Archive of Our Own

“I think it looks good,” said Tikki.

Marinette frowned as she peered at the drawing board. The three-piece suit she’d sketched out did look good, her self esteem wasn’t so bad she couldn’t recognise that. But it didn’t look good enough — it didn’t look right.

“What if I straightened the shoulders?”

“What if…” said Tikki, pulling the words out to their maximum length and putting an arm to her chin; Marinette groaned. She knew what Tikki was looking at: the tousled blonde hair, the narrow posture, the all-too-familiar figure. “... What if you tried a different model?”

“Tikki…”

“It’s not about that. I just think the look isn’t right for him,” Tikki chirped, twirling in the air. “Try finding a different model, maybe?”

“But he’s not my model,” Marinette mumbled. She didn’t have any models. Only friends who helped her out sometimes.

Tikki floated down and patted her on the cheek. “Maybe not, but maybe you could draw someone else, like Kim. Or Nino. Or Luka —”

Marinette’s phone rang just at that moment, cutting Tikki off. She got up and walked over to the desk, peered at the screen, gasped — because it was Luka calling.

“Maybe it’s fate,” said Tikki. “Go on, pick up!”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette picked up the phone and held it to her ear. Fate wasn’t really a thing she believed in, at least not like this. He was probably just calling her to invite her to the Liberty later; this wasn’t going to be some fated meeting between the fashion designer and her muse that made the suit look perfect. “Hey, Luka!” she said.

But the voice that came through the other end wasn’t Luka’s. Instead, it sounded… not familiar, not unfamiliar, but a space inbetween. Something she’d heard in a dream somewhere. “Hello? Is this Marinette Dupen Chang?”

“Um. Dupain-Cheng, but yes?”

“Right. Dupain-Cheng. Well, I’m Vivica Escoffier.”

“Vivica!” yelped Marinette, although she regretted it immediately. She never met Vivica, after all — only Ladybug did. With a tiny strangled shriek as a buffer, she scrambled for an explanation. “Um, you play guitar with, with Stagged Jone, r-right?”

“Jagged Stone, yeah. Look, I’m gonna cut straight to the chase. I’m launching a solo career and I want your help. I’d like you to be my producer.”

If what Vivica just said were a leg, its knee would have been launched very hard into Marinette’s stomach. If it were a poem, it wouldn’t have rhymed and it wouldn’t even really be a poem, just a very loud curse word. “... What?” Marinette managed.

“Jagged Stone says you revitalised his career. I’d like to be revitalised too. Well, vitalised in the first place, but that’s what I’m after. And I’m not touching Bob Roth with a twenty foot stick unless it’s got a deadly poisonous tip. So, like, I wanna meet up and chat about this, yeah? Sound good?”

“I — I —”

“Good. Meet me at the Grand Paris Hotel tomorrow at six in the evening, in the lobby. Thanks, Mars.”

The line went dead.

“... What did Luka want?” Tikki’s voice was like a knock on a neighbour’s door, distant and irrelevant. The voice from the other end of the line was far too loud for anything else to matter.

“It wasn’t Luka,” Marinette managed. She glanced down at her drawing, at the bad imitation of Adrien in the bad imitation of a suit. “And… I think I need to lie down.”

Tikki flitted straight from cheery to concerned, floated backwards a little bit. “Um, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Marinette nodded, but she knew it was too stiff — that all of her was too stiff — to come across as sincere. “I just… need to think for a bit.”

She needed to lie down and to think for sure. In fact she needed to do both of those things not just for a bit, but probably the whole time until about five-thirty tomorrow evening.

And she needed to know what on Earth a producer was and what they were expected to do.

With heavy feet, she pulled herself across to the chaise longue and flopped down on it sideways, pulled out her phone, and messaged Nino. He was into music. He made playlists and did DJing and talked about soundstations in class. He’d know something that could help her.

How was she friendly enough with celebrities to get calls from other celebrities? How was her life like this now, at fourteen and a half years old? How was she getting nicknames from them before she’d even talked to them? ‘Thanks, Mars?’ What was that about —

— her phone vibrated. She glanced down at the screen and saw Nino had replied.

sorry im in calais w fam for weekend! back on sundial
sunday*
why is sunday in my suggestion lol
*sundial

Right. It was a long weekend.

And the meeting was tomorrow.

Which meant she couldn’t rest, or lie down, or think. She needed to do research.

Ignoring Tikki’s questions about why she wasn’t lying down, and then (an hour later) Tikki’s calls for her to turn off the computer and go to bed, she spent the next fifteen hours researching music production and the following four regretting her life choices.

She arrived at the hotel ten minutes late after a two hour power nap, dressed to the best of her abilities. She still wasn’t sure what a producer was even supposed to do, but she knew they were supposed to be professional and creative and useful and smart and perceptive and so she’d worn clothes that she hoped communicated all those things at once: jeans for useful, colourful short skirt on top for creative, white blouse for professional, buttoned-up blazer for smart, and pulled-back hair for perceptive. The makeup was light and might not fit the colours of her outfit, but she really didn’t have the time to do it properly.

It didn’t take long to spot Vivica, and once she did, it was impossible not to recognise the girl. She didn’t look as distinctive as Desperada had, but her lazy look — something that looked like it belonged on someone lounging at home, from the pajama bottoms to the ratty tee to the loose and unbuttoned outer shirt — made her stand out a lot against the golden decor.

But also, her hairstyle was the same as before, a mixture of open and secretive because of the ponytail that fully bared her neck but also the bangs that fell across almost half her face. She still had the same pretty mole just beside her nose and the same chestnut eyes, and — Marinette shook her head. What was she thinking about right now?

Vivica’s expression was the only thing that was truly changed, because the last time Marinette saw her she was alternating between cheerful and enraged. Surprised disappointment was a new look on her.

“... Hey,” said Marinette, waving uncertainly.

Vivica raised an eyebrow. “You’re Marinette?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Wow.” Vivica’s expression softened a little bit. “You’re definitely not eighteen.”

Marinette almost dropped her bag. “Was — was I supposed to be?”

“Well, Jagged said he thought you were probably that old. But then again, he thinks I’m twenty-two. Come, follow me.” With that, Vivica turned around and walked towards the elevators, waving over her shoulder to pull Marinette along with her; Marinette could only do as she was told, though her feet did not listen to what she was telling them and took a little while to get started.

“So how old are you actually, Mars?” said Vivica. There was that nickname again. It wasn’t something she’d ever been called before, but it was kind of nice — or it would have been, if she felt she knew Vivica at all.

“I’m fourteen.”

“Really? I’m sixteen. We’re closer than I thought,” said Vivica, pushing the button to the fifth floor.

“Si-sixteen? But you play with Jagged Stone…”

“I wear braces, Mars.” She gaped toothily to demonstrate. “Generally not an adult thing to do.”

And yet, she had complained as Desperada that Jagged was trying to replace her with a ‘school kid’. But maybe indignation ran deep in the music biz. “I just thought you were a little older, ‘s all. Sorry.”

“Same for me. Now,” the bell of the elevator chimed and they stepped outside as Vivica kept talking, “I wasn’t expecting an old lady, but I figured you’d be a few years older. Have a bit more experience. But I’m also young, so I can’t complain if you’re a bit on the younger side. Do you have any musical experience outside Jagged?”

“I don’t know,” said Marinette, more out of panic than honesty. “I, um, I don’t think I’ve ever been a producer before?”

Vivica paused with her hand on the doorknob to her presumptive room, and turned her head around. “Really? Jagged seems to think you did.”

“I just drew album art for him! And I made his sunglasses.”

“And that’s all you’ve done that’s music-related?” Vivica opened the door — into a room that was nowhere near the biggest suite in the hotel, but it still had a large double bed and a television on one side and a round table with plush chairs next to a kitchen bench on the other, and ample floor space inbetween. Admittedly the entire room was still around a third the size of Chloé’s room, but that was still pretty large. And it smelled kind of hotel-like, but there was also a certain scent of olives and wood. A pile of bags occupied half of one wall, while Vivica’s guitar lay flat atop the bed next to its open hardcase.

They pulled towards the table and Vivica held out Marinette’s chair, before slouching down into her own, throwing her legs over the table. Then she nodded for Marinette to answer the question, which Marinette had almost forgotten about.

“Um… no, I also helped to design outfits and film a music video for Kitty Section. They’re a local band and they’re friends of min—”

Vivica shot awake so hard that the table wobbled for a second. “Wait, you did that with Kitty Section? I love that video. Great costumes, good rock sound, been hoping for a full-length from them for a while now… Did you mix the music too?”

