Chapter Text
She should not be here.
That thought had been looping in Marinette’s mind for the last ten minutes with the stubborn persistence of a song lyric that refused to leave, repeating itself every few seconds as she stood near the edge of the gymnasium with her hands hovering awkwardly around the sleeves of the fencing jacket she had been issued, trying to pretend she looked like someone who had absolutely meant to sign up for fencing tryouts instead of someone who had wandered into the wrong room and was too socially trapped to leave.
Fencing tryouts.
Right.
A perfectly normal activity for someone whose coordination record included tripping over completely flat floors, bumping into doorframes that had been standing in the same place her entire life, and once, memorably, losing a fight with a rolling chair that had somehow spun away from her with such dramatic timing that it had taken her dignity with it.
Marinette tugged at the sleeve of the jacket again, which had somehow managed to twist itself around her forearm every time she moved her arm even slightly, as if the fabric itself had decided to rebel against her, and she briefly wondered if maybe she could simply stand perfectly still for the rest of the tryouts, absolutely motionless, like a decorative statue placed awkwardly near the wall, and hope no one noticed she was technically supposed to be participating.
“Hey, Marinette!”
Her entire spine went rigid so quickly it felt like someone had replaced it with a metal rod.
She turned just in time to see Adrien jogging toward her across the gym floor, already dressed in the clean white fencing jacket and breeches except for the mask, which he carried casually by the strap dangling from one hand as if it were the most ordinary accessory in the world.
His hair, slightly tousled from sports practice, had fallen into that unfairly perfect state where it looked just messy enough to suggest effort without actually disrupting the overall effect, like the universe had already decided that giving him model-level looks wasn’t sufficient and had generously added the ability to look effortlessly athletic on top of that.
He smiled. Of course he smiled, like this was easy, like everything about this moment existed in a comfortable, uncomplicated space where people said the right things and their brains cooperated.
“Are you trying out too?” he asked, bright and open, as if her answer wouldn’t matter either way.
Marinette’s mind immediately made a valiant attempt to abandon her entirely. “I... yes! I mean—trying. The trying part. Out.” Her hand made an unhelpful gesture toward the strip, as though the air itself might assemble her words into something functional. Incredible. Truly a masterpiece of human communication. Somewhere, surely, there existed a version of her who could form a sentence in front of Adrien Agreste. This was not that version.
Adrien, predictably, didn’t even flinch. He never did. At this point, he must have built up some kind of immunity to her brain short circuiting in his presence, like repeated exposure had rendered him completely unbothered by her verbal disasters.
“That’s awesome!” he said, with an enthusiasm that felt entirely undeserved. “I’ve been doing it for a while, but it’s always more fun when friends join.”
Marinette nodded much too quickly, like her head was trying to outrun the rest of her.
“Yes. Fun. With swords.” The word swords echoed in her mind several times, unhelpfully dramatic, as though her brain had decided to emphasize just how absurd this entire situation was.
Adrien tilted his head, his attention shifting with casual ease to the sleeve she’d been unsuccessfully battling.
“Your cuff’s twisted.”
Of course it was. Of course something as simple as a sleeve had chosen this moment to betray her. Marinette looked down at it, mildly offended.
“Oh! It is.”
She could fix that. Probably. Maybe. There was a non zero chance she would somehow make it worse. Before she could begin what would undoubtedly become an unnecessarily complicated struggle with fabric, Adrien stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that everything sharpened in a way that felt deeply unfair, like her brain had decided that now, now was the perfect time to notice details. The faint scuff along the guard of his foil. The subtle crease in his sleeve where the fabric bent. The way his presence seemed to occupy more space than it logically should.
“Here.” he said gently.
He reached for her arm and just like that her heart lost all sense of rhythm, launching into something loud and chaotic. This was fine. Completely fine. Perfectly normal. People’s crushes helped them with fencing gear all the time, probably. It was practically a daily occurrence somewhere in the world.
Adrien adjusted the cuff with careful, precise movements, straightening the seam like it actually mattered. Marinette focused very hard on the opposite wall, as if looking anywhere else might cause spontaneous combustion. She was aware, painfully aware, of the simple fact that he was holding her arm, and that she was standing there, doing absolutely nothing useful about it.
“There we go.” he said, satisfied.
Marinette looked down at her sleeve as though it had been transformed into something significant.
“Thanks!” she squeaked, her voice escaping at a pitch that didn’t feel entirely under her control.
He smiled again, easy and unaware, like he hadn’t just rearranged her entire internal equilibrium.
“You’ll probably want to tighten this too.” he added, gesturing toward the strap at her waist. “Otherwise the jacket shifts when you lunge.”
Lunge. Yes. A word she definitely understood. A concept she was absolutely capable of executing without incident.
