Chapter Text
The sun rested high in the sky, casting its warm afternoon rays on the west side of Dupont’s courtyard, while some shadows stretched in long faded streaks on the ground. Since a majority of the Dupont’s student population were still crowding the cafeteria or spread out in the corridors, this left the courtyard relatively empty with the exception of small cliques of students who gathered on the benches, leaning on the green support pillars, and huddled secretively under the stairs.
Nothing about Dupont was particularly impressive in and of itself, being a public school and all. Despite housing children from some of the most influential families in France, it didn’t embody the exorbitant wealth of the Bourgeoises, the austere presence of the Agrestes or the intimidating beauty of the Tsurugis. In fact, at the very centre of the school was not a crowning jewel. But rather, it was a courtyard, which was but a simple rectangular open-air basketball court that doubled as a community space for students to socialise.
Marinette squinted slightly from the glare in her eyes. The cheap green paint was already beginning to peel from the metal railings. A few incoherent murmurs of courtyard chatter below and the faint clattering of lunch trays from the cafeteria in the floor above them met her ears in a blur of muffled noise.
Was Dupont ever this bright, vibrant assault on the eyes when it had always been a tarnished image of faded sepia in the haze of Marinette’s memories? Had this noise been the soundtrack which underscored the torment she endured in these halls under fate’s cruel thumb?
She never really spent a lot of time properly wandering around the school in her first life, always preferring to retreat into the quiet corners and rooms of the first-floor corridor. To tell the truth, most of her exploits (if they could even be called that) around the school involved an akuma, or some convoluted plan to interact with Adrien. But now she wishes she had.
Perhaps it would’ve made this farce of a tour easier to sell.
Her pace was measured, neither too fast nor too slow, as she and Felix walked down the second-floor corridor. They walked in relative silence. Occasionally, some vague commentary would rise from her lips and when Felix hummed his acknowledgement, the two of them moved on to other rooms that ran along the corridor.
If her self-appointed companion noticed she only commented on certain rooms more than others, he remained unfazed by any of it. Rather, his eyes wandered like he was mentally cataloguing everything and committing them to memory, managing to look both unimpressed but also puzzled at the same time.
Just as well, because Marinette can barely recall what little words she eked out during their walk. Focused instead, on the way the sunlight shone through the windows of facilities with names she doesn’t remember, and consumed with the old forgotten world spread around her. A relic of the past—detailed, tangible and well within her reach. The way the warm breeze ruffled her pigtails, the clicking of Felix’s polished shoes on the linoleum.
She spares the blond a sideways glance. Afternoon sunlight bounced off the angle of his head in glowing golden fragments.
Seeing Felix like this tugged at a memory she couldn’t place. Déjà vu whispered along the edges of her mind, and she wondered if she had seen him like this before—somewhere outside of this time. The silence between them was weighty, but rang with the same disquieting familiarity she felt when it was just them standing together in the darkness of the Gabriel Lobby.
Still, she doesn’t feel compelled to fill the silence. She thought that Felix wouldn’t either, but then again, it seemed like he was determined to subvert her expectations.
“It’s impolite to stare, Miss Dupain-Cheng.”
“Don’t get any ideas, I’m not here to feed your ego.” Heat dotted the crest of her cheeks and dusted her nose. Marinette didn’t look at him straight away, keeping her gaze trained ahead. “There’s plenty to see in this corridor other than just you, you know.”
“Shame. You make it so easy.”
From the corner of her eye, she catches a flicker of his mouth curving. He swept a hand in the air, amusement lacing his voice.
“Perhaps I am reconsidering this tour of ours, you’re a notoriously unreliable guide. Though, I must admit, seeing the same stretch of identical classrooms again and again is riveting.”
“Oh yeah? And here I was, making detours for your sake. It’s not my fault if you’re the one who can’t keep up, Monsieur Graham.”
“Unless you’re deliberately leading me around in circles. Testing my resolve, Miss Class Representative?”
“What if I am? You’re still here.”