“No, th-that was Luka, the guy whose phone you borrowed yesterday to call me from…”

“Oh.” She fell back again. “Didn’t recognise him. Wait, was he the guitarist?” Marinette nodded. “Well, damn. I thought he was just Jagged’s kid. He said he had your number, so I just took his — well, no matter. I gotta congratulate him, then. And you, because that was so good for a garage indie group production. Anything else?”

“I, I also helped Clara Nightingale with a music video? She did one about Ladybug, the hero…”

This time, Vivica just grinned. “Yeah, I know it. Decent song, I guess, but that was a pretty good video idea.”

Marinette felt her mouth fall open, and quickly closed it again. “You listen to Clara Nightingale too?”

“Hey, I listen to all kinds of stuff. I love rock, I love jazz, I love soul, I love baroque, and I listen to pop too when I can. You do too, yeah? Otherwise you wouldn’t be fans of Clara and Jagged at the same time. Eh, Mars?”

“I — yeah. Sorry.” Marinette had sat straight upright so far, but now she slouched a little.

“So you’ve done music videos and costuming. I love your look today, by the way! Any administrative responsibilities?”

“I, um, I’ve been class representative? F-f-for my class?” said Marinette, blushing slightly at the compliment while holding back a comment about leading a superhero team. “I’ve also organised rescue operations during akuma attacks, and um… does that count?”

Again, Vivica smiled. “That counts, yeah. I’m not asking if you’ve run a company, I just wanna know what you can do. Can you play any instruments?”

“N-no. None.”

“Done any mixing? Like, literally produced music?”

Marinette could feel herself slouch further. Here came the reckoning, and it was actually weirdly painful to realise that she couldn’t become a producer for Vivica’s project. She’d spent time and effort on preparing herself, and she had come all the way over, and she had tried to do her best for this interview, so she hadn’t really had the time to consider if she really wanted to or not. Now she was sitting there, under the purview of those lazily watchful chestnut eyes, and she knew that it would actually have been really cool to do this.

“... No,” she said. “I’ve never done that. I researched it a bunch before I got here, but I’ve never touched a mixing table or done any equalising, and I haven’t tried compression or reverb or sampling or anything like that, so… I’m very green on all that. Sorry. I guess I’m a bad fit for a producer.”

Vivica folded her hands with both index fingers out, and put those fingers to her lips. She smiled vaguely, politely. “I see. So you’ve never done any audio recording or production.”

“No. Um.”

“How about creative direction? You did those music videos, have you been a creative consultant? Have you given feedback on creative works? Have you created something of your own?”

Marinette blinked, lost for words. Was this a normal thing to ask people who were being rejected for a position? “I — I’ve done it a little bit? I mean, for the music videos, and I do fashion design, and I’ve helped my parents with decorating stuff, but that’s not —”

“Good,” said Vivica. She pulled her legs off the table and sat upright, as Marinette watched in stunned silence. “That’s good. Do you wanna work with me?”

“I — really?” spluttered Marinette. “You, you wanna, you don’t wanna give me up? I’ve done nothing relevant to music production…”

A brief, soft laugh stopped her protests. “Mars, you’ve done everything relevant to music production except sit at a mixing table. And that’s something I’m experienced with already. You’re fresh and young, but so am I, so I can’t complain about that. What I really need is someone to help me get organised, someone to tell me when my music sucks, and I also need someone to help me look better because, let’s face it, I’m not the best at that.”

Marinette wanted to protest, but she didn’t know what to protest exactly, because there was just so much to protest about. And yet, most of it was just… small details. She’d been accepted as a producer. She’d gotten what she kind of wanted. And looking at Vivica’s smile now, it didn’t seem polite or vague. It seemed genuine and whole-hearted and sweet.

“What do you say?”

“I — I accept!” said Marinette, shooting to her feet. “I’ll help you produce whatever you need!”

“Great!” Vivica also stood up, though she took her time with it. And she reached out her hand and offered it for a shake. “We’re gonna make fantastic music together, yeah?”

It was Monday evening when Marinette had her first proper producer meeting with Vivica. They were still in Vivica’s hotel room, but the setup was different: there was now an amp and a pedalboard and the guitar was plugged in, while Vivica sat cross-legged on the bed and Marinette sat at the table with a notebook and a pencil.

Vivica looked the same as last time, except she didn’t have the outer shirt on. The tee turned out to just be a tank top, which showed off the play of her muscles as she pushed herself into position and pulled the guitar into her lap.

And Marinette, back in her regular clothes, somehow felt underdressed in comparison.

“Right, so,” said Vivica. “I just want you to tell me what you think when you hear what I’m playing. Anything you think about, yeah?” She didn’t look up at the moment, instead just fretting some chords without actually playing them. “Just… I wanna know what it sounds like to your ears. And also, you gotta tell me if it’s good or if it sucks. That’s a producer thing.”

Marinette gulped. “Yeah, um, sure,” she said, drumming her fingers rapidly across the table. It felt soothing to her brain somehow. Anything she thought about? She felt like she was about to open a box that may or may not be full of spiders.

Being the first to hear Vivica’s music ever, though — that was pretty neat. If only she could listen without all this pressure…

“So obviously you won’t hear the whole picture here, because I’ve just got the guitar, but I’ll be making a full mockup or demo thingy or whatever later. I just wanted to get together now so we could get started. Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” said Marinette.

It wasn’t just the pressure, either. There was something about Vivica’s posture, the way she sat and the way she gripped the guitar. Something similar to the way Luka looked when he had an instrument in his hands, but — different. Luka looked like he was slowly drifting away on a dream when he played, but Vivica looked more like she was about to dictate dreams to other people. She was in control, and the way she clutched the instrument underlined that, like she was riding an ever-so-slightly-spooked horse.

She bent her head down so that her hair almost stroked the fretboard. And then she started plucking the strings.

Vivica’s style was to use all her fingers, or just her thumb, to pluck or strike the strings. It made for a much softer sound than Luka’s pick playing, but she played harder than him and that made Marinette feel like she was being hit on the side of the head by a soft pillow.

And the music wasn’t rock, like she’d expected. It was far more like jazz, something that could have been played by a mix between Django Reinhardt and Etta James and Edith Piaf. The sounds washed over Marinette, engulfing her completely even though the amp really wasn’t all that loud, a series of chords she didn’t recognise in the slightest but that slid into each other with an incredible elegance. And there was a jumpy rhythm to it, too, which put her in mind of her father’s motions when he used his rolling pin.

And then Vivica started to sing.

They were beautiful lyrics but also sorrowful, and about not having found someone she was looking for, and she sang them with her eyes closed without slowing down her playing at all. And her voice was slightly raspy but still mellow and deep, like — like coffee with milk in the morning. Yeah. It was the sort of thing Marinette would want to paint with, if she could only mix the voice with water and put it on a brush and then put the brush to paper.

Marinette applauded swiftly at the end. “Amazing!” she said, and Vivica looked up at her, and for just a moment — with just that single glance and that small smile of gratitude — she felt like she’d been shot by an arrow.

Then it passed, and Vivica pushed a button on the pedalboard, which lay next to her on the bed. The sound of the guitar vanished completely. “So, what’d you think? How did it make you feel?” she said, sounding just a teensy bit excited.

“Um… Well, I felt like, you were kind of singing about missing someone? A friend, maybe? And that was kind of sad but in a nice w—”

“No, no, not that.” Vivica frowned, shaking her head. “That’s just the lyrics. What did the music make you feel? I wanna know your emotions, Mars, I already know what the lyrics are about. Yeah?”

“Oh.” Marinette could feel embarrassed blood running for safety in her cheeks. “Well, er, it was like…” — what had she felt again? The emotions were so clear in the moment, but now they were just… muted. Vague memories of feeling. She tried to pull them back out. “... I felt like, uh, it was jazzy, but it had a rhythm to it that I liked, and… I’m sorry. I had a lot of thoughts, but I kind of… forgot… could you play it again?”

Vivica shrugged, but she looked a little disappointed underneath. “Sure,” she said. “Why don’t you scribble a bit while you listen? Might help you remember.”

“Okay, but,” Marinette almost raised her hand but caught herself just in time, “why are you asking me for this? Don’t you, um, already know what you want to write? I’m not good with music, but you are — like, really good, because that was great, but, like, you know your stuff. I can’t help you do it better.”

There were a few moments of silence as Vivica just looked down at her guitar, most of her hair falling down over her face, and Marinette wondered if she’d said something horribly wrong. Just as she was about to speak up and take back whatever she’d said, though, Vivica spoke instead. “I’m good at playing the guitar,” she said. “I know that. I’m a pretty damn good musician. But… this is the first time I’m writing music myself, like that I’m serious about. And it’s the first time I’ll be playing my own stuff. I just wanna know if I’m getting through with what I wanna get through. Y’know?”

The first time. Like when Gabriel Agreste was judging the feathered hat. The first time real eyes were on Marinette’s designs. She nodded, just a quick tip of the head to show she understood.

