AN: Decided to try my hand at writing something fun. This is an AU fic; all the characters are at appropriate ages for the content. I do not claim to know everything about the French culture, so all due respect to the country that is the setting for this heartwarming series. I also do not own Miraculous Ladybug (and not much else, for that matter), but I do own the cover art for this story. I drew it myself. :) Any art I use in any of my fics will be self-made.
I also would like to thank Princess Kitty1 and their fanfic Lucky Us for inspiring this story. I loved the premise of that fic and decided to do a writing exercise loosely based on it, which is what produced What Masks Conceal. I'm more into it than I realized I would be when I started, so I decided to roll with it! Please, everyone go read Lucky Us and leave Princess Kitty1 all the love, as it's quite an incredible story.
Hope you enjoy!
...
WHAT MASKS CONCEAL
By MoanaLeesa
…
Chapter One
Blue Muse was playing on the radio again.
Marinette resisted the temptation to clench her jaw; she had pins in her teeth, and if they broke off into her mouth it wouldn't be fun for her nor her patron. Thankfully, the patron in question didn't seem to notice her shift in demeanor—after all, he was too busy examining the fine Italian suit that she was pinning to his lanky form.
She cleared her throat and continued to pin, doing her very best to ignore the music and focus on not needling her customer's leg. One would think, after a couple years, the track would drift out of popularity, but no. Not this one. It played incessantly, a smooth and languid melody that Marinette would expel from existence if she had the power to do so. Frankly, she was angry at whatever god existed that she didn't have that power—an injustice, really.
"I like the stations you play in here," her customer said suddenly, drawing her from her thoughts. "Good taste."
Ugh. She pulled a few pins from her lips. "Yeah, it's nice. You said you wanted slim fit—how are the legs? Slim enough?"
He glanced down. "Slimmer."
"Absolutely, monsieur." Of course he wanted slimmer. They always do, even if it doesn't work with their body structure. She probably should have learned that lesson by now.
Marinette pushed her braid over her shoulder as she studied the slacks. She would have to undo all her work and try to catch up—another customer had an appointment in nearly half an hour, and she had paperwork to finish.
"I've found blue muse, so I'll hold her hand, give her a reason to never leave again…Blue muse, you give me the words… They flutter out, as frail as bluebirds…"
Her customer was even humming along to it.
After a few minutes of un- and re-pinning, Marinette was forced to inconspicuously reposition her weight; her knees were starting to hurt. Aching knees were par for the course in this job. She did a lot of crouching, examining hems and seams, getting acquainted with many an ankle. This afternoon, though, she was experiencing more pain than usual. She blamed it—and Blue Muse, which seemed to follow her around like a swarm of angry bees—on her notoriously bad luck.
Once the song had faded to a close, though, she felt a bit of the tension in her body release.
"Can you get this done in the next ten minutes?" The man lifted his arm to look at his obviously-expensive wristwatch; his moustache twitched. "I have a meeting with Mayor Bourgeois soon that I can't be late to."
Ah. A politician, likely. "I can do it in fifteen." It would be difficult, but maybe she could get a better tip from him if she managed to work fast.
"That'll work. Thanks."
She finished in twelve minutes. The tip he slid across the counter was average.
As soon as the politician strode out the door into the cloudless, late-winter day, her boss piped up from the back.
"Marinette, do you know where the Perrault order is? I can't find it. We should really have a different system for suit rentals…"
She blinked slowly at the bills in her hand. Two more hours, and then I can go home. Then she tucked the money, folded neatly, into the designated tip pocket of her purse. "Have you looked through the big Picard order? It may have gotten mixed in." Her boss did that all the time. Not that she could really blame him, there were stacks upon stacks of garment-bagged suits in that back room and they had to keep all of them organized, which was easier said than done—Marinette had daydreamed more than once about crawling onto a pile of them and taking a nap.
A moment passed. "Oh! I found it! Thank heavens."
She had only just sat on the barstool behind the counter, slid the measuring tape from around her neck, and started to stretch her knees when she heard the doorbell jingle against wood.
A large bearded man stepped in; his eyes glanced back and forth through thick spectacles. "Uh…I think I have an appointment?"
He's early. Marinette forced herself to straighten up. Tacking a smile on her face, she said in her best customer-service voice, "You must be Monsieur Blanchet! Welcome to Satre's Custom Suits, it's lovely to finally meet you. Did you find our location alright?"
Two more hours.
…
"Here, Plagg," Adrien cooed softly. His right arm stretched further forward, a little piece of camembert pinched softly between his fingers—he could smell it from here. "I have your favorite."
"Mmmplaggh?"
Adrien grinned softly. He didn't have to see Plagg to know it was him; he could identify that distinctive meow anywhere. "Yeah, it's me. Your buddy. I haven't seen you in a few days, where've you been?"
A black nose poked out from the scaled needles of the evergreen bush. "Mmplaggh." When he opened his mouth to reply, a bright pink tongue and white canines stood out against dark fur.
"Come on, friend. Why are you so shy today?" Adrien glanced around the back garden, considering that perhaps there was another animal lurking about; but no, everything was perfectly trimmed and maintained, per usual, not a leaf nor stone out of place.
Then he spotted movement beyond the fence. Their gardener walked along the edge of the property, a rake in one hand and shears in the other—she seemed to be headed towards the beds on the side of the house, which Adrien knew she pruned on Tuesdays. On Sundays, she tended to the back garden…
"Ah. I have a hypothesis." Adrien glanced back towards the bush. Now, two large green eyes watched him inquisitively. "I bet that gardener scared you off, didn't she?"
Plagg only gave him a long, slow blink.
"Right. Well, I'll tell her not to bother you. After all, the back garden is our domain to rule as we wish. Establishing hierarchy is important in these situations." He raised the piece of cheese again. "Now, on to more pressing matters. My liege?"
