L'Appel du Vide

by Yilena

Haunted by bad jokes and teasing comments, Marinette wonders whether the friendly ghost she's adopted as a pet is covering up his miserable feelings with an awful sense of humour. AU.

2. 02

AN: So, this one-shot turned into a two-shot, and now it's going to be three chapters. I'm a terrible monster and there's still no smut. I didn't want to have a 15k chapter and then a 30k one, so this'll have to do, my bad. There's teasers of upcoming stories/chapters on my tumblr (xiueryn).

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir © Thomas Astruc

There were tears welling up in her eyes, hot and itchy in contrast to how cold her shaking hands felt. Denial was spiralling rapidly within her mind, trying to connect the evidence in front of her with the truth that she knew—there was no doubt that her father's wife had passed away before they had conceived a child. It was shortly after their marriage, before he'd snagged himself a stable job with the promise of financial stability. He'd tearfully told her the story when she was old enough to understand, to fully grasp that there hadn't been a chance for Adrien to be conceived, especially when he appeared to be around the same age as her.

Marinette hastily wiped at her eyes, closing the various books she had scattered open, trying to hide the strange situation until there was a sufficient explanation. It seemed cruel to point to the book without further proof; to give him a sense of hope only to squash it by saying it couldn't be true—because her father's only child was her, and he certainly hadn't procreated without his knowledge.

"Marinette?" Aisle Boy called, sounding worried.

Her gaze flickered up to see the furrow in his brow, the concern shown clearly in his expression, and it was that that caused a choked sob to escape her throat.

The tears hadn't stopped; rather, they were coming back with an unrelenting force, eyes burning as she blinked rapidly, pressing the palms of her hands over them with a pained noise. Breaking down in front of him wasn't the plan she had in mind, but seeing his kind-hearted concern from her dazed state had only caused guilt to well up inside her.

Think—she needed to think about it clearly.

Taking in deep breaths, eyes closed as she awkwardly cradled her head in her hands where she was sure he was silently gazing at her, aware that her breaths were loud and sounded congested. The constant sniffing made her feel even more so pathetic.

His silence was appreciated.

Why would her father had sketchbooks full of a random child? He wouldn't—no where else had scrawls or detailed drawings of another child. There was a chance that it was because Adrien resembled his dead wife—she could prove that by placing a picture of her beside him—but then that didn't explain how he was able to keep tabs on the boy as the years passed by. A coincidental meeting wouldn't warrant years of drawings the same boy, as though he was plagued by the thought of him leaving, too.

"How—" Marinette grimaced as her voice cracked.

When she'd wiped her face clean to the best of her ability, aware that her nose was wet and utterly unattractive, she was greeted to the sight of the blond male kneeling down in front of her. With a frown on his lips and mused hair that was purely his doing—she'd come to realise he played with it when he was uncertain or nervous—there was little space between the two of them.

His voice was soft. "It's okay, Marinette."

At his words, her stomach clenched uncomfortably.

"If you didn't find anything, I really don't mind, okay?" he continued, fiddling with his hands within his lap.

Goodness—how she wished to comfort him in some way, attempt to relieve him of the burden of not knowing anything about himself. All she had to show for their days of research was a bunch of sketchbooks that made no sense, and an unrelenting feeling of guilt brewing within her.

With a dry throat, she choked out, "H-how can you say that?"

The smile he flashed her soft and reached his green-coloured eyes. "I still have you, don't I?"

That made it worse. By the widening of his eyes, the sudden parting of his lips as he tried to pick out the right words to comfort her with, he realised that, too. Marinette flinched back, hand connecting with the floor to steady herself, but instead of the carpet, her fingertips brushed against the weathered leather of one of the sketchbooks.

An almost hysterical laugh escaped her lips as she leaned forward in frustration, head hovering a close distance from her knees. What was she supposed to say to him? Trying to explain the content of the sketchbooks would be difficult and endlessly frustrating, and there was no one else they could turn to for answers.

"I—I found something," she stuttered, curling her fingers around the spine of one of the books. Her back straightened out as she began to sit properly, though she had no doubt that her eyes were wide, skin paler than usual due to the sudden stress. "But that doesn't mean I understand it."

His eyebrows knitted together.

Of course, he thought she was still talking about clothes. That had been what they were looking for in the first place—not stylised baby pictures of him through the years.

With a grimace, she scrambled to find the one where it mentioned his name first. With shaking hands—they wouldn't stop any time soon, she assumed—she swallowed audibly as she looked up to meet his befuddled gaze.

"I'm sorry in advance," Marinette whispered, feeling the words were right to say. It would only cause his emotional turmoil to increase, after all. With a small wave of her hand to indicate for him to come closer, the blond-haired male sat down beside her soundlessly. "I—just tell me if this seems familiar at all, okay?"

Keeping her eyes trained in front of her, aimed at the plant that she needed to water soon instead of his face or the comic, she turned to the desired page. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, almost drowning out the sound of the small gasp he produced. It may not have been a picture where the two of them were wearing the same clothes, but the resemblance was uncanny—the dimples of his cheeks, the curl of his hair that she'd become familiar with, and the curve of his nose when he turned to the side.

He had noticed it, too. "...Marinette."

"I know," she murmured, voice coming out strained. "I know."

-x-

The natural first reaction was denial, of course. Aisle Boy rejected the connection for five minutes, until she'd pulled out the other sketchbooks with a pained expression. Then she watched as his eyes grew wide from seeing the drawn images of him growing up through the years, seeing that they were sometimes placed besides ones of her. He had grown pale, much as she had, and stared at the page blankly for longer than necessary. It was to be expected, she tried to tell herself as she kept her hands to herself, focusing on holding the book upright and visible rather than breaking down once more.

He didn't pick a name for himself for two days.

That time was filled with awkward silences, uncertain glances at each other as they went about their days. The blond-haired male travelled through the house as he pleased rather than going outside, and she left the door to the office open, even though he couldn't open the books to flick through them. There were still more that they had to search, but she couldn't pull herself together to do that yet, not when their relationship was as strained as it was at that moment.

He wasn't trying to scare her, making terrible jokes, or there at the door to greet her when she came back from shopping for groceries. He hadn't wandered outside to spy on people, hadn't retold tales of some of the strangest things he'd seen in the time he'd been alone, and that made her heart clench painfully.

It was her fault, there was no doubt about it. The denial was painful, and she had no ways of explaining it.

Setting her dirty mug on the side for later, Marinette carefully picked up one of the pictures she had framed upon the fireplace, staring at the image while biting her lower lip before deciding it was worth a shot.

"Are you upstairs?" she asked loudly, footsteps sounding as she ascended the wooden staircase so she wouldn't startle him.

Her hands were clammy.

It wasn't hard to locate him. The only door open on that floor was the study—their agreement made it so he wouldn't intrude in the bedrooms or the bathroom, leaving the mystery door one that he hadn't been inside until it was necessary. Aisle Boy was sat on the floor, back against the wall as he stared at the five sketchbooks she'd left laid out, but closed, in front of him. He was staring at them with a blank expression, arms crossed upon his chest with messy hair, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up and two buttons undone.

Clearing her throat to get his attention, Marinette started weakly, "Hey."

His head snapped up to look at her, eyes widened in surprise as he quickly ran a hand through his messy hair. "Hello," he greeted her. "I didn't hear you coming up."

She'd practically stomped up the stairs. The only way she could've been louder was if she wore shoes within the house.

"My bad," she apologised quietly, hands gripping the frame of the photograph tightly. It was angled towards her for a sense of secrecy at first, which caused his eyes to flicker down when he saw that she hadn't come empty-handed. "I... I want to ask you something, if that's okay."

The half-smile he gave wasn't sincere. "Sure." The hand that had been in his hair had fallen to fiddle with the strands at the nape of his neck, another nervous habit that she'd noticed over time.

Turning the photograph around carefully, Marinette sat down in front of him after pushing the books aside. Letting him see the image clearly, she asked, "Do they look familiar to you?"

He blinked. "Yes."

She stilled.

"That's your father, isn't it? I've seen the picture before downstairs," the blond-haired male continued, eyes trained onto one side of the photograph. Surely, he was inspecting her father's younger figure, trying to decide why the man had decided to immortalise a stranger's life in drawings. "I don't understand what you want me to say."

Right. She licked her lips nervously. "Let's ignore him for a moment, okay?" Marinette requested, pulse thumping loudly. "She—she was my father's wife. They married young and had only just moved in together when she died."

"Okay," he replied, gazing across at her rather than staring at the photograph once more. "What about her, then?"

"She wasn't pregnant," she blurted out, wanting to get that piece of information out of the way first of all. With flushed cheeks as he looked at her in surprise, Marinette hastily continued to explain, "They planned to have a family, yes. She wasn't pregnant when she died, and she didn't give birth beforehand."

He caught on in a heartbeat. "Yet you seem to think we're connected."

Nodding in agreement despite his furrowed eyebrows, the dark-haired female pointed out, "You two definitely look related, don't you agree?"

"A lot of people look similar, Marinette," he argued weakly.

The rebuttal didn't deter her. "I'm not claiming you're their lost son or something, okay? I don't really know what I'm suggesting since I know they had no children, but it can't be a coincidence that my father was so fond of you that he made a story where you're his son."

"He could've seen me on the street," Aisle Boy disagreed, hand falling from his neck to clasp the other loosely upon his lap. "All we have here is evidence that he knew I existed, and a picture of his dead wife that looks like me. That might be the only reason he took notice of me in the first place; because I look like her."

