His bodyguard helps him, of course, as Adrien promises to pass on the pre-order bonus framed postcard from his Ladybug and Chat Noir Figma two-pack when it's released later this year. Despite the attempt at bribery that he's certain they both realize is a gift, just like the ones he's preparing for Marinette and a "mysterious girl" - the Gorilla raises a thick, bristly brow at that - Adrien is confident that his bodyguard would lend his aid and his surprisingly keen eye for action figures and realistic paint-applications even if he wasn't being paid-off.
He cares without being paid.
Maybe he always will.
After all the tutorials, which prepare him conceptually but, like the Quora questions and how-tos that he'd reviewed before first going to school, do nothing to convey the experiential reality of painting, he's still in a reasonable position to complete his first attempt at fixing his Lady.
Late into the evening as his bodyguard covers for him with Nathalie, he works at his desk. The wet palette thins his first application of a base skin-tone to the point that he leaves pigment-stained water droplets on his little Lady's cheeks. He wipes off his mistake and begins again, choosing to experiment with different brush-strokes and paint combinations on one of his little Chat Noirs.
He takes the hits like a champ.
Way to go, little guy. You stand up for your Lady.
By nine o'clock, the practice runs are through. The work-desk is spartan with only his Lady, a fresh wet palette, a handful of paintbrushes, and a plastic cup filled with water to rinse them. A thin line of blurred paints runs along the surface of his palette, colour transitioning from a dark rose undertone to mirror his Ladybug's delicious flush, through a flat skin-tone, to a slightly olive hue that will serve as the base for her face.
The hair is first, thinned black paint covering the blue, and he's careful not to slop any on the face or neck. That would take a heck of a lot of work to paint over. A dry-brush highlight with Thunderhawk Blue, which is more of a grey than anything else, leaves each strand popping, definition and layering created with only a few passes.
Multiple thin layers applied to progressively smaller areas are the way to go when he gets to the skin, but he starts with a full coat of the base tone to wipe away the white-wash that might – might – just be production incompetence.
The eyes are a trial; his steady hand from piano practice and fencing, and a keen eye for details, one of the real gifts that his father gave him, lets him pick out the right shade of blue for the irises, followed with a tentative little dot of black for the pupil.
Lastly, he plucks up the detail brush. It was hard to find the precise paint needed to match the red used in Ladybug's costume, but he did it; the once-black hairbands are now a flowing red, which he edge highlights using the base colour mixed with a hint of white and metallic silver because there's always been a popping sheen to Ladybug's costume with the thin meshwork that's so subtle only he can really see it when they're up close.
It... works.
As he holds her in his hands, her face a natural slight-off-olive with a hearty flush as if she's been puffing and parkouring around Parisian rooftops with him, her hair-ties flowing and gleaming, he knows she's not perfect.
But, like his Lady who has her faults, she is, just the same.
He did this to her.
He created this, and he hasn't done it alone.
He can't wait to show it off to Marinette, just because he can't stand the silence any longer. If she likes it, and starts talking to him again, he can refine his craft and create yet another, superior model.
She's an artist too, and she's Marinette; she'll understand.
Oh, and he has to give one to Ladybug herself.
He's just going to see Marinette before he has the chance to meet up with Ladybug for one of their patrols. It's for that reason, as the bubbly, heady excitement sets his stomach aflutter and he slouches off towards bed, the exhaustion and the intense fixation finally catching up to him at around 1:00 AM, that he's contemplating giving Marinette his apology gift.
Like the static-crisp air before a lightning storm, a portentous tension crackles through the halls of their school.
So many times in the past, braving the rain, Chat Noir had burst free from the stifling confines of his palatial room, so large that it crushed the air out of his lungs and left him a shivering mess in the gloom, longing for the transformation that would liberate him and grant him sight. He knows what a storm feels like, when he's in one, or preparing to leap into one to escape another.
