day inevitably came (and on some level, he almost thinks he wouldn’t have minded if it actually never did). With the reveal of his very own father being Hawkmoth, all of his excitement had faded away, replaced with an ever-growing dread that when Ladybug found out, she’d be angry, maybe even hate him.

And now, finding out that his Lady is also Marinette, the sweetest girl he’s ever known and one of his best friends, that fear has only increased tenfold. The risk of losing her comes with an added gutpunch, that he’d be losing not just one but two of his closest friends (that are now apparently the same person). 

Even worse? He is irrevocably and completely in love with her, a fact that’s never changed despite his brain thinking so, and everything is just so….

Complicated. Again.

Chat doesn’t know how to unfuck this. He doesn’t even know if he can unfuck this. And he’s not ready to lose her so quickly, not when this is probably the best thing that’s happened to him since his impromptu freedom from his father after the arrest. 

He wonders if trying to play it off will make it worse. He wonders if being upfront will only result in her screaming at him, shouting and crying that she never wants to-

“Chaton?”

He snaps back to the present and out of his thoughts to see her looking up at him in unfiltered concern. Her hands, mirroring his, are on his face and he only registers that he’d let a few tears slip in all of that when she pulls one hand away to wipe the wetness from her fingers.

“Sorry,” he laughs out, but it’s hollow and they can both hear the echo of his turmoil. “I, uh…” There’s really no way out of this, is there? And even if there is, would he take it? Doesn’t Marinette deserve the truth, after all this time? 

Isn’t it time for him to finally stop running?

“I guess that cat’s out of the bag,” he tries again, but his voice is shaking and he doesn’t quite stick the landing. “Um…look, I’ve been wanting to tell you who I really am too, for a long time. Like, a long , long time.”

Marinette nods, a small smile spreading across her lips. “You used to beg me all the time when we were kids.”

He shrugs, trying to match her softness, but all he can feel are dark pools filling his lungs and pulling him into the deep. No light, no warmth, oh hell he’s really about to do this, huh? “Well, can you blame a guy? You were so amazing and I was…sort of? obsessed with you.”

He sees the way her brow raises at his choice of words, but is thankful when she doesn’t call him out on it.

“But,” and he takes a deep breath to try and dislodge the weight in his chest to no avail, “then everything with Hawkmoth…Monarch… that dude happened and…I knew if I told you who I am, you’d hate me and never want to talk to me again.”

Marinette frowns, and it’s quite adorable the way her cheeks puff out indignantly but it’s hard to focus on that right now. “That’s not-”

“You already do,” he cuts her off, knowing the protest before it falls from her lips. A mass of emotions flicker across her face - confusion, guilt, even a bit of defiance - and he watches them all come and go with a resolute sort of sadness.

“Every time you look at me, when you actually manage to look at me, all I see is….” Chat pauses, searching for the word he’s looking for.

“You just look so uncomfortable. Like you’d rather be anywhere else than around me.”

When he manages to look her in the eye again, he sees the faint glow of recognition sparking behind her eyes. It makes sense, of course. His Lady, Marinette, her - she’s always been so smart, so quick to figure things out and quick to come up with a plan. So of course she’s already figured it all out, has put the pieces together to paint the horrible, awful picture that is his pretty screwed up life.

A quiet part of him realizes that this is it. The actual point of no return. 

And he’s about to lose everything all over again. Just like with his mother, just like with his father, because no one can ever just stay .

Her hands slide from his face and when he glimpses at her face, he sees her wide eyes rimmed with unshed tears and knows that this is it. The moment has come and all he can do at this point is endure it all because…maybe he owes her at least that much?

“Adrien…” Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, shaky with uncertainty. Without looking at her, he nods his head to confirm, but doesn’t dare drop his transformation. It’s a silly thing to think, but somehow he has the notion that it’s his last bit of defense. The one final barrier that protects his already chafed heart.

