Morning rolls in with a quiet purr of thunder and the friendly chatter of rain. Wind whistles in passing as it stretches comfortably along empty streets and chases the echoes of footsteps retreating indoors.

Like a game, the rain taps on the colourful umbrellas of people hurrying to work, calling out, "Over here, over here, over here." Wind winds around until it can nip at the edges of raincoats and the tips of hats before blowing goodbye kisses against people's cheeks as they hurry into the shelter of buildings and metros.

Raindrops roll off of umbrellas and awnings in sparkling curtains, blurring the outlines of stark iron gates and chiseled stone faces of buildings. The world turns to quiet silver.

And everywhere, the colours soften, and soften, and soften.

The sharp snap of a pink umbrella opening as its bearer rushes out of a metro station punctuates the monochrome of the street. Wind hardly has time to register a flurry of bright red before it's already halfway down the street, blue rain boots splashing through puddles and sending water flying back up.

A bag thumps the time by Marinette's side, urging her to hurry, run, go.

"Oh god, sorry, I'm late, I'm late-" Marinette moans into the phone jammed between her cheek and shoulder as she juggles her umbrella and a cup of coffee in her hands.

"-for a very important date," Alya finishes on the other end. "Me. Also Rose. Lucky for her, I am excellent company."

Marinette's laugh puffs into the air, mingling with the steam of her coffee before dissipating against the roof of her umbrella. Rain patters down, a noisy and nosy eavesdropper. "She's not paying for the pleasure of your conversation, otherwise we're going to need to talk about what kind of business we're running here."

"If we're going to get technical about this," Alya retorts good-naturedly, "you are the one paying me to talk to everyone and to schedule them in on time-"

"-hey now, let's not forget how you're benefiting from this too-"

"-and by the way," Alya interrupts, letting a pause bubble up between them before continuing, "judging from the sound of traffic around you, I'd say you're along Avenue Rapp. Which means..."

The groan that croaks from Marinette is pretty appropriate for her sodden surroundings. If only she could adopt the more useful skill of leapfrogging so she could cut her travel time in half by sailing over buildings.

"The bouquet I need to pick up for Maman," Marinette says, remembering. The slick street nearly slips her up as she dashes across, and the signpost nearly takes her out as she stumbles over the curb. Two streets diverge from her feet, and her umbrella swivels as she flutters indecisively from one route to the other. To run her errand? Or to run to work?

Ever the voice of reason, Alya sweeps in and saves the day with stunning logic. "Get the flowers now. You won't have time later, even if Nathanaël and Juleka will keep the shop open longer for you. But you don't want to be that person."

Marinette takes a step towards the left, then falters. "What about Rose?"

"Don't worry," Alya says. "You know this isn't Rose's first tattoo from you. She knows how you work."

"You mean how I'm late?"

"Yeah," Alya sighs in fond exasperation, the sound layered with Rose's distinctive laugh. "That too. Get going girl. We'll see you soon."

"In a flash," Marinette promises before hanging up. Armed with Alya's assurance, something that Marinette always knows she can trust, she commits to her destination and starts off down the road.

Her cup of coffee steams gently in her hands, a ward against the mild chill. Despite the skein of wind and the heavy drumming of rain that discourage any lingering, Marinette finds herself slowing down as she splashes across the pavement. Don't slip, her rubber boots caution as they carefully pick their way through puddles. Don't forget to see, her umbrella urges as it tilts up to offer an unimpeded view of the street.

Rain can only do so much to blur the distinctive curvilinear architecture and undulating facades wrought with flourishing decor along Avenue Rapp. Like a world from another time, iron flowers curl around stained glass doors and windows that still sparkle from rain refracted light. Ceramic and stone sculptures peer over balconies, carved into fantastical beasts. Even the smallest details are accounted for, with vines and lizards and dragonflies curving out to offer themselves as door handles.

This part of Paris is old, fairytale old. Her father used to hoist her on his broad shoulders to get a better look at the dragons, the arum lily motifs, the glass butterfly wings. They'd make games of it, seeing who could spot the most flowering vines, who could point out the innumerable animals.

"Good enough to be edible," Tom would laugh. They'd head back home after then and shape sugar fondant into lilies and magnolias, pipe icing into curling vines and slender leaves, bake little cakes into dragonflies and ladybugs.

Childhood tasted like the fantastical, the imaginative baked into the mundane.

Her mother used to stop and point out the details, the intricate patterns of concentric circles, of variegating archways, of uncoiling curves.

"Nothing is straight," Sabine would say, and her smile would colour with nostalgia. "In China, everything strives for the circle, for wholeness and completion. Our calligraphy, our architecture, our music, our language, everything is built on curves. Look how it can be both beautiful and functional."

