Author's note (Please read): This story will contain a lot of dark themes, including alcohol abuse, depression, self-harm, violence, broken dreams. If you are struggling with things in your life, please reach out for help. I will aim to limit the amount of vivid descriptions and I will try to put up a trigger warning before chapters that contain any of them. However, suffering is going to be consistently implied in all chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Miraculous.

1.

Adrien Agreste had big dreams. Ever since he was a little kid, he had dreamed of walking on the moon, traveling in space, terraforming Mars. This dream was alright, when he was a child. When he was four years old, his parents had even put glow in the dark stars on his ceiling, filling his nights with their dim light and letting his imagination roam.

One day he would have a place among stars. As he got older, however, he realized this dream was a forbidden one. He was the heir to his parents' fashion empire. The only son, the model, the face of the company. Throughout his teenage years, his frozen smile was plastered all over the town until the night his father had disowned him.

He told himself it was okay. He was doing it for his dreams. It wasn't like he needed Gabriel Agreste's support – his mother Emilie had left him a small fortune, when she died, and he still had most of the money from the modeling he'd been forced to do. As far as money was concerned, he was comfortable.

So, really, all he needed this job for was experience. It would look good in his CV and he would learn how to socialize with people around his age. It was something he felt deprived of because of never going to public school.

In all honesty, Adrien hated his job. Every day was a painful reminder of his modeling days. It didn't pay as much, but the pretending was the same. He wore the same fake smile. He acted all interested in other people's opinions. He made small talk with people who mattered. He recommended drinks without blinking, even though he himself didn't drink at all. From one night into another, he kept pretending to be someone he was not.

Plagg said it was his choice and that no one was forcing him to behave like that. Sometimes, Adrien wondered if the bar owner was right.

Sighing, he put the polished glass away. The bar was half-empty at this time of the day. There was nothing unusual about it.

The first customer of the day was a young man with flaming red hair. Adrien knew his order by heart and prepared it, earning a thankful grunt immediately after placing the shot glass in front of him, as the man pulled out a ragged sketchbook and a graphite pencil. He was an art student.

"Feeling inspired?" he asked conversationally.

"I guess." Nathaniel answered. Adrien remarked in his head that his voice was as monotone as his latest drawing. "I saw her today, you know. She looked right through me. Our eyes met, but she didn't see me at all." He downed his drink in one go. "One more, please."

Adrien gave him another one.

"I wish I'd never confessed to her. She's like an angel and well, I'm me."

The barman knew who his customer was talking about out. Nathaniel had brought her up several times before. The poor bloke was besotted with a woman he'd met in one of his art history courses. The lady, as beautiful as she was, was popular and admired by many, if anyone was to go by Nathaniel's words. Unfortunately, she had no interest in dating the redhead (or anyone else for that matter, if you'd ask Adrien – based on everything Nathaniel had told him, it seemed the angel's attention was elsewhere).

"There's nothing wrong with you," he commented just as Nathaniel ordered another drink. Adrien knew it would be his last one. The artist always limited himself to three before making his exit. Everything happened exactly as always. Nathaniel drank his last shot, stood up and walked off, waving Adrien goodbye.

When the clock struck 20, customers started trickling in. For a city of love, Paris sure had a lot of lonely hearts on its streets. He spotted a couple of regulars every now and then, made small talk and poured the drinks to get them drunk.

"Here you are," he placed an overly sugary drink in front of his old friend. Chloé thanked him with a smile, pulling the fashionable coat tighter around her. Adrien gave her a look.

"Chloé…" he started, but the woman cut him off.

"I'm fine, Adrikins. Everything's alright." She didn't meet his eyes.

"No, you're not." That much was obvious. "Did he hit you again?"

Chloé drew in a sharp breath, grabbed her drink and took a large sip.

"You really should leave him, Chloé." There was barely noticeable affection in his voice. The woman shook her head at it, trying to rid herself of all the what-ifs. What if she'd never met her husband, what if they'd never married, what if she had pursued Adrien a little while longer.

"I will. Eventually." She forced a smile on her face.

"If you need anything, you know I'm still here for you, right?"

"Yeah. I know."

Adrien watched as Chloé disappeared into the crowd. He wanted to help her, he really did. But you couldn't help someone who didn't want to be helped. And Chloé was proud. It had taken months for her to admit to her best friend that her husband had a problem. She was too good at pretending everything was alright. Adrien hoped from the bottom of his heart that things would get better for her.

He looked away only when another customer asked for his attention. His smile remained the same. It never reached his eyes in the first place, but if it had, talking with Chloé would have extinguished any happiness in it.

It was 15 minutes before midnight that another regular showed up. If Adrien was completely honest with himself, getting a bunch of people drunk was worth it, if it meant seeing her. The customer was a young woman with hair as dark as midnight and eyes as blue as bluebells. She always came at the same time. Sat in the same seat (sometimes he made sure it was empty for her arrival by asking other visitors to leave). Ordered the same thing.

She was so pretty. She made Adrien feel things. The first time she visited the bar, she'd simply slumped down in her seat, asked for a cup of coffee and drank it in record time before resting her head at the wooden counter, moaning about a headache.

It was the only time she'd spoken to him. When she'd looked up at him, he'd offered her a small smile only to be taken aback by her crimson cheeks, when their eyes met. She'd left in a hurry, leaving him wondering if he'd ever see her again.

But she kept coming back. And every day, he told himself that this would be the day when he'd find out her name. Except he never did.

He was too shy and she was too beautiful.

Next time, he swore to himself, when the door had closed behind her once she was gone. I will ask her the next time she comes.