Ensconced under his thick comforter to sweat out the uncertainty in his own private hot-box, the cloying darkness a reprieve from the cavernous room that echoes with his own unspoken thoughts, Adrien scratches at his chest.
His arms.
His itchy red scalp that must be notched with crosshatched red marks from his blunted finger nails.
Plagg, having been forced to take a breath-mint, which, for once, he did without complaint about it searing the lingering flavour of his beloved Camembert from his mouth, is invisible in the darkness, but his presence is firm and ... furry.
Very much a cat claiming his territory, the god had plopped right on Adrien's face when the boy himself had thrown himself into bed. Little paws jerk about as he dreams, mumbling sweet-nothings to his imagined cheese, by the sound of things.
Adrien sighed when the little guy first plopped into place with a dismissive huff, as if it made any sense whatsoever: "My bed feels weird. I'm sleeping on your face now."
With Plagg slumbering, his minuscule puffs of breath tickling Adrien's eyelashes, he can't move or scratch too vigorously for fear of disturbing his friend.
He doesn't need someone else outraged at, or disgusted by, him. Ladybug has always proven the most patient and indulgent of partners, despite the heavy burden that seemed to be crushing her at times. That she should be so terribly offended by ... whatever he'd done, is actually something of a surprise.
She was right to leave him.
Though nothing like his father, the girl should put some distance between them, cool off, let him try to understand what he's done.
But that darn itching is everywhere!
It's even in his eyes again.
Presumably, Adrien is not allergic to his little buddy, his only friend at the moment, as that purring snore rumbles into his brain, vibrating out the dark thought on which he should probably fixate because he needs to find a solution.
But the rumble is too soothing, and the ghost-fire-ants go marching legion by legion under his skin.
There's an ugly dichotomy at play: Plagg's presence and the swirling thoughts that he wants and needs out as badly as Chat Noir hungers to escape this room and glut his never-surfeited desire to run circles around the Parisian rooftops.
He has to get out.
Even though his body is slick with sweat, the air heavy with his exhaled breath, the moist and rough comforter that he wishes was a weighted blanket like the one that his mother had given to him when he was suffering from night terrors as a child, young enough for her to still play action figures with him, and sat with him through the night so that he wouldn't dream, didn't have to be afraid to sleep with her in the easy chair beside him...
God, he has to get out!
He's not crying. Sweat is just in his eyes.
...it's too cold.
For once, there are no complaints from a visibly disgruntled, near-somnolent Plagg as Adrien bursts from bed, not looking at his desk, at the drawers with his hidden, ugly stupid action figures that his father was right he never should have bought.
He should just listen.
That's the problem. Isn't it?
Not listening. Not hearing what people need so that he can give that to them, be that to them.
He didn't really listen to Marinette, and hurt her; he ignored whatever injured Ladybug, and wounded his partner; he didn't heed the warnings about the contract, so sure of himself, and Marie's tears are his fault too.
It feels like Guilttrip.
He has to get out, and he's not even thinking about the room, now.
And he is, Plagg's power allowing him to burst into the slightly chill Parisian night, Chat Noir playing among the stars and the glittering host of lights that bloom throughout the city.
Running the rooftops usually burns thought out of him; Adrien thinks, plans, measures and weighs responses in light of company policy, PR firm marketing strategies, and his father's expectations.
Chat Noir just does.
Doesn't he?
He's honest as Chat Noir, just being and living and trying so hard to prove himself to Ladybug. That's who matters. Whose opinion matters.
He's honest.
He tells himself that, being honest.
But how can he be genuine about his feelings and his needs when he doesn't even understand them, he wonders as he vaults past his school, flipping along the edges of the masonry so that he can bounce between ledges and outcroppings for no reason beyond the fact that it seems fun.
Chat Noir laughs, and the guffaws bubble up, beating on his own ears as he peers into the classroom windows. Music equipment, tucked away with care and attention, and a piano, well-used by dozens of students over the years, shared, passed down, lie in one familiar music hall. His fingers find the grooves between brickwork as the leather-clad boy clambers to the next, Chat Noir not thinking or needing to know where he's going, and he finds the art-room, dark, especially against the lights behind him from the cityscape.
