A/N: Hello! Thank you to Night Hawks, Wenck45, Amy Yocom, Faintiana, RangerSargey, TheliteralheartandsoulisI, Witch Priestess, Taco Fox, and the anonymous guest for all your support of this, my angstiest fic! Thank you! It's probably getting OTT, but what the hell, I've had enough of tinkering, so I'm going ahead and posting it. Just one more chapter left (I'm still editing), then hopefully a less angsty sequel. (Because I'm all about single parent Adrien.) Please do let me know what you think! Now have some more angst...
At first it's easy.
As he slips into an easy stride, he can pretend for a second that this is just another catwalk; that all the people waiting for him are clients or co-workers.
The illusion lasts all of thirty seconds before the nearest sympathiser descends on him.
He thinks she might be a relative of Father's. Her eyes are kind and crinkled with sympathy under loose strands of silver hair. A thin, bony hand is gripping his, a tissue rustling against his skin as she says something about losing her husband. Or was it her brother? The words are merging and make no sense.
Her grip is too tight, and her skin is rough, rasping against his as she moves. Her shoulders are hunched oddly, like a vulture's. For a wild moment Adrien wonders if she might be an akuma.
Her lips stop moving and he nods jerkily. With a last unpleasant squeeze she finally releases his hand and he snatches it back, pretending to adjust Emma's dress.
The old woman smiles, stretching her face.
She's a pretty little thing.
Thank you.
So much lovely dark hair!
She gets it from her mother.
And now he's had enough of the conversation and brushes past, not caring if it's rude.
But there's another vaguely familiar stranger waiting to replace her and then another. By the time Adrien reaches the church porch his thin confidence is in shreds.
"Adrien." It's Nino, calling him by name for the first time in years and pulling him into a one armed hug. They're both careful not to jostle Emma.
After a second, Adrien takes a step back to look at his friend. Nino is wearing a suit for the first time since the wedding; a new pair of glasses but no headphones or cap. His head looks naked without them.
He can imagine what Nino is seeing.
He feels like a wreck. He hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten anything but tea and toast since Emma was born – his stomach expels everything else.
He's pale and no amount of make-up can quite hide the dark smudges under his eyes or the slightly hollowed cheeks. He is aware of the painful angles of his shoulder blades and wrist bones, not quite fitting in his jacket.
"You look good, dude."
On the other hand, he is also wearing one of his Father's finest designs, a miracle in pure cotton and symmetrical lines.
"Thanks, man." He manages a smile.
Nino returns it tentatively, relieved at his own tact.
Congratulations, Nino. You haven't set off the ticking time bomb.
The smile slips away, but Nino doesn't notice, turning his attention to Emma.
"So, how's the little lady? She's getting big!"
That's not actually true.
Emma had been too small when she was born and had spent several long, agonising days under observation before being released by the hospital. Now, at almost a week old, she's barely the size of an average newborn.
But it seems to be just one of those things people say to new parents, so Adrien nods anyway as he turns her around for Nino to see.
Alya appears beside them. Her eyes are a little red, but she rallies a smile.
"Isn't she cute? Look at her little button nose! You want to hold her?"
Adrien's arm is tightening possessively, even as Nino shakes his head vigorously, looking horror struck.
"Dude, no! I mean, she is cute," he adds hastily. "But I totally can't hold babies. She's seriously tiny. I'd drop her, for sure."
Alya makes an exasperated noise and turns back to Adrien.
"Do you need to take a break? Want me to hold Emma for you?"
"I'm fine," he replies a little too quickly, earning himself a funny look.
Good job, Agreste.
"Have you seen Sabine and Tom?" he asks, by way of distraction.
He knows instantly it's the wrong question.
"Oh," Alya seems to diminish. "They're inside by the – by the –"
She shudders and Nino pulls her into a hug, but Adrien has stopped paying attention.
Closed casket or open? The question consumes him.
He can't remember. The meeting with the funeral director swims into his mind, but it's like trying to catch his reflection with his hands. The details break apart.
Alya isn't holding the lilies anymore, which might be all the answer he needs.
She's in there.
Except she isn't. She never will be again.
Oh God.
Plagg's little claws are digging into his chest, through the silk lining of his jacket and the cotton of his shirt, and he's breathing again.
"Dude, do you need to sit down? You're seriously pale." Nino's hand is on his shoulder, bracing him.
"I feel sick."
Later, Adrien will reflect on how much he loves and appreciates his two best human friends.
Without another word, they swing into action, hustling him past people and furniture he can't focus on and into the toilets. Alya plucks Emma from his arms – this time without complaint. And Nino holds him up, practically folded over his arm, until there's nothing coming up but stomach acid.
When it's over, Nino straightens him up, rubbing his back soothingly, and guides him to the sinks so he can wash his face. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Alya rocking Emma in a baby carrier – where had that come from? – with her foot while she rummages in a small black bag. Lined up on the edge of the sink is an army of little bottles.
Adrien recognises eye drops, concealer, even a compact of blusher and realises it's one of Nathalie's old 'Quick Fix kits'. She used to make him carry one everywhere, even at school.
Is she here? Had she been invited? He can't remember.
It's too much effort, so he lets his eyes wander downwards. Somehow he's ended up in a classic model pose, leaning against the wall, with one leg bent at the knee, foot braced against the wall.
Nice recovery.
Adrien straightens up immediately, then frowns.
His trousers are spotless. So is his jacket, his shirt, even his shoes. Somehow, Nino had saved them from splashes, or even significant creasing.
And suddenly it seems so unfair it's almost funny. Almost wrong.
That his clothes, of all things, have survived the day.