Marinette reached for the strap and immediately managed to entangle herself in it. The fabric twisted, her elbow knocked into the mask she was holding, and for one dreadful second it slipped free, beginning its inevitable descent toward the floor.
Adrien caught it without effort.
“Got it.” he said, like this was nothing.
Marinette considered the possibility of simply ceasing to exist.
“Thank you.” she managed, her voice now compressed into something small.
He handed the mask back, his expression softening slightly.
“You’re nervous, huh?”
There was no teasing in it, just quiet understanding. Marinette nodded quickly, safe, reliable, blissfully wordless.
“A little.” she admitted, because that seemed like the least embarrassing fraction of the truth.
“That’s normal.” Adrien said, shrugging lightly. “My first tryout was terrifying.”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“You?” The word slipped out before she could stop it, disbelief overriding her usual caution.
Adrien laughed, easy and unguarded.
“Yeah, me. I tripped during my first lunge.”
For a moment, Marinette just stared at him, recalibrating.
“That’s... actually comforting,” she admitted. “A little.”
“See?” he said, as if that settled it. “If I survived that, you’ll be fine.” He gestured toward the strip, casual and inviting. “Want me to show you the basics before they start?”
Did she want that? Did she want one on one fencing instruction from Adrien? Her brain attempted to process the question and produced nothing but high pitched static.
“Yes!” she said immediately. Too immediately. There was no recovering from that.
But Adrien didn’t seem to notice.
“Okay!” he said, already moving, already comfortable.
He picked up a spare foil and handed it to her, hilt first. Marinette took it carefully, half expecting it to do something unpredictable. It was lighter than she expected, the blade flexible, almost alive in the way it bent slightly with movement.
Adrien stepped onto the strip and motioned for her to follow.
“First thing is your stance.”
Right. Stance. Basic. Manageable. Marinette positioned herself opposite him, trying very hard not to think about the fact that this now resembled a duel.
“Front foot forward.” he instructed, demonstrating effortlessly. “Back foot sideways.”
She mirrored him, or tried to. Her back foot slid too far, her balance wavered, and for a brief, horrible moment she felt herself tipping.
Adrien reached out, steadying her by the elbow.
Her brain promptly shut down.
“Careful.” he said, his tone gentle.
“I’m careful!” she blurted, far too quickly.
He blinked.
She froze. Of course she had said that. Of course.
“...Usually.” she added, weaker now, like the word itself might soften the damage.
Adrien chuckled, entirely at ease.
“Okay. Now bend your knees a little.”
She did, focusing intently on following instructions, on doing something correctly for once.
“Good.” he said. “Now extend your arm.”
Marinette pointed the foil forward, the motion slightly stiff but recognizable. Adrien nodded, approving.
“Nice. Now when you lunge—”
He demonstrated, stepping forward in one smooth, controlled motion, his arm extending cleanly. It looked effortless. Of course it did.
Marinette tried to replicate it. She stepped, committed, and immediately lost control. Her front foot slid too far, her weight tipped forward, and for one horrifying instant she was certain she was about to either stab Adrien or collapse face first onto the strip.
Adrien caught her shoulders before either outcome could occur.
They froze.
Marinette leaned forward, her foil angled harmlessly past him, his hands steady on her shoulders. Heat flooded her face, rising fast and unstoppable.
“Sorry!” she blurted, the word tumbling out in a rush.
Adrien laughed softly, like this was nothing at all.
“It’s okay. That happens all the time.”
He guided her back upright, his touch brief, grounding. Marinette immediately redirected her gaze, anywhere but his face. The far wall. The ceiling. A scuff mark on the floor that suddenly held immense significance.
“Honestly,” Adrien said, picking up his mask again, still smiling, “you’re doing pretty well for a first try.”
She looked at him then, startled.
“...Really?”
“Yeah.” he said, without hesitation. “You’ve got good instincts.”
Good instincts. The words felt misplaced, like they belonged to someone else entirely. Someone who hadn’t nearly fallen apart thirty seconds earlier.
But Adrien meant it. That was the strange part. There was no hint of doubt in his expression, no polite exaggeration, just simple sincerity.
“Thanks...” Marinette said quietly, and this time, the feeling in her chest didn’t resemble panic quite as much as it had before.
Adrien tapped the tip of his foil lightly against hers, as if the small, precise sound might settle her nerves.
Ready to try again, he’d said, in that easy, encouraging way of his, like trying again was a simple, obvious thing, like the first attempt hadn’t felt to Marinette like a spectacular and very public collapse. She drew in a breath, adjusted her stance, and raised the foil, willing her hands to stop trembling. It would be easier, probably, if he weren’t standing so close, smiling at her. If she let herself think about that too much, she was going to trip over her own feet again, and possibly over reality itself.
