Chapter Text
“As you all know, this season we will be opening with an original production–The Miraculous Ladybug, written and choreographed by our very own director, Mr. Agreste.” Miss Bustier paused for the class to applaud. “As such, many of you will be moving out of this class to accommodate rehearsals, so please make sure to pick up your new schedules before you leave today. Any questions?”
From the back, someone yelled, “who got the lead?”
“You will find out when you get to rehearsal,” Miss Bustier said as she folded her arms across her chest. A wave of murmurs washed over the class. “If that is all, we’re done for today. Good luck!”
Marinette barely escaped being crushed by the crowd rushing for the door. She gripped the barre for dear life, waiting for the room to empty so she could grab her bag lying against the far wall. Alya was waiting for her as she exited the studio.
“Have you gotten your schedule yet?”
Marinette waved her away. “I literally just got out of class. Let me put on some proper shoes, then we can go get our schedules together.” Alya smiled, appeased. They trotted down the stairs and through the gilded corridors, chatting about the new season and fresh faces–new graduates from the ballet school–they had seen in class. Having graduated together only a few years before themselves, Alya was dancing as coryphée, while Marinette–with her long legs and lithe fingers–had moved up to sujet.
They had been dancing in the corps de ballet together since graduating from the school, but when the opportunity arose for them to vie for a spot higher up on the ladder, they jumped at the chance. What they hadn’t imagined was that they would be separated; Marinette’s legs could extend just a fraction more, her leap was just a fraction higher. But in such a cutthroat company, a fraction was all it took to vault her from demi-soloist to soloist. Alya wasn’t bitter as much as she missed being in the same classes with her best friend. Classes were no place to chat, but she had known Marinette for long enough that they could communicate through eye contact alone. Now that Marinette was gone, Alya felt that time just dragged on.
“I bet Mr. Agreste wrote some really wicked moves for you,” Alya said, elbowing Marinette in the ribs when she failed to giggle. “Wicked here meaning both awesome to watch and awful to dance.” They stopped at the end of the corridor, barred by the crowd that was swarming around the administrative offices. Alya grabbed Marinette’s wrist and pushed her way through the new dancers waving their schedules above their heads.
“Pardon us, mon cygne, but we really must get through,” Alya said as she lovingly shoved the dancers aside. Reaching the office, she called her own name and Marinette’s, and received two sheets stuffed into her outstretched palm. “Thank you!” Alya yelled over her shoulder, and pushed Marinette back out of the growing ruckus.
“You’d think they had never seen paper before with the racket they’re making.”
“Alya, I think you’re getting old,” Marinette giggled. Alya grinned, and handed her the schedule.
“Yeah, yeah, bully me all you want now. Just wait until you see the hours you’ve got–you’re going to want some coffee.”
Marinette groaned. The director had a tendency to burn the midnight oil, especially when he taught classes himself. The company put up with the ridiculous hours he kept and the even more ridiculous electricity bill he would run up during the peak of the season because he was honestly a genius. His choreography pushed the dancers’ bodies to the limit, but the sheer elegance of the show made it all worth it. The performances that had graced the opera’s stage since he became director were unparalleled in their beauty. People flocked to Paris from around the world to watch his original productions. Indeed, he had singlehandedly sparked a fervor for ballet in the global consciousness.
“You want to do dinner at my place? I’m having a bit of a party,” Alya said. Marinette glanced at her schedule: first class of the day was set for 10am. Plenty of time for her to party into the early hours and even nurse a hangover if necessary. Which, given that Alya was hosting and that she had no sense of moderation, would be more than likely.
“Yeah, I’m down for a bit of a party. Let me grab a pair of heels from my place first though. I’ll meet you there.”
-~-~-~-
The party, while fun while it was happening, was not a fun thing the next morning. Marinette tried sitting up, but the world spun and her head pounded so she laid back down.
“Marinette, you are a damn lightweight if I ever saw one,” Alya said, handing her a glass of something black and foul-smelling. “It’s 9:30. Drink.”
Marinette shot straight up and chugged the entire glass in six seconds flat. She instantly regretted both those actions, but there was no time to spare on disgust. She did find time to grimace though. “What was that? Wait, I don’t want to know. I don’t have my ballet stuff and there’s no time to go all the way to the 21ème and come back by the time class starts.” Marinette turned her big baby blues on Alya. “Could I could borrow something?”
