All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts…

Freedom

Every good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This particular story is specifically about an ending, as all good things must come to.

The setting for our story was nothing to write home about. It was in no way spectacular nor exceptional. In fact, it was quite the normal day. Sunny, with a sparse spread of fluffy white clouds that whispered by merrily on the stray breeze. Temperate, not too cold and not too hot, as days in late fall tended to be. On this particularly pleasant fall day, the only thing that could be elected as vaguely exceptional could be the number of white butterflies that strangely found themselves gracing the autumnal leaves surrounding one of the nicest houses bordering the Place du Châtelet. Entomologists would later accredit global warming on the sudden and sporadic departure of this particular species from their normal dormancy stages.

The nearby children of Paris didn't care about all of that, however. They simply enjoyed the nice weather, cool breeze, and the gentle flutter of white wings against orange leaves.

The careful observer, however, may have noticed that the butterflies were particularly abundant near the mansion located at 75001. It was a lovely structure, beige and clean, decorated with beautiful glass windows, domes, and skylights, rising to a spire at one point. On the east side of the mansion, an observation window was left open, and from this window, the butterflies fluttered about inconspicuously, minding their own business and doing the things that butterflies tended to do. They visited the dormant rose bushes, currently void of buds in these late months, before moving on to seek more colorful pastures.

Adrien stood in the courtyard in front of the statue of his mother and watched another butterfly flutter away without a care, contemplating what it must be like. Did those butterflies feel as he felt? Purposeless? Without direction? Probably not, he decided. The only purpose that they had was seeking their own joie de vivre.

His father had been terrorizing his home and his friends for the past four years. His mother was magically comatose due to the misuse of a power she didn't understand. His Lady was out of town, working tirelessly to fix the mess his father had made and restore his family. If anyone should have been doing that, it was him. It ate at him, even as he logically understood it.

She was the rightful Guardian, named by Master Fu and accepted by some ancient, outdated Order hidden in a mountain range somewhere. He understood that the secrets she was now keeping were not hers to share. Still, she had agreed to something on his behalf, on his parent's behalf. Something she didn't want to tell him.

That could only mean that he wouldn't like it.

Whatever she agreed to, she shouldn't have. He could feel it in his gut. They were supposed to retire and live happily ever after. They'd earned it, damn it, and whatever she'd agreed on to help his parents, they weren't worth it! He swallowed heavily, knowing that as much as he proclaimed that, he was torn. God, help him, he still loved his father. He still loved his mother. He wanted the last four years back. He wanted a redo. He wanted to hear his mother again, feel the warmth of his father's hug. How long had it been? So long, that those feelings were faded to almost nothing.

What did his mother's voice sound like?

A white-winged butterfly rested momentarily on the statue of his mother's nose, slowly opening and closing its wings. He sighed and it flew away.

He still had a mess to clean up. Thankfully, he wasn't alone in this. His friends, sans Marinette who was currently on a university tour out of the country, were helping him pick up the pieces, in some ways literally. It wasn't every day you learned your father was a supervillain, after all. To put it kindly, he might have trashed his father's house in a fit of pique. Just a bit.

On the bright side, now there wasn't some megalomaniacal butterfly villain taking advantage of everyone's bad moods. He could rage against the machine all he wanted to now, and no one could stop him. He was free to be pissed, he was free to be angsty, he was free to hate, he was free to be heartbroken, and he was free to feel abandoned.

Why did he feel so empty?

At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.

Succor

Nathalie found him in that exact same spot several hours later. The butterflies were gone. The lights of the Eiffel tower could be seen over the privacy wall encapsulating the Agreste mansion. He'd long since given up standing, and was not sitting, one arm propped on a knee, one of his father's finest bottles of wine uncorked in his hand. No wineglass needed. She stood silently behind him to the side. He didn't know if she knew he was aware of her, but he was. A slight turn of his head would put her in his peripheral view. He expected her to clear her throat. Give him an update on the movers. Tell him that he was frivolously spending his time and that he needed to call it a night to prepare for tomorrow.

She did none of that. Not that he really cared. He steadfastly ignored her, taking another deep draft of the fine pinot noir, taking note only when the sound of her footsteps signaled she was walking away.

That was fine, too.

It hadn't taken him long to put it together once he'd realized that his father was Hawkmoth. For a brief period of time during his college days, he had been joined by a woman named Mayura, sickened by the broken Peacock miraculous. If his memory served him right, it was around that time that he'd noticed a closeness between his father and his assistant. At the time, he'd mistakenly assumed that his father was moving on. He'd been wrong. Tragically wrong.

Nathalie had been sick for a while before and following Shadowmoth's emergence. She recovered and Shadowmoth became stronger. She'd probably been Catalyst as well. He didn't know how to feel about his father's assistant now. He'd once viewed her as something akin to a second mother. Her one-sided care for his father was apparent, in hindsight, and he was certain that she'd cared for him in her own way. The fact she was still here was probably a testament to that. Acting as his assistant now during this "time of transition".

