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Grief works in unpredictable ways.
That's what Marinette keeps telling herself, sitting on the edge of Adrien's bed, watching his eyes pore over that dreaded letter. She came here tonight prepared for… well, any number of things. Anger, maybe, that she hid this for so long. Despair from a world turned topsy-turvy once more. Even disbelief, questions she'd have to answer and make each nail in the coffin more painful than the last.
But it's been well over twenty minutes since she wiped away her tears and presented that damning envelope, and just as long since the both of them migrated to the bed and sat in silence. She gets needing the time to take it in, she really does. But surely he would've said something by now? Or reacted, even.
She wrings her hands together, the only concession of her growing dread she allows her body. Don’t force anything, Marinette. You're here to support him in whatever way you can. Whatever manifests from that, you are going to take in stride and you are not going to take into your own hands. You've done that far too much already.
…But twenty minutes?
Marinette glances down at the page, because it'd be just her luck to bungle it all before it even began by giving him something that wasn't the letter. But no, she can see Gabriel's neat penmanship peeking out from the paper. There's a fancy, choreographed swoop wherever he starts a sentence, as if even in death attempting to maintain an image. As if his own son was just another piece to use.
She looks away from the paper. She refuses to look just off to the side, where the stuffed frog sits beloved at the head of the bed. She can't imagine what little truth of his father's sincere love will lie bitter and ruined to Adrien now.
Twenty minutes. Marinette looks up at Adrien, watching him read. His eyes are still on the letter, expression neutral. It takes her a few moments to realize his eyes aren't flickering about from word to word—they're stationary, stalled at the bottom. They must've been for some time now.
“Adrien?” she prompts gently, no more than that.
His response is simple. “Was this what you were trying to tell me? The poem thing?”
It takes her a moment to parse out what he means. “Oh! Yeah, um… it was never a poem.” Her nails prick at her fingers, and she forces her hands to stop wringing. “I'm so sorry, I… I just didn't know how to tell you.”
Adrien nods, accepting that as an answer. He folds the letter up and puts it back in the envelope, then closes it neatly, then sets it aside. “I get it.” He leans forward, a quick peck of a kiss on her cheek. When he pulls away, he's smiling. “Thank you for telling me. I'm sorry it caused you so much stress.”
…What?
“You're sorry? I—Adrien, aren't you mad? Or upset?”
He tilts his head, perfect, placid confusion. He's still smiling. “Why would I be mad?”
She's been Ladybug for well over a year, and never has she been more on the backfoot than she is now. Fully, truly lost, Marinette runs a hand up her scalp and through her bangs. “I lied to you. He lied to you, I just—don't you—” Her eyes fall to the envelope. Did she give him the right letter? Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, or maybe she’s suddenly become illiterate, or maybe she somehow forged Gabriel Agreste’s handwriting as a last ditch effort to perpetuate the lie and just blocked it from her mind, or maybe—
Her hand is gently removed from her scalp, easing away the strands that snag in her nails. Adrien cups them both together into the space between their laps. “It’s okay, really. I know how hard it is to deliver bad news. You just didn’t want to hurt me, right?”
“Never,” comes out, breathless, automatic. “I’d never want to hurt you, but I—it’s okay if I did.” She replays that mentally, then rushes to correct herself. “I mean! It’s okay to be hurt, not that it’s okay to hurt you, just—!”
Hands tensing beneath his own, him having somehow become the one to support her in this moment, Marinette draws them out to lay atop one of his own. Not the one with his family rings—she won’t dare risk any degree of influence against him, especially not now. The warmth of his right hand, with the bare silver ring that gleams with the moonlight, grounds her enough to get a grip on herself. This is about him. She can’t lose sight of that. “Whatever you’re feeling, no matter what it is, you can tell me. I promise, it’s okay.”
Marinette watches him carefully, sees the way his eyes crinkle and his lips quirk upward in open fondness. She tries, really, truly, but she just can't find anything off about it. There's no pain or anguish there.
“It's sweet of you to worry,” he says, raising his free hand to cup Marinette's cheek. “But I'm not mad at you. I'm happy you told me, honest. So don't stress too much about it, okay?”
She wants to throttle something, desperate to convey that whatever stress she's feeling is categorically not important right now. But at this point they'll just be talking in circles, and she doesn't have enough information to cut through his platitudes. Is he really not so broken up about it all? Her eyes are telling her he’s not, he’s telling her he’s not, so… so does she really have it wrong? Is there just something she’s not getting?
Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s a delayed reaction. Would it be cruel of her, then, to urge a response out of him?
Something must show on her face, or she’s taken too long to respond, because Adrien continues. “It’s late, isn’t it?” His thumb brushes the corner of her cheek before he pulls away. The sudden lack of warmth leaves Marinette feeling off-kilter. “You should probably head back home, get some rest.”
He rises to his feet, and with her hands still clasping one of his own, she follows him up. But she can’t just leave him. “What? Adrien, I’m not—I’m not tired at all, I swear.”
“Marinette…”
“Really! Honest!” Because if she’s being truly honest, in a way that only Marinette-not-Ladybug can be, she doesn’t want to leave his side, and she’s certainly far too keyed up to even think about going home to sleep. “My parents don’t mind, and I’m sure Nathalie won’t mind, and I mean do we even need to go to school—”
“Marinette.”
She goes quiet.
He doesn’t raise his voice, and there’s no irritation in his tone, but there’s a weight that stops her dead in her tracks. His free hand—family rings, his sole decision, him—tightens almost imperceptibly above her own. “Please go home.”
Marinette meets his gaze, finding a rare sort of conviction oozing from the warmth in his eyes. She thinks if she fought him on this, she’d win—but that smile would turn strained, rueful, off nothing more than her own dogmatic persistence. It’s a moot point anyway, because she doesn’t want to fight him. Not when it’s so rare for him to be standing his ground like this.
What matters is what he wants, right? Supporting him, taking it all in stride.
So she surges forward and wraps him in a firm embrace, even as he stumbles a bit in surprise. “Call me at any point, okay? Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.”
He doesn’t immediately reciprocate the gesture, likely too caught off guard. It takes a few moments for Marinette to feel the presence of arms press against her back. “Of course. Love you, Marinette.”
When he pulls away, she gives him a quick kiss and a soft, “I love you too,” before heading out the room, shutting the door on her way out.
But her hand stalls on the doorknob.
It should be a relief. It should feel good to know that he’s fine, that he’s taking this well, that she hasn’t completely destroyed whatever trust he has in her. Every angle she views his actions from, it all screams that he’s okay. That she’s just catastrophizing, desperate to see what she thinks she should. But he’s fine. They’re fine. They’re okay.
So why does it feel like there’s still that wall between them…?
Marinette sighs wearily, letting her forehead rest against the door with the most silent of thumps. Right now, she just has to trust him. In that way of thinking, it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Resolute in that, she pries herself from the door and heads home.