She drew in a slow breath. "I've never seen you."

"I could be the son of one of my employees," the blond argued quietly. "What if they took me into work every now and then, so that's where he saw me?"

Unimpressed, Marinette said flatly, "So you think he dedicated his free time to drawing you because you look like his dead wife, and had happened to run into him at work."

"Why not?" he questioned.

"I'd know!" she retorted, placing the photograph carefully on the floor so it wouldn't get damaged when unknowingly moved her hands to emphasise her words (a habit she couldn't break). "Whenever an employee brought their children into work, I'd meet them—Father was insistent that I needed to be friendly with them. He wouldn't have hid you from me for selfish reasons, nor would the other children neglect to mention you for the chance to gloat that they knew you first."

Running a hand through his hair, Aisle Boy let out a sigh. "Where are you trying to go with this? I could be a relative of hers, for all we know."

She knew that not to be true. The lack of both of their families resulted in a small informal wedding. "And what? Father decided to tag his surname onto you?"

"Well, that's all we've got, isn't it?" he murmured, looking glumly at the books as his hand fell. "It's wishful thinking to believe we're going to find my life story in your father's comics, no matter how much he seemed to adore me from afar. If you don't know me, then I highly doubt he did."

Picking up the leather book with the comic within it, she had to agree with that. From her knowledge, his wife hadn't had any remaining family; the funeral had been small and personal, just her father and their closest friends rather than a large, and sad, mourning party. The theory of him being her cousin—not by blood—had her shaking her head in denial.

"She—" Marinette cut herself off with blushing cheeks, knowing that her words sounded weak to her own ears. She fiddled with her hands, nervous. "She didn't have any family left. They only had each other."

They chose not to push that topic further. Marinette tucked her hair into a plait to keep it out of her face as she sorted out the five books they'd seen originally, placing them into chronological order in front of them. The comic one was opened in her hands as she shuffled to sit down beside him, making it so they could both see the contents clearly.

She wetted her lips. "We're going to go through this, okay?"

"If you're asking me not to bolt, I can't make any promises," the blond-haired male grumbled, hands placed on his thighs as he stared at the floor, avoiding eye contact on purpose. "If he turns out to be a stalker, I don't know how I'll feel."

If she could've, she would've whacked him for that comment. She scoffed instead. "If he's a stalker, you're not much better for accepting the presents."

"Presents?" he queried, looking at her through his blond-stained lashes.

Nodding, she pointed out, "You've got clothing made by him that isn't available in stores."

"Great, I probably urged him on with this," was the dry reply she received.

Half-heartedly narrowing her cerulean eyes, Marinette said, "Now if you're done bad mouthing my dead father, I'd like to read this with you."

A grimace appeared on him, and he'd opened his mouth silently before shutting it with a wince. She assumed he was finding it hard to apologise for his words due to the situation. Although there was a sting from the insinuation, she couldn't deny that it was suspicious, therefore she wouldn't hold it against him, especially when she was the only one that he had for the time being. If she was to push him away due to her nagging feelings, the guilt would've festered.

"I'm not mad," she reassured him quietly, flicking to the first page.

Adrien Agreste, as he was named in the comic, seemed to be a happy twenty-something male with a bright smile and a sense of humour that made people laugh (mostly at him, and rarely at the actual jokes). The comic depicted a normal day of his life, where he introduced himself to someone on his cell phone after a call came, then made his way by walking to the local store where he worked as a florist. It had him greeting customers happily, conversing with friends over messages with promises of meeting up, then spending the evening cuddled up on the sofa with his two cats.

It hurt more than it should've.

There wasn't any mystery to it, no foreboding feeling of a dramatic twist or illness that was going to strike down the main character at any moment, which was perhaps what had her close to tears from reading it. The images showed him happy, living a normal life to the best of his ability—it was everything she'd wished for the male beside her over the months; to see him smile, relax into his surroundings and interact happily with others, rather than watching them from a lonely distance that couldn't be broken by anyone but her.

Glancing to her side, it seemed he was having such the same reaction. His expression was pained as he took in an audible breath, averting his eyes from the book once more, purposely slowing down his breathing in an attempt to get his emotions under control.

She almost didn't hear his whisper of, "I can't do this."

As he silently stood up, facial features pinched together in a grimace, she watched his retreating figure with wet eyes and conflicted feelings.

She didn't know how to comfort him.

-x-

After the disaster that trying to investigate turned out to be the previous time, Aisle Boy—who still hadn't picked a name for himself, and they both didn't feel comfortable with addressing him as Adrien—had distanced himself from it. He didn't venture upstairs, not even when she left the door to the office open, nor did he question what she was doing for hours when she was upstairs.

He avoided the topic, actually. Their days weren't as awkward as they had been previously, though they didn't possess the comfortable easy-going atmosphere that they had going beforehand. He slipped a few puns, yes, but sometimes his smiles didn't reach his eyes, and her chest clenched painfully when she realised that it was still her fault. Marinette tried her best to act casual, to snort at the atrociously timed jokes, making sure to include him in the evenings, even if it was just her saying her thoughts aloud.

After waking up fully in the mornings, questioning his plans for the day—which turned out to be staying in, not exploring outside to watch strangers—Marinette excused herself after breakfast to sit at the desk in the study, flicking through the multiple books as she wrote down the information in a notebook she'd purchased.

The door was left open wide enough for a body to fit through, but he didn't join her.

Adrien Agreste was twenty-three in the comic, twenty-four if the date was correct and carried over to the real world version of him, raised by two loving parents that hadn't been shown in the panels thus far, and he was a happy character who saw the positive in most situations. He'd dabbled in fencing and piano when he was teenager, was gifted with learning languages, before deciding to follow in his mother's footsteps to be a florist, due to growing up exposed to her love for flowers.

The friends weren't shown in the pictures often, but their names were mentioned. Sometimes there would be a flashback of Adrien from when he was in school still—his younger self wearing the uniform Marinette's first school had had to wear until before puberty—with faceless students surrounding him, being intentionally vague about his close relationships.

It was a story of his daily life; happy snippets and memories of warm hugs and kind words from family and friends.

It was almost everything a parent could want for their child, she realised.

Her father hadn't stopped after the one book. There were multiple, some others featuring storyboards for future sketchbooks to flesh out, and it was with a wobbling lower lip that she pried open the second book with the comic featured with in. As before, the lines were fleshed out, colour filling in to create the beautiful pictures that she'd only ever seen used to depict clothing and hairstyles in the past.

Adrien, with his bright smile that reached his green-coloured eyes, enjoyed the weekend by lazing around his home in untidy clothes and messy hair. It was a quaint apartment in a nice area, with a view of the roads and building from the windows, rather than the rough streets that it could've shown in a bad neighbourhood. He enjoyed sipping his warm drink with a sleepy-looking expression, stretching out so his feet were over the top of the couch since he was too tall, and it was the small details of his life that the pages focused on.

It would've never sold. If her father had intended them to be for the eyes of others, they wouldn't have been appreciated. The tale that was depicted was intimate and happy, one that had no twists and turns that had readers curling their toes in suspense. Marinette found herself smiling as she saw him falling over while trying to get dressed, a curse escaping his lips and captured in a speech bubble, and it was so similar to the muttered comments she'd heard from the male living with her that she was beginning to suspect that they were too alike.

Her father's business trips had never been long enough to know someone so well. Somehow, he knew of the small quirks that Aisle Boy had, the absent-minded movements as he ruffled his hair or nervously fiddled with the strands at the nape of his neck—all the things that he shouldn't.

Marinette spent her free time sorting through the details of the books, jotting down the intimate things that shouldn't have been known, trying to arrange a timeline. She climbed the ladder to the loft, retrieving the other boxes filled with drawings that she'd stashed away as there were too many to store in the study.

It was after that that she found the comics that had started from his childhood, showing a toddling Adrien with plump cheeks and babbled words trying to navigate the world. The images showed his parents from the waist down—reminding her of some animated shows she'd seen—though she supposed that was because her father hadn't felt comfortable drawing himself in such a way. She read through the years, taking in the blurred faces of his class-mates, the teachers that praised him for his intelligence, and it was in his seventh year that he discovered that he absorbed the knowledge of languages well.

Although Marinette had been adopted as a babe, her father had been adamant that she should learn the language of her birth mother, to know the heritage that she came from.

Adrien had studied the same; it was the third language he'd learned, much like she.

She took pictures on her cell phone of the turning points of his life, when he entered secondary school and had had braces on his teeth, the birthday party for his sixteenth birthday, a tall Adrien in his university dorm-room, and him standing proudly with an apron in his hands, ready for his first day of work.

It wasn't just his mother's love of flowers that had caused him to become a florist—she was one, too. The mother in the comic, that she never saw the face of, but sometimes saw a flash of blonde-coloured hair over her shoulder, had happily been one when Adrien was little, and had given the keys to her own shop over to her son while speaking words filled with pride, the speech bubbles adorned with warm lighting and love.

Much like in Marinette's life, her father—he was referred to as Gabe, by Adrien's mother—was a fashion designer, though it didn't mention his brand, nor the achievements that he'd accomplished in his life. Instead of bragging, the story focused on Adrien's happy life, the presents he was given when it was a special occasion, and sometimes the formal dinners he attended, dressed smartly in crisp suits that his father had created.