A weight collides with his chest, nearly knocking him over. Before he can even fully comprehend what’s going on, a set of arms are wrapped tight around his torso and her body is shaking against him, sobs pouring out from her as she mumbles quick and muffled apologies. 

It’s not the reaction he’d been expecting, to say the least.

He almost goes to question her, to ask her why she’s apologizing to him when it was his father that caused so much trouble for her and her family and all their friends. But he’s struck with a bout of familiarity and after taking a few seconds to think, he realizes that this is the second time she’s cried into his chest in one night. The first time…

“I ruined his life.”

Gingerly, he wraps a single arm around her body, waiting for her to flinch away which she never does. If anything, this small action prompts her to press into him harder, another muffled apology vibrating against his chest.

“I ruined his life and I can’t even tell him I’m sorry.”

Oh.

Chat takes a deep breath and inhales only her. Her sweetness, the saltiness of her guilt pent up for years while she endured day after day, seeing his face each and every day and knowing something she could never tell him…

It isn’t the first time he’s had the thought, and it will certainly not be the last, but he thinks this is the one that will contain the utmost sincerity and venom out of all past and future utterances.

Fuck his dad.

Just…there truly aren’t enough words to convey just how much in that moment he hates his father and all that he’s done. No childhood memories, no thoughts of his mother and how highly she spoke of that man can redeem him in Adrien’s mind. Not after all he’d been through. Not after all that his father put him through.

And certainly not now, not ever when it’s because of him that Marinette Dupain-Cheng - smart, talented, beautiful Marinette that doubles as his partner, The Ladybug - is rendered to a tearful mess. Not when he knows how many late nights she’d pulled throughout their teenage years, the dark circles he could never see under her eyes  behind the mask but could still hear in her voice or clock by her unsteady movements across rooftops. Not when he knows the stress and the turmoil that all of this has caused her, the weight of the world dropped on the shoulders of someone so small, so unprepared, but with a heart too full to turn away from those in need. The panic attacks he’d helped her through, the insecurities and the doubts that plagued her every thought and every move until she would be rendered immobile, barely breathing and on the cusp of totally shutting down.

She’d never asked for any of this. His father never gave her a choice.

So….yeah.

Fuck that guy.

Putting aside his bitterness for now, he finally unlatches Marinette from his chest, heart skipping a beat when she fights him to press in closer. He almost relents, but he needs her to look at him. He needs her to look at him so she knows without a shadow of a doubt…

“Now Marinette, I know you aren’t apologizing to me for doing what you had to do with Hawkmoth.”

“I-”

“ Or for ‘ruining my life’ because I can very much tell you that you did not do anything of the sort.”

Marinette sniffles, her eyes full of protest but mouth unmoving, allowing him to continue unhindered.

“My father…” and he pauses, because he’s not really sure what to say. Everything said about him since the arrest has been spoken by others - kind, unkind, and absolutely tearing his character to shreds - but he’s barely said much himself aside from pre-written press statements. The most he’s actually said regarding the situation was during his interviews as Chat Noir, but even Ladybug handled the brunt of the questioning because he remembers everything being a fog that he couldn’t function through. He remembers flashes - bright reds and blues and blinding whites - and a cacophony of noise simmered down to a muffled, monotonous droning, ringing in his ears. He remembers pushing a smile, one that spelled triumph, when behind it lay only confusion, betrayal, and immense heartbreak.

Even now, years later and with a clearer head, it’s difficult to put all of his thoughts, all of his emotions, everything towards his father into words. There’s too much nuance, contradictions and clashing memories, facts and feelings muddled in his brain to the point he can’t discern which is which some days.

He must’ve been quiet for longer than he’d realized, because Marinette is looking at him now with an understanding look in her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears and sparkling like starlight.

“It’s complicated?” she offers.