The cat slunk out of the bush, taking a few careful steps as he zoned in on the camembert—soon, he was nibbling away happily. Soft purrs and the clacks of little teeth filled Adrien's ears.
"Maybe I can sneak you in. There's lots of food in the house for you…I have a warm bed."
Plagg didn't acknowledge him as he was too absorbed with the task at hand.
Adrien shrugged. "To be fair, I have no idea how I would keep you hidden. The hair, the camembert, the horrendously-loud meowing, and not to mention you are stealthy as hell. You'd find a way out of my room and into the kitchen in no time."
Again, no response. Adrien studied the animal; the notch taken out of his ear, the rough scar across his nose, the dirt clinging to his legs. A little roughed up, a little smelly, but quite healthy and as happy as a clam.
Adrien nodded. "Yeah, you're a man of the streets. It would be horrible of me to imprison you—a cell the size of a mansion is still a cell."
Purr.
"I mean, now that I think about it, you have a great thing going for you. You roam the streets of Paris, go wherever you want, woo ladies and laze in the sun all day…and when you're hungry, you just go to the large fleshy creature's house and he gives you more food than you know what to do with. Just because I'm jealous doesn't mean I should ruin it for you."
Plagg licked the remainder of the treat from Adrien's fingers with his wet sandpaper tongue, and gave a little "Mmplaggh." He rubbed his face against the inside of Adrien's palm, his tail high and tip curling back and forth.
Adrien's heart swelled a bit. "You flirt," he teased, offering Plagg an affectionate scratch behind the ears. "You just want more cheese, don't you?"
"Adrien."
The voice surprised them both. Plagg gave a startled "Mmmplaggh!" and retreated back into the bush; Adrien tensed, knowing exactly who it was. He turned to look, eyes squinting against the sun hanging low in the pale winter sky—the shape of his father's secretary, posture stick-straight and the set of her shoulders precise, stood starkly on the opposite side of the back garden.
Adrien stood, dusting off his jeans and praying she hadn't noticed Plagg. "Yes, Nathalie?"
He could see her face better now. She raised an eyebrow and glanced down at the bush, but said nothing. "Your father wants to speak with you."
Dread settled on Adrien's chest. "Do you know why?"
She shook her head only once and glanced down at her tablet, scrolling through what could only be his father's schedule. "We must hurry—Gabriel has an important business meeting in half an hour."
Glad I managed to be important enough for him to grace me with thirty minutes of his time. Adrien wished he could check on Plagg before he left, but he knew that if he wanted Nathalie to either a.) stay in the dark about the cat or b.) continue to pretend to stay in the dark about the cat, he had to play along.
He'd been doing a lot of that lately.
"…sure, Nathalie. Lead the way."
…
Marinette had stopped by her parent's bakery on the way home from work. Fortunately, it wasn't too far out of the way, but she would have walked miles to get her hands on a slice of her dad's tarte tatin. It was the kind of craving that if it wasn't satisfied, it would have affected her mental and emotional well-being for an indefinite amount of time.
Fortunately, her parents hooked her up with more than just one pastry and she had to balance the towering paper bag filled to the brim with pastry boxes on her hip to be able to unlock her apartment door.
"Tikki," she called into the dark room as she handed her purse to a nearby chair and tossed her keys in a bowl perched on the entry side table. "I'm home."
Marinette wasn't expecting a response. When she flipped on the lights, she glanced across her living room to the hamster cage that rested against a nearby window. She couldn't see Tikki, but she knew that her little furry friend was nestled underneath layers of fabulously-warm bedding, snoozing away.
"Work was work." She rounded the partition and entered the kitchen, starting the task of unloading all the boxes from the bag. "It's felt harder and harder to go lately. Not that I don't like it, it's just…"
Her words faded. She didn't know why she was talking to her hamster. Not that Tikki wasn't a good listener—on the contrary, she was the best of listeners—Marinette just didn't quite know how she was feeling. Bad? Sad? Stuck? Trapped? Lost? Just okay?
She didn't have to consider this for long, though, because her pocket began to vibrate. She pulled out her cell phone—the caller ID read Alya.
Marinette raised an eyebrow and checked the time in the upper left-hand corner of her screen. Didn't Alya have an interview this evening? She tapped the answer button and set it on speakerphone. "Hey, I thought you had reporting to do or something?"
A scoff. "Hello to you too, best friend."
"Ha, I was just concerned. Did something happen?"
"Oh…yeah, they "rescheduled," quote-unquote. Translation, they canceled. That's celebrities for you."
Marinette set her phone down on the counter and pulled another box from the bag—half a dozen classic croissants. "Damn, Alya, that sucks. Hard to be a reporter when there's nothing to report. Which celebrity?"
"Well, more of an up-and-coming celebrity. It's Bubbler. You know, the DJ that's been getting popular? He hasn't been hit up by a corporation yet so I thought I would snag an interview before he got inaccessible."
Another box—some chocolate eclairs. "Yeah, I've heard of him. He's big in the club scene."
A great laugh vibrated her phone. "Girl, how would you know that? You don't go to clubs."
Raspberry cheesecake. "For your information, I have been to a club! I went to one with Chloe, the uh…the Skip, or something."
"You mean Hop? That was one time, and you left in half an hour. I still don't understand how you tolerate Chloe. Is that why you left?"
Marinette gave an amused huff as she admired the half a dozen profiteroles that her parents had added to her stash. They gave me so much, more than usual. "Actually, no. I just didn't feel good. Also, I know you don't like Chloe, and we can debate about that at some point, but I really don't want to talk about anything that requires brainpower right now. Or any sort of critical or cognitive thinking." She wanted to eat these profiteroles until she felt sick.