Alya sighed, but she didn’t expect any less from Marinette. In fact, she had anticipated this very situation when she had invited her to dinner the previous day. She dropped a pre-packed duffle bag on Marinette’s lap. “Yes, I’m perceptive like that. No need to thank me–just hurry.”
They ran from the metro station to the Palais, sliding into class just as the clock struck ten. Miss Bustier frowned slightly, but didn’t comment. She clapped twice to get the class’s attention.
“Good morning! As rehearsals for Ladybug will begin today and this is a mixed group, we’re going to focus on getting a good warm up so that all of you will be ready to dive directly into the choreography. I trust that most of you have all done your floor stretches, so let’s start with the barre.” She looked pointedly at Marinette and Alya. They grinned sheepishly, letting the class sweep them away from her gaze. The only empty space was at a portable barre against which a single dancer was stretching.
“Do you mind if we join you?” Alya asked. The dancer looked up, shook blond hair out of his eyes, and smiled at them. Marinette’s heart stopped. “Please do. I’m Adrien, nice to meet you.”
Alya dropped her bag and gently kicked Marinette’s shin to get her to move over. “I’m Alya. Likewise. This is Marinette. She’s not usually this rude,” Alya leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper, “but she had a bit to drink last night and is still recovering.” Adrien nodded knowingly. Miss Bustier clapped again.
“Plié-two-three-four, up-six-seven-eight,” she counted. Marinette’s knees bent automatically, her heart quieting as she practiced the familiar movements. The class cycled through the usual exercises: demi then grande pliés, tendus, dégagés, so on and so forth. Marinette couldn’t take her eyes off Adrien; his form was graceful and tender, yet strong and his lines clean.
She knew of Adrien Agreste–everyone knew of Adrien Agreste. His father, Gabriel Agreste, had raised him in his footsteps, bringing him into the world of ballet from an early age. As rumor had it, it was because Gabriel was never a particularly evocative dancer; skillful, yes, and brilliant, but he lacked the charisma necessary to a strong stage presence. His son, however, was born with grace. Years of training on top of that innate talent made him everything his father could never achieve. At 21, he was already a premier danseur. And yet, he could never seem to please Gabriel. Backstage whispers said Gabriel couldn’t bear to rehearse with him because he looked too much like his mother, which explained why the company’s most popular dancer never featured in Mr. Agreste’s original productions. But that was all rumor. His skill and talent, however, could be seen by even the most casual ballet audience. He had been the star of their class at the ballet school, so Marinette had admired him from afar for years. Now that she had the chance to watch him dance up close, she was enraptured. Class was over before she knew it.
“Marinette,” Alya hissed. “Earth to Marinette, hello?” She rapped her fingers on Marinette’s skull. Marinette jolted.
“Y-yeah?”
“Marinette, were you even conscious during class?”
“I was, uh, distracted. A little.” Marinette blushed.
“By Adrien Agreste? Son of Mr. Gabriel Agreste, artistic director of our homely company, and a man sure to kick your ass if you so much as look at his boy?” Alya asked. “Which is understandable; he’s just trying to protect the Agreste name from scandal. But that also means he will not, nay, cannot associate with hooligans of the likes of us.”
“I know he’s out of my league but you didn’t have to put it that way,” Marinette groaned. “I just have a crush.”
“Honey, I’m just trying to keep you employed and off the streets. Now let’s get lunch before I die of old age and exasperation.” Alya slung her bag over her shoulder and held the door for Marinette. “Let’s grab some coffee from that cafe down the street, then come straight back. My next class is in 25 minutes.”
“Actually, I think I’m going to find somewhere to take a nap. I’ve got a couple hours, and last night was hardly restful. You go ahead without me,” Marinette waved her off. Alya shrugged, motioning that she’d bring back a croissant for her. Marinette smiled, and headed for the costume department to look for Tikki.
Because the company put on so many original productions, the costume department was always a flurry of activity. It was no easy task to make new costumes for all 200-some dancers every season, but when the production was something like Ladybug where they couldn’t just refurbish some old swan tutus, the sewing machines would run at all hours. Despite the noise and general chaos, Tikki was able to keep not just a clear head but managed to wrangle an army of seamstresses and to know exactly what was going on everywhere, at all times. Her omniscience could be, admittedly, a little frightening. The only person who could match her in precognition was Plagg, the man who kept shoes on all the dancers’ feet. Every dancer wore shoes customized to their feet, and thecorps de ballet dancers could wear through a pair a day. Together, Tikki and Plagg kept the dancers clothed and shoed with minimal hissing. They were gifts individually, but together they were a blessing from a higher being and held the thin veil that separated the Paris Opera Ballet from catastrophe.