“I am still here,” Felix conceded with a small smirk. He shifted his steps to face Marinette, and his eyes catch hers. “You must make for some tolerable company.”
The smallest quirk of a grin swells on her face, she could see how Adrien would be frustrated with Felix. But Felix’s quick-wit only served to draw her in. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Monsieur Graham.”
“Pity.”
Walking together and talking—talking with Felix— in an era she had long since relegated to rose-tinted nostalgia, made it somewhat unnerving for Marinette adjust to in her second life.
How the earth continued to orbit. The way the sun continued to glare into her eyes. The life where the people around her continued to change, just like they did the first time, protagonists of their own lives, at the mercy of their own fates, utterly ignorant of Marinette’s own and therefore subsequently unaffected by it. A world anew, changed for her entirely, and only her alone.
For anyone sane, this would be a nightmare. While Marinette didn’t think she has reached the threshold for insanity yet— this was her new reality. Because there was no use in obsessing over a world that no longer exists.
Except Felix, like a stone cast into still water sending ripples across its surface, was making it very difficult not to. It was surprising, how effortless it was to fall into conversation with the Felix—
“Those curtains are an obscene shade of magenta.”
“They’re fuchsia. But yeah, they’re pretty hideous I guess.”
“Next on the agenda, I assume, you’ll deliver a lecture on the origin of the colour wheel and colour theory?”
“Now I’m beginning to think you just enjoy the sound of my voice, Monsieur Graham.”
“Perish the thought, Mademoiselle Styliste.”
—to fall into step with Felix. Fierce as they were, mutually jabbing one another, and debating semantics. But there was no fire. No malice. It should’ve been trivial, just empty banter to fill in an emptier tour. But if anything, it was fond.
Which felt too close to being friendly. So close, it felt dangerous.
While Marinette was bracing to tour with the conceited boy she once punched squarely in the jaw, instead, she was met with a boy whose character ensnared her more deeply, and quicker than she was willing to admit to herself. A boy, who felt closer to the sombre man cast in shadow, clad in black, that is still waiting for her in that corridor.
Adrien had a mental dictionary which was filled with words he thought described Felix. Arrogant. Cruel. Cunning. Selfish. Manipulative. Dangerous. And Marinette never argued, because there was a time where she shared Adrien’s dislike of Felix. In just mere minutes, Felix’s short-lived smear video against Adrien had led to three akumas, and her own fist hurtling into his face after he made some unwanted advances towards her on the roof of Le Grand Paris.
She thought Adrien was right, Felix was everything he was inventing him to be.
Many heartaches and grievances later, her perspective shifted. She discovered that being right about some things, was not the same as knowing the whole truth. Time, distance, experience and age she realised, painted many of her old views in muted tones.
Marinette’s short time with Felix in the Gabriel Lobby, and her “tour” with him around Dupont, had revealed many other words that described Felix. Funny. Sociable. Sarcastic. Intelligent. Patient. Friendly.
And yes, even Kind.
Where before she had only seen his cruelty—his sharklike teeth, and taunting jade eyes when he impersonated Adrien— she could almost see the shape of his reasons now. Deplorable, his actions may have been, she couldn’t help but recognise a boy grasping for control in a world where so much slipped through his fingers like streams of water.
And that was something she empathised with now more than ever.
They passed the staircase landing when Marinette gestured toward a room nestled in the far-left corner. “That’s the art room. Sometimes, Nath and I work on our projects here together during lunch. It’s not exactly the quietest place though.”
“Nath.” Felix’s face scrunched slightly, “Nathaniel.” He repeated, as if the name left an unpleasant taste on his tongue. “He was your seatmate.”
She slowed her steps until she came to a halt. Did he…did he not like Nathaniel?
Before she could ask, her train of thought was interrupted by a flash of a familiar golden head turning into the corner of the corridor ahead.
“Merde,” she cursed under her breath.
Felix head lifted slightly at the sudden expletive, before he too, muttered a low curse.