Chat gives a wry smile, backed with a genuine chuckle. “Understatement of the century.” Then he remembers what he was doing. “But that’s neither here nor there. I guess what I wanted to say was that I don’t blame you for the choices he made. Sometimes I think I understand where he was coming from and others I can’t imagine him going to that length for such a selfish reason. And yes ,” he emphasizes because he feels her chest puff up, ready to say something. “It was an entirely selfish reason. Regardless of what he says or thinks, I don’t think he did any of that with me in mind. If he had, he wouldn’t have kept it a secret.” Right? At least he thinks so.

“My father made his choices. And now he’s facing the consequences of those choices and the actions that came with them. The repercussions of everything that’s happened since is between me and him.” Chat tightens his hold around Marinette’s waist, raising one hand to tilt her chin up to look at him properly without the room to shy away. He holds her gaze steady, boring into her and hoping that she can feel his next words in heart and know the truth they hold.

“But with everything that’s happened since we exposed him and he was arrested, through the trail and everything that came after, I have never once thought you were to blame.” His fingers grace the line of her jaw, soft and round, warm through his gloves. “The only one who’s blaming you is yourself. And that’s not fair to do that to yourself. Especially since you never had a choice like he did.”

There’s a brief moment where she doesn’t respond, simply watching him in something akin to…awe? It’s a familiar expression, but he’s remiss to admit he’d never really thought she’d have any reason to revere him. Even now, it’s puzzling to see that expression directed his way that isn’t something bordering on unhealthy obsession that his fans from his younger years held to.

Now, those fans are distant memories, not so much having abandoned him but coming to realize that he’s undeserving of the pedestal they placed him on.

But here sits Marinette, looking at him like he just announced he’s the one who strung up the stars in the sky. It’s…somehow more unnerving than the obsession he’d gotten so accustomed to. Part of him thinks it could be due to how undeserving he feels of the attention, a fact that’s remained truthful since the beginning of his modeling days orchestrated by his father as some weird combination of nepotism, free labor, and ultimate control. The other part wonders if maybe it has something to do with the fact that years later, their roles have reversed.

No. Not reversed, because he still sees her as the most amazing human being he knows, mask or no. But…more equal? As though his admirations he’d saved solely for her were being returned, a dream come true.

“How do you always do that?”

Chat blinks. “Do what?”

“It’s like you know exactly what to say to make me feel better.” Her smile is soft and warm and he wants nothing more than to melt into it. Maybe he will.

“Can you keep a secret?”

She nods, a shallow shake of her head considering he’s still holding her by the chin.

Chat leans closer, straying off to the right to whisper by her ear. “I have no fucking clue.”

And when she giggles his chest explodes. Fireworks of great magnitude reverberate against his ribcage, painting his heart and soul in brilliant hues and sparking a flurry of emotions that burn bright and white hot. It’s invigorating. It’s almost agonizing to keep it all inside. His limbs buzz in anticipation, his lungs shake as he struggles to breathe and everything is overwhelming him in the best and worst of ways.

He has to leave.

He doesn’t want to let her go.

Reigning in his spilling emotions as best as he can, he looks to the midnight sky, inky and dark and shimmering with Parisian lights. A few choice clouds drift lazily ahead, wispy like watercolors. Below them he can still hear the sounds of nightlife, noticing that somewhere in the midst of everything the noise has softened. It’s still a weekday, after all, and everyone - locals, tourists, and everyone in-between - have little to linger for as the night stretches on. Chat thinks that maybe it’s time for him to head home as well, and leave Marinette to sleep.

He looks down to tell her as much and his breath hitches when he catches that soft, adoring look in her eyes.

“That too,” she mumbles. But he hears every syllable, ringing like bells.

“Huh?”

She doesn’t respond as her eyes rove over his face and he realizes belatedly that she’s studying him. He squirms, though it’s nothing like how his father used to scrutinize him, searching for imperfections that needed to be hammered out. It’s more contemplative, careful and curious, and then she’s reaching up to graze the pads of her fingers along his jawline, centimeters away from the corner of his mouth.

