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A message lights up Adrien's phone, but he makes no move to answer. His eyes fly back to his ceiling instead, focusing on the white expanse until it seems to separate into tiny pinpricks of all the colours.
All the while, his mood remains grey.
There's a satisfaction in that, somehow—one he loves and loathes in equal parts. Because it's a truthful feeling, isn't it? It must be more true than the freedom that awaits him outside. More real than making plans with his friends that he can actually follow through on.
What kind of person would he be if that hypothetical joy were more real than his grief?
(Certainly a person his father would have been disappointed in.)
Taking a deep breath, Adrien squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the weight of everything to crush him. Part of him wants to scream, but that's too much effort. Another part wants to cry, but that...
Well, he just can't, lately.
He can't even be sad properly.
Another buzz of his phone drags his eyes open, and when he turns his head this time he sees a flash of pink hearts across his screen. Marinette.
Sometimes... he does think about reaching out to her in these moments. Because simply being near her is often enough to chase the fog away. But why would he bring her down to his level? Why would he show her one more reason she'd be better off without him?
Yet he can't seem to look away from his phone, even as his vision blurs again—he's gone so cross-eyed this time that he wonders if he'll finally cry from the sheer pain of it. Another message banner flashes across the screen. And another.
Then suddenly the phone is ringing. The lump in Adrien's throat expands like black mold.
What would he even say if he answered?
Oh, I'm fine. Honest. Sometimes I just have days where I lie in bed all day wondering if I'm a terrible person for enjoying my life one day out of ten, but that's not so strange, is it?
Absolutely not. He can't bother her with that.
So he's stuck in this ridiculous limbo. Loneliness consumes him, but he's terrified to leave its grasp.
It's almost like nothing has anything really changed since his father died.
That thought is so absurd—so awful—that a horrified laugh bursts out of Adrien. The sound is loud enough that it takes him a moment to process that someone is knocking at the door. When he does register the sound, a wave of panic steals pulses through him. He shoots up in bed.
"Y-yeah?" he croaks. There's no answer, so he adds, "You can come in."
There's a long moment before the knob clicks open, but Nathalie's footsteps are sharp and decisive as she approaches the foot of the bed. "You're not ready."
Adrien tenses, staring at the way his blanket balls up in his lap. He plays Nathalie's words back in his head, scanning them for signs of irritation or disappointment. But there's none there. She sounds surprised, if anything.
Still, he can't bring himself to meet her eyes.
"I don't think I'm going," he whispers. And as the words spill out of his mouth, he silently amends them. I'm definitely not going.
"Why not? Are you not feeling well?"
Adrien hunches his shoulders—whether to shrug or to hide from the world, he's not quite sure. "I'm fine."
"But..." Nathalie sounds even more confused. "Would you rather invite your friends over here?"
He shakes his head. He braces himself for Nathalie to tell him he's being ridiculous—or maybe for her to walk away without another word. He's not sure what would hurt worse.
But she does neither of the things he expects. Instead, she walks around to the side of his bed and sits gingerly on the edge of his mattress. Her hand reaches towards him, and he can't help but hold his breath.
She freezes right before she makes contact, and in that moment Adrien finally knows what he wants—connection. Although at this point, he thinks he might even settle for the illusion that someone actually understands.
He finally feels tears sting the corners of his eyes, finally feels the loneliness drown him alive.
Then Nathalie's hand settles on his shoulder. "Adrien, what's wrong?"
He opens his mouth to respond, but only a sob slips out. His body shakes with the effort of holding back another, but he soon loses that fight too.
Somewhere amidst his breakdown, Nathalie pulls him in for a hug. Her arms feel stiff at first, but Adrien can't help but melt in a way that fills the weird, empty spaces in their embrace. And maybe it doesn't quite feel right—nothing does, anymore—but it might feel a little less wrong.
She doesn't say anything as she holds him; she doesn't attempt so much as a soothing hum. But it's better that way. It's Nathalie.
Adrien's suddenly more grateful than he can put into words that he can still depend on her.
And maybe... maybe he can trust her opinion.
Rather abruptly, he pulls away. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he wipes his tears.
Nathalie still doesn't speak, but she does squeeze his shoulder one last time before letting her hand fall away. And somehow, he knows she'll wait until he's ready.
That doesn't make it any easier to find the words. His tears have scraped him raw; it's hard to start laying down a new foundation.
But the first brick is always the hardest. Just one word, and the rest would follow.
"Sometimes... sometimes I feel guilty," he admits. "Father is gone, and I... well, what am I doing? It's barely been a month, and I'm already going out with my friends like nothing happened?"
Nathalie shakes her head. "You've done nothing wrong, Adrien. This is..." She sighs. "Lord knows your father didn't provide the best example of how to handle grief, but... this is what happens. What's supposed to happen. You're supposed to feel happy again. Or sad. Or however you want to feel, really."
On some level, Adrien knows that. And yet...
"Would he even want me to be happy? So soon? And with..." Adrien draws in a shaky breath. "He always hated my friends."
Nathalie's lips press into a thin line. Her eyes flash briefly up to the ceiling. "I don't know what your father would have wanted, Adrien. I really don't." She pauses, pushing her glasses up to her forehead as she rubs her eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I knew a thousand different versions of him, and each one wanted something different from the last. But your mother..."
Nathalie smiles, an unexpected warmth swelling in her eyes. It makes Adrien feel half his age again—it stirs a simple sort of hope he thought he'd long gotten rid of.
"I believe your mother would have wanted you to be happy. And for whatever it's worth..." Nathalie sets a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. "I want that for you too."
Adrien finds himself smiling back—it's a weak, flimsy expression, but it's there.
Then it's gone.
He's still not sure how to actually be happy.
But following instructions is something he's always been good at. So when Nathalie finally rises from his bed, the whisps of her smile finally growing thin, he heeds her suggestion to pick out some clothes and get ready.
He drags a comb through his hair and practices another smile in the mirror. Happiness might not be something he knows in the depths of his mind, but he's always been able to fake it.
This time, when his phone rings, he forces himself to answer.