The foil wobbled slightly in her grip, the thin blade quivering with every small shift of her hand. Adrien’s foil rested against it, steady and controlled, the contact between them producing a faint metallic tick that seemed far louder than it should have been. Trying again, he had said. Trying again implied something salvageable, something worth repeating. Marinette wasn’t entirely convinced that her earlier attempt hadn’t been better categorized as a cautionary tale.
“Okay.” Adrien said gently, and of course his voice was calm, because why wouldn’t it be? “Same stance as before.”
Right. Stance. She nodded, dragging her attention downward to her feet as if they might otherwise wander off out of sheer spite. Front foot forward, back foot turned, she placed them carefully as though the floor might rearrange itself if she got too confident. Across from her, Adrien shifted into position with a kind of effortless balance that made it look like fencing was less a learned skill and more a natural state of being. Of course he moved like that. Of course he did.
“Bend your knees a little.”
She bent them.
“Good. Keep your arm straight.”
She extended the foil, trying to ignore the faint tremor still running through it.
“There you go.”
There you go. Three simple words, and somehow they landed like a prize she hadn’t realized she was competing for. It was ridiculous, really, this wasn’t a competition, it was a lesson, and she needed to focus. This was fencing. Not... whatever her brain kept trying to turn it into.
“Now,” Adrien continued, “when you lunge, think about pushing off your back foot.”
He demonstrated, and of course the movement was smooth. His front foot shot forward, his blade extending in a straight, confident line, like the concept of hesitation simply didn’t exist for him. Marinette glanced down at her own feet again. Push off the back foot. That sounded manageable. Theoretically.
“Your turn.”
Her heart gave a single, emphatic thump. She inhaled, steadied herself, and then pushed forward, carefully, cautiously, as if speed itself were the enemy. The movement that came out of it wasn’t exactly graceful; it was more of a determined shuffle that had aspirations of being a lunge someday. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t crash into him. She stayed upright, which felt like a significant and deeply underrated achievement.
Adrien’s face lit up immediately.
“Hey! That was good!”
Good. He said it so easily, like it was obvious, like she hadn’t just narrowly avoided reenacting a disaster. Marinette blinked at him, a little stunned. “Really?”
“Yeah!” he said, entirely sincere. “See? You just needed to slow down.”
Right. Apparently not launching herself like a startled bird improved technique.
She tried again, a little more confident this time, letting the movement stretch out just slightly. The step was cleaner, the foil steadier, her balance... less actively hostile.
Adrien parried, their blades meeting with a quick metallic click.
Marinette flinched so hard she nearly dropped the foil.
Adrien laughed, the sound quick and bright.
“Sorry.” he said, immediately softening. “Reflex.”
“It’s okay.” she managed, even though her heart had made a dramatic attempt to escape her ribcage.
He lowered his blade a fraction, giving her space, giving her time.
“Want to try attacking again?”
Did she? That seemed like a dangerous question. But she raised the foil anyway, because stopping now would feel worse. Around them, the gym buzzed with motion and noise, blades clinking, voices calling out, the coach pacing somewhere in the background. Tryouts were happening. Real ones. And she was here, participating, holding a foil, being coached by Adrien, as if this entire situation weren’t deeply improbable.
“Okay.” he said. “Remember, extend your arm first, then step.”
Extend, then step. Simple. Logical. Achievable, in theory. She extended her arm and stepped forward, focusing on the order, on the sequence, on anything that wasn’t how aware she was of him watching.
Adrien parried again, but more gently this time, guiding her blade aside rather than knocking it away.
“Nice line.” he said. “Just keep your balance.”
Nice line. Balance. She tried again. Extend, step. Their blades met with another light click, and this time she didn’t jump out of her skin. Which, honestly, felt like progress worth celebrating.
“You’re picking it up fast.” Adrien said, smiling.
The warmth in his voice did something inconvenient to her chest, something fluttery and distracting and entirely unhelpful for someone trying not to fall over while holding a weapon. Marinette focused very hard on not thinking about that.
“Maybe it’s the teacher.” she said, before she could stop herself.
Adrien blinked, caught off guard, and then rubbed the back of his neck in that self conscious way.
“Oh... uh, I’m not really teaching. Just helping.”
Just helping. Of course that’s what he’d call it. Because to him, this probably was just helping, something casual, something small. Marinette adjusted her grip on the foil, her fingers tightening slightly.
“Still counts.” she said, quieter this time.
He didn’t quite know what to do with that, it seemed. So he just smiled again, soft and a little uncertain, and didn’t argue.
They kept going. Another lunge, another correction, another small improvement layered over the last. Her footwork grew incrementally steadier, her balance less precarious, the foil in her hand gradually transforming from an unpredictable strip of metal into something that responded, however imperfectly, to her intent. And through all of it, Adrien stayed patient, his encouragement steady and unforced.
