Summary: Gabriel Agreste is evil. And when he tries to be good, he's even more evil.
Now that feelings have returned, the anger can rise, flashing out in one chill instant.
In a rare show of largess that's become even more uncommon in recent days, his father deigns to have dinner with him.
The good China and appropriate silverware are brought out by a few members of the waiting staff and the table is arrayed with finery that Adrien hasn't seen since his mother used to host dinner parties on those rare occasions that his father permitted it. There's a gesture towards her memory, towards a childhood spent playing hide-and-seek with his doting parent and adventures imagined and real because those weren't always different things.
This particular blend of carrot soup has just the right hint of apple and ginger to offset heavy notes of iron, and comes out steaming, the fragrance wafting up into Adrien's nose when it's deposited before him.
His father sits at the far end of the table with his tablet. Careful flicks of his fingers scroll past design notes and emails from financial advisers, marketing firm executives, and the staff at Gabriel itself. Those are the images that Adrien projects onto the distant, invisible screen as he watches his father's eyes trailing back and forth while the gaunt giant ladles soup into his pursed lips absently.
For the next ten minutes, he stares at his warped reflection in the gleaming bowl of his spoon and twists the utensil in his hands. Can someone be hungry and full, unsatisfied and satisfied, at the same time? Have a meal in front of them that they love, yearn for it, mouth watering at the scent that fills up his lungs, and still not want to eat it?
Apparently so.
Now slightly congealed, the soup leaves cold, long after Gabriel is finished. Adrien had taken only a single spoonful and found it had been made just as he adored. With care and attention and the correct balance of spices so that it was vibrant and clean, one of his favourites.
When the main course is brought out, Adrien is genuinely shocked that Gabriel rises up from his seat and takes in hand a small box proffered to him by one of the three waiters who enter the room.
The distance between them closes and for some reason Adrien can't stand it. He's sick to his stomach, something clenching up deep, deep inside of him and that ailment must be why he can't eat. '
"Adrien," his father begins, stopping at his side as he holds the box stiffly. The absurdity of his father's height becomes so clear, and it's all that Adrien can do not to laugh. From this angle, he can see his father's nose-hairs, little prickles of black that Adrien thinks must be trimmed and plucked.
"Yes, father," he says instead of chortling, and for once it's good. Good not to laugh. Good to control the feeling. "Is everything alright?"
Like Mylene about to deliver an oral presentation, all soft-spoken nerves, his father shifts from foot to foot. "Yes. On the advice of Nathalie, I wished to speak with you regarding your hobby."
Even the lingering urge to laugh dies, and something else does too. He feels it withering up.
"Of course, father." Adrien smiles, just like he always does. It's easy to smile these days, even the ones that only make his heart hurt and not his cheeks. "I've learnt my lesson about being selfish, though. It was very generous of you to return my other figures and painting supplies."
There's a moment of hesitation, Gabriel's fingers strumming the edge of the box in his hands. It's roughly the size of a shoebox, wrapped up in meticulous silver paper. "Yes. About that. This item is for you."
Something stabs into his heart, like Hawkmoth's sword cane, aimed for his Lady and landing in him. A blow that he's stepped into willingly, and the lingering bloodless numbness that spreads out from the wound reminds him of Nathalie's face as she crushed down on everything in her strength and her weakness, refusing to budge and disrupt his father while holding his tablet in those increasingly frail hands.
The package is in his hands, and he can't even remember taking hold of it as his father strolls back to the other side of the table to resume his meal, tucking into his own risotto as Adrien can only stare. Smooth, high-quality silver wrapping paper crinkles under his fingertips.
"You are permitted to open it," his father instructs, taking a sip from his wine.
He does, tentative fingers to the edge of one thin strip of clear tape that holds in place a pleated fold of spotless wrapping paper, and eases the present open, so very gentle, so very careful not to tear the paper that seems as precious as real sliver. Through the din of his own heartbeat, throbbing in his throat, he hears himself say thank you.
Unwrapped and sitting in his lap, the back of the box displays an assortment of miniature statuettes and busts, all of which depict classical works of art ranging from The Mona Lisa to Michelangelo's David, idealizations of feminine and masculine beauty that surely resonate with his father. Immaculate musculature and that faint, seductively ambiguous smile that has enthralled millions stare back at him while he runs his hand over the cool plastic wrap that seals the box.
"I have also arranged lessons with an art instructor."