"Oh-kayyy, well, I was going to say that I'm free tonight if you wanted to hang. I can bring wine and we can partake in our favorite pastime: bullshitting all night long. Which, fortunately for us and the three brain cells that we share, requires little effort and offers great reward."
Marinette straightened; for the first time all day, she felt legitimate excitement. "If you don't get over here in the next fifteen minutes with that wine, we're breaking up."
"I'll be over in ten."
"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" Marinette delicately lifted the box with her torte tatin housed inside, golden and sugary and delicious. Her mouth watered as she opened the lid. "How much you truly, deeply matter to me?" Was she talking to Alya or the pastry?
Alya snickered. "I know you only love me for that third brain cell."
"Noooo…" She let the sarcasm coat her words like the caramel on this beautiful, succulent, divine torte tatin. Her dad had truly outdone himself. The aroma was thick and sweet—she couldn't wait to take a bite.
A guffaw. "Girl, if I get over there and there isn't a single Dupain-Cheng pastry to be seen like last time, you can forget having anything to do with the third brain cell. Or the wine."
Marinette feigned a gasp. "Not the wine!"
…
Adrien's father had just asked him to model—again. Well, in reality, it was less of a question and more of an order, but even Gabriel Agreste had the decency to wait a moment for Adrien to reply.
He didn't answer right away. But then he said the brave thing, the thing that had been beating on the inside of his chest the moment his father opened his mouth. "It sounds like a great opportunity, father, but it conflicts with tutoring."
Gabriel's expression remained unchanged. "You can arrange with your Chinese teacher to have your lessons around shoots and shows, like we have done every other time in the past."
"No, father," he said as gently as a he could. "I go to Francois-Dupont a couple times a week. To tutor, remember? It's part of how I contribute to the community." It was also one of the few things he did simply because he enjoyed it.
After a tense, still moment, Gabriel picked up a paper from his desk to examine. Nathalie stood dutifully behind him, rigid as stone. An all-seeing and all-hearing guardian. "You will just have to cancel and resume after your contract is over," his father stated, as if that was that.
A knot twisted in his throat. "Father, I..." He swallowed and looked to Nathalie for help. Her eyelashes fluttered a bit, but she said nothing.
Gabriel continued, "I should also mention that this contract is not with the Agreste brand. It's for Bijou."
Adrien straightened. This was new. "Bijou?"
"Yes. It's an experimental line by Ines Bijou herself; all of the models will be completely anonymous."
"…Anonymous?" For some reason, he only had the mental capacity to parrot his father's words.
Gabriel gave him a pointed glance—he was growing impatient. "Yes. Anonymous. An interesting social experiment; how are the clothes received by the fashion community without the additional bias of the famous model wearing them?" He lowered the paper. "Ines also wants to emphasize the importance of the art form and the talent of the models. She believes both will be accentuated by concealing the models' identities."
"Will the models know one another?"
"No."
Adrien had to admit, it intrigued him. He had never been a part of something like this. "So…we'd wear masks or something?"
"Yes, masks. You will also have aliases; the details are in your contract."
He considered this for a moment. An opportunity to model without people knowing who he was, without paparazzi following him around asking him about the next show, no interviews about an upcoming shoot or tabloids about imaginary relationships between him and other models. No pressure to perform a certain way to better represent his father's brand.
He also supposed that this meant that his father wouldn't know which model he was, either. At least, not at first.
What would his alias be?
"…if I do this, father," Adrien finally said, "I want the schedule to work around my volunteer tutoring at the middle school."
He could hear Nino now: You set a boundary! Good job, dude!
"Absolutely not."
His heart dropped a bit. He knew that it was the most likely answer, but he had hoped otherwise.
"Monsieur," Nathalie interjected gently, her gaze directed away from Adrien and down towards the desk. "I should point out that your son is under the watchful gaze of the public eye. If he stopped participating in regular events right before the start of this fashion line, it could hint to the press that he is one of the models."
A warmth flooded Adrien. Nathalie, you angel. You beautiful, beautiful angel. He mouthed a silent thank you to her; she gave no response, but Adrien knew that she had noticed.
Gabriel's brows furrowed together frustratedly. "Fine," he finally declared, and Adrien felt elation prickle in his fingers and toes. "Send Nathalie your tutoring schedule and she will negotiate the specifics with the project's design team. You are dismissed."
"Yes, father."
He stood up and left the office with Nathalie; she didn't say anything, but he knew that she was happy for him. He could feel it radiating off of her.
Adrien relished this success, permitting it to lift the corners of his mouth into a smile. Was he less than happy that his father still controlled his life, even now at twenty-five years old? Yes. Did he allow himself to celebrate this win, the support from Nathalie and his father's (very slight) acknowledgement of his boundaries? Also yes.
Baby steps, right?
When he read over the contract, he discovered that he was the one to decide his alias. This was so no one, not even the designers, knew who he was. Only one designer would be privy to his identity as a model, and they would be under a legal contract to keep it hidden. Ines Bijou would know all the models as well, but she wouldn't know which model was which—and she, too, would be under a legal contract of secrecy. Adrien's contract, which also swore him to secrecy, requested that their alias be a creature, real or fantasy—there was a list of examples that the models could choose from if they wished.
Adrien thought that it sounded like a logistical nightmare. How on earth would the event organizers be able to plan for the guests? Much less fighting off the press and paparazzi, whom Adrien was sure would be all over this show like starving leeches on an unsuspecting leg. But for the first time in a very long time—maybe ever—Adrien felt excited about a modelling job.
The rest of Adrien's evening was spent hunched over his desk, brainstorming his alias and preparing materials for the following day's tutoring session. To his delight, he felt happy—in a way that he hadn't in a long time.
…
Marinette and Alya had draped themselves over Marinette's couch, halfway through their bottle of white wine and two-thirds of the way through the box of eclairs, laughing merrily about nothing in particular. The box that once held the torte tatin was empty, only a smear of caramel and a few crumbs left behind—it had been more delicious than it looked.
