#ceiling this au is making me shake and vibrate like a feral dog | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

galahadwilder · 5 years ago

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Next to Me

MLB Secret Santa

for @obliviousblondesunite, as part of the @mlsecretsanta exchange.

Blondes shared this prompt back in October, completely unrelated to MLB Secret Santa:

Aged up, post reveal, post hawkmoth, established relationship AU inspired by the song “Next to Me” by Imagine Dragons. Adrien is depressed and thinks little of himself sometimes, as Chat and Adrien. Marinette continues to help him through his troubles.

It’s been a while since Adrien’s been out of the apartment in people clothes instead of cat ones. A little over a month, actually. He hasn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror; hasn’t been able to sleep. He keeps staring at the ceiling, wondering, if everyone was right, if he could’ve known, if... if he could’ve done something earlier.

The only reason he’s out today is that they’re running out of food. Marinette did that on purpose; after the fourth night in a row where he woke her up with the sound of his sobbing, he knew he couldn’t keep hurting her like this—she has so much patience, so much love, and he can’t bear to keep testing it. He asked her to stop coddling him, to stop letting him wallow. So she let the pantry and the fridge run dry, and gave him two options: either he did the grocery shopping, or she was going to take him to a restaurant.

Restaurant meant more people. Restaurant meant paparazzi. Restaurant meant sitting in public where anyone could see him, unable to leave, unable to duck out, while reporters bombarded him and his girlfriend with questions and camera flashes and accusations and it’s an easy decision.

He holds the shopping basket hooked around his forearms like Dorothy with her basket full of yappy dog and the linoleum aisles are yellow brick road. Plagg is hugging his chest and purring quietly, helping keep him calm, as he walks down the starch aisle.

“Hey...”

Adrien’s hand freezes, hovering over the box of rice. The fluorescent lights burn overhead, a ripping noise in his ears. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it—

“Aren’t you Adrien Agreste?”

He squeezes his eyes shut as his breath goes cold in his throat, and he clutches his jacket closer around his body with shaking hands. The problem with having his face plastered all over the city for five years: it’s impossible to go anywhere without at least one person recognizing him, no matter how much he wants to just fade away.

“Please,” he whimpers. “I’m just trying to do my grocery shopping.”

The woman in the red wool jacket tilts her head, looking at him with concern in her eyes. “Monsieur Agreste, I’m so sorry about—”

He hears the name again—that man’s name—and his basket slips from his fingers. His ears are assaulted by the crash of plastic striking the floor, and everything is too much, too bright and too loud and too—he has to get out. He has to get out.

“Monsieur Agreste?”

Unthinking, he bolts.

The part of his brain that’s not operating on pure panic regrets it immediately. The grocery store is too large to escape and yet simultaneously too small—the shelves are crushing in on him, squeezing on his lungs, and everyone is staring now at the wild man sprinting toward the exit. But that part of his brain isn’t in control. He’s gone feral, a cornered animal, a shampooed cat launching itself from its owner’s arms. He stumbles into the checkout line, bowling over a patron, and nearly slams into the exit door before it slides open—too slow, too slow.

He barely makes it out of the front door of the supermarket without falling, stumbling around the corner toward the dumpster. He collapses against the side of it with a plastic smack, reaching into his jacket’s inside pocket. Fumbling fingers rip open the cigarette box. He jams it between his lips, desperate, trembling, then snags a match. Scrapes it against the brickwork.

Too slow. No flame.

“Kid, breathe,” Plagg says from inside his pocket.

He wants to. He wants to breathe in hot smoke, he wants to sear his lungs, he wants to feel something that isn’t shame or fear. But the match isn’t lighting.

“Come on,” Plagg says, poking his head out, his disproportionate emerald eyes slow blinking in Adrien’s direction. “What does Tikki always say? Count all the blue things you see.”

Adrien twists his head, looking away from the Kwami. He—he doesn’t—this panic, it feels right, he doesn’t want to stop. He deserves this, he needs this—

“Monsieur,” the security guard looming over him says. “I’m going to need you to come with me.”

Adrien drops his head and cries.