When Adrien was alone, he preferred to dress casually, not living through the means of expensive tastes or habits. He enjoyed cheap meals from stores, visiting quaint restaurants and cafés with his parents, not at all bothered by fans of his father's work, not approached for secretive details that only those that worked for the company should've been aware of. He was left in peace, walking through life with a happy smile and long limbs, ones that tripped him up when he was too busy lost in his thoughts, not paying attention to the pavement below.

Once she'd caught up to the adult years that she'd first found, she closed the books, taking in a deep breath. There was countless information that could be used to confirm her suspicions, but dumping them all on the brooding ghost that was quietly by himself downstairs wasn't going to do any good.

She schemed instead.

-x-

It started off with Marinette playing the piano music that her father was fond of. Although she didn't have much knowledge of it—she hadn't been a fan, and had grumbled in the background whenever he'd turned up the volume with a wide smile—she knew that Adrien in the comics had taken lessons for many years. He had been a fan of it, sharing personal smiles with anyone who happened to watch him play with his fingers flying across the keys.

"What are you doing, Marinette?" the blond-haired male questioned, sounding thoroughly confused as she fiddled with the stereo.

She turned the knob to adjust the volume. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a freaking dinosaur." If she turned around, she was sure she would've seen him rolling his eyes in distaste at the lack of upgrades she had for her technology. The complaints about her laptop hadn't ceased, nor the comments on the television that had seen better days. "If you're in the middle of trying to be sophisticated, I hate to tell you this, but you're going to be disappointed in the end."

Without turning around, she lifted her hand above her shoulder and moved her hand into a rude gesture. "I've attended more fancy dinner parties that you can dream of."

Aisle Boy laughed at that. "I can't imagine you sitting still down for more than a few minutes."

She sniffed. "We're getting off-topic because you're being an idiot again. Now," Marinette continued, raising her voice and covering the noise he'd made so he wouldn't interrupt again, "I lost the case to this. Do you have any idea who it is?"

"It's in your hand."

Well, that didn't work out as planned. Marinette begrudgingly placed the disc away, shooting the amused spectral being who was leaning against her wall with his arms crossed distasteful looks.

When she tried again the following week, making sure the disc and case didn't match up, he'd flatly informed her that the name would be on the disc, and that she needed to stop whatever she was trying to do.

She respected his wishes, really, but the fact that he'd refused to venture upstairs into the study for the past three weeks was making her frustrated. The answers were there, however unclear they were, and instead of trying to find out, he was staying downstairs, not even going outside to stare at strangers, and he hadn't picked out a name for himself since.

She tried playing piano videos on the laptop, leaving them on as she disappeared to the toilet for a few minutes, only to return to his unimpressed face as he looked at her with a frown.

It was when he shifted uncomfortably as she played music on her cell phone, from where she was sat at down on a stray chair by the counters, that she realised that she was doing more harm than good in her tactics. Marinette clammy hands clenched her thighs, eyes darting between the male that had relaxed once he'd heard the upbeat music and her legs, unsure of how to advance.

With a cautious expression, Marinette quietly apologised in a foreign tongue.

She hadn't been expecting an answer, really. With how unresponsive he'd been to the piano-related attempts, Marinette had thought that he'd promptly ignore her, not bothering to enquire further or ask what she meant.

His voice came out equally soft. "It's okay."

She stood up quickly, blue eyes wide as she pointed at him and exclaimed in surprise, "That was Mandarin!"

He stared at her blankly, clearly startled at her sudden reaction, and it was when she was crossing the room with quick steps that he scooted along the couch until his back hit the arm on the other side. Marinette climbed onto the furniture, staring at his unfathomable expression as she tucked her knees underneath her, hands resting on her cloth-clad thighs nervously.

It was the first confirmation that her wild theory was right, after all. It was understandable that her heart was beating fast, and she knew without a doubt that he wanted to deny it all, to bat away the absurd possibilities with a cynical point of view. Aisle Boy was convinced that his life was lost, that he wasn't going to be able to find out about himself since the plan for hunting down his clothing hadn't turned out as he'd thought (not that it was a well thought out plan in the beginning, but she wasn't going to tell him that).

Clearing her throat, Marinette tried again, asking him whether he could understand her.

With his eyes firmly staring anywhere but at her, he rasped, "Yes."

That—it was a start. She took in his self-conscious stance, the way he was curling into himself and avoiding her gaze, and knew that it wouldn't do any good to push him further. It couldn't be a coincidence, no matter how much he'd try and persuade her as such, but it was another point that she could write down in her notebook, ready to show him when he'd grown to accept the crazy idea, rather than shut her down.

Marinette adjusted herself to sit normally, her thighs a few centimetres away from him, sitting as she would with any of her close friends. "That's good. No, that's great. I'm living with a genius."

"I wouldn't say that," he mumbled, sounding unlike himself. The music had almost drowned him out. Aisle Boy was notorious for boasting about his good points—which he deemed to be his sense of humour and ability to use puns at the worst times—so to hear him try and correct her was unusual. "If knowing another language makes me a genius, then you're one, too."

She blinked. "...Wait."

"Which isn't be possible, Marinette," the blond-haired male continued, voice becoming louder, more sure of himself as a smile played at the corner of his lips. "No one smart would try to put milk in a cupboard instead of the fridge."

Pulling a face, Marinette retorted hotly, "You promised not to mention that again!"

He played with his hair, fingertips fiddling with the strands as he looked at her with innocent-looking eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought we were friends," she grumbled, crossing her arms underneath her breasts.

"We're best friends," Aisle Boy corrected, shooting her a crooked smile that showed one dimple. "Now go make breakfast before the beast in your stomach announces itself again."

Childishly, she stuck her tongue out.

They had an amusing conversation while she ate her breakfast, with her leaning against the countertop rather than at the table, and at one point she almost choked on her food from his timing with an inappropriate comment. It was nice, a stressless environment that she'd grown used to, and although he stiffened when she touched her cell phone to turn off the music, she didn't mention it.

Once she'd put the television on for him—the routine having been her selecting the channel for him or choosing the websites on the laptop, then disappearing upstairs to research, or go outside to shop for the necessities—Marinette hesitated after putting the remote on the coffee-table, hovering uncertainly as she stared at his figure, noting the long legs that were curled up on the cushion that showed no indication that it had weight put upon it.

She licked her lips.

"I—do you want to go watch a film together?" the dark-haired female blurted, cheeks burning when she realised that she'd almost shouted it at him.

He blinked. "Are you asking me on a date, Marinette?"

Clutching at her elbow in a self-conscious move, she stumbled over her words, the explanation coming out shaky. "No, I-I—well, maybe? I mean, not really. Kind of?" Marinette cut herself off to try and recover from the fumble, gripping the fabric covering her arm with nervous fingers. "It's just that we've never really gone out together, have we?"

Over the months together they'd walked through the streets, yes, with Marinette clutching her cell phone to her ear so it didn't look like she was talking to herself, and he'd kept her company while she shopped a few times, but that wasn't often. Most of the time, Aisle Boy hovered outside for the day, watching strangers and occupying his time by observing the population rather than staying glued to her sides. When she met up with friends, he busied himself, not intruding on the time, never listening in by her side or inserting himself when he knew that she couldn't respond.

The internet friend Marinette had mentioned before had been a topic of interest for Alya and Nino, but she hadn't confessed any additional information, instead firmly shutting her lips into a firm line when her friends asked for updates. Telling them about the blond-haired male that she lived with—he was the perfect room-mate, in terms of cleaning up after himself—was too personal, and she couldn't answer the first question of what his name was without a lot of consideration. So, she stuck with being tight-lipped and secretive, despite the raised eyebrows it caused.

At least Alya had forgotten about the first time she'd mentioned Aisle Boy.

"Okay," he agreed, standing up and brushing his clothing to smooth it out. "You have permission to woo me."

She muttered in return, "Extended vowels are usually reserved for the ghosts."

It was a strange affair. Marinette disappeared upstairs to brush her hair and wear a shirt that wasn't wrinkled, and when she'd returned, his top buttons were done up. Apparently, it was only right to try and appear presentable when going on a date, and the bright smile that was sent her way only made her fondly rolled her eyes.

She had to hold the door for him to climb into the passenger seat, then close it after him, silencing his remark of, "Well, aren't you chivalrous?"

"I don't drive often," Marinette confessed as she climbed in, hand gesturing to the clean interior due to lack of use. "I prefer walking, which is why I chose to go to the store we met in."

"I have no idea if I can drive," he remarked casually, leaning back against the seat and stretching out. "Knowledge of signs and stuff doesn't equate to me actually knowing how. I could just be smart—you did say I was a genius earlier, after all."

At least he was mentioning it himself.

Humming in agreement, their conversation changed to light-hearted topics as she drove to the cinema, only realising a problem when she'd parked the car and turned off the engine. How would they go about sitting down together? Marinette supposed she could weigh down a seat so he could actually sit down, but then he'd be perched upon her bag, which she really doubted was heavy enough to make it work in the first place. He couldn't just stand beside her in the aisle, liable for the other viewers to walk through him and shiver as the time passed. Not to mention that she'd have to acquire an aisle seat in the first place to make that happen, and what if the only available seat was in the middle of a row? Aisle Boy would be separated from her, unless he awkwardly stood in front of her neighbour for the whole duration.

Goodness, could he stand for almost two hours without feeling discomfort? She'd never asked whether he was capable of feeling it, hadn't gotten around to asking whether he sat down out of habit or because his legs actually started to ache. But he hadn't been sat down in the store, had he?