Alya took a long sip from her glass. "Dude, Marinette," she giggled, looking down at her phone, likely at her email. "Guess Bubbler's real name. Guess it."
"Remember how I told you that I didn't want to do anything requiring brainpower?"
"Girl, just do it. Humor me."
Marinette huffed playfully and pretended to think for a moment. "Um…Francis."
"Ha, no."
"Jean Paul." Ugh, she was so bad at this game.
Alya shook her head exaggeratedly, kinky curls flipping across her cheeks. "Nope."
"Elliot. Samuel. Aloys." A few of France's most popular boy names. Marinette would have sworn that she'd met dozens of people named Aloys.
A grin broke out over Alya's face. "No, girl, it's Nino."
"Nino?" Marinette thought about it. "That's a cute name! I like that name."
"When I think of Nino, I think of like, a grade schooler with scuffed shoes and a backpack that's too big for them." Alya chuckled and put her phone on the coffee table with a clack. "I guess I may never know what he's really like."
Marinette took a sip of wine. It was a little dry for her taste, but then again, Alya always made fun of Marinette for how sweet she liked her wine. A baker's daughter through and through, she would tease. "You think he's gonna reschedule the interview?"
Alya shrugged; Marinette could tell she was more disappointed than she was letting on, making a show of brushing off the rejection. "He said he was going to, but he had to figure out some things first. Which, again, usually means his assistant will get back to me and tell me that he's just too busy." She glanced up to Marinette and suddenly gave another bright smile; she pointed to her friend's glass. "Oh, you have a visitor!"
"What?" Upon investigating the glass, she spotted a little red-orange beetle crawling silently up the stem. "Ah! Hello, little one."
"Ladybugs are so cute," Alya announced. "An under-appreciated insect, in my opinion."
"Yeah," Marinette agreed and offered her pointer finger for the ladybug to crawl onto. To her delight, the spotted beetle accepted her invitation with a flit of its wings. "They've been popping up around the apartment lately. Not an infestation or anything, but I'll see them around."
"Girl, that's good!"
Marinette raised an eyebrow as she watched the ladybug perch contentedly on her fingernail. "Why?"
With a twitch of her lips, Alya sank back into the couch cushions with a happy sigh. "They're, like, good luck. I think."
Marinette gave a soft tch. "Well, thank god. I need it." She pondered for a moment; the ladybug took its time moving from her fingertip to her first knuckle, slim legs tickling her skin as it crawled. "They started showing up around a month ago. I played around with a ladybug runway gown design for a bit…I even made a pattern for the dress."
Alya perked up. "You—You designed something? That's awesome, Marinette!"
"Thanks," was all she could say.
"Can you show me?"
After a few minutes of Alya begging, her words slurred ever-so-slightly from the drink in her hand, Marinette conceded. She carefully placed her new ladybug friend on the windowsill near TIkki's cage and returned to the living area to flip open the sketchbook on the coffee table. The thick pages were soft, corners and cover worn from being tossed in backpacks and handled over and over again; finally, Marinette reached the most recent design in the book, the red-and-black gown stark against cream paper.
Alya peered down at it. "Oh, Marinette," she breathed, her hazel eyes glimmering. "That's gorgeous."
"…heh. Thanks." Her chest felt tight; she took another swig of wine to loosen it up.
"I'm so glad you're starting to design again. I was…" Alya's face shifted from ecstatic to somber, "…I was worried about you."
The two friends sat in silence for a minute or so, letting Alya's comment settle in. Marinette wasn't sure what to respond with and wondered how she would reply; soon enough, though, her mouth opened and did it for her.
"Blue Muse played on the radio again today."
Marinette wasn't looking at Alya, but she felt her concern. "…I'm sorry, girl."
This time, it was Marinette's turn to make a show of brushing it off. She managed a chuckle as she lowered herself back onto the couch cushions. "It's—It's okay. I'm getting better. I just…really wish my boss would choose a different radio station."
"Have you talked to Satre about it?"
Marinette shook her head. "Honestly, it would be harder explaining it to Satre than just ignoring the song. I could say I just don't like the station, but he wouldn't buy that… heh, it's fine." She swallowed thickly, unsure whether this was true or not. "I'm fine," she said again, hoping it would sound more cogent the second time—it didn't.
Alya cocked her head, considering her friend's statement. It took a few seconds for her to develop a reply—her face was soft and full of understanding. "I'm proud of you for trying to design again."
"…yeah." Marinette didn't know how to feel about it. "Papa had an appointment last week, by the way. He's doing great. Nothing is showing up on the tests." This was intended to redirect the conversation and make herself feel better, but admittedly, her effort was futile—the anxiety wrapped around her like a straightjacket.
"That's fantastic news." Alya raised her wine glass in a silent cheers. "Cancer's horrible, glad it's gone. Is that part of the reason why you had the energy to design that dress?"
She shrugged. "Maybe." She thought of this time last year, watching her dad lose weight and grow pale. The circles under his eyes had been so dark—he'd been smaller than Marinette had ever known him to be. Her heart gave a jarring pang at the memory.
Suddenly, she felt something warm wrap around her hand; when she looked up, she found Alya's round face, eyes wide with gentleness and care. "Marinette, I love you," were her earnest words, "and as your best friend, I will always be here to support you. Through breakups, through family emergencies, through depression—everything. I want you to know that."
Marinette felt tears prickle and emerge; for once, she didn't try to stop them. "Thanks, Alya. Same to you. How…how have you been?" She wanted very badly to talk about something else, anything else.
"Oh girl, I'm good! Getting interviews left and right, reporting going well. Dream job, all that. Who needs Bubbler Nino?" Alya let out an amused yet unconvincing ha. "Just worry about feeling better, okay? Keep working on that dress. Do it for yourself."
