Work Text:
It’s Saturday morning, a pretty one, with no scheduled bad weather for a long while. It’s not too hot to sit on deck and stare out into the water, and Anarka finds herself here at eleven in the morning while enjoying her breakfast. It’s a near-perfect morning: she’d gotten the blender to work after so long of fiddling with it. Luka had nearly short-circuited his own hand trying to fix it for her with a yelp, the sounds of pops and flashes lighting up their kitchen table as she’d just told him that maybe it was time to move on and get something new, only for him to finally sodder the god-damn piece of junk back together and make the motor virr.
He’d looked so proud of himself, smiling at her so hard she had the instinct to tell him his face was going to get stuck. Anarka didn’t even have the heart to look for a new blender in the catalogue. Something tells her she’ll end up with a shiny new one at her front door-step, anyway, because Juleka texts her father about anything that gets her attention, and Jean has always loved weaseling his way into fixing things on the ship no matter how far away he is.
Sap.
The blender works fine now. She makes sure to crush the ice by hand before adding it, though, just to make sure it doesn’t overheat the blender again. No matter how much faith she has in her son’s electrical skills, she’d rather not get electrocuted just because she added too many bananas and made the thing explode.
So she sits here. With breakfast. Outside on the deck of the Liberty on one of her lawnchairs that had been a struggle to get back home through the streets of Paris, enjoying the sun. It’s not often she sits out here, soaking in the rays, cooking in the gentle morning heat. But then again, it’s not that common that her kids ask to practice.
They’re screaming again.
These kids. Her kids.
The Liberty rocks with the sounds of their music, swaying back and forth almost methodically in the Seine as bass and heavy guitar strings keep getting strum— it’s so funny. Even contained underneath the boat and with the Seine surrounding the room, it sounds like the stereo is right next to her ear. The glass shivers. Their door, the poor thing, keeps rattling with the door knob doing its absolute best to not fall off and roll onto the deck from how the noise shimmies the whole boat. She doesn’t even have the heart to make it stop, sitting outside of the Liberty with a glass of juice and hidden behind her sunglasses, enjoying her Saturday morning, eating her bread.
What a pretty day.
There are barely any clouds in the sky as it is. Maybe she should move the boat tonight, just to get some new air circulating in The Liberty— if she’s steering, too, it gives less of a chance for cops to show up at her doorstep if she’s in the middle of the river. They’re bound to get a noise complaint at some point, and although it’s upsetting to her that her kids can’t do what they want without someone always coming to ruin the fun, she knows how to prolong it. It’s inevitable.
But she does like this location they’re in, though. Surprisingly, their neighbors don’t seem to be put out with the nightlife that The Liberty populates itself with. Come night time, there’s always extra kids inside here.
Kids.
Kids.
She calls them kids because they’ll always be. But they’re her children, it’s true, and they’ll always be too, but they’re adults now. It’s been a long time since Juleka finished Lycee— Luka’s done his absolute best to kickstart his music career even though his father disagreed with the idea. Luka’s about the same age as Jean was when she first met him, and if that doesn’t make her cringe and slap her face, she has no idea. Luka’s still a boy. He’s only a man by legalities sake— maybe by size, too. But definitely not by mind.
She was his age, too. Sometimes it feels like a few days ago. Sometimes it feels like centuries ago. She catches herself remembering that her boy is in her twenties, and it always makes her make a face. How? How? How is this considered early twenties? It can’t be true. She remembers that Jean had been much, much more responsible than Luka at the same age.
Then again, Luka didn’t run off from his parents at a young age.
Maybe her timeline is skewed because of her perspective on adulthood. For her, being an adult had started at the ripe age of sixteen, when she’d packed her bags from her parents house and had fled— and at the time, there hadn’t been a destination in mind. Couch surfing was common. Homelessness was a thing for her, but she’d been fine with it, as long as she’d been the one to control what she got to do.
She’d gone underground.
She’d found Jean.
She’d found happiness while making music and partying, watching Jean become the rockstar he’d so desperately wanted to be. And she’d followed, chasing after her own star, him pulling at her arm with a wide smile and a promise for a better future.
They succeeded.
Her parents had been boring, stiff, with a ruler implanted into their backs allowing no deviation from the norm— she’s so thankful, so grateful, that her kids don’t have contact with their grandparents.
They’d never approve of the noise.
But they don’t have to deal with it. With her and with their father, they’re free to try and do whatever they please. Including screaming into microphones. Including trying terrible guitar riffs that would make their father cry on principle. Including whatever the hell Juleka is up to at the moment with the drums that makes it sound like The Liberty is in the middle of crashing into a wall. Several of them. The Liberty is a battering ram.
