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Talk to me, why won't you talk to me
Can't you see I'm burning up
When you look like that
And I'm looking right back
-Carly Rae Jepson, "Talk To Me"
Adrien looked up from the sketchbook in his hands at Marinette, who sat beside him. She looked incredibly nervous, her hands wringing in her lap and eyes glancing everywhere but him, shoulders bunched up around her ears. He didn't blame her for being nervous; if he was in her position, he would be the same. After all, it wasn't every day one showed their designs to the son of the number one fashion icon in Europe.
But she had nothing to be worried about. For a girl of sixteen (he'd finally gotten a lock down on her age, the same as his), her designs rivaled some of the ones he had seen in his father's company. Adrien didn't know much about clothes, since it was his job to wear them not make them, but even he could tell the intricacies that went into the sketches, the number of hours she spent huddled over the book until her fingers ached.
"These are incredible!" he praised her, and turned the page to see the next drawing, a black, floor-length cocktail dress with a collar pressed tightly to the wearer's neck, long black gloves reaching mid-bicep, with small strips of thread ribboning up the rest of the arm and shoulder until it connected to the rest of the dress. It was simple, but from the notes on the side indicating different kinds of stitches and fabrics and overlays and other design terms he didn't recognize, it appeared to be incredibly complicated. "Like, really incredible."
Marinette perked up at his compliment, her face turning a bright shade of red that matched her sweater. Adrien had observed, when he had spotted her approaching him from across the park, that red was a very good color on her. They now sat side by side on a bench in the park near the bakery, her complying with his request to see her designs. He'd called the bakery to schedule a time; he wished he could give her his phone number, but his father was adamant that no one but requisite staff members have it ("So the media – and adolescent females – doesn't get a hold of it and distract you from your work.").
"They really aren't," she said quietly. "It's fine, you don't have to sugar coat it."
"I'm not lying, Marinette," he insisted, and turned the page to see a summer dress, the swatch of colors reminding him of a purple sunset, or maybe a lightning storm with dark thunderclouds. "These are really incredible."
"These are really incredible."
Marinette allowed herself to smile, looking at him from her peripheral to save herself the mortification of being caught blatantly staring. She believed him; the amount of pure awe in his voice proved his sincerity. She knew him well enough by now, she guessed, that even if they weren't good at all, he was too nice to tell her so. That was one of the incredible things about Adrien, Marinette realized. As little as she knew him, she knew he wouldn't want to see her hurting because of something he said or did. He wanted everyone around him to be happy, but she could also detect a hint a sadness behind the sparkle in his eyes, and she wanted to know what was causing it so she could put a stop to it.
"Thanks," she said, and forced herself to focus on the blades of grass between her feet.
"How long does it take to make them?"
"It depends on the fabric, or the type of piece it is, and how complicated it is. Usually dresses and stuff take longer, from making the patterns to actually putting everything together it can take several days to a couple weeks. But simpler things like bags only take an hour or two, depending on the size. Although the stitching is different for each and –"
Marinette realized at this point she was rambling, and ducked her head again. She knew she tended to go off when she got on the subject of sewing… Alya could attest to that ("Sorry I asked," was usually the response). Her parents supported her interests but kindly suggested she keep her rants to herself, for the sake of engaging the other person in conversation. So she cut herself off, letting her voice dwindle to a mere whisper before fading out into nothing. He probably felt so alienated right now; he wore clothes, but he didn't make them, why would he care about -?
"And?"
She looked at him, and saw that he had closed the sketchbook, marking his place with a finger between the pages. He was looking at her expectantly, green eyes curious and eyebrows arched, an expression of genuine interest. Marinette thought her heart would explode.
"And?"
"You stopped talking."
"Oh, sorry. I tend to rant, sometimes, and I've been told it puts people off a little…"
"No, no, keep going!"
Marinette teased her bottom lip between her teeth. "Are you sure?"
"Of course!" Adrien's smile put the sun to shame. "It's refreshing to see someone so passionate about what they love! You're an amazing artist, Marinette, and you should embrace it and be proud of yourself."
"You're an amazing artist, Marinette, and you should embrace it and be proud of yourself."
