This chapter is quite short, and the next will be too. Apologies. I didn't want to add bits just for the sake of padding it out. But day six's chapter should be longer to make up for it, so yeah.
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Day Four: First Blush
This wasn't the first time he'd felt nervous. Before concerts, during exams, results day. Parent-teacher conferences walking down the school hallways with just his mother, her boots thump-thump-thumping on the floor, one of his hands in hers, the other in his pocket.
But a different sort of nervousness spasmed in his stomach. This wasn't the first time he'd been out with a girl, not the first time going to a dance with a girl. But this was the first time going with Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and that made him nervous.
Luka prided himself on being a chill, laid-back person. He meditated everyday to keep his mind slipping into dark waters. He built himself a little cocoon which he carried with him wherever he went to fend off the looks and remarks before they could knot themselves like little anxious monsters scurrying under his skin. He knew who he was, and what he was worth. He knew where his passions lay, every beat and note and tune of his heart and soul. He could play their music without a guitar, just close his eyes and see the melody play out in the dark like leaves fluttering in a spider's web.
But somehow, standing now on the Dupain-Chengs' doorstep, one fist raised to knock on the door, he noticed the way his knuckles shook. He felt naked, like his cocoon had melted away into the gutter with the afternoon's rain. This wasn't a date, he reminded himself. Not really. Just two friends going to a dance so she could show off her hand-made dress; so she could hold her head high to the girls that had put her down; so she could feel a little less lonely, a little less undesired.
He rapped his knuckles smartly against the glass panels and the door opened mere seconds later.
Sabine smiled widely and ushered him inside. "We were wondering when you'd be getting here. Marinette's just finishing getting ready. There's your shirt, dear. You can change in the bathroom upstairs while I go check on Marinette..." She pointed to another door with a clothes hanger hooked on top, holding a shirt.
It was dark blue, nearly black, with silvery-pink thread embroidered over the right breast, spilling onto the shoulder. A tangle of leaves and branches. Blossoms. He smiled and unhooked the shirt then followed Sabine's directions to the bathroom to change.
The shirt fitted perfectly. He worried that his black jeans—his smartest pair, the one without rips—wouldn't match. Although he didn't care much for blending in with ideals of formality for a school dance, he did care about embarrassing her. However, when he emerged, to an audience of Marinette's father, he realised he had nothing to worry about.
"Very smart!" M. Dupain exclaimed, dragging Luka into the centre of the room before circling him like a picky vulture. "We were worried she wouldn't finish it in time, but of course she managed it. Our Marinette always does. She's very talented, don't you think?"
Yes, he did think so, but all he could do was nod. She was incredibly talented, especially if she'd managed to put together the shirt, plus embroider it, as well as the homework and studying school was piling on her. He hoped she hadn't caused herself any extra, unnecessary stress over it.
"Oh, look at you!" Sabine cooed, entering the room, one hand behind her back. "Marinette was so excited yesterday when she finished it; it looks even better on you!"
"Our Marinette sure has good taste in men," M. Dupain chuckled. "Always brings home the handsome ones. First that Adrien boy, then Chat Noir…" He trailed off awkwardly, something between regret and anger flashing briefly across his face. "Then you! Luka, was it?"
"Uh, yes, that's me, sir."
"Sir?" He laughed; it boomed like thunder. "You make me sound like an old man! Please, call me Tom. Maybe one day you'll be calling me papa."
Desperately forcing down the blush threatening to bloom across his cheeks, Luka chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. His other hand found its way into his pocket, seeking out something to fidget with, something to hold. His keys; he pressed his hot thumb against the metal.
Sabine chastised her husband with a stern look, and Luka could practically see the flash of warning, red as a rain-soaked sunset. She turned back to him with a smile which warmed her grey eyes. "Marinette should be down in just a moment. Then…" Sabine revealed a camera behind her back and grinned devilishly. "This is her last Christmas dance at collège, and I want some nice photos to remember it! And of course Gina will want to see a picture…"
"Maman!" someone yelped from the open doorway. "You said you weren't going to take photos!"
"I say a lot of things," Sabine replied. "Now come over here! Oh, you two look so good together!"
