CHIAROSCURO

Chapter Two: Not Everyone

She peeked an eye open. The clock said there were two hours left to sleep but her stomach rolled with urgency.

Oscillating waves of nausea banked her limits, threatening to overflow. She braced against the impacts best she could, breathing evenly and counting to ten. Marinette knew the best way to handle rising vomit was to take things slowly so she kept her tasks small and manageable: she slid her body from beneath heavy blankets, shuffled foot-by-foot to the trapdoor, and eased down the stairs at the pace of drying paint.

As she entered the bathroom, she closed her eyes before clicking on the light. It was no good. The ventilation fan's timid hum bellowed like a plane propeller in her ears, the noise instigating the sudden, violent spike of a migraine. Heat to her nose and stomach followed, the last red flags before she doubled over the toilet and chummed the basin water.

It didn't last long. The ritual was mostly spent examining herself— wearing yesterday's camisole and underwear, she was surprised— blown asunder by returning nausea. In the orchestra intermissions she recorded fading bruises on her arms and shins.

There were no broken bones.

Marinette gradually finished and bowed to her audience of floor lint, even gave herself a bit of applause after wiping her mouth with toilet paper. When the performance flushed away she turned towards the three-wall alcove for a long soak. She undressed slowly, letting the bathtub fill high, before she dumped herself in without preamble. Steaming water against her skin felt like a blessing.

She touched her temple, remembering what little she could.

It had been years since Ivan and Mylène started dating. As a couple, they'd become one of her life's reliable constants so it was hard to remember when it began. Vague memories of them scampering off together after Madame Bustier's class came to her first, trailed by lycée, and times more recent. No one wanted to separate them. Everyone hoped to bring them closer together. They wanted Mylène to trust Ivan, and to reassure Ivan his love for Mylène was reciprocated. But the two balked and deflected and fought and ran in circles until it was too late.

The pain caused by her friends descended on Marinette. Ivan had squeezed her like a tube. Ivan had crushed her like wet chalk. And it was Mylène who had pushed him to that point.

Her hands shook.

She dragged them under warm water and forced them quiet beneath her thighs. She laid taunt, like a bow string's pull, telling herself she was healed now, promising herself she wasn't hurt anymore. Chat Noir had protected her.

Her chest tightened.

Some called him a savior. Others named him harbinger. Without name or face, Parisians split and scrambled the yolk of his mystery, wondering whether he was even human, to so far if his city accent was rive gauche ou droite. It was gauche, of course; he gave interviews. He was young, like her, and vivacious and brazen. He acted with swift, roguish determination but he also spoke with noble charisma. Every week he espoused the city's people in resisting Papillon's stratagems. He gave them hope. He saved their lives. They didn't know who he was or whence he came but, because of Chat Noir, they had a fighting chance.

The people loved him. She—

"Marinette! Are you all right?"

"F-Fine, maman!" she gasped. "I just—" Her tongue laid heavy in her throat.

"Marinette?"

"I-I'll be out soon!"

She leaned her head back against the tub's curve. If she slammed her cranium against the porcelain it might erase the memory of his green eyes.

Instead she slipped down, knees bending, dunking her head beneath tepid water. She gave herself thirty long seconds, fingers pressing hard into her eyes, before she emerged gasping. Quickly soaping, scrubbing, she rinsed clean. If it was more thorough than usual, maybe harder than necessary, it was in the name of nerves.

Finished, Marinette exited the bath and grabbed her hanging terry robe. She knotted it tight and left the bathroom with a spare towel rubbing through her hair, squeezing out excess water and worries. She hesitated to see her mother by the kitchen's breakfast counter, beautiful but tired. The horror of Stoneheart's attack traced wrinkles through her Chinese paper-white skin. "Maman?"

"Oh," she startled and laughed. "Sorry. Just watching the news."

Marinette looked askance at the television. A morning segment detailed the city's destruction without reserve, pouring over the health and identities of the recovered victims. Those turned to stone had been cured. The injured were healed. But the dead stayed dead.

"Wasn't he one of your classmates?" her mother murmured.

Her eyes drifted, tuning out the details of Ivan's imprisonment. "Yeah."

"Are you okay, honey?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I didn't really know him," she lied.

Her mother swept around the counter to enter the living room proper. Marinette watched her snatch the remote and punch buttons with her thumb, acting like she could change what happened as easily as she could change channels.

Every station played the same rugged video clips. "Maman, it's okay."

"It's not," she argued. "I don't understand how this happened. Can Papillon" she swallowed tightly at the name "really grab anyone? Was Ivan... evil?"

