Note: They probably don't use any Norton Anthologies in France. I couldn't be bothered to think of a different name and just 'anthology' hurt my soul. Fight me.

This has a rather different writing style to the first chapter, so be warned. Only had time for a quick read-through before uploading because I want to get on the right track as quickly as possible, so apologies for any typos.


Day Two: First Concert

"Thank you so much, Luka," Marinette enthused, sitting on his bed as he rooted around in a large box. "I'm so sorry about this…"

"Don't worry about it," he replied. He was wearing his usual t-shirt, but had forgone the hoodie and jacket due to the sudden warm spell that had invaded the Parisian autumn. "These things happen… The amount of times I've dropped my homework in the Seine isn't worth thinking about."

"You must have gotten in so much trouble!"

"Some." He shrugged, standing up with a book in his arms. "Would have been in worse if I hadn't though. I only ever 'dropped' homework I hadn't done."

Marinette gave an unattractive snorted and covered her face. "Luka!"

"It was only chemistry," he laughed. "Nothing important. Here." He presented her the book: The Norton Anthology of English Poetry. "I'd offer to help but literature was never my strong point."

"Oh no, this is perfect, thank you!" Reverently, as if in possession of a great treasure, Marinette pulled the book onto her lap. It was a thick paperback with crisp, white pages and straight corners. She flipped to the contents page and ran her finger down the list of poets. Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Barret-Browning. "Now I just have to write that thousand word essay…"

"When's it due?"

Marinette moaned and leaned forward, dipping her face into the book. The scent of fresh paper filled her nose. "Tomorrow…"

"Explains why you're so panicked," he said.

"I was running out of options," she sighed. "Alya wasn't picking up the phone and neither Mylène or Alix were this class, and Rose and Juleka were out...I'm just glad you had a copy I could use. The library's closed and I couldn't find it at the bookshop…" She sighed again, shutting the book and hugging it. "I should get out of your way. I'm sorry I disturbed your practice…"

"It's fine, I wasn't doing anything important," he replied, sitting down on the bed between her and his guitar. "You can stay if you like. That is, if you want to bounce ideas off of someone. The only way I got through my literature essays was by talking at Juleka for an hour."

"I'm surprised you didn't just drop them in the Seine," she said slyly, to which Luka responded by laughing. "Would—would you mind if I stayed? Just until I finish this essay. Papa's trying to fix one of the ovens and it's too loud to concentrate, even in my room. I'd go back outside but I don't want to drop your copy in the Seine too—"

"Marinette," he interrupted. "You can stay. I'll try to refrain from playing my music too loud… Here, sit at the desk."

He led her to the small desk across the room, where he quickly swept his notebooks and scrap papers into a draw. Then, after asking if she wanted a drink or a snack—"The only way I ever get homework done is if I have a bowl of caramels," he admitted—he returned to his bed with his guitar cradled in his lap like a newborn.


For an hour, or maybe more, Marinette typed away on her laptop. Fortunately, she'd already managed to write a quarter of her essay as well as the essay plan before her clumsiness had sent her book into the depths of the river, so all she had to do now was to expand on the last 75% of her essay plan. Literature had never been her favourite subject, and the added element of the poems being translated from English only worsened it. The translations were never seamless, and the French verse was therefore riddled with strange similes and descriptions that didn't quite make sense.

Behind her, Luka was silently playing his guitar. Silently, because it was his electric and it wasn't plugged in. He wasn't strumming; instead he pressed his fingers against the strings, the echoes of dull notes barely whispering in her ears. And, as she finally reached the conclusion of her essay—although by now she had forgotten what argument she was meant to be concluding, if any—she turned to watch him.

His eyes were shut, but his lips were pulled into a thoughtful frown, and every now and again they parted to ghost around inaudible words. Marinette bit her lip, tried not to think about how handsome he was. Not the way Adrien was handsome, not 'the front of a magazine', glittering down the catwalk like a captive star. Luka was handsome in a softer, more intimate way. Each individual feature was handsome, but what brought them together, made him beautiful, was the way his smile betrayed his punk-rock look for the gentle kindness beneath.

Marinette blinked hard and shook her head; she was beginning to sound like a paperback romance.

But Luka had apparently sensed her staring and looked up, head tilted to one side.

"Sorry," he said. "Am I disturbing you?"

"No, no!" She shook her head again quickly. "I don't mind. I was just curious. What are you playing?"

He shifted his gaze to one side and rubbed the back of his neck. "You won't know it."

"I might," she said.

"You wouldn't. It's, uh, something I wrote…"

"Can I hear it? I'm sure it's amazing!"