"I can feel you stressing from here, Marinette," the blond-haired male remarked, snapping her out of her thoughts. "What's on your mind?"

She answered honestly with, "Your body."

"Well, that's a surprise." He raised his eyebrows, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips, and the cocky expression quickly made her realise how her words could be implied. Before she could open her mouth to splutter an explanation, he continued to say, "I can't say I blame you. I am pretty attractive."

"Not like that, you dork," Marinette replied, playfully narrowing her blue eyes. "Does it hurt to stand up for minutes on end? I mean, do you feel uncomfortable?"

Making an non-committal noise, he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't feel much, that's why the dead theory is still my favourite, remember?" The weight of his words combined with the fact that his small smile didn't reach his eyes made her frown. "No pain, no accelerated heartbeat when I run, and I most definitely don't feel the temperature. It would suck if I did, considering I appeared without a jacket."

"But you feel when someone..."

"Walks through me?" Aisle Boy supplied, running his fingers through his hair that he'd styled neatly when she'd disappeared upstairs. "Yeah."

Eloquently, she replied, "Oh."

"Now that that's out of the way," he started brightly, looking at her coyly. "Isn't it about time you romantically open the door for me?"

She dramatically bowed as she did so, earning a snort of laughter, not caring that strangers were looking at her weirdly for opening the door for thin air. The genuine sound of his laughter and the smile on his lips was worth it, as was the excited look in his eyes as he looked over the lists of available films after she'd assigned him the task of selecting what they were going to see. After he'd awoken, he hadn't ventured to a cinema. The possibility of endless films hadn't interested him, so he'd stuck to populated shops and parks instead.

Marinette had bought herself a seat by the aisle, but her bag wasn't heavy enough to weigh the seat beside her down.

"What if I put a foot on it?" she mused, trying to adjust her body to put part of her leg on the seat beside her without flashing her underwear due to wearing a skirt. It was a poor choice, she'd decided. "I'm sure I can manage this."

Aisle Boy was laughing to himself, not being helpful at all as he stood in the aisle—how fitting—shuffled close to her so he was almost touching her armrest. She was struggling, trying to make it comfortable for the two of them. The lights were still on throughout the theatre, the screen black without adverts and uninteresting audio as there was still countless minutes before the film started. Viewers were trickling in, finding their assigned seats, and a buzz of conversation sounded throughout the room.

Marinette mumbled curses under her breath when her leg protested at a position. She tried to readjust, one hand holding down her clothing between her thighs as she shifted, and muttered, "I should've bought two ticket."

"...Miss?" a voice called, interrupting her struggle. "I'd like to get to my seat, please."

Her companion let out a loud laugh while she coloured red.

They compromised in the end, with Marinette leaning as far to the side without inconveniencing her seat-mate, allowing for Aisle Boy to perch himself upon her armrest after she'd demanded underneath her breath for him to sit there, and then wrote a message on her cell phone, tilting it towards him so he could see the text.

He made comments throughout the film, even going as far as to change his voice so it was high-pitched and imitate her replies. Marinette had to try and stifle her inappropriate laughter, though it came out as strangled noises at times as she covered her mouth with a hand. It didn't help that her reactions were only spurring him on, his bright smile illuminated by the light of the screen.

The couple behind them tapped Marinette on the shoulder halfway through, politely asking her to be quiet.

"I think some teenagers are getting some action at the back," the blond remarked, sounding amused as he pointed at the section behind them. "Oh, his head's disappeared now and the other guy's biting his lip."

"Stop looking," Marinette hissed, hands curling into the material of her skirt to stop herself from trying to swat him, as she would've done with her other friends. She'd found that occupying her hands stopped her from repeating her mistake in the past. "Give them some privacy, you pervert."

He whistled. "They're getting frisky in a theatre where anyone could turn around and see them. Mari, there's a child three rows in front of them."

"Why do I like you?" she grumbled, running a hand through her bangs with a sigh. The position she was in was starting to hurt her back, the slouch not comfortable when she was contorting her body awkwardly. Her seat-mate had shuffled away from her, too, allowing her to occupy the armrest between them without contesting at all.

Turning towards her, he winked with a grin. "I don't think he's braiding his hair."

"No."

It was the person in front that told her to be quiet that time. The fellow beside hadn't struck up a conversation, other than asking to get into his seat, but she supposed that he'd decided that she was muttering to herself before he'd even sat down and wanted to avoid her. The constant shushing only caused her companion to laugh, the breathy sound audible despite the loud audio of the film, and from the smile across his lips, she supposed that it was good that he was enjoying himself (and was out of the house).

"Marinette," Aisle Boy began, catching her attention after a dramatic scene had ended. "I have an important question."

She looked at him with narrowed eyes.

His smile could only be described as mischievous. "If I happened to get frisky in this condition, would it be called erectoplasm instead?"

"You are literally haunting me." She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath as he cackled, clearly pleased with himself. "You keep me up at night—I can't sleep because your stupid face flashes in my head whenever I close my eyes, and all I can think about is that your jokes fucking suck."

"Marinette," he started, an exaggerated gasp escaping, and she peeked at him dimly-lit figure to see that he had a hand pressed against his chest. "That's the sweetest confession I've ever heard. I never knew you felt this way about me."

If she'd bought food, she would've thrown some at him, regardless of the fact that it would pass through him. She settled with reaching down to pick up her bottle of drink, taking a long sip while staring at him blankly.

When the teenagers were finished, Aisle Boy made sure to look at her with raised eyebrows when he announced their smug faces. Somehow, they made it through the film without her being told to stop talking—which was surprising, she was actually expecting food to be thrown at her by the immature members of the audience—and they stayed in the theatre until the credits were finished and the crowd had disappeared, so there was less of a chance of strangers bumping into him.

She stretched her body when she stood up, sighing in relief from relieving her body of the awkward position she'd been stuck in.

"I'm jealous that you don't have get cramps," she mumbled.

Fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, playing with the button there, Aisle Boy didn't look up as he responded blandly, "I can't list all the things I'm envious of right now."

Right. "My bad," Marinette apologised weakly, adjusting the strap of her bag for longer than necessary. "Sorry I couldn't spoil you with crappy food during the film."

When she looked up, she noted that his smile wasn't self-deprecating as it once might've been by her mistake. He was looking at her with a fond expression, one where the corner of his bright eyes were contorted, the blond-stained lashes standing out against the pale skin of his high cheekbones. There was no denying that he was attractive, and seeing him genuinely happy—not hiding behind his particular sense of humour or deflecting with jokes—had her cheeks warming as she returned the grin.

"You can make it up to me by opening doors for me again," he answered, raising his chin in the air as he strutted towards the exit. "It makes me feel like royalty."

She made sure to bow her head as she did as he requested, choking out through her laughter, "Okay, princess."

-x-

They spent more time together outside.

Whether it was sitting in the park with her buying multiple flavours of ice cream from his demand, trying to describe each one to him, visiting different shops or visiting a local animal shelter, Marinette made sure to spare time for him during the day, determined to treat him as though they were normal friends. She didn't want to limit their interactions to the ones restricted to inside their home, not when he'd taken to staying inside, not wanting to navigate the world alone since the clues to his identity had been found.

Her father's assistant—who was standing in for his position while Marinette was still uncertain—continued to visit every few weeks, pointing out the important details in the papers she delivered, explaining the condition of the company, and sometimes had a selection of new designers that needed her seal of approval to be officially hired. Although it was clear that it was an annoyance to be included in such a way because Marinette felt self-conscious when she walked the halls of the company, no complaints were verbalised.

Sometimes, she found herself cancelling her plans with other friends to spend the evenings with Aisle Boy. They watched films on the sofa, surrounded different scented candles (that he chose, of course), or she read a book aloud with him peering over her shoulder, looking at the pages as his fingers twitched, longing to hold onto the paper.

She took him on drives in her car, travelling to see different towns and cities, spending a night or two in hotels to fully enjoy the experience. Along the way she'd bought an earpiece to slot into her ear, making sure her hair was tucked so it was visible, as it was easier than holding her cell phone for an extended period of time. Marinette grew used to being looked at strangely when she gazed at him in the street, though her face still warmed from the whispered comments when she used her hands to emphasise her words.

Along the way, she referred to her notes, ticking off the similarities.

Aisle Boy helped choose a specialised bouquet at a florist without complaining. Alya loved the selection, and Marinette looked up the meanings of each that was selected when she was alone.

They watched foreign films since they could both understand the language without subtitles.

When she insisted they go out one evening, she surprised him by taking a taxi to a karaoke bar. She paid for a private room, shamelessly booking it for herself alone. The Adrien of the comic had often hummed underneath his breath, lyrics escaping him when he worked or was particularly happy, so her intention was to ditch the microphone and sing along beside him as the words appeared on the screen.

"This is new," the blond remarked, happily trailing into the room first as she held open the door. "It really does feel like you're taking me on dates now, though."

She snickered. "Are you complaining?"

"I feel like I should be." He grinned, sitting down and making himself appear to be comfortable. "I'm the cheapest date you'll ever have, honestly. I don't know whether to feel proud of that or not."

Picking up the remote, she shot him a wide grin. "You're also the cheapest pet—cleanest, too."

He haughtily sniffed. "Shut up and sing so I can hear what you sound like outside of the shower."

Due to his condition, his throat didn't feel dry despite the amount of songs he picked. Marinette indulged herself by ordering alcoholic beverages, buying two at a time and placing one in front of him, even though he couldn't touch them. Whether he was bothered by it or not, he didn't mention them, simply smiling whenever she took a sip and scrunched her facial features together in response.

