Soooooo after so long. Lmao. Once again, I'm back to posting fanfiction yaaaaaaay /screeches haha no one will see this tbh no one reads my stories HAHAHAHAHAH

This is one of my ridiculous crossovers, and you may see more random crossovers in the future, because being in too many fandoms is just... yeah. You know.

I haven't written anything in the past few months. I'm losing my touch. I haven't edited this at all so. Cries.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own KnB nor MLB

The day of the Ile de France International Piano Competition was next week.

Seijurou Akashi was, of course, obliged to join such competitions, because of his profound skills as a musician at an early age.

He was a profound everything at an early age—from academics, to music, arts, and physical activities. He was forced to read books, have lessons for various things, do this and do that, know this and know that. He never got the chance to do anything that he might have liked. But when his mother introduced him to basketball...

It was life-changing. He felt like there was some hole that he could escape through at times of distress. It was his saviour.

Then his mother passed away... and his father gave him more work to do, and he couldn't really do anything about it...

Why was he ranting in his head?

His father had just reminded him to research on his opponents for the piano competition- nothing to do with her mother's passing. It just came up, probably. The stress must have taken a toll on him.

It was a habit of his anyway—especially in basketball tournaments—to know how the others play and trying to topple them out, using whatever information he had gathered and whatever strategy he had formulated in his head.

Though, back when he was that arrogant, self-proclaimed emperor, he wouldn't have done that. He would be like 'I'm going to win this anyway so why bother?' and shrug away his worries. Because he always thought winning was a given to him. Winning came naturally like breathing did. And it always had been back then.

Good thing he wasn't that imbecilic person anymore.

Another question. Why France? He didn't exactly know. His dad didn't give the details, and it was as if he should have known already.

As he, albeit absentmindedly, clicked the mouse and scrolled a couple of times in the website, he finally saw the names of the competitors.

The list was in alphabetical order, and his name was second on the list, "Akashi, Seijurou". It was strange. He was Japanese, and seeing his name romanized, family name proceeded by a comma... it just wasn't what he was accustomed to.

As his eyes darted slightly to the name above his, he perked up with a sense of familiarity upon seeing it.

Agreste, Adrien.

Familiar...the surname.

With absolutely no hesitation, he clicked the external link to his profile.

Adrien Agreste groaned in frustration, slamming his scorned face on the piano keys. Good thing his instructor went to the bathroom though-he would probably be scolded for doing that.

His father, Gabriel Agreste, famous fashion designer and head of his own company, heard of the Ile de International Piano Competition from some random client of his, talked about its prestigious and honorable nature and immediately signed his son in.

Without notifying him or anything!

He groaned again. The piece his instructor had picked was difficult, and it had different themes on both hands. Thank whatever gods may exist that it was not at all like Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto, a comparison blatantly shoved unto his face, which had four themes to be played all at the same time. It was like the Mount Everest of piano concertos, let alone piano pieces, in the world.

(AN: To those who don't know, the theme of a piece is the main reoccurring melody in the piece, or of its segments or measures identified.)

But when he looked at the score, he was full of despair. He would never be able to play this piece if he was going to complain and sulk in a corner for the whole day. He had to do something . . . but if his father didn't even drag him to the competition in the first place, he wouldn't be stressing himself out on this. The score . . . the notes were bouncing everywhere!

(AN: The score is basically the music sheet(s)-five li.)

In all honestly, he wasn't normally complaining like this, even when it came to those horrid memorization tasks. But he couldn't help feel pressured anyway, and the nature of classical music felt restricted to him somehow. You have to play the piece as it was played. You have several limitations you have to consider and bear in mind . . . you're not flexible. At all. As Chat Noir, he would greatly dislike that sort of feeling.

"Thanks a lot, dad." he muttered gloomily, lifting his head up so that he could start on the piece again. He flipped the pages back to the first, and began.

He pressed on the keys the way the instructor had told him to, grazing with a strong emotion that intensified his entrance to the music.

The piece was gloomy and sulky, very much like his current mood, which helped him indulge. He did the crescendos with ease, pushed the pedal at indicated parts, and he successfully gave off its supposed dark and eerie feeling.

