Chapter Text
Adrien
Good morning, Marinette! ☀️ I hope you have a wonderful day
How have your classes been?
I’d really like to see you sometime soon. How does a date sound? We could get dinner!
Good night, love ♥️🌟 Sleep well!
—
The pattering of rain and rattling of Adrien’s balcony railing was enough to muffle Nadja Chamack’s quiet drone, the volume turned low so his focus could remain on his phone. He stared down at the bubbles of text that illuminated his face in the dark room, the fabric of his couch arm scratching almost unpleasantly against his cheek.
And all he could do was stare. Stare, through the heaviness of his body as he sunk into the cushions. Stare, through the pattering and chattering, as he felt what little will he still had slowly dissipate into nothing.
Clingy, his thoughts scolded him, as he stared down at the chat conversation in all its pathetic glory. His desperate attempts to reach out, all left on read. Not a single response.
Sure, the good morning and good night texts didn’t need a response, but the least Marinette could do was answer the questions he’d asked. Right?
Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to you, he thought, bitter, as he stared down at the words, his own desperate texts staring back at him, mocking him. Why would she? What would she have to say to you? You’ve never been interesting enough for her. You’re pathetic, you’re clingy, you do nothing all day, and for some reason you expect a reward for it.
Nothing. Worthless. Pathetic excuse for a man — imagine if Father could see you now. Imagine if Mother could see you now. Surely, they would pinch their noses in disgust and wonder why they bothered to have such a worthless, petulant child, who would grow up to be nothing but a waste of space, pressing an imprint into the couch and—
“Are you going to eat, or what?” Plagg’s voice cut through.
Adrien blinked, dazed as he was yanked from his thoughts. He glanced back down, to the plate of toast that he’d made for himself, set haphazardly down on the coffee table, one slice hanging precariously off the edge of the plate.
Great. Another dish to add to the growing pile. And for what?
Pathetic. Worthless. What are you even good for? You can’t even cook, and you can’t even eat food right. What kind of adult are you? You’re barely human.
“Have it,” Adrien murmured, his appetite still as absent as it’d been all day. After another longing, pathetic look at his texting history with Marinette, he opened up Instagram and began to scroll through his friends’ pages instead.
Photos of the members of Kitty Section, on stage, draped in colorful designs and stage lighting, on the same tour that they’d politely invited him to join them on — as if he could ever leave Paris for an extended period while he was Chat Noir, as if he’d ever been a real member of the band to begin with, as if he wouldn’t clearly hold them back when his skills at the keyboard had grown rusty at best. Next, the pictures that Marinette had posted of her new designs — a collaboration with one of her university classmates, wonderful and creative, patterned with strawberries and kiwis, that she’d captioned and photographed in lieu of answering his texts. Images of Alya’s family dinners with her extended family in Martinique, the table littered with all kinds of homemade food, the faces of smiling family members, their arms around each other, laughing and making faces at the camera.
At least Nino didn’t have an Instagram. If he had, Adrien was sure he’d be scrolling through pictures of his latest DJing gigs, or of scripting and recording sessions of his film projects.
He liked all the photos, leaving friendly but mundane comments on each — no doubt pointless drivel — though he hesitated in Marinette’s comment section.
Haven’t you bothered her enough? You’ve already quadruple-texted her, and she never responded. What makes you think she wants your trifling comments muddying up her comments section? What makes you think she’d ever care what you think, that your attempts to reach out do anything other than make you seem like a clingy, pathetic loser?
But he’d already left comments on all his other friends’ posts. It felt wrong, then, to spare only his girlfriend from his paltry trite.
So he left her one, too. Just another thing to sit and stare at—
“Ach— Ow! Hey!” he spat, swiping at the kwami who had yanked harshly at his hair. He rubbed at the sore spot on his scalp, shooting a pointed glare his way.
“Are you listening to me at all?” Plagg scoffed, “Eat your food!”
“I told you you could have it,” Adrien bit back, turning his attention back to his phone.
“And if you’d been listening to me, you’d know I told you that I wouldn’t put that disgusting stuff in my body if it was the last thing in the universe!” Plagg turned his nose up with a huff. “It doesn’t have cheese on it! Not even cheddar! It doesn’t even stink at all!”
“Then neither of us are having it, I guess,” he grumbled, staring down at Marc and Nathaniel’s engagement announcement photos from last week.
“So, what? You’re just going to eat nothing?”
Adrien rolled his eyes.
“Seriously, you didn’t eat last night, either. Or the night before that. Or the—”
“You don’t have to baby me,” Adrien grumbled, leaning forward and snatching the remote from the coffee table, turning off the news broadcast and standing to his feet. No akumas tonight so far. No point in waiting for one to appear. He turned on his heel and trudged to his bedroom. “I’m fine.”
“That’s why you’ve got that grumpy face on, right?”
Even Plagg’s sick of you, he couldn’t help but think, laboriously slipping out of his clothes and into his pajamas.
*****
Even among his friends, Adrien always felt like he’d stuck out like a sore thumb.
He’d always been the odd one out of the group. When he was younger, he could blame the disconnect on his father’s strict guidelines and regulations — it wasn’t his fault that he’d missed out on so many inside jokes, he was busy practicing piano at the time — but now, his excuses had run dry. His father was gone, no one was left to pull his strings, and yet. And yet.
Kim’s uproarious laughter echoed off the walls, and Adrien’s lips pulled up and taut into his cheeks as if he’d understood Alix’s reference.
He excused himself to the kitchen and poured himself some wine.
“Oh, Adrien!” Mylène’s cheerful voice came, approaching him with a smile. “I didn’t even notice you’d arrived!”
More thoughts came knocking at his door. Sometimes it felt too easy to berate himself, to think things like ‘Of course you’re invisible to everyone, why would they care about you?’ or ‘They wouldn’t even notice if you were gone’. There came a certain kind of strange satisfaction in the act, in allowing himself to lay himself bare beneath the raining knives of self-deprecation. Of course, just because he thought it didn’t mean he actually believed it — at least, not in the logical sort of sense. Maybe self-pity had just become a sort of hobby for him.
A hobby that would be inappropriate to partake in at his friend’s birthday party, where everyone milling around had clear view of any emotions that may cross his face.
So he didn’t think those thoughts. Not at all. They definitely didn’t even cross his mind. Not a bit.
Instead, he smiled and leaned forward, exchanging bises, and said, “Happy birthday, Mylène.”
“Thank you,” she said with a small chuckle. Standing there, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with an exhaustion in the back of his head, he couldn’t help but be reminded of charity balls and Diamonds’ dances, where people would approach him out of mere formality. The house was full of people Mylène loved to be around. Adrien wouldn’t even crack the top ten, but for some reason, she was still talking to him. “Hopefully everything’s good! I’m not used to throwing parties this nice, but you know Marinette.”
He smiled politely in response, the gears in his head trying to turn to process the statement. Something was jammed between the teeth, the meaning lost on him.
“Of course,” he agreed with a smile that he hoped seemed affectionate.
“She really went all out on the decorations!” Mylène noted, looking out across the apartment, to the paper signs and colorful fabrics tastefully strewn about. Ah. This conversation was starting to make sense. “And the cake and food! She even made me this dress — I hope she didn’t stress herself out too much over it all. And that’s not even to mention all the gifts I saw her carry in. My birthdays have never been this big of a deal before. I feel so bad.”
He softened. Considering the whispers he’d heard of the awful past few months that Mylène had had, including a family tragedy and a less than favorable diagnosis, he had an inkling of why. “There’s nothing to feel bad for. Marinette’s always loved helping her friends. I’m sure she was happy to do it.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, “I guess. She hasn’t seemed too stressed out to you, has she? I’m sorry if I’m prying, I’d just hate to think she was putting herself out on my account.”