Adrien looks up from the images; they chase him away so that he's gazing at his father. A pitcher of water, the half-empty bottle of wine, and an ornate centrepiece in the form of some kind of fowl that he remembers vaguely from his childhood and is ugly in its beauty, though he can't understand why, half conceal the distant Gabriel Agreste, mopping his upper lip with a cloth napkin.
"What?"
A flicker of consternation draws in Gabriel's eyebrows. "Nathalie suggested that new interests and hobbies are natural for you at this age, and that it would be ... counterproductive to stifle them entirely. Instead, we will ensure that the skills that you develop are well-directed. Your paints and supplies should be in order, and if you wish to procure another suitable item once you have finished with this one, you may speak with Nathalie to arrange its purchase."
"I... an art teacher?" A teacher. He always wanted a mentor, so why does that burn like he's drinking rubbing alcohol?
"Speak in full sentences, Adrien."
Of course. Complete the thought, especially the ones that aren't his.
"An art teacher would be welcome, father." He looks down at the package in his hands, shifting it over to examine the front, which displays a white plaster cast of the Girl with a Pearl Earring next to a representative sample of a painted version. Painted by professionals. Displayed for sale to entice prospective buyers. "I'm sure that he or she will help me in developing my approach."
"I expect that you will be honest with me regarding your hobby from this point forward. Do not take this kindness as an indication of permissiveness."
"I won't, father." He places the package on the table, next to his glass of water, folding the pock-marked silver paper, marred with small tears from the tape, and setting it atop the package. Neat and clean.
He feels like he should be grateful.
He should.
And a sense of relief should flood his entire body because his father has apologized. Hasn't he? That was what was between the lines, in all the words that his father couldn't say.
The very thought leaves him sick as he pushes mushroom risotto around his plate, thanking his father once again for the kind gift while he simmers in a cool dry ice rage.
Both his parent and his guardian support his painting hobby. He's even getting lessons.
"How will the lessons be integrated into my schedule?" he asks, staring at the cool sludge in his bowl.
His father doesn't miss a beat. "As you already devoted your free time to it, Nathalie will find some way to arrange lessons during that time. In that way, your other extracurricular activities will not be disrupted."
"I see." Does he? "Thank you, father."
A ghost of a smile passes over Gabriel's face, and Adrien remembers Marinette and Marie when he gave them his gifts, even though he doesn't know why. "You're welcome, Adrien. Be certain that your performance in your Mandarin lessons and fencing does not slip."
He nods, and knows he should be grateful.
So why does that thought only make him feel sick as he glances down at the classical bust and all he can see is Marinette and Ladybug in the Girl with a Pearl Earring?
After retiring to his room and feeding Plagg, he lays himself out on top of his sheets, too hot inside and out to snuggle under the covers. His jeans are stiff and scratchy against his thighs, and socks weird and icky, constraining his toes that wiggle, feet just off the edge of the bed though he could scoot upwards.
Plagg has his cheese, but he's not eating. Not yet. Just watching. Slitted green eyes leak toxic ichors in the dark.
Why, Adrien asks himself, isn't he happy? His father approves of his hobby, and even gave him a gift and promises lessons.
He wants someone to make sense of this, to observe the knotty tangle of his own brain and heart and knit them up into something beautiful. A brilliant robe inlaid with scarlet and lustrous blacks and greens that somehow all mesh together into a wonder that's as radiant and complex as it is so soft against his scaled skin that it barely seems to be there, its weight and threads fusing into him. Something that he can show off to the world. Something that's his and theirs because he chooses to share it as it was shared with him. Freely.
Marinette would be able to help, of course. Maybe she's the designer that his father used to be, reflecting the person that the memory of his mother could love and still be everything that he recalls. He'd like to think that Emilie Agreste would be as taken with Marinette as... as he is.
But that intimacy is dangerous, a calamity waiting to unfold just as it did with Kagami, especially when he knows her feelings for him and for his alter-ego and his mask that he may be willing to take off, even if there's no way to tell whether Adrien or Chat or someone else would be peeling away the stage masks – comedy and tragedy in turns, layer after layer.
He can't permit her to see him and become intimate.
For all the reasons that he betrayed and failed Kagami, the tangle of lies and a divided heart in more than just his love for Ladybug, he can't open up. The weight of secret identities and the responsibility of being Chat and ensuring Marinette's safety weigh him down more heavily than every before.
Yet it's impossible for him to continue on like this, just tamping down on this new frothing and directionless rage that tastes just like pablum. The flavor is reminiscent of a juvenile age, experiences long forgotten, something mealy and saccharine and nostalgic, though he'd forgotten its taste and consistency until this very moment.