If the boat had been quiet, she wouldn’t be enjoying it as much, and she knows that for a fact. If the boat had been completely silent, completely devoid of young-adult screaming, Anarka reasons she wouldn’t be having such a fun time trying to relax. There’s not a single lick of aggravation in her as she listens to Luka yell and attempt to sing the loudest he can, trying to test out how loud their new speakers go.
She loves them. She’s so grateful that they yell and scream and kick. She’s so grateful she has two of her very own children, healthy and happy, doing stupid young-adult things.
They’re screaming into their microphones, always under the pretense that they’re practicing for their band, but Anarka knows better— Luka’s always loved yelling into anything that makes noise, ever since he was a little boy. Juleka is just the same way, especially since she doesn’t talk normally. She screams. The two of them are the absolute worst band she’s ever heard of whenever they’re goofing off, but it’s so relaxing, that she catches herself starting to doze off with her pineapple juice in her hand.
She barely notices someone sitting next to her.
“How long have you been there for?” she slurs out, when she wakes up from her impromptu nap.
“A while.”
“Your sister?”
“Went to go hang out with Rose.”
But he’s still here. Sitting outside with her, taking a sip from the green-tinted wine cup she’d left behind on the small table, making a face because he’s never liked pineapple no matter how hard she’d tried to convince him. That same face, no longer small and little like it used to be when he was a toddler with curly brown hair. She’s not even sure when the last time she’s seen his natural haircolor. Dyed almost raw, there’s barely any curl left to them. He looks more and more like her, now, and less like his father, but she recognizes that smile and that tiny little cleft between his eyebrows when he makes a face that is so reminiscent of Jean that no amount of her Korean genes will hide away the Jeanness.
“Do you need anything?”
“What? No. Come on. I like hanging out with you,” Luka replies with a laugh. He’s so big now. Where did her little boy go? Where did that sweet little angelic face with cuts and bruises on his cheeks go? Wasn’t it just yesterday he smacked his foot against the anchor so hard it broke his little toes? Jean had canceled his tour immediately, coming back home and refusing to leave Luka’s side, saying that he’d do anything to get the record label off his back…
Wasn’t it just last week that Luka used to make her those fridge art on printer paper? With all the crayons he could find in the boat, with her following right behind him, because he found out that markers were permanent and he was just itching to ruin the walls?
She’d blinked. That’s all she did. She’d looked away, just for a second, and now… and now her oldest is taller than her. Just as tall as Jean, maybe, if he stood up completely straight and stopped slouching over, attempting to hide. Her oldest was a hero of Paris, fighting alongside a superhero who is just as capable as him, nearly every day, for years, making sure that the city is safe.
There’s a pit in her stomach.
He’d fought her when she’d gotten Akumatized. So many times, the heroes of Paris had saved the city from destruction from her when she’d gotten so aggravated with something that it’d caused her to be Akumatized— Captain Hardrock, an Akuma that used The Liberty as her vessel, and every single time she’d almost had the entire city on lockdown before Viperion and Multimouse would figure out a way to send her straight back to square one. Ah, but.
She’d never been upset at them for it afterwards. She knows that some Akuma victims are annoyed afterwards, believing that they weren’t given their due justice, but she’d never been that way. Honestly, between the superheroes and the cops, she’d always been so much more lenient to the ones who actually did their jobs.
He’s so long, so tall, that he can’t fit in this lounge chair very well, trying to fold up his legs so he can get more comfortable. He’s always been so noodley. So full of legs. She looks at him with a snort as he continues to shift and do his best to get comfortable, finding interest in the way the canvas under his knee is starting to fray. She smacks his hand before he makes the hole any bigger, and he laughs again.
“Stop it,” she tells him. “Did you pay for these lawn chairs to break them?”
“Did you?” he shoots back with a grin.
Well. Check mate, probably. She refuses to acknowledge it, settling back into her own chair. “I’m pretty sure I did. I can’t remember.”
“Maybe Dad got them.” He takes the apple slice from her hand when she gestures to the plate.
“I remember bringing it home,” she shrugs. “Don’t remember the before part, though.”
“Maybe you forgot for a reason.”
That smile of his is so teasing. So brilliant. She’s great at ignoring it, always looking the other way and never giving him the chance to rile her up— he does it on purpose, always trying to get under her skin because it’s how he’s always been. Ever since he was little, always thinking about something mischievous to do that would get Anarka to run after him. And usually she’d look the other way, truly, but this time… “What do you want?”
“I told you. I just like hanging out with you.”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“This is my normal face, Mom.”
“I know you.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve lived with you my whole life, so I think I can pick you apart better than you can with me.”