“All this time,” she mutters, likely to herself but not so much as to keep him from hearing her.

Her eyes drift down, settling in that space just above his chin and…oh. Oh . 

Chat musters up the strength against his own desires, because yes yes he wants her the way her eyes want him but fucking hell he has morals . So before either of them can move closer, he’s reaching up to gently wrap his hand around her wrist (and god fuck has she always been so tiny? His fingers circle her wrist without his palm even touching her).

“Marinette,” he whispers, some unspoken notion that anything louder will shatter everything and he’ll wake up into a reality where everything tonight was just a product of his imagination. “My Lady,” he says just to see her reaction and he sees the way she shivers and shit shit shit bad idea , “you’re high.”

She licks her lips and he practically whimpers. “So?”

“I…” God, how does she do that? Nearly the entire night he’s been struggling not to cross a line considering how not sober she is compared to his being very sober and she just brushes it aside…just like that? Between her verbal disregard for the imbalance of sobriety and her body language, Chat almost surrenders and gives into her entirely.

Almost .

With a burst of strength he didn’t even know he was capable of at that moment, he pulls her hand away from his face, letting out a breath as he begins to nudge her backwards to put some space between them. He feels shaky. Something inside him is screaming that he’s an idiot. The girl he’s been in love with for years - and has also fallen in love with on two separate occasions unwittingly - is nearly sprawled in his lap, soft and warm and so, so inviting and he’s…running away.

Chat shakes his head. No. Not running away. He’s being a gentleman . 

“We shouldn’t,” he says finally, making sure to keep her at arm’s length. A pout settles on her lips, baby blue irises sparkling pleadingly. It actually seems to physically pain him to deny her, but he knows that she deserves better . She deserves for this to be done right .

It’s that train of thought that gives him the strength to fully remove her from his space.

“Not like this. I want to do this properly,” he assures, just in case she somehow gets the idea that he doesn’t want her so viscerally that each fiber of his being burns at the mere thought of being closer to her. “I want to treat you as you deserve to be treated. I…” He swallows, struggling because his throat is constricting the longer she bats those doe eyes at him. “I want to take you on a date. You choose whatever it is you want and I swear I’ll make it happen.”

It’s clear that, despite everything going on between them tonight - from secrets shared, identities revealed, and revelations had - she wasn’t expecting anything like this. Her eyes are blown wide, dilated pupils ringed with brilliant blue that catch the fairy lights just so and he’s ready to throw it all out the window because fuck she’s so fucking adorable . 

“A…date?” she repeats, words laden with uncertainty. 

He nods, catching both of her hands with his. “Yeah. A date. If you want, that is.”

Marinette sits on that for a short moment, teeth pulling at her bottom lip. Her eyes fall to their joined hands and he brushes his thumb across the back of one of her hands. He notices her cheeks tinting a light shade of pink before her eyes shyly raise up to meet his own.

“Will you kiss me then?”

God yes .

“If…if that’s what you want,” he stammers out instead, his gaze locked on her lips betraying him anyway.

A tiny smile creeps onto her face and he thinks again how much of a goner he is. Almost as if he’d never really been given a choice other than to give himself wholly and unabashedly to her to do as she pleases with him. At her beck and call, wrapped in her essence until the end of his days.

There are worse fates. 

“I think it is,” she says and with those four simple words, his fate is sealed.

“Until then,” he lifts one of her hands to his lips, brushing them against smooth skin, trailing across her knuckles. “I think my princess has earned some rest?”

Chat manages to lift his eyes in time to see her mouth silently, the word “yours”. He hadn’t even realized his slip of the tongue, but it elates him to no end to see that she revels in belonging to him, just as much as he’s devoted himself to her. For that, he presses a firm kiss just above her knuckle, branding her gently with the quiet gesture.