Marinette took piano lessons for a brief time, long ago. There isn't much she remembers from it now other than a passable rendition of chopsticks, but there was the foundation of chords that she can still recall. How one note played in quick succession or in conjunction with others could build chords, that could construct harmonies, that could compose songs. All from one note, singular and ringing.

If that kind of music had a form, Marinette imagines it would be in the circles and patterns her mother loves. There is a cadence to the architecture, a lilt to the design that begs to move.

And they did, under Sabine's hand when she ran the tattoo parlour that everyone would come to. Her tattoo gun would sing and the images she imparted on others would dance. It's a legacy that Marinette does her best to continue.

Adulthood sometimes feels like the impossible, the slow inking of discoveries yet to be made.

The familiar buildings watch Marinette now as she sinks deeper into their domain. Colourful in sunlight, rain does nothing to diminish the warm glow that lights glass doors and windows with a gentle gaze. Dark, shining iron railings beckon, inviting her to take shelter under their hoods. Though tempted, Marinette doesn't stop until the shop she is searching for comes into view.

If the rest of the stores are quiet spectators resting in their own orbit, the Catmint Print is a force strong enough warrant its own gravitational pull.

A membrane of clear glass held together by the cat's cradle of slender, strong iron proudly bares the riotous starburst of greenery confined inside. Flowers in all sorts of colours and sizes constellate throughout, their faces crowding up against the windows to peer out at anyone walking past. Clusters of lights shine from the ceiling, running edges of gold light along everything it touches.

The doors are set in a step from the face front. As Marinette tucks herself into the recess and snaps her umbrella shut, shaking off excess rainwater, she thinks it's deliberately designed that way. Before she even walks in, the flowers waiting to be examined, admired, and claimed welcome her eagerly from all sides.

It's a funny sort of space. Marinette never knows whether it's her or the flowers that are the ones on display.

Still, the moment she steps into the flower shop, it feels a little like coming home. There is something about the enveloping warmth and the organized chaos of all the blooms set up on display that reminds her of her parents' boulangerie-pâtisserie, with all sorts of enticing sights and smells to discover.

Maybe taste too, Marinette thinks as she eyes clusters of lilacs, irises, and forsythia. Their jewel bright colours are rich enough to be mouthwatering, and she has to remind herself that no matter how well Juleka and Nathanaël know her, finding her mid-bite on a flowerbud would only make it awkward for everyone involved.

Two large folding screens split the enormous interior of the store in half, politely covering the back from curious eyes. Since Juleka's dark figure and Nathanaël's distinctive flaming red hair are nowhere to be seen on this side of the store, Marinette stills and listens until she hears movement from behind the screen.

"Nathanaël? Juleka?" she calls out, fumbling with tucking her umbrella under her arm and not splashing her coffee on her sleeve. "Hey, I'm here to pick up that bouquet for Maman!"

"Sorry, be with you in a moment!" A voice sails back from the back.

"It's ok, I'm not really in a hurry to go back out in that rain," Marinette says, leaning around a large bucket of gladioli to witness the skies empty thunderously down onto the street. "It's crazy out there."

"Like cats and dogs out there," the voice agrees, except… there is something about the tonation that seems a shade different. Too cheerful to be Juleka, and just a pitch too deep to properly match Nathanaël.

"Pretty easy weather to get sick in," Marinette says, and she frowns as she watches the blurry shadow of the hidden figure shift behind the screen. "If you aren't feeling well Nathanaël, you should go home. I'm probably the only one crazy enough to fight through this weather to come by."

"Well," the voice laughs a little self-consciously. The shadow moves right up to the divide between screens, close enough for the silhouette to find distinct definition, before the two screen unfold back like a pair of wings. "I'm not Nathanaël, but I can pass the message along."

For a dizzying moment, Marinette wonders dumbly if she really did swallow a flowerbud on the way in. There isn't any other explanation for the blooming that erupts within her stomach and soars up to weave through her ribcage and plant in her throat, aching to come out to see the sun.

The man in front of her might as well be the sun, for all that the light crowns his blond hair in a halo of gold, for all that the rich greenery around them concentrates into the intense colour of his eyes. Even dressed simply in an apron the colour of marigolds, tan slacks, and a lilac shirt all smudged liberally with dirt, he stands as tall and graceful as any of the flowers around them.

Well that's not fair, Marinette thinks as she becomes hyper aware of the rainwater dripping off her raincoat and pooling around her rain boots onto the wood floor. With coffee still steaming from the beaten cup in her hands and her short cropped hair blown into a cloud by the wind, she has a feeling she must look like a storm in comparison. Not fair at all.

