Chapter Text
The sound of her mother's voice struggles to cut through the blaring of her phone's alarm—a sharp, obnoxious noise lingering in her ears from the last six alarms she'd rushed to swipe to snooze.
Procrastination is the only thing that manages to soothe the nausea curling in the pit of her stomach. How much anxiety could she possibly withstand before her heart simply decided to give out?
"Marinette!" her mother calls once more—a frustratingly persistent reminder she wouldn't be able to ignore even if she were to try. "Your breakfast is going to be cold by the time you get down here," she adds on, voice softer when she's met with an intelligible noise of acknowledgement from her.
Marinette begrudgingly wipes the drool pooling at the corner of her mouth, hair clinging to the side of her face as she drags her feet over the edge of the bed to meet cool wooden flooring. Shuddering, she slides on her slippers before unsteadily climbing down from the attic her parents had fashioned into her bedroom.
She eyes her mother wading through the kitchen, prepping for the day ahead of her.
"Did you sleep well?" her mother—Sabine—inquires, smiling at her daughter so hopefully she can't find it within herself to answer honestly.
"Yes—really well," she responds almost hesitantly. "I turned in early for the night."
"That's good," Sabine hums. "You don't want to find yourself nodding off your first day."
"… Yeah," she agrees, her smile tight as she drags the counter stool close before hiking her body weight up to sit as comfortably as her body will allow her to.
Her stare shifts downwards to her congee—a century egg cut cleanly in half and placed neatly upon the glossy bed of boiled down rice. She reaches for her spoon, the metal catching the sunlight streaming through the window as she takes her first mouthful.
The rice soaks up all the saltiness from the oxidized egg, balancing the flavours nicely, yet her stomach refuses to settle as though an invisible hand is actively tying her intestines together into a indecipherable slew of knots. She manages to down a quarter of the bowl before she tentatively pushes the porcelain dish across the tabletop and out of her reach.
"Thank you, Mom," she begins, her voice carrying a subtle fragility that slips past her mother as she busies herself with tidying the kitchen. "I'm just not too hungry this morning."
"Are you sure, sweetheart?" Sabine presses, "You've barely touched your breakfast."
"Tomorrow—I'll eat more tomorrow," Marinette promises softly. "Today is just… a big day for me."
Her mother nods slowly, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple for good measure before she begins what feels like the tumultuous climb back into her bedroom.
She kicks her slippers off once she reaches the soft, pink carpet in the centre of her bedroom, grounding herself. Her attention cast towards the circular view her window allows for her, birds flying past her head the moment she cracks it open to bask in the morning breeze that wafts in. Vaguely, she picks up the scent of pastries her father had spent the previous evening and early morning prepping for baking in their quaint bakery down on the ground floor. It's comforting—it smells like home.
She sighs when the clock plastered to her wall ticks incessantly, stubbornly reminding her that time waits for no one—most especially her. She'd spent the previous night rummaging through her closet for what was undoubtedly hours, scrutinizing every article of clothing to craft an outfit that made her feel at least somewhat confident to make up for what she was certainly lacking in that department.
Her bottom lip is chewed into a chapped mess as she slips on a baby pink blouse, pairing it with a ruffled off-white skirt, and a plaid brown vest. She adjusts the buttons, shaky fingers pushing them through the slits before reaching for a matching pink ribbon pin she'd fashioned from the leftover fabric from the last outfit project she'd painstakingly sewn. She applies the slightest bit of pressure to the safety pin-like backing, yet the pad of her thumb still slips, pricking the skin and the smallest droplet of blood seeps from the minor wound.
Marinette still finds herself frowning, instinctively bringing her finger to her mouth to nurse the slight sting before pulling back and allowing the air to soothe the rest for her. She glances at the clock again, hurriedly pinning the bow to peak out above her vest, fluffing the loops to give a more full appearance.
She approaches her vanity in the corner of her room, examining her appearance in the mirror.