Just as he had passed the, first few measures, almost reaching the last one on the corner before flipping the page, another hand had flipped the page over for him.

Adrien nearly jumped, stiffening his fingers to a stop.

He didn't even notice his instructor when he was playing! Was he that immersed in his music . . . ?

"You were doing a splendid job! Why did you stop?!"

He had to think of some reasonable answer fast. "Er, I was uh, confused with that part, so I was going to repeat it again." He pointed at the bottom right corner of the sheet music.

The instructor sighed. "Do it again, then."

He did, and he continued playing with that eerie feeling he had been giving off. He entertained thoughts in his mind as he played. What would be the benefit if he were to win the competition? The honor? The award? Why did his father force him to this?

Why does his father force him to everything?

He only wanted a normal life with normal parents, proper not-home schooling, maybe a social life too, and—well, whatever normal people did. (He recalled those days that he was being home-schooled and he had to memorize the kings and presidents of France and their biological data . . . he shuddered at that thought.)

His mother also disappeared without any notification. At least she could have been like, "Okay so I'm leaving son! I'm never coming back, okay? Bye!"

There could have been at least a note that she had left. But nooooo. She was just, poof!

Plus the photo shoots. And the fencing. And the Chinese lessons.

The emotion still lingered, but he was beginning to play the piece absentmindedly, not paying attention to the tempos, and the keys that should have been played abruptly were extended and slurred with other notes.

"Adrien!" The instructor snapped, and he shook his head, forced out of his thoughts. "You're playing it too fast! You're holding the notes! You weren't paying attention at all to the score, were you?!"

"I'm sorry, M. Placé!" He apologized before starting on the measure that his instructor had just pointed at.

He would have to save those thoughts for later.

Seijurou's flight to France had gone smoothly. The jet lag was immediately disregarded as he stepped out of the airport and breathed in fresh air, mesmerized with the scenery laid out for him to see. Lush trees growing along the roads, buildings towering over one another, people going on back and forth into numerous stores...the smell of newly baked bread and the sound of the birds tweeting made him feel exceptionally relaxed.

And so he boarded a taxi. He was going to stay in a hotel with a grand piano at the lobby, so he wasn't too worried with practicing his planned pieces.

A nice thing to mention: it was good that he had been able to convince his father that he was fine to go to the competition alone, without those... rather embarrassing bodyguards that followed you everywhere (except the toilet). It was annoying, but he gave due respect. They did their duty, and he shouldn't blame them for doing so.

But now, he was free to at least roam the beautiful country of France. He knew his study of European languages was going to come in handy—French was a very common language—and after all, it was just next to English when it comes to speakers around the world. (He also knew German and Italian and he studied Hatian Creole before-he should probably stop now.)

He left the taxi and paid the driver some euros he had gotten changed earlier, and strolled along the roads.

At least he wasn't watched by expectant eyes—not until he plays his pieces in the competition.

He had been thinking on what he should do afterwards. He was in Paris, the city of light and love. He should be doing something interesting, because he was in an interesting place.

Not to mention, his researches about those two superheroes, Ladybug and Chat Noir.

What idiot would go to another country without knowing at least what the country has to offer? (Seijurou is certainly not that idiot.) Even though he knew many things about France by books and other references, he knew better and searched up recent things.

He searched, scrolled and scrolled through the results and saw nothing new or anything of interest. There were news about amateur French artists and musicians though, so he checked those out.

Albeit, there was nothing else.

But as he was about to end his search, he saw an outdated, yet intriguing news article.

The akumatized civillian turned out to be Chloé Bourgeios, a student in Collége François-Dupoint, and the daughter of the mayor . . .

Akumatized? What did that mean?

He read through the article. 'Ladybug and Chat Noir save the day once again!' A picture of two people resembling a ladybug and a black cat appeared at the bottom, fist-bumping with smiles.

Ladybug? Black Cat?

Curiosity got the better of him. He searched them up and in a flash, he gathered an insufferable amount of information about them. He had also seen the Ladyblog, featuring Ladybug and Chat Noir's fights between akumas, theories and threads.

