Hello there!

All new to ffnet here, but thought I could give it a try :))

I ought to warn that I'm a french-speaker, which would explain some of my phrasing sometimes. I do hope you will like my work nevertheless!

All credits for the cover go to jesuisunjardin on tumblr whose work is simply and absolutely amazing. Permission to use it was granted by the artist!

All thanks to my beta-reader arouria on ao3!

Find me on tumblr as mahaliciously if ever you want to chitchat :D

Fanfic orginally posted on ao3 so if it sounds familiar, WELL.

ENJOY

Adrien was pacing in his room, and his stomach seemed to knot tighter with each passing minute.

"Digging the floor, are we?"

The little black kwami was sitting on his desk, steadily nibbling on his camembert, and it took Adrien a full second to realise that Plagg, for once, was more interested into his well-being than his cheese.

Well.

Could be the floor's well-being.

The blonde groaned. "I could've had the power to make poems appear out of nowhere! Or the power to be so irresistible she would just… Fall for me in a blink! But no, it had to be bad luck!" At this point, exasperated was an understatement, and the fact he had left his browser on the Ladyblog home didn't help at all. If not to remind him of his own helplessness.

"Who would like such a sappy power?" Plagg sounded genuinely offended but it had the benefit to stop Adrien's pacing. Instead, the boy simply sat on his bed and put his head into his hands.

"You're right," he mumbled. "I'm losing it."

"I don't understand how you, humans, work. It's just a crush. You like her, you tell her," the little kwami swallowed the last of the cheese and rolled on his back, tiny stomach inflated from his latest feast. He burped. "Poems and flowers are the worse!"

"It's not that easy. I'm just a flirt for her, a big-mouthed flirt."

"Then how about you give up and stop complaining?"

Adrien glared. "You're not the comforting type, are you?" He then stood up and walked towards his window, watching the parisian scenery stretch in front of him. Hundreds of tiled roofs he probably knew more than his own alien house seemed to bow to the Iron Lady that was the Eiffel Tower in the distance, uneven, imperfect, misshapen in front of its slender accomplished form. He imagined the familiar red-clad silhouette bouncing from one to another and felt his heart skip a beat. Tell her, huh? He pressed his forehead to the window frame and let out a sigh. What if he bought her flowers? He could take her on top of the Eiffel Tower where she liked to sit, dangling her feet in the void. Maybe row them down the Seine under the moonlight and take her to the finest restaurant of Montmartre, get their portrays drawn. He wanted the best artist to catch the starlit night in her eyes, the way her smile stretched just enough to show how dear everything was to her.

But that wasn't her. It was the other girls, but not her. She wanted to run on Paris' imperfect rooftops, revel in their scars and the home they provided to all of those he and her spent their nights and days protecting. She wanted to sit on the cold tiles instead of some elegant armchair, hear her stomach growl because she spent her energy saving the day than look at some sprout of unbelievably expansive cuisine and wonder how to eat it. She wanted to look at the golden reflection of the Eiffel Tower on the Seine, like millions of little stars that shone in the pool of her eyes. He would think, maybe for the hundredth time, that the night sky should pale in jealousy when compared to how much more perfectly the moon rays lit her skin. The wind would carry her flowery scent to him, play with her ebony pigtails the way he would've wanted to do himself.

And then… Then she would have that awestruck smile no artist could possibly catch. Looking down at the city -Their city, with the sirens beneath them the only serenade she would never get tired of hearing, rather than some cliché accordion. He would stare at her like the world just stopped spinning around them, heart on stop, and remember that in fact, there was something missing. He would crack a stupid pun instead of reaching out to her and stroke her cheek, just so he could hear her laughter, cristalline cascade long-dead composers probably spent their lives trying to duplicate in vain. She would finally look at him, barely conscient that she just made him part of the only world he longed to with that simple movement. She would wear that falsely disappointed expression on her face and say 'Silly kitty. When will you understand how awful your puns are?'

Oh how he would break inside with just that, urge himself not to kiss her senseless, not to whisper how beautiful she was, how important she was to him, not to hold on her like a lifeline, like she could disappear any minute.

Could I tell her, really?

He definitely couldn't give up on her. He loved her too much for that. Then what? He had to tell her. She had to know one day or another, or someone else would do it first. And then he would lose her.

The thought felt like a blow and he started to panic. He remembered the Copycat and how wrapped he was. He wasn't her only suitor. And for God's sake, it was Valentine's Day.

He went again to his restless pacing.

"I have to tell her," he mumbled. "Today." Plagg only sighed from his spot on the desk, seemingly bored by the boy's dilemma. Adrien glanced at his computer screen, chest tightening. "It shouldn't be hard, right? Je t'aime."

He didn't even glance at the kwami, nor did he take notice of his grimace. He just felt a surge of energy run through him. He could do it.

He took a deep breath and raised his ringed hand towards Plagg.