That "Marinette blitzkrieg" – or lighting advance – threatens to start up again, and caution is demanded by the precarious conditions. No seeding the clouds.
In the bright and cheerful classroom, relatively lavish and well-maintained given that Francois Dupont services some of the Parisian elite and is an affluent, respected educational institution, Lila and Marinette are sizing each other up.
The storm clouds gather.
Classmates have drawn lines: Marinette, Lila, and the panic-stricken citizens of Tokyo, huddling together in a clutch, hoping not to get crushed underfoot in the Kaiju battle.
Not that Marinette is anything less than the cutest and most resplendent of monsters when she gets flushed and righteous, as Adrien has found.
Lunch is the time at which Adrien expects the next round to break out: Lila vs. Marinette III, or is it V?
It's a Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla thing at this point. Too many sequels, remakes, reimaginings, and continuities to count.
One an unfairly wounded creature, assailed by forces beyond her control and roused from her slumber to do battle, and the other a monstrous perversion of the first girl's form: a travesty.
Yeah. That checks out.
It also may be Adrien spiraling in horror and retreating into giant monster movie and anime metaphors just to keep from sweating himself into unconsciousness as he settles in next to Nino at their school desk, setting his book-bag at his feet while contemplating the myriad responses Marinette might have to his apology.
She's too good to throw it back in his face. That much is obvious.
Just like his Chat Noir figure as it joined the Gorilla's Ladybug, it's a rare, beautiful, and ugly thing, he realizes, to have someone stand up for him.
Chat Noir doesn't deserve to have someone standing up for him, not when he makes so many mistakes. Can he make her understand that while also apologizing and earning her forgiveness, maybe earning back her friendship?
It's just that he wants to get hurt before anyone else. That's his job. Maybe that's all that he's really good at.
A great swell of bubbles burst up around his heart, and he squeezes together sweaty palms when class lets out mere moments, and days, after it began. He has to bite the bullet and intercept Marinette before Lila holds court and begins to brag again – she got in about two minutes prior to class and Marinette's late arrival - about the jeweled bracelet that Ladybug gave her last night.
Half the class seems convinced that they're dating. There's a betting pool.
Lila aside, how could you do that with someone's love-life? To have someone love you – to know you and still love you-
That's not something to tarnish or belittle.
The expression on Marinette's face is akin to the one he would expect to see if she had just cracked open her lunch and taken a huge bite from her sandwich, fluffy-fresh white bread with the crusts cut off, only to find that her mother had left her a "Candwich" with vegemite, jeotgal, and strawberry jelly filling.
That only covers about one-fifth of the pure mortified disgust that Marinette is radiating, brow bent downwards, mirroring her curving lips, while trembling shudders race through her cheeks.
If he could show that kind of emotion, he would have a similar manifestation of disgust.
Even as a famed male model, world-renowned for his features, he surely wouldn't be half as adorable as her, though.
What?
Not important right now.
There's also nothing to do about Lila's Lilaing.
Nearly leaping from his seat as he compresses his chest and slips past Nino before the other boy even seems to realize what's happening, Adrien bee-lines for Marinette, catching her at the bottom of the stairs.
"Marinette?" he asks softly, making a conscious effort not to provoke the beast, one step away from twisting the toes of his shoe into the ground like a bashful child.
With a shiver, she looks back to him. "Uh..." Her throat undulates like she's guzzling thick molasses. "Y-yes Adrien?"
"Do you have a minute to talk?"
The slight pinching of her brow as she weighs his request and surely finds him wanting in the balance of her attentions after what happened the last time he'd made such a request. She glances over at Lila, who again starts to hold court, Alya skirting the edge of the throng with a judgmental glare.
"Okay," Marinette concludes finally, and he perks up at her having granted him that grace, finding him worthy of her attentions.
The heated bustle of students departing their respective classrooms for lunch carries them away, sweeps them up in an energy that is so blissfully easy to get lost within. So that she doesn't get lost, he reaches out toward her stiff hand and takes it after she nods her slow approval.