Not for long, his mind stuck to that duo...

...because it resembled a story he had held to heart since childhood.

Who knew that such superheroes could exist?

As Adrien took one graced step into the venue, all of his confidence dissolved.

He had been so anxious coming to the party. And he still was, since he knew how musicians acted around other musicians. He felt the pressure of expectant eyes around him, but it wasn't at all like the photo shoots or the fencing. He knew the classical world just vaguely, and that information was enough to tell him that he should be nervous.

Especially when he saw a competitor trying on the grand piano just at the corner of the room.

All that confidence he hastily mustered was gone, just after hearing the first notes ring in his ears.

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata . . . third movement.

—SHOOT SOMEONE CAN DO MOONLIGHT SONATA MOVEMENT THREE IN THIS ROOM—

"No. Adrien. Calm down. You just got in the room." He told himself, taking deep breaths and recomposing himself. He sorted out his thoughts, rearranging bits and pieces he wasn't able to process earlier.

But then, he realized.

A lot of the competitors were probably way better than him, like that girl that was the same age as him that could play the Thrid movement of Moonlight Sonata without even breaking a sweat.

How could he possibly win that competition?

The competitors had been playing the piano since childhood, not unlike himself, but they most likely hadn't juggled it with anything not related to classical music.

He had. For his whole life, in fact.

He pushed aside his thoughts and ignored the Beethoven piece and instead admired the venue, musing to himself.

The room was fancy.

Well, thinking that didn't mean he wasn't used to fancy.

But... he could have been standing there, gaping and saying "wow" if he wasn't so agitated upon his entrance.

The food, the chandeliers, the classical music in the background, and how the people were dressed... it was a perfect classical European gathering, except for the fact that there were other nationalities from around the world.

He was kind of excited to meet some of the competitors. Maybe he could mingle with the people who spoke Chinese. He spoke the language quite well, but he wasn't so sure if they'd accept him. He was so nervous he might just stumble on those foreign words he always thought he knew for years now...

He should eat first. Admittedly, he was hungry. Maybe food would calm him down. Food was a companion, a friend and a mate.

"Aaagghhh . . . grrrr, rhgmmmm . . ."

"Hey! Stop that! What are you doing?!" He half-whispered not to himself, but to his annoying, fussy kwami Plagg. What the heck were those noises for?

A random guy passed by, scratching his butt so much that it hurt. Adrien didn't even see him, but apparently, the random person got offended by his complaint at Plagg.

He stopped scratching his butt and snapped at Adrien. "Seriously?! You high-society people . . ."

Adrien turned to him, an astonished look on his face. "What?"

"You ask yourself!" He marched off, showing the angriest face Adrien had ever seen from a person, then left his line of sight.

"Well . . . that was weird." He muttered, reverting his eyes back to his tuxedo.

"Aaaggghhhh . . . camembert . . . I need camembert . . ."

"Didn't you have some already?!"

"I don't care . . . aaaagghhh."

Adrien decided to ignore Plagg's whining, going straight to the queue for the food.

As he stood in line, his thoughts went back to the guy who had yelled at him. What had that been about? He didn't know anything, but he seemed really angry. He then heard some people having an interesting conversation in English, giggling and interjecting between lines.

"Seriously? He scratched his butt?"

"Eww! That's like, what those kinds of people do, right?"

"I know! It's so . . . ugh!"

"And he didn't even . . . eww!"

"Yuuucccckk!" They all shrilled, giggling afterwards.

'What . . . what's the big deal with scratching your butt?' Adrien thought.

Amidst his confusion, he heard a familiar tune through the room.

He could have sworn that it was Wagner . . . from the back of the room . . .

Oh. The Flying Dutchman.

Okay . . . never mind that. He would never get those episodes of Spongebob out of his brain. Ever.

Yeah, he really was hungry.

Seijurou realized that he needed a vacation. A proper one.

He walked through the city of Paris, weaving through the roads on his way to the gathering for the competition. And it seriously struck him that he never actually had time to free himself from his work. He felt like breaking down as his father...