Luka chuckled. "Maybe if you finish that essay."

"But it's hurting my brain!" she groaned. "Maybe I should just do what you do and throw it in the Seine."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" he said, sounding annoyed but by the amusement in his eyes she knew it was in jest.

Marinette smirked and shook her head. "Nope."

It took another hour, but eventually Marinette announced she was finished and closed the lid of her laptop with a satisfying click. "Finally!"

"Well done." Luka grinned.

"Thanks." She grinned back and shut the poetry book. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"That's not true. You're a creative girl; you would have figured something out," he said. "Now, I believe I promised you a song."

Excited, Marinette hurriedly slid her laptop into her bag and left the book to one side then practically leapt across the room to join him sitting on the bed. Luka laughed at her enthusiasm as he plugged a thick cable into his guitar.

"It still needs some work," he admitted, playing a note to test the volume. A rick, velvety note reverberated through the air. "I'm not very good at finishing things…"

"But Kitty Section has loads of finished songs," Marinette pointed out.

"Rose writes most of them. I just do the guitar lines," he replied. "Whenever I try to write a song myself...well, I just never finish them."

"You've written more than one?"

"Started," Luka corrected. He began playing, delicately plucking a minor chord, but Marinette nudged his shoulder.

"No, go up there," she said. "It'll be like my own private concert. No, wait!"

Luka paused, half-standing, and looked at her inquisitively. Marinette tugged the sleeves of his t-shirt up, rolling them onto his shoulders to expose the full shape of his biceps, then teased his fringe slightly with her fingers. His hair was sleek and soft, like fine quality silk. The things she could have done if she only had a tub of hair gel handy. Perhaps the next time Kitty Section performed, she could do their hair too.

"There," she announced, grinning. "Now you look like a real rockstar." Marinette slid back to sit against the wall and cleared her throat. Then, in a lowered voice, she announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the main event! Striking out on his own, Kitty Section's Luka Couffaine!" She clapped and cheered, and nudged Luka again to get him moving. He laughed but nonetheless stood in front of her and took a mock-bow.

"This first one is called Untitled, because I haven't thought of a title yet," he said, sitting down on the abandoned desk chair. He started again: soft chord, carefully plucked, a few counts, then with dramatic sweeps of his wrist he let loose a barrage of sound. Soon his voice joined, a little rusty at first, but eventually it shifted into melted chocolate and honey.

"So baby, give me your hand and I'll give you the world,
Give me a chance and I'll give you my all.
Give me your love, give me your sign,
But keep your heart, babe, and let me keep mine."


Three songs later, Marinette's phone buzzed.

"Is that the time?" she yelped, leaping to her feet. "I was meant to be home an hour ago!" She jabbed the answer button and brought her phone to her ear, simultaneously trying to tug on the shoes she had kicked off earlier. "Hello, maman. Yes, I know, I'm sorry. I'm coming home now…" She quickly said goodbye, slipped her phone back into pocket, and groaned. "I have to go."

Luka, winding up the cable from his amp, grimaced. "Sorry," he said. "I should've asked what time you had to be home...would you like me to walk you?"

"Uhh…" Marinette cast a look at her purse then shook her head. There was a faster way home. "No, it's okay. It's not that late."

"If you're sure…"

"I am." Smiling awkwardly, she grabbed her laptop bag and stopped in front of Luka. "Thank you for today."

"Thank you," he returned. "It's been a while since I've played for someone. Maybe I should finish those songs…"

"You should! They were amazing," she enthused. "Anyway, I should get going... Bye, Luka! I'll see you!"

"Yeah, I'll see you," he said, waving. She ran out of the room, bag bouncing against her leg, and whizzed past Captain Anarka who chuckled and yelled something Marinette couldn't hear. She hurried down the gangplank, and along the Seine until she was out of view of the Liberty.

"Wow, he's really talented, Marinette," Tikki said, poking her head out of the purse.

"His voice is amazing," Marinette sighed, smile sliding across her lips. "I can't believe I've never heard him sing before."

Fortunately, Sunday evening saw shops closed and the streets empty. As the sun sank, sending amber light sparkling across the water's surface like broken glass, Marinette ducked into an alley and murmured "Spots On."

Ladybug swung into the sun-stained sky, wind whipping past her face, through her hair, nearly bringing tears to her eyes. As she flew, heart somewhere between her chest and her throat, she hummed to herself, and humming became breathy words snatched by the wind as soon as they left her lips.

"She's cool as a river, bright as a fire.

Stars in her soul, and the sun in her smile.

Spring's in her heart, and the moon's in her eyes,

Cherry blossoms sweep in the breath of her sighs…"