“So I figure, if I can get through to you, then I know I’m getting somewhere. That make sense?”

“Yeah…”

“So, I should play it again, yeah?”

Marinette smiled, shook her head. “No. Play something else, and I promise I’ll try my best with this one.” Vivica brightened; Marinette took that as encouragement.

“Right! Yeah. Gotcha.” Vivica ran her fingers quietly up the fretboard, almost like a nervous tic because she didn’t play the strings. “So this one’s a bit different…”

It was. It was faster, but that strange underlying rhythm was still there, like it was just an artifact of the way she played. The song itself felt like Frank Sinatra in an electric kettle, gathering speed, fraying at the edges, tumbling forward, it felt like a motorbike going down a gravel road, it felt like a dress she wanted to draw, it —

— was over.

“So,” said Vivica, and her excited little smile was the loveliest knife that had ever stabbed Marinette through the chest. She let the guitar fall forward in her lap so the strings lay flat against her thighs. “What did you think?”

Marinette tried to wrack her mind, but the moment of the music was impossible to describe. She could never tell Vivica she sounded like Frank Sinatra being boiled, like she was frayed or falling over on a gravel road. That wasn’t right, that wasn’t how it felt, those were just — they were just random words mashed together. “I, um… I liked it! I did, but I —”

Vivica’s face descended slowly but surely into disappointment, and Marinette just stopped talking. She could only make it worse if she tried to explain it. How could she describe music in words, when music was so much more than that?

“Didn’t you take notes?”

“N-no.” Taking notes would be pointless because she wasn’t struggling to remember. She could almost sing the song back, perfectly, but she couldn’t talk about it. It was the moment that was missing. But she couldn’t admit that. “I — got too caught up in listening. Sorry.”

Vivica drummed her fingers against the back of the guitar; she morphed from disappointed into thoughtful. “Well, I suppose it’s your first time as a producer. Like, first time you do it for real, I mean. How about we just talk organisation instead?”

“Organisation?”

“Like. I’ll need a studio to record in, and we also need to find me some gigs so we can start building a bit of buzz. That kind of stuff. Oh, and backing musicians, but we gotta take the other stuff first, yeah? Yeah.” It was a little bit like she was talking to herself; she hardly even looked at Marinette.

And Marinette knew perfectly well why. She had not made a good first impression.

She excused herself for a few minutes to use the bathroom. It was maybe to clear her head just as much as it was to actually use the toilet. She looked at herself in the mirror, saw she was frowning, ended up with an even deeper frown.

This was important — she’d taken on a responsibility. That meant she needed to rise to it. Even more than that, she was responsible for just Vivica. As Ladybug she was responsible for the whole city, but now she needed to work hard, to do things right, for just one person.

She found herself humming as she splashed her face with cold water, and stopped for a moment because she couldn’t recognise it. Gripping the sides of the sink, she kept humming, even hummed a little louder as she tried to remember what the tune was.

Then it hit her. That was the first song Vivica played. She stopped immediately, felt her face run red, could even see it happening in the mirror. It looked like — felt like — she’d been slapped hard on both cheeks. She took a little while just to let the blush fade, and then she went back out.

Vivica gave her a strange smile when she got back into the room. Probably because the girl was already starting to reconsider taking her on as a producer. She had to do better.

They spent half an hour discussing venues to aim for with Vivica’s first concert, and while Marinette spent most of the time just listening (she promised herself she’d look into the city’s music scene and locations for next time, so she could actually help) she did at least get to look a little bit useful when she put all the information they’d agreed on into a list in her book. Important numbers and addresses and stuff.

Vivica didn’t seem disappointed anymore at the end of the session. But she should be. And Marinette knew that by next time, in just over a week, she would have to be the best producer ever.

She spent the next six days engrossed in music. She visited pubs and clubs, contacted every place that was on her list from the meeting, had a phone call with Jagged Stone that got her nowhere, had a conversation with Luka that got her a little bit of info but mostly just about what to call parts of the guitar, hung out with Nino for three evenings while he nerded out about mixing and DJing, sent emails to culture reviewers on television and in papers plus one guy from a blog Nino recommended, read up on music theory and business organisation, scoured online articles about being a practising musician…

… and barely slept at all.

When she woke up on the seventh day at eight past five in the afternoon, she knew she was probably at her limit. There hadn’t even been any akumas and she felt like her head was exploding and collapsing at the same time.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” said Tikki, in her sternest voice. “Vivica will understand if you’re still inexperienced. You can’t become a perfect producer in just a week!”

“How can you be sure she’ll understand?” yawned Marinette. It was way too early in the evening, or late in the morning. She sat up in bed, as her stomach grumbled at her about not being fed since last night’s supper, almost nineteen hours ago.

“Because she was understanding with you last time.”

Marinette groaned. “But that was then. She definitely expects me to do better this time.”

A little kwami hand tapped her gently on the knee. “And you will. You’ve worked hard. You can spend the next two days sleeping and be well rested for the meeting instead, okay?”

“I just finished sleeping. I slept for…” She put her palm over her eye and scratched her forehead for a bit. “I slept for six hours. Probably.”

“That’s not enough,” sighed Tikki, and moved to be straight in front of Marinette’s eyes — only a foot or two away. “Why are you so worked up about this? You haven’t been this stressed out since you became Guardian. She already trusts you, you just have to be yourself!”

Marinette wanted to say ‘Being myself isn’t good enough’, but she bit it back. She didn’t need to be sour with Tikki.

Even more than that, though… she just didn’t have an answer. If she were this worked up just about working with music, she would have freaked out about Kitty Section and Jagged Stone long ago. If she were this worked up about being personally entrusted with something, she would never have stopped freaking out since she became the Guardian. And sure, she did freak out about that a lot, but… this felt different. And she was pretty sure it wasn’t just about her lack of experience, either, because she rarely felt qualified to do anything.

“I just want to do a good job,” she murmured. “That matters to me.”

Vivica’s braces-filled smile, the awkward way her lips twisted so as not to get jabbed by the metal, briefly flashed across her eyes. Yeah — maybe that was it. She just wanted to see Vivica happy. And now that she was personally responsible for Vivica’s happiness, maybe she just felt that extra hard. It was a bad explanation, but it was the only one she had right now.

“Then… why don’t you try to do something easier?” said Tikki. “Listen to some music. She wanted you to give feedback on her music, right? So maybe if you listen to other music that sounds a bit like her you’ll get some ideas.”

Marinette blinked. Listening to music made sense to the point where it almost felt too easy. And yet, that was exactly the thing Vivica had asked her to do. “Don’t I need more than that?”

“It won’t hurt to try,” said Tikki. Then, after a few seconds passed in silence, she interrupted Marinette’s spinning thoughts to say: “After you eat something.”

“Okay,” giggled Marinette. Food was even easier than listening to music. And she could think about music — about what to do — while she ate. She could think about artists to listen to, maybe… artists that reminded her of Vivica’s music. Like Lianne La Havas. Genevieve Artadi. Esperanza Spalding. Ella Fitzgerald. Yoko Kanno. Norma Tanega. Second Sight. Fol Chen. Madeleine Peyroux. Josette Daydé. Ravyn Lenae. OOIOO. Vernon Jane. Nina Simone…

At four in the morning, she had finally made a playlist of about three hundred and forty songs that made her think of Vivica. She collapsed into bed soon after, having only eaten one and a half meals that day, but she slept better that night than she had in two whole weeks.

Marinette’s heart wasn’t racing when she knocked on Vivica’s hotel door two days later, but it was thumping as loud and insistent as a kick drum.

When Vivica opened, she was dressed in a different set of pajama bottoms from last time and a tee with a fruit bowl print on it, which had started to peel and crack. Her hair was still the same style as before, the low ponytail with the long fringe that only half covered one of her deep brown eyes.

From her initial expression, it seemed like she wasn’t sure who could be outside. But then she lit up brightly, and her lips twisted away from the braces again, and that only piled on the expectations. Marinette had to do it right this time. “Mars! Hey! Come in, come in,” said Vivica. Disappointing her was out of the question.

“Thanks,” said Marinette, striding inside once Vivica let her through, aimed for the little table she sat at last time, and started taking the documents out of her bag.  “I’ve been in touch with a lot of venues since last time. And I’ve drawn up a chart and sorted them all by facilities, price, size, and how good they’d be for promotion. I think there are six or seven places that would be best for early concerts, and also I checked out some studio stuff but I think I need some more work to know what I’m talking about there. But I —”

“Er, Mars,” interrupted Vivica. “That’s good and all. Really! But how about we just sit down and chat a bit first?”

Marinette paused, holding her printed-out spreadsheet aloft between two hands. “Um… chat?”