Marinette felt an urgency to defend her classmate despite the pain he'd caused. "I don't think it works like that. Ivan wasn't evil, just… troubled. Remember what Chat Noir said at the beginning? Papillon can—"

"—only use bad people," her mother finished.

"—only use those with persisting destructive thoughts," Marinette corrected. "So we have to stay positive. Chat Noir will win soon enough."

"I'm not so sure anymore. Now there is a new one, this piáo chóng.A ladybug!" she scoffed and ticked off ramblings in her natural chinese. "Chat Noir is calling her his partner but we don't need more miraculous users! She's only going to make things worse."

The towel stilled in Marinette's hand, draped over her head, hiding whatever expression she wore. Her world narrowed to tunnel-vision. That was right: small goals. She had to go get dressed. "I'm going back upstairs," she mumbled and turned away.

Numb, Marinette struggled back to her bedroom. It was hard to lift her feet. It took all her strength to shut the trapdoor gently. She plopped her damp towel across her chaise lounge. Her robe dropped to a pile on the floor. Naked and cold, she burrowed into the soft comfort of her bed and wrapped herself in its silky blankets. It became her protective cocoon, a creamy velvet encasing against the words of her mother and her own secret doubts. She could forget everything and just fall back asleep—

A reminder text pinged close to her ear.

Marinette split one eye open. A glowing phone hid amidst twisted bedsheets. Groaning, she puzzled it loose and flipped through last night's messages. Several were from Alya trying to confirm her her location, her family, her health. Even more were from Nathaniel.

She winced reading through the text exchanges. Her replies were a jumbled mess of fever-dream exclamations. In the twenty-four hours since becoming Coccinelle and then returning to Marinette, she'd dumped rambling, brain-addled replies on them like a drunkard. There wasn't any sense in her answers to their desperate concerns, just a series of dumb, blathering words—

Her eyes widened. She jerked and looked around her room.

It was clean and untouched. Her newest jewelry purchases from last Thursday waited in their complimentary tote. Her winter scarves remained fashionably tied on her bed posters. Her work mannequin endured sixty pins as it styled a new project. Other than her bed blankets currently wrapped around her three layers deep, nothing was knocked over or smashed through or left astray.

How had she detransformed? She didn't remember. When had she gotten home? She didn't know. What had she said to her parents? Nothing came to mind.

Did yesterday really happen?

It happened. She looked at the texts from Alya. Nathaniel was worried. Her mother was distraught. She saw the news. People were dead. Of course it happened.

She looked back at her phone. Both Alya and Nathaniel had chalked up her nonsense to post-traumatic fatigue. It made sense. Anyone would be shaken after going through what she did; and what she'd gone through, from what she could remember, dozed through her like fitful rest dreamt through a long nightmare.

That was it, she thought. It'd been a dream and she was finally awake. It'd been a nightmare and she was still alive. It was a new day, and that was all that mattered. It was just another akuma attack on Paris with Chat Noir saving the day. There was a new girl, a ladybug or whatever, but it wasn't her.

It couldn't have been.

A long, contented sigh released from her as she deflated. Overdue replies, sober this time, were sent to reassure her loved ones. She told them she was nursing something like a hangover; better to let everyone think she was recovering from shell-shock stupor than sugarplum fairies. To be asleep—! Goldilock giggles bubbled from her belly. To have dreamed—! She laughed outright that she slept deeper in her sheets than in the Catskill Mountains. To have believed—! She doubled over in hysterics at the thought of an earring's prick anything more than a cursed spindle.

Another text pinged from beside her. She fumbled for her cell, breaths fluttering with lightheartedness. She rubbed her joy-teary eyes until she could see Madam Cavey's name.

"Oh," she sighed. The atelier was open and all abled staff were meant to return to work.

Marinette leaned back until her head rested against her hard, oak baseboard. Her soft legs skimmed against plush blankets. She closed her eyes in thought as temptations of taking advantage of the city's distress lured her sweetly. Leeway to skipping a day of work was nonexistent in her field. Honestly, she wasn't even surprised by the immediate requirement for her return. Regardless of the atelier's demolition, the summer show was little more than three months away. The days of selecting and fitting models were just around the corner. She didn't begrudge her work; it was her only ambition, her truest desire, but— she was warm and safe at home. She smiled. The atelier would have to go without her for a day.

As she picked up her phone to reply to Cavey, the screen clicked to black. Marinette frowned. A quick press of the power button only yielded a tired buzz and an image of an empty battery. She groaned, figuring she must've forgotten to plug in the device overnight. The damn thing took forever to charge but, without a reply, she knew she had to go. She'd hate for Cavey to report her missing or… worse.