"You must be Marinette." The stranger smiles politely at her, a perfect crescent on his perfect face, and that is unfair as well.

"Do I know you?" she asks, tilting her head. He'd be hard to forget, but as she considers him, the strangest sensation of déjà vu nudges against her shoulder blades, telling her to take a closer look. "I feel like I must know you."

The smile that curves on his face quirks up on a side, as if enjoying a secret joke. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

"You'll have to refresh my memory then because I'm afraid I don't remember," Marinette says, shrugging apologetically. She takes a step forward, thrusts her hand out, and tilts her chin up to confidently match his gaze. "I'm Marinette."

Laughter sparks in his eyes as he reaches out to take her hand. It's less a modern handshake and more a gentle clasp of her fingers within his, a gesture from another era.

"I think I remember," he teases.

"Right," she backpedals to save face, the absolute epitome of grace and composure. "Great. Yes."

"Nathanaël told me you would be coming in, so I kept the shop open for you," he explains, gently letting go of her hand. Marinette fights the urge to flex her fingers and consider the tingles undulating through her skin.

"Was the shop supposed to be closed today?" she asks, wracking her brain for any indication in prior conversations with Nathanaël or Juleka that she might've missed.

"It was kind of a spur of the moment decision," he chuckles, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck self-consciously. "But it's no trouble. You're here already, anyway. Speaking of…"

He ducks back behind the parted screen doors, the movement quick enough for Marinette to wonder if he might be running from her. Like instinct, she moves to follow him to the back.

The space must have been a part of the front display, or even a small greenhouse at some point, Marinette notes. The arrangement of the tables and shelves, even the small fountain set into the floor in the corner are pretty telling of a past lifetime despite the overflow of equipment and stock that claim the space as storage instead.

"This bouquet, right?" His voice draws her attention over to a table piled with ribbons and paper wrappings. A careful composition of delicate bluebells, bright azaleas, and rosy peonies rest in the cradle of his arms as he turns to face her. "I think Juleka put this one together for you."

"Yeah, she definitely did," Marinette laughs as she steps up to pluck a small card out of the wrapper. Rose is the only word scrawled across the front, and Marinette is careful to tuck the card into her bag for safekeeping. "We have a system. I ferry letters, and she helps me figure out what the flowers I need to get mean. I'm pretty hopeless at remembering all the symbolism, except for peonies. They've always been a favourite for me and Maman."

"They're beautiful," he says. His head tilts down to examine the large open gazes of the peonies peering back up in his arms. "I don't really know if I have a favourite flower."

"Well, you are in a flower shop," Marinette points out. "You'll probably find something you like the most around here."

He looks up at her then, and the smile that lights his face shines clear through his eyes.

"Maybe I will," he concedes.

The low rumbling of the sky rolls through the store, as much a reminder of the rain still falling outside as it is a prompt for her to get going. On cue, her phone goes off with a bright chirp alerting her to an incoming text. Even without looking, Marinette knows it's from Alya.

Without missing a beat, he gestures with the bouquet in his arms. "Juleka said you paid for these already too?"

"Yeah, when I ordered them," Marinette confirms. "I could find the receipt if you want to see it?"

"It's ok," he chuckles, moving to walk past her and through the open folding screens. "I trust you."

As Marinette follows him back to the front, she's not sure whether she wants to laugh or cringe when she spots the puddles of water from her raingear staining the wood floor, a lingering map marking where she's been. But like a series of stepping stones, they take the path back to the front door where her pink umbrella patiently waits.

"Here, I think this might be yours." He offers the bouquet to her with quiet reserve and a teasing grin.

"If you insist," Marinette shoots right back with a quicksilver smile.

She pays for her smoothness in the next second as her coffee cup bumps up against the swell of the wrapped flowers and tips back, finally accomplishing what she valiantly tried to prevent the entire morning. Lukewarm coffee sloshes through the small hole at the top in freedom and comes down upon her bare hand in a triumphant splash. The yelp that startles out of her is more out of surprise than pain, though her wrist still lifts in an instant so her tongue can nurse the abused skin.

"Are you ok?" The bouquet lifts to the side immediately, leaving Marinette entirely too close to green eyes peering at her in concern.

"Mmmpphhh," she mumbles in reply, her words squashed up against the back of her hand. A trickle escapes her attentions and makes a dash for her arm. Not to be outdone, her teeth yanks her sleeve down, baring the offending trail of coffee running over the cluster of dark pink peonies tattooed along her wrist.

The intricate detailing of all the petals would make for a pretty good maze if the coffee got that far, but Marinette seeks and strikes, clamping her mouth down over her wrist and cleaning herself free of coffee spillage.