Granted preternatural sight by Plagg, Chat Noir can see in the dark – he can see, but can't think, doesn't want to – and the normally bright room is dull, bereft of its typical frenetic activity, overseen and directed by the gentle, middle-aged art-teacher.
It was here that Marinette had, in her own way, helped establish the partnership that saw Marc and Nath joining their work together as much as their lives. Only the cool, still darkness lies there, unperturbed, when normally the room is awash in brazen creativity and authenticity, expression unrestrained from dozens of students who weren't judged, but embraced, encouraged to create something that mattered, that spoke to them as they spoke through it.
A shake of his head tosses out the burgeoning thoughts before they can truly form as he takes off again. What is he even doing here?
There was no reason whatsoever that a small child being able to get the present she wanted for her birthday should have affected him to that degree. He's being an idiot, irrational, emotional, childish.
He always is, so much so that he'd dropped everything and maybe displeased his Ladybug by giving away the gift that he'd intended for her.
Could her censure have been due to the possibility, however remote, of an identity reveal? Like, someone stealing the toy and taking his fingerprints off of it?
God, why hadn't he thought of that? Anything could happen!
Maybe it was favoritism shown to a particular civilian who – who should be rewarded for striving to her utmost, in that painfully sincere juvenile way, to show her daddy that he didn't have to be concerned for her, that she was growing up and it was vital for her to prove that to him?
...
Marinette is pacing her rooftop balcony.
When had he arrived, hunkered down behind the ledge of the building sitting across from the Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie?
That's the problem with acting on instinct; it leads him places that he doesn't want to go, makes him do things that Adrien, after Chat Noir has had his fun, is then required to contemplate. Assess.
Marinette doesn't give him the time. There's a grimace-inducing smack and smash of his heart against his rib-cage as he watches the girl freeze up and then glance around the rooftop as if seeking an escape route, nearly, it seems, on the verge of leaping off the two story building, tucking into a ball, praying, and rolling to cushion her fall before breaking off into a sprint.
That might not be necessary, though.
With the vibrations and flailing arms, she could probably flap away like Mister Pigeon.
She looks so pained, so uncertain, so unlike Marinette when she's been faced with Chat Noir in the past, save for that moment on her rooftop when -
When she said that she loved him.
Completely unlike the sassy spitfire that called to his feline instincts.
Why is she so close that he can see his own reflection in those massive sky-blue eyes that are kind of like heaven opening up to him?
Oh.
He's leapt down to the roof right next to her.
That's why.
Chat Noir is leaving Adrien a lot to think about.
But for now, he's got to bite an unexpected bullet.
Marinette interrupts him before he has a chance to speak, to apologize or execute a careful tactical withdrawal.
"Chat Noir!" she gasps, stumbling, having to support herself by clasping onto the railing of her balcony. "What are you doing here, not that you shouldn't be here because it's a free country and you can go wherever you want except military bases or quarantine zones or private property or if you're a prisoner, but you're a superhero so of course you wouldn't go to jail unless they actually start prosecuting vigilantes and I'll be on your legal team if you need me-" Marinette only seems to pause because, if that beat-red face is any indication, she's about two seconds away from asphyxiating herself.
Also, Marinette has impressive lung capacity, but there's no reason for her to be so frazzled, unless something else has happened in her life that he doesn't know about.
A vehement snarl gets caught up in his throat while he strives to placate her with raised hands.
Maybe another run-in with Lila.
"Marinette, it's going to be okay," he offers, breathless for her sake. Yes. That's the only reason. "Whatever is wrong, we can fix it. I was just passing by and saw you pacing like – I don't know. Like you were thinking about something serious."
"Thinking? Me? No!" She waves him off, as if trying to direct him away from a hideous impending car crash wherein there would be no survivors. "I don't think that I sink thoughts – I meant think thoughts which are probably the only thing that you can think, but not me because I don't think at all!"
Chat Noir blinks, a tentative claw held up in the air as he can feel the grimace split his face. She looks like she needs to sit down, maybe get a glass of water. "Uh... why don't we go inside?"
Her eyes blow wide, fixating on his face as she licks her lips.
"You want to go in my room?!" she squawks, recoiling and clutching at her heart.