He had a nice voice, she realised when he'd started to sing properly, rather than changing the quality of his tone to something shrill for comedic reasons. He was familiar with popular music of the past few years, and then older music that he'd probably learned from his parents. When he recited the verses to a song that she'd seen immortalised in speech bubbles—from when he'd been washing dishes, of all things—her stomach twisted in response, adding another tick to her list.

Would he feel betrayed if he realised that she had ulterior motives to their time together? It wasn't as though she was staying with him out of obligation, but that thought must've crossed his mind at some point. Marinette wasn't the type to stick with someone because of guilt, staying quiet because of her insecurities.

So, it was with a slightly stumbling voice that she confessed, "I like—I really like you."

The curve of his lips was of amusement. "Is that so?" he questioned, not out of breath or licking his lips due to dryness like she'd been moments ago.

"You're my best friend," she declared, smile reaching her bright and dazed-looking eyes. "I mean it, really. I would've absolutely loved to meet you when you were all fleshed out and clumsy."

He breathed out audibly. "Clumsy?"

"You—you're like perfect right now, you know?" Marinette waved a hand between the two of them to try and emphasise her point, aware that her habit of using her hands became worse than she drank. "I'm here tripping over myself and looking like death in the mornings, while you're all prim and proper. Well, no. Sometimes you're an idiot, especially when you try and roll up your trousers into shorts. You look like an idiot—looked, right now you look pretty cool, actually."

Leaning forward and resting his chin in his hand, Aisle Boy's smile showed his dimples, giving him an endearing feature that always betrayed when his expressions were faked. "Your rambling is really cute."

"Me?" The dark-haired female snorted, occupying her hands once more with the remote so she wouldn't reach out and try and touch him. "There's no way you were single, my friend."

There was a moment of silence where they simply looked at each other. She took in the flicks in his hair, the way it stuck out around his ears that weren't pierced, and the lack of bumps in his nose that meant he probably hadn't broken it in his lifetime.

She almost jumped when he quietly spoke, "Why don't we change that now, then?"

Blinking, she blurted, "What?"

"We might as well be dating with everything we're doing now, right?" the blond enquired, tilting his head quizzically with that small smile, the one that caused one of her own to blossom from seeing it. "I wouldn't be opposed to it. I quite like you, actually."

Her eyebrows knitted together, confused. "You can't mean that," Marinette replied weakly, aware that of the breathless quality her voice had taken on from surprise. "I—we're friends."

"And why can't we be more when it's clear that we care about each other?" he returned, nervous fingers playing with the light hairs at the nape of his neck, though he kept his eyes focused on hers, nothing in his expression displaying that he was joking. "Marinette, you'd rather curl up next to me most days than go out with your friends. You've said so yourself that I know you better than those that you dated in the past."

Yes, but that didn't mean that her feelings had shifted into romantic ones. The love she felt for him was platonic and had gathered over time, bundling up whenever she saw him smile and seem genuinely happy despite his living situation. Perhaps it was the loss of her father that had pushed her to fill the empty space with her relationship with the spectral being, to cover the gaps with his presence and bright personality.

Even if her feelings had developed into another set, it wouldn't have been possible to explore their boundaries; they were wholly limited, stuck to not touching, simply gazing from afar and exchanging words to convey their meaning. In the time they'd been together she'd come to know that his heart was incapable of speeding up, that it couldn't skip a beat when he was overcome with emotions, and no colour filled his cheeks when he was embarrassed. She wouldn't know how he'd flush, whether it would spread to his ears or down his neck—he didn't have that knowledge either.

"We can't," she whispered, hands tightening around the remote as she leaned back, eyes wide.

He was there, his solid-looking thigh a few centimetres from her own, but she wouldn't be able to confirm it with touch. She would never be able to embrace him, to playfully touch his arm or even tickle him in good humour.

"Oh," the blond whispered, hand falling onto his cloth-clad thigh, covering the spot where she'd been staring at. His eyes flickered away, focusing on anything but her as his blond-stained eyelashes covered his bright irides. "I can officially be dubbed the friend-zoned ghost, then."

As much as she wanted to reach out to clasp his shoulder in comfort—to offer anything over than her words and expressions—she could do nothing more than fumble with the remote with her clammy hands.

She forgot that he couldn't cry, too.

-x-

While she'd always planned to confront him with her findings, to grin triumphantly with information that he couldn't deny, she hadn't thought it would happen while she was sobbing grossly, utterly unattractive as her emotions were all over the place.

After the rejection, Aisle Boy was the same as always. It was as though it didn't happen; he was her best friend, a happy presence in her life that burst into laughter whenever she messed up in the kitchen from her sleepy condition, one that greeted her at the front door whenever she returned home.

He encouraged her to draw, sometimes pointing to the television, or even a passage from a book, demanding that she create her own version of it. Marinette had bought a new sketchbook with the intention of filling it with his requests, and it was coming along nicely. Whenever she was self-conscious or doubted her work, he was there nodding happily, pointing out the parts that he liked, helpfully trying to help fix that details that sh wasn't pleased with.

When her birthday came, making her match his age of twenty-four (if the comic was to be trusted), she spent an evening out with her friends before drunkenly stumbling through her front door, cheeks hurting from smiling when she saw that he was still there, waiting.

"I'll make a cake and everything for yours," she'd mumbled after trying to explain that the pillow in her arms was supposed to be him, then she continued to squeeze it tightly to show her affection. "I'll find the stupidest party hats, maybe even a crown. You'd truly get to be a princess then."

He fondly told her all about her intoxicated ramblings in the morning.

Although her time was filled with him, she spent a few hours a week in the study—door left open enough for him to venture him, but he hadn't climbed the stairs for months—flicking through the different books, reacquainting herself with his story and the little details that had been included.

Adrien often wore a long-sleeved shirt instead of a jacket when he was sleepy. He enjoyed playing with his cats, losing track of time in the mornings due to their playful natures, which resulted in him running to get to work in time. As nice as his apartment was, he couldn't fit a full-sized piano, so he had a keyboard that he kept tucked away in the closet where his hoover was located.

He didn't have identifying moles or marks, though. Adrien wasn't drawn or coloured with freckles, his skin tone was consistent without a blemish—he had been shown with acne when he was a teenager in a few scenes—but there was one thing that was shown when he'd adopted his second cat.

The feline tried to scale his leg, claws scratching through the material of his trousers and digging into his flesh when it had started to fall. Adrien was shown to have a scar there, a centimetre or two of raised white skin where the nails had been.

It was just another thing to note down and ask about in the future. Aisle Boy hadn't tried to style his clothing into shorts for a while, and he certainly hadn't taken to walking around in a state of undress, as the weather didn't bother him, so she hadn't had the chance to confirm it with her eyes.

She hadn't planned to for a while, honestly. Marinette was pleased just to be by his side, being the reason for his smiles, so when she'd moved onto the next sketchbook that featured Adrien's story in it, she hadn't prepared herself for anything other than the light-hearted plot that had been in the other pages.

The drawings were outlined, coloured precisely with the backgrounds beautiful and developed, and it was with a fast-beating heart that she flicked to the next page, taking in the picture.

Adrien was wearing the outfit that Aisle Boy had been stuck in for the past eleven months. The shirt was simple, there was no embroidery or designs added onto it, and the shoes shined just like they did in person. Marinette read through, noting that he had a blazer hanging on his arm, prepared for a change in temperature. He adjusted his hair in the mirror, made sure he looked presentable before placing his cell phone in the pocket of his jacket, along with his keys and wallet. It explained his lack of belongings if it really was him, then.

How was she supposed to use this as evidence, though?

She took in a breath, continuing to read with a determined expression. There had to be something within the pages that she could trace her fingertips over, where she could feel the indents on the paper from the nibs and effort that had been put into them.

He was going to a restaurant to celebrate a friend's birthday. Their name wasn't mentioned, but Adrien's text explained that he'd arranged for their gift to be delivered the next day, the actual date of their birth. He was happy, though. The smile on his lips met his green-coloured eyes, and there was a healthy colouring of red to his cheeks as he walked through the streets; somehow, the illustrated version of him managed to look more alive than the spectral being she'd become acquainted with, and realising that as her hand tightened around the book had her eyes starting to feel hot.

Aisle Boy deserved so much more than was offered to him. Marinette wanted to shower him with different foods to find his favourite, to hold his hand as they walked through the streets, to have strangers move out of his way, rather than always the opposite.

The page wasn't completed.

The first scenes were there, with Adrien's smiling face and his thoughts displayed at the top, but then the scenery wasn't coloured in, he wasn't featured in them, and the pencil gracing the page looked lonely, left out.

Frantically, Marinette turned to the next page.

It was blank, too.

A noise of frustration left her as she stared at the endless white-coloured papers in front of her. The sketchbook was new. She couldn't tell from the metal spiral how many pages had been ripped out, but there was a good thickness left to it.

"No," escaped her lips as she flipped another, lips curling into a frown as she realised that they were empty, too.

Was this all there was left? Her father's decline in health had been harsh, yes, and he'd passed away in his sleep without so much as a warning. The day before when she'd visited him, he'd been coherent, able to smile and laugh hoarsely at her jokes. He'd enjoyed drawing when he wasn't too week, and the carer that had been assigned to tend to him in his frail state had been more than happy to provide him with the materials he needed when he wanted.

Adrien's story had ended abruptly, much like his own life, then.

