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Shadybug can feel the wind blowing through her hair, rustling her bangs and briefly covering her tear-filled eyes. God, if she starts crying, she’ll wipe all her concealer off. She’s so much better than this; crying would be ridiculous. She’s had worse, and this is when she’s on the verge of tears?
Pathetic. She’s pathetic.
If she weren’t such a failure, maybe she’d be at home right now, and she’d be wanted.
She represses the sob building up in her throat. She can’t be weak over something this trivial. The Supreme would kill her—if her mother or Chloé Bourgeois didn’t get to her first.
As she sits on the ledge of the Eiffel Tower, gazing down at the people below, she wonders if anyone will really care. Her mother would only be glad to be rid of her, Chloé will probably think she’s a coward—she’s okay with that, if it means her freedom will be granted.
No more Supreme, no more mother, no more bullies, no more breakdowns, no more…
No more anything. She’s so tired. She kicks her feet, summoning a small Lucky Charm ball and dropping it off the side—wondering just how long it’ll fall. How long she’ll fall. Just to see, to get an idea. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s just curious.
Holy shit.
She comes back to her senses all at once, staggering away from the edge with uneven breaths.
What is she thinking? Is she stupid?
How… selfish would that have been?
She is selfish, sure, but…
But…
Sometimes she gets really tempted, and—
Shadybug is suddenly reminded of the massive dark bruise on her jawline by the incessant throbbing giving her a migraine. She rubs at her face, careful not to smear the concealer that hides her bruises and the bags under her eyes. She wishes someone would care enough to help her with the inevitable, oncoming panic attack; but at the same time, she doesn’t want anyone to ever see her this vulnerable.
Her mind is slow and… stuck. She can’t process whatever is going on around her.
The Eiffel Tower’s concrete edges had been grating before, digging into her skin uncomfortably, making her hyper-aware of her position—but at this point, she can hardly feel a thing.
She can hear her heart beating, a frantic rhythm with no pattern—and it hurts her chest, and it’s still in her ears—
But… but— but there isn’t enough air, and why isn’t there air—? And—
(“You’re late.”
“Whatever, mom,” she groaned, “I got… held up.”
“By what?”
Her eyes were clogged with silent tears. “It was Chl—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses.”)
She isn’t even there anymore, so why is she— why is she breaking—?
She breaks—
(“You broke the plate?”
“It was an accident…”
“How could you be so careless?! Clean this up, right now.”
“I have to study! You always get mad when I fail—”
“You’ve already failed. Get to it.”)
Does she deserve it? Is her— Is her mother— is she right—?
She takes in a shaky breath—
And another—
And there’s so much, too much—
(“Too much sugar in this pastry.” Her mother wrinkled her nose. “I shouldn’t have trusted you to run the bakery. You do this every fucking day, and you’re still a lazy little brat.”
“It was one pastry…”
“And you had one job. If you can’t get your act together, I’m not going to let you keep any of the money the bakery makes anymore.”
“I’ve been single-handedly running the bakery by myself for years, that’s not fair!”
A hand made impact on her jaw, pain blossoming up her cheek, the shock igniting the sting of tears in her eyes—
“Don’t you dare talk back to me,” she scowled. “You know nothing.”)
She knows nothing.
She’s trembling, and for a moment—for a moment, she can’t hold it in, and she sobs—but she can’t cry, she can’t—
(“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not cr—”
“You’re so fucking sensitive.”)
She’s so sensitive. She shouldn’t be crying.
Burying her head in her knees, Shadybug shakes—but she doesn't feel. She can’t feel.
She isn’t even aware of Claw Noir’s presence until his hand is on her shoulder. She flinches—
(Her mother roughly took her shoulder, violently pushing her onto the—)
“…Shadybug?”
“I— you, just— stop—”
Words are hard to form, and she can almost hear her mother yelling at her to just fucking speak—
It’s— it’s just a panic attack, she— she’s used to them, and—
But— she tries to— she’s trying to— but nothing is working, and she’s— she’s… her mortal enemy is here, and he’s seeing her—he’ll know she’s weak, and vulnerable, and—
And— he’ll be… he’ll…
He’ll…
She tries to form thoughts, with her brain, but her brain isn’t working, and her brain— her brain never works, there’s— there’s something wrong with her, something wrong with her brain—
And—
And someone touches her—again—and there’s a voice–
“Shadybug, just breathe,” the voice is— the voice is quiet, and it’s in her ear— “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re safe, okay? You’re safe here, and you’re with me.”
She wants to respond— but— but the only sounds she can make are gasps and— and shaky inhales—
“Hey. Hey, cockro— uh… Shadybug, just— just count with me, okay?” She’s shaking, but soon he’s shaking her more—and so she can’t— she can’t tell whether it’s him or her who’s making her jittery. “In, two, three… out, two, three…”
She really wishes she could just pull herself together and— and not be a huge wreck in front of him—she’s just such a wreck— and her breaths don’t seem to want to match his, she can’t control them—
“I— no— I can’t, I—”
“Okay, Shady. Five things you can see. Tell me just five things you can see.”