Tikki had taken on a particular liking to Marinette, so she would occasionally allow her to curl up amongst the fabric scraps and close her eyes for a while. Just as Marinette walked into the workroom, however, Tikki caught her arm.
“You’re early, but that’s fine. I’ll just give you the mask now,” Tikki said, leading Marinette through the towering stacks of partially-finished tutus.
“What mask?”
“You don’t know? Marinette, you’re going to dance the titular role in Ladybug–”
“What?”
“–and so Mr. Agreste has requested a special practice costume for you. To build the character both for you and your partner. You know how he is with method acting.”
“Wait, go back. I’m a sujet, not a premier danseur. How can Idance Ladybug?” Marinette’s legs chose this moment to stop functioning, and she toppled over. Tikki just shrugged.
“Mr. Agreste believes in you, and your abilities. I didn’t inquire further with Nathalie,” she said, hauling Marinette to her feet, “so I have no more answers for you. Although, it’s not like it hasn’t been done. Ganio was made an étoile at 19, when he was still a sujet.” She opened a cabinet and pulled out a red mask with black polka dots and red pointe shoes. “Mr. Agreste also requests that you to wear red to the midnight practice. And don’t tell anyone you’re dancing Ladybug–it’ll break the spell.”
Marinette nodded, and accepted the costume. “Tikki, before you go, do you think I could take a nap in your office? I spent the night at Alya’s so…” Marinette let her voice trail off. Tikki smiled gently, understandingly.
“Of course, Marinette.”
-~-~-~-
Marinette’s 11pm rehearsal was in the attic studio with the director himself. Even this late, Paris was lit like a Christmas tree as it spread out below. The Eiffel Tower glittered against the starry night, putting the crescent moon to shame. As requested, Marinette had donned the mask, red shoes, and a matching red wrap. She looked the part, even if she didn’t feel it. Ladybug was meant to be brave, strong, and selfless–the perfect hero. How did Marinette–so awkward she couldn’t even function around her idol/crush/whatever–get the part? She leaned against the barre, watching the city slowly succumb to sleep below her.
Chat Noir poked his head through the door. “…Ladybug?”
Marinette swivelled on her heel. She had been expecting the black mask, but the cat ears and long tail hanging between his legs took her aback, to say nothing of the bell tied around his neck. “That’s me. You took the chat part of Chat Noir quite literally, didn’t you?”
Chat grinned and stretched languidly, sinuously. His muscle tank slid over his chest, showing off his lean muscles. “Do you like it?” He winked. Marinette snorted; two could play at this game. She pushed herself off the barre, arching her back and rolling through the landing. Walking around him, she felt his eyes follow her every movement. She smiled and, standing before him once more, flicked his bell. Ding. His eyes went wide as saucers.
“I’d say it’s alright.” She flitted away, twirling and exaggerating the sway of her hips. She settled into a stretch against the barre once more, and Chat Noir followed suit. She hooked one ankle on the barre, then leaned across so that her fingertips just brushed the tip of her pointe shoe. Chat Noir took up a similar position, facing her.
“So, do I have the privilege to know the secret identity of the beautiful lady I’ll be dancing with?” he said. Marinette almost gave her name when she remembered Tikki’s words–no one could know. Mr. Agreste would no doubt fire her on the spot for breaking his spell, the fantasy.
“Ah, no. When we’ve got the masks on, let’s focus on becoming the characters.” Marinette paused, taking a moment to switch the leg on the barre. “Just call me Ladybug.”
“Alright, my Lady.” Chat grinned that Cheshire smile and slid into a split. The ice thoroughly broken, they continued stretching in comfortable silence. The minutes ticked on, but still Mr. Agreste didn’t appear. Chat grew restless, stopping his stretching in favor of pacing around the studio. He pawed through a stack of vinyl disks lying behind the piano, and chose an unmarked sleeve. After dusting off an old record player, he gently persuaded soft jazz from the speaker.
“We might as well dance, hm?” He spread his arms, an open invitation if Marinette ever saw one. The scene was perfect: Paris’ glow dimly filtering through the old windows, the attic studio warm from a long day under the spring sun, a trumpet singing about love in far off lands, and a dashing partner. She wavered. Her mind said no, he’s just a damn flirt but her body had a different idea. Her leg had unhooked from the barre and her feet had begun sliding towards him, her arms lifting to meet his, when the door slammed open. Marinette and Chat Noir jumped, and she thanked her lucky stars her disobedient feet were so slow. Mr. Agreste and Nathalie swept into the room, their heavy footsteps echoing around the studio. He clapped twice, as if he didn’t already have their full attention.
