Summary: Adrien is merely a few days away from patrol with Multimouse, but first he has to survive a meeting with Lila, his first since she informed his father of Adrien's disobedience.
The school reeks of ammonia and lemon-scented cleaning solvent, antiseptic, artificial in a way that Adrien has never noticed. It smells like his room, freshly cleaned. Each pass from the house staff should provide relief from the ubiquitous if subtle stink of Camembert that wafts out of his mini-fridge, but they offer only the antithesis of comfort.
He's never noticed before how much the school can be like home in all the worst ways; hallways press in, the heat of bodies and the shuffle of feet and groans of students lamenting yet another day in state-sponsored child prison, as one blurry-eyed pupil puts it, slapping a plethora of books into her locker before moping off to class.
They don't really fathom the nature of a prison. Iron bars and stone walls are stiffing enough, but it's the loss of individual identity, of any ability to impose or assert yourself – to sleep when you wanted, rise when you wanted, eat what you wanted – and the constant justified paranoia, fear of peers and authority alike, that he thinks really cripples a prisoner psychologically.
Adrien thinks that, of course; he doesn't know either.
Obviously, his selfishness cannot be tolerated, and is utterly unbecoming of an Agreste. Unexpected, touch-starved physicality again breaks the thin veneer of propriety demanded by his father when he collapses next to Nino and gives him a side hug, eagerly reciprocated, at their desk.
"Everything alright, Mec?" Nino inquires as he pulls back to examine him, adjusting his hat in one of those many subconscious tells that Adrien recognizes as an expression of anxiety. "You're looking a little bit green around the gills."
"Just glad to be at school, Nino." Fiddling with his pen, capping and uncapping the ballpoint that his father gave him two years ago for his birthday, he stares at the notebook that Nino has open before him. There's nothing but illegible chicken-scratch. The pen is never used; only taken with him in his school bag, held and manipulated, twisted between his fingers.
"Always glad to have you here." The other boy enthuses in his own, uniquely 'chill' way. "Sucks when you have to skip because of a shoot or something."
"Thanks, Nino."
Almost like the skittering of mice feet, a scuffing sound reaches Adrien's ears, and when he turns to look, he finds that Nino has doffed his cap and is scratching at his scalp, questing after an itch that he just can't seem to scratch. An irritant he can't find. "But, uh, you being glad to be here isn't exactly a reason for the scowl, or the bro-hug – not that I'm complaining about it. Hugs are a-okay in my playbook."
"Oh, it's... a lot of things really."
Nino takes his shoulder in hand, and smiles. If only Adrien had the words to describe the tenuous amalgam of feelings that give it shape. "If you want to talk, I've got a pretty good ear, but no pressure, Mec. Don't know if I can give you any idea what to do, but I can listen."
His hand covers Nino's, squeezing gently. "I really appreciate that."
Despite his best friend's assurances, Adrien can't quite suck down enough air, as if his chest is being compressed, like he needs to cough but can't quite hack up the sensation and clear it away, and it becomes clear that the space itself is to blame.
There's a sickly violation of something intimate and precious, not just in his room but in the school as the edges of his vision blur. The whiteboard is smeared with algebra equations and formulae long-since-memorized and he should be paying attention to the teacher out of respect, should be listening to know how far the other students have progressed so that he could be prepared at a moment's notice to tutor Marinette if she ever asked, but focus eludes him. All the meaningful answers do.
Marinette, as ever, is late, so even as the warmth of Nino at his side sinks into his arm, and though court is no longer in session, the mercurial moods of the class having shifted away from Lila once again, it's almost as if the room is empty save for him and the girl who told his father of his reception of the collection of action figures.
Just her and him, furtive glances in her direction to see if she's watching. Her presence like the tingling static before a thunderstorm just ready to burst into a squall.
Until Marinette arrives, tumbling in through the door in her usual explosion of giddy awkwardness and scintillant energy, bearing in her hands a paper bag that, after a quick chastisement from Madame Mendeleiev, she sets at his desk before spinning away from him with a flush and taking her seat.