Rather than admit that he’d have no way of knowing how his girlfriend had been feeling as of late, he gave her a reassuring smile and answered the way that he was sure Marinette would want him to. “She’s been fine. It’s okay to enjoy your birthday, Mylène. This is your day, all you should be worried about is having fun.”
“I guess so.” She shot him a guilty smile. “Well… anyway. Thank you. It’s always nice to see you. I feel like it’s been a while since we’ve talked. How’ve you been?”
He maintained his smile. “I’ve been great.”
Unfortunately, the formalities continued. Long enough for the questions to keep coming and coming — and suddenly, he felt as though he were under some sort of interrogation. He remembered the days when he was younger, when strangers in fancy gowns would ask him what he was up to, and he would go down a list of all of his extracurriculars — his fencing, his piano, his movie deals, his shoots and his ad campaigns, awards he’d won and those he’d been nominated for — and they would coo and awe at how successful he was at such a young age, how perfect and how he was the envy of the room—
Well. He’d always hated it. He hated the extracurriculars, the shoots, the cooing and awing. If his younger self could see him now, perhaps he would be charmed by the way only one bullet was left on his list — schooling.
But that didn’t mean much. His younger self had been an idiot.
Almost as much of an idiot as he was now.
What was even the enjoyment in ‘schooling’ anymore, when his friends all attended other universities, and his classes were all online? What was the point, when he found himself so familiarly alone again, locked in his room to study on his own without even his parents to blame for it?
Adrien had never been ambitious like his friends had been. He’d spent his whole life content with (well, not content, more like resigned to) the fact that his whole life had already been carefully chosen and laid out for him. He’d never expected to have to find himself, to have to make his own way in life, to have anything for him other than the paved path ahead of him, leading him to places he’d never wished to reach.
But now that he had it, he found that freedom could be its own curse. Freedom meant that there was no path he was forced to walk — but freedom also meant that he’d have to choose his own. And how dreadful it was, to whack and fight through the overgrowth, to pave his own path, when no particular destination even appealed to him.
Oh, you’re studying linguistics? That’s so interesting! Tell me more about that!
Sure. He could go through the motions, explain what he’d recently read. But he was kind of sick of talking about it.
What are you planning on doing with that degree?
How was he supposed to know? Who are you, his father?
Isn’t it so wonderful to study something you’re passionate about?
Probably, yeah. But he wouldn’t know.
If you don’t like linguistics, why don’t you try pursuing a different degree?
He liked linguistics. He did. He just wasn’t passionate about it. But what else would he study? History? Physics? Gender studies? Education? He wasn’t sure that ‘passion’ would describe his feelings about any subject. How did everyone seem to have careers and subjects that drew them in so strongly, when he was left with nothing more than a mild interest in anything that drew his attention?
‘Perfection’ didn’t exist — at least, that’s what he’d have to tell himself on the rare occasion his mind was trying to make him feel better rather than worse. His friends were the truly amazing ones. They were the ones who would change the world, who would revolutionize their industries, who would make significant strides and impactful art. All he’d ever been good at was looking pretty, smiling, and answering questions that were thrown his way in as agreeable a way as possible.
At least that last skill was still coming in handy.
Mylène did the usual — what everyone does, when they’re going through the formalities of interrogating him about his life. She oohed and awed over his coursework when he explained it and answered the questions he threw back her way — she was enacting change in social policy, benefiting the world and making it a greener place, literally saving the climate itself and all life on Earth and future generations with it — before she was called away by Ivan and excused herself politely from the conversation.
He took a big swig of his wine and refilled the glass.
That wasn’t a big deal, right? He wasn’t going to get drunk. Just… tipsy. Just enough to survive the evening, to loosen the tension in his shoulders enough to be able to survive any oncoming interrogations with at least a smidge of sanity left.
Sure, maybe Ladybug would be upset at him if she were to find out. Superheroes weren’t supposed to drink when supervillains had a habit of popping up out of the blue at any odd time of any odd day — but why would that matter? Chat Noir being a bit off his game was Chat Noir’s normal, anyway.
He took another swig of the liquid courage and weaved his way through the crowd, toward the head of dark hair that he’d spotted amidst the ocean.
Marinette’s light laughter filled the air, a response to something the person in front of her must’ve said. Not anyone he recognized. A friend of Mylène’s? Marinette’s? He wasn’t exactly keen on another formal interrogation, so he hovered in the nearby vicinity for a moment, weighing his options until the person turned and left. And then she was alone.
With her back to him, he approached, sliding his arm across her back—
A shriek tore through her, and she whipped around, her glass of wine jutting in his direction—
“Ah!” he shrieked, jumping back and covering his face.
“AH— ADRIEN!” Marinette gasped, thankfully interrupting her toss of the drink. It sloshed in her glass, spilling a bit over the sides and onto the wood flooring, but otherwise settled. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I— I thought— Well, I don’t know what I thought— you startled me, I didn’t know it was you!”
“I’m sorry,” he tried with a nervous laugh, holding his free hand up placatingly. He could feel his cheeks warm from the embarrassment — perhaps a similar shade to the pink that dusted her own face. “I should’ve said something. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
What had he been thinking? He knew how easy she was to startle. He wanted to slam his head into the wall.
“No, I’m sorry. I almost wined you! I could’ve completely ruined your nice shirt!” Her face crumpled in shame, and then she interrupted it with a nervous laugh of her own. “You know me. Typical walking disaster! It’s a wonder I’m invited to parties at all!”
“Don’t say that. From what I heard, this party’s only as great as it is because of you.” He tried a fond smile. “Mylène told me you did the decorating. And the cake and the food and her dress…”
“Oh, that? Well, it’s not anything, really…” she sighed, brushing at her skirt. “After everything, I wanted Mylène to have something special, but so many kinds of birthday decorations are disposable. Balloons and streamers? She wouldn’t like any of that. So I couldn’t really do much. Most of the ‘decorations’ are just fabrics that I’ll repurpose later. And, you know, baking’s easy, and I love making dresses…”
If all that was nothing, then he wondered what his contribution to the party counted as. All he’d done besides bring a paltry gift was show up. A net negative, maybe.
“That’s what makes it so nice,” he pointed out, “You put thought into it and cared about what she’d like. That does make it special. And just because you’re good at baking and sewing doesn’t mean that your time doing it is less valuable. You did a really thoughtful thing, and you should be proud.”
Her cheeks reddened further, and she reached a hand up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted to reach out to her again, to try to slot his arm around her waist again, but thought better of it. He’d already ruined his chance at that. “... You always know what to say.”
Funnily enough, he had no idea what to say to that. So instead of responding properly, he smiled at her. She raised her glass to her lips to take a sip, and he did as well—
Marinette suddenly spat her sip back into her glass and gasped, her drink sloshing precariously around the rim once more as she whipped her eyes back up to face him in a horrified gape. “Oh my god! I never answered your texts!”
He blinked and lowered his glass.
“I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay—”
“No, I— I’d be so frustrated if I were you! I swear, I didn’t mean to ghost you! But I was working on an assignment for my class when you texted me, and I thought to myself, ‘oh I’ll respond to him once I finish this sketch’, and then it was twelve sketches later and it was past midnight and I was going to bed and thinking about the party and it completely slipped my mind—”
He softened. “Marinette, really, it’s okay. I wasn’t frustrated,” he lied, “I know you’re really busy. It would… be selfish of me to demand your attention all the time. I know you have more important things to do.”
At least, he wanted to believe all those things. He wanted to be the perfect boyfriend who respected her needs, who didn’t demand too much, who was patient and understanding. Instead, he felt bitter and frustrated, and hated himself for it more and more every day.