"…yeah. Yeah, I will."
Duh-ling! Both girls immediately looked over at the source: Alya's phone. Then they glanced at each other, eyebrows raised.
"That's weird. It's, like, eight at night." Alya reached over to pick it up, setting her wine glass down along the way.
"It's not work-related, is it?"
With a sniff, Alya unlocked her phone. "Well, it's an email, so probably." Tap, tap. "Wait, what the hell? It's from Bubbler!"
"Well, read it already!" Marinette exclaimed.
Alya cleared her throat. "Mademoiselle Césaire, it's totally my bad for having to reschedule our interview. I would still like to do it!"
"So informal," Marinette couldn't help but interject, letting a giggle loose.
Alya agreed with a preoccupied nod of the head before continuing. "I talked to my manager, and…" She paused, as if to process what she read. "…the best time I can manage is two Fridays from now. February 25th at 6 pm. It's the only time I can make work because it's my break between DJ gigs at two different clubs. I would love to talk to you and I hope this works out! Thanks…" Alya's eyes blinked and slid up to meet her friend's. "…Nino Lahiffe, aka Bubbler."
Marinette clapped her hands together in excitement. "See? See?"
"Wait—let me check my work schedule." Face tight with anticipation, her fingers moved frantically to hurry through switching apps. Her lips moved as she investigated; "February…25th…ugh!" She threw her head back and let out a strangled cry. "Fuck! Why is the universe so cruel?"
"What?" Marinette swiped the phone from Alya, who let her without protest as she sank, dejected, into a throw pillow. A quick look at the calendar app proved Alya's exasperation: written in was an even labeled Bijou Masquerade, begins at 5 pm.
"Bijou?" Marinette's stomach fluttered. "Bijou, as in Ines Bijou?"
Alya groaned dramatically. "Yeah. I don't really want to do it, but I have to."
"Why?"
"I swear, I interview dozens of fashion models a year! There's more to pop culture than just fashion. I mean, I understand we live in Paris, but…" She sighed, and went to drain her wine glass—it took a whole two seconds and ended with an angry smack of her lips. "I just hoped having a story about someone like Bubbler would break up the grind, you know? It's getting to be a lot of the same thing over and over again and I just…can't. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I should only report on fashion."
"So your boss wants you to be there?"
"Yeah, of course she does. It's all anyone ever wants to read about." She gave a sheepish twist of the mouth. "No offense, girl."
Marinette shook her head. "None taken."
Bijou. Marinette loved Bijou; she especially admired Ines Bijou, the founder and lead designer, whom she had never met but heard was a delight to work with. And the designs themselves? Spectacular, innovative. Boundary-pushing. Bijou was known for constantly trying to shift the perspective of fashion.
Alya's head shot up. "Wait. What are you doing on February 25th at 5 pm?"
"Oh, no. No, no no." Marinette shook her head and folded her arms across her chest in indignation. She should have seen this coming. "I won't."
"Come on, girl! You've already started working on the dress you can wear!"
"Alya, you know my history with the fashion world. I won't do it."
"But it's a masquerade, no one will know that it's you anyway! I'll give you a list of questions and a voice recorder. My boss won't care in the least, as long as I get the responses I need—please do this for me?" Alya's lip was pushed out, eyes huge and desperate. "You'll get to see a Bijou show for free!"
That was more tempting than she wanted it to be. Nevertheless, Marinette knew the quickest way out of this conversation. "Can I at least think about it?"
With a smirk, Alya grabbed the wine bottle and refilled both glasses to the brim. "Sure you can, but you and I both know you're going to say yes."
Marinette hated that she was probably right.
…
"Alright, everyone," Adrien called out to the classroom packed with teenagers. He could sense every impatient seat shift and each deep and frustrated sigh; the students usually got antsy in the last thirty minutes of their sessions. A rotating fan stood under the heat vent to better distribute the warmth, the sound droning greyly in the background; he always wished he could play lofi or piano music to boost morale. "I know homework sucks, but you have to do it. First tip to getting better grades is…?" He held his mouth ajar, brows raised, waiting expectantly for the class to reply.
"Unsubmitted assignments are automatic fails," the class echoed in return in a disjointed harmony—some voices were more enthusiastic and engaged than others.
Adrien nodded, straightening the papers on his podium. "Exactly. An 11 or a 10—even a 4—is better than a 0 in your grading average. Plus, homework is practice, and practice is important to achieve anything. So remember to do some of this at home, okay?" He spotted a raised hand. "Yes, Colette?"
Colette, a typically-reserved girl who wore neon and seemed to have a different bright hair color every other week, puffed her lips in exasperation. "Can we go over area of a circle again? I know we're supposed to move on to English right now, but I just…can't understand it, Monsieur Agreste." Her face scrunched in distaste.
"Just Adrien is fine." He was only twenty-five, he felt like an old man when they referred to him as Monsieur Agreste. They still called him that no matter how many times he corrected them...he supposed he would have to get used to it. "And of course, Colette. Anyone else still struggling with finding the area of a circle?"
A few students looked to each other hesitantly, as if reluctant to raise their hands.
"It's okay; we're here to learn, not to judge, right?"
Slowly, hands raised; eventually, two-thirds of the class showed that they, too, were struggling with area of a circle.
Adrien resisted a sigh; he wasn't irritated at the students. Obviously, the curriculum didn't allow enough time for their teacher to review the subjects so she could support the students effectively. "Have you told Madame Bustier?"
Colette glanced back and forth to meet her friends' apprehensive glances. "Well…no."
"Why not?"
She shrugged. "Our test isn't until Friday." A few others around her murmured in agreement.