Feeling extremely unlucky, Marinette rolled out bed to pick her day's outfit. She dressed quickly, braided her hair, and reentered the principal floor. Her mother, ever tired and pale, was pouring tea. Cut slices of baguette campagne and jam sat ready.

Marinette nibbled at her breakfast. "Thanks maman."

Her mother critically eyed her street clothes. "Please be careful out there. I know things are better but that doesn't mean it's safe." She hesitated. "It would mean a lot to papa if you'd let him go with you."

"Stop. It's okay. He's been up since four in the morning," she said. She wanted to brush away her mother's misgivings. However, a reluctant, fearful gaze mirrored her own. At least Marinette knew where she got it from. "It's okay," she repeated, softer.

Sabine touched Marinette's cheek. A long, firm stare lingered over every feature, every freckle, before she nodded with understanding. "Fine," she allowed, as if her daughter was thirteen again. "But call me when you get there."

"Yeah, about that— my phone's dead! Sorry!"

"What? How?"

"Don't know. I gotta go, maman! I can't be late. You know how Madame Cavey is—"

"Marinette, don't you dare take another step—"

She raced down the hallway stairs, down the mezzanine floor, and passed the bakery's rez-de-jardin exit to the lobby proper. With a cheeky wave goodbye to her surprised father, Marinette skipped under the store's bell chime to the city street.

She adjusted her scarf tighter around her mouth and nose. Crisp winter-spring winds ruffled her loose bangs and brought alongside an assaulting stench. It smelled like tobacco and burning waste, the muted stink of a densely populated city. But in the gales and glow of sunrise Marinette could tell Paris's morning traffic was sparse. Storefront bells were quiet, replaced by distant police sirens. No one sat in breakfast cafés exchanging pretty morning kisses. No young children passed her, laughing and shouting, in schoolwalk procession. The city was destroyed. People were terrified.

Marinette wobbled on the sidewalk lines as she walked despite cementing one foot in front of the other. Her expectations weren't high per se; Papillion never double-dipped two akuma within a single week. But she trudged forward feeling like she was at the mercy of the devil's whim, wondering how soon until another reaping.

Entering Gare Montparnasse was the same as walking into an empty cavern. She and a dozen others made their way through the concourse of the train station, a muted echo of yesterday. Rested in her memories were groups of merry commuters seated hardily amidst breakfast markets, their railleries buoyed through thronged travelers. It was easy to remember their parodied gestures, their ringing laughter, the bantering appeals they exchanged with comrades and strangers alike, from one end of the open rotunda to the other. It was so simple to extract the faces of bustling young clerks that never shared daylong weariness and fatigue. She could even still hear the musicians, stylishly leaned against stylobate columns, focused with devote fever to melodic morning spectacles, awarded in patience or awe.

Now, though, shoe heels clicked ominously in the air chamber. Now, suffocating, she could hear every hacked cough, every crinkled paper, every thought. When she crossed the depot platform, a robotic greeting for the N02 line jumped her right out of her skin. She barely swallowed a shriek beneath the SNCF time announcements. She willed her jackrabbit heart to rest as she ripped her ticket from its feed.

Marinette boarded her train alone. The twenty minute ride was spent in reflection, kneading her neck of stress. She considered her mother's worry of being without a phone. Her hands already itched for the device's familiar weight. It would be helpful, at least, in drawing her attention away from the gaping absences.

It would help her to ignore the television too. The train's broadcast dock played Alec Cataldi's morning segment. It was popular and eclectic. Each day covered a multitude of topics ranging from DIY home repairs, children talent shows, or finding the best bistros this side of the Seine. But just as she'd seen at home, the coverage converged on Coccinelle's appearance. Like Chat Noir's debut months prior, Cataldi debated the new heroine's super powers— what was her miraculous ornament, why hadn't she appeared sooner— her identity— was she Parisian, did she know Chat Noir intimately— her intentions— how would she and Chat Noir finally stop Papillion, and when would it be?

What little Cataldi could guess was completely wrong. Marinette knew even less herself.

She shook her head. She didn't want to think about it. It was a dream, she repeated, and her mind already throbbed. By the time the train's wheels whined to a halt, she winced through another migraine. It was too loud, too bright. She felt hot and ill. She left the Franklin Metro clutching her forehead, staggered, eyes pointed away from the Rond-Point des Champs-Elysées, hoping to escape. But it was futile. Trapped in memory, flashes of carnage superimposed her walk— her run— down the avenue. There was pulsating pain, dead bodies scattered, the 8th arrondissement ripped to bits—

She collapsed against the atelier's frame, gasping, tears in her eyes. She couldn't go in. This had been a mistake.