“Don’ f— don’ f-fucking call me ‘Shady’, you little—!” But then her words register in her head, because this yelling and snapping is what always makes her mom violent, and Shadybug is just so explosive— “I— I’m sorry, I fucke— I messed up, please, it was a mistake— please…”
“Woah, woah, woah, it’s okay— I’m not mad, just tell me what you can see.”
(The scowl on her mother’s face, the drop from where they sit on the Eiffel Tower down to the ground—)
“The— a— the… a bell— I… I think— um— uh…”
“Keep going,” the voice encourages.
“Sky, the s-sky… and… and— and, uh— the— the clouds, and—”
“Don’t rush, just two more things.”
“And Paris— and… green h-hair…”
“Now what are four things you can hear?”
(Her mother, yelling in her ear—)
“B-breathing,”
“You got this.”
“Cars… and a… a voice, and— and… wind?”
“What about three things you can touch?”
“A… a han— your hand, and… my gloves, and… the— the platform— we’re sitting on a platform…”
“Two things you can smell?”
“Pastries and… and cologne…”
“Something you can taste?
“My… my blood.” She realizes she’s been biting her lip.
The boy in front of her—Claw Noir, he’s Claw Noir, she knows him, he’s safe—sighs and tucks his tail back underneath him as he sits. “Are you okay…?”
She just chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, probably not the best question to ask right now,” he admits. “Wanna talk about it…?”
“It’s none of your fucking business, fleabag.”
“Wow. Okay. Jeez.” If he had actual fur, it’d surely be bristling. “Why so aggressive?”
“‘Why so aggressive’?” she snaps, “Why so not aggressive?! Why have you been comforting me instead of attacking me?”
He’s silent.
“That’s what I thought.” She turns her head away from him.
“Hold on,” he suddenly says, narrowing his eyes. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“On your face.”
“What, my mask? In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s always been there.”
“No,” he blatantly ignores her sarcasm, “there’s a dark spot on your cheek.”
She freezes. “Probably dirt. I’ll wash it off later.”
“Hold still.” He reaches out to, presumably, touch her cheek, and she jerks away.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I said, hold still.” He quickly rubs off the remaining concealer covering her cheek, making her wince.
“Get your dirty paws off m—”
“Is that a bruise?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“That’s not from a battle. I’d remember.”
“…Why do you even care, asshole?”
“Where’d you get that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbles. “Leave me alone.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Where’d you get that?” he repeats, no-nonsense. She’d never seen that from him before.
“It doesn’t fucking matter, Claw! Just mind your own damn business!”
“If it really ‘doesn’t matter’, just tell me.”
“Whatever, fleabag.” She huffs and mutters under her breath. “My mom.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Jeez, are you deaf?” she shouts, anger breaking through her carefully built walls. “I said it was my mom.”
“No, no, I heard you just fine,” he grits his teeth. “Your own mom gave you this… this giant bruise?!”
“It’s not a big deal.” She turns away again. “I’ve had worse.”
“Worse than this?”
“Yeah, ‘worse than this’, that’s what I just said,” she snaps. “It’s not even that bad. I can barely feel it.”
That was a big, fat lie. It throbbed with pain and had only gotten worse when he had rubbed it.
“Uh-huh,” he remarks, unconvinced. “Tell me what happened.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Oh my god, Shadybug, just say it.”
She’s silent.
“…Sorry,” he mumbles, “I shouldn’t have pressured you. If you don’t wanna talk, that’s okay too, I guess.”
He apologized? She must be hallucinating.
She turns away, conflicted. She… she’d really like to talk about it, but…
She feels her eyes grow damp, and she focuses on the platform beneath her.
“She’s been… different,” she starts, “ever since my… father— since my father… died.
“And today… she was just… mad again, and— and she hit me when— when I burned a pas— a pastry, and—”
“Woah, slow down. Just breathe, okay? You’re safe, she’s not here. I’m listening.”
“I’m just… I’m just never good enough for her,” she sobs, burying her face in her hands.
She suddenly feels the warmth of two arms wrapping around her, and… is he purring?
That’s what breaks her. She finally falls apart in his hold, and he tears her carefully built walls down, brick by brick.
He lets her cry in his arms for what feels like hours. He’s starting to get the feeling that she’s never had… any sort of support system to vent to.
What might be even worse is the fact that he is the first one she’d felt desperate enough to open up to. He’s her rival.
When he feels her sobs start to cease, he quietly mumbles, “You okay?”
She sniffles, trembling in his tight grasp. “F-For now, I guess…” she hesitates, “Thanks, fleabag. For helping, I mean.”
“No problem, cockroach.”
“You’d better leave before the Supreme catches you helping me.”
“Fuck the Supreme.”
She can’t help it. She laughs— for the first time in a very long while.