Chapter Text
What if I fall and hurt myself
Would you know how to fix me?
What if I went and lost myself
Would you know where to find me?
If I forgot who I am
Would you please remind me?
Oh, cause without you things go hazy
“What do you want to do after this?” Nino had asked once, when they were lying on the floor of Adrien’s bedroom, after a particularly tiring round of trying to catch flying potato chips in their mouths.
“What do you mean?” Adrien had wondered. “Like for dinner?”
Nino had laughed at that, and his head had turned towards his friend, neck resting on the pad of one of his black and blue headphones. “No, man, like in life. After we graduate.”
“I guess I’ve never thought about it,” Adrien remembers saying, even years later. “I guess I’d go to university. Move to some quiet place. I’m tired of big cities.”
It’s funny, the way getting what you want can feel like.
Adrien takes a deep breath, letting the cool air coming off the lake fill his lungs. The Mont du Chat might be a tough climb, but it’s worth it for this view. Everything here is so peaceful it’s almost like the world’s come to a stand still. He’s tempted to get lost in it. The blues of the water and the greens of the hills might just be the prettiest colors he’s ever seen, especially in the afternoon’s light.
He can’t stay, though. For once in the four years he’s been here, he has to be somewhere important enough to not bask in the beauty of this setting. It’s not quite the same pressure of his childhood; the ticking of the clocks and the clicking of Nathalie’s heels and every moment scheduled down to the millisecond. Technically, he can be late to this one.
However, it’s rude to keep someone waiting for you. He’s retained that lesson from his youth, at the very least.
Adrien turns and makes the march down the paved road.
He doesn’t know how long the vineyard’s been there; he’s never bothered to ask. All he knows is it’s a quiet place he can come on the way back to the city from the mountain. The people there are nice, and don’t ask too many questions about how he can afford such expensive wine. They barely recognize his face, either.
It hasn’t changed much in the years since he left the city; he’s still got that softness in his cheeks that had pushed him into the industry in the first place. There’s no giant billboards in wine country, though, and he’s grateful for that. No constant reminders of all the ways he couldn’t make someone else’s dream for him come true.
And anyways, it’s a good place for a date. He’s brought a few people here, when he really wants them to see who he is beyond his name, without Agreste branded on his forehead. They came and they went. They saw and they drank and they laughed and they left. And, in a way he’s okay with it.
The woman sitting at the table when he makes his way through the building to the patio, however, is a more permanent fixture of his life. Sure, she’s come and she’s gone, and a few times he’s gone as well, but they can’t quite seem to shake each other loose. Which is why she’s here, scanning the green laminated wine list with her precise fingers.
She wears her hair down now, and he supposes it makes her look older. Maybe it just makes her look more like her mother. A few other things are different. She’s traded in the ballet flats for small black heels, and the capri pants and cardigans for blazers and pencil skirts. If he didn’t already know she could conquer a small nation on her own, her outfit would give it away.
“Hey,” he shouts from across the patio with a smile. “It’s been a long time.”
She looks up from her wine list, and he’s a little more than shocked when her face lights up at his presence. Peach lips part into a grin, blue eyes grow wide with surprise.
“Adrikins!” she shouts, getting up from her seat, and he laughs at the old nickname. They haven’t used it in years, but he supposes it’s fitting, considering the occasion.
An older American couple a few feet away from him gives them a strange look as Chloe Bourgeois slams into him, almost knocking him off his feet. He’s taller than her now. He’d forgotten that.
Adrien gives them a “what can you do?” grin and hugs her back.
“I’ve been waiting for almost six whole minutes now!” she shouts. “I thought a bear had eaten you up there!”
She lets go of the hug, bringing her hands down to grab his forearms. He tries not to crinkle her blazer. “Chlo, there aren’t any bears up there.”
She brushes off the fact. “Ah, Adrien, you know I don’t go outside. How am I supposed to know what is and isn’t lurking on that mountain?”
“You could climb it with me sometime,” he offers.
“In these shoes?” she asks.
“Good point.”