A disgrace to the family, Seijurou! A disgrace!

He didn't want to look back... he started truly hating his father after that, yet the only thing he could do was to be thankful that he didn't cut him off from basketball.

It was nerve-wracking and exhausting.

Maybe this competition was a blessing to him, instead of something that his father wanted him to stress on. He planned to take this opportunity to his advantage for the time being.

Then, he saw a speck of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It was barely visible, yet he was just able to see the outline of the structure at his position.

He thanked his father silently. He was definitely going to tour Paris.

He might visit the Louvre first—

SCREEEEEECCHHH!

He spotted in the distance—a truck losing control of its speed, an shivering old man crossing the road.

Akashi sprinted towards the old man and hauled him to the sidewalk, landing on the hard pavement.

"Are you okay, sir?"

The old man, still shivering, smiled at him. "Yes. Thank you very much."

Akashi heaved a sigh. "Thank goodness . . ." He stood and helped the old man up.

"I'm sorry for the trouble." The man apologized, a sorrowful expression replacing his smile. "You might have been hit by the truck too..."

"No, please don't worry." Akashi flashed a concerned look at the old man.

He thought he saw a faint, mischievous sparkle in the old man's eyes. He blinked, weary and frail eyes replacing those he had seen before.

He dismissed the thought. He was probably seeing things, which normally didn't happen... wait. The old man...

His watch beeped three times, interrupting his thoughts. That meant he was an hour left before the program started.

As he was always taught in Japan, being on time is being late. Seijurou was much to used to this, and let the situation slide.

"I have to go now sir." He gave the man one last smile before turning away, heading to the venue of the gathering.

Adrien entered the bathroom, moaning in embarrassment.

"Plagg! Here, I got some cheese from the chefs!"

Plagg, kept annoying him because, one, he was whining and he had to cover up for his noise, and two, he only eats Camembert, which constantly makes Adrien smell like cheese.

Plagg scarfed down his lunch, or the only thing he eats anyway, Camembert. "This is quality fromage, if I do say so myself!"

"Now, can you stop complaining?! It's really annoying!"

"Sorry! I was just really hungry!" He held in defense. "And besides, what if there was an akuma attack? I would need the energy to transform you, hmm?"

"If you didn't make me smell, I would have probably forgiven you already." Adrien pointed out sternly.

"Hey—hey there, kid! You always complain about the smell! Why not be thankful for it, eh? You have a free life, for at most, several minutes, when you transform!"

"Just for a little while." Adrien muttered. "I thought you could eat things besides Camembert."

"Well then! I guess you'll never get to talk to Ladybug again—"

"Okay okay!"

Why did they have a before-competition gathering in the first place?! It was usually done after, he didn't understand anything at all, he wouldn't be here with Plagg begging for more quality Camembert because of the chefs!

And of course Adrien would never give up the only way to get to know Ladybug—to be at least in talking terms with her—to be Chat Noir. Even if it takes feeding Plagg only Camambert. "I'm sorry. There. I said it. Can we go now?"

"Yeah, sure." Plagg slipped into his jacket and went outside the bathroom.

Adrien seriously wanted to force Plagg eat things aside from Camembert.

It's really annoying!

Just then, someone had come out of the stall at the far back, flashing a knowing smile to himself.

Seijurou wasn't the mingling type, but it would be convenient if he got to know his competition better.

But before that...

Check the menus.

No, just do it later. You would probably look strange, looking for something that's probably not in a European menu.

So what? There's still hope that it's here.

It was no use arguing with himself. Instead, he looked around and familiarized himself with the faces of his competitors. As far as he knew, he was the only Japanese competitor. He could probably talk to the Westerns, if his father's name permits his level in society. Also, there were Asians huddled at one corner of the room, talking in their common languages.

He decided not to go with them though. It wasn't that he disliked them—in fact, he longed for someone to talk to.

But . . . he was just interested in a certain French rival that he searched upon.

Adrien Agreste.

There was something about his surname that nagged him to no end, and it was as if he was supposed to know something about it.