But they were at a party. People were around them, and Marinette was studying his face, so as much as he’d like to drown himself in self-pitying thoughts like ‘of course anything she does is more important than you, it’s easy to be more important than something worthless’, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t think those things. And he wasn’t going to think things like ‘she’s probably lying to save face, she wants nothing to do with you’ or ‘she must think you’re so pathetic’, either.
He took another sip of his wine.
“You’re important,” she argued. And his mind was on its best behavior, so it wasn’t going to think of that as some kind of hilarious joke. “You… asked about getting dinner sometime, right? Am I remembering that right?”
He nodded.
“Let’s do that,” she sighed, offering him a weak smile. “It sounds nice. When was the last time we went on a proper date?”
“... A while,” he muttered over the lip of his glass.
Marinette stared at him for a moment, before downing a large swig of her own drink. “... Okay! So, um— Friday! Does Friday evening work for you?”
“Yeah.” His finger tapped idly against his glass.
“Great! So where should we…” Her eyes widened, caught on something over his shoulder. “Oh! She made it! Actually, I— I’m sorry, I really need to talk to Zoé about a costume, it’ll be real quick, it’s been bothering me all day— We can decide the details after?”
He swallowed. Best behavior, best behavior. “Yeah.” He tried a smile. “Sounds good.”
“Great! Thank you!” She bounced forward, standing up on her tippy toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Love you!”
“Love you,” he returned as she slipped away from him, disappearing into the crowd.
He took a deep breath and finished the rest of his glass, wondering if he could find Nino and if he’d be a bother if he hovered around him for the rest of the party, when his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket.
He took the device out, his heart dropping at the screen.
“Akuma alert!” someone shouted from across the room.
“No big deal,” someone else said, “Says here it’s all the way at Montparnasse Tower. We should be fine.”
Adrien took a deep breath, shot one withering look at his empty wine glass, and excused himself to the bathroom.
So much for scheduling our date, Chat Noir thought bitterly, vaulting through the parisian skyline. But he couldn’t allow himself to stew. Even better than its best behavior, his brain had to be on its perfect behavior. Because if Ladybug caught a whiff of the alcohol in his system, he would surely never hear the end of it.
Ladybug landed beside him from his rooftop perch, briefly losing her balance before she quickly corrected it. “Ah!”
Her cheeks were pink. Probably from embarrassment.
“Bonsoir, my lady!” he greeted with a bow. “Ready to get this over with?”
She shot him a pained grin. “... Please.”
A couple hours later, and her miraculous ladybugs were washing over Paris. Not their most coordinated effort, but if Ladybug noticed that he was less than completely sober, she didn’t comment.
Figuring it’d be easier to say he left early than explain why he’d been ‘in the bathroom’ for two hours, he skipped the rest of the party and went home. No one would miss him anyway.
*****
Adrien sat at the table, idly adjusting his suit as he waited. Candlelight flickered at the center of the covered table, giving him something to stare at while he wondered what was taking Marinette so long.
Thankfully, she'd eventually responded to his texts, and the two of them were able to properly plan their date. She hadn’t mentioned that he’d disappeared from Mylène’s party. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t even noticed it at all.
Why would she notice? You’re irrelevant to her, he thought, chewing the inside of his cheek. He may be in public, but none of his friends were here to look at him. His mind didn’t need to be on its best behavior. At best, she was probably relieved. She was probably glad to finally be rid of you, to talk to everyone else that she’d rather be around instead.
He fiddled with his cuff. The waiter stopped by his table, checking in on him, and he politely smiled and gave the same excuse — “I’m waiting for my date. She’ll be here any second.”
Marinette was often late. He tried not to hold it against her. Tried not to think about what it meant, that she wasn’t showing up, tried not to dwell on how little she cared for him—
Maybe that wasn’t fair. Or maybe it was! Who was to say. Not him, resting his chin in his hand, staring down at the flickering candle, shaking his leg and letting his mind fester in the rot of his unkind thoughts.
He checked his phone. No new texts. And she was over half an hour late.
He waved down the waiter and ordered wine for the table.
Everyone’s probably looking at you, he thought, swirling his glass of cabernet sauvignon, staring down at the liquid dark enough to be reminiscent of blood. The sad man at the table in the corner, drinking wine all alone. Obviously stood up.
After his first glass — on an empty stomach, because he wasn’t about to order a meal without Marinette, too — he double checked his phone.
Still no texts.
[More important things to do?] he typed, staring down at the bitter words. Beneath the wine-laid fuzz, he nearly convinced himself to hit send.
But then the guilt came. So, instead, he deleted the text, set his phone face-down on the table, and poured himself another glass of wine. Surely, Marinette would text to inform him if she wasn’t going to come. Right?
Who cares? Why would she care to tell you — you’re nothing to her. You’re nothing to anyone. You’re not worth anyone’s time or attention — the best thing you’ve ever been good at is being pretty, and nobody you care about is shallow enough for that to matter. They barely even notice that you’re there, and when you’re gone, they don’t notice that, either.
He finished that glass, too. Blinking slowly at his empty table, he debated internally in his head how disastrous for him a third would be.
And then his phone buzzed.
He scrambled to snatch it up off the table, fully prepared to be officially canceled on. Instead—
Akuma alert.
With one long, frustrated sigh, he pushed himself out of his chair and sauntered over to the restroom.
Just in case, he informed the waiter on the way that he would be right back. The last thing he wanted was to seem like a wine-and-dasher — or to lose their reservation, should Marinette actually decide to show up at any point.
Yeah, right.
Chat Noir took to the rooftops.
“There you are!” Ladybug scolded the moment his boots hit the rooftop, spinning around with a twisted look on her face. “You’re late.”
Great. Even Ladybug hates you for some reason. You come immediately, and it’s still not good enough. You’ve never been good enough, and you never will be—
“Late?” he scoffed, a nasty look surely painting his own features — he just wasn’t in the mood. “I just got the akuma alert.”
“Aauugh…” she groaned, dragging her hand harshly down her face, “Are you serious? Why did it take them so long? I’ve been here for nearly half an hour!”
“How should I know?” he huffed. “I don’t control the broadcast!”
“Okay, okay— it’s fine, I’m just glad you’re here now,” she sighed, turning around to set a focused stare down at the streets below. He followed her gaze, to a figure dancing between sculptures of ice, dressed like a penguin. “You got your power-up cheese on you?”
Oh, great. The last thing he needed for a rotten mood was rotten cheese in his mouth. But, still, he sighed, “Yeah.”
“Good. Might not need it — I haven’t needed it yet — but we’ll see. They haven’t frozen the streets yet like Frozer would, but they’ve been making ice structures out of thin air and shooting deadly icicles all over the place. I think the akuma’s in their belt.”
“Sounds cool,” he noted, whipping his baton off his back and spinning it in his hand. Not his best pun, but he wasn’t exactly in the best headspace, either.
Ladybug rolled her eyes. “Let’s make this quick, okay? I really need this over with as soon as possible. There’s somewhere I’m supposed to be.”
“On it,” he huffed, readying to launch himself down to the figure below. “Catac—”
Her hand slapped over his mouth. “Not that quick!” she hissed. “I told you, they’re dangerous. Let’s be a little more thought out, huh?”
“Oh, yeah, a bird, I’m so scared,” he drawled, “The natural predator of cats.”
“What part of ‘deadly icicles’ did you not understand?” she sighed, and then threw her yo-yo into the air. “Lucky Charm!”
Of course, because the world was never kind to them, they were not awarded a flamethrower. Instead, Ladybug chewed her cheek, staring down at the sticky note that’d fluttered into her hands.
“Really?” he deadpanned.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re feeling catty today,” she huffed, turning her attention back out over the field. “Um… hm… well, if we can get our hands on a pitchfork, then maybe…”
He thought back to the restaurant — to the reservation on the line, to the possibility that Marinette would show up to an empty table. He wondered what she’d think of him, then, when she already apparently thought so little.