Chloe guides him back to her table, regaling him with the latest news from the Paris hotels. Her hands fly wildly in the air, with the same level of dramatics she’s always had. She always seems to make a scene wherever she goes, but her only audience now is him and the Americans, one of which seems to be walking towards them.
Adrien stops her for a second, and turns toward the older man, who’s rolled his cuffs to his elbows, revealing the silver hairs on his tanned arms. “Ta soeur est très jolie,” he says, not stumbling over the words, but with an accent strong enough to let Adrien know his first assumption was right; they are American.
“She’s not my sister,” Adrien clarifies, with a look at Chloe. “But I’m sure she appreciates the compliment.”
Chloe rolls her eyes, but gives her appreciation anyway. “Thank you,” she says, with a flip of her platinum blonde hair. “I do try.”
They thank him again, and sit down together. The wine comes and Chloe clinks their glasses together in celebration of them being reunited.
“How often do you see them?” he asks, after they’ve emptied their glasses and Chloe’s taken to checking her reflection in her sunglasses.
“Sometimes,” she says, which isn’t really an answer, but Adrien’s not in the mood to press. “We’re not the only ones who are busy, though.”
Chloe’s eyes trail a butterfly on the fence next to them.
“Has it really been five years?”
Her voice is quiet when she answers. “Yeah.”
Adrien tries not to let his thoughts wander to that night years ago when everything had changed to such an impossible degree. Another reason he likes being out here instead of in the city; no one here remembers.
“Paris is mostly the same,” Chloe says. “Still has tourists. Still as crowded as ever.” A soft hand comes out and flicks the butterfly—no, not a butterfly, a hawkmoth—away. “And the little bugs haven’t gotten any friendlier.”
Marinette sits on the steps of the Conservatory, sipping from her coffee. It’s a good kind of warmth on a day like today. It’s supposed to be summer, but the clouds came this morning and haven’t gone away.
If she has to wait very much longer, she’s considering moving inside just in case it does rain. She moves the paper bag next to her a little closer to her body, ready to grab it and go at the first sign of water falling from the sky. So far, it seems the clouds are just there to brood.
Everyone seems to be brooding today. Her boss, the other interns, even the girl sitting across from her on the metro. If she’s being honest, Marinette’s even started to feel it herself. She can’t tell if this bad mood everyone’s in was caused by the weather, or if the weather’s just an odd side effect of someone’s bad mood.
It’s not that far fetched of an idea, after all…
This is why she needs to stop waiting and start moving, because, when she’s all alone in the silence like this, she can’t help but let her thoughts wander to that place. It doesn’t help when the sky’s all dark like this, just like it was the day it all ended.
She should really take up running again. It would probably help her anxiety. She lost her rhythm with it at some point, although she can’t place her finger on when it was. A lot of habits, good and bad, have gotten lost in her memories like that.
It’s what happens when the worst parts of life can’t be fixed with a simple move anymore.
She’d misses those magic fixes at times like this, when she’s worrying about the state of her roommate, whose class should have ended five minutes ago and who still isn’t out here yet. She really should pull out her phone and send another text…
“Mare Bear!” a voice yells from behind her, and she turns to find the high-top sneakers she was waiting for coming down the stone steps to where she sits. Nino Lahiffe gives her his best finger guns as he plops down on the steps next to her. “Sorry to keep you waiting! I just had to know what the speaker’s thoughts on music theory in the digital age because you know how psyched I get about that stuff.”
Marinette smiles at his excitement, lifting her coffee to her mouth again. “I know.”
“And you should’ve heard the way he talked about the applications of digital sound within orchestra! Did you know there was this one concert in the States where all the sound was emitted by cell phone ring tones? Like, how cool is that?”
“The absolute coolest.”
“Speaking of temperatures,” he says, glancing at the cup in her hand. “Is that a hot coffee you have there?”
“I got one for you too,” Marinette answers his question before he can ask it, raising the paper bag beside her. “And picked up some donuts from my dad.”