Adrien was a model. He spoke Chinese, French and English fluently. He took lessons in fencing, Chinese speaking and writing, piano, and many others in the past. He played basketball as a recreational activity. Those were the basic facts he had been able to gather in his research.

And speaking of Adrien . . .

Seijurou noticed the blonde lean back against the wall, sighing and crossing his arms.

Time to confirm his suspicions.

"Hello. I'm Seijurou Akashi."

Adrien shook Seijurou's hand for a formal greeting, returning his smile with one of his own.

"Adrien Agreste. Nice to meet y—"

Adrien's phone rang, the instrumentals of one of Jagged Stone's songs interrupting the moment. He excused himself for a moment then turned around and received the call, turning out to be from Nathalie.

"Adrien, your father wants to talk to you after the party."

"Oh, okay." What the heck? She could have said it afterwards! But he didn't mind knowing that his inattentive father wanted to talk to him . . .

Should he be excited or something?

"He also says you must befriend Seijurou Akashi at all costs."

"Ah, okay. I actually just shook hands with him, until you called me." He almost added the last part in a hiss, but he bit his lip to prevent that from happening.

"Okay then. That's all. Thank you."

"Thank you too, Nathalie." He hung up and put his phone back in his pocket. He went back to Seijurou, scratching his head nervously. "Sorry about that . . . my dad's assistant called."

"May I ask why, if it's not too personal?"

"Oh, not at all. It was just that my father actually said he wanted me to befriend you."

Akashi's face remained calm, but he wasn't sure if he was thinking about what he had said or not, because his eyes wavered, staring at the food table.

He was looking at only one dish though.

"Tofu?" Tofu soup, that Adrien had already tasted earlier before he came and talked to him.

He turned back to him then smiled politely. Adrien could tell that he really wanted that tofu soup. That glimmer in his eyes was unmistakably a desire for the said dish.

Maybe he could actually become friends with this guy.

"So, what brings you to me before my father's request?" Adrien inquired, adding a light chuckle at the end.

He didn't answer him immediately.

"I just happened to pass by, I guess." Akashi said instead, because he couldn't think of another answer that would suit the situation and not blow his cover.

"Then . . . I'll have to believe that. Let's take a seat, shall we?"

"Gladly."

They took their respective seats at one of the tables at the center of the room, and Akashi laced his fingers, setting his chin on them.

He slightly narrowed his eyes at him.

Now, where to start?

"Really? Now way! That's exactly how I feel!"

Their conversation escalated quickly, from daily routines to work to the life in their respective countries with the addition of a dictatorial father and a disappearing mother.

So many similarities. So many feelings mutually shared.

Like the "Hi dad, sorry if I'm bothering you, but at least give me my human rights back, yeah?" feeling.

And the "Hi mom! Thanks for disappearing!" feeling.

And the "why do I need to know the kings of the Franks in the medieval times it's not like we'll use this knowledge anyway" feeling.

Adrien never thought a human being in this world would actually relate to him so perfectly. Or a human who would actually have a similar life to his. It was too good to be true, to be honest.

This newly formed friendship—or whatever they had—would be treasured forever.

He wanted to be closer to this guy.

It was funny that it all started with a little teasing from Adrien.

"Pfft. Looking at it again." He muttered, meaning for it to be discreet.

Akashi turned back, snapping his gaze at his direction. "Pardon?"

"Wait—what you heard—?! No, uh, I mean you've been staring at the tofu for so long, that I couldn't help but notice."

He didn't say a word, staring at him. His gaze left an impression-devoid of vulnerability and lax. As time passed, he felt his bones burn and shiver, all of this under his stagnant gaze.

"Yes, you are correct. I was looking at the tofu."

Okay. He blinked thrice.

He was pretty serious.

"It almost looked like a . . . great investment on your part." Adrien noted.

"Well, you can probably call it a healthy obsession now."

"You . . . okay. To be noted."

And their friendship lived happily ever after, the end.

Until Seijuurou mentioned...

"Have you ever heard of the superhero duo somewhere in this area? Ladybug and Chat Noir?"