She licked her lips. No, she could do this. She had to. Yesterday didn't happen, she told herself, and she was already there. Counting to ten, she breathed deep. She rolled her shoulders. It was okay. It was nothing, she promised. She patted her braid and swept straggling bits of hair behind her ears. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other and walk through—

The door swung shut behind her. No, no, no, she definitely couldn't do this. The atelier was busier than she'd predicted. It was brighter than she'd anticipated. It was louder than she'd hoped. It was as if her nonsense thoughts had became real. Time reverted, akuma-betrayed friends were reconciled. Everyone was happy. No one looked at the polyethylene sheet covering the building's damage, no one said anything about Claire's absence, and Marinette's stomach roiled to see why:

Gabriel Agreste was there.

Not just in the same country. He was in the same building, in the same room, the same bubble, breathing the same air, right there in front of her, staring.

It was too late to hide.

Cavey rounded on her in an instant. "Ah, ballerine, here at last. Good morning. Come, come," she beckoned.

Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no. She wheezed a pathetic noise and tried to bite through her cheek. A chill like ice slid down her spine and erupted down her arms. She was frozen. She couldn't move. This was how a mouse died, she thought, sat in hoarfrost, some brief inclination that a mistake had been made right before hawk talons gutted it through—

A hidden needle from Cavey's hand stabbed Marinette's hip. She would've dropped to her knees if not for the tight grip around her upper arm. "I would like you to come with me," she repeated. A hot whisper followed, "Do not embarrass me."

Her senior dragged Marinette to her work station. There was way no out. "Monsieur Agreste, this is the one you mentioned, Mademoiselle Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Mademoiselle, this is Monsieur Gabriel Agreste," Cavey introduced.

She knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. She could barely breathe. "G-g-good morning, Monsieur Agreste."

He inclined a curt nod. Yesterday's organza slid from his long fingers with a silky whisper. "Good day. Nathalie speaks highly of you, Mademoiselle. I'm glad to finally meet you."

"S-s-same to you, Monsieur—"

"I hope you are focusing as much on the atelier's work as you are on your own commissions?"

"Um— I—?" Her mind raced. What did he mean, 'her own commissions'? Did he know about the set costumes she was designing for the Comédie-Française? Maybe she shouldn't have put her latest Peplum dress online? Was she in trouble again?

Cavey's grip clenched to a bruise. "Jagged Stone, Mademoiselle?"

"O-o-oh," she breathed. "Y-y-yes, certainly, Monsieur. The Jagged Stone piece was just a very small bit of artwork—"

"It was an album cover. It sold 800,000 copies worldwide. Imagine my" he searched for the proper word "surprise when I discovered it was designed by one of my own employees."

Her heart would give sooner than his patience. "I-I-I— u-u-um, yes, M-M-Madame Sancoeur has spoken to me about that—"

"Yes, that." Agreste looked as if he was to say more in reprimand but narrowed his features in censure. His eyes drifted back to the dress display. Very fine, tightly twisted yarns weaved an elegant pattern over a crafted violet bodice. His interest churned over the gemmed swirl of plum colors and he almost seemed to sigh. "Nathalie is a fan of Monsieur Stone. She was the one who made the connection between you and the album's cover, after all. At her behest, Monsieur Stone will be attending our summer premier. I have created a signature piece that I feel will be appreciated by him, which I am assigning directly to you, Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng. Do not disappoint me."

She pitched in dizziness and thanked god Cavey was still clinging tighter than a barnacle. "Y-y-yes, sir! I will do m-m-my butt-most— m-m-my best! My utmost! My—"

"She'll do great," Cavey cut over Marinette's hyperventilating. "This year's summer show will be the best yet. Rest assured, Monsieur."

"I'll leave my design and Madame Vacek's patterns for your distribution. Give my regards to Madame Lousau. I hope she recovers soon." Agreste ticked another nod in response and bid adieu, raising two fingers to wordlessly call Nathalie for his next appointment.

Behind his back, Cavey spread over Marinette like a mat of awash seaweed. "Ballerine! You know what this means, don't you? You know what will happen if he likes your work?"

Marinette couldn't guess. She couldn't even think. "W-what's that?"

Cavey's concerns were rhetorical. Without answering, she moved onto the next big concern. "Hurry! I'll introduce you to your model!"

Her model? Marinette blinked slowly, thoughts coming back online one-by-one as Cavey dragged her through the atelier studio. She was being given a model? But why? Agreste had talked nonsense about her working on a specialty piece for the summer show but that was only a few months from now, and then there was something or other about Jagged Stone but already she couldn't recall. Her thoughts were full of high pitched static and her attention was distracted by coworkers' indignation. As they rushed past, she jostled against work stations and new recruits, tripped on a woman's toes and through elaborately gowned mannequins. Angry exclamations and color popped around her brighter than a sugary drink commercial until, finally, she all but crashed against the front tableau. Spilled mock-up designs grew like a coral reef amidst Cavey's hundred sea urchin sewing needles. Adrien Agreste leaned against a small, spared corner.