He pulls out the box, which she’d placed side-ways earlier to make it fit, and opens it. “You’re the best, Mari, you know that?”
Marinette laughs a little. “I’m just being a good friend.”
“A really good friend.”
“Shut up.”
“Have you heard from Alya yet?” Nino asks, leaning back in their worn grey armchair, folding his arms behind his head. His attempt at being casual with the question is not lost on her.
“You know, you never were that good at being casual when it comes to her,” Marinette jokes, pointing her fork at him accusingly.
“That is—That is not true. I am totally calm and cool at every moment when it comes to her, I—”
“She’s flying out tomorrow. I told her we’d pick her up at the airport.”
“You did what?” he yells, eyes wide with what may be panic.
Marinette shrugs. “She’s my best friend. What was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Ask me? What am I going to say to her? What are we going to say to her? Damn it, I have to get that mixtape finished.” He flies up out of the armchair and around the room, lifting piles of his sheet music and stacks of her fabric in his search.
“What are you calling it?” Marinette asks, conspiratorily.
“If you’re asking if I’m going with “Sorry We Dated And Broke Up Without Telling You,” that’s a terrible name, first of all, and second of all, we are not spilling the beans on her like that.” Nino sighs when he finds the napkin he’d written songs on when they’d first started planning to actually tell her. Back then it had only been like three songs. That was three years ago.
Now it’s a meticulously crafted (if anything on a paper napkin can be called that, which Marinette certainly thinks it can), often-changed list of about 50 songs that Nino is progressively adding and removing from a private Spotify playlist. Sometimes he remixes them if he’s feeling really emotional about it.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Marinette protests. “Sometimes things are just better when you rip the band aid off.”
“Rip it off and let her see the scar that healed three years ago,” Nino mutters under his breath, but she hears it anyway. “I still don’t get why you haven’t just told her. You are best friends, after all.”
“First of all,” Marinette says, “you were a part of this too. And, second of all, I just haven’t had the time.”
“You’ve had three years!”
“Yeah, but it’s just never a good time. This will be a good time. I promise.”
“If you say so,” Nino mumbles, walking with his napkin list back to his laptop. “Because I still need one more song to make this convey what it needs to.”
Marinette thinks for a moment, going over all the records Nino owns and all the songs she has saved on her Spotify. “Found Out About You by the Gin Blossoms,” she decides.
Nino stops dead in his tracks. “How did I not think of that one?”
Adrien rests his forehead against the window of Chloe’s white sports car as they drive towards Paris. The glass is cold; a quiet rain has started falling as they’ve gotten closer to the city.
He hasn’t missed this. The greyness. The fog. The large buildings in differing shades of white, grey, and black.
There are so many good things about Paris, and, usually, he’d count the city’s history as one of them, but today, as they reach the five year mark, it’s not something he’d like to relish in.
He likes the mountains, the vineyards, the expanses of green and blue that let him feel far away. Adrien had tried to get as far as possible after graduation. So far his record is five hours away.
Currently, this means five hours in a car with Chloe. He’s not too worried about it, though; he’s missed her, after all. Also, she tends to begin to fall asleep after the first few hours of driving. Or, at least, she gets tired enough to let him touch her car, which she’s been referring to as her “baby.”
“You know, for someone who’s infamous for rejecting marriage proposals, you sure have a lot of babies, Chlo.”
“What?” she shrugs. “It’s not my fault cars are prettier than boys are.” She turns her head for a second to wink at him. “Except for you. You’re the prettiest boy I know. Even if you have taken to wearing flannel.”
“It’s not that far of a leap from button ups, you know.”
“Tell that to Marinette,” Chloe says, and Adrien wishes he didn’t flinch at the sound of her name. “You should hear her talk about the variations of buttons and their history. It’s quite sleep-inducing. I mean I like fashion, but shut up about buttons and let me see if this blouse actually makes me look good, you know what I mean?”
“Do you see her a lot?” he asks, and he’s trying to not sound like he cares, he really is. These years away might have almost convinced him of that, if not for the fact that he’s picturing Marinette taking Chloe’s measurements for the pinstriped blouse she’s wearing and blabbing on about buttons. He can’t help but smile. It’s not his fault that she just seems to exist in a permanent state of goodness.