“Turn off that record player, let’s get to work. We’re already behind schedule and there’s so much to do. Nathalie, draw the curtains and find the light switch–I don’t want to even think about what you two were doing in the darkness. You,” he paused for breath, “you are not the dancer I casted.” Marinette’s stomach dropped to her feet, until she saw that he was not looking at her, but at Chat Noir.
Chat, to his credit, just smiled. “No, I’m not. Felix is in London with the Royal Ballet. I’ve been his understudy for the past few seasons, so I’m dancing his roles while he’s gone.” Mr. Agreste nodded stiffly. Marinette noted the subtle lie; Felix was in London, but he was there for good, even if no one would admit it. The Royal Ballet had offered him a choreography job, so he retired from dancing and boarded a plane the next day. The move had shocked the entire company. He hadn’t had an understudy because no one had expected him to be anything but fully faithful to the company. Marinette wondered about the boy behind the mask. Who would dare lie to Mr. Agreste? And even more, who could do so that easily?
“Alright then. We will start with the first scene, when the audience is introduced to Ladybug and Chat Noir. Ladybug, start from stage left. Chat Noir, stage right. Quickly now.” Marinette and Chat scurried to the locations he pointed at while he and Nathalie took a seat. “Ladybug, we will start with your solo.”
Mr. Agreste was not the demonstrative type of choreographer. He rarely stood and performed the motions, preferring to give detailed instructions and purse his lips in dissatisfaction. At the end of the two-hour rehearsal, Marinette and Chat were soaked through with sweat and breathing hard while Mr. Agreste just sat and frowned. Nathalie shut the binder containing the score where she had been taking notes, and stood.
“Mr. Agreste, it is now 1:24am.”
“Then we’ll stop here. Ladybug, Chat Noir.” He nodded at Marinette’s curtsy and Chat Noir’s bow, then left in the same manner as he had entered. Their departure felt like Marinette released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. The moment the door shut, Chat too seemed to release a breath. The grin returned to his face and the swagger returned to his step.
“Good work today, my Lady.”
“Not bad yourself, alley cat.”
Marinette grinned back, and they headed downstairs together. The city was sound asleep, the streets unusually quiet for the city center. They parted ways at the front of the Palais. Chat Noir’s black getup faded into the darkness, as if he dissolved into the night itself. Safe in the winding tunnels of the metro station, Marinette removed her mask. Suddenly, she felt naked rather than unburdened. The darkness pressed against her, and without the protection of Ladybug’s strength and fiery persona, she was just Marinette. Vulnerable, small Marinette. She clutched her bag to her chest and ran home the moment the train doors slid open.
-~-~-~-
The next morning, Marinette was intensely thankful that her 10am class started so late and that Miss Bustier was such a fan of stretching. She was bone-tired, and her legs were still sore when she walked into class. She dropped her bag next to the familiar portable barre, and flopped over.
“Alya, I’m dead.”
“Late night?” Adrien asked. Marinette froze. She casually turned her head to look at him stretching opposite her.
“Y-yes! With Mr. Adrien–I mean, Mr. Gab–I mean, Mr. Agreste. Not you, Mr. Agreste, but the other Mr. Agreste. Your father. With whom you’re familiar with so I’ll just shut up now.” Marinette wished for a hole to open up and swallow her into the warm earth.
“I know the feeling,” Adrien sighed. Marinette suddenly saw the dark circles under his eyes, the unusual dullness of his skin. Did he have a rehearsal after her 11pm? Alya knocked her out of her musings.
“Morning Mari, morning Adrien. You two are looking alive.”
Marinette groaned, and rolled over in her split. “Alya, please.”
“Thanks for asking about me, Marinette, my best friend. I had a great night. There’s a new pianist who played my 8pm, and he’s gottalented hands.” Alya grinned and winked. “His name is Nino. You two should meet him.”
“Sure, introduce us some time,” said Adrien. Marinette couldn’t believe that he could still function despite how tired he looked.
“Of course I will! I’ll take you all to lunch or something.” Alya paused, thinking. “Drink some wine, have a few laughs, loosen up with some friends. It’d be fun.”
Marinette and Adrien smiled and nodded. “Sounds great.”