"I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Marinette," he reassures, settling to his haunches with his belt-tail drooping and ears tucking themselves flat into his blonde hair with the sense that she needs him to look as small and innocuous as possible, like a leather-paper-tiger.
Her hands worry together, blood squeezing tight, bursting to the surface and the sound of shifting bone is actually audible.
"Yeah." She nods. "Comfortable. Not like you came for my table, but like it would be comfortable if we went into my room where my table is."
That's one way of putting it.
"And your chaise or bed-"
She shudders for some reason, face as red as her hands.
"-just something more com- more cozy so you can maybe take a seat?" he offers while taking a slow step towards her. Given that he's also crouching, that makes him kind of scuttle, which is also intentionally goofy enough for her to grin almost painfully wide.
"O-okay. Yeah!" Her right eye twitches. Then her left. Then both. Out of sync. "We can go into my room and get – get cozy."
"So you really don't mind if we head down into your room," he blurts, ears stiffening. Is rambling contagious and might this be the effects of an akuma? "I know that privacy is really important, and – and you don't really know me so it might make things a little awkward even if I'm just trying to help."
"Oh, I know." She affirms like that gif of a deer from Bambi. "You're totally helpful – could help in lots of ways that a girl needs, like with lifting heavy objects and putting them down places."
"Nah!" He waves her off, still scuttling, getting closer so that actually has to start craning his neck to look up at her like she's some form of distant benevolent goddess of whom he is actually graced to be within touching range. "You don't need help lifting heavy objects when you're as strong as you are since you live in a bakery and that – that makes you strong, right?"
A wince crosses his face, which he tries to suppress because he's making an idiot out of himself. What is going on here, and why?
It's good, though, this feeling of flustering incompetence. For once being a mess doesn't seem like a burden on him or others and it's a distraction, forcing him into the moment so that he doesn't think...
Resolving to act without thought seems to be something that they're both doing today, as she lances out to grab his arm and tug him up to shaking feet, legs a little wobbly from crouching while his head swims from the rush of blood which must also account for the burning in his cheeks.
"Let's get you inside and get some chocolate inside of hot milk and then hot-chocolate inside of you!" she declares, tugging him along.
That does sound rather nice to him as he permits her to shove him through the hatch to her room, and very nearly cart him over to her chaise, plopping his kitty-butt down and settling him just so like he's a treasured piece of furniture she's rearranging before hurrying off downstairs.
It's an odd feeling, really.
He's seen her toss around Kagami like this, but never him. Ladybug has the same liberties with Chat Noir, hefting him like a sack of kittens or lobbing him like a football, but-
Never Adrien.
Adrien isn't really touched, or handled.
That's the thought that lingers as he takes in the bedroom. Everything appears to be largely in order, a state of carefully controlled creative chaos providing the room with a touch of humanity, as opposed to the clinical perfection left behind by the cleaning staff that tends to his room. Because he doesn't want to burden them, he tries so hard to make sure that every toy and DVD is stacked away in its proper place, all the shelves dusted, bed sheets smoothed and clean.
It – it's terrible to return to that room and not find it the way that he had left it, so pretending that it is makes things better. Someone was in there, rearranging, plucking up, cleaning messes that might have simply been him reorganizing his belongings, putting his possessions where he wanted them.
Of course, they weren't his.
His father's house. His father's room. His father's possessions.
His father's son...
Saving him just in time, his everyday Ladybug appears, entering through the hatch with two mugs of cocoa. Visible steam carrying with it the odour of rich and dark chocolate gets caught up within sloppy dollops of whipped cream, homemade from the smell of it, which is dusted with chocolate shavings.
Marinette looks calm as she returns, stable and set.
Resolved.
It's a really good look on her, and he swallows down a funny feeling in his tummy and chest that's making every effort to crawl its way up his throat as a purr.
"Here we go, Chat." She hands over a mug, which he accepts without hesitation, his gauntlets protecting him from the heat that, shockingly, still penetrates his gloves when her fingers brush his as they make the hand off.
Strange.
Maybe his conflicted feelings are impacting his powers.
With a quick breath and grin that's sweeter than the whipped cream that brushes his lips on his first sip, then gulp, she settles against the nearby wall.