“Not more than I have to, but it’s gotten harder and harder, because your father keeps dragging her around to all the parties like some lapdog. She tells me it’s called ‘networking’ and I keep telling her that she’s not Spiderman, so, unless she’s actually working on those fishnets I commissioned I don’t see what she’s doing talking about nets.”
“Chloe,” Adrien pokes her. “You know what networking is.”
She smiles a smug smile. “I know. I just like getting under her skin.”
“Well, you always were the best at stinging.”
He shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t resist the pun. Her face falls a little bit at the remark. He gets it. They’ve all been a little on edge when it comes to certain words for the past few years. He still catches his breath whenever he sees a stray.
“Just because you miss him doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me,” Chloe protests, and she even sounds hurt.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. My jokes just haven’t been the same since—”
“Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to talk about it. I know it hurts.”
It does hurt. He lost too many people in such a short time. Sometimes he forgets she did too. Sometimes he forgets he was one of them.
Chloe falls asleep around hour three. She climbs into the back of the car, slips off her heels, and wraps a comforter with a threadcount higher than the number of miles they’ve driven around her. Then she proceeds to make quiet little noises for the rest of the trip.
Adrien doesn’t mind; hearing Chloe mumble incoherently keeps him awake at the very least. He turns on the radio too, and lets the soft jazz of the late night stations wash over him. He’ll have to ask Nino for another music recommendation when he sees him, since the last record he borrowed from him is so overplayed Adrien’s concerned he’s close to breaking it.
Chloe’s GPS makes a noise. “Continue onto A6B,” it says, in a voice with a suspiciously Australian accent. Adrien supposes the accent on the GPS is one of Chloe’s more eccentric quirks. Kind of like how she refuses to repeat outfits.
Adrien shifts lanes, and takes a deep breath as the skyline of Paris begins to appear in the distance. He’d left the city on such bad terms with it, but now…
It really is home. Maybe not his best home, or his favorite, but, at the very least, it’s one of them. He didn’t spend years on its rooftops to not know its skylines like the back of his hand.
“Bumba, bumba,” Chloe mumbles, and he smiles because she must be feeling it too; the call back to the city as they used to know it. The city as it was back when it wasn’t a jungle but a jungle gym. When it was alive and they were the heart of it.
The city has a new heart now, from what Adrien’s heard. And it’s not the only one.
He listens to the rain, actively pouring now, and thinks of a simpler time. When hearts were all in the right places and there weren’t all these complications. There were simpler times in the rain, he thinks. Or maybe, rain just makes everything simpler.
Maybe if it had been raining that day, he would’ve stayed. But it hadn’t. Instead, the clouds had held themselves back until he’d left the city. He’d held back his own waterworks until he’d left. It’s much easier to see yourself at a university in the hills when breaking down doesn’t feel like an option within the city limits.
He can almost picture Nathalie in the seat next to him, cold hand awkwardly patting his knee in an attempt at comfort as he leaned his head against the window that day. The only difference between now and then is that this time he’s driving.
He hasn’t seen her in so long. Not since his last visit home around Christmas. She’d been the one to sit next to him at the dinner. Her on his left, Chloe on his right. A table full of other guests who he barely knew. Her hair had gotten redder; no longer just a streak but some ombre as well. It had suited her, really.
In his absence, she’s become the slightly unconventional queen of the Agreste mansion. It’s a role that suits her, he thinks. Especially in those years when his father had shut out everyone and everything not related to his work.
He’d been at Christmas too, sitting on the other end of the table, coldly cutting his pork as he’d made small talk with the business associates he’d invited, barely looking over in Adrien’s direction.
Gabriel Agreste had showed an emotion at dinner that night, though. He’d been so proud when he talked about his new protege; the girl who, it was rumored, could do anything with a piece of silk.
Chloe had said she was keeping busy. That’s good, he thinks. She deserves to live a full and busy life. She deserves to have a place where she can forget. He knows how valuable it can be.