Belatedly, she realizes that "Mmmpphhh" might not actually serve as an adequate response. Her head lifts to assure him that she's alright but his wondering gaze at her tattoo leaves the words stuck at the back of her throat. The bloom in her stomach breathes open a little bigger.

"I…" he starts, then falters. A myriad of questions seem to pass through his eyes, but they stay tucked within him. "Are you hurt at all?"

"I'm just clumsy," Marinette admits with a flustered laugh. She tightens the lid of her coffee cup more securely and tugs her sleeve down, wondering at the way his eyes linger where her tattoos lie.

"Maybe you're just lucky," he laughs in relief.

The bouquet passes into her arms without further incident, enacting a careful and delicate process of hugging the blooms against her chest with her cup held in one hand. By the time her other hand is free and stable to grab her umbrella, it's whisked away from right under her nose.

Her protests aren't nearly as quick as the way he opens the door and steps out into the small recess to unfurl the umbrella against the rain drumming steadily down. As she walks out and accepts the offered curve of the umbrella handle in her free hand, a startling thought gives her pause.

"You never gave me your name," Marinette calls him out, her gaze pointed at him in playful accusation.

"Oh." His cheeks colour rapidly in embarrassment, bright against the quiet blue of the rain. "I'm Adrien."

"Thanks for all your help, Adrien," Marinette smiles as she takes her umbrella from him. "Maybe the next time I come by, you'll let me know what your favourite flower is."

"I'll be ready for you, then," Adrien laughs, the sound as warm as the flower shop that glows gold behind them.

It's a sight that Marinette keeps tucked up close with her amongst the blooms of peonies and azaleas and bluebells as she ducks out into the rainy street. A quick glance back shows Adrien waving at her before retreating back behind the glass doors of the flower shop and flipping over a sign bearing the words "CLOSED" to the public.

Marinette would never be able to recall how she made it to her tattoo parlour without accident. The inquisitive tapping of rain against her pink umbrella continuously reminds her A-dri-en, A-dri-en, A-dri-en, playing a tune for her to become enveloped within.

When the warm wood and glass front of Luck be A Lady, slicked silver by the rain, comes into view, Marinette's feet carry her inside while her mind trails far, far back.

"Marinette! We were starting to wonder if we lost you in a great flood or something." Alya's voice punctures through Marinette's thoughts, bringing her back to the present. As Ayla helps relieve Marinette of her many belongings, beginning with plucking the coffee cup out of Marinette's hand, she frowns at the lack of response.

"Did something happen out there?"

"Something," Marinette murmurs as fingers trace the cluster of peonies tattooed on her wrist, her touch light as a gaze. "Maybe a little more like someone."

.

.

.

"Someone?" Nino repeats, eyebrows waggling as he leans against the table piled high with flowerpots. Adrien bustles around him, systematically cleaning and clearing the back space in slow increments.

"I thought you were here to drag me away to dinner, not to gossip?" Adrien pokes Nino with a roll of wrapping paper, snorting as Nino easily bats it away.

"I'm multi-tasking, since you're taking your sweet time," Nino retorts. "Well?"

"Well what? She was nice, it was nice to meet nice people."

"You won't be the new kid in town forever," Nino assures him. "I'll get some people to help us clear this space out later this week if you tell me what's on your mind. There's clearly something about her that's got your head way somewhere else."

Years of close friendship has the delightful and dismaying effect of eroding any semblance of opaqueness between them. Not for the first time, Adrien appreciates that Nino cares enough to see, to ask, and to listen.

In this matter though, Nino might not understand; but honestly, Adrien's not sure he does either.

"The strangest thing?" Adrien laughs a little wondrously. "For a moment, I believed her mouth bloomed a flower right on her skin."

After a moment, he adds quietly, thoughtfully, "I wondered then if I could do that too."

AN: A (early!) birthday gift to the ever lovely and incredible paperskirts! You are the dearest gem, and I hope you enjoy this thing that I've been cooking up!

I highly recommend checking this story out on my account on AO3 and on tumblr, since it comes with gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous cover art by the one and only jesuisunjardin!

I wouldn't truly have contributed to a fandom if I didn't write at least one tattoo/flowershop au for it! Please bear with me as I work my way through the pacing of this story. It's arguably the first plotted multi-chaptered fic that I'm attempting, so my regular writing preference for unrelated vignettes/drabbles won't hold up in this kind of linear sequence of events. There's a lot of world-building in this au that I want to establish too, so please let me know if anything isn't clear or is confusing to you!

I've been working on the outline for this for over a month now and am super excited to bring this story to the places I've imagined! Hope you'll come along for the ride :)