Marinette pulled a muscle from whiplash.

"Oh, là, here he is. Ballerine, this is Monsieur Adrien Agreste."

"Hello—"

He was beautiful, standing taller than she remembered, blonde-haired and green-eyed, with a smile so bright and frank she felt like happiness itself became their own little secret. Memories of hidden wishes sparked anew, from childish admiration and tender awe, to powerful teenager imagination kissing him one hundred different ways, to the raw, private pleasures of adulthood when she would lay in bed at night moaning his name—

She went scarlet red. It was Adrien. Of course it was Adrien. It wouldn't be anyone but Adrien, back in town from half a world away, and what the hell was her life, exactly, anyway?

"Hi," she rasped.

Cavey tutted. "Monsieur Agreste, forgive her. This silly girl is Mademoiselle Marinette Dupa—"

"Marinette?" he breathed.

"Yes, Marinette, and—"

"Wait, oh, what?" Adrien pushed off the desk, desperately clutching for Marinette's hands. His face was mired in confusion. "I thought it was— But— Marinette?" he repeated. "Is that you? How?"

"Adrien?" she squeaked and backed away—

"Marinette, that is Monsieur Agreste to you—"

Monsieur Agreste raised a hand in dismissal of Cavey's reprimand. His words were kind but his voice was clipped. "Please, Adrien is fine. Marinette and I went to school together." Cavey balked, clearly unsure how to proceed, and he took opportunity. "If it's all right, Madame, may I have a moment with an old friend?"

Friend? Marinette's mouth opened in disbelief. She'd been his stalker. Flushed horror radiated stronger from her face from incriminating memories. She looked at once to Cavey, trying to make eyes at her to intervene, but the atelier matriarch had been instantly swayed by Adrien's signature sweetness. "By all means, Monsieur!"

With no complaints and a sharpness to his eyes, Adrien turned and finally snagged Marinette's hand. His words were urgent. "Come with me."

Her heart hiccuped. He was touching her. This wasn't a good idea. "Y-yeah. Okay. Sure."

Against all recourse, Marinette allowed Adrien to cowherd her to the nearest exit, down a hallway, and around several corners until they were by themselves. The alcove he found was private. Quiet. Unattended. Alone.

When he turned around to face her she literally couldn't remember walking there.

It was the first time she'd seen him in person in seven years, let alone up close. A hollow note pinged in her wistful heart. He was still relentlessly remarkable in the way only truly attractive people were capable of. She was ashamed to recall her freakish infatuation but there was no denying how good looking he'd been, or godly he'd become. A blue-blooded aristocracy was unmistakable in some things, like his high cheekbones or the model cut of his jaw. But he'd acquired a certain crooked fun as well with highlighted hair grown out and styled in a messy sweep. His ears were thin and perfectly curved. His neck was strong, leading to an open chest and setback shoulders. He stood close, but balanced, a crafted pose split between a sweetheart smile and come-hither eyes.

This was definitely a bad, bad idea.

"Sorry about dragging you away." He squeezed her hand and stepped back. He seemed more composed. There was properness in his tone, an old etiquette to his manners. "I don't want to start rumors on day one."

Would he settle for day two?

She mentally slapped herself. "N-no problem. I-I'm sorry too." Wait, no— he didn't know what she was thinking— "I-I mean, I hate rumors too. But you can drag me away." She went bug-eyed. No, that's wasn't what she meant— "That is, if you want. If it's necessary. This seems necessary." She mentally screamed. Why couldn't she stop—

Adrien was looking at her like she was crazy, like she wasn't even real, eyebrows quirked and head tilted back. She frantically tried to think around her runaway rambling. "U-u-um, so, anyway, yeah. I didn't know you were back in France."

He hesitated. "Only recently."

"Oh. Right. Okay. For work?"

"Mm, something like that." He smirked and half-laughed. He chuckled. She felt faint, floating from butterflies, an awkward strike of shrill giggles escaping her too. Oh, sweet mercy, her soul cried, release her now from this pitiful mortal coil—

But Adrien only burst out laughing harder, genuine and loud. "Ah, man. I've missed that." His palm rubbed a teary eye and a friendly reassurance rumbled between them. "It's good to see you Marinette. It's… really good. I just can't believe you're okay."

