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After his father’s funeral, Adrien returns home to find a foosball table in his room.
The tabletop football game is in the same location as it has always been. Adrien has countless fond memories of playing with it during games night, him facing off against his mum while his dad flipped pancakes to the side.
After the tear-stained afternoon he just had (lowering his dad to eternal rest next to his mum’s grave—with Nathalie’s hand on his shoulder, Marinette’s fingers laced through his, and his friends a comforting semi-circle behind him), the sight should’ve filled him with melancholy fondness.
Then, what is the meaning of this iron band around his chest, squeezing and constricting and compressing his lungs as the white w̴̝͓̜̻͉̚h̶̡͈͉̼̰̼͛̇î̶̩͔̞͌̃͋̏̋t̶̥̰̜̪̣͖̑͝ë̵̳̻͖́͊̈́͂͒͊̋ ẇ̵͇͚̱͌̇̈́̆̊̀̑͝h̷̘̤͚̀̍̔̾̾̒̚͝ḭ̶̡̤̰̜̤̫̩͎̎͌͗͆̈́͠͝t̵̞̮̥̫͍̅͗̾͐͂͂͠e̴̢̨̛̝͙̦͇̻̹̭̜̼̽ walls bear down upon him, and he cannot breathe why can’t he breathe why did Father put him here in this sterile white room please let him out he won’t run away again he promises just let him out of this room Father—!
“—kid, kitten, look at me.” the press of something cool but alive unlike that room upon his cheek. Adrien glances up, and barely manages to focus his eyes on a floating black blob. “Yes, that’s it. Breathe, in, out—no, no, not like that—! You’re hurting yourself—damnit, I’m so bad at this, I wish Sugarcube or Pigtails were here—okay. Listen, Adrien—you’re not in—” s̶̘̞̱̳͓͗̍t̴͈͔̞̜̍͐̀̇̇̆͗̈a̵͎̮͔̥͓͎̳̹͆̑́͒̉́t̶̟̫̭̲̲͍̉̿̀͆̍̽̀̚͜i̷̖͈̹͇͉̋ͅc̴̨̦̩̱͛̔̎̒͛̕͘͘ “—anymore—shit, I just made things worse, didn’t I? Uh, here—”
The cool presence recedes wait why is it leaving too why are you leaving please don’t leave me too I promise to be good please—!
Something creamy, gooey, and oh kwamis it stinks gets shoved into his mouth. Adrien gags, then gasps as the motion allows air to flow into his lungs. His chest inflates—was it not inflated before? He didn’t realise how starved of oxygen he has become until his intercoastal muscles began contracting and relaxing again.
“Plagg,” Adrien hisses when he finally gathers enough presence of mind to spit that disgusting thing out of his mouth, “Did you just shove camembert into my mouth!?”
“You weren’t responding to anything else!” Plagg huffs defensively. Then, deliberately softening his voice, “Please tell me you’re feeling better now, kitten.”
A pause. The complaint about Plagg sacrificing his camembert for Adrien’s little episode and “so you better compensate me with a wheel of pule cheese, kitten” never comes.
Huh. Adrien blinks. Plagg is really worried for him this time.
“Don’t worry, Plagg.” Adrien smiles, his model face unfurling across his face like second nature (except why would it be? Adrien hasn’t modelled since he was ten, after the one and only time he told his parents he wasn’t comfortable with seeing his face plastered across magazines and billboards. his short-lived modelling career had only lasted months—his mum and dad didn’t pressure him into trying ever again) “I’m fine. I don’t know what came over me.”
He shifts his eyes over to the—no. He can’t even bring himself to look at it, just the thought of the foosball table is enough to have his trachea sealing up, and kwamis, this is embarrassing, just because he buried his dad earlier this afternoon doesn’t entitle him to—
“…kid.” Plagg interrupts with uncharacteristic solemnity. He flies closer to Adrien’s face, and Adrien pretends not to notice how Plagg has coincidentally shifted to cover the foosball table from Adrien’s view. “You don’t have to be fine. It’s very stressful to be—” s̶̘̞̱̳͓͗̍t̴͈͔̞̜̍͐̀̇̇̆͗̈a̵͎̮͔̥͓͎̳̹͆̑́͒̉́t̶̟̫̭̲̲͍̉̿̀͆̍̽̀̚͜i̷̖͈̹͇͉̋ͅc̴̨̦̩̱͛̔̎̒͛̕͘͘ Plagg growls with frustration, “—for your father to—” s̶̘̞̱̳͓͗̍t̴͈͔̞̜̍͐̀̇̇̆͗̈a̵͎̮͔̥͓͎̳̹͆̑́͒̉́t̶̟̫̭̲̲͍̉̿̀͆̍̽̀̚͜i̷̖͈̹͇͉̋ͅc̴̨̦̩̱͛̔̎̒͛̕͘͘ “Ugh, fine! I just meant that you’ve had a stressful few days, Adrien. It’s perfectly okay not to feel okay.”
Adrien nods doubtfully, trying not to feel weirded off that Plagg is giving him advice about his emotions. “Still, thank you.” he forces his lips to curl upwards, and finds himself surprised at how easy plastering on a fake smile is, “I know it can’t have been easy to give up your camembert for me. I’ll order something special for you, I promise.”
Plagg’s eyes blow wide open as his pupils dilate. “You’ll—no! Don’t distract me. Do you…” he hesitates, seemingly at a loss of words, “—do you want me to take care of it?”
Adrien snorts, getting to his feet (since when was he kneeling on the ground) (ow, his knees hurt) (and why are there bruises around his neck) (did he actually try to strangle himself?) (fuck, no wonder Plagg was worried) “No, Plagg. Don’t Cataclysm the—” foosball table “—that thing. It’s just a piece of wood, it can’t hurt me. I’ll just throw it away tomorrow morning.”
“If you’re sure,” Plagg replies dubiously, “But have you considered how cathartic it will be for you to Cataclysm it? What do you have the miraculous of Destruction for, if not to—”
Adrien laughs, allowing Plagg’s words to wash over him like a wave, drowning out the hints of terror lingering in his heart. And if he carefully doesn’t look at the foosball table as he takes off his black dress shirt and gets ready for bed, Plagg doesn’t call him out on it.
The next morning, the foosball table is already gone from his room. Adrien breathes a sigh of relief (even though he really shouldn’t, that thing is one of his remaining mementos of those dreamlike days when both of his parents were alive).
Plagg doesn’t comment on that, either. Adrien decides to take a small fortune out of his trust fund to buy that pule cheese Plagg has been begging for. It isn’t like Mum and Dad will be able to question him about the purchase anymore (it isn’t like they ever have).