Already mentally mapping out multitude of rooms to escape to, Marinette’s hand shot out to grab Felix by the wrist and she dragged him sharply towards the opposite direction. Felix grunted but otherwise didn’t resist, his long quick strides deftly overriding his initial stumble.
With her fingers ensconcing Felix by the wrist, he directed a disgruntled look at her. “I assume that you often have to hide from people in this school?”
“More than you think,” she muttered, no doubt sounding a touch breathless. “This way.”
The hallway seemed to stretch on as they strode down it, resisting the urge to run. Their long shadows lengthened under the low glare of the afternoon sun, and the hallway was silent save for the low drone of distant students and the pitter patter of their footsteps. Knowing Adrien, Lila might also be lurking somewhere with Alya trailing not too far behind. She hoped that they didn’t run into any of them. She walked light and fast, the warmth of Felix’s wrist was tender under her firm fingers.
They were halfway down the corridor just as Adrien’s voice sprang out. She didn’t need to turn around to know that the model had begun storming towards them. Hurried scrapes of sneakers on linoleum echoing out on the floor. “Marinette? Marinette!”
“Putain!”
“Fuck.”
Ladybug reflexes taking over thought, she and Felix bolted down the corridor with the frenetic pace of people being hunted down by a rabid animal. She darted into the side hallway behind the media room, with the blond trailing behind her easily like this wasn’t his first impromptu escape—his wrist never leaving her grip for even a moment.
“We lost him,” Marinette exhaled as she tentatively searched around for flashes of golden hair. Though, her brisk pace did not ease. “But not for long. We’re gonna have to keep moving.”
“I’m beginning to see why Collège Françoise Dupont is the epicentre of akumas. With this much drama in one building, Paris never stood a chance.” Felix deadpanned, his voice drier than parchment.
She snorted despite the urgency of her steps. If only he knew.
The two of them emerged from the east stairwell into another corridor. Marinette pulled Felix farther along, while she fervently scanned the rows of rooms ahead. Thankfully—a stroke of Ladybug luck, she reckoned—the door to the student lounge was left ajar. Suddenly, a faraway echo of sneakers striking the ground reached her ears. As the noise grew louder with each passing second, quickly, she tugged a pinched-faced Felix with her and half-shoved him into the room. She pressed his stiff body protectively behind her, as soon as the door clicked shut.
He stumbled a half-step before catching himself, drawing an amused breath from him. “Well,” he murmured lowly, his voice a velvety drawl, “who’s pulling who into corners now? I must say, this is very forward of you.”
Marinette’s cheeks flushed scarlet and she shot him a warning glare. She fixed him with what she hoped was a stern enough look and mouthed, Don’t. Start.
He quirked a brow at her, Too. Late.
Biting back a grouse, she held up an index finger, mutely conveying an order for silence. Felix acquiesced; however, this did not wipe the look on his face.
Rolling her eyes, she whirled around. She deftly parted a section of the curtains—a small black slit, as opposed to an actual gap—and peeked carefully through the tinted glass. Moments later, a tall silhouette prowled down the corridor. The rhythm of their steps was erratic, and their shadow—falling like a long lanky spectre on the floor—swayed with the frenzy of movement. Nausea lurched in her throat as she heard the jangling of doorknobs, being twisted one after the other, each echoing screech ringing more desperate than the last.
Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, her thumb pushed down slowly on the lock, the metal creaking under the pressure until it gave way to a soft resounding click.
It must’ve bled through the silence, because Adrien’s silhouette suddenly went taut at the sound. Swiping the curtains shut, she shifted to press an ear against the cold wooden door. When the approaching footfalls seemed deafening and her skin prickled with unease—Marinette knew that Adrien’s shadowy figure loomed just behind it, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
The two of them were, for the first time since she arrived in 2015, closer than they’ve ever been. Just mere inches apart. Parted in the middle by a thick layer of polished wood.
She held her breath for a beat, blood thrumming in her ears when she heard the doorknob twist—and creak with rejection. The wood under her ear trembled under the force of Adrien’s frustration.