“Or!” he jutted in, “I can jump down there and play distraction while you snag their belt with your yo-yo.”
“No,” she said instantly, and he further soured. “Too risky. I’m telling you, they’re more dangerous than they look. Getting close to them would just spell disaster—”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to get close to them,” he pointed out, “I would.”
“What? No! That doesn’t change—”
But he was already vaulting himself down to the street below, the rest of her sentence lost on him.
He just wanted this to end quickly.
“Hey, bird-brain!” he shouted, sliding into the villain’s line-of-sight, “You really think you’re an upgrade over a pigeon? At least they can fly!”
“How dare you!” the villain roared. Points of moisture in the air around Chat Noir solidified in an instant, sharp shards of ice freezing and surrounding him in all directions — in front of him, over him, behind him. Admittedly, not what he’d been prepared for. “I am Painguin and you will address me as such!”
The icicles that domed around him rotated mid-air, pointing their tips inward before they launched. He spun his baton, having to twist his body and dance around, shielding himself from all angles as best he could from the onslaught of projectiles.
He huffed from the exertion, shielding himself from icicle after icicle — but they just kept coming and coming and coming, the moisture in the air freezing to new shards as others were shattering against his weapon. He couldn’t keep this up forever. Slamming his stick against the ground, he launched himself up into the air, the icicles smashing against the pavement where he’d once been.
With a roar, he twisted in the air, launching himself towards Painguin. His steel boot jutted forward, readying an aerial-kick towards the villain—
But Painguin waved their hand, and the moisture in the air around his head quickly began to freeze. Not shaped as sharp daggers — but instead, an all encompassing block. The ice covered his face, muffling his ears and chattering his teeth. He plummeted to the ground with a tumble, unable to make out his surroundings through the frost that surrounded his face. All he could sense was cold and wet.
“Cata—” he began, before the moisture in his mouth froze as well — his every pore, his nostrils, every part of his head serving as a mold for the shape of the ice that crept further into his face, the block heavy on his shoulders and keeping his balance precarious.
Again, not what he’d been expecting.
He couldn’t speak, but that was the least of his problems. The freezing chill wasn’t the issue, either. Even his ice power-up couldn’t have protected him from this — from the lack of air, each gasp for breath at best sending droplets of melting water down his throat.
Was he suffocating or drowning? He couldn’t tell — and he barely even registered the fact that he was on his knees, collapsed to the pavement, clawing at the ice surrounding his head and grasping his throat as he gasped and sputtered and coughed, even the moisture of his throat solidifying.
This would be one of his least pleasant deaths, he’d have to admit. Maybe he should’ve let the icicles take him — let them pierce his heart and have him bleed out on the pavement. Perhaps that’d be… preferable to the burning agony in his lungs, as he… wheezed and… choked… and… …
…
…
…
…
Chat Noir awoke with a gasp — one that turned into a sputtering cough, as he hauled himself onto his side and expelled the moisture he’d inhaled. The ice water that drenched his face was rapidly evaporating away, up into the air where the magical ladybugs flew.
Oh.
…
Good.
With one final cough, he wiped at his mouth and pulled himself up onto his feet. The chattering in the background, something about the melting ice caps, told him that Ladybug was consoling the akuma victim. But he had somewhere else to be.
He vaulted up to the nearest rooftop and quickly checked the time on his baton. Good. That battle actually went quick, just as planned — he probably hadn’t even been dead for longer than five minutes. He readied himself to beeline it straight back to the restaurant—
A yo-yo caught his wrist. Frustration overcame him, and he threw his head back and sucked in a long breath through his nose. He knew what was coming, and he didn’t have the patience — nor the sobriety — for it.
Ladybug’s feet hit the rooftop behind him. “What. Were. You. Thinking.”
With his back still facing her, he took the moment he needed to school himself — to loosen his facial muscles, to put on the mask of an easy-going grin.
He turned around to face her. “I was thinking…” He tapped at the time displayed on his baton screen. “... that there were quicker ways to deal with the akuma than finding a pitchfork. And guess what? I was right!”
Somehow, she didn’t seem impressed. Her face was set with burning rage, her cheeks red and lips nearly in a snarl. “Don’t you call that a victory!” she spat, snapping her yo-yo back to her palm. “You— you— you disregarded me completely, ran right in with absolutely no sense for what you were getting yourself into, and then suffocated to death—”
“Oh, darn, did I die?” he sighed, “Sorry about that. I’ll be sure to invite you to the funeral. Anyway, bug, it was nice seeing you, but I actually have somewhere to be—”
“Is this all a joke to you?” she spat, “Do you even have any care at all for what’s at stake here?”
“What, so because I helped you defeat the actual bad guy quicker, I’m the bad guy?” he scoffed, claws at his hips. “How is that fair? You’re welcome, if anything.”
“You— you—” In her anger, she mimed something with her hands — squeezing or strangling him, maybe. “No!” She slammed her foot down against the roof. “No! You rely on my ladybugs too much, especially as of late. Shielding me in the heat of the moment is one thing — and I can’t believe I’m even saying that — but this!? What, you died to save a few minutes? You’ve just been getting more and more reckless with every akuma, and it’s getting to be a serious problem—”
Ladybug’s sick of you. She hates you. Everybody would be better off without you—
“And yet, we keep winning!” he argued back, “So what’s the big deal?”
“I’m not perfect!” she spat, “You realize that? You think that no matter what you do, I’ll be able to bring you back — but you never account for the fact that things can go wrong. I make mistakes too, you know! I mess up! I can mess up big time! And it’s cost me before, but if one day I’m not able to cast my ladybugs, I don’t want that cost to be your life—”
“And why not!?” he shouted, almost through a laugh.
She gawked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Who cares!” He threw his arms up in emphasis, feeling his own face heat up. “So what if I die? Big whoop! It doesn’t matter! You can just give my ring to someone else! I’m sure Kitty Noire would do great!”
Ladybug blinked at him. Frozen, as if she were caught off guard. As if she hadn’t already thought it, too. “... Chat Noir—”
“And then you’d have a better partner, and I’d finally be dead! It’s a win-win!” he shouted, his heart slamming in his chest.
Her eyes widened further. The redness of her cheeks paled away as she was left speechless, staring. And staring. And—
And he was wasting his time.
“Anyway!” he quickly said, whipping around and readying his baton to vault. “I’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll see you next patrol—”
This time, it was her hand that caught his wrist.
“Cha… Chat Noir,” Ladybug spoke carefully. His heart dropped at the tone of her voice, too gentle for the shouting match that had preceded it. “You… you’re…” He dared a peek at her from over his shoulder. “... you’re suicidal?”
His mouth fell open. And maybe, if his ears weren’t still buzzing, if he weren’t having such a terrible day, if he weren’t so caught off guard, he could’ve laughed at the haunted way she’d whispered out the word, as if it were a curse to say it too loud.
“What?” he blurted, his heart only slamming harder. “What?” he repeated. “No. No, I’m— I’m not.”
“You’re suicidal,” she said again, no longer a question, her eyes widening in horror. “You— oh my god. Chat No— Chaton, you—”
Dear god. This couldn’t be happening. This was just about the worst thing that could possibly happen today, far worse than if she’d never revived him to begin with.
“No!” He spun back around to face her, throwing his hands up placatingly. “I’m not!”
Leave it to you, asshole, to trick Ladybug into believing that you deserve her pity. To make her worry about you, to make it into a big deal, to make it seem like something that matters—
He wasn’t suicidal. He wasn’t! The self-pitying thoughts, the self-deprecation, the daydreams and fantasies of falling asleep and never waking up — those weren’t real. They weren’t really what he believed, weren’t his actual logical view. It was just a hobby, for when he allowed his brain to be on poor behavior. Just a thought, a thing to think to pass the time, a fun little role-play where he could imagine what it was like to think similarly to how a person who was actually suicidal might. That was all.