Getting her to bed is a rather simple affair, all things considered. Most of the food she’d brought up had been finished, and the plates that held sparse leftovers she insisted to leave until morning. Chat did try to insist that he had no problem cleaning up for her, but it mostly fell on deaf ears as Marinette swayed in place as a large yawn overcame her. Focusing on his primary mission, he escorts her over to the hatch that dropped down into her bedroom and jumps down to help her down from below. 

He almost considers tucking her into bed, but figures it might be more awkward to wait while she changes into pajamas. Instead, he grabs her hand again, placing another kiss to the back of it and wishes her goodnight.

He’s thrown when her other hand reaches behind his neck and pulls him down. A light kiss lands on the tip of his nose and his face burns.

“Goodnight, Minou,” she breathes and he wonders how he’s supposed to leave her now.

His feet carry him away automatically, something he’s thankful for, as his brain continues to malfunction from her sweet gesture. “Yeah…yeah, uh sleep good? Um…shit, I mean-”

He’s cut off by the sound of her string of giggles and he nearly hits his head on the skylight hatch, which he decides that even if he had, it would’ve been totally worth it. He’d suffer endlessly to see her happy, but he knows that part of the reason he loves her so dearly is that she’d never ask that of him.

“Goodnight, My Lady.” He doesn’t stop the grin (not that he’d even want to) from spreading across his face to finally be able to say that to the girl behind the mask. “I’ll…see you in school tomorrow?”

She nods and gives him a small wave as he climbs out of her bedroom. He’s barely shut the hatch when he hears her exclaim to which he pokes his head back in.

“And…that date?” she asks, cheeks tinged pink, pink pink pink and so very pretty the way her dark hair frames her face.

He grins at her, because his heart is full and for the first time in a long time, he can say that he feels content. “I still have tomorrow free, if that sounds good to you?”

She hums, her own grin peeking out despite how she tries to school her expression. “Maybe. Though I am expecting company tomorrow night…”

He furrows his brow, smile immediately dropping from his face. Company? As in, some of their friends? Or maybe family out of town? He tries not to be disappointed. 

Sensing his confusion, she chuckles and steps onto her bed to get closer to his face. “Yeah, this stray cat comes by sometimes. Typically the same time every week.” Her smile widens as recognition floods his system. “Suppose that might be my fault. I keep feeding him, after all.”

And he nods, playing along and all of this feels as natural as breathing. “Seems like a good samaritan thing to do. Though, think there might be room for a starving ex-model as well?”

Marinette hums thoughtfully, standing on her tiptoes now. “Might be a stretch but…I could probably manage.” Then she’s biting her lip again and Chat damns his resolve. Damns it to hell . “Is that alright with you?”

He grins, a sly thing, and she tilts her head at him.

“It sounds puuuurrfect .”

He ducks his head out of the hatch before the swat she aims for his head lands. By the time she’s raised herself out of the skylight, he’s already on the next rooftop over, laughing at her thinly veiled threats thrown his way.

Every moment between them lingers as he treks the Parisian skyline, his feet hardly touching down on the rooftops as he practically floats all the way home. Sleep comes easy that night, the first night in a long while, and hopefully the first night with many more to follow.

The next morning, he watches her rush into the classroom seconds before the bell rings, barely casting him a glance as she collapses into her seat. Minutes tick by and she’s not so much spared him a look let alone said anything towards him, and Adrien begins to fear that maybe all of it had been a dream, after all.

And then he’s looking down at a handkerchief splayed next to his notebook, a single golden-brown croissant placed carefully on top. The embroidery at one of the corners reads “T&S” - Tom & Sabine.

Adrien lifts his eyes in time to catch Marinette’s, and she pauses, lingering. Something electric crawls up his spine and then she’s facing forward again, preparing her notes for the day.

Reassured and, thankfully, with his sanity still intact, he lifts the croissant to take a healthy bite, pausing briefly before sinking into it fully, wholeheartedly. A faint taste tickles his tongue, familiar and subtle.

Passionfruit.