Blinking back the tears that hadn't spilled, Marinette slowly caressed the paper, taking in the softness and clear expanse of availability that hadn't been touched. The storyboards were bound to be in the loft, tucked away in another box that she hadn't opened yet. The completed comics had been her first priority; it was easier to find the coloured in ones, to know the content that she was looking for.

She squashed the total number of pages between her hand, feeling the thickness before flicking through each one as she would a flip book.

There was colour.

Marinette stilled, surprised and uncertain as she skipped a small section, at least pen pages in total. There was blackness covering the two pages completely, leaving the only white spaces beside the metal spine, a few dots that stood out against the darkness that had covered the open area. It was as though ink had been spilled on it and then brushed carelessly around, some parts lighter than the rest, allowing markings from the brushes to be seen.

It continued for four more pages, two turns of her hands, with darkness for only the eye to see, then there was an opening at the bottom right. A small panel, one void of the darkness as it showed the sun coming through a clean window, glass illuminated and being the main focus of the frame.

There was one more.

Adrien had his eyes closed as he was covered by a sheet in a hospital bed, a drip tucked into the crook of his arm and a heart monitor positioned beside him, showing his steady condition. The room was decorated to a minimum, no framed painting or photograph to adorn the wall, and the vase with flowers on the table was starting to wilt. The colours were dull, barely standing out against the harsh lines of the bedding, and the shadows of the room stood out, making the room appear to be unwelcoming.

There was no continuation; no explanation of how he came to be there, what had happened to him, but it was clear that he'd been in the hospital for an extended period of time (long enough for the flowers to show signs of wilting).

Turning the page, searching for more of the work, didn't help with the answers. Nestled inside, attached with tape at the corners, was a crinkled piece of paper that had been cut out to fit within the notebook, safely shortened so it wouldn't be squashed during transport.

It was hers, she realised slowly. The small page had three pictures, each tiny with arrows pointing at different sections to point out details, and writing to explain what was going on.

She could recognise her writing anywhere. It was hers, but youthful; messy scrawl and loopy from her carelessness, the dots enthusiastic and demanding to be seen. The drawing was just as childish, with colour escaping the lines, while the ink and smudged and had started to fade from time.

"Adrien Agreste," she recited aloud, lips curling into a fond smile from the way her younger self had heavily underlined the name.

The paper had been moved throughout the years, well loved and had attention paid to it. Marinette swallowed audibly as her fingertips softly traced her writing, taking in the information at a slow pace to quell the nervous energy within her.

She'd designed him—made him.

Marinette had demanded he have dimples because they were cute, and according to her younger self, her father deserved to have adorable children (much like herself, she'd scribbled with a heart beside it). For him to have blond-coloured hair that was similar to the pretty wife her father had had, the same beautiful eyes that she'd always remarked on, and for him to like cats because their neighbour's dog had barked at her loudly the previous week, and it had scared her terribly.

The jotted aspects to Adrien continued: he'd fence, because her father had once enjoyed it and Marinette didn't like it herself, and play the piano because Marinette's coordination wasn't the best with her hands, therefore it was only fair that someone else would be good at it. He'd be sweet and pretty, just like the desserts they'd eat together, and, of course, he'd adore Marinette because they'd be the best siblings (crossed out, it mentioned rude twins that she'd shared a class with before she withdrew from school).

What was she supposed to think with this? Marinette ran her shaking fingers through her hair, pulling at the roots in frustration as she blinked at her itching eyes, trying hard to keep her inconsistent emotions intact.

He—he was there, downstairs and breathing, capable of speech and feeling emotions, even though his current condition was damaged and limited his interactions and responses. She couldn't have been imagining him for all their time together. They'd lived together for ten months, and she hadn't felt like her mental state was anything but normal.

It couldn't have been possible for him to flicker into her existence after the loss of her father, for him to be a part of her vivid imagination without realising it.

There was nothing that could prove that he was really there, though. Aisle Boy was incapable of proving his being, other than talking to her and being visible, and Adrien was simply a character that matched up to him in an personal comic book. Adrien was someone that she didn't remember having a part in his creation—he was a forgotten portion of her childhood that she'd pushed aside for pretty toys and other activities, one which her father had nurtured and brought to life, matching their ages up as they grew up.

She'd always wanted an older brother, after all.

A choked sob escaped as she hastily wiped at her flowing tears, the sleeve of her sweater becoming damp as it lightly scratched her cheeks. What did this say about her? She had been emotionally damaged from her father's passing and had somehow conjured up an annoying companion to stay by her side through the days?

As she sniffed unattractively, Marinette tried to recall their interactions, to think whether she'd learned something through him, rather than the other say around. If he was something that had come from her brain, then it would only be natural for him to share her knowledge, wouldn't it?

That would explain why he hadn't responded to her questions about which classical music was playing, she realised as she took in a shaky breath. But—why? Marinette hadn't yearned to have a close room-mate; she thought she'd been happy with her previous arrangement, living in an apartment and working in her part-time job, visiting her father in her free time, and meeting with Alya whenever the red-head demanded her presence. It had been great, other than the reporters that had approached her outside, asking for information on her father's company.

Adrien was the brother she'd lovingly imagined when she was little, the bright-eyed son for her father—he wasn't supposed to be the imaginary friend that had stuck by her side for almost a year.

Her hands felt cold, a stark contrast to her burning eyes, as she gathered the last sketchbook, cradling it against her chest as though it was precious. Her breaths were audible as she descended the stairs, hoarse and betraying her emotions, and she wiped at her eyes in an attempt to be presentable, rather than the grossly sobbing image she'd seen in the mirror as she passed.

"Marinette?" the blond-haired male called, concerned as he stood up from the sofa.

He didn't have to stretch his limbs, of course. There was no discomfort if he stood for hours on end in the same position, all for the same reason why he'd never shed tears or mirror her pathetic state of emotions—he wasn't real.

It hurt more than it should've to have that realisation. Why hadn't she questioned it in the beginning? Ghosts weren't real, let alone ones with charming smiles that happened to get along with her swimmingly once they'd gotten past their awkward introduction. Friendly ghosts belonged in fiction, and imaginary brothers needed to stay immortalised on paper, not looking at her with worried and furrowed eyebrows from a short distance away.

He raised a hand and started to reach out towards her—whether to clasp her shoulder for comfort, or brush the bangs that were getting damp from her face out of the way—and realised his mistake quickly, swallowing audibly as it fell back down to his side.

"I-I know why you're here," Marinette stuttered, voice thick with her sadness and disbelief.

Seeing his features pinch together in confusion caused her stomach to twist uncomfortably. "I—what?" he enquired.

Tightening around the book, feeling the incessant banging of her heart against her chest, the dark-haired female let out a laugh that teetered on the edge of hysterical as tears flowed from her blue eyes. "I know you," she started, vision blurry as she stared beseechingly at him.

"Well, yes," he responded, perplexed and looking so lost and concerned that she yearned for his worries to be real, not a figment of her imagination that she was projecting on herself. "We've been friends for a while, haven't we?"

Close friends, certainly. She didn't know how to feel about the fact that he'd offered to start a romantic relationship with her, either due to the fact that he existed because of her, or it was her subconscious that had dictated how he'd act towards her. Other than rejecting him in her drunken state, the last time she'd given romance a shot had been on her disastrous date with Kim.

"I don't understand."

Her breath hitched.

"What happened, Marinette?" the blond-haired male asked softly, soft and intimate.

The clothing was the same. His hair hadn't grown, his body hadn't changed at all, and the concerned frown was one that had her shifting on the spot.

Had she been so starved for affection that this had happened?

"I know—I know you," the dark-haired female tried again, voice breaking midway. She cleared her throat and sniffed in an attempt to make herself more understandable. "But I... I don't know you at the same time."

He made a frustrated noise, mirroring her internal emotions. "You're not making any sense."

Using a hand to wipe at her damp eyes with more pressure than needed, she accepted the irritation of her skin from the rough material of her sweater. "I—I just... I want—"

A sob escaped.

"I want to see how your skin colours when you bruise, whether your ears turn red when you're embarrassed," she confessed shakily, eyes clenched shut to avoid looking at his vulnerable expression. "I-I want to know how you sound in the mornings, to see you pink from the shower—from the rain—anything! I just want to see you."

She refused to look his way as he whispered, "I'm right here."

"No, you're not," Marinette denied, shaking her head wildly, hearing her beating heart clearly. "But I know you."

The silence was deafening. She had to remind herself that he couldn't cry, that he was unable of showing the level of emotions that she was, but that didn't mean that he wasn't capable of feeling them on the inside.

She could hear him as he sighed.

With a determined expression, a firm set of her eyebrows that showed her intentions, Marinette looked up to meet his eyes. He looked vulnerable and distressed, lips that couldn't get chapped pulled into a frown, and she wasn't fooled by the dry-looking green eyes that stared right back at her.

He was something that she'd created, after all. The curves of his face, the clothes that adorned his body, and even the little details of his fingers had been crafted and inked with affection; each part of him had love poured into it, and the unfeeling version that she could see and hear in front of her had no place in her life.

"I know you," Marinette repeated, voice stronger as she took a step forward, closing the distance between the two of them. Her hands were holding the sketchbook to her chest, cradling the precious information as she gripped the edges as a lifeline, reminding her of why she was there in the first place. "Your fingers are calloused because I'm untalented."