Why is she keeping her distance?
"See, the trick to hot-chocolate is to melt-down real chocolate in a saucepan with the milk, but that takes a long time, and I didn't want to leave you waiting, so I just made instant." A quick puff of breathe sends steam flying, trying to cool off the beverage. "We had fresh whipped cream left over from today, just a little bit, so that should help."
"Oh, yeah." He mimics her, and maybe it was terrible, but he didn't mind the way that his first sip had burnt his lips and tongue. He hadn't felt it. Or maybe he had, and just not thought about it. "I guess that makes a lot of sense."
Against the sting that blooms and spreads, his lips smack.
He looses a throaty hum, still clamping down on the purr despite the fact that the flavor is a little artificial. "I've never really made it myself, so I wouldn't know."
"Yeah. It's – it takes some time to learn, and- and that's okay, you know? Everything does." Her fingers trail the rim of her mug, the girl herself staring at the dark liquid. "To work on things and understand them so you can get things right."
"If you want to be good at it. At anything," he adds, looking up at her with a superstitious side-glance. "Practice is pretty important. That's why Ladybug and I go out for patrols, I think. So we can, get used to working as a team, learn how we move together."
That's something that took no time at all to learn, though; they fell into it.
This is weird. Awkward. Everything about it badly so.
The puns and flirts should flow like mercury when Marinette usually tugs them out.
Why aren't they?
"Yeah." There's a little stuttering chuckle from her curved lips. The girl raises her mug. "When I first tried to – to make it, I was about five years old, and we just boiled water and added in a packaged mix, just like this one. It really wasn't rich enough, but I was really proud of making it, and learning."
He can see the little girl, eyes and face tight with focus, being watched over by her papa, Tom Dupain, wincing at every step that she took and ready to race in at a moment's notice as his little girl paraded about the kitchen, trying her best to pour boiling water.
Would Tom have let her do that? The image is so clear. Was that... normal?
"That sounds like a good memory." Is it the memory, or the one that he manufactures? Is there a difference?
Chat Noir is doing too much thinking. He takes another sip, sugar, cocoa, and cream rich on his scalded tongue.
She pops her lips, drumming the side of her mug and then looking up at him. "So, you wanted help with something? What can I do for the, uh, hero of Paris this evening."
Completely the opposite. He starts swirling the hot chocolate in slow circles, watching the cream melt and dissipate. "Actually, I was just checking up on you. To see if you were alright because- because you looked a little stressed, and it's my job to look out for you."
He flinches and looks up at her, just as she's in the middle of swallowing what appears to be a golf-ball sized lump in her undulating throat.
"Uh, I mean civilians! A hero looks out for all civilians, right?"
Don't ask her that, you dolt. Tell her that.
"Right," she coughs on a mouthful of chocolate, wiping a thin dribble that curves its way on a languid journey from her pretty pink lips, red with the heat of her drink, to the top of her chin. "You and – and Ladybug have to look out for civilians."
"Yeah, so, uh." A finger gun is cool. He shoots one off. "How can I look out for you tonight?"
His idiocy truly knows no bounds.
"Oh, well... it's really funny that you should ask, or, well, that you should stop by."
"Why's that? I mean, I don't make a habit of that." He's not an unfaithful kitty, after all; the only person on whom he's ever "stopped in," multiple times, in fact, is Marinette.
"This is going to sound really strange, but... I saw the news today and... I saw how you looked after Ladybug left the battle." Her face darkens and warps, almost like his father's when Gabriel reminds him of some terrible gaff. "You seemed... really hurt."
"Me? Never, princess." He brushes the piping along his chest with a closed fist, offering a half-bow. "Nothing could be fuuurther from the truth, I a-purr you."
Marinette is clearly not impressed with his admittedly anemic and forced punning.
"You know that... it's okay to feel hurt, and to tell people that."
It's a statement; not a question, however much he would like it to be.
"Oh, it- it's really nothing."
"If it hurt you, then it's not nothing," she assures. "That's the opposite of nothing."
Giving voice to an idea gives it power, makes it real in some act of transubstantiation that's arcane as alchemy, operating by abstruse laws even by the standards of theoretical physics or the magic of the miraculous.