Eventually his steps retreated from the door until Marinette could no longer feel his haunting presence behind it— the thud thud of footsteps trudging down the corridor. Only then, did she breathe again, an onslaught of days-long suppressed memories swirling in her mind. All of the driving force to escape had bled completely from her body now that they were finally in a safe place.
Marinette slumped slightly against the door which sealed out the rest of the world from the cosy room they had luckily stumbled into. A dull ache moaned behind her eyes, a prodrome for the explosive migraine yet to take root. She squeezed them shut, and relished in the quiet pain.
What a relief.
When she came to, she noticed that Felix hadn’t moved from his spot between her and the door. Her eyes tracked up—and met his. Grey-jade and piercing, aglow with some intense emotion that she could not recognise. It echoed of the same something from their interaction in class, their tour around Dupont. She couldn’t shake the sense that it would better suit a face 6 years its senior.
“So” Felix began, his voice was mild with a curious edge to it. “Should I assume that you drag all of the new students halfway across the school and into a tea room when you see my impudent cousin—or am I a special case?”
“Consider it an exclusive Dupont experience,” she responded dryly. She pulled away from the door, and straightened her posture. Striding past him, she added, “most people don’t get this far without there being an akuma. Be grateful that it’s a lounge and not a broom closet.”
He followed closely behind her, his steps light but deliberate as he took in the room with a measured glance.
“So,” Felix’s tone dipped, his lips twitching into a faint smirk, “this is where you stash the people you’d rather not explain things to.”
He was probing, and he wanted her to know that he was. But Marinette didn’t rise to the bait. “Depends,” she murmured, non-committal. Her hand brushed the edge of a table, tracing its surface slightly.
Felix stepped up beside her, his expression remained the same. He fell silent for a moment, but she didn’t mind the quiet, not with him.
Instead, she smoothened a wrinkle of a tablecloth that didn’t really need smoothing, as she surveyed the space.
The room open before them was quaint compared to the rest of Dupont. It was by no means small, but not quite as large as Bustier’s homeroom or Mendeleiev’s lab. It felt half-warm with afternoon light spilling through the wide glass-stained windows, casting fractured colours across the floor. The air smelled fainty of varnish, and dust. Unfinished canvases, papers, and used paintbrushes were lined up on wooden benches, with a few work tables occupying each corner of the room in picturesque disarray. Framed pictures hung on neatly on the walls, most featuring members of the art club, polaroids of half-forgotten faces. From the vintage floral curtains, brass antique lights which decorated the walls, to the centrepiece Persian rug—it was an accidental masterpiece that they, and Monsieur Jean-Pierre Monlataing, had once happily strewn together with pride.
She had not seen this room in years.
Somehow somewhere in her reverie, Felix found a counter to lean on. He watched her for a beat when she noticed him. The blonde had deliberate put space between them. It felt comforting, and disconcerting to be seen like this by Felix.
Marinette stopped to linger by a hulking oak table in the far edge of the room, with a stunning bay window facing the wide expanse of the bustling Paris city. She ran her fingers along the paint-stained edge of the desk, muscle memory guiding her as she searched.
“He unsettles you.” He suddenly said, a quiet observation. Not a question, or an accusation. But rather, a fact. “So, you avoid him.”
Her hand stilled, and she smiled wryly. Felix was too smart for his own good, but maybe that wasn’t necessarily bad thing. She considered her words carefully, before replying.
“I…was told not to provoke unnecessary drama.” Her eyes flicked towards the doorway.
Felix’s gaze followed, and his brows tightened, but he didn’t comment immediately.
“Not provoking, drama…the pathological liar, specifically?”
Marinette blinked. Felix was definitely more observant than she gave him credit for. She wondered if Adrien’s bias has always been obvious from the start.
“Lila, mostly.” She said, with a faint exhale that sounder more like a groan. Marinette wasn’t in the mood to pamper Adrien. She no longer had the patience her 14-year-old self-had weather the little storms Lila would create in class just to please him.