The outfit is balanced, at least, she thinks, attempting to ignore the mess atop her head and the puffiness of her eyes—from crying or a lack of sleep is beyond her.
The last few years of her schooling were an unsavoury experience to say the very least. How many ignored complaints had her parents filed? How many times had she returned home from her classes wishing she could shrink herself into a presence so small she'd be unnoticeable? At some point, enough was enough when she'd arrived home one afternoon during her lunch hour, milk soaking her hair and down her neck when her usual tormentor decided she had finished her lunch early.
Her father took one glance at her when she trudged through the bakery door, head hung low, and she doesn't think she had ever seen him angrier. But of course, the aggressor had evaded punishment yet again. A criminally easy feat for the daughter of the current standing Mayor of Paris—Chloé Bourgeois. She spent the last few years spewing a vast array of insults tailored to her—her unfortunate, yet most reoccurring victim ranging from her financial background, her name and heritage, how she chose to dress and present herself. Nothing was too cruel or beyond ridicule.
Subsequently, her self-esteem took a nasty hit, as though Chloé had a personal vendetta against her. What she could have done to offend her? She'd spent years wondering—absolutely mulling over it for a semblance of peace.
But some people were simply beyond reason, she supposed, her hairbrush gliding through dark, shoulder-length hair before tying each off of her hair in low pigtails with baby white silk ribbons.
She scrutinizes herself in the mirror a final time before checking the clock hanging upon her pink wallpapers, her eyes blowing wide at how much time had slipped past her.
She circles her room as though she's lost in search of her book bag, her phone, and then a pair of—hopefully—matching socks. She hops clumsily from one foot to the other to slip them on properly, the cuff reaching just below her knees before she scrambles down the ladder.
Thankfully, her mother catches her just before she scurried past her.
"Marinette," Sabine prompts her casually—as though this scene has played many times before, "you're still wearing your slippers."
Marinette takes a once over her feet, smiling sheepishly before swiftly making her way back up for a pair of matching brown loafers. She slips them on upon escaping their living room area, her book bag hiked further up her shoulder when it begins to slip. She ventures down a winding staircase into the bakery, her father greeting her with his usual grin.
"Here you are, Mari." He greets her with a fresh box of pastries—cooled macarons lined up neatly in two, long rows as he showcases them to her proudly. "Your new class will love them, won't they?" he muses, her design she'd sketched for him in celebration of their bakery's eighteenth year plastered to each one like a medal of honour.
"They're so pretty, Dad. Thank you so much," she responds in awe. "Who doesn't love a good macaron? Especially when Paris' best baker makes them." She beams as her father runs an open palm over the top of her head as she makes a beeline for the front door, the overhead bell ringing in recognition.
She takes a look at her phone, the time glaring back at her as she breaks into a sprint.
How could she afford to be late on her first day?
"I can't believe you'd choose a gross public school," a snobby voice drones on, its owner tilting her chin upwards haughtily. "We should be going to the same school, yet you'd choose Françoise Dupont over going to school with me."
The boy trailing just behind her absentmindedly only half-listening.
"Oh, I—I just wanted the experience," he remarks, averting his gaze as his mind drifts elsewhere.
It'd felt as though he'd fought tooth and nail with his father just to be able to worm his way out through the suffocating front gates of their estate. They felt more akin to prison bars than fencing enclosing what should have been a home. It hasn't felt like one in quite sometime—not since his mother left, at least.
She'd brought warmth into the walls of not only their mansion, but to his father most especially. And now, whenever he spends his carefully allotted time out in the public eye, he finds himself forcing a practiced smile beneath the endless shutter of cameras and questions. Questions about his father's brand, his next modeling job he doesn't quite care for—none of it matters. None of it brings his mother home, and none of it moves his father, either.
Everything was just a carefully crafted facade from start to finish that he'd been struggling to maintain under such extensive isolation and restriction. He feels more like a dog than his father's son—stay here, don't go there, you can't do that. His entire schedule has everyone's input minus his own.
Nothing is his own.