He scoffed and took another deep drink.

A heavy blanket fell around his shoulders. He startled, turning to look fully at its source, finding Nathalie there. He hadn't heard her coming this time. Was he supposed to say "Thank you"? Perhaps "That'll be all"? She looked just as professional as always. She'd accept whichever reaction he gave her with all the grace of a consummate perfectionist. Carefully blank. Sancouer. She wasn't truly heartless, though, was she. No, she had a heart. It was just wasted on the wrong family.

While he contemplated these truths, and his mixed feelings behind them, the older woman further surprised him by taking a seat next to him, primly tucking her legs to the side. He watched her as she took over his vigil, staring at the angelic statue of his mother. How did she feel about it? Was she just as disgusted by the lie in it as he was? The effigy of a living corpse, the casting of a mortal and flawed human in the guise of the angelic.

On a whim, he held the bottle of pinot noir out to her. She accepted it and took a drink from the bottle before examining the label. She gave a small chuckle. He'd never heard her laugh before, so this sound issuing from her throat was enough to warrant a double-take. "Eighty-three was a good year," she commented.

He didn't question it. Just accepted it as truth and accepted the bottle when she handed it back. "I'll take your word for it."

They sat in silence, each in their own thoughts. Every once in a while, Adrien would pass her the bottle. Between the two of them, there was perhaps less than a sip now.

"I thought of you as a second mother once," he admitted to her. "Probably still do, to be honest." He swirled the bottle around, hearing the remaining liquid slosh in the bottom. "Finding out I still had the first one after all this time sure was a kick in the pants, though."

"Adrien," Nathalie responded in that no-nonsense way that she always did, though it seemed that the words probably got stuck somewhere. Whatever she was going to say, she didn't. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded solemnly, lips tight.

"I know what you did, Nathalie," he said, looking at her, watching her face, watching the surprise break through the facade of impervious professionalism that she always cloaked herself in. She didn't defend herself or deny it. She didn't offer apologies or beg forgiveness for whatever perceivable sin. She made no excuses.

"Is that so," she replied dully, breaking eye contact.

He nodded, trusting that she would see it in her peripheral vision. He didn't forgive her. Though maybe he could, one day. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I'm glad you're here."

And there it was. Probably the most honest moment that he'd had with an adult in years. Though he supposed he counted as an adult now, himself. Freshly nineteen and already acting as proxy head of a fashion empire. Adulting was going to suck. It did suck. He'd been doing it for a week in the wake of his father's 'sabbatical'. At least he didn't have to model anymore. Small blessings.

He stood and walked over to the angelic statue, pouring the remaining wine at its base. Libations for the dead. What exactly had died, he wasn't sure. His childhood, perhaps.

He left the empty bottle at the base of the statue and turned to Nathalie, who already stood on her own. She looked at him, prim and proper as if she had never even sat down in the dirt with him. They stared at each other for a moment. She then stepped forward and took hold of the edges of the blanket draped over his shoulders. She pulled them forward, further wrapping him in the warm cloth, giving his now well-covered shoulders a pat, letting her hand linger. She picked a piece of invisible lint off of the blanket. "I'll always be here, Adrien. For however long you need me."

Before she could escape, he pulled the prim woman into a tight hug, effectively wrapping them both in the blanket. "Thank you, Nathalie," he whispered.

The next morning, Nathalie gave him a card. A therapist. "I personally recommend him," Nathalie simply stated, a knowing warmth in her voice, before walking away, giving orders to the movers in the next room not even moments later.

He contemplated the card in his hand. Nathalie's own therapist, huh? He gave the square of printed card stock a smirk and pocketed it, moving on with his day. He'd think about it.

And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow.

La petite mort

Ladybug stood in his nearly empty bedroom, illuminated by the pale moonlight that filtered through the tall windows. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You can't be serious."

She put her arms around herself. "I'm sorry, Chaton," she answered his disbelief with her own regret. "If there was another way, but there isn't. I need to do this."

She was doing it for him. She was leaving him for him. It was bullshit. "One year? Two years?" he asked, shaking his head. "No. I'm coming with you."

"You can't!" she yelled, her voice cracking at the end. "I tried! I tried to make them change their mind, but they won't allow it!"

"Damn it, Bug! They are My Parents!" He yelled back.

"But I'm the Guardian!" It sounded like a slap, but his face felt surprisingly bruise-free. His soul, however…

Damn this stubborn woman. Damn her determination and her dedication. The reasons he loved her desperately were also the reasons he currently hated her.

"Don't do this," he pleaded. "Don't sacrifice everything you have here for them. Don't do it for me. I don't want it."