“Chlo,” Adrien murmurs, softly shaking her shoulder through her cream-colored blanket. “We’re here.”
The street they grew up on seems smaller now that they’re older; the pavement between their houses less of an uncrossable gap than a bridge between them. On his right, Le Grand Paris rises through the night, a few stories taller than he remembers. On his left, the Agreste Mansion, as stone cold and silent as ever.
“Home sweet home,” she mumbles, pulling her blanket over her face. “Now let me sleep.”
“We have a meeting tomorrow,” he reminds her. “You can sleep inside.”
“I’m not walking through my own lobby looking like this.”
Adrien chuckles. “You look fine, Chlo.”
“Drive around to the back,” she says, waving her hand in a general direction while still not coming out from under the blanket. “I’ll just take the private elevator.”
It’s expected of her, really. Chloe’s always been image-conscious, and, with the rumors currently circulating about her, he can see why she’d had a private elevator installed to get to the penthouse. “Okay,” he resigns, turning back to the wheel. “But I’m helping you with your bags.”
Chloe slowly sits up, smoothing over the frizzes that have developed in her blonde hair while she slept. “Always such a gentleman.”
Adrien drives them around to the back, and finds a service door situated between two large dumpsters. “Is this it?” he asks, skeptically, expecting something a little more glamourous from Chloe.
“Well, if I encrusted it with diamonds, it wouldn’t be a secret private elevator now, would it?” Chloe responds, taking his hand as he helps her and her blankets out of the car. Her blanket is wrapped around her shoulders like some very large expensive fur. It reminds him of when they used to play as royalty when they were tiny. Her face still looks so soft when it’s surrounded by all that blanket. Even perfectly contoured cheekbones can’t hide the ghosts of innocence.
“It really wouldn’t,” he affirms, opening the trunk of her car and lifting out one of her two suitcases. “Why’d you bring all this stuff if you were just picking me up?”
“Hey, if I was going to see one vineyard, I was going to see them all. Your vineyard just happened to be at the end of my month long wine tour.”
“Aww, Chlo,” he teases. “You scheduled a whole wine tour because you wanted to see me?”
“Shut up,” she mumbles, taking the handle of the other suitcase. “Some of us have ice cold reputations to uphold.”
He doesn’t ask her if she’s going to take the out she’s been given to change her reputation. He doesn’t ask her how many times she’s snuck back into the hotel with this elevator. She can answer all of those questions on her own, when she’s ready.
She obviously isn’t now, though. He can tell just by the fact that her nails are unpainted. Try as she must, some things are still slipping through the cracks. For now, the best he can do is just be a quiet, comforting presence by her side.
Also, he’s already offered the other out she can take. The press haven’t seen enough of him, lately. It’s the least he can do.
The domed ceiling of the Paris airport really is beautiful, Marinette decides, pulling out her phone to take a picture for reference. And that pattern would work really well in that dress she’s making for the police ball—
“Psst, Mari,” Nino whispers, nudging her shoulder with his. “Alya’s flight just got in. She should be coming through any second. Stop designing.”
“I’m not—This isn’t designing,” Marinette stutters. “I’m just … taking a picture for later, when I will be designing.”
“Sure, Mare-Bear. And I’m just listening to this song. Nothing final-project-related going on here. Nope.”
Marinette hits him with her phone. “Shut up! I see her!”
She leaves Nino where he stands, and rushes over to the woman walking towards baggage claim, talking into a tape recorder. Alya Césaire is a sight to behold, black trench coat billowing out behind her like Batman’s cape. She looks powerful. Which, Marinette supposes, she is, considering she’s now working at the New York Times.
Alya just barely looks up as Marinette approaches, but she blasts her with a full force hug anyway.
There’s something especially wonderful about a good hug, and Alya’s always been the best at giving them. They’re tight, and safe, and sometimes, like now, Marinette accidentally picks her up and swings her around because she can get carried away when she’s excited.