“Try keeping your shoulders relaxed.”
“Good, that’s better.”
“Yeah, like that!”
Each comment landed somewhere warm and bright, not embarrassing exactly, well, maybe a little, but mostly just motivating. Because he sounded genuinely pleased when she improved, like her progress mattered. Which, really, was a dangerously effective form of encouragement.
She lunged again. Adrien parried. Their blades slid apart with a soft metallic whisper.
“Nice!” he said.
Marinette straightened, drawing herself up just a little taller as a tentative pride flickered to life in her chest. Maybe she wasn’t completely hopeless at this. Maybe she was improving, even if only by a fraction. The thought barely had time to settle before it slipped out from under her, as sudden and unforgiving as the loss of traction beneath her back foot. In an instant, her balance tilted, her center of gravity betraying her, and her arms flailed in a graceless, desperate attempt to recover what was already lost.
And, of course, Adrien caught her again.
This time his hands closed around her forearms, steady and sure, like it was the most natural thing in the world to intercept her mid fall. It happened too quickly for her to process in real time... one second she was tipping backward, the next she was upright, slightly off balance but undeniably saved. They froze like that, suspended in the aftermath, his grip firm but not restrictive, her breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. It was becoming a pattern, and not one she could pretend not to notice anymore.
Heat rushed up her neck, blooming across her cheeks with humiliating efficiency.
“Sorry!” she blurted, the word escaping automatically, as if her mouth had bypassed her brain entirely. Of course she would apologize. Of course this would be the situation she kept putting herself in.
Adrien just shook his head, easy and unbothered, as though catching her mid-collapse was a routine occurrence.
“No need to apologize, Marinette.” His voice carried that same calm steadiness it always does, the kind that made everything feel less catastrophic than it probably was. He didn’t let go immediately, waiting instead until she was fully balanced again, as if he didn’t quite trust gravity not to betray her a second time. “You okay?”
She nodded too quickly, the motion almost comically emphatic.
“Yep! Totally okay. Very balanced. Extremely coordinated person.” The words sounded convincing in theory, less so in execution, especially given the circumstances.
His smile widened, amusement flickering unmistakably in his eyes.
“Clearly.”
Oh no. He was teasing her.
Not cruelly, never that, but lightly, warmly, in a way that somehow made everything worse because it meant he was enjoying this. Enjoying her flustered, stumbling attempts at competence. Marinette’s brain briefly entertained the possibility of simply evaporating on the spot, dissolving into the gym floor and sparing herself further embarrassment. It seemed like a reasonable solution.
Across the gym, the sharp clap of the coach’s hands cut cleanly through the noise, echoing against the high ceiling and snapping everyone’s attention into place.
“Alright! Tryouts starting in two minutes!” The announcement rippled through the room like a jolt of electricity.
Conversations broke apart mid sentence, movements sharpened, and the casual atmosphere collapsed into something tighter, more focused. Helmets were lifted, gloves adjusted, and students began drifting toward the marked strips with varying degrees of confidence.
Marinette’s stomach dropped.
Two minutes. Two minutes until she had to fence someone who wasn’t Adrien. Someone who wouldn’t catch her if she lost her balance, who wouldn’t soften their movements to guide her through the exchange. The thought sat heavy and unwelcome in her chest.
She glanced at him. He looked calm. Effortlessly so. Adrien probably woke up calm, like it was just his default state of being.
“Hey...” His voice was quieter now, but it cut through the noise around them with surprising clarity. He had noticed the tension creeping into her shoulders, the way her grip had tightened just a little too much around the foil. “You’ll be fine.”
She tried to respond with confidence, really she did, but what came out was a small, uncertain sound that hovered somewhere between a squeak and a hum. Not exactly reassuring. Not even to herself.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a softness that made it impossible to look away.
“Want one last practice touch?”
One last practice touch. He said it like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter, like it wouldn’t send her heart racing all over again. Like this wasn’t suddenly the most important thirty seconds of her life.
She nodded anyway.
Adrien raised his foil, posture shifting seamlessly into something more focused, more precise, the ease of someone who had done this so many times it had become second nature.
“Ready?”
Marinette mirrored him, adjusting her stance with careful attention. Front foot forward, back foot turned, weight balanced... well, balanced enough. She could do this. Probably.
“Go.”
She lunged.
His blade moved instantly, meeting hers with a clean, controlled parry that redirected her attack just enough to throw off her aim. The contact rang softly through the foil, a sharp, metallic note that she felt more than heard. But this time, he didn’t stop there. Instead, he guided the motion, subtle and deliberate, stepping forward with perfect timing and tapping his foil lightly against her shoulder.
A touch.
Marinette blinked behind the mesh of her mask.
“Oh.”
Adrien lowered his foil slightly, that same easy smile still in place.
