A/N: Two quick things. First, this fic is completely separate from any of my other fics—it's in its own universe. Second, this fic is much heavier than my usual works, so I'm including trigger warnings for each chapter. If you need more details, feel free to send me a message or ask on Tumblr (ominousunflower). Stay safe!
Chapter warnings: Mentions of major character death, thoughts about dying, emotional self-harm, eating disorder, mentions of vomit/vomiting
Adrien doesn't remember the funeral. He's sure there are videos online, if he could bring himself to look them up. Almost all of Paris had attended Ladybug and Marinette Dupain-Cheng's memorial—thousands of people lined the streets, crowded together on balconies, stood shoulder to shoulder to witness the ceremony. A parade of music and speeches. A tribute to one ordinary girl that half the city had overlooked.
It was probably a beautiful event. But Adrien doesn't remember.
He knows that he made a short speech as Adrien early on, along with Nino and Alya. He also knows that he slipped away to transform into Chat Noir to make a second speech. And he knows that he cried between those two events, struggling to compose himself before he faced the entire city of Paris. But those are facts, not memories. While he knows those things happened, he doesn't really remember them.
There's only one thing Adrien actually remembers, just one moment he can recall in full color:
He's Chat Noir, standing in front of an endless crowd of people. Thousands of eyes are trained on his every movement. His voice shakes slightly as he tells them that yes, Ladybug is gone, and no, nothing can bring her back. And as his friends and classmates in the front row stare at him, he struggles to meet their eyes; the guilt is too thick in his throat, the feeling of failure too sharp in his stomach.
Everyone's face is the same: solemn, flat, tearful. Each choked sob that rises from the crowd is a reminder that Chat couldn't save her. Each blank stare makes him stutter a bit more, his words stalled on his tongue as he worries that Paris holds him responsible for their loss.
There's only one face that is different. Luka Couffaine stands in the front row, right next to Nino, and he doesn't stare at Chat like everyone else does. When Chat falters and freezes, losing his train of thought, Luka meets his eyes and offers him a smile. He smiles, and somehow, that's enough for Chat to finish the speech.
Adrien doesn't remember the funeral. He doesn't remember what words he was saying. But he remembers Luka's eyes, bright through the tears, and how the curve of his smile urged him to keep going.
o - o - o - o - o
For three days, Adrien is allowed to keep Plagg and Tikki to grieve. The first day, after the funeral, he locks himself in his room and curls up in bed, holding them close to his chest and sobbing until it feels like his last drop of life has been wrung from him.
The next day, Tikki tells him that it's not the first time this has happened, that he shouldn't blame himself. He wants to take comfort in her words, but it feels like she's throwing bandages at a machine gun. Despite her best efforts, Adrien is ripped to shreds by guilt and regret.
Plagg is more realistic. He tells Tikki to let Adrien grieve; his misery will run its course, and then he'll be back on his feet. Adrien doesn't believe him, not a bit—but at least Plagg leaves him alone.
Although the kwamis are the only ones Adrien can really talk to about what happened, he can't bring himself to say a word. Instead, he spends the days staring at the ceiling and trying to replay that final battle in his head. Like the funeral, though, he doesn't have any memories. Just facts.
Apparently he fought desperately, viciously, leaving Papillon and Mayura with wounds so severe that they won't resurface any time soon. Adrenaline and grief must have fogged Adrien's mind, though, because he doesn't remember that at all. What happened? How did he manage to fight them off? Adrien's sure Alya has the answers to those questions, but the thought of asking her makes his stomach turn.
The only part he does remember is the worst part: losing Marinette. But the pain of that memory is so raw, so immense, that he doesn't dare revisit it.
On the last day, Chat Noir visits Alya to explain that he's retiring, and that a new Ladybug and Chat Noir will appear if the city needs them.
"Is Papillon gone?" Alya asks. Her voice lacks its usual fire—but of course it does. Her flame, Paris's flame, is gone. "Do you think he'll come back?"