He let out a chuckle. "You don't have to wait until test day to tell Madame Bustier you're struggling! She's a kind person, and a great teacher. She wants to support you in the best way she can. But she can't support you if she doesn't know that there's a problem, right?"
A cacophony of mumbled agreements. Best he was going to get—he made a mental note to talk to Madame Bustier himself.
He took a few steps to his left and grabbed the rotating fan by its stem, slapping a huge smile onto his face. The electric cord clattered against the floor. "Fan-tastic communication, everyone!"
A collective groan. It only made him want to make more puns—and since he was in charge…
"Just remember, everyone—I am your biggest fan! Once you get circle area down, you'll definitely blow—" He wiggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly and pointed the fan towards the class; a few students' hair in the front row tousled from the burst of air. A pencil rolled off a desk and clattered onto the floor. "—Madame Bustier away!"
"Monsieur Agreste," moaned a boy in the back corner. This was Damon—he was particularly averse to Adrien's puns. The too-cool-for-school type, though he tried really hard to hide the fact that he was extremely intelligent. Adrien had him pegged. "Come on."
"Adrien," he corrected, placing the fan back down in the tile floor with a plack of hollow plastic. He smirked and gave a chuckle as he watched a few middle-schoolers cover their giggles with their fingers. Worth it. "And my jokes are great. Though, a certain group of students could convince me to lay off if they really focused on circle area today. What do you say?"
…
"Marinette," Madame Bustier murmured, gazing into the pastry box—it was packed with baked goods. A similar assortment to the one Marinette had received the night before: croissants, chocolate eclairs, profiteroles. In lieu of a tarte tatin, though, her mother had thrown in a few lavender macarons. "This is wonderful, thank you."
"Of course, Madame Bustier," Marinette smiled. "But I must admit that I didn't do much other than bring them here." It was her day off and she had dropped by the bakery to say hello to her parents; upon her approach, she found that a line had developed out the front door. When her father had asked her to bring Madame Bustier these pastries—"I hate to ask, sweetie, but we're slammed"—Marinette didn't hesitate to say yes. Not just to help her parents, though that was a huge bonus, but to seize the opportunity to say hello to an excellent teacher whom she had not seen in years.
"Which also deserves thanks." The skin around her eyes crinkled pleasantly as she picked up a light purple macaron. Her striking red hair was now streaked with a bit of grey—it suited her. "Did you remember that these were my favorite?"
"Mom did, actually. She told me to tell you congratulations for your fifteenth year as a teacher."
"Oh, I adore Sabine...I can't believe she remembered. How is she?"
"She's good—you know, she's…she's working really hard at the bakery. Too hard, to be honest." Her dad was still technically in recovery and got tired much faster than he used to, so it was up to her mom to pick up the slack if they wanted to get their business back on its feet. No matter how many times she offered, they denied her help, to her dismay.
Madame Bustier wasn't stupid. Even when Marinette was a kid, the teacher could read her like a book. "I'm sorry to hear about your father."
Marinette forced a chuckle. "Oh, he's on the up! Tests are clear. The best scenario we could have hoped for."
"It doesn't make it not hard," was Madame Bustier's poignant reply. "But I'm glad that things are better."
Marinette felt such gratitude for Madame Bustier. She hadn't seen her in years and already, she was caring for her like nothing had changed. Still, she couldn't help but feel a grinding irritation—shame, maybe—that she had to be cared for in the first place.
She cleared her throat and observed her surroundings, if for nothing else than to change the subject. "I can't believe you're still teaching in the same classroom. So many memories in this place…" Her gaze settled on her old seat, three tables back on the right; memories swam through her mind. She couldn't hold back a soft laugh. "Remember when Chloe and I got into that yelling match over croissants? That was so ridiculous. She was offended because I had brought Sabrina a chocolate-filled one and not her."
Madame Bustier responded with a delighted pft as she closed the lid of the pastry box. "I had to practically peel her off of you. What a mess…but you had accidentally forgot that she requested chocolate, right?" she questioned knowingly.
"Oh, no way. It was totally on purpose." She sent her old teacher a snigger. "I was just sneakier about my offensive moves than she was. She knew it, too."
"I was over the moon when I learned that you are friends now."
With a nod, Marinette wrapped her arms around herself as she examined Chloe's seat, remembering all the time she had spent glaring with seething anger at the girl in that chair. "Her parents' divorce and Sabrina leaving took a toll on Chloe. And…everything that happened last year has taken a toll on me." To say the least. "And my design internship...wasn't exactly what I thought it would be."
When Marinette refocused on Madame Bustier, she was jarred by the expression she saw. Like Madame Bustier already knew what Marinette was going to say—like she had been expecting it since Marinette walked into her classroom that afternoon. "You think that you and Chloe's similar experiences have pulled you closer together?"
"Ha, yeah. To Alya's chagrin. They still don't get along." Not that they necessarily needed to.
"Alya is quiet about her stubbornness," Madame Bustier observed, "but likely the most stubborn of the whole class, with you as a possible exception. I'm sure Chloe can't stand it."
"Make no mistake, Chloe still needs to be smacked on the backside of the head sometimes. Figuratively-speaking."
"Don't we all?"
Just before Marinette was about to agree, her phone buzzed in her back jean pocket. She pulled it out. "Speak of the devil—Chloe texted me," she said to Madame Bustier, who chuckled, unsurprised.
Nettie. You hung out with Alya last night and you won't even hang out with me? Cruel.
Marinette resisted a scoff. "Excuse me," she muttered; Madame Bustier gestured in quiet response to let her know that she didn't mind.
Since when do you and Alya talk? I'm not obligated to tell you every time I hang out with someone. Why did she tell you that anyway?
A reply came back almost immediately.
Of course Alya and I talk. A dumbass like you needs two involved parents to take care of them. Even if the parents are separated and only on a need-to-speak basis. She told me that I should reach out to you because you need support right now, so...here I am.