She wasn't okay. When his hand cut down on Marinette's shoulder in a gentle squeeze her brain short-circuited between honeyed warmth and electric surprise at the contact. She was going to start drooling. She didn't know what to do.

So she kept panicking— "You?!"

"Me?"

"No! Me! Er, you too! It's good to see you too!" Long, deep breaths filled her lungs. She counted to three. She had to get through this. "I've… missed you as well," she confessed. Her face ignited in embarrassment but it was true. She'd missed him.

He squeezed her shoulder again. Then his hand ghosted down her arm as it collected her own, fingers lacing. Goosebumps rippled over her skin. He wasn't like this before, she distantly thought. Younger Adrien was friendly but careful, kind hearted but confined parental censorship. Older Adrien, it seemed, had grown and become more 'hands on'. The last few of minutes of touch far outweighed all their silly school days of smiles and unrequited longing. Her blush was burning calories by this point.

Then he stepped close and her brain went bottom-up bankrupt. Electricity nipped the air between them. Marinette's lips parted in a lightheaded daze as thoughts drifted out of her brain to somewhere else, another plane of existence far beyond—

Adrien smiled but it was thin-lipped if not reserved. His glance drifted to the side and his jaw tightened. She could see the trace of tension aline the cut of muscle, from a kiss beneath his ear down-center to his sternum. "Look, I know this is a lot, after yesterday and all… But I'm not sure if you know…" He swallowed. He licked his lips as his eyes shifted back to her.

She didn't know a damn thing, not even her own name. "Y-yes?"

His voice was a whisper. "Chloé's dead."

What?

"She was killed yesterday. I know it's sudden."

Chloé? Chloé Bourgeouis?

"It was during the akuma attack. I don't know all the details just that… she was hurt."

A hole tore through Marinette. She was speechless. A hacked combination of words escaped— "What— Chloé? I don't understand—"

And she didn't. Stubborn as Marinette might've been about caring for others, the years spent toiling through collège and lycée with Chloé had left her with little regard for the blonde. No matter her age, from nappies to nightclubs, Paris's darling was lovely and vicious and impossible. Being friends with her always led to disastrous fallout. Being 'more than friends' was like a death sentence. Marinette had watched Chloé's loved ones try to improve the crowned princess, try to cure her sadism, but the woman insisted on operating outside of social dependencies. All too often she materialized in scandals and gossip rings like a mythical wave, reminding you of her beauty and magnificence, before crashing down. Relationships broke into timbers of jetsam and flotsam and Chloé delighted as her pawns drowned in the sea of social retribution. Hers was a selfish world, and she'd been an incredibly cruel bully.

And yet, there were tears in Marinette's eyes.

"Hey, are you okay?" Adrien questioned, unsure. He began to pull away and she swayed in conflict, hand braced between him and the wall behind her. She clumsily slid to the floor.

"H-h-how?" she stammered.

Adrien sat close, squeezing her hand and repeating unknown details. "I'm not sure," he whispered. "I guess she was hit in the crossfire."

She wasn't. Marionette began to cry. She wasn't fucking shot.

She thought of Mayor Bourgeouis and how she saw him yesterday. He was on his knees, splattered with rouge, rummaging through the mush of his daughter's innards, her golden hair, her sapphire eyes, trying to collect blood and meat and fleshy bits to put them back right—

But the pieces were broken. She'd been smashed like a bug. Whatever remained of Chloé was gone.

Marionette looked at Adrien. She wanted to tell him. He was Chloé's best friend. She had to tell him—

But where could she begin? What would it serve? It didn't even make sense. It didn't process. "The city was restored," she argued. "People came back. Coccinelle—"

Coccinelle was supposed to make everything right.

Adrien looked at her. She already knew what he was going to say. "Not everything. Not everyone," he murmured.

She knew that. Fuck, she knew that. But hearing it out loud, loaded, lambasted against her was different than a stupid, immature, self-righteous thought haphazard from the morning. God, who had she been three hours ago? Who the fuck did she think she was fooling—

She covered her mouth in a half-wail, half-dry heave. She wanted to rip her earrings straight out from the lobe. She wanted to bleed and die right there instead. Instead she curled on herself, unable to stifle her sobs through suppressed, choking breaths. She pressed her hands against her face, hiding, wet, ragged moans and hot tears, struggling to stop.

Adrien rubbed her back. Her drew her into a hug. She didn't resist.

"I don't know what to say," she croaked. And truly she didn't. It felt like everything had gone wrong and its point of origin was Marinette holding a lacquered box. Because if Chloé was invincible, if she was untouchable, that did that mean for the rest of Paris?