He's simply Adrien Agreste—son of Gabriel Agreste, a stone cold and critically acclaimed fashion designer. It feels as though it's been years since he'd been given the chance to simply be Adrien.
Just Adrien.
Adrien who chooses his friends, what classes he wants to take, what kind of person he wants to be instead of being told—ordered even by his father under the guise that he knows best for him, because he, apparently, knows nothing of the world.
He'd desperately like to, though—wouldn't any rational person want such a thing?
"You should transfer while you still can," his childhood friend, Chloé Bourgeois, remarks. She clings to him—a weird attachment to him where it feels more like she's showing him off as opposed to actually interacting with him as though he's an actual person.
She tries to drive him in the direction of her school before he begins to part from her as gently as he can possibly manage considering her grasp feels like iron against his wrist.
"Look, Chloé—" He begins to protest, only to watch with the dropping of his jaw as she collides with another figure moving with the speed of freight train with no breaks.
Another girl with dark hair flounders on the floor in a pile of crumbs, a flattened box splayed out in front of her to make matters worse. Tears curl along her lashes as she sucks in a sharp breath.
"Chloé, I—I'm so sorry." She scrambles to apologize, haphazardly dusting the remnants of her devastated macarons off of her outfit before the blonde smacks her hands away audibly.
"You… you absolute klutz!" she shrieks, and Marinette almost winces as the sound of Chloé's voice grating on her eardrums suddenly pains her far more than the bruise blooming on her hip when Chloé had shoved her away to soften the initial blow she'd taken from her. "It's always you," Chloé spits. "You have some nerve showing your face to me again. Didn't you transfer out already? I thought you were saving me from having to look at you everyday!"
"I—I'm not looking for any trouble, really—" Marinette stammers. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen!" She tries to assure her, going rigid when Chloé's foot collides with her already decimated batch of macarons, and her face only proceeds to wither.
Adrien can only stand in disbelief. Had Chloé always been so cruel like this?
"Let's go, Adrien," Chloé suddenly speaks up, kicking the crumpled box aside and out of reach for good measure. "You don't want mingle with someone like her of all people. You should transfer before you risk being placed in a class with her."
She only manages to drag him half-way down the block before Adrien wrenches his arm from her, visibly aghast.
"How could you treat someone like that?" he sounds appalled, his features painted to match. "She already apologized to you—it was an honest mistake. What more did you want from her?"
"You—you can't seriously be defending Marinette Dupain-Cheng?" Chloé scoffs, her nose scrunching.
"Why does it matter who she is?" Adrien raises a brow, his stance on the matter unyielding.
"Because you're Adrien," she retorts. "We grew up the same—we're raised the same! Don't you see that?"
"No, I don't think I do," he says with a sense of finality as he recoils when Chloé tries to reach for him again.
He turns to walk in the opposite direction, Chloé's voice a cluster of nothing to him as he finds himself down the same street where Marinette still sits with her fractured box—its contents beyond saving. He kneels down beside her, and upon registering his presence, she flinches.
"I—" The words aren't granted the opportunity to form before Marinette is already cutting him off, frustration nestled into her tone.
"What are you doing here?" she bites out, reaching for her book bag as though she's intending to flee from him like a frightened animal. "Just go—leave me alone," she whispers, meaning to sound tough but it doesn't carry even a fraction of her anger. It just comes off as tired, even as Adrien creates a safe distance between them.
"I… I didn't expect Chloé to react that way—" He seems awkward, his posture stiff. Marinette's brow only pinches as what she registers as a flimsy excuse reaches her ears.
"Why didn't you say anything, then?" she accuses, before shaking her head as though the expectation is ridiculous. "Just forget it—I'm already late," she murmurs.
What more should she expect from someone who associates with Chloé of all people?
She merely stands up, not offering another word or glance as she hurries off ahead of him, her heart heavy in her chest. The day's barely begun, yet it's already gone catastrophically wrong. What's really stopping her from just turning around and locking herself in her bedroom for the rest of the day?