Also, my acrylics are growing out.
Marinette couldn't believe this. She knew that this was how Chloe was expressing her love—suffering through communication with Alya, checking in with Marinette in the only way she knew how, hinting that she wanted to take Marinette to get their nails done—but she couldn't help but feel that pang of shame she had felt earlier with Madame Bustier.
If you want to go get our nails done, then you should ask directly. I'm not gonna read into everything you say. Also, I am an adult woman who can take care of herself, thank you very much.
She doubted it even as she sent it. Still, she felt strongly enough about it that she stuffed her phone back into her pocket, intent to ignore the next vibration she felt.
Madame Bustier gave her a cock of the lips. "What'd she say this time?"
Marinette didn't bother to hold back rolling her eyes. "Nothing important."
"Uh-huh."
Knock-knock.
"Oh, Adrien must be done with his tutoring session by now," Madame Bustier mumbled as she clipped over toward the door.
Marinette raised an eyebrow. Adrien? Who's Adrien? She ran through the list of teachers at Francois-Dupont she knew in her head, none of them with Adrien as their first name. The only Adrien she knew of was a terribly gorgeous, unrealistically kind model who everyone knew as the son of the unparalleled designer Gabriel Agreste—
—who happened to be the very person on the other side of the door.
Madame Bustier had opened it to reveal a living poem of a man. The type that Shakespeare would have daydreamed about. Tall, blond, green-eyed, his razor-sharp jawline scattered with stubble—a typical recipe for a jaw-dropping hunk, sure, but for some unspeakable reason, this hunk was different. Perhaps it was the disarmingly earnest curl of his lips, or the gentle way he spoke, or the softness of the emeralds that bore into her every time they turned her way. The humility, the authenticity, the underlined sadness of a history unspoken…you didn't find that in just any model. Especially not in world-renowned ones, and especially not in world-renowned ones who primarily worked in Paris.
At least, Marinette didn't.
A vibration rumbled in her back pocket.
"Adrien!" Madame Bustier cooed, her voice filled with warmth. "It's so good to see you, dear. How did today's session go?"
His mouth broke into a grin of the heart-wrenching variety. "Oh, you know. They're ridiculous, the lot of them." His voice was smooth, even, velvet-soft. Marinette hadn't heard it in so long.
"Oh no, what have they done this time?"
"Nothing bad. They're having a lot of trouble with the formula for the area of a circle, I came by to tell you. I asked them if they had shared with you that they were struggling; they said no. Which, of course, is where the ridiculous part comes in."
Area of a circle? Marinette wondered to herself through her jelly-kneed stupor. Suddenly, it all came rushing back to her—Adrien Agreste had started tutoring at a school a few months ago. Alya had suspected this was to show that the fashion world could contribute to the larger community in a positive way; Chloe, who knew Adrien (very well, according to the tabloids), claimed that it was Adrien's attempt at finally stepping up to his father and showing Paris that he didn't want to model anymore. Either way, Marinette admired him for it.
As confusion took its exit, panic set in. Gut-wrenching, bone-breaking panic. What she hadn't known is that he was still tutoring, much less that the school he tutored at was Francois-Dupont, her old middle school! The press had kept the school's name out of the papers to protect the kids attending—which she was thankful for at the time of the story release—but now, she selfishly wished they hadn't so she would have been more prepared.
Madame Bustier shook her head solemnly. "This group is hard to crack. They're so reserved."
Adrien let out a small laugh, one that filled the room as if it was projected with surround-sound. "I told them to talk to you before their test on Friday. They should tomorrow—at the very least, ask Colette."
In a half-second, Marinette allowed herself to take in his splendor. He wore a suit, a very fine one constructed of slate-grey fabric—she knew it must have been custom-made, likely in France, from what she had learned from Satre's. The jacket was opened and forest-green tie loosened, the first few buttons of his cream-colored dress shirt undone; a slight dusting of chest hair emerged from the opening. His sunlight-hair was mussed, as if fingers had run through it countless times, and his hands were stuck deep in the pockets of his slacks. What finally did Marinette in, though—what sent her over the precipice of reason—was the pair of glasses that settled on the bridge of his nose. She had never seen him wear anything like that before. Suddenly, he was dreamy, philanthropic, and studious. It truly was too much for Marinette to process all at once. She felt overwhelmed, like she had watched three movies at the same time and had been asked to recount each in an essay: ten pages, double space, MLA format. Submit by Monday.
In one horrifying moment, those meadow-green eyes, framed with spectacles, turned to her. They widened with recognition. "…Marinette?"
A strangled ahem tumbled from her throat. Nothing really changed, she supposed. "H-Hey, Adrien."
Madame Bustier flicked her sight back and forth between the pair. "Wait—you two know one another?"
"Yeah," Adrien answered, "she used to be at my father's brand for a while as a design intern. We worked a few shows together."
Used to be. The reminder, particularly from Adrien's mouth, sent a dagger through her heart. She had to mentally remind herself not to whimper in agony.
Marinette sensed the realization that poured over Madame Bustier; she watched as the woman's face sank a bit, mind filling in the blanks of their recent conversation. To her credit, she was quick to recover. "How lovely! Marinette was a student of mine many years ago alongside your friend Chloe Bourgeois. She and Marinette actually get along well."
A look of surprise formed a film over his angelic face. "You're friends with Chloe Bourgeois? She never told me about you."
Marinette attempted to swallow the huge knot in her throat. "Um, y-yep. Heh, you know Chloe, not exactly...uh, the most c-communicative. But uh, yeah, we're friends." Truly, you are the epitome of eloquence, Mari. Fabulous job.
