Third day! Finally back on track. Woohoo!
Day three: First Fashion Show
Autumn was coming to a close, and exams were approaching. With homework piling higher and higher, and akumas born out of the stress and panic, Marinette was tireder than ever. Luka could tell by her texts that the pressure was taking its toll on her.
L: Are you even getting any sleep?
M: no
L: None? :(
M: some
M: 3 hours
L: That's not enough. What are you doing now?
M: homewooooork
M: its so boring i dont get physics
L: You could always try chucking it in the Seine
M: lol
M: i might chuck myself in
L: No jumping in the Seine. Otherwise I'll have to jump in after you and I don't fancy that in this weather ;P
M: na
M: just leave me to drown
M: itll bring up the class avg score
L: You're making me worry. Do you want to come over? You can have another private concert :)
M: noooo
M: its too cold
M: you can come to me
That's why, a mere twenty minutes later, he was on the doorstep of the Dupain-Cheng bakery with his acoustic guitar strapped across his back. Marinette's mother waved as he entered.
"What can I get you?" she asked, clicking the bakery tongs behind the till.
"Actually, I'm here to see Marinette," he replied. "To stop her from throwing herself in the Seine…"
Mde. Cheng chuckled and gestured the door behind the counter. "You'd best come this way. She's in her room, on the top floor. I'm glad she's got a friend over; she's been working far too hard lately…"
"Thank you, madame."
"Sabine, dear."
Luka smiled as he passed her then hurried through the door into the kitchen, where Marinette's mountain of a father was kneading dough. After explaining that he was visiting Marinette, M. Dupain face scrunched into suspicion then into a sort of secretive grin. "I won't keep you, son," he said. "Go on up!"
Marinette was exactly where he expected her to be: slumped at her desk over an open textbook. Luka knocked on the door as he climbed into her room, prompting her to sit up in alarm and whirl around.
"Gah! I'm working, I just—oh, Luka! I, wait, you're here? Wah!" With another strangled cry, she fell out of the chair, landing face-down on the floor.
Luka rushed over to offer her a hand up and tried not to laugh. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." She accepted his hand and stood, rubbing her nose. "I just wasn't expecting to see you, well, here."
"I said I'd come, didn't I?"
"I didn't realise you were being serious!"
"I didn't realise you weren't."
Marinette giggled. "Well, I'm glad you're here. I feel like it's been ages since I've seen you…" She guided him towards the chaise lounge and gestured him to sit, her smile pushing into the dark bags beneath her eyes.
"You only really come to mine for Kitty Section stuff," he said. "And we've not had much time for rehearsing since school started up again."
"We've not had much time for anything," Marinette sighed. "Just work…"
"Which you are banned from doing. You're working too hard."
"But—"
"No. When's the last time you took a moment to yourself? Did some designing or meditating or just listened to music?"
He knew her answer despite the silence by the way she bit her bottom lip and looked away.
"Come on," he continued. "Take an afternoon to yourself. What do you want to do?"
"Sleep," came the immediate response as she slumped onto the chaise lounge.
"You can if you want."
"No, you came all this way…"
"It's fine, I don't mind. Here—" He swung his guitar case off his back and began unzipping it—"I'll play you something to help you sleep."
"No," she whined. "Luka, that would be so rude of me."
Luka looked down at his guitar, the headstock peeping out of the bag, then at Marinette's exhausted face. Then, he got an idea and grinned. "I'd love to see your designs."
"Really?" she asked bluntly. "I didn't think you were into that sort of stuff."
He nearly replied 'I'm into you' but stopped himself in time. "I like art," he said. "And it's the same thing, isn't it? Something you've created, poured part of yourself into. I gave you a concert, so you can give me a fashion show."
"If you're sure." Still a hint of reluctance in her voice, but nonetheless she stood up and wandered over to her wardrobe.
She pulled out boxes of hats, gloves, necklaces and scarves among other things, and held them up for him to see. Every piece looked well made, with clean lines and shapes reminiscent of classic Parisian fashion. But each item had its own style, its own look, its own heartbeat. As though Marinette sewn in little veins and arteries, hooked them with hers, fed them her own blood until they took on lives of their own.
He understood, because it was the same with his music. It was the same when creating anything. Creating was more than making, it was shaving off pieces of your soul, bleeding into the vessel of your art. It put him in mind of the pictures from his old biology textbook of a baby in the womb, the umbilical cord feeding it a constant supply of nourishing blood. But Luka didn't like thinking of it that way, because what did that make his unfinished pieces, his abandoned songs? And what did that make him?
"I made this one for Juleka," Marinette said, sucking him from his thoughts. She held up a familiar floppy, white hat. "I was going to make it black, but I thought, you know, she always wears black so let's try something different."
Luke picked it back up when she put it down and jammed it on his own head. Then he gave a catwalk-worthy pout and turned his head to one side. "What do you think? Who pulled it off better?"