She finds herself drowning in her thoughts, negativity encasing her like a thick fog before a dark-winged butterfly flutters in her face. She flails backwards, her expression brightening when she rights her balance.
Butterflies coming so close… That was a good omen, wasn't it?
She smiles flimsily, drawn out of the recesses of her mind as though something within her fundamentally shifts. The butterfly circles her one final time, as though sizing her up before flying right past her.
She thinks little of it, continuing on ahead until she reaches the gates of her new school. Navigating the halls feel impossible at first—roaming through the large garden infested butterflies, yet none of them seem even remotely reminiscent of the one she'd crossed paths with.
She'd look into it later, she notes upon finally reaching the door of her homeroom. She fixes her sock when she feels it slipping down her calf before her gaze flits over at the sound of footsteps to her left.
She swallows thickly when she meets familiar emerald eyes and a head of neatly styled blond hair.
Him… again?
She grimaces, hurriedly shoving the door to her class open.
He'll pass the room—definitely, surely, she thinks optimistically, but her hopes are swiftly dashed when he ventures in close behind her.
He offers a tight-lipped, overly polite smile but she simply scowls, finding a seat in the front row, placing her bag on the open space beside her as though it could somehow save her.
But then, of course, she hears their teacher's voice when Adrien roams the rows for an extended period of time for a free place sit.
"Are there any extra seats?" the woman asks simply, and Marinette bites the inside of her cheek as when she drags her book bag off.
"Here," she mumbles lowly with the weak raising of her hand, praying someone else will somehow, miraculously, interrupt her.
Adrien awkwardly makes his way in her direction, and she turns her back towards him as though it could possibly make his presence shrivel up and disappear when he takes his place beside her.
Adrien's shoulder are tense, as though he's scared to so much as risk touching her. He simply knows he needs to make this right somehow—someway. He wasn't the aggressor, yet the loathing for his exceedingly poor reaction time is practically devouring him from the inside out.
"Don't look so stressed," the girl to Marinette's right suddenly pipes up, her voice low. "Is sitting next to Adrien Agreste that bad?"
"Adrien who?"Marinette deadpans, and the girl balks at the question.
"You don't know who he is?" Her classmate blinks in disbelief.
"No," she responds blandly. "Why would I?"
"He's the son of a top designer and model, and an ambassador for a bunch of big brands," she responds, but Marinette seems unconvinced.
"So… he's rich or something?" she asks, thoroughly unimpressed.
"Pretty much," the girl beside her replies through a laugh. "My name's Alya—Alya Césaire," she introduces herself, brushing the large curls of her auburn hair behind her ear with a friendly smile.
Marinette hesitates, as though such openness has her thoroughly taken aback.
"Oh, I… I'm Marinette," she says, offering her her hand. "Marinette Dupain-Cheng. It's my first year here."
"Oh?" Alya sounds genuinely curious. "Where did you transfer from?"
"Ah… another school," she responds tentatively, "on the other side of town. I got in on an art scholarship, but eventually decided to just… transfer out, that's all. This is just closer to home." She makes up a half-lie on the spot—Françoise Dupont certainly was closer, but the distance had little to do with her pulling out of the high school after merely her first year of attendance.
"Really? That's a shame," Alya frowns at the missed opportunity. "I've heard that school's so hard to get into if you're not, well… rich."
"Oh," Marinette voices aloud, "that's right."
So, then… what was Adrien doing here then of all places?
She finds herself glancing back at the blond boy quickly, almost cowering when their gazes nearly meet. She swallows, inhaling sharply as she turns to reach into her book bag. Her fingers absentmindedly brush against a small, wooden box nestled into the bottom of her bag beneath her folders. She instinctively pulls it out, eyeing the container painted with red lines and brushstrokes to look reminiscent of an artisanal jewelry box.
Wordlessly, she pops the box open, her head tilting to examine the plain set of earrings held within.
"Where did this come from?" she wonders to herself under her breath, only to hurriedly jam the closed box under her leg when Adrien turns around.