She squeezes hard and soft enough to make him believe that everything will be alright.
When the waves of pupils push them out of the college proper and into the rear courtyard, he tugs her over to the shade of a nearby tree, just beyond a few gaggles of teens who are mostly faffing about on their cell phones, though two of them are... giving each other oral examinations.
Adrien flushes, Marinette's palm becoming hot and heavy in his clasp, and he's suddenly aware of her proximity.
Her scent is that of sweet vanilla and strawberry perfume, but just a little tiny dab or two so that it's not overwhelming, concealing a floral scent and lighting, if it could be bottled. Why is that so familiar?
The subtle gleam of sunshine filtering through the trees glistens off her immaculate, silken hair, pig-tails bouncing with her even steps. His newfound understanding of colour combinations and skin-tones permits proper appreciation of the subtle pinkness to her cheeks that may be the most adorable colour he's ever seen, almost – almost more appealing that the dusting of roseate on his Lady when she accepts his equally pink rose in his dreams.
He has to stop being such a horrible blushing mess! Marinette is just a friend. There's no reason for him to be acting like this.
Also, he really needs to let go of her hand, as they've reached their destination and she's starting to look up at him with the big, curious sky-blue eyes that leave his heart aching for some reason but he can't.
So she does so instead, tugging free to smooth her shirt and then start to fiddle with the edges of her jacket.
"Uh, you- you wanted to speak to me, Adrien?" she mumbles. The loss of her obstinate fire makes no sense, and is almost disappointing, even if having it directed at him is a nightmarish prospect.
Ladybug would be scooping up pieces of Chat Noir – what of him wasn't ash – to sift through the junk to find his ring so she could give it to a new partner.
"Yeah, Marinette," he presses forward in a burst that leaves her blinking, taking a step back. "I really wanted to talk to you about what happened a few days ago."
"Oh- oh, yeah. I should have realized that was it." Her shoulders fold over so that she looks like a drooping crank-toy running down, and Chat Noir wants to wind her right back up with some puns and flirts.
Adrien can't do that though, so he settles for the most genuine sad smile that he can muster.
"I wanted to apologize," he presses through the lump in his throat and the scratchy sensation that prickles across his entire body.
Her nose scrunches. "You- what?"
There's nothing to understand, really. "I'm sorry, Marinette. I- I should have been more considerate and thought about what you needed."
Like an overtaxed levy that had been bulging with days and days of rainfall, she bursts, waggling her hands in denial as words tumble out in a flurry.
"What? No! You were coattaly tonsiliderate! I mean totally considerate! Considerate was you! Trying to protect me and I just threw that in your pretty face cruelly." She grimaced. "I - what I mean to say is threw it in your face pretty cruelly and - and not that you don't have a pretty face because you're a model, or that you're just a pretty face! I was so frustrated with Lila, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you when you had never said anything about Chat Noir and he'd probably agree with you, which is what made it all the worse – like ... like he would actually believe that he wasn't worth someone sticking up for him. I was – I thought that you were ignoring me because I'd screwed everything up," she concludes before sucking down a massive breath.
It's a rambling mess, so many commingled and ill-expressed concepts and blurring fears, but all he can take from it is relief that's immediately washed away in a deluge of self-recrimination and guilt.
He'd though that he was giving her space; instead, he'd been shutting her out.
Of course this was his fault too.
What an idiot!
"What?" he croaks. "No. Never, Marinette. I- didn't you want me to leave you alone?"
That's what his father wanted when Adrien had offended against him, or failed to live up to his expectation.
Such performance will not be tolerated. You may go to your room. Nathalie will retrieve you when your presence is required, and at such time, I expect better of you as an Agreste.
Isn't that what he should do until he was able to get a gift to apologize? That's how it worked when someone hurt you, right?
