Chapter Text
Winter was drawing to a close by mid-March, but the nights in Paris were still chilly. This particular night, as a full moon bathed the rooftops in silver light and the shadows glowed in the myriad colours of streetlights and neon signs, a brisk wind blew over the wet pavement, whipping through alleyways and chilling the skin of anyone still walking around in the middle of the night.
The view from the roofs of the apartment buildings that stretched four or five floors high was beautiful, but the dark figure that darted over the rooftops and flitted across the gaps between buildings didn’t pause to admire it.
Adrien’s focus was entirely on getting to his destination as soon as possible. He was about to hop across the alley behind the bakery, when he sensed a presence below. He didn’t want to risk being seen swooping overhead, so doubled back and dropped to street level around where he was hidden behind a fire escape and a row of bins.
Curling his dark wings close to him, he felt his whole body turn light as a feather for a moment as that part of him edged back over the divide between the two-dimensional and the physical. He had ripped a vertical line along the back of his plaid shirt, allowing him to keep it on as he soared through the cold night, but his thick jacket remained tied around his waist.
He strolled down the alley that ran behind Marinette’s building, peering into the shadows to see with this eyes what he already sensed was there.
The soul of the figure in the darkness had a dullness, as though the edges had been knocked off. If he could have actually seen it, he would have said it was a faded green, like a fallen leaf that wasn’t yet fully dried out. It had the same sense of brittleness, too. This soul was tinged with a hopelessness, no strong destiny lingering at its edges.
If Adrien had the same clinical view of mortals as the angels of death, who had to be detached and businesslike, he would have said this stranger was unimportant. But not having a dictated goal didn’t mean a life was pointless – it meant it was unbound. It meant Adrien didn’t have to meddle in someone’s life, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t.
Chloé would have told him to stay out of it. But Chloé wasn’t there to tell him anything.
He spotted the face to go with the soul. It was as morose as he expected, lined and tired, and framed by wild hair. It was too dark to know what colour. The man was slumped against the wall, a flattened cardboard box beneath him his protection from the wet concrete beneath.
He looked at Adrien as he approached, but without much interest. Any number of people passed this man on any given day, and no one had made much of a difference yet.
“Hello,” Adrien said pleasantly.
The man raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained still.
“It’s cold tonight,” he continued. The man was huddled against the wind that whistled through the alley, and looked unimpressed by the flaccid observation.
Adrien was not discouraged.
“I’m pretty close to home, and this jacket doesn’t suit me,” he forged on. “You can have it if you want; yours looks pretty flimsy.”
The man was taken aback by that.
“Here,” Adrien said, untying the sleeves and holding it out for the man to take. It was warm, lined with fleece and waterproof, but he hated the cut. He had bought it on his way through Germany, needing something for the weather when it turned cold suddenly, and wouldn’t wear it again when he had a selection of clothes he infinitely preferred at home.
“I know there’s a place nearby that will rent you a last-minute room at half price – €20 a night,” he added, fishing the €90 he had in the pocket of his jeans out and offering it too. “Take this.”
“I know the place,” the man said. His voice was rough, with disuse or maybe thirst, but surprisingly soft. Adrien imagined he would sing beautifully. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, feeling a smile stretch across his face. He loved smiling, and when people smiled back, he could never keep from smiling even wider. The stranger offered a small lift in one corner of his mouth, and Adrien beamed at him.
The man shook his head in amusement, clearly finding something strange about Adrien, but he didn’t mind. A lot of people found him a bit odd, but people rarely disliked him for it. For his part, he didn’t see any point in pretending he wasn’t happy when he was, and he varied from content to ecstatic most of the time.
Getting to his feet and slinging a backpack that had been resting between his back and the stone wall behind him over his shoulder, the man turned to head for the hostel Adrien had referred to.
“Get home safe,” he said, looking almost like he surprised himself in saying so. Adrien sensed that he hadn’t exchanged pleasantries in a while.
“I will,” he replied. “Good luck.”
The man nodded, and walked away.
Adrien watched him go, shivering slightly in the cold. The wind that slipped into his shirt stole away any warmth he could muster, and now that he was standing still, he was starting to feel it.