He wasn’t actually—
“You are,” Ladybug stated plainly, her brows twisted up as if she were pained. Her hand gripped his shoulder. “Kitty, that’s— you just told me you are. You just told me that you want to die—”
“No! No, no— it was a joke!” he quickly explained, waving his hands emphatically. “A stupid joke— I’m not suicidal! I’m just drunk!”
“You’re drunk!?”
“YES!” he shouted, a bit louder than he’d intended with how close she was in proximity, “I am! So don’t— don’t listen to what I’m saying. It doesn’t mean anything! I don’t want to die, not really, and even if I did, it’s not like I’d make an— an attempt or anything—”
“But you did,” she gasped, still staring up at him with those wide, agonized eyes. “You did. I watched you— I—” She sucked in a strangled breath. “You— You— You use akumas as… as some kind of… method of self-harm?”
His jaw dropped, his drunken mind stumbling in its race to think of what to say to this. “N-no? No! That’s—” He pulled back from her, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. Ladybug, you have to know that sounds ridiculous—”
“That’s what you’ve been doing!” she cried out, “You— That’s why you— It makes sense now! You don’t care if you die. You want to die. If you have an excuse to die in battle, you’ll take it, because you want to—”
“I don’t!” he gasped, “Not really! Not like that! I just— I just have somewhere to be! I wanted it to end quickly!” He couldn’t stand to be here a moment longer. “In fact— speaking of!” He tore his baton from its spot at his back.
“Chat Noir!”
“I’ve gotta go!” he shouted, pressing the pawprint and launching himself away from her as fast as he could, narrowly escaping the yo-yo thrown his way. “C’ya!”
He bounded and leapt across the rooftops, his blood pumping in his ears and a bead of nervous sweat dripping down his forehead, until the restaurant came into view. Dropping down into a nearby alleyway, he called off his transformation.
Plagg was staring at him, a look in his eyes that had Adrien wishing he were back in the ice cube. “... Adrien—”
“Not now,” he grit out, snatching the kwami unceremoniously out of the air and shoving him into his suit pocket so he could rush back into the restaurant.
Good news: his table still seemed to be his. It hadn’t been bussed yet, the glass of wine still there. His reservation was still intact.
Bad news: no Marinette.
His lip twitched, wondering if the fact was worth a bitter laugh or a sob. He ripped his phone out of his pocket, eyeing his notifications.
No new texts.
His heart was still pounding in his ears. His brain was still replaying the last ten minutes of his life and all the self-hatred that came with it. His hands were shaking, and his blood was still alcoholic.
He wanted to go home. She was over an hour late at this point. She wasn’t coming. He’d been stood up.
He looked around, ready to flag his waiter and ask for the check for his pitiful ‘meal’ so he could go home and see if he had enough cheese in the cabinets to bribe Plagg out of some sort of serious conversation, when—
“Adrien!” a voice shouted from across the restaurant. In an instant, his eyes widened, and he was whipping around just in time to see Marinette rushing over to him, her hair tied up in a bun, the skirt of her burgundy dress bouncing with each hasty step. “You’re still here!”
Once again, his lip twitched. He stared, taking the moment his brain needed to catch up with what he needed to do, the act he needed to play.
He smiled.
“Hey, Marinette,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hands placed casually in his pockets, “Did you lose track of the time?”
“I—” She blinked at him. “... Yes! Yes! I completely— I forgot what time our date was scheduled completely! I actually wrote down the wrong hour on my calendar and only just realized— and I. Am. So. Sorry.”
He made his way over to the table, slipping back into his seat. “It’s okay. At least you made it.” He continued to smile at her as she hurried over to the seat across from him and sat down. “You, uh… want some wine?”
He grasped the bottle, ready to pour what remained of it into her empty glass—
“No, no, I shouldn’t, I—” And then he noticed, to his horror, that her eyes were on her phone, tapping away, not even looking at him. “But— um— thank you for offering.”
He blinked. Watching, silently, as she tapped and tapped, her eyes bugged out of her head. She chewed her lip as she did, lipstick marking her teeth as the table trembled from the way her leg shook under the table.
“... What are you doing?” he asked kindly — well, he hoped it sounded that way, at least. To him, it felt far more strangled.
“Hm? Nothing! Nothing, I’m just…” But then her voice trailed, her brow furrowed as she focused on her screen. She tapped and tapped, shook her leg and tapped.
A beat of silence passed.
“... Just?” he prompted. A part of him wondered if he got up and left, she’d even notice.
“Ah! Nothing, I…” She rubbed at her shoulder harshly, and then went back to tapping. “Do you know of any good messaging apps? Besides the obvious ones?”
He blinked. “... Messaging apps?”
She didn’t say anything in response to that, her attention back on her phone. He wondered if Ladybug hadn’t cast the miraculous ladybugs, Marinette would’ve cared at all.
“... Are you… texting someone?” he asked slowly.
“Hm? No! Oh, no, I…” Her eyes widened in startled realization, as if suddenly realizing her social faux pas. With her phone shoved into her purse, she grabbed the menu in front of her. “Nevermind! I—” She peeked up at him over the paper. “How— How have you been?”
He stared at her for a moment. And then, he tugged his lips up in a smile. “... Good.”
“Oh, good, that’s good,” she sighed.
“How about you?”
“Good,” she answered back automatically.
And then the two fell into silence. Perhaps, if she had shown up on time, he would’ve known what to say to her. Maybe then, he would’ve had the energy or sobriety to carry a conversation. Instead, he came up blank.
“... This menu doesn’t have prices,” she said after a long moment, her brow furrowed.
“Don’t worry about it,” he easily excused, “Get whatever you want. It’s on me.”
Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline, her eyes snapping back up to his. “What? No. No, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he stated.
“No, no. You know I don’t like it when you pay for me—”
“I know. But just this once?” His eyes fell back down to his own menu. None of the options seemed particularly appealing. He had no appetite. “You’ve been working really hard lately. With your commissions and school work and helping out Mylène… I wanted to treat you. It’s the least I can do.”
Correction: it was the only thing he could do. At this point, beyond being a pretty face, money was the only thing he was good for. And having a pretty face didn’t matter when she never looked his way.
“But… that’s…” She frowned, looking back down at her own menu. “... I didn’t even… … But you…”
“Please?” How was he already messing everything up? The one thing he was able to do, and she didn’t even want it. Waste of air. “If it… really bothers you, you can pay for both of us the next time we go out. And you can pick the restaurant then, too.”
“... Okay,” she sighed, shooting him a guilty smile. He tried to return it with an affectionate-looking one of his own. “Just… just this once, okay?”
He nodded. And then their waiter came, and the two made their orders.
And then they fell into silence again.
She wasn’t looking at her phone, at least. But she sat there, elbow on the table and cheek propped up with her hand, staring intently at the wall with a thoughtful frown on her face. The table shook again from her shaking knee.
She still wasn’t looking at him. He resisted pouring himself another glass of wine, worried she’d notice how close to empty the bottle was if he did.
“How have your classes been?” he forced himself to ask through his smile, his hands politely linked on the tabletop.
No response. He could practically see the gears turning in her head, but he had no clue what she was thinking about. Could be anything — anything but him, he supposed.
“... Marinette?”
“Hm? Oh—” She gasped, startling back, sitting up straight and looking at him. “Oh! You— I’m so sorry. My head’s just— I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“I saw those pants you posted on Instagram,” he said instead of repeating himself, tapping a finger against his knuckle to expel his frustration in a way she hopefully wouldn’t notice. “With the fruit?”
“Oh. Yeah,” she laughed, a tad forced, and readjusted the way she sat. “Um… what about it?”
“They looked really nice,” he said truthfully, “It’s a really cute idea. I’m sure they’d be fun to style. I bet a lot of people would love to buy something like that.”