Did he put that there? Was he trying to frame her for something?
She rubs the side of her face, visibly stressed as an aggrieved sigh slips past her lips.
One good year, she thinks. She wants just one good year.
She's coaxed out of her mind when the buzz of Adrien's phone alerts him from within his front pocket. She can see him almost wince, her eyes scanning the odd expression on him as he begrudgingly drags it out to view a slew of messages from beneath his desk.
She has to urge herself to look away—being caught being nosy surely wouldn't do anything except further sour their dreadfully blossoming relationship.
But the contact name 'Dad' certainly ignites a nauseating curiosity from within. Her parents seldom messaged her during school lest it was an emergency—did rich fathers not grant their sons the same courtesy?
Then there's a tremor that spreads throughout the building, her heart catching in her throat as the class breaks into a panic, their teacher instructing them all to sink below their desk.
An earthquake?
Marinette glances over at Alya nervously as she scrolls through her phone's news page—video after video flooding in with each refresh.
"Is someone making up stories?" Marinette murmurs upon observing from over Alya's shoulder.
"These are all from official news outlets," Alya reassures, passing her phone to Marinette who only stares in utter incredulity.
She's dreaming, right?
"We've been instructed to evacuate," her teacher speaks up among the chaos, the class lined up in a messy, yet single file line.
Yet, somehow, that fails.
The door to their class is torn clean off its hinges, her jaw going slack as a massive, stone-like monster distorts its frame. She freezes in place even as her classmates scatter for shelter, but her feet feel stuck like sugar to hot cement.
The monster approaches her, the ground shaking with each larger than life step forward.
Abruptly, a hand wraps around her forearm as if its intention is to be the spark that ignites life back into her, a blur of golden hues leading her forward, narrowly evading the monster's grasp.
It takes a moment for her brain to register that the person in front of her—leading into the nearest storage closet—is Adrien of all people. After the cold shoulder she'd offered him at every opportunity, she finds herself blinking harshly as if to remind her that she's actually awake—that all of this is real, and she didn't somehow nod off during her first period class.
"What's even happening?" she whispers, her voice trembling as she scrolls mindlessly through her phone for an answer as Adrien stands guard at the door within the dark closet. "This is such a disaster," she groans, slinking down the wall until she settles on the floor, her knees pulled closely to her chest.
"I'm not sure," Adrien admits grimly, "but I don't think it was targeting either of us in particular—so I think we'll be safe here, at least."
"But what about everyone else?" Marinette frowns in concern, nails pressing crescents into the sides of her knees in a pitiful attempt to ground herself.
And then, her phone rings.
It's so loud to her adrenaline spiked senses that she rushes to answer it before even registering the contact name simply to get it to stop.
"Mom?" Marinette's voice cuts through a suffocating silence. Sabine's voice is muffled to Adrien, but he can still catch the nerves radiating off the line. "I—I don't know if I can get home," she whispers, her words becoming smothered by the tightening of her throat.
"I'll help you get home," Adrien speaks up unexpectedly, and he seems so sure about it she almost believes him.
"How? Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?" she questions him, her hand lightly covering her phone's microphone.
"There's one monster and two of us," he says, and her brow pinches.
"… Right," Marinette responds, shutting her eyes briefly.
Yeah, she thinks, this guy's out of his mind.
"Well, it's either that," he begins, "or we can sit here until maybe someone—or something—finds us."
She shudders at that, glancing down at her phone as if she's mourning something.
"… I'll figure something out," she says. "I'm not by myself, so—I'll see you soon. Love you," she utters quickly before ending the call.
"So… what's the plan again?" Marinette prompts. "Did you even have one?"
Adrien presses his lips together as he laughs nervously. She feels her shoulders slump, but she finds herself reaching for his outstretched hand anyway. An odd sense of déjà vu washes over her when her hand settles in the space he creates for her. Her brow furrows when the feeling fails to dissipate, her eyes tracing his silhouette in the darkness as a burning question sits upon the tip of her tongue.
"Have we met before?"