He doesn't even need to open the rumpled bag, but wants to so badly, licking his lips. As he puts his hands to the crinkling brown paper, there's no way for him to tell whether the radiating warmth that soaks into his palms is physical or spiritual, but it's real nonetheless and it floods him with an alien courage.
Buttery pastry, thick and rich even through the bag, hits his nose. A substitute memory blooms, conjured from the ether, projected like that vision of a little Marinette bustling about the kitchen, making hot chocolate for the first time. He sees a kitchen, a cluttered counter, cooling racks, cheeks flushed with the heat blossoming outwards from the open oven door, a girl, a boy, a home.
Easing the mouth of the bag open, he's awash in the full force of the scent, and it's enough for him to lose himself. A pair of still slightly steaming croissant, fresh from the oven, lie inside. He should feel guilty; he, this gift for him, is the reason that Marinette's late, but he can't find the room in his heart for the recrimination.
Raising one of the breakfast treats to his mouth and taking a slow bite, he finds the experience almost sensual: flaky texture compliments the fatty yet not greasy flavor, introduced by a fresh, evocative fragrance that floods his nose just before he takes a bite.
She really is the sweetest girl in the class and more; the thought of her joining him on patrol, only a few days from now, is almost more than he can stand, the excitement setting his foot jack-hammering against the wooden floor until Nino jabs his gut to caution him to cease.
He's never quite felt so full.
Halfway through class, when Madame Mendeleiev turns her eyes to an equation that she's formulating on the board, he slips a little thank you note to the girl behind him, watching the flush on Marinette's cheeks, red hot, creeping up to her hairline and dipping down her throat.
And that's it; just as he'd thought. It's like Lila's gone, like she can't hurt him. The persistent ache remains, the pains that he can't understand let alone describe, but Marinette truly does wash away some of the discomfort, but maybe that's unhealthy. Maybe it's just another place for forgetting, another thing – worse, another good and kind person – who he's just using rather than cherishing her the way that she deserves. Is it merely a matter of flattering his ego, stroking his deflated pride and the sense of self-worth that- that he now realizes thanks to Ladybug's chastisements, Marinette's fury on behalf of Chat Noir, and Plagg's – Plagg's talk about ... love is woefully tenuous?
The heart is desperately wicked. Who can know it?
"Bro." The hissed exhortation is accompanied by a stomp of Nino's foot to Adrien's toes that sets him yelping and swiveling in his seat to refocus on the teacher while a ripple of suppressed chuckles reverberate through the room.
Reflecting back on a mental echo of the past ten seconds, he realizes belatedly that he'd missed two attempts by Madame Mendeleiev to catch his attention by clearing her throat viciously, and is now glaring at him balefully.
"Sorry, Ma'am," Adrien half-coughs. Blood races hot under his cheeks, and he must look an absolute mess.
Madame Mendeleiv glowers at him, tapping her white-board marker to her open palm, looking as if she wished that they hadn't taken the rod out of schools. "I expect better of you, Mister Agreste."
That cuts deep.
Deeper than it should.
Don't cry in front of the class.
His father wouldn't cry.
But that's not why he's telling himself that he can't.
He doesn't want Marinette to worry, and doesn't want to give power to the echo of pain that's resounding through his body.
Holding himself together through class might have been impossible if not for Nino's intervention as they begin to exchange clipped message in the margins of their notebooks, bantering in short form scribbles about the upcoming release of a sequel to the Ladybug and Chat Noir movie that features a new voice actor because the producers felt that the male protagonist needed a more masculine inflection.
The softness of Marinette's steady breathing, the pastry that he works through, even though it loses all of its physical warmth after only a minute, Madame Mendeleiv's robotic transcription of notes, fluid and even just as much as the script itself is a jagged mess, the scent of Nino's skin that's the same odour that pervades his cramped apartment – all of it together lulls him into something akin to a trance.
When he wakes, Alya badgering Nino to examine a new set of images posted to the Ladyblog, Adrien takes the opportunity to slip out from behind his friend, leaving his bag and belongings for Nino to watch, and appreciates the way that Marinette giggles and shies away when he smiles in her direction. Mood much improved, he realizes, now that his sense of bodily awareness has returned, that he needs to duck out to the men's room in the few free minutes.
