A/N: I am going to highly, highly, highly not recommend you read this fic on this site. I did some funky spacing that isn't compatible with this site, apparently, and the formatting here is different from what it should be.

You can still read it on here, which is fine, but I'll have to recommend you read this story instead on my AO3 or my tumblr (pisces-royalty).

Once upon a midnight dream…

…or was it truly a dream?

He remembers his numbness amidst the pain, the contradiction between his body and his soul. Following his every footstep, dusky clouds had gathered above him, the white, white snow an offset to his black, black suit. And he had been running, running to reach the end of time, running to catch the last sliver of sun.

Running to escape, as his tears had crystallized like the snow above.

As his tears fell down

down

down

with the snow.

Cheeks flushed, lips chapped, his muscles tense from the cold and he had still rushed to the end of his world. With every frosty breath he had forced from a heaving chest, several lights would fade and dim until the City of Light turned darkness itself.

Until he had been trapped in a shadow akin to the one in his heart.

"You'll never amount to anything," his father had told him, cold blue eyes scrutinizing him, shattering him. After years of anguish, a lifetime of neglect, his father had told him, "Adrien, you worthless child."

And as soon as he had reached his room, he had transformed and lept from his window.

"Adrien, you can't keep running away from your dad like this," Plagg had told him again and again.

Still, he had never - has never - heeded Plagg's call, instead always choosing to run away, away, away into the cold. Under a sky as vastly empty as his father's love for him.

And he had thrown his head back, wanted to scream in his pain and agony because he had just wanted to be loved, wanted his father to be proud of him, wanted to be cherished for just once in his life.

And he had seen the grey clouds hanging above his head, drifting, drifting with the night breeze until one lone star, a brilliant red against the luminous moon, had appeared on the rooftops. Midnight hair blending into midnight air, she had balanced gracefully on her toes, spinning a pirouette. With a smile on her face, she had turned and turned as the snow fell, fell. Like a ballerina encapsulated in a snow globe of her own amusement.

And he had fallen, fallen, fallen...

...for her.

Maybe that night had only felt like a dream: as his sorrows had slowly swirled around him, she had tranquilly twirled, alleviating his hurt and heartache. Every night afterwards, he had run through that route, searching, searching for his crimson, dancing lady. But he had only seen her once afterwards on that rooftop, his Ladybug.

She had been leaping, leaping from roof to roof. Head facing the stars twinkling above, she had moved fluidly with every gentle nudge of that winter breeze.

And that time, not contented to just watching her, he had lept up to meet her. "My lady." He had bowed, extending one hand to hers. "Would you care to dance with me?"

She had laughed, and it had rung in the air like the chiming of silver bells. "Of course, kitty," she had said, swinging into his arms.

And they had danced in step to one another, precariously poised on thin, thin sleets. One hand on her back, the other entwined in hers, he had waltzed with her on the rooftop, nothing but the moon and stars to witness them. Small flakes of snow had floated, floated, down, down, brushing against their cheeks, collecting on their suits.

"Chat Noir, why do you dance?" she had asked, lifting one leg in the air in an arabesque, ironically lifting him from his reverie.

He had frowned then, dark clouds once again gathering above his head, in his heart. "I dance to escape," he had replied as they both, one hand still together, stepped out from one another. But he had faltered, nearly slid on the ice just as his heart had twinged with renewed hurt.

He had just wanted to be loved.

She had hummed, eyes closed, eyelashes dusted with white. "I wonder why I dance," she had murmured, a hint of a smile on her face.

But it had been a hesitant smile, one that was not quite there. And he had to think, maybe she was was escaping something too.

She had opened her eyes then, had peered up at him under her lashes. And his breath had caught in his throat because her eyes were blue, blue, so blue.

Just like his father's.

Still, he had been captivated by her eyes, couldn't look away from them. Because they were bright where his father's had been dulled over the years, were kind where his father's were tinged in condescension. Because her eyes were brilliant and gentle and radiant and sweet and loving and so, sobeautiful.

And he had taken her hand and spun her, as she had lifted herself into the graceful pirouette he had once seen in that midnight dream.

"Chat Noir." Her breaths had been gentle puffs of wintry air. She had halted abruptly then, leaving one of his arms hanging awkwardly in the harsh, harsh cold, lonesomely swaying to the beat of nothingness. She had leaned into him then and, voice wavering just the slightest, had whispered, "I have to leave now."

