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Gabriel Agreste was a man who would do anything for his wife. Adrienne understood this from a very young age. The media saw an arrogant man, one who was rude to waitstaff and snobbish in hotels and unpleasant to be around in general. Adrienne saw a man whose wife had dietary restrictions, and yes, the restaurant would have to make everything over, this time with lactose-free butter as requested, and no, this room would not do because sometimes his wife rolled over in bed at night. Either the bed was too small or the floor too hard, because what if she fell, what then?
Adrienne also saw what happened behind the scenes. They'd see their mother give Gabriel a look and see him try to argue, but Emilie. And they'd see how she cupped his face and ran her thumb over the lines belonging to a man who worried far too much. They’d see the surrender in his eyes. They'd see how he tried to maintain his stone-cold composure in front of the person he'd offended before succumbing to Emilie's glare. Then they'd see the outrageous tip beneath the bill or resting on the nightstand as they left the hotel room.
Gabriel was a man who would do anything for his wife. He was also a man who did not particularly want to be a father.
But Emilie desperately wanted to be a mother.
Adrienne knew it broke her heart when they threw off dresses that their mother loved. Ones their father had designed so the family could match. She had dreamed of it for years, having a daughter, but this-–the screaming and thrashing and refusal—was not her dream.
Sometimes, she seemed to make peace with it. After every tantrum, Emilie would let Adrienne have their way. She'd say that it was okay even when they knew it wasn't and kiss them on the forehead, the gesture tinged with disappointment. Their heart would already be heavy with guilt when Gabriel entered. He'd fold his 6'2" body in half, but not so Adrienne could be on his level. Gabriel only saw himself as equal to one person; that wasn't Adrienne. Still, Gabriel needed Adrienne to look him in the eye. He'd explain how imperative it was that they wore whatever their mother wanted them to wear because it would make her happy, and their job—both their jobs—was to ensure Emilie was happy. After speaking, Gabriel would hold their gaze so the weight of his words would settle in Adrienne's heart. And when Adrienne broke away, he'd smile, pat the child on the head, and leave them with expectation.
The following day, when Adrienne appeared in their parents' doorway, their hair brushed by Nathalie and the dress pristine, not a ribbon or sequin out of place, Emilie would nearly leap for joy. Gabriel would say nothing, watch his wife fondly, then look at his child. He'd nod, and that was their understanding.
As they grew older, they got more freedom. Their mother would compromise, and Gabriel would allow it because Emilie did. He’d let Adrienne wear slacks and button downs to dinners, and let them tie their hair up; but never cut it. Emilie loved Adrienne’s hair. She’d spend hours upon hours in the mirror with them, braiding and unbraiding and gelling and tousling and getting it just right. Adrien hated it. They saw their father’s face in the mirror.
Adrienne owned a black suit. It was the first one their father had made them, and though it was more feminine than they liked—the flare accentuated their hips—it felt like them . It was what they planned to wear to the funeral.
That morning, they opened their closet to find a black dress in it’s place, with stockings and shoes that Adrien could feel pinching their toes before they even put them on.
Their anger and grief collided and all they wanted to do was tear the room apart. They wanted to burn everything to ashes, and the dress would make excellent kindling. Next to the dress was a note. Do what would make her happy.
They did.
Adrienne’s first best friend didn’t understand them.
“Can I do your nails?” he asked one night.
“Okay,” Adrienne said. “But only if I can take it off before I go home. If my mom sees, she might make me wear a dress.”
You see, Emilie would let Adrienne have their way. But if they ever expressed interest in anything feminine—well, one thing about Adrienne’s parents: if you gave them an inch, they took a mile.
“I wish my mom would let me wear dresses,” their friend said.
“I’ll trade you,” Adrienne harrumphed. Everytime they thought back on that moment now, they cringed. The things you don’t know when you’re seven.
“You don’t know how lucky you have it. You have so many shoes and shirts—”
“So do you,” Adrienne muttered.
“—and skirts and dresses.” He sighed wistfully. “You have so many pretty dresses.”
A trade began then; Adrienne would let him wear their dresses whenever he came over, and let him take his favorite ones to keep, on the conditions that he lent Adrienne some clothes from him.
It lasted for four years. At some point, his friend wanted Adrienne to start calling him a new name. “But only in secret,” he—she—said.
It was an easy change. They watched as their friends' hair started to grow longer, as she started to pitch her voice higher.
After the divorce, she walked up to Adrienne and her parents and said, “My name is Chloe.”
Andre stood close behind, and they didn’t dare call her anything different.
Adrienne had never felt so proud and so jealous at the same time.
Chloe came to understand Adrienne. Not fully, but enough. She was the one who suggested different pronouns. She asked them about a name. They said they’d think about it.
When it came to school, it was Chloe who arranged that, too. She asked again and again, “Are you sure you want me to tell them your name is Adrienne? They can put one thing on the documents and call you another. Your father will never know.”
They thought it over.
“I want them to call me Adrien.”
Chloe stared at them like they’d grown two heads, but she did what they said.
The day before the first day of school, Adrien cut off their hair. It was above their ears and a choppy, uneven mess. They could only imagine how horrible the back looked. When Nathalie found them, they were crying. They also had the biggest smile she’d ever seen.
They had been prepared for the yelling. And the pacing. And the attempted guilt trip.