The twitching mortification on her face settles into steely focus as she tosses her shoulders back, taking a deep, apparently-calming breath, and pint-sized though she may be, it's like she's towering above him.
"Never. You're my friend, Adrien," she says as if she's trying to convince herself, setting her jaw like Ladybug preparing for a fight. "That's important to me."
"You're really important to me, too, Marinette. I didn't want to see you get hurt, just like you wanted to protect Chat Noir."
"Thank you for speaking to me about this, Adrien," she says with a cool and gentle resolve. "If you hadn't tried to reach out first, we might have just kept on fumbling around, keeping quiet."
"I- I guess that it seems kind of silly now, but I got, well... I know that the Ladybug figures are hard to come by, and, uh, I thought that your Chat Noir might get a little lonely on your shelf."
That seems to give her even more confidence for some reason.
"You never have to worry about that, Adrien," she offers in a tone like the calming gurgle of a brook in the middle of a glade while she swings her backpack from her shoulder and rummages through its contents to pluck out... his action figure from a secure, otherwise empty pocket. "Chat's never alone. He'll always have me, after all."
Don't cry. Don't cry and have to explain it. There's no need to cry; be a man – a real man like your father doesn't cry.
Adrien Agreste doesn't cry in public. He feels sad; he's privileged and perfect and doesn't have the right to cry when other people can see him.
He's already crying.
"A-Adrien," she offers with a hiccup and a grimace that leaves her no less beautiful. "Are you alright?
"I-" gravel is cleared away by a choking cough that's as loud as the clatter-smash of a dump-truck. "I just think that's one of the sweetest things that I've ever heard. How- how can you be so sweet?"
The corner of her eye twitches, hands gripping tight while she starts to break down right in front of him.
Mood whiplash.
He empathizes.
"Oh, sits tweet!" She squawks, blush blooming and that's his fault for having embarrassed her with his stupid comment when he should have had the wherewithal to keep his mouth shut. "I mean I'm not sweet like you – I mean like a treat or a really nice tweet like the ones that you put out on the internet where people post their tweets!"
"But I still want you to have this, Marinette," he insists, ignoring the enraptured and flustered expression as he pulls out the Ladybug figure over which he had slaved last evening and holding it out to her like a guilt-offering to a patient and loving god who would accept it because generosity was in her nature. "Chat Noir might not get lonely, but- but I think that Ladybug and him are a pair. They're best friends and should always be together."
The little figure is raised upward, finding a place before her face to be examined with a critical but warm eye, and she suddenly bursts out giggles. Marinette's skin tone is an appealing reflection of the layers of thin paints that he'd applied with painstaking detail to his little Lady.
Apparently that tongue-twister on which she was labouring earlier has been worked out because she softens, plump pink lips curving up in a gentle smile that has his heart pitter-pattering as his palms grow sweaty. Can't she take his little Lady already?! He doesn't want to get her all soaked with sweat.
"It's a gift," he clarifies the obvious, leading her to blink her way out of the little stupor.
"Yeah," she chortles, then presses a hand to her chest, steadying her rapid breaths. "A gift! That they can do anything together."
He meant the figure, but, yes, his Lady is a gift to the world, bundled up in a human-sized package and sometimes he can imagine that she's just for him.
"Yeah. Them against the world, I'd still bet on them every time," he sighs, thumb to the sealed paint job on this Lady's little face, stroking the fine brow, pad catching on the little ripples in her hair. A soft coo bubbles up from in front of him: Marinette, her expression a reflection of his own, just askew but cut with something calculating and uncertain, as she veritably pets little Chat's head.
"You know, Adrien-" Her palm is warm against his when she gentles his little Lady from his hand, fingers catching as if with a burst of static cling, and for Marinette, and for both Little Chat and Little Bug, he's willing to hand over his Lady. "You're absolutely right."
Although she's staring down at the little figures, it doesn't seem for a moment that he's being ignored; quite the opposite.