“Oh, yeah, well…” She forced a grin. He could tell. Unlike him, Marinette had always been real. She hadn’t mastered the art of faking a smile. “The fabric was actually Léo’s idea, anyway…” She forced out a chuckle. “But, um. Thank you. How about— how about you?”
“What about me?”
“What have you been up to? You don’t post much. Are you still volunteering at that cat shelter?”
No. I stopped doing that months ago, because I decided my time was better spent staring at the ceiling, indulging in my latest hobby of pathetically whining to myself in the back of my head, thinking about all the ways the world would be better if I were dead. I’m even doing it right now.
“I’ve been… a bit too busy for that.” He cleared his throat. “Working on my essays.”
“I’m so sorry,” she laughed good-naturedly, her eyes crinkled with a hint of honest-looking affection. “Writing essays was always my least favorite part of school. I’m glad I don’t have to write much anymore.”
He managed a chuckle of his own. “It’s okay. I don’t mind them too much.”
“I’m sure all your essays are fantastic,” she sighed, “You’ve always been so good with words.”
Yep, that was what he was good at. Telling people what they wanted to hear. His friends, his girlfriend, his professors, his parents when they were still alive. Whatever he knew they wanted to hear, he would spout it out, and they’d congratulate him for it, give him a smile or a pat on the head or a slightly-less-disappointed stare or a good grade, and then they’d leave. And he’d be left all alone, with nobody but himself, isolated with his mind that had nobody left to impress, able to think the thoughts that nobody would want to hear him say.
And yet, for some reason, you did. You said it out loud, because you’re a moron, and now Ladybug’s upset, and you’ve made everything worse—
Adrien blinked, only in that moment realizing that his meal was being placed in front of him. The two of them kindly thanked the waiter, and began to eat.
… Well, Marinette began to eat, at least. She stabbed at her noodles and shoved them in her mouth, chewing harshly as her brow returned to its thoughtful furrow, her eyes locked on the wall once again.
He cut his salmon with the side of his fork and pushed the pieces around his plate, wondering if she’d notice if he never took a bite.
The silence was back. At least he could blame her silence on the fact her mouth was full — even his poorly behaving brain was able to grant her that mercy. To give himself an excuse of his own, he put a small bite in his mouth and chewed it for far longer than necessary.
He wasn’t sure how long he blanked out, his eyes locked on the flicker of the candle, when he was yanked out of his empty thoughts by the sound of her voice.
“Speaking of…” she began, her voice trailing. He blinked, caught off guard, wondering what he had missed while he was adrift.
“Um…” He swallowed his pitiful bite. “Speaking of… what?” They hadn’t been speaking, as far as he was aware.
“Oh, you know— sorry. I’m backtracking…” She trailed, her face crumpling into a frown, looking down at the flicker of the candle just as he had been. “... You’ve always been so good at… at talking to people. At making people feel good about themselves.”
He waited for her to continue.
“... What would you say… to someone close to you who…” she trailed for a moment, “... you were worried about?”
He twisted his brow, tilting his head slightly. He needed more information than that. “Worried about?”
“... Really, really worried about,” she murmured, stabbing at her food with her fork.
“In… what way?” he asked carefully, “Why are you worried about them?”
“M-me? This is just a hypothetical, I’m not…” A nervous laugh burst from her throat. “I’m not necessarily talking about me—”
“Okay…” he said slowly, choosing to play her game, “... then in this… hypothetical scenario… why would someone be worried about this person?”
“Oh, you know…” Her brow furrowed down at her food. “... Like… a… mental health thing. Like you had a friend who was…” She chewed her lip. “... hurting. Emotionally.”
A thought struck him. “Are… you hurting? Emotionally?”
She sputtered, “Wh-what?” Her eyes flew back up to him, her cheeks pink. “No! No, no— this is hypothetical! Remember? And even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be the— I’d be— I’m the other role!”
He nodded. “Okay.” He paused, trying to rack his brain for a proper response. “... Well. Assuming you— or, err, the generic ‘you’, not necessarily you— are close to this person…”
“You are,” she whispered.
“Then I guess…” His eyes fell down to his own meal, almost completely uneaten. “... the best thing to do would be to… let them know that you’re there for them. So they know you care.”
Hopefully, that was the right thing to say. But she didn’t respond, and when he looked back up to her face, she was staring back at the wall, chewing her food, a look of hardened determination on her features.
They didn’t talk much after that. Her head was still lost in whatever problem she was mentally solving, and his was still lost in his own pathetic self-hatred.
He paid for their meals, and they left. Before he could decide whether or not he should ask if she wanted to take the date to one of their places, to pretend like everything was fine, she asked something instead.
“Do you know if Max is busy tonight?”
He blinked, his mind trying desperately to make sense of the question.
Max!?
“... I wouldn’t know,” he answered dully, his energy too drained to even keep up the fake smile.
Not that it mattered. Marinette wasn’t looking at him, her eyes instead thoughtfully down on the concrete, chewing her cheek with her hand to her chin. She nodded at his answer. “That’s okay. I guess I’ll just go see for myself.”
… … Max!?
He stared at her blankly until she turned to him, her eyes reaching his. With his posture straightened and an attempt at an almost-smile on his face, he watched as she stepped up to him and stood on her tip-toes, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.
“... Thank you for dinner,” she said softly, pulling back from him. “Love you. I’ll see you, um… uh… Well, I’ll text you sometime?”
He blinked. “... Love you, too. Do you… want me to walk you home? Or… to… Max’s?”
“Oh, no, uh… I’ll be fine. I’ll just take my bike, it’s uh… just a couple blocks away,” she laughed lightly, stepping away from him. “Bye!”
“... Bye,” he said flatly, watching as she disappeared around the corner.
*****
Adrien dreamt of ash and decay.
He never enjoyed violence — despite wielding the miraculous of destruction, there was no part of him that took joy in ruination. And yet, every time he closed his eyes, there were tingles of it in the back of his mind. The cataclysm bubbling off his hand, melting out of his grasp, uncontainable. He could only be a spectator, watching as his blight wrought upon his loved ones.
It was a familiar cycle, at least. The frustration, growing more and more each day, the ever-boiling temptation to spit and hiss. His anger, swelling and swelling, ready to burst—
And then he’d close his eyes, and they’d all be dead.
And he’d awake in tears.
They’d be better off without you, he reminded himself, standing hunched over his kitchen sink, tears stinging his eyes as he downed a glass of water. They’re all right to want nothing to do with you. Maybe they just realize how fucked up you really are.
Plagg was saying something to him. The kwami had been talking to him like that a lot lately, in that same gentle tone of voice that felt so alien on destruction’s lips. But Adrien couldn’t bring himself to pay attention, even despite the noncommittal hums he made to play the part of an active listener. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to the waxing poetic of cheese metaphor.
After that, he went back to bed.
… And stayed there for as long as he could.
The sun rolled up in the sky, spilling through his curtains just as the coos of city pigeons did. But he didn’t get up. It was Saturday, and nobody was expecting him anywhere. So he was married to his sheets, sometimes idly scrolling through his phone, expression blank and mind otherwise dim. He could spend the whole day like this, easy, even with Plagg chattering awkwardly in his ear—
“It’s about time for patrol!” Plagg chirped up, as if the kwami had ever cared for it before. “You’ll get up for that, at least, won’t you?”
“I’m skipping,” Adrien murmured, scrolling through Instagram and liking another set of his friends’ posts. The last thing he wanted to do right now was face Ladybug, not after the disaster that was their last meeting. He would deal with it eventually — but not today. His energy simply wasn’t there.
“You’re kidding!”
He wasn’t. But he didn’t bother to explain.
He continued to scroll through his phone, allowing time to pass. It was only half an hour later when Plagg decided to bother him again.