-~-~-~-
The last rehearsal before opening night. After three weeks of nightly rehearsals, Ladybug had let go of her reservations about dancing the part, and undergone a transformation. Now, she became invincible. Adrien had taken to putting on that jazz disc before Ladybug arrived so that she could hear the familiar trumpet wailing when she neared the attic. Like every night, he offered to dance. Like every night, she declined. Like every night, Mr. Agreste and Nathalie arrived abruptly, announced only by the click of their hard-soled shoes against the floor. Nathanael shuffled in behind them, clutching sheet music to his chest.
“Start at the top of the pas de deux. Just keep going–I’ll stop you when necessary.” They took their familiar seats while Ladybug and Adrien took their familiar positions across the stage. Adrien, center stage, gazing into the distance as he waited for the piano to start. Ladybug entered, gliding across the stage on pointe. She brushed her fingers across his jaw, a pirouette, and flitted away. She leaned into a lunge, coiling her fingers in a come hither motion. Adrien followed her excitedly, mirroring her arabesque and spin. He guided her through turn after turn, then she spun him, his motions perfect reflections of adoration. He dipped her low, lying her flat on the ground with her arms above her head. He rolled back on his heels before taking her by the wrists, kissing the backs of her hands, and pulling her back to her feet.
“That’s enough. Stop there. Thank you, Nathanael.” The music stopped abruptly and they sprang apart. Mr. Agreste begins giving criticism of their dancing–small tweaks to the choreography–but Adrien knows that he and Ladybug were perfectly in sync so he lets his mind drift.
Adrien was glad for the upteenth time that the mask came down so low, that it hid his blush from when he pulled her close. He was glad that Chat was in love with Ladybug as he had become. He loved her strength, her diligence, and her skill. He loved the way her muscles rippled under his hands when he lifted her, the way she smiled cheekily when he spun under her arm. He knew it showed, so he could only pray that the adoration he felt came through as acting rather than some gross misunderstanding of their relationship. He didn’t know her name, but he didn’t have to. After so many weeks of late-night rehearsals, he had come to know the dancer behind the mask more intimately than anyone else in his life. All the walls came down when they stepped into the attic studio. When Paris fell asleep, Adrien was able to explore the sides of himself that could never be attached to the Agreste name. His mask and the cover of darkness let him adopt the reckless persona of Chat Noir, even when they’re not dancing.
“Chaton,” Ladybug whispered in his ear, “are you paying attention?”
He blinked, and realized that everyone was looking at him. He ducked his head and rubbed his neck under Mr. Agreste’s glower. “Ah, sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I would like to see the pirouettes again, with the modifications I have noted. Or do you have an objection, Chat Noir?” His voice was scathing, as usual.
“No objection!” he yelped, and acquiesced to Ladybug’s firm hand on his waist.
“He wants you to dance this in a more masculine manner–like you’re mirroring me, but putting your own spin on it,” she whispered in his ear as they readied themselves. He snorted at the pun, and out of the corner of his eye saw Ladybug’s lips twitch upwards. “Yes, my Lady.”
They danced the pirouettes over and over again, tweaking the set of a shoulder here, the lean of a hip there, until Mr. Agreste was satisfied.
“Good, Chat Noir. Nathalie, what was the other part I wanted to work on?”
“That was it, Mr. Agreste.”
“How unusual. It appears we are done for today. Rest up, you two–you’ve got a big night.” And just like that, Mr. Agreste and Nathalie were gone. Nathanael gathered his music as Adrien and Ladybug dressed.
“Since we’re out early tonight, do you want to grab a drink?” Adrien asked, casually leaning against the barre in an attempt to hide the way his heart was beating.
“It may be early for us, but Paris has already fallen asleep. Maybe next time.” Ladybug said, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. She made to move towards the door, so Adrien tucked his bag under his arm and let the subject drop.
-~-~-~-
Opening night, they danced beautifully. Mr. Agreste almost smiled when they took their final bow, so Adrien knew they were perfect in his eyes. He could feel it too–his motions and Ladybug’s were totally in sync. On stage, in front of all of Paris, they had connected subliminally. Adrien had felt naked, as if performing the choreography they had practiced with embarrassing intimacy had revealed his deepest desires, but Ladybug’s presence grounded him. Their technique was perfect; every step stable, every move strong, and every glance piercing.
The critics were not so impressed. Adrien walked into his 10am class to see everyone crowded together in the center of the room. Marinette’s voice rang out from the bottom of the pile of bodies.