“Yeah.” Vivica pulled out Marinette’s chair halfway, before moving to the other side of the table and putting her hands on the backrest of her own chair. “Producers talk with their artists. That’s an important part of it. Also… I just wanna get to know you better. I think we got a bit of a weird start, so I feel if we’re a bit more in tune as people, we could be more in tune for the work as well. Yeah?”

“Y-yeah?” Briefly, Marinette started crumpling her paper — before immediately regretting it. She hadn’t even thought about doing it, it just happened. “Uh, okay. Sure. That sounds okay.”

“Yeah! Great. Want some tea, coffee? I’ve only got the in-hotel packet versions but we could order room service if you want —”

Room service. The word felt transgressive somehow, like it was something for adults. And Marinette was not an adult and Vivica was also not an adult, so they should not do adult things together.

They shouldn’t even really do social things together. They were supposed to have a professional, serious relationship and that was all it should be. Even though Vivica smiled really pretty, and she was being nice, and she was an amazing musician…

… Marinette shook her head. What was she even thinking right now? “No, it’s fine. I don’t need anything,” she mumbled, rapidly plopping down in her chair. “But, um, you can do whatever you want, of course.”

Vivica shrugged. “I’m fine too,” she said, sitting down and putting her legs crossed on the table. “Let’s just… so… I guess we could start with, like… who we are? I’ll go first. I’m Vivica Escoffier, I’m Calé, born in Ciboure and I’ve been playing guitar since… five, I think? Five or six. I moved up to Paris to play with Jagged after I auditioned to be in his band two years back, but other than Paris I’ve only lived in Ciboure — that’s in Aquitaine, by the way. And… I like music, and I like books, especially poetry. My favourite colour is blue. And, yeah, I think that’s it? Your turn.”

“Um, okay,” said Marinette, trying to get the gears in her head to cooperate. What details would she be expected to share? Hadn’t Vivica seemed a little proud when she said where she was from? Books and poetry, did she expect Marinette to be cultured in some way? “I’m… Marinette Dupain-Cheng, I’m —”

“Oh! That’s how you say it,” said Vivica. “Sorry, I know I heard it on the phone already, it’s just different in person. It’s pretty!” She cleared her throat with a fist to her mouth. “Carry on.”

Marinette very nearly cleared her own throat, but managed to suppress the urge to echo. “... Okay. I’m from Paris, and my parents run a bakery, so I like to bake. A bit. I help out sometimes. And… I’ve lived here my whole life, and I go to Françoise Dupont middle school.” She dug her nails into her palms. Was that enough? No, it couldn’t be. “And, er, I like music too.”

“What kind of music? I know you’re into Jagged, what else?”

“Um. I…” Having no idea what the right answer would be, she just plopped out with the first thing she remembered from her Vivica playlist. “Alela Diane. Wucan. Josette Daydé. Django Reinhardt, um…”

The grin on Vivica’s face suggested that she at least hadn’t missed. “I wouldn’t have clocked you for those. Honestly, I don’t even clock you for Jagged, you seem very poppy. Maybe a bit electronic, but not like hardcore. Have you heard about Deerhoof? Esperanza Spalding? Eva Celia? Tank and the Bangas?”

“Y-yes. I have.” Not Eva Celia. Who was that? Someone else to look up later, at least…

“Otoboke Beaver? Jaqee? Erykah Badu? Strawberry Girls?”

“I’ve heard of Erykah Badu?”

“You’re already doing way better than Bob Roth,” laughed Vivica, a pleasant trill that sounded very unlike her singing voice. It settled deep inside Marinette’s ears. “I’ve got some really good music to show you later, if you’re interested. But tell me more! What else do you like? What hobbies do you have? What’s your favourite colour?”

And the uncertainty shot straight back up. “I, I, I like… I like fashion, I design fashion, you kind of know that, sorry… I like drawing, I like collages…”

“Visual? Yeah. I like it.”

“... and, uh, I do those as a hobby too, so… and my favourite colour is brown.” No! It wasn’t brown, it was — she met Vivica’s eyes, and every other colour was blasted out of her mind. “... Yeah, brown,” she said, almost defiant. It was better to just go with it now she’d said it.

“What’s your favourite genre of music, you think?”

“... Rock music?” The word plopped out as a defence mechanism. “Wait, um… I’m not sure… I think it’s… I like lots of things? Can I… think about it?”

“Yeah, of course. I was just curious. Cool,” said Vivica and smiled. And the smile reached through, and Marinette could feel her fingers unclenching and her shoulders relaxing. She wasn’t being interrogated. She was just being approached with friendly questions. This was okay.

Except she was still expected to be a good producer…

“Yeah, cool,” Vivica went on, as though talking to herself. “This is just a start, but… yeah, I think we’ll go together pretty well. The more we learn about each other, the better we’ll work together…”

She trailed off, and Marinette decided to fill the gap with a “Sure!” — at which point Vivica seemed to jolt back to the present.

“Yeah, right? Actually, yeah, we should just schedule something social together. Just relax and have fun, so we can see how we fit. Wanna go see a concert? I know Melanie De Biasio is playing at New Morning Tuesday twenty-fifth, in the evening. I could get us tickets, if you’re interested.”

“I-isn’t that a bar?” said Marinette, knowing full well that it was, because it was one of the places she’d already looked into. She even visited, but couldn’t go inside because of the age restriction.

“Yeah, but I played there with Christine Ott. I can get us in,” said Vivica. She seemed genuinely happy to suggest it, without even a trace of irony or mischief. “And I’d really like to get to know what my producer is like in a concert setting, because I want you to come to my concerts. Yeah? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna drink and you shouldn’t either. But it’s the place she’s playing, so that’s where we’d have to go to see her.”

Marinette swallowed. “I… I guess, I guess that’d be okay? If I can get permission from my parents.”

“Tell them you’re going with an up-and-coming rock star, and I’m sure they’ll agree.” Again Vivica laughed, a tittering sound that floated through the air, laying itself across Marinette like a blanket. Maybe things would be okay. “Anyways, Mars, let’s get to it. Wanna talk a bit about plans and stuff, get you more into the organising side?”

“No,” said Marinette, a little too fast and loud. But — things would be okay. “I’m getting the hang of that. I’d rather hear some more of your music.”

She’d listened to so much music over the past two days. She’d connected it all to Vivica. Sheena Ringo, Janis Joplin, Moon Hooch, Agnes Obel, they all had pieces that reminded her of the songs she’d heard from Vivica — or rather, it was probably the other way around. She could do this, she could be useful.

“Really? Well, I’m glad you’re excited for it,” said Vivica, scratching the back of her head. “Did you like my songs that much?”

“Yes. I do.” That wasn’t why she was asking, but absolutely.

Vivica responded by looking away. Marinette could have sworn she saw a faint blush. “Aw, thanks,” she mumbled, raising her voice slightly afterwards. “I think that means you’re my first real fan. Well, except my dad, but I don’t think he counts.”

Marinette smiled. “I’m your first fan, then. But I’m also supposed to be your producer.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that too, but I — never mind.” Vivica dropped her legs to the floor and stood up. “I’ll play you some new ones. Yeah?”

“Y-yes,” said Marinette. Things would be okay. They would be fine. She had listened to enough music.

“Right. I think I’ll start playing the first tune I wrote, maybe? I’m pretty sure I want to make some changes to it, but… I’m not sure where to start. If you’ve got any pointers, I’d love to hear them! But also, like, tell me what you feel when you listen.”

Marinette nodded. Vivica picked up the guitar, sat down in bed with her legs crossed, and hoisted the guitar into her lap. She tuned a couple of the strings, before striking an open chord and nodding to herself, apparently satisfied. “I call this ‘Anticipation’.”

She didn’t start by playing this time. Instead her voice rang out on its own, a little uncertain at first, but soon finding a groove of its own where she dared to push a little more. Marinette felt like her ears flaps were vibrating. Then the guitar started playing arpeggios, also a little uncertain before falling in with the voice. The song was like rain against windows or like wind against a paper bag in her hand, fragile and fleeting but insistent and striking.

But even so — whether it was because Vivica mentioned it, or because it was something Marinette was suddenly capable of noticing herself — there was something about it that felt awkward. Maybe it was the chords? Or the lyrics, which felt a little stilted, or maybe it was just that Vivica was playing alone…

The song ended before Marinette had a chance to even put the pieces of that thought together into a whole, and she was left half gaping, trying to make sense of her feeling as Vivica put the guitar down on the bed and looked at her expectantly.

“... Um,” Marinette said. “I think… I thought…” — everything was gone. Or maybe it wasn’t there in the first place. “It sounded like… like Aoife O’Donovan a bit, um… I’m sorry, I tried listening for… changes to make, but…”

And Vivica’s face fell again and it was so terrible to watch, and it remained terrible even when Vivica put on a smile after, because that smile had to be brave, it couldn’t be truthful. “That’s okay,” Vivica obviously lied. “We’ll look more at it later. You’re still new to this. But, er, did you like it?”