It was true. As Marinette's smile widened and she went on a long tangent about different kinds of stitches and the pros and cons of using gossamer silk versus rayon, and other terms he didn't recognize, Adrien was engrossed in her movements. She spoke with her hands, waving them about in front of her and miming hand-stitching motions with lithe fingers, the tips riddled with tiny scars. Her expressions fascinated him, too, from severe concentration as she mimed to the exasperation she experienced when she was overloaded with commissions. It was so refreshing to see the variety of expressions a person could possess, when all Adrien was surrounded by was stoic faces of the people who ran his life.
"Most designs have inspirations, too, and you have to choose fabrics that better represent them," Marinette was saying. She pulled her sketchbook from his lap and flipped to a page detailing a men's grey and blue suit design featuring a feathered derby hat. "This one I got from a story a friend of mine told me."
"Your friend told you a story about pigeons?"
She nodded. "He told me lots of made up stories. I think he would be a really good writer, with all the things he comes up with."
"Is this the same friend you had a fight with?"
Her eyes saddened slightly. "Yeah. But it's okay, we moved passed it." She looked up at him, a soft smile curling her pink lips. "I took your advice. It helped."
Adrien swallowed thickly, but returned her smile. "Glad I could help."
Adrien vaguely remembered one of the stories he had told Ladybug when she had been sick, about the superheroes Ladybug and Chat Noir. Hadn't one of his villains wanted to overrun Paris with pigeons? The connection hit him like a blow to the gut. Marinette kept talking, but Adrien could only stare, forgetting whatever percentage he was on and just letting the pieces fall into place.
Dark hair, blue eyes. Design. Friend. Pigeons. One by one, the chips in Ladybug's invisible mask fell away, and only bright Marinette was left in her place. He should probably stop staring, but all he could do was memorize the way her bangs fell across her eyes, the constellations that connected the freckles that danced across her nose, gentle hands that could also punch his lights out if they tried.
He wondered how red his face was, or how many palpitations a heart could take before exploding. He ran the numbers, and came to terms that he was dangerously close to exploding.
Adrien, for maybe the sixth time, couldn't believe how stupid he was.
"Adrien? Are you okay?"
"Adrien? Are you okay?"
He was staring at her, jaw slightly ajar as if he had forgotten how to use it, eyes wide and unblinking. He was lost in whatever revelation he had just come across, but it was a little disconcerting the way he was so focused on her. He almost reminded her of a cat with its prey caught in its sights.
Only when she snapped her fingers in front of his face did he suddenly break out it, blinking rapidly and closing his mouth with a small click. He flushed a little at having been caught blatantly staring. "S-sorry, I just, oh wow, um." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry, I just, uh, thought of something really… amazing."
Marinette narrowed her eyes a bit in confusion. "What's amazing?"
She thought she heard a "You," in the breeze but she might have just been overhearing the children as they ran past in a lively game of tag. "I—it's nothing, I'll tell you later. Oh, wow, would you look at the time!"
He leapt to his feet, visibly flustered. Marinette had a sudden sinking feeling in her chest as she recognized the obvious disinterest in her company. She didn't meet his eyes as he rambled on about forgetting about a thing he had to do, and he was sorry that he couldn't stay longer, or something like that.
He waved goodbye, and she mumbled something in response. When she looked up, he was gone, his form just turning the corner and dead on sprinting out of sight. Marinette heaved a deep breath. Was he embarrassed to be seen with her? Had he realized how stupid it was to talk to some stupid girl who was way out of his league? Marinette held her sketchbook tightly against her chest as if it would relieve the pressure from within.
No, she mustn't jump to conclusions. Alya had a bad habit of seeing things when nothing was there. Notably back when she thought Chloe was a superhero in disguise just because she was a closet cosplayer. That had been a nasty incident, and Marinette didn't want anything bad to come of a simple misunderstanding. Maybe Adrien really was telling the truth.
What on earth could have made him so nervous? Maybe she should call Chat Noir. He's a guy, he'd know what other guys were thinking. She dug out her phone and dialed. When he didn't pick up, she dialed Alya instead. And, naturally, the journalist was all too eager to assist Marinette in her boy troubles.
"I'll be there in ten."