“I raised you.”
“Only for twenty-four years. But I’ve known you my whole life.”
She barks out a laugh. “Your math’s getting a little fuzzy there, Luka. I’ve known you before you were even born.”
“Nothing I said is wrong, though.”
It’s been rather tense for a couple of days. Anarka’s never been one to let nerves take a hold of her before she’s nothing more than uncomfortable, but Luka had broken the news only a couple of days ago that for years he’s been vigilanting the city as Viperion. Ever since he was fourteen, maybe, or even less— she can’t remember a time where Viperion didn’t exist, and that’s where her troubles start. How many nights has he been suffering with this secret without being able to tell her? All those days she’d yell at him through his bedroom door to wake up earlier because he’d miss breakfast if he didn’t, all those days where she’d catch him nodding off into dinner plates where even Jean had been concerned. She’d been under the impression that her son was anemic, or lacking in vitamins, always giving him one or two before he was supposed to go to bed, just to make sure he’d grow up well.
She didn’t understand the slouching, either. Always shoulders pressed in, hiding behind dyed hair that refuses to curl, always continuously folding himself up. Trying to be smaller. Acting smaller. Trying to disappear. She’d always tell him to stop it, because with his height he’d get backaches, but she never understood why he’d do it to begin with.
She understands now. It’s part of the grand plan, averting possible questions of being linked to Viperion. No one would think that someone as shy and reclusive as him would actually be the man snarling on TV.
And to think, she’d been confused when he said he wasn’t thinking about going to University. Now it all makes sense. And while her daughter had taken the news surprisingly well, Anarka’s been struggling with it. Thinking about all the times where Luka had come stumbling home, out of breath, hours later than normal for a quick trip to the grocery store to buy eggs. They’re always running out. Now she’s under the impression that he does it to have a reason to leave the house, or…
“Mom? You’re zoning out again.”
“Your grandparents were pieces of shit,” she blurts out, snagging the juice from him as he continues to make a dumb face at it. She leaves him with his tongue sticking out, a crinkle to his nose because he doesn’t like how his tongue and teeth get all fuzzy.
“Who? What are you talking about?” He pauses. “Grandma Cora?”
Cora. Jean’s mother. She was so kind, so much different than her own parents, but just as divorced. Anarka remembers that shower she took in Cora’s bathroom when Jean first brought her there, and how she’d spent ten minutes with the shower running while actually perusing the cabinets. A habit she’d gotten when bouncing from place to place— never stealing, never taking, just looking. Just taking stock. Seeing what would be the first thing she’d splurge on when she’d finally get her own house.
Cora had soaps in the shapes of seashells and seahorses, with white countertops that made everything in the bathroom look shiny. Anarka had felt guilt when she’d gone through every single door and drawer in that place, knowing that Jean came from such a nice house, with such a nice mother, and she hadn’t. The nice mom, of course. Anarka had left luxury behind in favor of music and romance.
“No, not her. Your other unfortunate relatives.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever talked about them before.”
“Good. Pieces of shits.” She leans back against her lawnchair, head right on the little cushion, staring out into nothing. There’s a piece of plastic floating in the river. She should probably fish it out. “I never got along with them.”
“I know you ran away. I remember you saying that once.”
“They were impossible.”
“How bad was it?”
“Your grandmother and I never…” she hums. “I never want my children to suffer under her the way I did.”
“Was she that bad?”
“I ran away really young to get away from her.” Huh. Maybe the pineapple is a little sour. Or bitter. She’s never understood the difference between the two, even now, but she catches herself starting to make the same face he always does— he smiles to himself as if he’s thinking the same thing— all she does is shrug. “I’m lucky I met your father, Luka, you don’t understand. If it wasn’t for him and your grandma Cora, I don’t think I would’ve gotten out. I sacrificed a lot of who I was and who I was supposed to be in order to get here.”
“No kidding,” he snorts, in the same way she does. She lets him fiddle with the fraying edge of the lawn chair, just for a little while, to give him a chance to goof off. “I know what you mean.”
There it is.
There’s that brief approach to the subject. She knows what he’s doing, trying to let the two of them a genuine conversation about it while she’s relaxed and it’s not accusatory. Her oldest has always been so careful. So guarded. Always checking his surroundings before talking, like he doesn’t want to scare anyone off.
It hurts to see him so… responsible.
So she… bridges the conversation. “Were there times where you thought you wouldn’t come back home?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles out. Quiet. Quieter. He gets as bad as Juleka when he’s apprehensive. “Sometimes, yeah. They were all fights during the night. The long ones that took us forever to defeat, with me looping over and over as much as I could in order to get the job done.”