“I — yes. I liked it!” Too manic — too aggressive. “I mean, I, I liked it, yeah. It was… it was good… I’ll think about it more.”

“Aoife O’Donovan, huh?”

Marinette nodded in absolute silence, pressing her lips together.

“I’ll have to look her up. I feel like I know the name, but…”

“‘The King of All Birds’,” was what burst out of Marinette’s mouth cage before she could stop it. “That — that’s a good song. I thought yours was… a bit like it…”

Vivica smiled even wider. It had to be fake. “I’ll check that out! Should I play another song?”

“Y-yes. Please.”

“Alright. This one’s a year old, almost…”

The song was in a minor key, but it was very driven to the point where it seemed happy. Vivica’s thumb struck bass notes while the rest of her hand plucked out a mixture of melody and chords. Her voice held back, doing very little — but when it did poke out, it reminded Marinette of Rina Sawayama’s attitude, though with Sirintip’s energy… did that even make sense? Could she say that? The song felt like, like, like an orchestra but performed by one person, no, there was some pineapple to it — no no no it was all wrong —

— and then the song changed. It wasn’t abrupt but it was quick, and it slowed the song down into steadier chords. Meanwhile, Vivica’s voice changed too, and it felt more broken but the kind of broken you get from holding a lot of energy inside. And she sang a wordless melody that sounded like… like…

“... ‘Fantastic Planet’?” said Marinette, right after the song ended. “By… SOIL & “PIMP” SESSIONS?”

Marinette realised that Vivica’s earlier smiles were nothing compared to her full power. It was like the girl was being lit on the inside by a floodlight. “Yes! You listen to them too?”

“Um… a few of their songs?”

“Damn. Cool. Yeah, I listened to ‘Fantastic Planet’ a bunch when I wrote this, so I wanted to quote that melody. I’ll also put them down for a writing credit if this goes on an album. Yeah. Damn, I didn’t think you’d recognise that so fast, I was literally just about to say you should listen to them. You sure you’re not experienced with music? You’ve got taste.”

Marinette didn’t dare to reply that she’d only really heard about the group because they popped up in her recommendations feed after she started making the Vivica playlist. Was it even okay to mention the playlist? Wouldn’t that be… try-hardy? “Th-thanks,” she said. “I… thanks.”

“So what’d you think? Other than the reference?”

“Well, I —”

And once again, every word she’d thought about before was sucked out of her head and into a black hole. She could remember the melody, she could remember the way the guitar played in the intro, she could remember Vivica’s voice, but even trying to put the words in order in her head felt like trying to pick out something that was stuck between two of her molars with her big toe. She’d spent hours listening to music, thinking about music, so why wouldn’t this work?

And she could tell from Vivica’s expression — the smile that faded, the eyes that dimmed, the shoulders that slumped — that the girl was still disappointed. This wasn’t right. Marinette was supposed to help her, so why was it so hard?

“... I thought it was good,” she squeaked. “Sorry! I just… I can’t get the words to word, I mean, I can’t get the songs to sing, I —”

“Hey, Mars.” Vivica held up a hand, waved it downwards a little. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re still new to this music thingy. I’ll stop asking like that, maybe get Jagged or his kid to gimme feedback? As long as you like it, it’s fine. We can work with that.”

Marinette stared into Vivica’s eyes and realised what was going on: she was being pitied. She was being given an easy way out.

“... Sure,” she mumbled. Even though what she wanted to say was: Give me another chance. Stop patronising me. I may be young, but so are you. I can do this.

“Anyway, for the rest of the meeting, why don’t we talk organising? Or wardrobe. You’re good with style, right?”

Marinette nodded. She was prepared for these, at least.

At the end of the meeting, she asked to use the bathroom again. Just like last time, she found herself singing an unfamiliar tune out of stress and disappointment — before realising that she was singing Vivica’s first song.

She shut her mouth, washed her hands, and hid her face as she waved goodbye to Vivica on the way out. Her embarrassed blush only faded minutes away from the hotel.

On Tuesday twenty-fifth, at six in the evening, she stood and waited for Vivica at the corner of Rue des Petites Écuries — only a few storefronts away from New Morning.

She’d dressed light because of the weather, but also made sure that she was completely covered: if she was going to be at a bar with adults who drank alcohol, she didn’t want to put herself at any risk. So she had a shin-length and loose cream skirt over tights, and a black top with shoulder straps that she’d covered almost entirely with a green cardigan. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a loose bang over her left eye, for reasons she couldn’t fathom.

She fidgeted as she waited. Was Vivica going to be angry with her, or disappointed? Was she going to try and find another producer? Why was it so hard to talk about music, and would that matter today, since they were literally going to be listening to music together? Was there anything in specific Vivica was looking for, and how could Marinette meet that demand as closely as possible?

And why did it matter so much to her to get things right in this way?

All those thoughts vanished, though, when Vivica came into view with her arm raised into a wave. “Hey, Mars!” she shouted, and hurried over.

She was dressed up much more nicely than usual: she had a knee-length yellow sundress with thick straps and a narrowed waist, but also a black past-elbows bolero patterned with cartoon bones in a soft white. Several pieces of jewelry — her necklace, her earrings, and the bangle on her left wrist — were decorated with musical notes. Her hair was lifted into a bun.

There was a lot of Desperada in that look, Marinette thought. Even if it was flipped in other ways. And it was hard to look away from.

“Hey, Vivica,” said Marinette. She noticed that same smell of wood and olives that she’d noticed from Vivica’s hotel room. A shampoo, a deodorant?

“Call me Viv,” said Vivica. “You ready? Got the permission slip? Good. I got mine, and the tickets, and we just need to find the guy I know so he’ll let us in.”

“Who signed your slip?” said Marinette.

“Jagged. He had to be legally responsible for me if I were to be in his band. That’s why I live at the same hotel as him.” Vivica shrugged. “You look good, by the way.”

Marinette almost bit her own cheek. “Um… thanks. Y-you too!”

“Yeah, I know,” said Vivica, sticking her tongue out. But then she dropped into a gentler smile, with the braces barely coming out to glint in the evening sun. “Thanks, though. Shall we go?”

They didn’t talk much outside. There was a small line that they waited in, with Vivica occasionally rolling her eyes about it; when they got to the door, she asked for ‘Théodore’, and then a couple more minutes passed while Vivica urged Marinette to take her slip out and then bunched it together with her own. Théodore came out, a tall twenty-something with a beard and a belly, and greeted Vivica with a hug. Then he led them both inside, telling them he would be standing behind the bar and to come up to him if they ever felt uncomfortable or they needed anything.

And then they were inside, in a medium-sized room already filling up to the brim. There was a grand piano on stage, and a double bass, and a guitar, as well as a microphone; there was also a wonky-looking drumset. The back of the stage was covered in cloth but had the words ‘NEW MORNING’ writ large, over a poster that seemed to be showing Melanie De Biasio herself on a dark stage lit only by a single lamp.

A visual. Marinette could use that. Or rather, Vivica could use that.

“Have you listened to Melanie before?” asked Vivica, raising her voice to be heard over the din. The excitement in her tone was still easy to pick out, though.

“Yes,” said Marinette. “A bit. Not much.”

“I hope she plays ‘Your Freedom is the End of Me’,” said Vivica. “It’s my favourite of hers.”

“I’ve heard that one. It’s good,” said Marinette, almost without thinking — the only thought she used was to talk loud enough to be heard.

“Yeah? Honestly, it just grips me, you know? It’s like a crime ballad for someone who keeps taking the fall for the woman she loves. Perfect mood-building with the dour piano and the sort of empty-sounding drums, and she sings it so beautifully. I’m not sure I… get the lyrics, like maybe I have the lyrics wrong, but I get it. I get loving someone you can’t have. Someone who doesn’t really want you back. It’s not the lyrics, it’s the music and the way she sings it.” Vivica sighed, like she was just getting down after a long flight through a land of agonising imagination. “What do you think, Mars?”

Marinette gaped. Was this what Vivica had meant when she asked for feedback on the music? How it felt to listen to? Even the description had brought Marinette back to the sound of the song, to the dark and sombre voice of Melanie De Biasio as it chanted atop the meagre backing — was that how music should be described? “I… feel the same,” she said. “I think.”

But how could she describe Vivica’s music in the same way, when it was just a guitar and a girl on her bed? Comparing Vivica to Melanie De Biasio felt unfair to Vivica, because Melanie had over a decade of experience behind her. But… thinking about it, Vivica’s music had touched Marinette closer to the heart. It had been raw and direct, precious and gentle, beautiful and severe.