His eyes had widened, and he had caught her hand, pressed it to his chest. "No." He had looked into her eyes and through them reflected the desperation in his. "Please don't leave," he had begged.

She had pulled away, though, a slow, sad smile on her face. "Au revoir."

And then she was gone. Had left nothing but the wind in her wake and his heart in tatters.

Everything had been leaving him. His happiness, his joy, whatever love his father had ever had for him…

…And now his Ladybug.

Everything had been just a fleeting midnight dream, it seems.

She hadn't been there the next night.

Or the next.

Or the next.

He had sought for her, had searched every roof in Paris to catch just one more glimpse of her dancing in the falling snow. But she had either evaded him every time or had stopped dancing altogether, for her brilliant red had been brilliantly missed by him.

Instead, once on his nightly excursions, he had seen his classmate - adorned in black parka, pink pants - spinning on a balcony. In her hands had been a sheer, pink fabric fluttering gently behind her as she had stepped in time to the rhythm in her heart. Swathing her in a rosy veil, the fabric had spun around and around her.

So he had slunk back into the shadows, curiously watching as the moon illuminated her face, as the dancing princess smiled brighter than his lady ever had.

And the snowflakes had gently fell, dancing along with her.

He doesn't know when, but at some point he had stopped seeking his lady, instead on a nightly quest for his princess; he had ceded escaping his father in favor of pursuit of genuine happiness.

And she, apparently, was happiness.

He loved to see her dance every night, loved to watch when she elegantly, effortlessly leaped into a jete, throwing one leg in front, one in back. And every time she stumbled, every time her feet shuddered and gave in to the pressure of perpetual pointe, he had had to resist the urge to run out to her, to help her back up.

He had watched her and yearned to achieve the serenity she seemed to had reached. Yet his heart, his mind, his soul were always in conflict for he loved to watch his princess, but still part of him wished that she was his lady, not princess.

And his heart hurt and hurt, and soon he had had to wonder: Did he escape his father only to be met with more anguish? Would love always haunt him so?

He had looked at her then and she - a black silhouette before the white, white moon - had twirled and twirled in unknowing response, bending one foot up to reach the other knee, arms rising above her hand until she began to perform a perfect pirouette.

And he - mouth agape, eyes twinkling like the stars above - at that moment had known that she was his lady and his lady was she, that the lady was the princess.

And the snow fell, fell.

Tonight he is here again, on this dancing street. But tonight, unlike other nights, he has climbed onto her balcony, breath hitched in anticipation of her.

Her.

Ladybug.

Marinette.

She emerges, then, from the shadows of her room, her beautiful, blue eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Marinette," he says immediately, without thinking. His word hangs in the air, and he wonders if it had frozen and she had not heard it, for there is silence, silence and she simply stares, stares at him.

"Chat Noir," she finally replies, tilting her head in inquisition of his presence there.

He smiles awkwardly in response and, rubbing the nape of his neck, asks what he's been wanting to ask since that winter night with rosy veil: "Why do you dance?"

Silence. Silence, more silence, when suddenly, she leans back and laughs a mirthful laugh. She looks back at him and, eyes glimmering ever brighter, tells him, "I dance to be free."

Something happens then, like a spell is broken. His heart lifts, his clouds dissipate, and he finally achieves that inner peace he had long been searching for.

Freedom.

That was all he ever needed.

He gazes at her and she at him. And with freedom comes love, his heart tells him.

He can feel the tears collecting in his eyes and she, walking closer, asks him, "Is something wrong?"

He looks at her, smiles. Taking her hand, he pulls her gently in, closer towards him. "Nothing's wrong." He takes her palm, kisses her hand. She looks up at him, and he feels as if he has lost himself in their blueness.

Maybe he's alreadyhas, always has.

He slowly leans in, leaves a chaste kiss on her lips before murmuring, "My lady." And then he takes one step back, offers her his hand once more. "Will you dance with me?"

Dazed as she still is, she looks at him, her eyes reflecting an astounding clarity. As bright as the morning sky, even in this midnight night. Taking his hand once more, she says, "Of course."

And they dance together up on the rooftop. Twirling, dancing, laughing.

As the snow fall, falls.