“Buff Mari strikes again,” Nino says, from behind them. Marinette pulls away to watch as Alya pulls Nino into a hug as well. “Long time no see, Als.”
Somehow, Marinette gets pulled into this hug as well.
They’re an odd trio, these three, filled with a little—no, a lot—of history. As far as Marinette knows, they’re also the only ones who can make Alya scream like she’s screaming now. Some people are starting to look over.
As usual, all coolness was lost the minute they saw each other.
“How are you two?” Alya asks, when they all finally break. “Tell me everything. Nino, is Professor Snobby McSnob still giving you a hard time? Mari, how is old Grumpy Gabe? Rumor has it they’ve finally recognized your talents at something other than fetching coffee over there?”
“Alya,” Marinette starts, “your tape recorder is still on.”
“Oops,” Alya smiles. “Sorry, I’m trying to work on my exposés on boring things, since that seems to be all I’ll be writing for the next few years. You know, here I am, having been the single-handed best source for information on Paris’ heroes, with a book about to be published, and they have me over there writing exciting pieces on the price of dirty water dogs.”
“I’m sure it’s just a matter of time,” Marinette reassures her, grabbing one of Alya’s bags. “I mean, even Ladybug didn’t start out with all of Paris worshipping her.”
“Well, at least the last one didn’t,” Nino mutters, only to get elbowed by Marinette. “I mean,” he clarifies, “yeah, Alya! Stick it to the man! Start a revolution! Surely then they’ll at least let you write on like, quantity of bottle caps or something.”
“Okay,” Alya smirks. “You two have been playing too much Fallout again, haven’t you?”
“It’s not that much—”
“Yep.” Nino cuts her off. “Live fast, die young, bad girls do it well, I always say.”
“And I see the quoting song lyrics thing is still going on,” Alya says. “Glad to see neither of you have changed that much since last year.”
“Yeah,” Marinette affirms. “Same apartment, same jokes, same secret—”
“What Marinette is trying to say, Alya,” Nino continues, his voice much louder than before, throwing his arms around the two of them and steering them towards the exit, “is that we’re really glad to have you back.”
Alya smiles, eyes wide behind her glasses. “I’m really glad to be back.”
The cafe is quiet.
All wonderful stone tiles and handcrafted wooden tables. There’s art from local artists on the walls (Marinette thinks she spotted Nathanaël’s name up there a time or two). The staff is all incredibly polite, and Marinette’s found a friend in the manager, Stacey, who bonded with her over crêpes and baking in general. She’s not quite as skilled as her parents, but she knows her way around a roll as well as the next girl.
It’s a wonderful, secluded cafe. The patrons mostly keep to themselves. There’s soft indie music coming from the speakers on the walls. It’s really a beautiful haven.
“YOU TWO DID WHAT?” Alya’s screams echo off the stone tiles and beautiful handcrafted tables. The university student in the corner looks up from their laptop. Marinette meets their eyes and they give her a death glare. She goes back to looking at her breakfast.
Nino leans over the table and starts pointing out the tracklist, but Alya doesn’t really seem to be listening. She just keeps staring at the title of the CD Nino just handed her. Looks like he’d gone with Marinette’s suggestion after all.
“Look, Alya, we’re sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” Marinette starts. “It’s just, that was the month that you were going radio silent and at first I didn’t want to disturb you and then I just … forgot?”
“YOU FORGOT FOR THREE YEARS!”
“I mean, technically,” Nino points out, “it was only like two years and six months, but I can see why you’d round up.”
Marinette gives him her best approximation of the student’s death glare. He laughs.
“Anyway, see, I put Cool by Gwen Stefani on there because—”
“Look, Mari, Nino,” Alya cuts him off, finally lowering her volume to a reasonable level. “I’m not mad, just disappointed. You didn’t think I’d be like, hurt, or anything, did you? Because, Nino, babe, we dated like five years ago. And Mari, of course I’d want you to be happy!”