This was the first time he'd seen her in two weeks, and it was her trying to tell him goodbye. At least he now knew the great big secret she'd been keeping. He found out what she'd traded for Gabriel and Emilie. She had to be the nursemaid and the jailer. The healer and the protector. God damn it, it was his job to do half of that! But no. Some antiquated, outdated relic of a bygone era wouldn't allow him in because he lacked a nearly arbitrary title. She was trading away her freedom for years, putting her entire life on hold so that he could continue living his.

"I can't," she now cried softly, ugly tears leaving salt on her cheeks. "I can't stay, and it isn't fair to you, and I'm sorry..."

Damn right, it wasn't fair, and not just for him.

He growled in frustration, a deep guttural sound that shocked her, causing a gasp to escape from her parted lips as he crashed a kiss upon them. It was an exchange of emotions, his pain and longing fighting with her apology and tears. He didn't want her apologies. He didn't want her tears. He wanted her to want him in the same way that he wanted her. He wanted her love, he wanted her lust. He wanted to pour his soul into her and to receive in return. He wanted her to stay with him, his parents be damned. They'd made their beds, let them lie in them.

She broke the kiss first, and he feared he'd lost her before they'd even started. He'd revealed too much, showed too much of the depths of his feelings, and scared her away. She already felt out of his reach and growing further and further every growing moment. He searched her eyes for a sign, a signal, a glimmer, anything. Their breaths came in pants and what he saw in the rise and fall of her chest was that she felt it too.

Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound…

"I love you. I am in love with you. Everything you are, all your faults and traits and quirks and talents," he declared. "I want all of them in my life, forever. Whoever is under this mask," he brushed a finger along the edge of the offending piece, "I am desperately in love with her. I'm begging you to let her stay with me, My Lady."

This was it. All of his cards were on the table. One ring short of a proposal. Whatever happened, he wouldn't regret it. He couldn't regret it. For a moment, he feared her rejection.

Soft hands cradling his face, she pulled him back down into another desperate kiss. He had grown so much taller than her over the years… With a signal from his hands on her hips, he lifted her, holding her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He leaned against the back of his couch, holding her to him and relishing the taste of her tongue. She hummed and they caught their breaths as she rested her forehead on his.

"God, Adrien," she breathed, a sobbed laugh escaping her lips. "I'm desperately in love with you, too, you stupid cat."

Real life, real love, is messy and chaotic. Happiness is not a state of being, but a reaction to a moment, a choice. A decision to be here, in this moment, regardless of the next, living life, embracing love, regardless of where it would lead. His lips met hers and there was no fanfare, no sudden revelation. No bells were heard, the sky did not part, and angels did not descend. Her taste was no less sweet.

Had this been a sappy love story, there may have been lines written about how the starlight shown in her eyes and comparisons of how perfectly they fit together, moving in perfect harmony. This isn't that sort of story though, and neither of those things would have been true, regardless. They fell together in the dark, a fumbling of needy bodies, desperate to make a connection, to reach within each other and find themselves. To find their completion. It was true to say that they needed each other like they needed their next breath, however.

Alter egos were abandoned and clothing was shed in a flurry of hands and lips and tongues and teeth. What followed was awkward and exciting, intoxicating and scary. It was exploration and discovery, the sounds she made and the way he felt. He worshiped at the altar of creation and she destroyed him with the way she moved. Two fools in love, stealing a moment in time and making the most of it. Choosing to ignore the rest of the world and relishing the small one they created together. The pocket world of 'us'.

The sound of his name on her lips was music to his ears. As she called it in her pleasure, it was a classical symphony. He regretted not having a name to call her. "Tell me who you are," he pleaded in her ear.

"Yours," she replied. "Always yours."

"Mine," he replied, cherishing the sound of that. "Mine," he whispered on her skin.

Even as he cherished her and claimed every inch of her for himself, he dreamed that this could be his forever. In the wee hours, he inhaled the strawberry fragrance of her hair and prayed. She hadn't said yes. She hadn't said no, either, though. For now, she slept, cuddled into his chest, her slender fingers loosely entwined with his, her leg thrown over his thigh.

"I should have known you'd be such a cuddle-bug," he whispered into the crown of her hair, smiling at his unheard pun, placing a kiss there before closing his eyes and allowing himself to drift into a deep, restful sleep. What comes tomorrow will be tomorrow. They had much to talk about in the morning. But now? Now it was time to dream.

The sun on his face surprised him awake, as it meant he'd slept in, which wasn't possible. His morning alarms always went off before sunrise. He jolted awake, realizing instantly that something vital was missing. He was alone.

He grabbed his phone off the left nightstand. His alarm had been turned off. No calls, no messages. He checked the right nightstand.

There, braided and tied with a red ribbon was a braid of midnight blue-black hair. It still smelled of strawberry fragrance.

Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Sunlit Rain

Two days later found Adrien saying goodbye to another good friend. This send-off was less of a surprise, though. At least Marinette had given them a week's notice. Still, with Ladybug's departure still fresh on his heart, he didn't feel quite so ready to wish Marinette safe travels. It confused him, to be honest, though he supposed he couldn't fault her for wanting to reconnect with her Chinese family in a meaningful way before committing to a school and launching her career.

Still, the sophisticated young woman who met with him, Alya, and Nino, was not Marinette. It wasn't possible.

The pigtails were gone. Her dark hair was now cut into a banged pixie that framed her face, a pair of sunglasses nestled in the locks atop her head. Upon closer inspection, he could see why. She'd attempted to use makeup to hide the dark circles. It was also clear that she'd been crying from the lingering redness of her eyes. Even with that, she was startlingly beautiful.

"Until we meet again, Princess," he smiled with a bow as he held her hand. He watched her eyes widen in surprise and realized that he might have just slipped up. She didn't indicate that he had, however, and he relaxed.

"You are going to make me cry again," she admitted with a wobbly smile. When she sighed deeply it was ragged, even as her smile widened. There was something fragile about it. "You know, I had the hugest crush on you in school."

It was his turn to give her a surprised look. Did she mean him-Chat or him-Adri… oooh. "Ooooh," he realized, vocalizing with the realization. "So all the nervousness and stuttering…"

She huffed a small laugh. "It was so obvious." She shook her head.

"Not to poor old home-schooled me, it wasn't," he pouted. "I thought you were afraid of me or something." He handed Marinette her bag, which he had offered to carry for her from the cars. "I guess this means you are finally over me, huh?" He joked at their easy banter.

She smiled at him, her eyes growing a little misty. She stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his cheek. "Goodbye, Adrien," she said, not answering the question.

He watched her as she said her goodbyes to Alya and Nino in turn, hugging her best friend tightly and threatening a promise of everlasting devotion to Alya out of Nino. She teased them about the future. "I love you guys," she said to them, hugging both of them tightly at the same time, giving them loud sloppy kisses on the cheeks.

It wasn't like the soft kiss she'd given him. She didn't hug him and say "I love you" like that. Perhaps it was his fresh heartbreak from Ladybug, but he ached watching the dark-haired girl. She'd been one of his first and best friends all through school. He admired her creativity and her quiet ferocity. His 'everyday Ladybug', he'd once called her. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that is why it hurt so much to watch her leave.

She waved goodbye one more time and blew them kisses, picking up her bags. She was now walking away. He didn't want her to do that yet… He didn't mean to reach out and grab her wrist, but he did. He didn't mean to crush her to him in a tight hug, but he did. "I'm going to miss you, so, so much," he told her in a near whisper, then slowly released her. "Take care. And hurry back," he told her.

She nodded wordlessly with a misty-eyed smile, shooting glances back at them (him?) while she walked away.

When he turned back to Alya, she was glaring at him, arms crossed. "Go after her, Sunshine. Don't let her leave."

He blinked at the redhead, surprised at the command. "It's not my choice," he replied.

"Dude, you are an idiot," Nino cut in, face-palming. "You might not get another chance. If you let her go now, she might be gone forever."

At that thought, his gaze was drawn back down the concourse, eyes searching out the familiar dark head of hair. His breath caught as he saw her turn around with a smile and a wave, one last time. She turned back around, handing over a bag. "I can't," he echoed. "Besides…" Ladybug… "I don't think she'd stay anyway." Marinette had finally vanished completely from view. She was gone.

He parted ways with Alya and Nino, waving goodbye to them as they went their own way. He clutched his keys in his hands, walking with purpose. His walk gave way to a jog, and then to a run. He ignored the shouts of strangers as he sailed through the long corridors and pathways that spilled into the parking garage. He drove away from the airport in a blur that he barely processed, stopping once he'd reached the overlook on the outside of Paris. He parked and waited. He ignored the first drop of rain that touched his face. And the second. The sun still warmed his skin, even as the gentle drops chilled it.

He didn't have an umbrella. He didn't care. He let the droplets wash over him.

In real life, there are rarely happy endings. Usually, by nature, endings are sad. Even though there was no way for him to know which one she was on, he had to bear witness. He had to watch her fly away. As Adrien watched the departing planes grow smaller and smaller into the endless blue horizon, he exhaled. Everything hurt. His heart. His soul. His arms from where he had carried her luggage. His toe from where he had stubbed it on the curb. But he was free now. Free to move on, find himself, and grow. He was free to choose his own joie de vivre. Adrien Agreste had always been defined by others. His father, his friends, Ladybug. Now he was free to define himself.

Endless, terrifying freedom. But every ending was also a new beginning. He put on his sunglasses, boldly facing the golden blur in the sky as he ignored the rain that hit his shades. Bring it on.