“Miraculous Ladybug could very well be the pinnacle of contemporary French ballet, and with Mr. Gabriel Agreste directing, no less is expected. Indeed, it seems he has passed his own dance style onto the fresh faces on the stage this season.” Marinette’s voice dropped, and a murmur passed through the crowd. “The characters of Ladybug and Chat Noir are Mr. Agreste’s pride and joy–they dance with the technical perfection he was known for before his retirement, and the accompanying emotional dearth. The dancing is controlled, micromanaged even. As the performance goes on, it becomes clear that the dancers are almost too restrained, as if there are underlying emotions they do not dare express. Mr. Agreste’s iconic technical perfection hides the true potential of the choreography. Perhaps it is time for him to loosen his iron grip.”
There was a moment of silence, then the crowd erupted into an uproar. Twenty voices protested the review, another ten crying disbelief. Adrien remained silent, letting their anger and disappointment wash over him. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t have anything to say. The critics were right in that his father pushed his style upon his dancers, and especially his leads. Mr. Agreste had a controlling personality infamous around the world, but that didn’t mean he liked it when people pointed it out. He would be furious; he was always furious.
Miss Bustier walked into the studio, and the class settled down. Her expression was strained, her usual smile not quite reaching her eyes. She looked around, noted that the class was present, and nodded. “Mr. Agreste is a little uneasy today, so work hard in rehearsal. Let’s start with the barre.” She turned to the pianist and the class scattered across the room. “The regular warmup if you will, Nino.”
Nino’s hands were languid as they tapped out the familiar melody, and the dancers’ feet matched his tempo. They melted into their pliés and stretched like cats into their tendus. Nino’s hands awoke at the dégagés, and suddenly their feet flew. Adrien fell into the rhythmic thump of pointe shoes against the hard floor, of soft ballet slippers sweeping around muscular legs, of Nino’s piano keeping them all in line. Time was marked more by the tap of the dancers’ feet than by the ticking of the clock on the far wall.
Miss Bustier guided them through the warm up, then ran through thecorps de ballet’s portion of the grand pas. Adrien fumbled through the moves; his cover for dancing Chat Noir was that he was in the corps, but he hadn’t bothered to actually learn the choreography. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Marinette, thankfully, seemed to be fumbling as well. At least he wasn’t alone in making a fool of himself.
“Adrien, Marinette, since neither of your partners are present, please pair up for the partner dance,” Miss Bustier said. Marinette flushed to the ears as she joined him in the back corner.
“Yes ma’am,” they said. Miss Bustier smiled knowingly as she turned to the rest of the class. “Nino, from the partnered pirouette, please.”
The class lined up across the length of the studio, so Adrien and Marinette tucked themselves into a corner. They watched the other dancers and copied their movements, but they were jerky and uncoordinated. Adrien dropped her on a lift, and Marinette kicked him in the face on an arabesque. They decided they were even when they kept tripping over each other’s feet and drove their neighbors crazy with their apologizing.
“One more time, from the pirouettes towards the back through the end, and then we’re done,” Miss Bustier called out. There was only one partnered move in that part–a simple spin, his hands on her waist to keep her steady as she turned. It was a move Adrien had perfected with Ladybug, but with Marinette he could only hope they would synchronize half as well. As she danced into his arms, he was struck with a sense of familiarity. She spun in his hands, and a flash of red caught his eye. He jolted. There was no way Marinette could be Ladybug; he would have recognized her immediately. They would have connected subconsciously. There was no way. He brushed off the earrings as a coincidence.
“Alright, that’s enough. Thanks for the hard work today; please continue to keep it up through the rest of your rehearsals.” The class thanked her and started filing out of the studio. Alya grabbed Marinette and Adrien before they could leave.
“Let’s get lunch.”
Marinette protested, but Alya cut her off. “Marinette, you never leave the studio, you’re as pale as paper. Please let me feed you some carbs. Besides, Adrien is coming, right?” She turned to him with a grin and a wink. Intrigued, Adrien nodded. “See, it’ll be fun. Let’s go!” And with that, Alya swept Marinette away, Adrien tagging along behind.
Alya’s favorite cafe was a few streets down from the Palais; just far enough to muffle the hustle and bustle around the metro station, but close enough to enjoy the full duration of their lunch break. They found Nino waiting for them at a table set for four, pouring red wine.