A few blinks of his long, blond lashes. "That's…really great." His answer was sincere, if not taken aback. Marinette didn't blame him—Chloe was a lot of things, but she wasn't exactly good at maintaining relationships with people, specifically people who didn't understand, whether it was healthy or not, that Chloe often expressed her love through piercing honesty and curses. She was...polarizing, to say the least.
There were a few seconds of silence. Marinette had no idea what everyone else was thinking, but she was currently kicking herself for not taking the third brain cell Alya had custody over for the day when she had the chance.
Adrien Agreste stood in front of her. In her old school, in her old classroom, in front of her old teacher. Looking impossibly gorgeous, helping kids learn. Being perfect—as usual.
In that moment, a flash of red in her lower peripheral caught her eye. With profound horror, realized in that moment that she was wearing her bright red, horribly ugly sweatshirt—the one with giant black polka dots plastered across it. The one she had that matched Alya's brown-and-orange one, which they had gotten as a joke from a quirky boutique somewhere down the street from a cafe they frequented. The one that Marinette wore exclusively for warmth and not for looks.
Well, shit. Her stomach sank into her pants.
Mortified, Marinette tried not to make a show of folding her arms as best she could to hide the offensive pattern. So much for the remaining dreams of re-introducing herself into the fashion world. And now, to make it worse, any fantasies of Adrien Agreste would be plagued with the memory of this very moment: her unwashed hair pulled back into a halfhearted braid, baggy jeans, and her mother-fucking red polka-dot shirt. Why, oh why did she have to wear this today? She halfway thought about burning it when she returned home, as if somehow that could erase any recollection of her humiliation.
"We three should hang out sometime."
The response was astoundingly hopeful; she wasn't expecting it at all. Her heart fluttered. "Uh…yeah. Definitely."
The smile he gave was stunning, in every meaning of the word. "I'll shoot Chloe a message, then."
"Y-Yeah, yeah. Sounds good."
Adrien turned to Madame Bustier to say a few last words—probably something about his tutoring session—before he offered a polite goodbye and exited the classroom, leaving the high of a divine encounter in his wake.
Marinette let out a shuddering breath as his footsteps faded down the hallway. Thank god.
"I'm sorry, Marinette," Madame Bustier finally said. She swallowed audibly. "I didn't know that…that you…"
"That I was fired from the Agreste brand last year?" Strangely, it felt good to finally say the words out loud. To speak the truth—to not pretend everything was okay.
A small gasp. "You were fired? Marinette, I…had no idea."
Marinette, mouth full of insecurity and limbs numb with shock, shook her head. "It's alright, Madame Bustier. I haven't exactly made it public information."
"Still. Was…" While Marinette focused her gaze onto the floor, memorizing each stain on the tile and the pattern of colors, Madame Bustier chose her words carefully. "…was Adrien a part of that process?"
"…No." In fact, he had been as supportive as he could have been. Which is part of the reason why it made it all the more painful to see him again. "It was after my father was diagnosed. Other things happened before that, too…" Her stomach twisted as she thought of Blue Muse. "And…those few months were a complete disaster, to be honest." She allowed herself a puff from her nose and a glance back toward her teacher, who was listening intently. "Just trying to pick myself up again, you know?"
Madame Bustier was silent for a moment before she spoke. "I'm at school until six o'clock on the same day every week—today." She offered a weak, understanding smile. "I would love to preorder some pastries if you would be willing to deliver them, Marinette."
A calculated yet empathetic offer of company. What a wonderful woman. "I'll let my folks know, Madame Bustier." Marinette decided not to acknowledge the other implication of coming to deliver her old teacher baked goods this time every week, which was the possibility of encountering a very handsome tutor whose family's brand she had a less-than-stellar history with.
Marinette lightly chatted with her old teacher before she made a move to leave. News about the bakery, her current job, how Alya was doing—nothing heavy. She'd had too much of that. Even if it had been more information about the past year of her life, possibly the hardest year she'd ever had, it would have been worth waiting to avoid running into Adrien again.
When she felt she had allotted a comfortable amount of to ensure dodging her old coworker, to say her friendly goodbyes to Madame Bustier and begin her walk to her apartment, she finally scraped together the energy to pull her phone back out of her pocket. All that existed in her notifications were, unsurprisingly, two texts from Chloe, a few minutes apart. The first one read:
Okay, fair enough: I want you and me to go get our nails done. Together. By the end of this century, preferably. You've been putting it off as if it's a court date or some shit.
Also, Alya and I are trying to take care of you because you need it. A thank you would be nice.
Despite the usual bluntness of her friend's tone, Marinette knew Chloe was right, at least to some capacity. She did need her friends' help; this experience in Madame Bustier's classroom and accidentally running into Adrien Agreste was a harsh reminder of that.
Pushing against the chill of early February, suddenly a bit more grateful for her thick red-and-black polka dot sweatshirt again, she read Chloe's second text.
Um, Adrien Agreste just texted me? Apparently, he saw you at Francois-Dupont and now he wants to hang? What a strange man. Hot as hell, but strange. Also, wtf were you doing at the middle school?
We really need mani-pedis now. I know Friday is your next day off, we'll do it then.
It'll be my treat or whatever, so don't try to weasel out of it.
One last message popped up just as she finished reading the last one.
Love ya, Nettie.
…
AN: I'm honestly so freaked out to post this first chapter, but...here it is! Hope you liked it!
I'm also trying something different with Chloe and Marinette's relationship. Chloe is so often a villain…I would like to think that there's a possibility that Chloe's redeeming qualities we see in the show could be emphasized as she grows older and matures. Kind of excited for how this friendship will unfold…
Adrien tutoring? Are you KIDDING ME? So cute. Soooo cute.
Also, a masqueraaadddeee. I'm a SUCKER for masquerades. I'm so excited to write that chapter.
If you wish to leave some love in the reviews, I would be grateful. If you just want to enjoy the story, I'd love that too!