They hold him in the security office for over an hour before they realize that they can’t prove he’s stolen anything. He spends the whole time curled up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, unable to speak and waiting for his heartbeat to calm. Desperate for nicotine, but every time he tries to reach for his cigarettes someone glares at him and he freezes.

Without words, he can’t explain what had happened—can’t tell them why he’d run, can’t ask for forgiveness. When they ban him from the market and throw him out, it almost comes as a relief.

Almost, because... what is he going to tell Marinette?

He’d gone out—gone through everything—and he’d failed. Hadn’t managed to get a single euro worth of food. They’re either going to go hungry tonight... or he’s going to have to brave a restaurant. He’s going to have to brave an entire evening of people glaring at him, and spitting on him, and screaming at him for things his father did. And he can bear that, he can, but Marinette deserves better—better than both of those options.

Marinette deserves better than him.

He touches down on the balcony of the apartment he’d bought for them before everything went down, back when the Agreste name opened doors instead of closing them, and lets the transformation release, leather ripping green from his skin.

“Adrien—” Plagg says, concern in his voice.

“Don’t,” Adrien croaks, stumbling through the sliding door. He collapses into the couch cushions, burying his face in the pillow. “Don’t wanna hear it.” He hugs it close, pressing the pillow to his eyes, trying to hide his tears.

He hears Plagg breathe in as if he’s about to say something, but then he stops. There’s a rustle, and Adrien starts as the blanket begins to move up his body, tugged upward by the tiny cat Kwami.

“Thanks,” Adrien mumbles.

Plagg grunts, and Adrien feels the minuscule weight of the Kwami’s tiny body settle onto his back, where he begins to purr. Adrien calms, letting the vibrations of the god of destruction rumble through his body, forcing back the molten fire from his nerves.

“Still want a cigarette?” Plagg says.

Adrien scrapes his face against the pillow, feeling the prickle of his unshaven face against the velvet covering. “No, I—I think I’m okay,” he says.

“Good,” Plagg responds, standing up and stretching his paws along Adrien’s back, his tail whipping restlessly up and down Adrien’s eighth vertebra. “Destruction may make you Cancer-resistant, but that doesn’t mean cancer-proof, and tumors taste like...” He shudders. “Smarties.”

“When have you ever eaten Smarties?” Adrien mumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Never. That’s not the point,” Plagg says.

“Hmm,” Adrien responds, then yanks the blanket over his head, ending the conversation.

Adrien wakes up he’s not quite sure how long later to the feeling of tiny claws poking his cheek.

He groans. “There’s cheese in the fridge,” he says, trying to swat Plagg away. He’d made sure of that—even if there’s nothing else in the house, Plagg has his goddamn cheese.

“No cheese,” Plagg says, poking him again. “Heads up. I smell Tikki.”

Adrien’s eyes shoot open. “Shit,” he hisses.

“Yeah,” Plagg says, narrowing his eyes at his charge. “Shit is right.”

The door begins to creak open, and Adrien smells it too—cinnamon and passionfruit, Marinette’s soap and shampoo, mingling with human sweat (stress sweat specifically, he can taste that particular hormone’s cloying meatiness in the air thanks to senses bleedover), and the warm, chocolatey undertones of the Ladybug Kwami inside her purse. Adrien jerks upward on the couch, bending his spine, as his gaze locks onto the burning blue of Marinette’s eyes.

“Hey, Kitty,” she says. “I’m home.”

The cat in him wants to run to her, to tackle her, to curl up around her feet and trip her into him and tangle up in her and laugh and purr and feel her fingers on his scalp. The other cat in him wants to bolt, to hide in the back corner of the linen closet buried under the towels where it’s dark and quiet and her disappointed eyes can’t reach.

He’s not feeling very human today.

“Did you get dinner?” she says, unslinging her purse from her shoulder and dumping it gracelessly on the front table. Even after all these years, his Lady is a messy disaster of a person, her brain too occupied with the miracles she makes with charcoal and thread to remember that things have places they are supposed to go. It’s okay—he’s found he enjoys cleaning, so he’s always happy to pick up after his messy genius.

Except lately he hasn’t been. He... can’t.