Confusion was the main expression on his face. The blond's eyes flickered from hers for a moment, staring down at his uncovered hands without checking the pads of his fingertips before they returned. "What—"

"Your thighs are muscular because I'm not athletic," she announced, tears obscuring her vision as her voice shook. The book was there, guiding her through with its presence. "You—you like cats because a dog used to terrorise me, and you like desserts because I do."

"Marinette," he tried to say, eyes wide and panicked as his voice cracked.

She blinked rapidly. "You have a scar from your second cat above your left knee."

"I—what?" the male questioned, voice higher-pitched than before. "Marinette, please—"

She held his stare, heart thumping as she took in his concern and panic. "You're everything I wanted; the son that my father could've had, the brother that I would've adored."

"Why are you saying this?" he whispered, pained.

As much as she didn't want to feel guilty, the feeling was there, nagging and festering within her chest. "I'm saying this because you're Adrien Agreste," Marinette confessed, unable to fully comprehend his expression from her tears, "the boy I created, and the man my father helped you grow into."

"I-I don't understand," the blond repeated, pain and confusion clear. His expression was pinched together, dry-looking eyes betraying the anguish in the rest of his face. "I'm—"

He wasn't real.

Marinette took a small step back, opening the sketchbook and drawing attention towards it, enough for him to cut himself off with a strangled noise that should've been paired with unrelenting tears, not the sad face of someone disadvantaged. She flipped through it, turning to the page where her childhood scribbles were taped down, wetness coating her cheeks as she rotated it for him to see.

With wide eyes, he breathed audibly, flickering across and taking in the messy notes, the way her colouring had been clumsily outside of the lines and youthful.

"I didn't question it enough in the beginning," she choked out shakily, stuttering over the syllables as she sniffed at the end. "Why—why else would you see me?"

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"No one else," Marinette continued, book wobbling in her hands as she tried to keep it steady and visible. There was no use turning to the previous page, pointing to his character that was recovering in a hospital bed. "You're here for me, and I can't do this any more, Adrien."

Flinching, he took a step backwards, trying to distance himself. "That's not my name."

"Adrien," she insisted, moving closer.

Running a hand roughly through the clean strands of his hair, gripping it tightly so his knuckles appeared lighter, and clenching his eyes shut, refusing to look into hers, he shook his head adamantly. "That isn't me," he denied weakly.

"You're everything I wanted and more," Marinette responded, a sad smile not quite reaching her blurry eyes. "I'm—I'm so glad I got to know you, but this isn't right, Adrien. You don't belong here."

The laugh that escaped him was borderline hysterical, sounding like she had when she was in the study. "So what now, then? You're going to try and exorcise me?" the blond asked, quiet and vulnerable, eyes shut and avoiding her gaze, still. "All because you've grown tired of me?"

If he opened them and continued to stare at her, her tears would've only increased, along with the stuttering in her breathing as she struggled with sniffing and trying to be slightly presentable. The guilt was there within her, an uncomfortably knot in her stomach that wouldn't be going away anytime soon.

"No," she whispered, blinking rapidly, out of sync to the frantic beating of her heart. "You're still my best friend, but this isn't healthy for either of us. I—I can't have you around here, and you—"

His eyes opened, and he jerked his green-coloured eyes to stare at her incredulously. "You don't think I'm real," he accused.

A bubble of insane laughter escaped her. How—how was this possible? The signs had been there all along, and she'd been too stubborn to see them, instead pleased just to spend time with him and investigate when she was alone. For him to stand before her with restricted emotions, to try and deflect and convince her otherwise from what she'd learned was a blow that she hadn't thought she would've experienced.

"You think this is your imagination," he breathed in a tone of betrayal.

She flinched, being the one to back away that time.

Adrien—for that was who he was, with his blond hair and specifically coloured eyes, the grown up version of the brother she'd envisioned, many years ago—wasn't allowing that, though. There was desperation clear on his face, a need to explain himself and try and tell her otherwise, and all she could think was that it was her own fault as he strode forward, feet stopping a short distance from hers.

If he was human, she would've felt his breath fan across her face.

"Is my love for you all in your head, too?" Adrien asked, the twisted smile on his lips not showing his dimples.

She wiped hastily at her face. "I want you to accept that this is you."

"I—I'm not enough for you as I am," he rambled, eyes wide with that betrayed expression that had her backing away, with him following until her back was pressed against a wall. "Why now, Marinette? What did I do for you to feel this way?"

It was audible as she swallowed. "It's what you can't do," she confessed.

She watched as his face crumpled.

"I'm sorry," Marinette apologised, repeating the phrase over and over with her hoarse voice, wet eyes itching from the exposed air as he hovered above her, a visible but untouchable obstruction. Her lips grew dry as she closed her eyes, hugging the sketchbook to her chest as a reminder, continuing to chant the soft mantra of her inconsistent feelings. "Please, I—"

"So I'm Adrien Agreste, am I?" he whispered, not a trace of confusion in his tone. "And what is he to you?"

Her stomach clenched. "A fantasy."

There was silence as her reply sunk in, one that had her hiccuping and sniffling, wiping at her irritated eyes from her meltdown. It wasn't supposed to come to that—she'd envisioned identifying him, somehow finding out that his body was comatose in a local hospital, or that he really was a ghost of a recently deceased male. The thought of him not being real—the one that most would jump to, but she hadn't—didn't cross her mind for the longest time, and that was her biggest mistake.

As her breathing started to return to normal, with her sleeves damp from tears and other bodily fluids, Marinette sniffed to attempt to clear her airways, ready to try and convince him once more. She'd already used her most legitimate evidence, but it was only a part of herself that she was arguing to, wasn't it? There was a small section of herself that wanted him to exist, to be there for her in the evenings with sweet words and terrible jokes. It was something that she didn't know she wanted until he arrived, and now that she was facing the reality of the situation, it was staggering.

She honestly wished he was real.

Adrien had been the highlight of her months. His bright smiles when he recounted his day, how happy he would be when he spotted a cat in the garden, and his honest breathy laughter had all been wonderful to see and hear, and now that she was close to losing them, it was finally hitting her that they'd been things she'd been craving.

"Adrien," she started with her voice hoarse from tears. After clearing her throat, she looked up to where she was sure he was, perhaps hovering in front of her and attempting to invade her personal space to the best of his ability.

But he wasn't there.

Marinette jerked her head, looking across the room as she called, "Adrien?"

There wasn't an answer.

Panic flooded through her, and she barely noticed as the sketchbook hit the floor with an audible noise, as she was running across the floorboards with her bare feet, looking in the possible places he could've gone. She didn't touch the doors as she knew he wouldn't have been able to get in there, but but when the kitchen and the living room was empty, void of the blond hair that she was accustomed to seeing, she wildly pushed the doors open, calling his name with a desperation each time.

Marinette climbed the staircase, tripping at the top step and hitting her chin on the floor before she scrambled up, stumbling into the study to see whether that was where he'd retreated to.

The empty room greeted her, the sunlight that was streaming in mocking her as it highlighted the organised sketchbooks.

"No," she chanted, a mantra of denial as she hastily looked through the bedrooms, the bathroom, then circled back to clumsily search through them again.

The dark-haired female dropped onto the floor, going as far as to look underneath the beds to see whether he was hiding, but there was no sign of him. The house was silent other than her unsteady breaths, and her already irritated eyes were welling up with burning tears that soon freely flowed, as she was preoccupied running around the house, shouting his name with stutters and sobs.

That was what she wanted, wasn't it?

-x-

It wasn't easy recovering from the fact that she'd imagined her best friend.

Alya was there, bewildered and concerned when Marinette had ran to her house, not trusting herself to drive through her tears. Alya readily offered her the spare bedroom for as much time was needed, a shoulder to cry on, and a source of smiles and jokes that had her responding within no time. Nino was equally as welcoming, promising not to wake her up in the mornings when he had to leave for work, even though she was the one that was intruding.

They didn't pressure her to tell them what was wrong, which was the main reason she'd ran to them instead of her other friends.

Marinette refused to go into therapy—not that anyone suggested for her to do so, as she hadn't divulged the information on her condition to anyone, only letting it slip to Alya that something had happened to the friend she'd been talking to online (she was still adamant that he was only a friend, to her friend's amusement), and she wasn't sure what to do.

She stayed at their house for two nights before braving her home. It wasn't that she was unwelcome; no, Alya was always more than happy to have the extra company, and they always had leftovers from their meals from their generous servings, but Marinette felt that she needed to face reality rather than drown herself in good food and their personalities.

So it was with her clad in Alya's clothing and her own stuffed in a plastic bag by her side that she approached the gate, staring blankly at the dark windows, trying to see a glimpse of someone inside.

She burst into tears when it was empty again.

There was nothing—nothing—other than her memory to prove that he had been there in the first place. No threads from his clothing, blond hairs littered across the floor, or belongings that had forgotten there. Anyone would've made their presence known more than him, even a stray cat that had wandered in and left small flecks of dirt from their paws.

She lit a candle when it was a year since her father's death, spending the even alone, rejecting the invitation from for the party from her father's company. His assistant was still running the place, and from the reports that she'd looked through, there was no problems there. Although his death had been a blow to the community, there was an increase in sales after his sudden passing, and designers that had been signed on were still there, helping with work and providing their ideas steadying so Gabriel thrived.

Still, she didn't feel like she had a right to intrude. Marinette had never had such of a hand in it before; she'd contribute to her father's designs at home, commenting on the patterns and colours when they were together, but she'd never submitted anything of her own.