The return of Marinette's senses poured over her like candied glaze: the motion of a car, the feel of a plush leather seat, the smell of cologne and something delicious, the sight of Adrien lounged opposite her in his personal limo. His weight leaned against a propped elbow as he stared thoughtfully through the tinted window.

It was like a catalogue still frame. Marinette hummed in appreciation.

Their eyes met. "Oh, you're awake."

She blinked twice and winced through yet another spiked headache. Her mouth was parched and her eyelids felt like acme weights. She closed them tight and felt wrong all over. "Where— where am I? What happened?"

"You fell asleep. I'm taking you home."

"Asleep?" She rubbed at her eyes. "Home?"

Adrien's look of concern deepened. His eyes flit over her face, worried she wasn't coming around. "Are you okay, Marinette? Do you remember anything?"

Images came rushing, unbidden: the destroyed atelier, her coworkers' screams, a city on fire, the bullet lodged in her shoulder, Fu's crushed body, Ivan's brutality, an engagement ring, the splash of her blood across Chat Noir's lapel—

Gingerly her fingers laid upon her ears and the gem promised there.

Cold seeped into her very bones. She slugged through her words. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm… awake now."

"Good." Adrien smiled. "I think you cried yourself into exhaustion. Feel any better?"

Marinette looked away. Humiliation struck her cheeks in the deepest showcase red of all morning. It was impossible to feel better. Ivan was imprisoned, Mylene was hospitalized, Chloé was dead, and Adrien thought she was a nutcase. She would never feel better for the rest of her life.

"Yeah, I feel great. Thank you."

Adrien's smile was static. It hadn't rippled since she woke up. "Glad to hear."

A study of passing traffic filled their quiet. Brief snippets of the Seine to her right proved they were on Cours La Reine headed north. She wanted to lay her forehead against the window's cool glass and drift away. Instead she sat stiff, sore, and snipped her words short through the interim. "You didn't have to escort me home."

He raised a brow. The leather seat squeaked as he awkwardly adjusted his weight. "I couldn't exactly leave you laid out on the dressing room floor, could I?"

"I guess not." Wry resignation settled upon her. "You did say you didn't want to start rumors."

"I have a reputation to protect," he preened. Marinette's features softened as he straightened his jacket of invisible wrinkles and ran his fingers through rugged lockes. He was trying so hard to be normal for her.

She smiled in appreciation. "I hope no one got the wrong idea?" she joked. She didn't imagine he championed her through the atelier bridal-style but she wasn't sure how she got in his car either.

For all his peacock displays, Adrien simply gave a lazy shrug. "No one cared. A few of the girls suggested I leave you propped up in the corner."

That sounded about right. "Sorry for being a burden."

"You're not a burden."

She hesitated. "Well, an inconvenience then."

"You're not an inconvenience." He met her eyes firmly.

She looked out the window. Her vision was dry and itchy. "I'm just saying you could've gotten someone else. You could've just called a cab."

"Your phone was dead. The company records were destroyed in yesterday's attack. No one knew where you lived except me." She peaked at him from the corner of her eyes. He was leaned forward, forearms on his knees, staring her down with ripe insult. "And I'm not going to just dump you into some random cab."

Right then. She blinked to clear away her watery-eyed self loathing. An attempt to laugh pushed through her. "Got it. So you volunteered to make sure I got home. Good thing I still live with my parents!"

His face soured like she'd fed him a dollop of bitter sarcasm. "Living at home isn't so bad Marinette. I did it too." Dry laughter bounced in the small space. "Unwillingly, at that."

"I didn't mean—"

"Sorry, I know," he interrupted. There was a pregnant pause. He sighed and leaned back. "Touchy subject."

"It's okay." She knew he didn't mean to snap at her. Lines of unhappiness dredged across his forehead for it. He adamantly looked out the window, at the seat, at the ceiling, anything but her. Marinette knew the discord of his home had always been there but— it was more publicized these days. It was part of her wonder why he was even back home. "I-I guess you've got your own place now."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm up by Avenue d'Eylau."

God bless him. She ran a hand down her face, hiding any sardonic suffering. God bless Adrien Agreste for innocently commenting he lived off one of the wealthiest streets in Paris. "That's cool."

"How's your mom and dad doing?"

"They're good." She didn't feel right talking about her parents when the subject of his were so taboo. "Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"It's okay. I shouldn't have brought up Chloé like that."

A deep pulse pushed through her heart. "You didn't do anything wrong. I just… never thought she'd die," she admitted. She breathed the girl's name: "Chloé Bourgeouis. She was… something else. It's crazy to even imagine. Why didn't Chat Noir…" she trailed off and it was like she could hear Adrien's spine click rigid. She looked at him. "What?"