Once the stranger was definitely gone, he turned to Marinette’s building. Only a few, small windows looked out onto this stretch of the alley, and no lights were on. No one would see him sneak into her room via the roof.
He couldn’t be bothered pulling his wings back into being for a few seconds just to get up to her terrace, hating the sensation of fading away that pervaded his body when he flirted with the edge of his physical existence like that.
Instead, he leapt onto a closed dumpster, springing off the top as quietly as possible. He scaled the wall, using the sparse detailing in the stone and the window sills to hold on. It wasn’t too hard to maintain his grip on the small handholds, even with most of his bodyweight pulling him away from the wall, but it was hard to reach between things he could grasp.
A little stretching and a few careful jumps, though, saw him climbing over the wrought iron railing of Marinette’s little terrace.
He slowly swung the trapdoor into her room open, expecting her to be asleep, and lowered himself silently into the room. He landed on her carpet like a cat, latching the door shut without a sound.
And there she was. Curled up under white bed covers with little cherry blossoms printed across them, she slept.
He stood still, looking at Marinette.
Well, he never just looked at Marinette. He breathed her. Whenever she was near, it was as if she filled up the empty space between them and overflowed until she filled him, too.
It wasn’t just the brightness of her soul, either; he hadn’t been so transfixed by her when she first appeared on the periphery of his world as he tripped a man on the street into the arms that would hold him for decades to come.
Her soul was bright, or loud, or large, or whatever tangible adjective one could apply to something no human had ever perceived. It had caught his attention, but it lacked the marker that he recognised, that little divot missing where a cupid needed to fit a little piece so that the soul could be united with that one special person.
She wasn’t silently calling out for help; she was simply singing out into the world because that was how she lived her life.
Feeling that vibrant manifestation of her past and her future was part of being with her and loving her, just like it was part of every interaction he had. He saw the face, heard the voice, and perceived the soul around it all.
But her laugh, her quirks, the way she fell over and the way she danced, the kindness in her eyes and in her actions, all the things he couldn’t know just by meeting her… That was what he felt washing over and rushing into him when he got close to her.
Sometimes he wondered how it was that the whole world, or at least everyone who had met Marinette, wasn’t in love with her. He couldn’t imagine finding anything wrong with her, or anyone more enchanting. Intellectually, he knew that everyone loved differently and different things made up people’s idea of perfection, but he privately entertained the thought that he knew better than everyone else.
After all, who in the world could claim to know more about love than a cupid?
She rolled over, a weird snort interrupting her breathing, and shook him from his reverie. He supressed a laugh as he kicked off his shoes and peeled off his tight jeans.
As gently as he could, he eased into bed beside her, trying not to disturb her despite the way she sprawled across most of the bed. His elbow brushed against a fingertip, and she mumbled something incoherently, rolling towards him.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in, getting comfortable. She didn’t wake, for which he was glad even though he also wished she would so that he could talk to her. He hadn’t seen her in more than a week, and the separation had been painful.
Feeling her small form pressed up against his chest, her little shoulders and delicate hands that seemed so fragile but held such strength, he let out a deeply contented sigh as sleep began to carry him away.
As always, his mind drifted to the surface of consciousness before his senses. The first few moments of the day were when he felt the pull of Heaven the strongest, and when he felt the closest to what he supposed was his true form.
When he slept, he wasn’t really tethered to his body the way he usually was, and the way he imagined mortals were. To sleep was to wander, to drift, to know the unknowable. He felt the thrumming of the unadulterated energy from the other side, distant yet omnipresent, just out of reach.
Before his soul fully settled into his body’s borders, he only sensed the auras around him. He felt the person in the apartment below’s frustration, someone at the base of the building’s excitement, and the whirling of hunger, envy, desire, love, resignation and anxiety from the bakery, the familiar feeling of Tom and Sabine’s satisfaction and contentedness standing out from the unfamiliar souls milling about the shop. He knew scores of beings nearby, all feeling different things, the nuance of which was always lost on Adrien once he woke up.
