Summary: While Multimouse might not be making regular appearances in his life any longer, Adrien finds that time spent with his girlfriend, Marinette, is...
Well, he doesn't have the words.
Either for her, or for the other Lady who's burying him in love, just of a different sort.
Dating Marinette is ... wonderful. Thrilling and heady and hazy in a way that's like drinking wine – Adrien's had it at business dinners, but hated the acidity and the way that it made him feel like his fingers and brain were bloating up, grip on everything becoming slippery, edges indistinct.
This time, though it's a contradiction in terms, the fog, scattering her light so everything is suffused with it, soaked with it, only brings things into focus; the edges of reality are somehow sharper, and the taste of Marinette in his life is like frothy-warm hot chocolate, perfectly balanced between sweet, rich, and bitter so that he can savour the entire robustly complex experience.
Maybe that's reality.
The sound of Marinette is the crackle of a fire on a chilly day.
The smell that of baked pastry, heavy with fat and sugar and home-feeling because it hadn't been bought in a store, but mixed and poured and baked in your own kitchen. Two sets of hands working together, you alongside someone you loved.
And all of that illuminated by the bright sun.
But there's more to them than that as they meet for clandestine dates, him bursting from his bedroom as Chat Noir in the dusk, whooping his way over rooftops only to duck low between buildings, reorienting himself, and then weaving a secret path through alleyways and back-streets, and Marinette just waiting for Adrien to knock on the door to her home.
Maybe that was what she'd always been doing.
What he'd always been doing.
It's a rush unlike any he's felt because it's just... real.
That's all it is.
That's all that he ever wanted, he realizes.
There's a simple wonder to it all.
Sitting together on her chaise, Marinette drooling slightly as she drifts off into a nap despite her resolution to stay up with him, to make the most of the time they share. It's okay. He loves watching her sleep, just feeling her skin, seeing her eyelids flutter, knowing that she needs her rest and joying in knowing that, pressed to his chest, she can get it.
Blabbing about anime and finding that she doesn't like Shoujo programs – how dare?! – and a difference of opinion becomes a joke, something to tease each other about because they can be different and still be ... still love.
Admiring sketches and modelling nascent designs for her, which should taint their time together, but when he walks the invisible runway for her, there are no leering eyes, no judgments of posture, poise, and performance. He's wearing something that she created; making it as beautiful as he can, pouring everything that he has into it – when he's not mock preening, breaking character, having fun.
Showing off his paints and plans for future custom figures, less his precious Multimouse that... that he will give her one day, when he's ready. When they're ready. He's like a child holding a Christmas present in his hands, fingers tracing the edges of that immaculate wrapping paper, just waiting for Marinette – clumsy, sleepy, indulgent Marinette who woke up a hour early, put herself out for him – so that, together, they can open the gift that they've purchased for themselves,
An identity reveal.
And it is a gift, isn't it? Sharing who you really are.
Oh, right, and sneaking pecks and nuzzles in school closets.
Marinette might be a mouse, but she's a cheeky one.
They're playing with fire, but he can't stop. It's too warm.
Dating Marinette is ... sublime.
But not perfect, he realizes as the sheen wears off somewhere in the first few weeks of secret dates in her room (her parents know; no shenanigans) and patrol-training-sessions with Multimouse, who's still a little flirty with her rosy cheeks and flicking tail, when she pins him to a rooftop by slipping from his grasp or ducking under a swing of his baton, to straddle his lap.
That triumphant smirk does things to him. No pulled punches. She's too skilled at this point, and there's no reason for Chat to take it easy on her. He's not dating his adorable partner.
There are fights, disagreements, disappointments, make-ups, breakdowns, everything that they are and that they want to be a tumult, but it's their ability to be honest – about who they are, what they need – and come back together again that's challenging and real.
It's not perfect, but who ever wanted perfection, other than his father?
He's not his father.
Never will be.
Never could be.
Patrol schedules, always organized by Ladybug, shift again; Multimouse decreases and Marinette increases, and he's flying with his Lady more often than not, now.
Tonight is yet another instance when they've met on a rooftop, ready to discuss, in a way that they never did before, patrols, plans for grappling with Hawkmoth, and, as it turns out, action figures once again.
"So, I've been doing some research into the whole 'action figure collecting' hobby recently, since we learnt about those scalpers," Ladybug notes in the voice that she uses when she's pretending to not be interested in something.
"Oh yeah?" The stars in the sky are barely visible in the City of Lights, but he's got all that he needs right here on this roof. Of course, he could do with Multimouse by his side as well, given that it would be a miracle in its own right to merely be witness to the resulting interplay. "Find anything really interesting? If you need any suggestions for youtube content creators, I can send you a few links."
Muscles along her back flex and roll in a very ... muscly fashion, undulating like a wave as she rolls her shoulders. Bad kitty. He looks away immediately, sick self-recrimination bubbling in his gut.
"Mostly the design aspect," she sighs, arms falling back to her sides. "How all the joints fit together and the cost associated with paint jobs and tooling."
"Ah, yeah. That is kind of cool. It's neat breaking things down, seeing how they work." Is it, or is that just something that he's saying, though he's never believed it? The words sound a little hollow in his ears.