The first song… it had reminded her of her dad baking, but also of sitting alone on the balcony and seeing rain clouds come in and knowing it would be super damp on the way to school tomorrow. The second of a motorbike on a gravel road, of wanting to get free from a terrible life. The third was like rain against a window, but also it was like the feeling of knowing she loved someone she couldn’t. And the fourth had reminded her of… a specific song, of multiple singers, but that wasn’t what it was about because it felt like it was about struggling to get somewhere but knowing she would in the end. Yeah. Maybe… maybe that was what Vivica was after.

“After the concert, should we go out and get some food? Or just a coffee somewhere?” said Vivica. “I feel like I’m gonna want to just talk about this concert for a while, I always get chatty after live music. Wanna come?”

“I have to be home by ten,” said Marinette.

“Really? Well, I guess it’s a school day, yeah…” Vivica frowned, putting a hand to her cheek. “Know what, I’ll invite you now, and then we can take a rain check if it goes too late. Deal?”

“Um,” said Marinette, paralysed by Vivica’s wide open face. It was so bright and so sincere, there was no doubt that she was being genuine — despite all of Marinette’s inadequacies as a producer, she still seemed to want to keep going. To be… friends. “Y-yes, I… I’d like that,” she managed.

“Good. Oh, look! I think they’re getting on stage,” said Vivica, over the din of a growing applause. They both turned towards the stage and saw a black-dressed man sitting down at the piano, another by the drums, another picking up the double bass and the last one the guitar. Nothing else happened for what felt like a minute, but then Melanie De Biasio stepped onto the stage — dressed in all black — and went to stand still by the microphone.

The piano started playing thick, sorrowful chords. The guitar joined in with a mellow but equally sorrowful melody, and the drummer knocked on his cymbals with padded drumsticks to create something that sounded like a distant thrumming, or a howling wind. The room, everything except the musicians themselves, went absolutely silent. The only lights were aimed at the stage, coating the black-clad performers in a white glow. The air felt like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

“Oh! I love this song,” said Vivica, bending down a little bit. She didn’t speak as loudly now, keeping her voice so that only Marinette could hear her over the music. “It’s ‘Blackened Cities’. It’s long, but it’s just a perfect rainy morning mood. I think it’s about being tired of being in the city. It makes me think of home, because it’s so much smaller. Oh, sorry… I shouldn’t be talking.”

As Vivica unbent and turned to look forward, Marinette got a strange churning feeling in her stomach. She glanced from Vivica to the stage and back again, and wondered if it was the music making her feel something she’d never felt before.

The concert finished. They were out of New Morning after two encores, at twelve minutes to ten, and Vivica suggested again to get some food. But Marinette reminded her that she needed to be home soon, and Vivica groaned a little before offering to walk her. Marinette, baffled, accepted.

And Vivica kept talking about music the whole way. From the first song, to the very last encore, she went through each of them in turn and weaved a network of praise for everything, completely in her element even as she discussed the playing of instruments other than the guitar. “I thought the drummer was amazing, didn’t you?” she said, or “I love ‘I’m Gonna Leave You’. It’s this atonal chaotic piano like she’s breaking up, and then she comes in and she’s like ‘I’m gonna leave you’ and the music agrees because it starts pushing.”

“Sorry,” said Vivica at one point, as they walked down a street where several lights had failed. “I mean, I’m sorry for, like… I think maybe I pressured you a bit much at the start.”

Marinette suddenly felt like she was walking on coals. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I thought, like, I wanted someone who could talk music with me. That was my dream producer, and you sounded like a good pick because you just felt so, I don’t know, creative. Yeah? So I kind of pushed you, but… I know that’s not the way you think. And I shouldn’t have expected you to pick it up so fast. So… I kinda wanted to bring you here so you could hear how I think and feel about music. I thought it could be a bonding exercise, maybe. And also, I just wanted to give you a cool night out as thanks for putting up with me.”

“Putting… up with you?” Just for a moment, Marinette thought she must have misheard — but no, that was exactly what Vivica had said. “You’re the one who has to put up with me!”

“Nah,” said Vivica. She beamed into the night. “I like you, Mars. Even if you haven’t got the experience for deep music feedback, you got everything else I’m looking for. You’re certainly way better than Bob Roth.”

Marinette hesitated a little bit, before following Vivica a few steps behind. The yellow sundress stood out in the darkness and seemed to glow from the inside in the light. The confidence in Vivica’s steps, the lightness to her posture, the joy in her words — she was absolutely beautiful, breathtakingly so. When she talked about music, when she lived it, when she thought about it, she practically glimmered.

As Vivica passed into a column of light that cast her in stark contrast against the night around her, Marinette had two distressing realisations at once. The first one was that she had to do better than just… not being Bob Roth.

And the second was that she was completely, utterly, unfathomably in love.

“What’s wrong, Marinette?”

She ignored the kwami hovering over her bed, and just wrapped herself more tightly into the covers.

“Marinette…”

“I’m in love, Tikki,” she wailed.

“That’s not news,” giggled Tikki. “You’re always in love.”

Marinette grabbed large fistfuls of duvet and gripped them hard. “I’m in love with Vivica. Not Adrien.”

There was a pause. Then Tikki’s voice was just a muted, “Oh.”

“I can’t be in love with her.” The covers were far too warm; she’d thrown herself into bed without undressing the moment she got home. “I’m just supposed to help her. Work for her. Why does she have to be so pretty and nice?”

“Is that a bad thing?” said Tikki, though she seemed a little out of it.

“She’s gorgeous and I hate it. She’s too old, she’s not in school, she’s a professional musician. Why does she have to be so perfect?” Maybe she’d torn her tights by now. Maybe they were still okay. She didn’t want to bother checking.

“Marinette, she’s only two years older than you. You’re both teenagers.”

“I… I don’t deserve her. I can’t do what she wants me to. I’m a terrible producer.”

Tikki sighed very loudly. “That’s not what she told you. I was there. She likes working with you. And you’re doing a great job, too. You’ve already booked two concerts and drawn up plans for her schedule. And you worked on designs for her stage costume for the last three days!”

The yellow dress floated through Marinette’s mind. “I can’t make anything that looks better than her,” she said through gritted teeth, unrolling herself slightly.

“That’s not the point. Just make something that looks good and interesting! Draw something that fits her music, and —”

Marinette froze stiff as a board. She didn’t hear what else Tikki said. “Draw,” she breathed. “Music.” The rest of the burrito peeled off her slowly.

It was simple, maybe too simple, maybe too wrong. But it was at least something. And if it worked, then she was going to be more than just ‘better than Bob Roth’ — the phrase made her shiver. She never wanted to be compared to that colossal pile of soiled loo paper ever again. No, she might actually be a good producer. She might even be girlfriend mat— no. No. That thought needed to be stamped down hard.

Even though…

No.

She rolled out of the nest she’d made herself, smiled a “Thank you, Tikki,” to her kwami, and slid down the ladder to practise.

“Hey! Mars! Good to see you —”

“I want you to play your songs for me again,” said Marinette, pushing inside the hotel room with her backpack on. She didn’t even want to look at Vivica right now, in case it made her go stupid and start babbling or falling over like she always did. But then that wood and olive smell got into her nose and she almost felt her knees buckle. “Please. I want to hear all of them.”

“Whoa, don’t you wanna say hi first?”

Marinette turned halfway towards Vivica and looked somewhere about half a yard away from her ear. “H-hello. It’s nice to see you ag-again. I’d love to sear your hong— hear your songs because I have, um, an idea.” She felt like she was reciting words off a list she’d never seen before and could only barely discern through some kind of haze.

“... Hey, Mars, you okay?”

“Y-yes! I’m f-f-fane and dindy.” Do not look, do not look, do not —

Except it was impossible not to look when Vivica literally strode right over, grabbed her by the shoulders, took hold of her chin and twisted —

Vivica was less pretty than she was at the concert. That was at least a minor consolation. She was still stupefying, with eyes like the bark of the trees she smelled like and hair like the soil they grew from, a force of nature put into precious human form. Her braces poking out between her concerned lips, the mole on the right side of her face, they didn’t make her any less pretty. It was physically painful to look at her. But she was not the indescribable manifestation of beauty of less than a week ago, and that meant Marinette’s eyes at least weren’t being actively seared out of her skull.

“Hey. Are you having some kind of… episode? You look sick. You’re sweating bullets.” Vivica let go of her chin and took both her shoulders again. “Come, sit down. I’ll boil up some water for you, yeah? Tea or coffee or cocoa? Are you injured? Nauseous?”

Numbly allowing herself to be led over to a chair, allowing Vivica to take the backpack off her shoulders, Marinette took a few moments of sitting to grasp on to the world around her. “... No…”

“Migraine? C’mon, Mars, gimme something. You clearly got something going on. Is it a mental thing? I don’t know anything about that stuff. Should I call someone for you? Yeah?”