By far stronger than any of these, though, was the flare of smouldering red tantalisingly close. If he could taste, he knew his mouth would be awash with an almost sickly sweet taste of strawberry, somehow cut with the spice of cinnamon. There was a warmth that embraced him without touching, a sweeping major chord that he couldn’t actually hear.
He knew Marinette beside him before he knew anything else.
In his dreamy state, he could feel the emotions that lived inside her heart that were usually hidden to his human perception. She was feeling affection, a deep and pulsing love, through which ran a ribbon of desire. He could also sense the echo of worry. About something at work? About his absence? He couldn’t know, but it was swept aside and troubled her no more.
As he truly woke, these details faded, and the sense of her soul dulled to its usual muted halo, just a shadow of the beacon of love and light that he glimpsed in these moments. The background awareness of everyone else nearby faded, too, until she was the only one he could feel.
Replacing that awareness was feeling of warmth – softness from the sheets and the pillow under his cheek, brightness from the buttery sunshine slanting in the windows, and the gentle touch of Marinette’s skin against his.
She was tracing a finger back and forth over the exposed skin of his shoulders, up over one shoulder blade, down across the valley of his spine, up over the other side, and back. The gentle touch was exquisite, and he enjoyed the sensation for a few moments before acknowledging that he was awake.
“Good morning,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her – at last. He never tired of looking at her. Her eyes smiled back at him, the sunlight reflecting in the little pieces of the sky contained within them. Her inky hair, cut shorter than it had been when they met fell only to her cheekbones in a chunky cut, her thick fringe just short of falling into her eyes, was unruly. He could tell she had fallen asleep with it wet, and hadn’t brushed it beforehand.
She was perfect.
“Good morning,” she smiled back, moving her hand to his cheek instead. The traced his cheekbone, his nose, then the line of his eyebrow. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” he sighed, rolling over onto his back to look at her more clearly. She was propped up on an elbow, watching him with a thoughtful expression.
“Your mother missed you, too,” she said, a bemused smile dancing about her intelligent face. “She came here, you know. I think she was suspicious you were hiding out here.”
“Really?” he asked, blinking in surprise. He knew she, perhaps more so than his father, feared he would disappear, but he had told them where he was going, and that he was coming back. That she had come here, though, was a surprise.
“Then again, maybe she just wanted to talk to Maman,” she shrugged. “She didn’t seem too upset, and they talked for a while before she left.”
That made more sense. The more time he spent with Emilie Agreste, the more he noticed the playful, mischievous nature beneath her elegant demeanour. He had confided in her that he was considering asking Marinette to marry him, and should have known she would plot against him – or rather for him.
He was chagrined, though, hoping she hadn’t outed him to Sabine. He had only come back to Earth to stay a bit more than a year ago, and wanted to spend more time watching over his parents before he married her. Not to mention they were still young, and he wanted Marinette to feel like she was established in her career and life before he started complicating things. He was leaning towards asking sooner rather than later, though, and just opting for a long engagement.
The idea of making a whole demonstration of his devotion to her was very appealing, and he felt excitement bubble up at the thought of getting to be her fiancé.
He pushed it down and tried to seem thoughtful.
“Well, Father is still in Milan, on some level I’m sure she wanted to talk to Sabine because they’re friends,” he said. He wanted to say something a bit more resolute, but felt the bounds of truthfulness threaten to close his throat.
Marinette hummed, eying him speculatively.
“You know the truth,” she guessed.
“I suspect,” he corrected.
“What is it?” she asked, leaning closer with an expectant grin. “You suck at keeping secrets. Just tell me now.”
“I don’t want to,” he pouted.
She stared him down, and he looked away. He was terrible with secrecy, it was against his nature. He physically couldn’t lie, but he could deceive. That didn’t mean the pull to blurt out the truth wasn’t there the minute he pulled the wool over someone’s eyes.
“You’ll find out soon,” he said, hoping that would be good enough.
“Fine,” she relented, a pout of her own taking up residence on her full lips. It drew his eye, and she grinned when she noticed.
He wondered briefly if she was feeling as amorous as she had been when she woke him up, but that question was answered by the way the dragged her nails over his chest as she leant in to kiss him.
He responded instantly, reaching for her and pulling her closer as her intoxicating lips moved against his. Her little hands roamed over his body, but it wasn’t enough. She was never close enough.