“I know it’s a bit early to be drinking, but nothing goes better with camembert than pinot noir,” Nino said sheepishly. Adrien grimaced a little, and Nino’s smile drooped. “That is alright, no?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s just that camembert is quite, you know, fragrant, and I’m honestly not a super-fan. But that pairing sounds great.” Adrien said, then noticed Marinette’s expression–best described as constipated. Did I offend her? “Marinette, are you okay?”
“Yes–I love cheeks–I mean, I love cheese–I’m fine! Let’s eat!” She squeaked. She clapped her hands over her face and gestured for them to sit, so they did. Alya flirts unabashedly with everyone at the table, and Nino matches her in intensity. Two glasses of wine and a quarter wheel of cheese later, Marinette caught Alya and Nino making eyes at each other and loudly complained for them to get a room. Alya rolled her eyes and Nino blushed. Adrien noticed Marinette’s red cheeks, the stutter replaced by a slight slur to her words, and pushed his plate aside.
“Marinette, are you feeling alright? I can take you home to rest if you need–”
“Agreste, are you sure about this? She lives in the 21ème,” said Alya, suddenly attentive.
“It’s really not a problem, my next rehearsal isn’t until right before dress. Besides, you and Nino have a 2pm together, right? So you’d better get going.” Adrien smiled then, pouring on all the charm he inherited from his mother. Alya checked the time on her phone and yelped.
“Then I’m entrusting her to you. She lives across the street from the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie, along the Seine,” Alya said, then slammed some bills on the table. “Got it?” Adrien nodded, and Alya took off back towards the Palais with Nino in tow, yelling something about death wishes and tardiness. The sudden quiet felt unbearably intimate, and Marinette seemed to feel just as uncomfortable as Adrien.
“Shall we?” He made to help her out of her chair, but she waved him off.
“I’m a big girl, I can stand on my own and everything, thank you very much.” Marinette stumbled a bit, but caught herself. “See?”
Adrien smothered his grin and nodded. “Yes, of course. After you, then.” He followed her back towards the metro in ambivalent silence, not wanting to upset her again but also wanting to ask why she was so uncomfortable around him when she was sober. They reached the platform just as the train pulled out of the station, leaving them alone together.
“So…” Adrien let his voice trail off. Marinette tugged her coat tighter around herself, and Adrien’s throat dried up on the spot. They spent to rest of the trip in awkward silence, Adrien too wary of upsetting her again to speak. When they arrived her apartment, Marinette fiddled with her keys in the cramped hallway. Jiggling the lock, Marinette finally spoke.
“I’m so sorry about this, the building is so old and about as spacious as a thumbtack, but it’s cheap and I can see Notre Dame from my window so–” the door finally gave way and she tumbled over the threshold. “So here we are! My humble abode. It’s not much but it’s…not much. Sorry for the mess. Please, make yourself at home.” She gestured vaguely towards an unmade sofa bed all but filling the living room. Marinette clamored over the piles of clothing strewn across the floor towards the bathroom. The bathroom cabinet, like the front door, was jammed when she tried to open it. When it gave in to her tugging, she fell back and caught herself a hair’s width from cracking her head on the opposite wall. She muttered something about a headache while she rummaged through the cabinet, grasping at bottles. Advil in hand, she flopped onto the sofa. Adrien stiffened, then relaxed again when she didn’t move to smother him. He had been spending too much time with Chloe, which was doing no favors for his mental health.
“So, you’re not really in the corps either, are you?” Adrien said.
“You could tell?”
“I noticed you watching the other dancers and being a half-step behind the music, so I assumed. Don’t worry, I was doing the same thing.”
“I didn’t think the company would let Mr. Agreste–your father, I mean–put you in the corps. Not that there’s anything wrong with the corps. It’s just that you’re a principle dancer and it’s unusual for him to not take advantage of your talents.”
Adrien hesitated before saying, “It’s personal.”
Marinette’s eyes went wide and her mouth opened, words spilling out like floodwaters. “Did I go too far? Sorry, sometimes I just speak without thinking and–”
“No, no, it’s fine. My father is a serious man, and he doesn’t want to show favoritism when it comes to me. It’s no big deal. His legacy has given me an unfair advantage already.” Adrien took a deep breath to steady his trembling heart. “Often I don’t know if I’m getting roles because of my skills or because of my name. I don’t want to be ‘that Agreste kid,’ not really. I just want to be Adrien.” He smiled at her wide-eyed expression, his heart beating out of his chest. He had never admitted these thoughts, these insecurities, to anyone else before. Other than Plagg, but Plagg instinctively knew everything about every dancer in the company, so he didn’t really count. Marinette was quiet, thoughtful.