Perhaps its the opposite; an idea concretized into words, acknowledged, might be like ripping a knife from a wound.
"I- it's just that I think that I really did something to upset Ladybug."
Her face twitches and shakes like that of a dog loosing a sneeze. "What?"
"After we finished with the akuma battle-" there's no reason to be telling a civilian this, but Marinette ... she makes Adrien hurt less. Yes. That's it. And that's a truth. He's hurting; isn't he? Has been hurting. Has been hurt. "She took off so fast, and – and looked pretty ... angry. She was fine before I got back with the, uh – after I bought that Ladybug figure for Marie – the girl that we rescued. So it must have been something that I did."
A sarcastic and long-suffering roll of the eyes or spiral into an awkward bumble are the two reactions that are to be expected from Marinette during a typical conversation with Chat Noir – however rare they might actually be – or Adrien, respectively.
This time, she looks him right in the eye. She's fearless and cool, the opposite of the Marinette that flails through life around him.
"Chat, it's possible for someone to do nothing wrong and still get hurt – or for someone else to get hurt," she assures. The gentleness and that gaze are so intimate, like she's trying to cradle him without even needing to lay hands on him. "You're not always responsible for how other people act around you, what they feel, or what they do or should have done."
"I know it's not my fault per se," he admits, withering under that stare, the boiling warmth of Marinette's room intensifying, as he pretends to lounge on her chaise. "But if I was smarter about it, I could – I don't know, make it so that they didn't have to act that way."
"I... I think that one of the hard things to learn, for some people, is how to let people take ownership of their actions. It's not on... Ladybug to make Chloe a better person, or me to always point out when Lila's lying to people if they choose to believe her, or you to... smooth over problems."
"But I did something, or said something to make Ladybug upset."
"Chat, its like you said to that little girl – I – I heard it on the news." She looks to the floor and then right in his eyes. "You did nothing wrong and Ladybug was just... an idiot to make you feel that you did."
"But I..."
She halts yet another objection with a raised hand.
"Chat, I'm not trying to invalidate how you feel!" she growls, the sudden spurt of near-rage yet one more cryptic mystery.
There's nothing to say to that, beyond giving her time and space, letting her set their gait in this strange sack-race wherein all four of their legs feel bound-up together by camouflaged puppet strings.
In what must be a huff, she leans down to scoop up his mug which, apparently, he has finished without noticing, and carts it to her computer table, rearranging the handles slightly once, twice, three times so that they're both angled in exactly the right way, she faces him. With a nod, she leans her butt on the edge of the desk.
"That's the last thing that I want," she continues. "I'm just trying to... give you an outside perspective. Not... from your own head."
"Princess, you're acting like I have thoughts in my head," he scoffs and taps his skull, right under his kitten ear, the lingering taste of cocoa somehow bitter, all the more so because as he's speaking, he realizes that it might sound like mockery. "Rest assured that this cat only ever goes where his heart leads him."
"Feelings are important, but they lie to us a lot too." Her gaze shifts to her work desk. There, amid piles of papers and school textbooks, lay Ladybug and Chat Noir next to writing implements, protractors and compass, sloppy-illegible notes that might be in code, a magnifying glass, and some cutlery.
A break to play in the midst of completing homework.
"I know that, Chat. I've dealt with that for... for a really long time."
"I wouldn't dream of comparing the meagre travails of this cat's existence to your burdens," he schmoozes, though completely honest. Don't make comparisons; there's no point in thinking about them.
She looks bereft of answers; perhaps that's why she says nothing whatsoever. Her shoulder merely slump, and there's a lurid sensation that forces him to look away, like he's staring at her while she's changing, putting on a different outfit for school.
Obviously, he looked in the wrong direction.
The itching is back, but deeper.
Proudly displaying the complex web of relationships that he wishes that he could understand, her photo-wall no longer features any modelling shots; only those taken when he was at school. One photograph shows them together, her reddened face cast to the ground as they work together on a school project. He remembers the moment, but not the picture. Maybe Alya took it without their knowing.
That photograph makes him look like Chat Noir, showing off those teeth as a day's labour and laughter has unsettled his pristine hair.