“You know, if you don’t show up for patrol, Ladybug will probably think you offed yourself.”
Shit.
Adrien squeezed his eyes tight and let out a long, pained groan.
And then Chat Noir took to the rooftops.
He wandered across the skyline beneath the midday sun, careful, unable to bring himself to be in any particular hurry. The anxiety tickled at the back of his mind as he shuffled towards the chimney that overlooked their meeting point, afraid to take the plunge and peek over the side, to see if she was still waiting for him.
He just had to steel his shoulders and get through it. Convince Ladybug that he was fine, get that silly idea out of her head, and then bear the scolding that was in store for him for being drunk on the job.
He took a deep breath.
And he leapt over the chimney.
His boots hit the rooftop, his body landing in a crouch. He took another moment, just a second, to take a breath and open his eyes, lifting himself up to stand and look ahead.
Ladybug stood before him, her head turned to him, eyes wide in awe and mouth slightly agape.
“Chat Noir!” she gasped, spinning to face him fully, her hands clasping up above her heart. “Th-there you are! You’re late! I was getting worried—”
Heat seared his cheeks. “Worried about what?” he spat in immediate defense, his metaphorical fur standing on end. “There’s nothing to worry about!”
Her face fell, and his embarrassment only burned hotter. “... Chat Noir—”
“I— I know!” He threw his hands up in surrender. Combativeness, admittedly, was not the way to go here. Idiot. Stupid. “Look…” He took a deep breath, taking a moment to right his thoughts. He visibly softened. “I know I… said a lot of stupid things yesterday.” You sure did, moron. “But I really didn’t mean anything by it. I was just drunk, and I wasn’t thinking or talking clearly. You don’t have anything to worry about, okay? It won’t happen again.”
Despite his efforts, her frown remained. She watched him, carefully, a curious furrow to her brow. “... Why were you drunk?”
Because I’m worried that nobody cares about me, not even my girlfriend, and drinking was the only thing I could think to do in the moment to distract myself from how sad and pathetic my life has become.
Well, he couldn’t say that. Then maybe she would keep worrying. Pointlessly, of course.
“It doesn’t matter,” he quickly excused. “The point is, it won’t happen again.”
His nerves, however, only further unsettled as she continued to stare at him.
“Please, sit with me,” she said, gesturing downwards.
He blinked. But before he could walk over to the edge of the rooftop, to plop down and swing his legs over the side, she sat down first. Not at the edge, but right where she stood, her legs crossed and hands motioning to the space in front of her.
With her eyes never leaving his, he followed her direction, settling down in front of her, his legs crossed as well.
“... Chat Noir, I…” she began, and then hesitated, her eye-contact finally breaking to stare thoughtfully down at the roof beside him. “... I can’t… … I don’t…” She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath as his nausea spiked. And then she looked at him, her expression pained. “... You’re one of my best friends. You know that, right?”
Dear god. What was happening?
He swallowed. “Yeah. I… I know.”
Her hands reached forward, taking his. He couldn’t bring himself to fight it, even despite his growing horror as her thumbs tenderly brushed against his knuckles.
“So you…” She hesitated. “... You know that you can… come to me. Right? If you need someone to talk to—”
“Why would I need someone to talk to?” he asked, strangled.
“Because you’re—” She squeezed his hands, her voice wavering, “... you’re…”
“I’m not suicidal,” he stated bluntly.
She visibly bristled. Her mouth hung open for a second, like she was about to say something, before she thought against it. Her soft expression hardened, her brow furrowed in a familiar determination. “Chat Noir,” was all she said, but its meaning was clear enough.
“I’m not!” he defended, tearing his hands from hers to throw them up placatingly.
“I don’t believe you,” she said bluntly, “People who are doing well don’t go on rants about how much they want to die just because they’ve had a bit to drink. You weren’t even that drunk—”
“I’m fine!”
“Okay, okay. But if you weren’t—” she cut herself off, scoffing and shaking her head, “Actually? No, I’m not going to play your game. There is too much at stake here for me to pretend like I believe you—”
“I’m not going to do anything!” he cried out in frustration, throwing out his arms.
“You already did!” she hissed, leaning forward. “You have been! For months, you’ve been throwing yourself into danger for little to no reason, putting your life and your miraculous at risk, and as your partner and guardian I cannot in good conscience stand by and let that keep happening—”
“So what?” he hissed, “Just take my miraculous, then! Then I won’t be around to mess everything up anymore!”
“What?” she gasped, “No! I—” Her voice cut off, and his heart dropped, horror slapping him across the face as her features crumpled in misery. Her eyes shone from unshed tears. “Chaton.” Even her voice was shaking. “The— the point is, I don’t want to lose you.”
That hit him.
His jaw dropped. He knew he needed to say something, knew that he needed to keep trying to reel it all back, to deny, deny, deny. But his body wasn’t cooperating with him. His breath shook as he inhaled, a prickling at the back of his eyes as he tried to recover from the blow.
He didn’t know why he was on the verge of tears. Of course he knew it already — of course he knew that she cared for him. He knew it just as he knew, logically, that all of his friends did. Of course they wouldn’t really want to lose him, not for real.
He knew all that.
… But had he believed it?
“Mon chaton,” she whispered through the air, shifting onto her knees and closer to him. The feeling of her fingertips grazing his cheek only shook him further, his energy focused on keeping his tears from breaching the surface. “I care about you. You’re one of the— the most important people in my life, and… and if something happened to you…”
He sat, frozen, watching her as his heart raced in his chest, hanging on what she was about to say.
But she didn’t say it. Instead, she surged forward, her arms thrown around him and pulling him into a tight hug. He fell into it, not too prideful to return with a pitiful hug of his own, a tear breaking through his surface as he felt Ladybug shudder in his grasp.
“... You mean too much to me,” she whispered against his shoulder, her voice wavering with emotion. “I— I can’t lose you. Okay? I don’t— I can’t have you… you d-doing that anymore. Being so… flippant with your life. You hear me?”
His tongue couldn’t find the words, his blood pumping in his ears. He nodded weakly.
But, apparently, that wasn’t enough. She pulled back from him, depriving him of her warmth as she stared at him with hard, glistening eyes. “You hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am…” he murmured, voice barely above a breath — quiet enough that he wasn’t entirely sure that she, even as close as she was, could hear. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Yes, my lady.”
“I need you to promise me,” she declared, her thumb reaching up to brush his tear from his cheek. “I can’t have you doing that any more. I— I don’t want to take your miraculous. I won’t. I can’t. Especially not if you’re… I wouldn’t take your kwami from you when you’re… you’re…” She scoffed and squeezed her eyes tight, and he couldn’t find the words to argue her. “... Just promise me that you… that you won’t use akumas like that anymore. That you won’t use being Chat Noir to hurt yourself on purpose.”
“I wasn’t,” he whispered, “I never—”
Despite the wetness in her eyes, her features hardened into a harsh glare.
He deflated. “... I won’t.”
“Promise.”
His eyes slid closed. “... I promise.”
Ladybug sighed. “... Good.”
He expected her to pull away, then. This confrontation — this awful intervention — had reached its final conclusion, after all. She’d won. Surely, she would stand up, brush away her tears, and the two of them would continue on their patrol like normal, hopefully never speaking of this again.
Except, she didn’t. She still sat there, just in front of him, her hands rubbing soothing circles into his back as she stared at him. And stared. And stared—
“... Um,” he cleared his throat.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.
He bristled, just a bit. “... Talk about what?”
“Why you’ve been doing that,” she muttered, her eyes falling down to his bell. “... Why you want to die.”
“I don’t—” he cut himself off with a strangle, closing his eyes and sucking in a harsh breath. “... Really, Ladybug,” he continued, exhausted, “I don’t. I’m fine. I’ll be more careful, okay? Just…” He sighed. “... I’m sorry I worried you for nothing.”