Christ. She’s never been religious, never, but something about that makes her want to pray for his well-being. “Luka…”
“There was a night a month ago that I had no idea how I was going to explain when I got back home why I so desperately needed to sleep for fifteen hours straight.” He laughs to himself, wiping at his brows like he can’t believe it himself. “I lost track of how many times I looped that night. I kept thinking that the sun was going to rise. I kept thinking that the night wasn’t ever going to end— I was so miserable. The only thing that kept me going was knowing that the whole city would be on fire if I didn’t, but that’s when I knew the secrecy had to end, because I couldn’t keep this hidden anymore.”
“I’m suffering with this idea.”
“I know you are. It’s what kept me from telling you and Jules for this long.” So quickly disinterested in his lawn chair, he tries spreading out his legs, popping his ankle in his flip-flops. “You think I wanted to keep this a secret for this long? Hell no I didn’t. It was hard.”
“I know.” Well. She doesn’t. Not really. But she can try. It’s hard not to want to comfort her own son when he looks so dejected. When he leans closer, even in his lawnchair, to put his head on her shoulder. She’s much too short for it now, and he’s much too tall, but they make it work. Tucking his forehead against the crown of her head.
“But every time I wanted to tell you both, I knew how much you and Juleka would lose sleep over this, so I couldn’t. So I just didn’t, Mom. And it… fucking sucked.”
She doesn’t have the heart to chastise him. Maybe he deserves it. She looks at him now and sees the exhaustion under his eyes, the things that show that he works silently and in the shadows to keep this entire city from going under— he deserves a profanity or two.
“I get that you didn’t tell me about it. Teenagers need to keep some of their secrets from their parents, and all that.” She pauses to give him enough chance to make a complaint under his breath, knowing that he’s not a teenager anymore. “But it’s my job to worry about you. As a parent. As your Mom. As your… well. Whatever, at this point, it’s my job. It’s practically my only job— something that I signed up for the moment I found out I was carrying you. I’m so sorry you did it on your own. And I’m glad Multimouse was there to help.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat.
“Tell me about her.”
“I don’t—”
“Luka,” she teases. “I know you like her.”
“But—”
“And I’m not stupid. You know I’m not. Just tell me about her.”
“We’re dating. I think. We haven’t really— oh. It’s Marinette and I… by the way.” Like a little robot he keeps cutting himself off, clipped and funny, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not saying something that she’s not supposed to know. He’s struggling. Stammering under his breath, just like Juleka, unclear if he’s fine. “She’s, uh— well, you know who she is, obviously.”
Anarka can’t help but laugh. “Who would’ve thought that Sabine and I would end up having our children date? Of all the choices you had, you ended up picking so close to home?”
Sabine Cheng. Xia Bing Cheng, actually, when Anarka had first met her— they’d become friends quite quickly when Sabine hadn’t understood the clerk’s questions about her debit card when trying to pay. Anarka barely remembered her brief Cantonese lessons from when she was younger, which didn’t help in the slightest because Sabine spoke Mandarin, but they’d met in the middle ground when Anarka had muttered something in Korean— an expletive, most likely— and Sabine had laughed, slowly offering an apology.
That was nearly twenty years ago.
Their friendship grew practically overnight.
They keep in touch now. Not so often, but it’s common to have time to spend with Sabine the odd moment or two when her bakery business isn’t strangling her. And Marinette, Sabine’s girl, has been in her children’s friend group for a long while, but it never occurred to her to actually think that Marinette and her son would be a thing. She was always so much more interested in hanging out with Juleka, ever since they were little, hiding away whenever there were more people. She was the reason why Juleka wanted to go to school, even while terrified of not being able to make new friends for the first year because of her selective mutism.
“I didn’t plan this. But I’m glad it’s her.”
“Invite her over to dinner.”
“She might be busy.”
“Little miss overachiever. Sabine never had her hands full with her, I remember that.”
“Not like us?” he grins. He’s managed to get her juice again. Still trying to like pineapple. Maybe that whole “looping” business has gotten to his head— trying something over and over, hoping that one time will be the time he succeeds.
“You two are good kids. The three of you are. Better than me when I was your age, at least, and every day I think about that.” She’d towel whip him on the thigh if she could, but there’s no towel, so all she does is laugh when he makes another face at the cup after taking another sip. It won’t be today that he likes pineapple. But it’ll happen. “Stop ruining my juice. Go convince your girlfriend to come over and have dinner with us. Tell her I’ll make—”
“—Gimbap?”
“Fine,” she groans when he allbut leaps out of his chair to go get his phone. “Keep your shoes on. I’ll make it. Go ask your girlfriend if she eats oyster, too, I’ll make some.”