"I don't know," Chat says.
Alya nods. "I figured. Do…do you want to give a last interview? Or leave a message for Paris before you retire? I'll pass it on, if you want."
Chat's entire body feels like it's slowly crumbling to dust—as if with each breath, some miniscule part of him disintegrates. It's hard to describe. All he knows is that he feels tired and withered. He can barely look Alya in the eyes when he shakes his head.
"No," he says. "I don't know what I would say."
After that, he leaves to give Maître Fu the Miraculouses. He doesn't cry, even when the realization hits him that this is another goodbye. No more Plagg. No more Chat Noir. This chapter of his life has been slammed shut, and now he'll be left useless and alone.
The thought hardly stings. It occurs to Adrien that this must be what people mean when they say they feel numb.
"I am sorry, Adrien," Fu says, as he takes the ring and earrings from Adrien. "But I must take them back for your safety."
"I understand," Adrien says.
"I selected you and Marinette because you were two halves of a whole. Yin and yang," Fu says. "But without your partner, you are no longer yang."
"I know," Adrien says, gritting his teeth. "I get it. I can't be Chat Noir anymore."
"No. You cannot." Fu turns his back to Adrien, carrying the two Miraculouses back to his box. "It will take me some time, but I will select two new wielders. The city will be safe if Papillon returns."
"Good," Adrien says. His voice trembles slightly. "That's good."
Later that night, when he looks at his hand and sees a pale band of skin where his ring used to be—that's when he finally lets himself cry.
o - o - o - o -o
It's almost good, in a strange and twisted way, that Marinette was Ladybug. Because that way, Adrien doesn't have to explain the intensity of his grief—no one questions why he's all but lost his will to live when one of his best friends is dead.
And oh, he wouldn't mind dying. He wouldn't. Because he's not sure he can keep waking up every morning to the knowledge that she's gone, not sure how to live in a world where she's no longer part of it. He doesn't want to go to her parents' bakery and know she's not upstairs, or go to class and know she's not sitting behind him.
So he doesn't go back to school. He's not sure about the logistics of it—whether he's allowed to stay home, or whether his father pulled some strings—but he doesn't. Instead, he wakes up and wanders around his room, rereading text conversations, looking through old pictures, watching videos on the Ladyblog. Sometimes he runs over the final battle and wonders what he could have done differently. Other times, he sits down and tries to piece together everything he knows about Papillon's identity, intent on destroying the man who killed his partner.
Mostly, though, he just sleeps, drifting in and out of consciousness and praying that when he wakes up, someone will have found a way to reverse death.
He's considered begging Alix to do something, but he knows that's not possible. If the Ladybug and Cat Miraculouses aren't supposed to be used to bring people back to life, then neither is the Rabbit. As much as he wants Marinette back, Adrien knows it's useless to cling to false hope. Even if it was somehow possible, she'd never forgive him if he meddled with the fabric of time to bring her back.
It's hard, though, when he dreams that she's still alive; waking up hurts that much more when he does. In his dreams, life continues normally: he and Ladybug fight akumas, he and Marinette talk in class, and the girl he loves is still alive and well. In comparison, reality feels wrong. He wishes he could choose which universe to live in.
But the dreams, the dreams where everything feels so real that he doesn't realize it's all in his head—those are nice.
o - o - o - o - o
Days pass, and he's still trying to wrap his head around the fact that everything that was the latest is now the last. The most recent time that he and Ladybug had ice cream with Monsieur Pigeon, when Chat had jokingly pointed out that the spoons in Ladybug's ice cream looked like cat ears: the last. The celebratory bien joué after defeating that plant akuma two weeks ago: the last. Chaton, buginette, any nickname or pun or word of love: the last, the last, the last.
And that's just with Ladybug. Whenever Adrien's almost exhausted his thoughts of her—almost, because really, it's impossible—they go to Marinette instead, and the grief is fresh and brand new again. She'll never be the famous fashion designer they all knew she was going to be, and Adrien will never get to model her designs or support her at her shows. They had just finally gotten to the point that Marinette could talk to him without stumbling over her words, but the possibility of late-night phone calls or hours-long conversations about nothing is gone as quickly as it arrived.