“N-no! Don’t call a-anyone.” Was she really being coddled over by Vivica? The loveliest woman in all of human history? She tried to pull herself together, because if this went any further, there might be an ambulance and cop car coming before she knew a word of it. “I’m just… can I have some time? To calm down?”

Vivica seemed a little bit less worried after Marinette managed to get some complete sentences out. “... Sure. Yeah. Do you wanna lie down on the bed? I’ll move the guitar.” Marinette nodded. “Good. Here, I’ll guide you over.”

It did not help that Vivica literally grabbed her by the hand to guide her. But once it was happening, there was no way around it. She let herself be pulled across the bed and be gently sat down on it, and then she let herself be smiled at and also let herself fall over and she allowed herself to hear the words: “Shout if you need anything, yeah? I care about you, Mars.”

And then Vivica went out of sight.

This was so, so wrong. She was supposed to help Vivica, not the other way around. And now she was just a useless husk in front of her and that was — it was wrong. Wrong, was what it was. Just… wrong.

She couldn’t fall into the same trap she always did. This was a professional relationship. This was serious. And the best way to help the girl she apparently loved now was to be professional, and useful, and industrious, and — and stuff.

She found herself humming again. Something familiar, like the previous times she’d hummed in the bathroom. She really should have guessed she was humming one of Vivica’s melodies again, but it still didn’t occur to her to think it over until she’d already been humming for half a minute. Face in raging flame, she jolted upright and heaved her legs off the bed.

“You okay, Mars?” sounded Vivica’s voice — of course she was still there, sitting at the table. Where else would she have been? And that meant she’d heard the humming.

“I’m okay,” Marinette pressed out, trying to ignore about ninety per cent of her current existence and situation.

“Good. Just take your time, yeah?”

Marinette put her hand to her forehead and sighed. “No. I — I’m fine. I just…”

There was a pause, as she just breathed and repeated in her head the mantra: Guitarist, not girlfriend. Guitarist, not girlfriend. Guitarist, not girlfriend…

“You have a very pretty voice, Mars, anyone ever tell you that?” said Vivica, and Marinette had to repeat the mantra even louder. “I’d love to hear you sing properly some time.”

Guitarist. Guitarist. Guitarist. “Th-thank you.” Why was the world exploding?

“Know what, why don’t you take over vocals for a song of mine? One or two? You’ll be at my concerts anyway, so, yeah? No pressure, though, but I think you’d fit great for ‘Anticipation’.”

Why was the world a smoking crater? Why was Marinette having to deal with the indignity of loving someone who would never love her back, reading signals that would never mean what she wanted them to? “I… sure,” she said, and hated herself for it. “If… if you want. I’m not that good…”

“I think you are. Mars, you’re way more musical than you give yourself credit for.” Marinette dared to look over and instantly wished she didn’t, because Vivica glowed again.

“I… okay,” Marinette mumbled. Probably, Vivica didn’t even hear, because she barely even heard it herself.

There was silence for a while. Whether Vivica was giving her concerned looks then — or if she even looked her way at all — Marinette had no idea. She just waited for some kind of undefined penny to drop, for the clatter to ring out and wake her up from the bizarrely painful dream she was having where the love of her life was complimenting her.

But… she couldn’t stop doing what she was supposed to just because it caused her anguish. She cleared her throat. “Hey, Viv,” she said, hating how empty and unmusical she sounded, “could you play your songs for me again? I’d like to… try something.”

“You sure? Don’t you wanna rest some more?”

“No,” said Marinette, almost snapping the word out. No more uselessness. “I’m fine now. Wait, I need my bag…”

“I’ll get it for you,” said Vivica. “Hey, we’ll be in the bed together while I play! That’ll make it a bit more intimate, yeah?”

Uselessness crashed back onto Marinette. She tried to push it off like a Sisyphus finally tired of his boulder. Was Vivica… flirting? “Uhm,” she breathed.

Vivica dropped the backpack right at Marinette’s side. Then she dropped herself into bed with the guitar held in one hand, and inched herself into a crosslegged position facing Marinette. Her pajama bottoms were riding just a little bit too low after the inching, and an inch of her orange underwear shone like an alarm lamp on her back below the inches of bare skin before the tank top mercifully stepped in to rescue Marinette’s blood pressure.

The best thing she could do was to just pull the sketchpad and charcoal out of her bag, because that at least gave her something else to focus on. And hide behind.

“Wanna hear a particular song first?” said Vivica. “Oh — what’s that?”

“Nothing. N-nothing. Anything you’ve p-p-paid me befloor.”

“Yeah? You’re funny, Mars.” Vivica giggled and it was like a knife to the guts. “Okay, I’ll play you the first thing I played you, then.”

Marinette could only try to keep herself together until Vivica got done tuning and shifted her position to be a little more comfortable. The air felt warm. The charcoal felt like it was catching fire.

But then Vivica started playing, and somehow the tension just melted away. The fire dimmed to a pleasant warmth. Vivica stopped being hot hot hot and became just… an indescribable angel. Her face, her hair, her body became one with the music again. The sliver of her underwear faded into a sunset glow. And through being indescribable, she became possible to deal with. Her beauty flowed out in the music and filled the room.

After taking a few moments to steady herself, Marinette put the charcoal to the paper and started sketching. She drew loose but intentional lines, capturing — something like her dad baking, driving his rolling pin across the countertop; except it wasn’t Tom Dupain but instead Vivica Escoffier, a towering figure rolling out musical notes against the lacquered wood. And she gave Vivica a grim expression, angry tears falling from the girl’s eyes.

The song went by quickly, and Marinette wasn’t finished by the time Vivica’s voice and guitar faded away. She hurried up her charcoal stick and she knew she needed more time — but the song still bounced inside her. She could do this.

“... Are you drawing?” said Vivica.

“Yes,” said Marinette. She gritted her teeth — don’t look up, don’t look up, a bit of shading here, make the darkness behind Vivica more severe, more rough…

“Why are you drawing?”

“You speak in music. But…” and another musical note here, a dripping tear there, “I speak in fashion and art.” Almost done. Almost. “I thought, if I drew, I could… explain better…”

Vivica paused for a moment as she watched. Then she said, in a strangely soft voice: “... You’re drawing something inspired by my music?”

“Yeah… I am,” said Marinette. It was more than that. But that was part of it. She sighed, pressed the charcoal stick against the top of the page with the flat of her hand: she was done. “Do you want to see?”

It seemed that they both reached the same conclusion at the same time, as the gears in Marinette’s brain started to whir properly at the same time as Vivica started to chuckle. “If you’re drawing something from my music, then damn, yeah — I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

“Y-yes, of course.” Marinette hurriedly flipped the sketchpad around, holding it up flat towards Vivica. She watched as Vivica’s incomprehensibly precious face turned from excitement to surprise to shock to wobbly lips to curdling nose to —

“I thought about my dad when I listened,” Marinette hurried to say, pointing to the rolling pin. “The rhythm made me think of him because he rolls out dough like that, and, and, um, and I thought about the way you sang and I thought about Django Reinhardt but I thought about — you were sad but it was a powerful sadness and I thought you were, like, shaping the music to be what you wanted it to be even you were sad and it was really really amazing and please don’t hate me, I didn’t mean to make you cry, I just —”

“Mars,” said Vivica, eyes glassy.

“... Y-yeah?”

There was a moment of terrible silence before Vivica spoke. “I… I’m speechless,” she said, and icicles ran down Marinette’s back. But then Vivica broke into a trembling smile. “Mars, I love it. You’re really good at this! How — how’d you think of that?”

“I… I just… I drew what I heard? And I kind of… I thought about a stage outfit for you, too. See the suit? I think you’d look good in a suit like that, and I can make it for you if I have time and you want and that’s okay and, um…” Marinette looked down, away from Vivica. It was starting to get hard to think again. The music was fading from her head, leaving only the unfiltered beauty.

“Shit. Well, you nailed it, Mars. I’d love to dress like that. I love this so much.” Vivica’s fingers were suddenly touching the pad, a gentle nudge. “And you know what? You told me what the music made you feel, and I got it. I made you think about your dad and about a sad girl who’s taking on the world. That’s good. That means I told a story. That… that’s good. Yeah.”

Something about the dampness to Vivica’s tone made it impossible not to look at her. Vivica was looking away instead, but she was smiling softly. Her eyes weren’t just glassy, they were reflective like still lakes. “Um…”

“Don’t worry. I’m happy. I’m so damn happy, Mars. You just gave me the best compliment I’ve ever received and you did it with a pretty drawing. I know the song can speak now.”

“I wanna draw more songs,” said Marinette. Vivica immediately snapped her eyes onto Marinette. “I, um… if it’s okay. I love y- I mean, I’d love to draw more. I, it helps me get into the music too.”