“See?”
She tilted her head, confusion knitting her brows.
“See... what?”
“You didn’t fall that time.”
She stared at him for a second, the words settling in, rearranging themselves into something almost reassuring. And then, despite the nerves, the pressure, the looming reality of tryouts, she laughed. It came out a little shaky, a little breathless, but real.
The anxiety didn’t disappear. Her heart was still racing, her palms still damp inside her gloves, her thoughts still threatening to spiral. But standing there, on the strip, with a foil in her hand and Adrien looking at her like that, like she was capable, like she might actually manage this, something shifted, just slightly.
Maybe tryouts wouldn’t be a complete disaster.
Probably.
Hopefully.
...Okay, they still might be.
The gym transformed the moment the tryouts officially began. The atmosphere sharpened, the noise rising into something louder, more chaotic, more intense. The casual clinks of earlier practice gave way to the crisp clash of blades, each movement more deliberate, more decisive. Sneakers scraped against the polished floor in quick bursts, the rhythm of footwork overlapping into a restless, constant motion.
Near the center, the coach stood with a clipboard tucked under his arm, his gaze sweeping from strip to strip with measured focus. There was no rush in him, no visible urgency—just a steady, practiced attention, as though he had seen this exact scene play out countless times before. Nervous students, uncertain movements, flashes of potential hidden beneath hesitation.
Marinette stood off to the side, her helmet tucked against her hip once more, trying very hard not to look like she was on the verge of vibrating out of her own skin.
Three opponents.
She only had to defeat three opponents to make it in.
Three.
That was manageable. It had to be. Right?
Her grip tightened slightly around the foil as she watched the others, her mind racing ahead of her, already imagining every possible way this could go wrong.
Adrien stood near the teacher, foil resting casually against his shoulder. He wasn’t competing today, he’d already earned his place long ago. Apparently he was the teacher’s “best student,” which was both extremely impressive and completely unsurprising. Right now he was mostly observing, occasionally offering advice to the students waiting their turn.
And unfortunately for Marinette’s heart rate, he was also occasionally looking over at her.
Which meant she had to pretend she was calm.
This was going extremely poorly.
“Dupain-Cheng!” the coach called.
Marinette nearly dropped her helmet.
That was her.
Obviously that was her.
There were not multiple Dupain-Chengs hiding in the gym.
Marinette hurried onto the strip before she could think too hard about what she was doing, because if she stopped, if she let the reality settle in, she might very well turn around and walk straight out again. The helmet came down over her head with a soft click, and immediately the world changed. The lights dulled, the edges of everything softened behind the mesh, and it felt like she had stepped into some strange, humming cage made of metal and expectation. Her opponent was already there, tall and composed in a way Marinette absolutely was not, saluting. Marinette returned it just a fraction too late, of course she did, her arm catching up to the moment instead of meeting it. Fine. That was fine. She was here now, and there was no graceful way out of it.
The coach’s voice rang through the space, calm and authoritative.
Marinette lowered herself into position, trying to reconstruct everything she had been shown. Front foot forward, back foot turned, knees bent just enough. It felt unnatural and overly deliberate, like she was assembling herself piece by piece instead of simply moving. Adrien’s voice echoed somewhere in her mind, patient and encouraging, guiding her through the posture. Right. That was right. Or close enough. Her heart was beating far too loudly for something that hadn’t even started yet.
“Prêts?”
She barely had time to register the word before her pulse answered for her.
“Allez.”
The lunge came almost instantly, her opponent moving with a speed that short circuited Marinette’s thoughts entirely. There was no strategy, no elegant decision making, just a burst of panic that sent her blade jerking sideways in a reflex she didn’t quite understand. A parry. Not a good one, not a controlled one, but it had worked. Somehow she was still standing, still in the bout, still—
Oh.
Oh, that counted as something.
They reset, circling, and Marinette forced herself to breathe through the mesh, each inhale slightly too warm, each exhale fogging her focus for half a second. Extend first. Then step. She could hear Adrien as clearly as if he were standing beside her instead of across the strip. Right. Extend first. She pushed her arm forward, then committed, her body following in a lunge that felt both too big and not nearly precise enough. Their blades met again, a sharper clash this time, and for a terrifying second she thought she had lost control of it entirely...
...and then her point slid, skidding awkwardly along her opponent’s guard before landing, improbably, against her shoulder.
Everything stopped.
The coach’s hand rose.
“Touch. Dupain-Cheng.”
Marinette blinked behind the mesh, her brain scrambling to catch up with what had just happened. That... that had been her. She had done that. It counted. Across the strip, she caught sight of Adrien’s grin, bright and immediate, and something in her chest lifted so suddenly it almost made her dizzy. Right. Right, she could do this. Maybe not gracefully, maybe not consistently, but she could do something.