Through his tablet screen that night, his father had scolded him for sullying the company image. He was an Agreste; not a child. Prove yourself worthy of that, and what he meant was prove yourself worthy of me and the family. Have some dignity.
Another photo sets his heart hammering: Marinette, chin in her palm, again unaware of Alya, clearly. Free from a blush but consumed with the simple joy of a child looking at a pile of Christmas presents not with avarice, but awe. Undiluted. Pure. She's staring down at him while he gabs with Nino.
God, that look...
She's making him think, peeling off the mask like one of Hawkmoth's victorious akuma, voice a gentle burble rather than a husky victory cry. She says something, lips moving but words inaudible over the rush of blood, and the itch that has its own sound. Synesthesia for something, he knows not what.
Right now, in Marinette's room, he's Adrien, but not the one that can just survive as Gabriel's poster-boy, a walking billboard.
He doesn't think that he likes it in Marinette's room, though the scent of pastry and perfume and her skin is everywhere, though she's brought him hot chocolate.
It's too warm, scalding like he's been holding his hands in icy slurry, only to dip frost-bitten fingers into a lukewarm glass of water, fresh from the tap.
Thawing hurts.
It hurts so much, but so, so good.
It itches so hard that it burns like the flesh just under the thin membrane of skin is trying to claw its way out.
"Are you okay?" she asks quickly as she sits down next to him gingerly. She smells of sweat and uncertainty, aggression, concern, disappointment that has no direction; after so long as Chat Noir, he knows the odours of those emotions, sees them in the twists of her body and brow.
"Nice toy, Marinette," he says, pointing to her desk instead of answering, and gives her his best model smile that Chat Noir shouldn't have to proffer as an offering. Marinette doesn't deserve to have more burdens in her life. It's all that Adrien has, though. "My Lady would be so flattered to know that you're a fan."
She blinks. The faint smile she offers is so.. shy. "It was a gift."
"Oh, from a friend?" He scratches his cheek, looking anywhere but her face and he runs smack dab into his own – all those pictures of him and her and their friends.
"Yes." Her hand is soft on his shoulder, fingers to the grooves of leather. "One of my best friends."
"Oh, you- One of your best friends?" Marinette holds him to be one of her best friends! "You think that much of him?"
"I think the world of him Chat," she says, rising up, but not leaving him, to reposition the figure, letting his little Lady stand next to two Chat Noirs.
"He may be the best man I've ever met," she proclaims while turning on him. "The- the most special boy in the world."
Oh, God.
"But even if he wasn't, he'd still be him, and- and that's why I'd still care. He doesn't need to be... good to be... cared for."
She stands there, resplendent in the low light of her room and the sight is enough to have him licking his lips, not even tasting the chocolate because the firm stance and confident smile, like that day at the Eiffel tower when Ladybug challenged the world, but seemed like she was speaking just to him, are so painfully evocative.
Everyone has at least a little crush on Marinette.
He understands why.
But she shouldn't call him a man.
He's not.
"I'm sure that he can't be all that, Marinette, but it was very nice of him to try to get you a gift. He- he must really care about you a lot."
She seems visibly flustered at that, cheeks puffing up before she slaps them nervously. "He is, though, and more in a lot of ways that I'm still learning about."
"Sounds pretty considerate, but if he did something stupid and upset you, it's nothing less than you deserve."
"That's not it at all. He thought that he'd hurt my feelings because... because he was doing what he thought was best, and that matters, even if we disagreed, and he made that-" she points a finger towards his little Lady - "as an apology."
He just wishes that he had that Multimouse figure to give her too ... and one for his own room. She deserves to be reminded that she's a hero too.
"Chat Noir," she begins with a hint of trepidation. "I know that this is probably a little bit weird since, well, I – I confessed to you that one time, but.. can I hug you?"
"You don't have to ask, Marinette," he assures gently.
She doesn't move, and his arms drop to his sides halfway through the process of rising up. "No, I think that I do. People should... they should always ask if it's okay to touch you, or- how you feel about something, rather than just assuming it."