After attending to his business, Plagg popping out for a few minutes in the empty room to badger him for additional cheese only to be stuffed back into a pocket when another student barged in, Adrien slips out of the public washroom, scraping his hands across his pant legs to remove the last of the moisture the air dryer left behind.
The sight that greets him is unwelcome, but should have been expected. He should have known what would happen.
Leaning against the lockers while poking away at her cell phone, feigning interest in some application that releases periodic beeps and notification dings, is Lila. Green eyes, partially concealed by her thick lashes, scan the door, find him immediately, and crimp up along the edges as the pretense drops along with her hands, the cell-phone tucked away into her pocket.
"Adrien," she begins, closing the distance between them with only a few strides as she worms and wriggles her hands together. "Just the person I wanted to see."
The model smile comes easily when it's most painful, and the scraping of his hands becomes almost violent, even though they're completely dry now. "Lila. How can I help you?"
What appears to be resolute contrition has her setting her jaw. "Oh, I just wanted to apologize again for yesterday."
Absent any determinable alteration or development, any sense that the thought or feeling or consolidation of both has had any time to gestate, he's struck by the sudden sense that this game is utterly bereft of meaning – an absurdist dance of pretense.
He has to force his hands to still, knowing her eyes are on them, watching and weighing, assessing responses for any tells, but in this moment, he's beyond hiding them "You know, Lila, I was completely honest about being willing to become your friend."
A flurry of blinks are the only sign that she's been destabilized. There's a reassessment, coldly logical and detached, almost alien as her eyes flick, taking in his stance, the angle of his feet, the rigidity of his shoulders. She's looking for tells.
In response to whatever she finds, as he's beyond caring what she can see because she'll simply manufacture anything that she requires, she adopts a posture of casual intimacy, leaning her weight into the locker by his side, legs partly crossed, so close that the wafting nearly visible tendrils of her lilac perfume claw their way into his nose, delve down his throat and curl up into his mouth to choke out the lingering taste of butter.
"Of course I know." Fingers drum across her bicep. "You don't have one fake bone in your body."
It's truly amazing how poorly Lila is able to perceive people, how a myopic and narcissistic fixation on herself prevented her from realizing what he has only now come to understand. Adrien Agreste is a lie, and Marinette, if not Ladybug, saw right through Chat Noir too.
"I just don't understand what you get out of this." The sad part is that that too might be a lie.
Her eyes widen perceptibly, glassy oceans of brown and white. "Why do I have to get something out of it? An apology isn't about getting something from another person. It's all because I care about how you feel."
"I just wanted you to know that..." He licks his lips, trying to recall the flavour of the croissant and finding only iron. "That I would forgive you, if you asked and – and you actually meant it."
Lila's brow folds up, a hand clasping at the smooth front of her blouse, creasing it up just above her heart. "Have I done something else that needs forgiving, Adrien? If I said or did something to hurt you, please tell me. I really would like to know."
Lila's actually somewhat terrible at lying, leaving inconsistencies of sufficient size to allow Gigantitan and Gorizilla, locked in mortal combat, to tumble through, but there's something indescribable about the way that she twists up words, saying exactly what she means and only rendering the barbs cruelly hooked. If it weren't for his experience with feigned smiles on set, at school, for his fans, and for himself, he might not know what that means. .
He's so sick of this.
He leaves her there, and she's not smiling. Maybe she senses that, this time, there's no need.
Safely back at his seat, head buried in his folded arms so that there's nothing but the darkness and the hustle and clatter of the students around him, a sea of voices murmuring, chortling, punctuated with guffaws and raucous insults and boasts exchanged between Alix and Kim, he has to wonder if, perhaps, Lila isn't the only one whom he's longer willing to tolerate.
Before he leaves his next class to return home for lunch in an empty dining room, he pauses at the door, withdrawing his father's gift from two years ago. Though they don't say anything while he scrutinizes the curling faux-gold-inlay, the pen turning over and over in his fingers while he runs his thumb over the clip and rimmed edge of the cap, Nino and Marinette both stand with him, waiting to leave until he's ready.
When he returns to the schoolroom and checks after lunch, the pen has disappeared from the tabletop where he left it.
Hopefully someone will actually be able to find a use for it.