Marinette turns to him, and her eyes soften. “Adrien,” she says, kneeling down next to him, “you promised me you’d go out today.”

He buries his face in the pillow—can’t bear to meet her eyes. “I did,” he mumbles. “Got to the grocery store, and—and...”

“Somebody recognized you.”

“Mmhmm.”

Marinette wraps her fingers around his palm, slowly enough for him to pull away if he needs to. He doesn’t. He whimpers at her touch, at the way she still makes everything burn and shine and it’s blinding, he can’t bear her love, her forgiveness.

“Pity or blame?” she says.

“Pity,” he says, his fingers brushing the back of her hand as they twitch nervously.

“I’m sorry,” she says. He hears her shift a bit. “Tikki? Can you grab Littlebug please? Adrien needs to cuddle.”

“Of course,” Tikki chirps, and Adrien hears the zip of air breaking around the Kwami’s body as she rockets into the bedroom.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get dinner,” Adrien says, turning his face, letting the rough material of the pillow drag across his cheek. “I guess...” He breathed in, then out. “I guess we’ve got to go out?”

Marinette purses her lips and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “But we don’t have to go somewhere public.”

When Ladybug and Chat Noir alight on the balcony of Marinette’s childhood bedroom, Sabine Cheng is waiting for them, lounging on the old sunbathing chairs. “Bonsoir, pumpkin!” she says up with a lazy wave, then beams at Chat. “Hello, Adrien dear,” she says.

Chat’s chest contracts. He doesn’t deserve that look in her eyes, the affection she’s directing at him.

“Bonsoir, Maman!” Ladybug responds, kneeling down to hug her mother. “Sorry again for the late call.”

“Oh, you know your father and I are always happy to have you two,” she says. Then she stands up and reaches for a plate on the small table, piled high with cookies and cheese. “You should get comfortable,” she says. “I got food for your... Kami?”

“Kwami,” Ladybug corrects. “Tikki, spots off!”

Light zips up her body, Tikki spiraling out of her earrings.

“Nyí heó, Zen nyiúzý!” Tikki says.

Sabine bows to the tiny god. “Nyí heó, Thi mò,” she says. “You are welcome in my home.”

Tikki snorts. “Thank you!” she says. “You don’t have to be so formal.” And then, as if to prove he point, she shoves an entire chocolate chip cookie into her mouth.

Sabine stares at Tikki for a moment with something like reverence, then turns to Chat. “I have some cheese for the little cat,” she says. “You said he likes Camembert?”

Chat swallows.

And, bless her, Marinette catches his hand in her own. “You don’t have to,” she says. “Who do you want to be right now?”

He doesn’t want to be anyone right now, is the truth. He wants to take a break from being Adrien, from being Chat, from being. But he doesn’t want her to hear that.

“Yours,” he croaks. “I want to be yours.”

She smiles. “Always,” she says, flicking his bell. “No matter which face you’re wearing.”

Sabine melts.

Dinner is more than a little awkward. Adrien doesn’t really want to talk; he deflects any questions directed his way with grunts and noncommittal answers. Sabine, Marinette, and Tikki are starting to look at him in confusion and worry, while Tom keeps talking—blabbering, really—trying to fill the silence. (Plagg, meanwhile, is trying to pretend like all he cares about is gorging himself on the cheese spread in the middle of the table, but Adrien’s known him for long enough to tell that the Kwami is worried about him.)

“Adrien, sweetie,” Sabine says, “are you all right? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

Adrien despondently pushes the peas around his plate with his fork. “Yeah, I’m... fine,” he says. “Actually... I, uh, I’ll be right back. Kinda... need a smoke.”

“Use the balcony,” Marinette says, averting her eyes.

Adrien nods. He stands up, walks upstairs toward Marinette’s bedroom.

“He’s smoking now?” Sabine whispers as he presses open the trapdoor.

He stops. He shouldn’t have been able to hear her—if he’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t have. But being Chat Noir for six years had altered his physiology in more than one way; sensitive ears mean he can hear things no normal human should be able to.

“Maman, he just lost his entire family,” Marinette responds. “He needs time—”

“I was a wreck for a month when we cut Papa out of our lives,” Tom adds. “Remember?”