"—why didn't Chat Noir?" he prompted.

Marinette shook her head. She didn't know. She was just talking. "It's nothing."

"Say it."

"What? No," she bristled. "It's not his fault. Forget it."

"You thought it." And it was clear Adrien thought it too. He sounded like someone else, a person dark and alone. Marinette tilted her head and studied him. His face was ashen, skin bloodless, eyelids low. His arms were crossed tight. His legs sank into the floor like sequoia redwoods. He was still as stone but she had every thought he wanted to leap out the door.

"Adrien," she hedged, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine." His fingers dug into his arms.

She sighed. He wasn't but she didn't want to push. She hadn't meant to critique his celebrity idol. It wasn't like Adrien knew Chloé had died on the steps of l'Église Saint-Augustin. And, to be fair, it wasn't like Chat Noir was wholly at fault either. With a murmur, Marinette evened the playing field. "I guess she failed too."

"Who?"

She swallowed her own name. "Coccinelle."

Adrien's face went dark. "Excuse me?"

"It's true. You said it yourself." Fu had called her the benefactor of rebirth. News agencies cobbled together a story much the same. And even if Chat Noir was out there, wherever, beseeching praise for her, it was Adrien's words that rang in her ears: she remembered doing nothing and saving no one. "She didn't restore everything. She didn't revive everyone. I— I don't think she healed anyone at all, actually."

"What—" His eyes narrowed. She'd never seen him look so angry before. "What are you talking about?!"

"I—" Her mouth opened and closed. "I-I just think—"

"Marinette, you are alive because of her!"

"Me?"

"You were shot. And you—" He swallowed.

Her eyes shot open. Clammy hands gripped her jeans. "Wait, wait," she rasped, "you saw me? You were there?"

He looked away. His words were low. "I… was at the Roosevelt Metro."

"Adrien…" she trailed off. Yesterday's horror made her stomach flip. "What did you see?"

He shook his head. "I saw you run into the Artcurial. And then—" He became quiet. His fingers had gone white from his grip. "It collapsed."

Twenty thousand tonnes of collapsed mortar left little leeway for hope. To him, she had died yesterday morning and he'd been powerless watching it happen. "You thought…?"

"What was I supposed to think?" His flat gaze leveled back to her, green eyes gleaming. "It's because of Coccinelle you're alive. She brought you back."

Marinette stared dumbly at him and his echo of truth. From a certain vantage point, he was right. But he was also supremely wrong.

It was like giving a name to a bird— a Java sparrow, a Gouldian finch, a diamond firetail, a red avadavat— and never knowing it could fly. Adrien knew Coccinelle in concept, by name, in the chiseled relief of Papillion and Chat Noir, like a refraction from darkness is expected to always be light. But he knew absolutely nothing about her, and perceived even less of the great principle of rebirth and its truths. It was the difference between licking floor crumbs and sitting at the front of Sessrúmnir.

The lodestone was pierced through her body. But when she had called upon that wellspring of power, it had shuddered against her like she was the open wound. And so she had walked right past Chloé's father and through puddles of blood twice, in and out again. Nothing had been done for them— for any of them.

Adrien would never understand. He would never be able to.

She hung her head and sat in silence until the car slowed. It stopped outside her parent's bakery.

"Marinette?"

"Oh," she breathed. She grabbed the door handle and swung it open, exiting the vehicle in a stiff dizziness. She brushed her jeans as she stood and tried not to trip while stepping onto the curb. Adrien, suddenly at her side but seconds too late, offered his hand and let it hang unnecessarily. Taking pity, she gently squeezed his fingers in thanks. Every act of his kindness that day had been inessential but she appreciated each gesture all the same.

She began to walk towards the bakery door. "Marinette—"

"Yes?" She turned around.

Adrien faced her, one hand still outstretched, the other rubbing the back of his neck. Eyes downcast, he stepped closer. He reached for her again to tie their fingers together once more.

"Don't go thinking that there are other people, better people," he looked up, "or someone more deserving than you. Chloé may be gone… but you were meant to still be here."

Her heart lurched forward. "Adrien… I…"

She didn't know what to say.

He smiled and gave a small, final squeeze. "I should head back. Adieu mademoiselle."

She didn't reply. She couldn't. She stood there in demure glow as her old schoolmate ducked back into his side of the limo and drove off. Minutes, maybe even hours, went by until she heard the little chiming bell of home tickle her ears.

"Marinette, what're you doing? Are you just going to stand out here all day?"

"No, papa. I'll be just a moment." But she couldn't turn her feet to move inside. For all her words, she stayed planted right where Adrien had struck her in love all over again.