He rolled on top of her, grinning at the small giggle that escaped her as he moved to kiss the side of her throat. She hated walking around with the bruises his mouth left on her sometimes, and though he didn’t really understand why, he was careful to check for marks and heal them whenever he left her room. He tried not to perform ‘miracles’ that weren’t absolutely necessary when he wasn’t on the job as a cupid, but it was the one exception he made.
As in everything, Marinette was his weak spot.
She wrapped her arms around him, hands in his hair and legs cradling his body. He pressed closer, satisfaction building in him as she shuddered in response. There was nothing better that pleasing her, out of everything he had seen and done since taking up permanent residence on Earth. Whether it was making her laugh at a joke, surprising her with a little gift, or caressing that spot on the side of her neck that always made her relax completely, it made him incandescently happy to see her happy.
He ran his hands over her, caressing her smooth skin and pressing into her. Before their rendezvous could progress too far, the sound of someone opening the door into her bedroom made him freeze.
Marinette reacted more violently, shoving him off and dumping him onto the floor where he would be hidden by the bed.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” came Sabine’s voice. “Your papa’s starting on those icing decorations you offered to help with.”
“Right,” Marinette said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “I’ll come down in two minutes.”
“No rush,” she laughed as she left the room.
A few seconds later, Marinette’s face appeared over the edge of the bed.
“Sorry,” she grimaced.
He sat up with a laugh.
“It’s fine,” he assured her, standing up to put his jeans on.
She eyed his shirt, which lay on a ball on the floor near his shoes, presumably because they constituted a mess. He gave her a cheeky look, even though she had been known to leave many a mess to be cleaned up later when she was in a rush or tired. The abandon with which a stressed or sleepy Marinette gave up on what she normally paid strict attention to never failed to charm him.
He admired the shape of her legs, exposed by her adorable matching set of pyjamas, pink with white piping along the cuffs of the shirt and shorts, as she got out of bed and neatened up the covers.
“I should go home for a bit, but I’ll see you later?” he asked as he finished dressing.
“Oh, Alya’s having a pizza and wine thing at her place tonight,” she said, eyes lighting up. “I told her you weren’t around but now that you’re available you’re invited.”
“Sounds good,” he smiled. “Meet you here?”
“Yep, around five would be good,” she agreed. “Try not to let my parents see you on the way out, we don’t need those questions raised. I’ll check if Maman’s still downstairs.”
“No need, I’ll just climb down from your roof,” he assured her.
She rushed to stop him. The wide-eyed expression that streaked across her gorgeous face was comical; it made him wish he had a camera handy.
“Don’t do that,” she balked. “Someone could see your wings if you –”
He cut her off with a laugh.
“I said climb, I don’t need wings,” he corrected.
“Oh.”
He bent to give her a kiss, lingering for a moment before pushing her gently toward her closet.
“I’ll see you at five,” he said, opening the trapdoor and pulling himself up onto the terrace.
She blew him a kiss with an adorable flourish and a laugh before he pulled closed the trapdoor, which he mimed catching and putting in his pocket.
He got to his feet, casting a perfunctory survey of the area to check for obvious observers before swinging a leg over the fence. He clung to the small handholds the masonry offered with as much strength as he dared, not wanting to damage the stone.
Dropping to the street level, he started the ten-minute brisk walk home, hustling almost to a jog in an effort to stave off the slight chill of the gusty wind that tugged at his shirt. He should have considered borrowing a jumper from Marinette, but it was a small price to pay for equipping the stranger for cold nights he may spend on the streets.
“Adrien, darling?”
His mother’s voice stopped him as he reached for the door.
“Yes, Maman?” he called, leaning around the wide doorframe to see her where she curled up on the luxurious sofa in front of the TV. Glass of wine in hand and some gluggy white concoction smeared over her face, she looked ready for a fantastic night in with her friend Nadine (who he suspected was sourcing snacks from the kitchen).
“It’s going to be cold, tonight,” she said, eyeing him with concern. “Make sure you have a scarf or something.”
“I’ve got one,” he replied. “Bye!”
She waved as he headed out the door.