“But…” Marinette says, knitting her brow. “Didn’t you mention that ‘girl code’ thing that one time…”
Alya waves off her question. “That was just for something unforgivable, like me dating Adrien or you going after one of my younger brothers. I figured you guys would happen at some point, with you two rooming together and all.”
Marinette groans. “Please say you don’t buy into the whole When Harry Met Sally thing.”
“Of course I don’t,” Alya assures her. “I’m a twenty-first century woman, after all. If I didn’t, then my good pal Henderson in editing would have a lot more to worry about than whether or not his husband’s choice in baby names is too old-fashioned. Or I’d be dating Adrien. Then the girl code would really be broken.”
The first time his name had been brought up, it was fine. Marinette was used to it. People were bound to ask her questions; after all, she was working for his father. She’d learned how to calm her breathing and swallow the past and just deal with it. Usually it worked fine.
But the second time Alya says his name, she says it like Marinette’s feelings are still there, like she’s expecting a different reaction. Which is obviously wrong. Obviously. Marinette’s just fine. She hasn’t seen him in years. Sure, she’s accepted Gabriel’s recent invitations to the Easter brunch and such with maybe a hope to see him, but that makes sense. It’s just because they’re friends.
Or, they were friends. She doesn’t know if she can legitimately call someone she hasn’t seen in five years and whose life she only keeps up on through social media and mutual friends a friend.
Well, that’s not true. Sometimes he stops by the apartment when he’s in town to talk to Nino. It’s almost always when she’s out, though. When she’s stitching or drawing or just in a meeting. She supposes it’s best that way; he doesn’t have to see her and she doesn’t have to see him.
One time, though, one time she caught him. He’d been leaving and she’d been coming and they’d both stopped cold in the hallway and just stared at each other.
Suddenly, she was back at the collège, fourteen years old again and unable to speak even one word to him. He’d raised his hand in a wave and she’d smiled back. It was only later that she wondered if he’d noticed the black umbrella she was carrying. She wondered if he’d recognized it as his own.
“Why’d you expect us to happen, then?” Nino asks, interrupting Marinette’s thoughts.
“Easy,” Alya smirks. “The story of how we got together?”
“What?” they both ask.
“Nino was trying to ask you out when we got trapped in that cage together, Mari, remember? Feelings you don’t act on inevitably just pop up years later. It’s science.”
“You’re a journalist,” Nino complains. “You know nothing about science.”
“Says the musician.”
“Okay, okay,” Marinette interrupts. “All of us are bad at math. Can we just agree on that?”
“Not all of us,” Alya mutters. “Some of us are great at physics.”
Yeah. Some of them are. Some of them are so great at physics that they’d move five hours away to be able to study it.
“How is our prodigal son?” she asks, the question obviously directed towards Nino, since Marinette’s taken to staring out the window of the cafe, letting her eyes glaze over as she watches the soft rain outside. She can feel the black umbrella leaning up against her like her legs are bare, instead of covered soft jeans. It’s articulate, it’s painful in a soft way.
These days, everything relating to him is painful in a soft way.
“Ah, he’s good,” Nino answers. “Really into American folk music right now. I’m worried he’s going to run off into the woods and become a hermit.”
“Or a lonely cat man,” Alya jokes.
“That is always a possibility. We should ask if he’s adopting one anytime soon.”
“I don’t know if he would,” Marinette finally interjects. “It would probably just remind him of…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but they all understand. Just the idea of Adrien snuggling some small black cat to his face stings. The wound’s so old and yet it still hurts so much.
“Damn,” Nino says softly. “I didn’t even think about that. It’s gotta be worse for the two of you than for the rest of us. They were like family—”
“Can we just… not talk about it?” Marinette asks, not really up for crying at this cafe, not wanting to taint this special place with memories of the past.
“Okay, Mari,” Alya murmurs, hand coming to wrap around Marinette’s shoulders in a sort of half-hug. “We don’t have to. All happy thoughts from here on out.”
No one brings up the fact that they’re going to have to talk about it soon. Soon being tomorrow. Tomorrow when they’d all promised they’d face their demons.
Marinette wonders if they’ll buy it if she’s late.