He'll never see those bright eyes again, that soft smile, never hear the bell-like giggle that burst from her lips when she was nervous. And he probably won't even be able to look at a macaron again without feeling like his stomach's been ripped out.
Food, in general, is hard. Logically, Adrien knows that he needs to eat, but everything he eats makes him sick. He feels full after a few bites of fruit. His stomach gnaws at itself, roiling at half a glass of water, and he gives up trying to drink more than a few sips every hour or so. Eventually, he orders the chef to stop sending him food, and his father—absent as ever—makes no attempts at forcing Adrien to eat.
The only difference is that now, Gabriel Agreste doesn't object to his grieving son having visitors. Sometimes, when Nino visits, he brings Adrien takeout; and because Adrien at least has the energy to dump it down the garbage disposal after Nino leaves, his friend assumes that he's eating it. If Plagg was there, he might eat some—but Adrien's alone, and so he feeds the sink instead.
Sabine and Tom send the occasional bag of pastries with Alya, as thanks for being a good friend to Marinette. Adrien feels like sobbing half the time he sees them, unable to do more than nibble on the sweets and wish that Marinette had been the one to deliver them. He's not a good friend. A good friend wouldn't have let her die. He can't tell Alya that, though, so he thanks her each time, takes the pastries to his room, and leaves them in the bags to go stale. Unlike Nino's takeout, he can't bring himself to throw away gifts from Marinette's parents.
o - o - o - o - o
The first time Luka visits—after Nino and Alya have been coming by for about a week—Adrien's not sure why he's there. They'd had a mutual friend in Marinette, but aside from playing guitar and piano together a few times, the two weren't really close friends.
Ever the gracious host, though, Adrien doesn't ask Luka why he's there—just hovers in the doorway, hoping to block Luka's view of his bedroom as much as possible. "Hi," he croaks.
"Hi," Luka says, his voice soft. "Can I come in?"
Adrien swallows. No, the correct answer is no. His room is a reflection of his mental state right now, which is why he hasn't even let Nino or Alya see it; he's been meeting them downstairs, although each time it's harder and harder to drag himself out of his room to see them. He has no doubt that if he tells Luka yes, Luka will take one look at his room and realize that Adrien desperately needs help.
But he doesn't want help. He's come to take some sick comfort in his body reflecting the state of his soul. There's a warped sense of harmony in having his muscles grow weak alongside his spirit—it's physical grief, grief he can feel when he struggles out of bed, grief he can see when he looks in the mirror and sees how gaunt his face has become.
It's not that he's actively trying to kill himself. He never made a conscious decision to start starving himself, and he would never try to physically hurt himself. It's more that he doesn't care. If he wastes away and joins Marinette, so be it. It wouldn't be the wrong thing to do.
And yet, maybe it's because he's not thinking straight, or because some small, traitorous part of him is stupid enough to want to get better—but when Luka asks if he can come in, Adrien finds himself nodding and stepping aside.
Luka's silent for a moment as he takes in the state of Adrien's room. Adrien's too numb to be embarrassed, though he knows what Luka sees. Bags upon bags of stale pastries sit on the coffee table, surrounded by rings of crumbs, and dirty clothes litter the sofa and surrounding floor. He's been brushing his teeth and showering, but only because Nino and Alya would notice if he didn't; his personal hygiene doesn't extend to putting his clothes in a hamper.
His bed is unmade, the covers twisted and half-hanging off the mattress, a single pillow sitting askew—a few days ago, in a fit of rage, he'd thrown the other pillow across the room and never retrieved it. In a second surge of anger last night, he'd shoved his globe onto the floor, where it's still lying right now. After that second fit, he tossed Marinette's lucky charm in a drawer and slammed it shut, afraid that it would be the next victim of his rage.