"Look at my daughter! Beautiful as a fairy tale!" Tom gushed.
Indeed she was. The dress had changed since Luka had last seen it. Now across the left side of her waist, there crept tangle of branches and leaves in dark blue thread, like a silhouette in front of a full moon. Her hair was tied up in a bun, and her facial features accentuated by the light makeup on her lips and eyes. A navy jacket was slung over her arm.
Searing warmth tried to crawl up Luka's neck, but he pressed his fingers harder against the cold keys in his pocket until the blush died. "Marinette," he said, not liking how his voice scraped dryly up his throat. "You look great."
"Thanks," she said, heels clicking as she walked towards him. "How does the shirt fit? Is it okay?"
"It's brilliant. Best shirt I've ever worn."
"How many shirts have you worn?"
"Some," he replied with a grin and a noncommittal shrug.
Their small talk was cut short by Marinette's parents demanding they pose so that pictures could be taken. Then, after a stern reminder from Tom that they had to be back no later than 10.30pm, they were shooed out of the flat.
"I'm sorry about all that," Marinette said as they stepped out onto the street. The sun had long since set, and leaving only the stars and lamps to light the damp world. She slipped on her jacket, pulling it tight around her. "They're really glad I'm going...I think they were a little worried about me."
"It's cool," he replied, shrugging on his black leather jacket. "I think it's sweet. Your parents seem like good people, and they clearly love you a lot." His mouth tasted bitter, but he swallowed it away and concentrated on walking. Her shoes clacked on the paving stones; his footsteps joined with a syncopated beat.
"Thank you," she said suddenly. "For—for coming with, that is. I told Alya and she was so excited. And when she told Lila…" A devious smirk that didn't suit her twitched onto her shiny pink lips. A giggle broke past. "That was a good moment. For, well, a moment. Then..." She shook her; her bun wobbled. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we're going to have fun!"
Fun wasn't exactly how Luka would describe the evening he saw ahead. Too many strangers, accidental touches. Loud pop music with too much bass and no guitar. Sugary punch and a jostling crowd attached to the snack table. And dancing and shrieking and the expectation to join in…
It had been said by too many people to ignore that Luka had the wrong disposition for a rock star. He was too calm, too chill. He liked time to himself: empty rooms and underground cafés. But weren't rock stars meant to enjoy being in a crowd, performing loudly to the mosh-pit of writing bodies below? Shouldn't he like being in the depth of grunge, drums pounding in his heart, smoke and sweat hot in his mouth? Each breath pulling in the essence of everyone around him, filling him, nourishing him?
No. Because the world is different on a stage. The drums and bass don't seem so loud when your guitar's in your hand. The crowds aren't so stuffy when they're several feet away, the heat not so unbearable when exhilaration is sending fire searing through your blood.
"Luka?"
He blinked. Once, twice. Marinette watched him curiously.
"Are you okay? You zoned out for a while."
"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine. Just thinking."
"Okay. If you're sure…"
A strand of hair had fallen loose from her bun, and now dangled at the side of her face. Luka stopped; she stopped next to him. "Your hair," he murmured, reaching out to brush the hair behind her ear.
Luka did not blush. He had flushed a few times, when he was a child and called a teacher by the wrong name, and when he was an awkward thirteen year old asking a girl out for the first time. When an old best friend asked him why his dad never turned up to parent-teacher evenings. But as a rule, Luka didn't blush.
Until now. Because the subtle make-up made her eyes so big they held the entire sky and all of its stars. And his hand was against her skin, the innocent gesture suddenly intimate as his thumb trailed down her jaw to graze her neck, and his heart was thumping louder and deeper than any drumbeat, any bass line, and he understood the feeling when people wish for the ground to melt beneath their feet and and let them sink out of view.
Marinette smiled, her pink cheeks rounded, and she murmured her barely audible thanks. Luka's blush deepened.
It was easy to want people from afar. Easy to want when you know you can't have. Because you can't fall too deep from far away, and if you can't fall too deep then your heart doesn't get bruised.
But Marinette slipped her hand into his, tugged him to make him walk again. And he knew that for as long as she held his hand, he would walk anywhere with her. To edge of the chasm, and over.
