Chapter Text
…
“O, were I a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!” - Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene ii.
…
In the red-gold of the setting sun, Marinette becomes fire. She glows as she swirls around the dress form, lifting the skirt to show off a particularly tricky hem, or running a finger along the half-completed beading at the bodice. A smile lights her face as her words flow, smooth, easy. From his place on the edge of the chaise lounge, Chat smolders.
It’s something that’s escalated from minor concern to full blown problem. See, the thing is, the last month has found Chat sat in Marinette’s bedroom nearly every night. What had started as an anomaly - he’d stopped on her balcony one night to take a quick mid-patrol break - has become a habit he doesn’t dare break.
“You’ll look beautiful,” he breathes.
Marinette purses her lips and shoots him a look before waving away his words, dismissive.
“I can’t believe what I was thinking, going with this dark of a blue in Spring,” she says, turning her critical eye back to the gown, “Even with the overlay, it’s decidedly more of a Fall look.”
“You’ll look like the night sky.”
“More like a black hole,” she retorts.
Chat would love to argue, but if there’s anything he’s learned about Marinette in his frequent visits, it’s that she’s an immovable object when it comes to her own self-esteem. He is hardly an unstoppable force, not when she can still him with a single glance.
Marinette crosses the room, the sway of her hips hypnotizing as she approaches him. Claws find their way into the sides of this thighs as he strains not to reach out and touch her. She’s as appealing in sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt as he imagines she’d be in that dress. She plops down next to him and immediately begins rearranging them both. A few feet in the ribs later, Marinette is sprawled out over most of the chaise with her legs stretched over Chat’s lap. The smile she shoots his way is almost as warm as his cheeks.
“I wish I could take you to Spring Formal,” she says, “A friend date is better than no date at all.”
The mask isn’t enough to cover his flinch, but Marinette’s gaze has already turned back to the dress. How easy it must be, for her to say something like that, so casual, so offhand. Like Chat isn’t hanging onto every word, waiting for the moment that Marinette will mean it. Waiting for Marinette to realize that he means it.
“Surely you’re not going alone, Princess?”
Marinette’s eyes flick to the floor. Her words are more sigh than syllable when she says, “I considered asking my classmate, you know-”
Oh, he knows. With tightening chest and acrid gut, Chat knows all about Marinette’s crush.
A slender hand comes up to cup her cheek; he bites the inside of his. And doesn’t that make him Romeo? Young, brash, and miserably in love with a girl he isn’t supposed to love. The metaphor doesn’t pan out quite the way he’d like. She doesn’t love him back. It’s a tragedy of a different scope and scale.
“But I don’t think he’d say yes,” she continues, “and I don’t think I could survive the humiliation.”
They’ve had it out before, the last time Chat brought up how much of an idiot the boy of her affections must be, to not notice her. She’d gone red and promptly kicked him out, and he’d decided that he’d eat his words for an eternity to keep that from happening again. As such, he chooses his next ones wisely.
“I have no doubts he’ll demand a dance the moment he sees you in that.”
And he would, if it were him. For not the first time, Chat finds himself cursing the very idea of Adrien Agreste, golden boy and model extraordinaire, and his endless work. Adrien Agreste would dance with Marinette in a heartbeat, but Adrien Agreste would be in Milan on the night of Spring Formal. Instead, he’s left to the mercy of the other man, the one who will no doubt be swept away the moment Marinette appears.
He’s drawn back by Marinette’s breathy chuckle.
“Yeah, sure, he’d ask me to dance, and I’d promptly fall flat on my face, or trip over my feet, or, I don’t know - spill punch all over his suit.”
He’d be thrilled if any of those things happened to him, just to be with Marinette that night. Even embarrassed was becoming on her face. He’s convinced that, given the chance, Adrien could coax out the same Marinette that Chat is privy to. Maybe Marinette would even learn to like Adrien, like him in the way she seemingly refused to like Chat. But he won’t be getting that chance. So all he has left is-
“Dance with me.”
For the first time all night, it feels like Marinette really looks at him. Her eyes narrow as she take him in, studying his face.
“You’re not serious, Kitty.”
“Au contraire, Princess, I’m quite serious. Believe it or not, this alleycat is pretty limber on two paws. You’re worried about goofing up in front of your Mystery Man? I can help you. Practice dancing, I mean.”
Chat slides her legs off of his lap and stands. With a flourish, he bows before her, offering a hand.
“We don’t have any music,” she protests.
He smirks and jabs a thumb towards her desk. “We live in the age of the internet - we have more music than we know what to do with. Indulge a poor cat?”
Marinette groans the entire time, but she stands and takes his hand. He gives her a ridiculous eyebrow waggle, and her complaints and laughter mingle.
Never before has he so loved and hated his suit. He can’t feel the softness of her shirt as he places a hand on her lower back, but it’s only his gloves that keeps the sliver of skin just above the waist of her sweatpants from melting him on contact. With a pout, Marinette places one hand on each shoulder.
“You’ve got to be kitten me,” she mutters, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“That was pawful.”
Marinette smiles up at him. Such a look shouldn’t sting, but it does: it’s so comfortable, so simple and content. When she looks at him, it lacks the fire, lacks the need he knows reads in his own face.
“Learned it from you. Looks like the student has become the master,” she says.
“You’ve always been the master,” Chat says, and there are one million other words behind that phrase, one million words that fall flat before they reach her ears.
“That’s right!”
In the end, they abandon music all together. Marinette’s hands shift from his shoulders to loop around his neck, like she has no idea how much it kills him to have her pressed even closer. They dance to a rhythm Chat sets: a soft, erratic sort of swing punctuated by spins and hops and every sort of ridiculous thing he can do to make her laugh. His pulse is the padding of her bare feet and the way she giggles his name when he dips her low. They won’t dance forever - she won’t let him - and when they’re done, she’ll pat him on the head and give him that friendly smile and send him on his way. But for right now, Chat holds her to his chest and sways.