Next to the globe is a glass that Adrien accidentally knocked over this morning when he stumbled out of bed, broken into three pieces and surrounded by a puddle of water. A full glass of water sits in its place by his bed, untouched, and beside it is a basin filled with vomit that he hasn't gotten around to dumping yet. Adrien doesn't think the sour smell is too detectable, but then, he's probably become nose-blind to the room he's locked himself in. Again, he's too tired to be ashamed.
After a minute, Luka turns to Adrien and pulls him into a hug. Adrien starts to pull away, but that only causes Luka's arms to tighten around him. Left with no choice, Adrien returns the hug, burying his face in Luka's shoulder. His eyes sting hot with tears, and he wants to apologize for getting Luka's shirt wet—except his throat has constricted, and there's bile on his tongue, and the words won't come.
Luka's hand moves to Adrien's upper back and rubs comforting circles. He doesn't say anything, which Adrien appreciates. I'm sorry and my condolences are nowhere near enough when his partner and soulmate has been killed by a villainous psychopath.
They stay like that for several minutes. When Adrien can finally breathe without breaking into sobs, he sniffs. "Everyone…"
"Hm?" Luka says.
"Everyone else is coping," Adrien mumbles into his shirt. "Everyone else is dealing with this, but I don't know how."
"There's no right or wrong way," Luka says.
"But I don't…" Adrien swallows. "I don't even know how to get better. Nothing…nothing works. It's different for me, I can't tell you why, it just is, and nothing…" He squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his hold on Luka as fresh tears threaten to fall.
"I know," Luka says softly.
"You don't," Adrien insists. "You don't."
Luka doesn't respond right away. Then he pulls away, his hands resting softly on Adrien's shoulders. "I promise, Adrien, I do."
This is new: someone pretending to know about the swirling storm of guilt and anger and grief in Adrien's head. But Luka doesn't know. He can't possibly. Still, Adrien finds himself babbling to him, "It's all my fault—I should have been there for her—I might as well have killed her, Luka, it's all my fault and—"
"Adrien," Luka says. "I know you think it is, but it's not. And no one blames you."
"I do," Adrien mutters.
"Don't. She wouldn't want you to blame yourself. There's nothing you could have done."
At that, Adrien plants his hands on Luka's chest and shoves him away. Although Luka staggers backwards a step, his eyes remain soft and full of sympathy. He doesn't seem mad that Adrien pushed him, even though he should be. It was petty, and juvenile, and Adrien knows that he shouldn't have—but he's just so angry, so tired of everyone missing the point, of everyone thinking he's just another classmate grieving Marinette.
"You don't know that!" Adrien says, hands curling into fists. "You—you don't know anything. No one does. No one knows that I—that she…"
And then he's sobbing again, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, mouth hanging open in a loud cry of pain. He stands like that for a moment, and then he throws himself at Luka, seeking warmth, seeking contact. Despite the fact that he just pushed Luka away, Luka doesn't refuse him; he merely opens his arms and pulls Adrien against him again, holding him even tighter than before.
It's good that he does, because it's not long before Adrien's knees buckle and he collapses against Luka. Luka supports his weight and guides him over to his bed, then sits down and pulls Adrien towards him. Adrien curls up with his head on Luka's legs, face pressed into his stomach, arms clinging to his waist. He shudders and sobs, barely registering Luka's fingers as they card through his hair. Distantly, he recognizes that it's comforting. But his mind is hazy, heavy, and the sobs keep coming, tearing from his lungs like pages being ripped from a book.
Each cry tells a different story: an apology, a memory, a feeling he can't put words to. They pour from him until his head is aching and his nose is plugged with mucus, until he's almost throwing up from the strain—and then, slowly, they fade into hiccups, quiet moans, breaths that catch in his throat.
Luka doesn't say anything the entire time. Maybe it's because he's self-proclaimed to be bad with words—or maybe it's because, like Adrien, he knows that words are worthless right now. When Adrien's cries have quieted, though, Luka's hand reaches between them, prodding his stomach and ribs. "Adrien," he murmurs. "You need to eat."