“I’m glad you confided in me. Thank you.” She spoke softly, and his fear dissipated. They lay on the sofa bed, watching the sun sink below the Parisian skyline as they talked. The streetlights flickered on, and Marinette’s stomach grumbled.
“Time to dig up some dinner, I guess,” Marinette groaned, rolling towards her kitchen. She opened her empty cupboards and sighed before reaching for the lonely bag of pasta. “Do you like farfalle?”
Adrien considered the circumstances that would drive someone to have only one bag of pasta in their cupboards, that would force them into a New York-sized apartment in Paris. He considered the typical pay for a Paris Opera Ballet dancer (barely a living wage) and the cost of dinner in the 21ème (way too much). He went for the pasta.
“I love pasta. Do you have a tomato or two, for sauce?” He crawled on the sofa bed towards the kitchen.
“I might be able to find something. You wanna…do that thing?” She gestured vaguely at the pot hanging from a nail on the wall. Adrien nodded, and put on water to boil. Marinette sat on her kitchen windowsill, hooking her toes on a cabinet handle. She leaned backwards, her torso dangling precariously from her 5th story window with her legs keeping her in a delicate balancing act. Arching her back in the way only a dancer can, she reached down to the hanging tomato plant below her windowsill. She curled back up with a tomato in each hand and a grin on her face.
“My landlord doesn’t allow house plants, so my downstairs neighbor and I made this arrangement. Can I use the sink?” Adrien nodded, and flattened himself against the countertop. Marinette shimmied past. The narrowness of the kitchen became apparent when Marinette shimmied past. Her inhale, to better squeeze past, seemed to draw the air from Adrien’s own lungs. The moment passed, but Adrien remained short of breath.
“Do you, uh, actually know how to make pasta sauce from scratch?” Marinette held up her tomatoes with a sheepish smile. Adrien nodded. Pasta sauce was in fact the only thing he could make. He had picked it up from his mom when they had made it together when he was a kid and his dad was away, dancing in far off places. Gabriel never let his family eat such indulgent foods under his watch, but Mama Agrete had picked up an insatiable craving for pasta when she studied abroad in Italy, and secretly cooked greasy, cheesy delights whenever he turned his back.
“I’ll even give you my family’s recipe. But don’t tell anyone–it’s an Agreste secret.” He winked, and looked around for a cutting board. He threw onions, garlic, salt, and pepper in a pan to soften while he diced the tomatoes. Then in they went with a few leaves of thyme. He stirred until the sauce thickened, then poured the pasta directly from the pot into the saucepan, giving it a good stir to combine fully. Plate and, with a flourish, he said, “voila. Pasta perfetta.”
Marinette smiled, and her stomach grumbled again. “You know what would make this more perfect? The view from the roof. Trust me on this one.” Plates in hand, they climbed the stairs to what was really a glorified ceiling rafter. Marinette handed her plate to Adrien, pushing on a low skylight until it opened just enough for them to climb through. The spring breeze was brisk, but Adrien forgot about the chill when he saw Notre Dame glittering across the Seine. Marinette sighed contentedly, twirling her fork between her fingers.
“I put up with this shitty apartment, shitty landlord, and shitty neighbors because of this. Well, this, and location. My parents run the bakery and I help them between seasons. But this?” Marinette paused and made a grand sweeping gesture, “This always lifts my mood.” Suddenly self conscious, she blushed and took a big bite of pasta.
“Do you like it?” Adrien asked. Marinette nodded, and he beamed with pride. “The Agreste recipe never fails to delight.” She appreciated the last remnant of his mother just as much as he did. He was radiant with joy and light-headed in his ascent to heaven itself. He could even hear holy bells tolling in the distance.
“–ien. Adrien. Uh, Adrien?” Marinette tapped his shoulder, and he found his feet back on earth. Not holy bells. Regular bells. Regular bells attached to Notre Dame, ringing at an unbelievable proximity. Living near the Palais, he had forgotten how loud these bells were.
“Sorry, what?”
“The bells are tolling, so it’s probably time for us to head back. For rehearsal.”
“Oh, yes, of course. After you.” They climbed back through the skylight, down the rickety stairs, and into her cramped kitchen. They dropped their plates in the sink with a promise to wash them later, then Marinette shooed Adrien off.
“I need to change into costume, and it takes a while, so you go on without me.”
Adrien wanted to interject, then remembered that this was Marinette, not some damsel in distress. He closed the door behind him.