He jogged across the courtyard and started down the street. He glanced at his watch, not wanting to keep Marinette waiting, but there were only a few minutes to five. He had gotten caught up sorting through work emails he had neglected while he was out of the country and not left enough time to make it to her place.
He pulled out his phone to text her that he was on his way. Looking at the screen as he typed, he turned the corner and nearly bowled over another pedestrian.
“Woah!” he gasped in surprise, grabbing the girl by the arms to stop her from falling to the footpath.
She let out a huff when they collided, and then a squeak when she looked up at his face.
He froze, blinking at her gobsmacked expression. She stared back. She looked about fifteen, with a sweet face and an uncommon innocence to her aura. It felt like light blue and long grass all around her.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re Adrien Agreste.”
He smiled – it was always nice to hear that, his name as it had first been given to him, as had remained a mystery for so long.
“Hello,” he smiled.
He was not at all disconcerted that she knew who he was – since his return to his parents, he had quickly become a public figure, plastered across the news and gossip sites, not to mention the modelling he had done for his father’s brand. He was interested in the empire Gabriel had built, and aspired to gain an understanding in all areas of the business. This interest doubled as a way to get closer to the man himself, of course, and was encouraged.
He had a particular interest in photography, he found, and through he wasn’t yet experienced enough to be behind the lens, he had a natural talent for posing in front of it.
Based on the screenshots he received on a regular basis from Alya, he had unwittingly become quite the heartthrob, countless articles lauding his good looks churned out on the daily.
“Hi,” the girl spluttered. “Half my class is in love with you.”
He laughed at that, taken aback at her candour.
“That’s very flattering,” he said, trying to temper the amusement on his face.
“I’m glad you’re not really dead,” she blurted out.
The public story was that he had been raised overseas to keep him out of the public eye until he was old enough to handle the scrutiny. The separation had been hard for him and his parents, blah, blah, blah. No one was willing to offer any further details to the press, least of all Adrien – for obvious reasons.
“Thank you,” he said blandly.
She nodded absently, seeming mostly preoccupied with staring up at him in wonder.
“I’m sorry to be rude, but I am supposed to be meeting someone in… two minutes ago, so unless you want a photo or something, I should probably get going,” he said apologetically.
That offer shook her from her motionless state.
“I’d love one, if you don’t mind,” she grinned giddily.
He held his hand out for her phone, her short arms and small stature less than ideal for getting someone his height in-frame.
He put an arm around her shoulders and smiled at the camera, leaning in for a closer up shot to capture their faces better.
He handed back the phone to her grateful smile.
“It was nice meeting you…?”
“Marie,” she filled in, blushing up at him.
“Well, Marie, I hope you have a nice evening. Give my regards to your class,” he grinned.
“I will,” she promised, nodding exaggeratedly.
With a friendly wave, he set off again towards Marinette’s.
The buzz of conversation set to an unobtrusive playlist fostered a warm tone in Alya’s comfortable apartment. Her family was staying in Bordeaux for a week, apart from Alya who had to work, giving them the run of the place.
A glass of red in hand as he swung one leg back and forth, perched on a barstool with the other folded beneath him, he listened to the conversation that bounced around the kitchen area.
Alya was spreading tomato sauce on the base of a pizza and lecturing the assembled party about the art of selecting the optimum flavour profile. Marinette stood beside her, arranging ham on another pizza and making faces when her best friend looked away. Nino and Isabelle sat on the stools beside him, cutting up mushrooms and capsicum and several other toppings, while Alya’s friend from university, Paul, hunted through her cabinets for a bottle-opener.
“So, for example,” Alya said, “to put pineapple and capsicum on the same pizza, without something kind of richer to offset the acidity of the flavour, it’s just going to taste lacklustre and off-balance.”
Adrien nodded sagely at her offering of wisdom, managing not to snigger at the over-the-top haughty expression Marinette made, wobbling her head with pretentious affect.
“I know you’re doing that, by the way,” Alya sighed. “I just don’t think it’s even worth commenting on.”
They all laughed at that, Nino’s guffaws the loudest by far.