She frowned. “... Is everything going okay? In… your civilian life? I don’t need any of the specifics or details, but… if you’ve been struggling or…”
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
She sighed, disappointed. Disappointed, like she somehow didn’t believe him, even despite him telling the truth. She pulled away from him, her arms releasing him from her hold, but she didn’t move to stand up, still on her knees just before him. “... Well, if you ever do want to talk about it, I’m going to be there. Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
She still didn’t stand. Instead, she continued to stare at him, hesitating for a moment before she continued, “You know, I’ve been thinking.”
“Too much, I presume?”
“The fact we don’t have any effective way to communicate with each other outside of our suits is a serious problem.” She readjusted her position, re-crossing her legs and sitting on her butt. “If an akuma alert is late, or if one of us is tied up and has no way to warn the other, that’s an issue that affects our ability to properly defend Paris.”
He waited to see where she was going with this.
“Of course, giving each other our personal numbers wouldn’t work. Phone numbers are too tied to our identities.” She paused. “... But… there are other ways to communicate outside of our masks. Other ways to message or call each other than a phone number.”
His eyes widened as she opened her yo-yo compartment, pulling out a small piece of paper.
“I talked over the options with a tech expert,” she said, slipping him the paper. Unfortunately, the seemingly random string of numbers and letters scrawled had no meaning to him. “You ever heard of Cacophony?”
He blinked down at the paper, and then looked back up to her, his brow curiously raised. “... No?”
“Exactly,” she stated, “Nobody really has. I doubt you’ve ever used it, or anyone in your life has, so there should be no need for you to juggle multiple accounts. It’s an incredibly discreet messaging app, and according to my tech expert, insanely secure. It collects no data on you, automatically scrubs your conversations over time, has notifications that don’t show the message contents on your home screen, and even has a discreet, customizable icon to blend in with the other apps on your phone. It requires face I.D. just to open and view your conversations, but the data on your face is stored completely locally, not on the servers, and even comes with a VPN built in, so even if the main servers were somehow hacked, they wouldn’t be able to track your location.”
“Uh… wow.” He blinked. “That’s a lot for a messaging app.”
She gave him a guilty smile. “Yeah. It’s mostly used for… black market reasons, I’m sure. Drug deals and…” She huffed and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The app itself isn’t illegal. And we can never be too safe, you know?” She pointed to the paper in his hands. “That’s my account. I want you to download the app — again, it’s Cacophony — and add me.”
“Couldn’t have picked a catchier username, my lady?” He smirked, brandishing the string of characters to her.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not my username. It’s my I.D.. They all look like that. Just include something in your friend invite to let me know it’s you. A cat emoji or something.”
Honestly, if this conversation had happened years ago, he’d probably be jumping with joy to have an avenue to contact her at all times of the day. Even after he got over her romantically, she was his friend, and he always wanted to talk to his friends. Now, though, he felt nothing more than mild content. It would be nice, probably. A good idea, tactically. He wouldn’t delude himself to believing it’d be anything more than that.
“Will do.” He pocketed the paper. “And, let me guess — emergencies only?”
Her eyes locked on his for a long moment. “... No.”
His eyes widened. “No?”
Her face fell. “... I told you, I… I’m here for you. If you… want to talk.”
And suddenly, the fact she brought this up on the same day of his ‘intervention’ didn’t feel like such a coincidence.
He frowned. “... Talk about… what?”
She shrugged. “Anything, I guess? How you’re feeling, if you need someone to vent to…” She fiddled with her fingers in her lap. “... Or, you know, if you want to annoy me with a bunch of stupid jokes, be my guest.”
He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “Are you sure you’re prepared to give me that sort of power?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She shot him a small smile. “... I like talking to you. I like, ahem… having you in my life. So. You know! It’ll all be a net positive, I’m sure.” She paused. “It’s not just messaging, either. We can call on it, too. Just… no secret identities or anything revealing. Beyond that? I want you to hit me up whenever you need. Or want.”
He cleared his throat before he could start tearing up again, overwhelmed by the affection. “... Will do.”
“And… Chat Noir?”
“Yes?”
“If you… feel… really bad…” She hesitated. “... like if you have a really bad night or something, and you’re upset, then… then it’s not just that you can contact me. I want you to contact me. You know?”
He chewed his cheek. “... What constitutes a ‘bad night’?”
“I don’t know… any night that you’re… sad at all?”
He couldn’t help it — a laugh burst through his throat before he could think twice. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Her face fell, and the realization of what he’d just said hit him. He turned his gaze away, over the rooftops, his cheeks seared in heat.
“... Chaton—”
“Well, you know, all of this is a two-way street, my lady,” he quickly said, cutting her off and forcing himself to look at her again. He motioned towards her with his hand. “Paris can’t have its favorite superheroine in emotional distress, either. Any bad night of yours, this cat’ll always be in your corner if you need to talk.”
She shifted awkwardly. “Why would I have a bad night?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell me. And let’s add ‘stressed out’ to the list of ‘bad’ adjectives.”
She groaned, her face falling into her hands. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
A small chuckle left his lips, though his eyes softened. “... We may as well help keep each other from being akumatized, right? All part of the job.”
“All part of the job,” she agreed softly, lifting her face out of her hands and sending him an affectionate smile. “Superhero partners, best friends… … they stick together.”
*****
Patrol lasted longer than typical. After the ‘intervention’, they went about the usual — checking in on citizens, surveying rooftops, and the like. Monsieur Ramier was doing well, André offered them a couple of cones without any fuss, and it was… nice. It had been a while since they lingered on patrol like they did now, sitting on a bench, chatting amicably with each other and any citizens who approached.
When the sun was set and the two finally decided to part ways, Ladybug pulled him into a tight hug before bidding her adieu. And soon after, Chat Noir was slipping back in through his window, and Adrien was slipping back into his bed, phone and piece of paper in hand.
—
CN
🐈⬛
{ friend request — accepted }
LB
🐞
hi!
so just a reminder: no identities, and nothing too specific that can possibly lead to who we are
oh and if you @ me it’ll send a special type of notification. so we should use that for akumas and emergencies
(emotional emergencies count btw!!!)
other than that though…
itll be nice to talk to you! 💕
CN
You know, it’s weird having you all nice to me like this
I should come across as sad and pathetic more often
LB
???
you say that like im not nice to you normally
am i not nice?
CN
Oh, of course you are
This is just a special type of nice is all
LB
sounds like you just think im mean and distant
CN
No! You’re normally just… Normal
But now it’s:
“Oh, my sweetest chaton! You’re my Bestest Friend Forever!!! 😚 I looooooove talking to you! Tell me all about your day, I’d loooove to hear about it!”
LB
🙄
so what youre saying is you cant take what you dish out
CN
I do NOT talk like that
LB
LMAO
CN
…. AS OFTEN ANYMORE!!!
LB
yeah 😕
how sad is that?
wheres my sweet little chaton gone
he was such an affectionate cat
but lately hes been so distant
should I take him to the vet?
do you think its stress?
CN
Maybe he just needs some more treats to keep him going
Speaking of a change in behavior
Remember that year when you used to bring pastries all the time to patrol?
I miss that
I miss those chouquettes
LB
augh you have a point
at a certain point it just wasnt worth the effort
CN
WHAT wasn’t worth the effort?
ME???
Am I not worth it to you??????
Because you don’t care about me??? ???? ?????
Because I am nothing but your neglected housecat ???? ???
LB
ok ok fine. ill bring some sweets next patrol
CN
Wow that was easy
This is so easy
What else can I get you to do for me
LB
🙄
CN
My lady loves her kitty sooooooooo much just sososo much she’ll do anything for him?
Anything at all??? ????
LB
oh im sure youll find her limit
CN
Can’t wait 😜