"I ate already."
"No. You didn't."
"I can't," Adrien whispers. "I get sick."
Luka's weight shifts, and a few seconds later, he slides a pillow under Adrien's head. Then he moves out from under Adrien and stands. "I'll be back."
His absence makes the bed feel cold and lonely. Adrien closes his eyes and curls into an even tighter ball, willing sleep to take him like it always does when he's cried himself into exhaustion. He doesn't want to talk to Luka anymore—he wants to dream, wants to see Marinette and pretend that she's still alive. But sleep won't come. Adrien's eyes stay cracked open, his ears listening for Luka's return.
A few minutes later, the door creaks open and Luka appears in front of him. Adrien blinks and struggles into a sitting position to find that Luka's brought a plate with two pieces of toast.
"Here," Luka says.
"No," Adrien says. "It'll make me sick."
"Adrien," Luka says, holding the plate out. "You have to eat. You didn't have much body fat to begin with, and I'm pretty sure you've lost most of it."
"Well, I am a model," Adrien says. "That's par for the course."
Luka's eyes narrow. It's a scary look on someone who's normally so laid-back. "Adrien."
"Kidding." Adrien delicately takes a slice of toast from the plate, then stares at it, fighting back a wave of nausea. "It, uh, might take me a while to eat this. You don't have to stay."
"If I leave," Luka says, "that toast is going to end up on the table next to those pastries."
"No, I'll—"
"I'm staying."
With a shaky breath, Adrien tears off a tiny piece of toast and places it in his mouth. As he eats, Luka sits on the bed next to him and deftly tears the other slice into pieces for him. By the time he's done with that, Adrien has just managed to chew and swallow that first small piece.
"This is going to take too long," Adrien says.
"I'll wait."
Slowly, Adrien manages to finish the first piece of toast. When Luka offers him the plate with the other piece, he hesitates, not sure he can finish the second. But Luka rubs his back encouragingly, and somehow, Adrien finds himself lifting another bite of bread to his mouth.
Eventually, he's done, left staring at an empty plate full of crumbs. He licks his lips. "Th-thanks."
Luka nods and sets the plate beside Adrien's bed. "Do you want anything else?"
Adrien shakes his head. "Can't stomach it."
"That's alright." Luka grabs the full glass of water and sniffs it. "This is water, right?"
Adrien snorts. "I'm not keeping vodka at my bedside, no."
"Had to check. Can you drink half of this?"
Once again, Adrien finds himself thinking no but nodding yes—what is it about Luka Couffaine that makes it so hard to refuse?
He accepts the glass from Luka and brings it to his lips, struggling to keep his hand steady. A few drops of water spill onto his lap, so Luka reaches out and helps him hold onto the glass. A small part of Adrien thinks pathetic, this is pathetic, until the water coats his tongue and he realizes how thirsty he is, and then he can't be bothered to care.
He tries to finish the glass, but Luka pulls it away before he can drink more than half. "You'll make yourself sick."
Good. That's how I should feel, Adrien wants to say. It's what he's been telling himself for the past week. Instead, he just shrugs and watches as Luka places the glass back at his bedside.
"I'm tired," Adrien mumbles. Part of him hopes it will make Luka go away. The other part wilts at the thought.
"Is that your way of asking me to leave?"
"I don't know," Adrien admits.
Luka nods, as if that makes any sort of sense. He pats a hand against his legs, and Adrien finds himself laying his head on them once again. He's always been a tactile creature, though for the past few years he's mostly been starved of it by his father. Even when he does experience touch, it's often just groping by obsessive fans or girls who fawn over him; rarely does anyone simply hold him.
But Luka does, humming a tune that Adrien doesn't recognize as his hand runs up and down Adrien's side. It's nice, repetitive—and within seconds, Adrien has drifted off into a dreamless sleep.