She's examining his work.
"Did you... have someone paint this?" The fine furrow of her brow bespeaks careful contemplation of his work, and suddenly, he's too embarrassed to admit what he's done. She's going to think that it's a horrible mangled monstrosity.
She takes a step back towards the wall of the school, an outcropping casting her features in shade.
"I- uh... sort of?" he chuckles, moving in the shade of the building alongside her.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the Gorilla helped, you know?"
Having favoured Ladybug with his fair share of smitten expressions, captured for posterity and publicity in innumerable Ladyblog posts slavering over the prospect of LadyNoir, he knows what reverent adoration looks like, how it transforms a face. Light blooms across every inch. A looseness and easy confidence, surety in a storm, takes the place of pain or fear, flooding away everything else in a torrent that could consume the world and does just as long as you keep staring.
That's how Marinette is looking at his Ladybug figure.
She must like Ladybug nearly as much as he does.
He and Lila alike might have genuine competition, given that Ladybug's girl-crush on Marinette seemed to be reciprocated.
Unlike the conniving girl, who merely used Ladybug and innuendo as a means of securing social capital, and him, Marinette likely deserves Ladybug.
But he's not giving up without a fight.
Who was fighting for whom in a doubtlessly disastrous duel involving some complex combination of a Knight, a Princess, and a Lady?
"You... you made this for me?" she asks in a hush, examining the hair-bands with renewed interest.
"Painted it. I know the face isn't very life-like, and the red's all wrong on the hair ties, and- and you might not want it," he stammers, holding out a hand in an offer to take back the toy. "I can get another one. I mean, have someone good – a professional painter – make one."
"No!" she retorts, and nearly clutches the little Ladybug and Chat Noir duo to her chest, his little self getting up close and personal with his Lady. Lucky little guy.
Becoming jealous over a plastic representation of your alter-ego was probably not a sign of emotional health.
"It- she's perfect!" she exclaims, flush burning a path up her cheeks and down her throat. The pinkish red shade offsets the sapphire shimmer of her eyes that aren't really precious jewels but that's the only way he knows how to describe them. "I can't tell you how much this means to me, Adrien. I mean – you made this. For me!"
"I- I wanted to let you know that I was sorry, and – and that I care." Shrugging bashfully, as if he's trying to escape that adoring expression because it's making him feel things that he doesn't really want to think about. "I didn't know how else to do that."
"You don't need to give me a gift to let me know that you care, Adrien," she offers with yet another grin, now hugging both figures to her chest. "All you ever have to do is tell me what you're feeling. I- I'll try to be a better... friend and not make you feel bad for doing it." A mournful head-shake seems directed at herself. "I should have given you something to let you know that I was sorry for not doing that."
"It's alright, Marinette," he assures, putting a hand to her shoulder. "All that matters is that we talked, and- and that you're still my friend."
Shifting the two figures to one hand, careful of the paint applications that are protected by a coat of matte varnish, Marinette trembles for a moment and then presses in, closing the distance between them with a hurried lunge.
Soft.
Delicate.
Feathery.
Thrilling.
Friendly?
Before he even can register the feeling, she's pulled back.
If he ever made a Marinette action figure, he'd have to use pure Ladybug red for her face.
Not that he's much better when he slaps a palm to his cheek, warm-hot-scalding with an electric tingle that cascades like a waterfall into rapids right into his heart. Fitting, because that's moving very rapidly. He and his gut are tumbling, rolling, flying and drowning all at once, which may explain the stupid cheesy grin on his face because something has to.
Marinette just kissed his cheek.
"Thank you, Adrien," she mumbles, eyes to the ground, but the lines of a shy smile splinter up her cheeks.
The rest of his day is all the brighter for the affirmation.
As when they travelled outside, they walk back to class holding hands.
Friends totally hold hands.
For safety and warmth, and to make sure that you didn't get lost.
Totally.