“... How can I say no to that?” murmured Vivica, pulling her guitar back up. “What’cha wanna hear?”

Marinette looked down at her sketchpad. “W-whatever you want. You ch-choose.”

Vivica, though, struck a chord on her guitar. It was soft, joyful, but also longing, hesitant. “I’m gonna play you a new song I’m working on, then,” she said. Marinette dared to look up at her, and she winked in response. “Started working on this one in the past two weeks, so it’s not done yet, but… I’d love to hear what you think about what I’ve got. Or, I guess I’d be seeing what you think, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Marinette, like she would be shot if she didn’t say the word as quickly as humanly possible. “Y-yes. Yes.”

“Good.” And —

— then the guitar kept that first chord playing, but in a skippy rhythm that almost felt random, like Vivica’s thumb and the rest of her fingers were all on different timers. It was playful, but disorienting, it felt like riding a boat on choppy waters, and Vivica hummed like an engine the whole time.

The lyrics started slowly, fog on the lake, and Marinette felt her jaw fall open as she heard the words — and Vivica sang them with her eyes closed, swaying side to side between ponderous chord changes, and the song switched from major to minor.

“I fled the nest at sixteen
Bled my blood on the strings
I thought I wished to be free
So I built my own wings
I flew towards the cold sky
About to disappear
Until I saw your precious eyes
and found a warm sky there”

Marinette froze. Her eyes?

“I grew to cover the Earth
Cried so the seas flowed higher
I split my head for heaven’s birth
and lit my hair on fire
My eyes saw all of the world
but found nothing to love
Until your voice made itself heard
from gold speakers above”

… Her voice? Vivica still had her eyes closed, still swayed back and forth, but… was this a coincidence? Didn’t Vivica just compliment her voice? Marinette could feel herself sweating. It was unbearable to sit there and listen, but also impossible not to.

“Muse, music
Muse, music
I never knew someone I loved as much as you
Muse, music
Muse, music
I wanna keep you and I hope you wanna keep me too”

The song faded out after a few finishing chords, and Marinette kept staring, waiting for Vivica’s eyes to open, for her face to be melted off into a sizzling puddle. Every moment was a bullet through her chest, trying to puncture the balloon of hope that was constantly growing inside her.

And then Vivica finally did open her eyes, and the words just tumbled out: “Was that song about me?”

Vivica’s eyes went wide. “... What?”

“You… complimented my voice,” said Marinette, already blushing fiercely. “And then you sang about a voice you loved. And you talked about blue eyes, and you k-kind of, you said ‘you’ in the song and I kinda really like you so if you feel the same I really —”

“Mars,” said Vivica, like the toll of a massive bell. She smiled, but the smile was sad. “The song was metaphorical. About my muse, like my inspiration. If I were to flirt with you, which… you know, that’s not… I would’ve just come out and said it.”

Marinette’s heart collapsed. At the same time, it exploded with horror. A low screech escaped her throat as she threw herself back against the bedhead and held the sketchpad like a shield over her head. She had just been rejected, she had just confessed to Vivica, she had just really badly misunderstood she had just oh god oh no how did she why did she what —

“Hey, Mars, it’s okay,” said Vivica, mockingly steady and supportive in her tone. Marinette grimaced into her sketchpad and knew she had just ruined everything: her chance to be with Vivica, her chance to work with Vivica, her chance to experience music like Vivica did.

She rolled up tighter. “I’m sorry,” she whined. “I — I didn’t — I didn’t mean to, I — gh…”

Then… a hand landed on her shin. “Nothing to be sorry for,” purred Vivica, she purred — “I’m actually really flattered. You’re an amazing girl. I would’ve thought you’d be swimming in girls already. It’s just… I can’t really…”

“You can’t keep me as a producer like this,” said Marinette. She sounded robotic and dry at the same time and she hated it. “I get it… I, I’ll pack up and go.” But she didn’t want to leave just yet, not with Vivica’s hand still warming her leg.

“What? Heck no. Mars, that’s not — why would I throw you out? You’re, like, everything I could’ve wanted in a producer and more.” Marinette opened her eyes, but she didn’t dare move the sketchpad. “I was looking for someone to talk music with who could help me get organised, and you’re a hundred per cent that. You’ve done everything I’ve asked you to. And you’re practically my age, so you get what it’s like.”

“But… I don’t have any experience.”

“But you work real hard and I like hanging out with you. Look. I’ve only dealt with Bob Roth before, so I’m sorry I have to compare you to him, but he gets gigs for people. You get gigs for me and you don’t suck. If Quincy Jones came in the door and offered to produce for me, I’d tell him no, I already got the best producer I could ask for. Arca? Paul Epworth? Not for me. And Mark Ronson can get stuffed. I got you, Mars. And we’ll figure out where we go from here.

“Also… you inspire me, Mars. You’re not the muse from the song, and I haven’t tried to flirt with you, but…”

Something about Vivica’s voice felt a lot smaller and vulnerable all of a sudden. The words before had seemed genuine, for whatever reason (because Marinette still didn’t believe they were true), but now they seemed to be channelling some kind of inner reality that Marinette had never been allowed to see before. Marinette finally pulled the sketchpad away and looked up to see that Vivica was smiling down at her, even blushing.

“... Yeah. I… can’t say I’m not in love with you, Mars.” Even though they were quiet, the words roared like a rock guitar.

“... What?” Marinette breathed. Her heart stopped beating.

“I think I’m in love with you.” Vivica’s beauty suddenly stopped being violent and painful, it stopped being incomprehensible and vast. It just became human, and tangible, and close, and warm. “I think I could definitely see myself dating you. Honest, I thought you already had someone, I figured it was impossible for you to not have a girlfriend already. But I’m also… I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship with anyone right now. I’m still figuring out my place in the world, what kind of music I wanna play and lyrics I wanna write, yeah? I think I need time before I can be anyone’s girlfriend.”

And just like Vivica turned human and tangible and close and warm in front of her, Marinette got a burst of something that could have been confidence. Or maybe it was just the ability to move and think. She pushed herself into sitting upright, and gingerly took hold of Vivica’s hand. “V-Viv… I love you.” Her face exploded then — but Vivica’s blush also intensified.

“Maybe you do,” sighed Vivica. She looked down. “Maybe I also love you. But I just can’t know that. I need time… I need to be stable. You know what I mean, yeah? I don’t want a relationship right now, because first I need to figure out what I am. But…” Her eyes suddenly shifted back, pinning Marinette to the back wall. “... I know I’d pick you if I did.”

“... I…”

“Could you be patient with me? Keep being my producer, but as my friend? And if we’re both single in a year, maybe I’ll be ready then. I just can’t take that step right now. Okay?”

Marinette squeezed Vivica’s hand. The calluses from playing guitar were there, like a cocoon, but there was a softer hand underneath. Vivica had still rejected her, but the sting of that was more like a high-pitched note — one that might be followed by a chord, a rhythm, a song. “I understand,” she said, though she did it a little bit through gritted teeth.

“Thanks,” smiled Vivica, giggling awkwardly. “And… Mars, if you find someone else, please don’t wait for me. You could have any girl you want. I don’t want to keep you from finding happiness with someone.”

Marinette knew that the grin growing on her face was stupid and awkward and ugly. But hiding it was impossible. She might have jumped to conclusions earlier, but she knew she wasn’t jumping into anything when she said she loved Vivica.

“I don’t think I’ll ever find someone as good as you,” she said. “I can wait.”

Vivica’s beauty grew tenfold. But it didn’t burn anymore. It caressed.

“— That was a song called ‘Muse, Music’,” said Vivica into the microphone, over the fading applause. The audience at New Morning was lively tonight — only half as numerous as they had been at the Melanie De Biasio concert, but those who were there clearly appreciated the music.

Marinette appreciated the music too, but she also appreciated Vivica’s straight-shouldered black-and-yellow suit. She appreciated her own handiwork in it. She appreciated being right in front of the stage, watching Vivica. She appreciated Vivica.

“For our next song, I’m going to ask someone else to join us on stage,” said Vivica. The microphone made her voice rattle against the walls. “She’s a fantastic singer, and the best producer in the world. Please welcome… Mars.”

There was applause, but Marinette ignored it. She was way too focused on Vivica — and on her own feet as she stepped onto the stage. Once she was close enough, Vivica took her hand and guided her forward to the microphone, and they shared a little smile between themselves.

And then Marinette stood looking out over the crowd. The room fell into an expectant silence. She reached out and took hold of the microphone stand, knowing that Vivica — and Vivica’s backing band — were right there with her.

“I hope you’re all having a great time,” she said, and beamed out at them. “This song… is called ‘Anticipation’.”

And she sang, and Vivica played, and everything was right.