Marinette giggled and knocked it off his head again. "Juleka, definitely. Not your colours… This one is though!"
Within ten minutes, they were swaggering around her room, decked out with the most mismatched accessories they could find whilst a low, beat-heavy piece of music played through Luka's phone. As Marinette wrapped a sage-green scarf around his neck, which clashed horribly with the neon orange cap perched on his head, Luka spotted another box not yet opened.
"What's in this one?" he asked.
To his surprise, Marinette flushed and dropped her hand from his neck. The scarf fell limp around his shoulders. "Oh, em, just a dress I made…"
"Can I see it?"
"Umm…" She draped a hand protectively over the box, as if to stop him opening it. "I, well guess..." Her fingers tapped the edge of the box to a quick, nervous beat which mirrored her heart. Or so he imagined by the way her lips pursed and her eyes flickered. However, before he could take back his suggestion, she nodded. "Okay," she agreed. "But don't look while I get changed."
Luka laughed because she didn't have to ask, and went to lie face-down on the chaise lounge with a pillow over his head, prompting a giggle from Marinette. He heard her footsteps next to him.
"You're definitely not peeking?"
"No."
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three."
A pause. "Are you sure you're not looking?"
"No," he replied. Then, muffled by the sofa and his own smirk, "I'm just psychic."
"Luka!" she laughed, but her footsteps were leading away now, and soon he heard the rustling of fabric and the soft flump of clothes on the floor. Even though he was already face-down with a pillow on his head, he still closed his eyes, lashes scraping against the chaise lounge, and recited the lyrics Jagged Stone's latest hit to stop his thoughts wandering.
"Okay," Marinette called. Her voice quivered slightly. "It's not the full look. I was thinking I could have my hair up, maybe a necklace, but…"
Luka pushed himself up and looked at her. She stood awkwardly a few feet away, hands fidgeting. The dress was simple in design; sleeveless with wide straps on her shoulders; snug around her waist; flared skirt ending just shy of her knees. The colour was caught somewhere between pink and silver. Cherry blossoms at midnight.
"It suits you, Marinette," he said. "It's a beautiful dress."
Her face went pink around her smile. "Thanks."
"Is it for a special occasion?"
"Umm, well…" The pink deepened; the smile faded. "I was going to wear it for the Christmas dance. It's our last one at collѐge. But…"
"But?"
"I don't know if I'm going to go."
"Why not?"
"I—it's stupid."
"If it's upsetting you then it's not stupid," he told her. "Your feelings are valid, you know. Come on—" Luka patted the space next to him. "Talk to me."
Marinette hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, then sighed and came to sit next to him. Her skirt pooled next to her like water. "Well, so, Alya's going with Nino. And Mylѐne's gong with Ivan, and Rose and Juleka are inseparable. And Alix isn't going because she'll be away skiing. Then Chloé kept saying how of course I'll be going on my own. And Lila—" Her face soured— "is talking about how she keeps getting asked by lycée boys and now everyone thinks I'm jealous that no one's going to ask me, and it just...ugh."
"School dances are the worst," Luka said. "Too many people; dancing; terrible music... I only ever went to mine for an hour or so to show my face then left."
"I guess I could do that," she mumbled. "It would be nice to see everyone dressed up…"
"And this dress definitely deserves an outing. I can't believe you made it yourself. You're incredibly talented."
She smiled, but it was strained. "Thanks, Luka."
"I also can't believe no one will ask you," he added. "Any guy would be lucky to go with you." One boy in particular came to mind, and Luka knew by the forlornness in her eyes that she had the same thought, the same boy. They both knew it was hopeless.
"None of the guys I know," she said. "Nino's with Alya, Ivan's with Mylѐne. Nathaniel's said he's not going. Max, well, is Max. Kim's bringing Ondine. And, well...he won't ask me. He doesn't even notice me."
She didn't need to say it. He knew who she meant.
"Kim's bringing Ondine, huh?" he asked instead. "Does she go to your school?"
"No, she goes somewhere else. But we're allowed dates from outside of school as long as we let our teacher know."
Swallowing the bundle of nerves in his throat, Luka swivelled slightly to face her. "Well then, you could take me."
"I—huh?"
"Take me," he repeated. "Then you can tell Lila and Chloé that a lycée boy asked you too."
"You want to go with me?"
"If you'll have me," he replied. Marinette suddenly launched herself at him, practically in his lap as she squeezed him in the tightest embrace of his life.
"Thank you!" she squealed. "I'd love you to go with me! But—" she pulled away, frowning again. "But you said you didn't like school dances."
"I'm sure I can survive one. I'll have to get a nice shirt though…"
He thought he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes, silver and trembling, but she blinked them away and replaced them with determination, glinting like steel.
"Leave that to me."