The second exchange came faster, sharper, as if her opponent had decided to stop underestimating her. Marinette barely had time to think, reacting instead of planning, her feet scrambling to keep up as pressure pushed her backward. There was a moment, brief and horrifying, where she nearly lost her balance entirely, the memory of her earlier near faceplant flashing through her mind with painful clarity. Not again. She pushed off her back foot, forced herself into something resembling control, and when she lunged this time, it wasn’t pure panic. It wasn’t perfect, not even close, but it was intentional. The touch landed clean.
“Touch. Dupain-Cheng.”
And just like that, it was over.
Marinette stood there for a second longer than necessary, her body still braced for something that wasn’t coming, her thoughts lagging behind the reality of the moment. Two touches. She had won. Won. The word felt strange and oversized in her mind, like it didn’t quite belong to her yet. Her opponent nodded politely as they lifted their masks, composed even in defeat, and Marinette scrambled to respond, words tripping over themselves in her rush to exist normally again.
She stepped off the strip in a mild daze, the world returning to full brightness as she pulled off her mask, though everything still felt slightly unreal. Adrien leaned toward her as she passed, his voice low and warm in a way that settled something frantic inside her.
“Nice work!”
The simplicity of it, the quiet certainty, grounded her more than anything else could have. One down, then. Somehow. Miraculously. Only two to go.
The second match, however, shattered any illusion that she had suddenly become competent.
Marinette knew it immediately, before the bout even began. Her new opponent stood differently, looser, more assured, the kind of ease that came from repetition rather than guesswork. There was no hesitation in him, no visible uncertainty, and that alone was enough to make something sink uneasily in her stomach. This was going to hurt. Not physically, probably, but in every other way that mattered.
He moved, and it was over almost before it began. His blade flicked toward her shoulder with precise efficiency, and Marinette barely registered the motion before the call came.
“Touch.”
They reset, but the rhythm was already established, and it wasn’t hers. She tried to focus, tried to cling to the same mental steps, but this time it felt like she was always a fraction too slow, a fraction too late. She lunged, and he parried, his counterattack landing before she could even begin to recover.
“Touch.”
That had taken, what, ten seconds? Maybe less. Marinette stared through the mesh, the faint grid pattern suddenly feeling more like a barrier than protection. Somewhere beyond it, she could hear movement, the subtle shift of weight that she recognized as Adrien even before he spoke.
“Keep your distance.”
Right. Distance. That was a thing she was supposed to manage.
She tried again, forcing herself to wait this time, to watch instead of react immediately. He advanced, she retreated, her steps uneven but deliberate. He advanced again, closing the space with calm inevitability. Now. She lunged, committing fully, and for the briefest, brightest moment she thought... this is it, this will work...
...but his blade slipped past her guard as if it had never been there at all.
“Touch.”
Match.
Marinette lowered her foil slowly, the energy draining out of her shoulders as reality settled back in, heavier this time. There it was. That made more sense, didn’t it? That felt more in line with what she had expected. The win from before already seemed distant, like something that had happened to a slightly different version of her.
Her opponent lifted his mask, smiling easily, without any trace of condescension.
“Nice try.”
She nodded, managing something that resembled a smile, even if it didn’t quite reach the rest of her. Nice try. Yes. That seemed accurate.
Stepping off the strip felt different this time, less like floating and more like coming back down to earth. Adrien met her halfway again, his presence steady and immediate, like he had been waiting for her to return to something familiar.
“Hey.” he said softly, and there was no disappointment in it, which was... unexpected.
“That guy’s been training for a year.”
Marinette blinked, the information slotting into place with surprising effectiveness.
“...Oh.” Well. That did explain a lot.
“Yeah. You lasted longer than most beginners.”
That helped more than she wanted to admit, the sharp edge of her frustration dulling slightly. She let out a small breath, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.
“Plus,” Adrien added, with that same quiet encouragement, “your timing on that last attack was really good.”
Marinette felt something loosen properly this time, the disappointment shifting into something more manageable, something she could carry without it weighing her down completely.
“Thanks...” she murmured, meaning it.
Adrien smiled, easy and reassuring.
“You’ve still got a few more matches.”
Right.
This wasn’t over yet.
The third bout felt different from the first two.
It wasn’t just another match anymore. It felt like standing on a narrow tightrope stretched high above the ground.
Her opponent was another beginner, which helped a little. The girl across from her held her foil with the same slightly awkward grip Marinette had seen in the mirror earlier that afternoon, shoulders a bit too tense, feet shifting nervously on the strip as she tried to remember the correct stance.
But the pressure had changed.
If Marinette lost this one...
That was it.
No more chances. No more bouts to make up for it. The tryouts would be over, and she would walk out of the gym knowing she had come so close only to fall short at the last moment.
The two of them hesitated when the coach signaled the start.