Adrien shakes his head and continues up to the balcony. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of this.

The cigarette lights easily this time, and he sucks in the burning smoke, searing his lungs as he looks out across the Seine toward the lights of the Eiffel Tower. It feels like the whole city is arrayed before him, and he remembers similar views—the city underwater, drowning; the hordes of kissing zombies filling the streets; the inferno, every building in the Paris wrapped in ghostly cerulean flames; the moon plummeting, crashing downward as Pegase frantically tried to evacuate the city—the way Viperion collapsed afterward, after three times as long as Aspik’s worst Second Chance experience.

All Gabriel. All Adrien. This was his family, his father, his fault. He could’ve stopped this if he’d known. If he’d bothered to look.

He doesn’t deserve Marinette. He doesn’t deserve Ladybug, or Plagg, or Tom and Sabine. He doesn’t deserve their love, their forgiveness.

He looks down to the street below, considering.

Then the trapdoor opens behind him, and he hears the familiar footfalls of his princess.

“Kitty?” she says, soft. “You okay?”

Adrien has no idea what to say.

Marinette steps forward, hugs him from behind. “Talk to me,” she says.

Adrien breathes in, staring away. “I just...” He wipes his eyes. This burden... she deserves better. He’s not sure where to start. “This is your family,” he says. That’s good. That’s safe. “I never had that.” He looks up, bathing his face in the starlight. “Even when I had Mère, she wasn’t...” He swallows. “This isn’t... I’m an intruder, you know? No matter how much your family welcomes me, I’m not a Dupain-Cheng.”

He feels Marinette inhale. “Well,” she says, rubbing her cheek against his back. “That’s easy enough to fix.”

“What?” Adrien says, weakly, barely noticing that she’s already let go of his stomach. He turns to find her on one knee, holding up a black velvet box.

She flips it open, and inside is a rose gold ring—a perfect replica of her version of the Cat Miraculous.

Adrien’s entire body locks into place.

“Adrien Graham de Vanily,” Marinette says. “You are... the kindest, most giving person I have ever known. Since the day we met, you have been by my side through the worst that the world can throw at us.” She’s smiling. She’s—she’s smiling. “It has been my honor, and my privilege, to grow alongside you, and to see you go from a brash, lonely boy into the brave and loving man you are today.” She swallows, looks away. “You are... you’re the person I trust more than...” She shakes her head. “I’m... rambling.”

Adrien can’t speak. His heart is slamming against his sternum like it’s trying to tear itself out of his chest, his hands are frozen to the table.

“Your old family was crap,” she says. “But... I want to build a new one. With you.”

He swallows, blinking away tears.

She hiccups. “Adrien Graham de Vanily,” she whispers, holding up the ring. “Will you marry me?”

Adrien breaks. “Why?” he chokes out.

Marinette’s eyes go wide, horror writing across her face. “Kitty?”

“Why do you still love me?” he sobs. “Marinette, I’m—I’m a mess!” He waves a hand, frantic. “I—I’ve barely left the apartment in weeks, I can’t sleep, I can’t get out of bed, I...” He drops to his knees, taking her hands between his. “You—you have dreams, Mari, and—and being with me will ruin them.”

She’s staring at him, horror in her eyes.

“Marinette,” he says, caressing her cheek. “Princess. You—” He chokes. “You deserve better than to have to take care of—”

“I spent six years taking care of Paris,” she interrupts. “After Hawkmoth? Looking after one self-destructive kitty cat is practically a vacation. Besides,” she says, reaching up and scritching her nails across his scalp, “you spent all those years taking care of me when I needed it.” She smiles. “That’s what you do when you’re in love.”

His breath catches in his throat. “What if—what if I never get better?” he gasps.

“You will,” Marinette says, cupping his cheeks and pressing her forehead to his. “You’re strong. You survived eighteen years living with the worst parent I’ve ever seen and you still came out kind.” She brushes his bangs out of his face. “It’s okay if you can’t believe in yourself right now—but Adrien, My Prince, I believe in you.”

Adrien collapses into Marinette’s shoulder, sobbing. “Yes,” he says. “My answer is yes.”

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