Adrien narrowed his eyes slightly, looking again at Nino’s soul. He had a low-key, easy-going smoothness about him, fierce in his beliefs of right-and-wrong, but not easy to anger or be overcome with stress. He didn’t have any big, eye-catching destiny that pulled at him, but there was a waver in his aura that had a very particular note to it. One that exactly mirrored the high-pitched, bouncy sound that Alya seemed to embody. Not urgent but not distant, he sensed they would only grow together with time, and it would be more than good for them. He wished Marinette would offer some insight in their relationship, but he didn’t want to meddle unless he had to, so he couldn’t bring it up. Maybe he could ask Nino casually enough that it wouldn’t raise too many questions…
“How do you not have a bottle opener?” Paul complained, drawing his attention away from Nino and Alya.
“I’ve seen people on YouTube hit the bottle-cap with a knife, and it comes off,” Nino suggested, miming the upward angle of the knife required.
“Hell no, you idiot,” Alya reprimanded. “Not in my house. Best case scenario is you stab someone. If we shoot a piece of metal through the air and it breaks a light fitting, my maman will kill me, and I’ll kill you.”
“All I want is a beer,” Paul groaned before Nino could voice his affront. “Why is that an unreasonable request?”
“Give it here,” Adrien said, holding his hand out.
“Adrien, I swear to God I’ll fight you if you do something crazy,” Alya warned, but he only smiled.
He took Paul’s bottle, pinching the metal cap between two fingers. It bit into his skin painfully, but it only took a second to bend the metal off the glass, and then it was over.
His friends cheered when he held the open bottle out for Paul to take.
“Dude, how did you do that?” Nino grinned, reaching for a fist-bump.
“You just have to know how to apply the right pressure,” he shrugged modestly.
“Can I video that?” Isabelle asked, already reaching for her phone.
Adrien shrugged, accepting the second bottle Paul offered. Plenty of people had a party trick to open beer bottles, so there should be no issue exhibiting a little extra strength.
He tipped it upside down gently to demonstrate that the lid was properly attached, then set it right-side-up and easily pinched off the lid to another round of applause. He laughed and set the bottle down bashfully, until Isabelle started a chant of “skull, skull, skull,” with which he gracefully complied when Marinette offered an encouraging look.
“Your fans are going to go nuts for this,” Isabelle laughed as she set about uploading it to whatever social media platform, and he only shook his head.
“I love this song!” Marinette gasped suddenly. “Turn it up!”
Nino cranked up the volume on the speakers paired to his phone, and she threw her hands in the air. She held them stiffly as she danced, fingers covered in the slimy moisture from the ham, but moved with rolling grace that belied her frequent clumsiness.
“Alya, dance with me!” she ordered.
Alya began a system of wild and erratic movement that left her shoulders steady so that she could still progress the pizza construction. Adrien shot a brief video for his personal Snapchat story, to which only people he personally knew had access.
“Adrien,” Marinette sang, beckoning with her sticky fingers.
He opened his mouth to decline the invitation, but Isabelle reached around Nino to grab his shoulders, tugging them into a shimmy.
“Don’t resist the call of the rhythm!” she cried before shoving him off the seat.
He threw her a look a faux anger, waving a finger at her in reprimand as a wide smile stretched across his face.
He joined Marinette, mirroring her eclectic moves as she hopped around to the beat, Isabelle clapping along and laughing with Nino.
Adrien threw back his head and laughed, carefree, and Marinette jumped forward to kiss him on the cheek, careful to keep her hands clear of his hair as she threw her arms around his neck.
Surrounded by his friends, their laughter and their screams and their messy pizzas that fell far short of the flavour-balanced nirvana Alya had hoped for, he couldn’t help but feel like he had everything he wanted. Marinette smiled up at him, beautiful and sweet and slightly insane, and he lifted her off the ground in a tight hug.
Tomorrow, he might be late meeting his mother for a piano lesson because someone stopped him in the street for a photo, Sabine might tease him for an article titled ‘Adrien Agreste did THIS with his bare hands and we are even more in LOVE,’ or Marinette might hit him in the face with a door at speed.
But none of it mattered in that moment, nor would it really bother him then, because it was all part of the chaos that made up his life. And that was more than he ever imagined he could have.