Neither moved immediately.
Their blades twitched cautiously in front of them, the thin metal tips circling and probing like uncertain antennae as each girl tried to judge the other’s distance. The faint squeak of sneakers against the polished gym floor echoed around them, mixed with the distant rustle of other fencers practicing at the far end of the room.
Marinette’s heart thudded a little faster.
She lunged too early.
Her opponent reacted a fraction too slowly but managed a clumsy parry, knocking Marinette’s blade slightly off line. Both of them overcorrected at the same time, their movements a little too big, a little too rushed, and suddenly their foils tangled together awkwardly with a sharp metallic clink.
For a moment they stood there, blades crossed at an angle neither of them seemed quite sure how to escape.
From the side of the strip, the coach let out a soft sigh.
“Reset.”
They stepped back to their starting lines.
Marinette rolled her shoulders slightly and took a slow breath inside the fencing mask, trying to calm the jittery energy buzzing through her arms and legs.
Focus.
She lifted her blade again.
This time she waited just a little longer before moving.
Her opponent shifted forward first, testing the distance with a cautious step. Marinette reacted instinctively, her arm extending as she slid her front foot forward in a quick lunge.
Her foil slipped past the other girl’s guard before either of them fully realized what was happening.
The tip tapped lightly against the white fencing jacket.
“Touch. Dupain-Cheng.”
Relief fluttered through Marinette’s chest so suddenly she almost laughed.
They reset again.
The second exchange started far less cautiously.
Both of them lunged forward at almost the exact same moment, nerves overriding careful strategy. Their blades clashed with a sharp metallic snap as each tried to gain control of the other’s weapon.
Someone’s foot slipped.
Marinette wasn’t entirely sure whose.
For half a second everything felt chaotic and then somehow her foil ended up pressed against the other girl’s arm.
“Touch. Dupain-Cheng.”
The coach lowered his hand.
Marinette blinked behind her mask.
She... had won.
Barely.
But still.
She had two victories now.
Which meant...
One more to go.
The realization arrived slowly.
Marinette lifted her mask, pushing it up onto her head as she tried to steady her breathing. Her lungs felt tight and her legs had turned into something suspiciously close to jelly, but a warm, glowing sense of accomplishment spread through her chest.
She had done it.
She actually...
Across the gym, Adrien clapped lightly, the sound carrying clearly through the quiet that followed the bout.
“Nice!”
Marinette glanced toward him and couldn’t help smiling a little despite the lingering nerves buzzing in her arms.
Then the heavy door of the gym creaked open.
The long, drawn out sound cut through the room and immediately drew everyone’s attention.
Several fencers turned their heads at once.
A figure stepped inside.
“Apologies for being late.”
The voice came from behind a fencing helmet, slightly distorted by the metal mesh and padding, giving the words a strange, muffled quality.
The person was dressed entirely in red fencing gear.
Red jacket.
Red gloves.
Even the protective underlayer visible at the collar carried the same deep crimson color.
Against the sea of standard white uniforms filling the gym, the color stood out sharply, almost startlingly bright.
They began walking forward with slow, controlled steps.
There was something unusual about the way they moved.
Graceful.
Almost effortless.
Each step looked balanced, their posture relaxed yet perfectly aligned, as if stepping onto a fencing strip was the most natural thing in the world.
Even with the helmet completely hiding their face, something about their presence felt intimidating.
The coach frowned slightly as the figure approached.
“Normally not...” he began, clearly about to refuse.
Then he glanced down at the clipboard in his hand, scanning the list quickly.
“...However,” he continued after a brief pause, “we just had someone leave for an emergency. So we are one short for the tryouts.”
He gestured across the gym toward the strip where Marinette still stood.
“Your opponent will be Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”
Marinette looked up, caught slightly off guard.
She lifted one hand in a small, uncertain wave.
“Uh... hi.”
The red clad fencer turned toward her.
Even without seeing their face, Marinette felt the weight of their attention settle on her immediately, sharp and focused.
Something about them felt different.
Across the room, Adrien had gone very still.
His grip tightened slightly around the foil he had been holding loosely at his side.
That voice...
It tugged faintly at something buried in his memory.
Something familiar.
Uncomfortably familiar.
He watched the red figure walk toward the strip with fluid, confident steps.
No hesitation.
No visible nerves.
Adrien felt his chest tighten slightly.
Could it be...?
No.
That wasn’t possible.
She couldn’t be in Paris.
And even if she was...
Why would she be here?
Why would she be trying out for the fencing team?
Adrien frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as the red clad fencer stepped onto the strip across from Marinette.
The red clad fencer stepped onto the piste with an ease that made it seem less like she was entering the space and more like she was returning to somewhere she had always belonged.