“Going to school, wearing boys' clothing, cutting your hair.” Gabriel stopped and turned on his heel. “If your mother could see you—” he swung to look at Adrien and stopped abruptly. They held each other’s gaze. Gabriel’s jaw set, his mouth a thin line.
He walked away first.
Adrien had won battles, but the war was far from over.
Gabriel made them get their hair professionally cut so they didn’t look so much like a “goddamn lesbian.” They missed the first day of school.
“You will grow it back out,” Gabriel said.
On the second day, when Adrien arrived, Chloe introduced them to a girl named Juleka. Well, introduced was too kind a word. It was Chloe, after all. She shoved them into the girls bathroom and gave Juleka a brand new cosmetology kit.
“This is Adrien. They’re a friend of mine.” Chloe turned to them. “Tell her what you want.” She left.
“Sorry about that,” Adrien said. “You don’t have to.”
Juleka squinted at them. “Sit.”
When she was done, she gave them a once over.
“We can’t make you look too masc because of your father,” she said in that quiet voice of hers. She motioned for them to stand and walk to the mirror. “But I can do this for you every two weeks. That way it won’t get longer, and it can look more like…”
“Me.” Tears welled up in their eyes. Julekas brow furrowed with concern.
“You don’t like it?”
Adrien turned around and nearly tackled her in a hug. “Thank you.”
They remember the first time Nino came to their house. The shock registered first. Adrien’s room was pink, and there was a vanity bigger than Nino’s bed stocked with makeup supplies that he knew his best friend had never touched. There was also a closet with racks and racks of clothes. Nino found that especially amusing, since Adrien seemed to wear the same Gabriel Brand hoodie and thrifted jeans to school every day. But then his eyes drifted to Adrien’s corner. The one part of the room that felt like theirs. Their gaming collection, pool table, instruments, mini basketball hoop. Nino bounded over, his eyes wide as he took in the console in all its glory and exclaimed “Dude this is sick! I need a setup like this.”
They remember the first time they went to Nino’s house. The noise registered first. Nino’s house was loud, and the dining room table was so full Adrien needed to pull up an extra chair. Nino berated his mom for not telling him his cousins would be there and his mom berated him for not telling her he was bringing his “girlfriend.” Adrien had to stop themself from gagging. They liked Nino well enough, but they didn't want to be anyone’s girlfriend. His little brother nagged. Nino complained. The meal was hot, and Adrien thought, I’d give anything for this.
They were reminded of their arguments with Chloe, all those years ago. How she’d wear their skirts and dresses, and them her shirts and pants and even boxers.
Maybe that’s in the nature of best friends; to complement each other so wholly, to always want what the other had.
“Marinette needs a model.” Alya stood over Adrien, a wicked grin on her lips. Marinette stood behind, glaring daggers into the back of her friend's head. When her eyes landed on Adrien, though, she gave a too-wide smile, nodding.
Adrien hadn’t modeled for their father since they cut their hair. He hadn’t wanted them to.
“Okay,” they said. They smiled at Marinette, confused as her face turned red. But she returned the smile, so they guessed they made her happy. That was all they needed.
Marinette studied fashion, which meant she studied people. She knew what clothes could do to someone. How they could create or destroy confidence. She studied how people held themselves in her clothes, what she could do to make them stand a bit taller, feel a little better in their skin.
So of course she noticed Adrien.
She noticed how they slouched despite being a professional model. Their clothes were ill fitting; baggy hoodie, too long jeans. And she knew why. She’d heard them in the bathroom stall before and after school, frantically taking off their outer layer so Nathalie wouldn’t see and report them.
She guessed the clothes had come from Chloe. She assumed, just by knowing the type of person Adrien was, that they didn’t let her help them as much as she could. So she devised a plan.
“What’s this?” Adrien asked, holding up the tank top shaped garment. They pinched it between their fingers, trying to stretch the material.
“It’s a binder,” Marinette said. “Would you mind wearing it with the clothes? It’s okay if you don’t want to, I just—”
“I’ll wear it.”
Adrien went behind the changing board in Marinette’s room, and didn’t see her poorly suppressed grin.
They stepped out: leather jacket, stitched with green thread. A graphic tee with her logo over their binder. Still baggy, but better fitting jeans. Absolute euphoria on their face.
The outfit felt like it was made just for them. Years later, they’d find out that was exactly the case.
At 18, Adrien only needed three things: a duffel bag, filled with their clothes and binder, their money, saved from years working at the Dupain-Cheng bakery after school, and their identifying documents. Their surgery was scheduled for two months from now.
They left before the sun rose, but their father stood at the bottom of the stairs anyway. Waiting.
He knew this day was coming. Every day, Adrien came home a little braver. They stopped changing at school, instead walking around the mansion in their new clothes proudly. Their hair got longer, wilder, but not feminine. They refused to acknowledge when their father referred to them as “she” or even, scornfully, “he.” They got stronger— physically, mentally, and emotionally.
They didn’t know why Gabriel was waiting for them, and truth be told Gabriel didn’t either. Was it to see them off? Force them to stay? Beg them not to leave?
Adrien kept their head high, hoisting their bag up and walking towards the mansion doors. Gabriel reached out his hand as if to say something. Adrien paused. Didn’t look back.
Gabriel let them go.