The plan had been for her to pursue her career in fashion elsewhere, not relying on her father's name, despite how supportive he had been throughout her life. He didn't complain about her wanting to do it by herself, allowing her to have the mundane part-time job to pay for her own apartment and expenses, happily allowing her to borrow money if she was a few short, smiling indulgently when she adamantly promised to repay him.

After clearing up the sketchbooks, placing the ones that wouldn't fit on the shelves in boxes and pushing them in the corner of the study, not ready to climb up to the loft and store them away for good, Marinette kept the door closed. The sketchbook that she'd used to draw Adrien's whims had been stored away in there, too, and she chose to draw in the living room, not wanting to step into the room which would make her eyes water when she thought too much.

The sewing machine in her father's room had use after two months, where she made Nino a ridiculous pair of socks after he'd remarked on how boring his were. He'd been so utterly delighted with them, taking pictures and sending them to the rest of their friends with teasing comments that he was the one loved enough to receive them, that he requested more, trying to shove money into her hands when she complied and sketched out the designs for him.

She never thought she'd get paid for socks, honestly.

Alya—who was so nosey with a good heart—was the one that reached out to her father's assistant about the socks. Marinette had designed countless socks for friends at that point, deciding that the personalised gifts were amusing and fun to make as presents, regardless if the celebration was a birthday or an anniversary. From the positive reactions she continued to receive, she presumed that the gifts were well liked, too.

Nathalie Sancoeur, her father's assistant, arrived with a briefcase filled with papers. She had her dark hair pulled into a bun, wide-rimmed glasses on her nose, and had a gentle smile on her lips as she greeted her with, "I've heard you've been busy, Marinette."

Marinette had tensed.

It wasn't that she didn't like her. Nathalie had been a part of her life since she was little, as a serious figure that sometimes smiled at her, was kind enough to pick up the crayons that fell onto the floor, and had offered her womanly advice through the years (which had been horrendously awkward when puberty hit). They'd grown somewhat close through it all, and when she was younger she'd questioned whether Nathalie would become her mother, which had only caused her father to choke on his food before he rejected that idea with flushed cheeks.

She just wanted to continue the fragile peace that her life had acquired. Marinette had only just become used to the quiet evenings, the lack of a presence in the house, and although she knew that it wasn't healthy to rely on the income from her father's work, she hadn't set about finding a job yet.

Nathalie was someone who wasn't afraid to tell her she was wasting her time, wallowing in the dark rooms of the quaint home that had once been so full of life. Well, not exactly life for the past year, Marinette had to accept that her imagination needed to stay in the past, and not let it invade her daily life.

So, with Nathalie stepping through the entrance with her high-heels shoes clicking audibly as she walked across the floorboards, she ran a hand through her hair in a nervous move.

Nathalie wanted her to come work for Gabriel. She was aware of Marinette's feeling on the matter, and promised her that it was fine—the stressed word didn't help her dubiousness—for her to start with a lower position, an entry-level job to work her way up, rather than taking her father's place and starting an internal conflict that had been brewing since she'd been announced as the successor.

"You're even creating clothes again," the bespectacled woman pointed out, smiling with fondness that Marinette didn't feel she deserved.

She frowned. "Socks."

"It's a start." Nathalie waved her hand in a dismissive way, clearly done with that topic of conversation.

If it had been any other employee, they would've taken advantage of Marinette's unwillingness, or perhaps had failed in taking over her father's position in the beginning, but Nathalie had done everything that was asked of her and more, not complaining as she did so. She had been so utterly loyal to her late father, to the company, to Marinette—

"Fine," she whispered with a sigh. "I'll do it."

There was more than a few muttered comments in the beginning, remarking that she was their late boss' daughter, and some of the inexperienced employees that had been recently hired had gawked when she'd revealed her surname casually in conversation. Marinette had secluded herself from the public, avoiding the charity events, fancy dinners that included potential clients and companies, instead indulging herself with her normal relationships with friends that weren't attached to the world of cameras and flashing lights.

Nathalie made her attend a few events, though.

Marinette arrived at fashion shows acting as her father's daughter, rather than the low-level employee that she was during the daytime. She was enjoying herself, actually, once she'd gotten past the nerves and self-doubt that had been crushing in the beginning. No one had been harder on her than she had been on herself, and when the higher-ups that were observing her work offered praise for her own doings, regardless of her surname, her smile was blinding.

She still thought about Adrien.

It wasn't as though she could've shoved him out of her life permanently. Her memories were still there, floating in her mind when she tried to close her eyes to sleep, or when she was spending time alone. When she visited places with friends, she could recall the times she'd been there with him, or the off-handed comments that he'd like to go there someday, and that was what caused her to blind rapidly in an attempt to combat the growing dampness of her eyes.

Alya assumed her internet friend died. She didn't correct her.

It was nine months after his disappearance that she opened the door to the study.

There was dust coating the desk, on top of the books and blanketing the vase that hadn't had flowers in it for almost two years.

She gulped.

Shoved across the room, Marinette leaned down on the dirty floor, opening the boxes that she'd neglected, searching for the last sketchbook that she'd held in her arms, the one that contained her childhood drawing of Adrien.

It seemed right to give it a place in the house, rather than hiding it away as a dirty secret. Marinette had intended to carefully peel the tape off and then put the piece of paper into a frame in the living room, but when she'd turned the pages, she stared bewildered at it instead.

There was colour beneath the tape, behind her childish scrawl and doodles. Darkness and colour, ink bursting out and giving the page life that hadn't been there—

She carefully removed the tape, setting aside the paper with his information on it.

It shouldn't have been possible.

The breath caught in her throat.

The comic had continued. Where the last page had left off, with Adrien resting in a hospital bed, it showed him opening his eyes, detailing the blond-stained ends of his eyelashes, the bleary look in his green—vivid—irides, and his incoherent thoughts were scattered across the space.

No one had been in the study, she knew that for certain. The dust that had settled on top of the box had proved that, too, as no fingerprints were left on top of it. Yet, somehow someone had ventured inside, and had the nerve to touch her father's possessions and continue the twisted tale in front of her.

There was more than two pages added to it. Marinette flipped through the pages, not focusing on the text or the images as she took in the multiple pages that were perfectly inked and designed, leaving only a small portion of the sketchbook blank towards the end.

Marinette hands were shaky as she backtracked, trying to find the spot where she'd last stopped reading to restart. Someone—they must've had a good reason to continue it, right?

But no one had. Marinette had been the only one to enter or look into the study for the past year. When friends stayed over, or when strangers visited, they used the bathroom downstairs, and no one had stayed over for the night, as she hadn't touched her father's bedroom or converted it into a spare room yet (that plan was always being pushed back).

It wasn't possible, it shouldn't—

Adrien had woken up, confused and groggy in the hospital bed. The faces of the nurses and visitors were blurred out, much like in the rest of the story, and the time skipped whenever he wasn't paying attention, or if there wasn't an important event.

What really caught her attention, however, was that there was no visible difference from the recent additions to the rest. Whoever had done it had captured her father's strokes, the way he preferred to draw hair, and even the style he used for scenery; it was all perfect, matching up to the other sketchbooks without raising suspicions.

"How?" Marinette croaked, running her fingers over the pages, feeling where the ink had dried into the paper.

She didn't need this, she didn't want to question her sanity again, to feel like she was losing her mind because of the things she'd seen.

Marinette squeezed her eyes shut tightly, willing herself to count to ten before opening her eyes. And when she did, a strangled noise escaped as there was still drawings over the pages, depicting Adrien's life after his accident.

Her stomach churned uncomfortably as she read his speech bubbles, saw the way he was shown to smile in a confused fashion, the question marks beside his face showing exactly how she felt.

He—he was supposed to be a part of her imagination, someone—something—that she'd pushed into the past to move onto a healthy life, yet there he was, gracing the pages of a forgotten book, waking up from the coma she'd once read he was in.

Wanting to know whether she was imagining it, Marinette did the first thing she could think of.

She sent a picture of the book to Alya, asking whether she liked the style of the artist. It was a normal question to come from her, one that wouldn't raise questions that she didn't want to answer.

The red-head responded five minutes later, which Marinette spent the time trying not to burst into confused tears as she anxiously waited, hands tightening around her cell phone in worry.

'Alya:

The guy's cute. Something new you just bought?'

She wasn't hallucinating, then.

That didn't make her feel better.

Pocketing her cell phone once more, the dark-haired female shifted to get comfortable on the floor, eyebrows downcast in a determined expression as she pulled the sketchbook into her lap. She stared at the pages for longer than necessary, trying to see if the style of the drawings changed at all, if the colouring faltered and changed—but it didn't.

Their times matched up. Although the year wasn't mentioned, Adrien had been in a coma for eleven months before he woke up, which was the length that he'd appeared in her world, and when he'd manifested after her father's death. He spent two months in hospital, recovering his strength, before he was allowed to go home. He visited for recommended treatments, taking as much time off of work as he could before he appeared with a bright smile and greeted the costumers with his apron tied around him.

What disturbed Marinette more than anything else was that when he daydreamed, when his thoughts strayed as he tried to sleep or was bored, he saw a blurry face with dark-coloured hair.

He was frustrated, trying to recall the image clearly, sometimes groaning and running his hands through his hair—that could get dirty, could appear greasy at the roots—and muttering words at his useless memory.

He assumed that he'd met her before the accident, and that caused a lump to appear in Marinette's throat as she tried to swallow.

Somehow, she didn't think someone would've broken in just to torment her.