There's only one person who understands. Nino tries, of course, but he's so caught up in Alya and his own familial challenges that placing the additional burden of care on him is simply inconceivable, and Adrien does know what that word means.
It means that he can't let himself conceive of it; merely permit that half-formed concept to flit in and out of his brain, refusing to grasp hold of it as it passes.
Only one person can help him untangle the threads and try to spool them up again.
Waiting for him to begin with his elbow propped up against the armrest of the driver's side seat in their luxury Tsurugi-brand automobile, his bodyguard takes a shockingly adorable dainty bite from the Dupain-Cheng cream puff that's dwarfed by his chunky-stubby fingers.
It's still a treat to be able to rest in the front seat, right next to him, and take in all those subtle shifts of his eyes as they transition lanes, commit to memory the gentle and sure motions of his hands, held at ten and two on the wheel, when he parallel-parks their silver car. Each one is like a safe secret that they share
Still bound up in its plastic wrap, unmarred and pristine, the package containing the Girl with a Pearl Earring miniature bust lies alongside one representative bottle of "Medium Flesh Tone" paint on his lap. His seat-belt has been unbuckled, too stiflingly safe for him to keep it on for a single moment now that they're parked in front of his school.
"So, I just don't get it. When you... your gift really meant a lot." Adrien's finger stroke over a small smear of dried paint on the bottle as he believes he sees the Gorilla smile, but knows that he isn't; he never does. "It really seemed like – like you were paying attention to me and cared."
The Gorilla nods once, finishing the cream puff and putting his hands back to the wheel.
"Why doesn't this make me happy? My father's actually interested in my hobbies. He gave me a gft that matters – that... the first one since my scarf, you know?" It's like he's begging his friend to say yes. Yes, he knows the gift, hand-sewed and so considerate. Precious. It was real, even outside of his head, and no one can take that away from him because he didn't just imagine it.
Slowly, the Gorilla turns towards the school and stares at it for a long while, line of sight leading just past Adrien's face as he squirms. It's unclear what the Gorilla is actually looking at, what he's trying to find, and all that Adrien knows is that he doesn't like the expression on his stony features. The Gorilla, his first ... real friend even if had been too young and naive to realize it, seemed incapable of emoting, but if you paid enough attention, you could see beyond that placid facade.
Maybe nobody paid enough attention to the Gorilla to really see. Not Nathalie. Not his father.
An emotion that even Adrien can't understand because it may not be a single one breaks on his friend's face as he turns back, and smiles, just in his own way.
It's a sad way.
His hand is warm against Adrien's shoulder, and he has to swallow down the sensation that such a simple gesture provokes, waiting for a revelation that feels as weighty as – as him telling Marinette his identity.
The Gorilla points to the bottle of flesh-tone paint, and then moves to tap the same finger against Adrien's chest, soft enough for him to nearly cry. Sludgy saliva chokes him.
Then, dragging his hand away, eyes flinching closed, his driver points to the little miniature bust, pristine and perfect in its wrapped box. Adrien's locked in place by the man's eyes when they open again, now steady and firm. There is no demand in them, but a question to which the Gorilla already has an answer.
He points to the distance.
Towards the mansion.
The Gorilla doesn't say it, can't say it.
And the Adrien of two years ago wouldn't have heard him if Gorizilla had climbed the Eiffel tower, beat his chest, and hollered it out to the world in an echoing scream that responded through empty streets.
Again, a finger towards the flesh-tone paint and then his chest.
For you.
As the hulking man shakes his head, a glare back towards the refined bust and slip of paper with notes on the lessons orchestrated by Adrien's father, and then the distant mansion.
For him.
The Adrien of today, this day, hears his bodyguard's wordless plea.
He squeezes the bottle, holding it to his chest, and doesn't breathe, the Gorilla's hand safely to his shoulder, unseen through tinted windows.
For the rest of the day, Plagg sleeps next to a little bottle of paint in his pocket, while his father's gift to himself sits in the back seat.
Author's Notes
Hopefully the Gorilla's implications regarding Gabriel's intentions, the attempt to ingratiate himself to his son and once again control him by dolling out carefully-apportioned measures of faux affection and affirmation while leveraging both guilt and love, has been quite clearly communicated. Given Adrien's growth, noted by his father, the young man is less susceptible to prior tactics of emotional invalidation and suppression, so Gabriel, whether wittingly or not, is resorting to more subtle methods while at the same time redirecting and restructuring Adrien's interests to something tidy and at least vaguely refined.