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There’s already a lean figure standing over her grave when he arrives. Luka knows, of course, that Ladybug had paid for Juleka’s plot in Père Lachaise, and that as a result she must know where it is, but it still surprises him to see Marinette: not a superhero, not a public figure, just a teenager. Maybe he’d just missed her in the years before. Or maybe something’s shifted.
She turns before he has the chance to speak up. “Oh, Luka,” she says, soft. Then, “happy birthday.”
She must realize as soon as she says it how awkward it sounds in this context, because she looks shyly down at the ground, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s okay,” Luka says. “It is still my birthday.”
“I know,” she replies. In his periphery, he watches her wring her hands. “Just doesn’t feel right to say it like that.”
“Believe me,” he says, “I know.” Marinette glances over at him, her blue eyes wet with tears. He doesn’t say anything, but Luka can feel the chords of anger stirring in his chest. Her sadness and remorse are worth almost nothing, he thinks. If it weren’t for her and her partner’s carelessness, then Juleka would still be alive—he wouldn’t be standing in a cemetery at all.
“I still can’t imagine,” she murmurs, “what it would be like to lose your other half.”
Luka can’t, either. It’s his fourth birthday on his own, but time hasn’t made things any easier. The years have only sharpened his edges, making him into someone he cringes away from when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. Under his coat, the sharp edges of a deep-purple butterfly brooch poke at Luka’s chest from where it’s fastened beneath his sweater. It’s uncomfortable, but he’s come to embrace the discomfort. Becoming comfortable with it would be the problem—it would make him someone like Ladybug or Chat Noir.
Juleka, he thinks, would probably hate the idea of being seen as his “other half.” It goes against everything she stood for, all her protests about being her own person, an individual in her own right. Still, it’s hard not to think of her as a piece of himself. Now that she’s gone, it feels like a tangible hole in his side. No sounds of her picking away at her bass or any of the other guitars strewn around the Liberté, no one asking him to practice new makeup looks on him, nothing. Of course he knows she isn’t really a part of him, but it’s easy to forget, sometimes, often.
“It doesn’t get easier, but it gets further away,” he lies. Marinette nods, looking away. It doesn’t get further away—every time he transforms, he sees the purple of her hair in the thread and lining of his coat, and he’s back there all over again. But for Marinette, for someone who’s lost her so-called other half a million times and brought him back just as easily, it would be impossible to try and comprehend such a preventable, inescapable loss, one that haunts your every moment. He still doesn’t know who was behind Monarque’s mask—Reynard has been very good at keeping that secret—but he can’t help but think that whoever he was, he might be the only person in the world able to understand the depth of Luka’s grief.
“I heard,” Marinette says, staring at something far away, “that Ladybug has gotten really close to unmasking Machaon.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“The news,” she answers resolutely. A half-truth; you can find records of Ladybug saying anything on the news. Hardly a fraction of the quotes are real, and even fewer are actual statements and not just empty, vague platitudes. “I think she’s really close to figuring out who he is. Maybe she has already.”
An intimidation tactic? Is that what this is? No, Luka decides, it's probably a bluff. A comfort, in her eyes. Marinette, as diplomatic as she may be when she puts on the mask, would never try to confront Luka over his sister’s grave. That would be heartless, even for someone whose sense of heart has been warped by the needs of public service, by becoming someone larger than life, incapable of being a normal person like everyone else. To Marinette, it must be a nicety; she must think that she’s helping Luka find peace. He feels a thumping beat of frustration, one that starts in his gut and drums its way up to his chest.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Why hasn't she stopped him by now, then? If she really knew anything about his identity, wouldn’t that be her first priority?”
“I don’t know," Marinette repeats back, sounding sort of wistful. "Maybe she wants to talk to him first. Figure out why he’s doing what he’s doing.”
“Not much of anything,” Luka says without thinking. He curses himself internally. That kind of speech can get you in trouble for sympathizing with terrorism—the government doesn’t play around anymore when it comes to superhero happenings.
But Marinette is his friend: “You don’t think he does much?” she questions.
“I don’t think he’s very effective,” Luka returns. “As far as I can see, it seems like he hasn’t made much progress, for someone who’s been at it for years.”
There’d been the retrieval of the peacock brooch just a couple of months ago, but even that was only half Luka’s doing, and it didn’t produce results in any other realm. After all this time, what has he really done for Juleka’s sake? Listened to the voices of other people? Grant them the ability to take action? Sure. But in listening to everyone else’s voices, he thinks, he might have forgotten the sound of the one he started doing all of this for in the first place.
“I guess not,” Marinette says. “He’s sort of harmless in comparison to Monarque. Maybe that’s why the government seems less keen on helping the heroes out now, no?”
“Has the government ever bothered to help out?” Luka asks, to which Marinette simply nods. It’s hard to disagree with that. The only force less helpful than the various ministries and bureaucratic branches is the Police Prefecture.
“True,” she says. They stare at the inscription in silence. Juleka Couffaine, it reads, 2000–2019. An odd sort of feeling creeps under Luka’s skin, needling at him. The butterfly brooch feels heavy on his chest, thrumming with a provocation.
“I’m going to go,” he mutters, not waiting for an acknowledgement from Marinette, and turns on his heel. As he walks away, he feels for the threads of magical emotion pulsing through the air, each fighting to be loudest in their discordant rhythms. He takes hold of one and pulls.