Her posture was upright, perfectly balanced, every movement controlled with quiet confidence, as though the narrow strip beneath her feet had been waiting patiently for her arrival.
Across from her, Marinette adjusted her grip on the foil.
The metal felt strangely light in her hand, too light, almost slippery, as if at any moment it might slip straight from her fingers and clatter embarrassingly to the floor. Her palm was beginning to sweat inside the glove, and the unfamiliar weight of the helmet pressing around her head made the air feel warmer than it should have been.
Something about the way the other girl stood sent a faint ripple of unease curling through Marinette’s stomach.
Across the room, Adrien frowned.
That voice.
He had definitely heard it before.
Not merely familiar in the vague way people sometimes sounded alike. No, this voice had a distinct quality to it, a certain sharp precision that carried even when softened by the helmet’s mesh. The tone was calm, clipped... and paired with the way the red fencer held herself...
Adrien took a few quick steps toward the coach, lowering his voice as he spoke.
“Hey, uh...” he began cautiously, glancing between the strip and the clipboard in the coach’s hand. “This is Marinette’s first time fencing. I don’t think this is really a fair—”
“En garde.”
The coach had already begun the bout.
Adrien blinked in disbelief.
Marinette lowered herself into her stance almost automatically, the posture coming from memory of the brief instructions she had been given earlier.
Front foot forward.
Back foot angled sideways.
Knees bent just enough to keep her balanced.
Inside the helmet, the mesh turned the world into a faint grid of intersecting lines, like she was looking through a very fine wireframe. The metal pressed lightly against her cheeks and forehead, and she could hear the dull echo of her own breathing bouncing back at her from the inside of the mask.
Across from her, the red fencer did not move.
Not even slightly.
She stood perfectly still, blade angled forward, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed.
For some reason, that stillness felt far more intimidating than movement would have.
“Prêts?”
Marinette’s heart pounded so loudly she wondered if the other girl could somehow hear it.
Adrien tried again, his voice slightly more urgent now.
“Coach...!”
“Allez.”
The red fencer moved.
It wasn’t a dramatic lunge.
It wasn’t even something Marinette could consciously track with her eyes.
One moment the girl had been standing perfectly still, her blade poised in quiet readiness...
...and the next...
A small, sharp sound of metal tapping fabric.
“Touch.”
The coach lifted his hand without hesitation.
Point for the red clad fencer.
Marinette blinked behind the mesh, her brain scrambling to catch up with reality.
What...
What just happened?
Her shoulder tingled faintly where the foil had tapped, the sensation lingering like static electricity.
Across the gym, Adrien stared.
That speed.
That precision.
His stomach dropped a little as recognition settled heavily into place.
It could only be one person.
Marinette stepped back into position.
Her cheeks burned hot beneath the helmet, even though no one could see her face.
Okay.
Okay.
That had just been the first exchange.
She could recover from that.
Probably.
She tightened her grip on the foil until her fingers pressed firmly against the handle.
Across from her, the red fencer had already slid back into stance, posture once again perfectly composed, blade steady and patient.
Adrien ran a hand through his hair and tried again.
“Coach, seriously...!”
The coach had already turned away slightly, scribbling something on his clipboard with complete focus, apparently deaf to Adrien’s attempt to intervene.
Great.
Just great.
Marinette inhaled slowly through the helmet, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of her breathing.
Focus.
She had already beaten two people earlier.
Sure, they had been beginners too... but still.
She could land one touch.
Just one.
That was all she needed.
Across from her, the red fencer watched silently, still as a statue.
Marinette blinked, once...
...And the world tilted.
Her front foot slipped just slightly out of alignment, the smooth floor offering far less grip than she had expected. Her balance vanished in an instant, her body pitching backward before her brain even had time to register the mistake.
The floor rushed upward toward her.
Thud.
Marinette landed flat on her back, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs in a startled puff.
For a moment she simply stared upward through the helmet mesh, the ceiling lights fragmenting into a lattice of bright squares.
A red silhouette stood above her.
Perfectly balanced.
Completely calm.
The tip of a foil rested lightly against the front of Marinette’s helmet, pointed directly at the center of her face.
The entire exchange had taken less than a second.
The coach raised his hand again.
“Touch.”
Marinette lay there for another moment, her brain desperately trying to process the sequence of events that had just occurred.
Had she...
Had she even moved?
The red fencer didn’t lower the blade.
Instead, she lifted her free hand to the side of her helmet and pushed the mesh upward, revealing her face.
Dark hair shifted slightly beneath the mask as it tilted back.
Intense brown eyes looked down at Marinette with unwavering, laser sharp focus.
“Match.”
Marinette’s thoughts finally snapped into place.
Her eyes widened behind the mesh.
And when she spoke, her voice came out as a startled, squeaking burst of disbelief.
“KAGAMI TSURUGI?!”