"I know that Ma- uh-" In a gesture that reminds him of himself, a hand rises up to scratch at the back of her head as he leans in, all eager kitten eyes, to encourage her to share. "Multimouse," she continues, "has been working with her boyfriend on some custom action figures and miniature painting."
His tongue has suddenly become a genuine choking hazard, swelling up in his mouth, and it's all that he can do to hide the bloated, treacherously-floppy thing behind a broad grin. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah. It looks like it's a lot of fun, something you can do just to be creative, or, maybe, when you're mass painting miniatures, turn your brain off." She taps the side of her head, just under her bangs while he frets and masks it by sneaking a peek into their basket of goodies for the evening. Pain au chocolat. Perfect for the eating and the hiding, so he starts scarfing it down, watching her from behind bliss-hooded eyes. "Sometimes, I overthink things, so I know how important it is to just... turn off, sometimes."
"Can't underestimate the importance of thinking, though," he retorts with a surprising level of bitterness, wiping his lip. Must be the dark chocolate. "It's too easy for people to just... not think."
"Sure," she grants. "With all the work that people do - families, jobs, school, driving to and from work, drama and school, whatever – it can be really hard to think about things deeply, or think at all.
True enough. Maybe society is, while not to blame because it seems childish to throw off all your problems onto a collective, disburdening yourself of responsibility, but at least a contributing factor. When you're bone-tired to the point that your head is stuffed up with cotton balls after a shoot that ran long thanks to a photographer who speaks only in pasta-related metaphors, and your fingers ache because you had to put in two hours of piano practice when you got home, and you have three homework assignments before evening patrol...
Who has time to think?
"But when we're not thinking about what we have to do, the next class, the next assignment, the girl at school who bullies you -" He wants to murdur someone, but assumes that to be a hypothetical. "Maybe, we can think about deeper things." With her yo-yo in hand, she's weaving cat's cradle again, in and out, over and around. He should learn how to do that. "When you're caught up in everyday life, you can't see things from different angles. Learning how to shut off your yammering brain can... can really help with that, I think."
"So, do you think that you're going to pick up a hobby to help with that?" His temperature-controlled gauntlet is cool against his mouth as he wipes butter from his lips, flicking his tongue into the grooves between his teeth to clear out the remnants of pastry.
"I already have a few, but miniature painting seems kind of fun." Ravelling in a tangle that, between blinks, is suddenly an ordered, straight single string – just another illustration of his Lady's magic – her yo-yo spools back up, cracking open on the seam to reveal a web-browser that displays Jeux Au Feu, a garish page that appears to be for an online retailer specializing in board games and miniatures.
It takes them only a few minutes to review the collection of miniature-heavy board games, including a Norse-themed strategy game entitled Blood Rage , and, per his request, a Star Wars miniature war game, Star Wars Legion . What fun. Adult games and mathematics, the luck of the dice, and strategy, all with collectible and customization little figurines, ripe to be painted and deployed. A little battle between miniature friends and companions, stories forged out of your own imagination and chance, all shared, built up, with a far more precious collection of friends.
"That looks like a lot of fun." A claw taps her yo-yo screen, right over the tiny master-painted Luke Skywalker miniature.
"Star Wars isn't exactly my thing, but I know what you mean." Her yo-yo snaps closed in what seems to be a gesture of finality and closure. "That's why I'm going to buy a starter set to try to see if I've got what it takes to paint it up."
The glands on either side of his throat seem to tighten; his lungs fill up with gloriously warm air, even though the mercury has dropped and he's just on the verge of seeing his breath. The pastries, his suit, Marinette, and his Lady have all kept him so warm that he didn't even notice until his lungs expanded, heavy and hot. "You are?"
"Yeah, and I was wondering if-" he imagines the way that she looks down to her yo-yo screen, and a trick of the light sets a Pale Pink blush over her cheeks - "if you might want to take a crack at it with me?"
"But... I- don't you have friends that you'd rather do that with?" he asks, and that's enough to dispel the illusion as she smiles up at him confidently, looking him in the eye without hesitation.
"Of course, Kitty." The contact breaks, snapping like an ethereal spider web, glistening with dew, but that's perfectly acceptable to him. The heroine he loved asks without words, he nods, and she hugs him tight, head to the crux of his shoulder. Pastry, vanilla, and girl , so familiar because, maybe, every angel smells like this, flood his nose as he nuzzles her hair, so very careful to avoid impropriety.
Because even Ladybug isn't...
Isn't worth Marinette.
"But you're my best friend."
Oh.
He swallows back a yelp and sniffs back snot and everything inside of him is only just enough to keep the tears from falling.
Why did these two girls want to kill him?
He might not have an answer to that one, but he does know what they'll be doing on their next patrol.
Miniatures and Ladybug; Ladybug action figures with Marinette.
The reality of their exchanges seems to overlap and reverse, some aspect of their relationship as his affections shifted over to Marinette – because who wouldn't love her; who could resist the force of her gentleness? – but he doesn't think about it.
For now, he doesn't think that he needs to.