"We live by assuming things, Marinette. Just... how people act in the past, or what they tell us at one point, or even how they move- all of it can let as assume how they feel." Everything about Ladybug and Chat Noir was based on that, really – the truths they couldn't speak; the carefully-maintained facades.
That was okay because they knew each other by instinct and nature, intimately conjoined.
Two halves of the same whole.
That he'd split.
Chat Noir wasn't honest.
That was just him lying again.
He had to be stripped down to something raw in order to admit that to himself.
"Maybe, but when it matters, we shouldn't keep living by them. It's like-" If she wasn't a responsible teen, Marinette would have looked like she wanted something stronger than her hot chocolate as she gulps down a mouthful of saliva, and breathes, a little sniffling huff through her nose. "Like with any skill. We have to try to get better at learning how to live with people too, not just get stuck in the assumptions, even if they seem reasonable or – or easier than putting in the hard work to learn."
"Oh, I guess that I, uh, wouldn't know much about that either," he posits. "I mean, with me, what you see is what you get on the tin." He pats a pectoral muscle. "Knight in shining leather, debonair hero of Paris, Chat Noir at your service, princess."
"You don't have to, you know?" she asks.
"Have to what?"
"Have to be 'Chat Noir,' or – or answer the question if you don't want to."
"What question?" His eyebrows wiggle, silly, hammy, like he wanted to, but couldn't, be for Marie. He's asking stupid ones, and that must be offensive to her.
"Can I hug you? You're deflecting because you don't want to say yes or no." She swallows and shrugs, but it's not dismissive - more a twitch. The best thing about Marinette has always been her energy, that vibrant explosive force that got you caught up in the directionless whirlwind of effervescent charm and creativity. Now, all that glittering energy narrowed through a convergent lens, a spotlight scoring a path right though him.
"And I just wanted you to know that you didn't have to say either," she assures. "It's okay for you to not know how you feel, or- or to be confused about things, or ... or to say yes or no. It's your choice, and even not choosing is a choice of its own that's valid."
A curl of his lip that flashes teeth is an attempt to get the words out, but something snags up and snarls, a confused, multi-hued ball of yarn in his throat.
If she had just hugged him, he'd have enjoyed it, the simple sensation of a chest rising and falling against his, the heady punch of the floral shampoo that she wore getting caught up in his nose as he strove to be gentlemanly and not take a deeper whiff. Perhaps that's the real difference between Chat Noir and Adrien; one of them knows the criteria by which to make decisions, the expectations that have been drilled into him with such thorough precision that he can recite them by wrote.
Without that net, his father, his Lady - he just does.
The contracts, the toys, the gifts, foot-in-his-mouth Chat Noir trying to deflect Lila's attentions, taking over for just a few minutes in class, Marie, Mari-
"Okay," he says at last, even though... even those his throat is closing up because he knows the ways she's looking at him. It's the way he looks, and she looks at – at Adrien when she's content, those rare moments when she's at ease.
Oh, God.
What is he going to do?
There's only one thing.
With the way that she's looking at him, the way she looks at Adrien when she's completely sincere and truly unperturbed, the way she was looking at him, the most special boy in the world, in the photograph, when he didn't know it, but now he does...
How can he do anything else?
"I- I think that I'd like that."
He does.
As she sits next to him on the chase, drawing his face down to the crux of her throat and arms cradling his head tighter than even the Gorilla could hug him, his every sense floods with her.
In that moment, his world is Marinette and only Marinette.
He does so very much.
Author's Notes
With his newfound, if nascent, understanding of Marinette and Adrien's positions, Adrien is going to be getting a lot more hugs from Marinette, Ladybug, and, perhaps, another superheroine.
Given the massive self-esteem issues that define Adrien's character and motivate the majority of his actions, his - as a commenter, Steelblaidd, pointed out in relation to the last chapter - "transactional" view of relationships, and Gabriel's continual gaslighting of his son, it felt important to labor over the problems that Chat Noir is only now acknowledging rather than just pretending that "love heals all wounds."
Still, he knows, and Marinette knows even more.
And, next chapter, Adrien has a much-needed conversation with Plagg. Adrien might be a substitute son to the Gorilla, and Tom's future son-in-law, but he's Plagg's one-and-only Kitten. No one else can claim him as such.