“Mm.” Felix grunted, though his gaze—far softer than the sound, and unexpectedly kind—lingered. He didn’t push further, but simply shifted closer. Not crowding, but he held himself like an anchor would. Even at arm’s length, it made it easier to breathe.
For a while, she found herself almost wanting to lean on him.
It was both a comfort, and a horror.
“Let’s not get carried away,” Marinette tutted lightly, letting her dry humour settle back around her like armour. If Felix noticed, he didn’t give any indication.
But at last, she found what she was searching for.
A lone kettle hissed softly. Steam whispered from its spout, filling the quiet, and blurring the glass of the small window, turning the sunlight milky and soft. She hummed contentedly at the sight of it already warming in the corner.
Of course, an old habit of their art teacher, Jean-Pierre Monlataing—always brewing tea for students, or for whoever wandered in needing it.
Finding the corner cabinet was easier. Inside, was a collection of mismatched ceramic cups and saucers of various shapes and sizes. They were arranged in no particular order, looking obviously aged around the edges, but clearly well loved.
Felix drifted up beside her, picking up a cup. He rotated, and tilted it around his fingers, scrutinising the ceramic closely. “You drink from these?”
“They’re clean, your highness,” she defended, with an eyeroll. Her hands blindly searched around for her floral pink cup that she knew would be hidden in the back. “It’s definitely no Versace or Hermes—"
He made a quiet affronted noise. “I detest both of those brands. Their lines are garish, and a crime against subtlety. I have standards.”
“Oh yes, your standards,” she muttered, wandering back towards the low-whistling kettle. “Tragic how our humble tea room has failed to meet the expectations of this Drama King,”
“That’s affronting. I am showing remarkable restraint at not listing every luxury brand your cupboards lack.” He stepped closer, just enough so that Marinette felt his presence warm the air beside her. The smirk in his voice was near-palpable. “Besides, this one looks like it predates the Renaissance.”
Marinette snatched the cup gently, from where he was still inspecting it in his hands as though it might sprout wings. “It’s vintage.”
“It’s lopsided.”
“You’re lopsided.”
He let out a haughty exhale—the closest she got to a laugh out of the boy. A tiny smile curled at the corner of his lips. “That’s slander. I thought tea rooms fostered peace.”
“They usually do, until someone criticises the ceramics. Some of these were handmade you know.”
“Alright, lay down your weapon Madame Styliste. I’ll drink from this historical artifact,” Felix scoffed, but it was not in disdain. Marinette herself was surprised to find the twinge of fondness in his voice. He gestured airily to his cup, that she held her hands. “This one especially. It looks like it’s closer to an archaeological dig. Likely survived ten kitchen remodels—”
“Graham?”
“Hm?”
“Let me pour the damn tea.” Marinette hissed, stabbing a finger towards his face. In her old life, Felix would’ve moved back. Adrien always remarked how Felix would recoil just to regain his space, much like an offended cat, whenever the model decided to get touchy with his cousin.
Surprisingly, this is not the case for Marinette. Since Felix shifts forward, allowing Marinette’s finger to hover just inches from his face, and instead, his smirk lingered like he’d just won something.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your heritage ritual.”
“Keep talking,” she warned, reaching for the kettle, “and I’ll give you the chipped one.”
Placing Felix’s cup down, she watched the steam hypnotically twist in soft elegant plumes from the spout. It fogged the air with its gentle herbal heat, its whistle softening into a low vibrating hum. Curling her fingers firmly around the handle, planning to lift and pour the tea into the ceramic cup, she couldn’t help but feel the kettle’s faint whispering heat brushing her skin like a memory. The low hiss seemed to stretch, lengthening into a slow-motion echo.
And suddenly, she was elsewhere.
The air in the kitchen was still, just like all of the rooms in the Agreste manor. She had been younger then, freshly 17—still naïve, and just adjusting to the spacious extravagance of the home she was expected to live in one day. It happened because she was flustered, reaching for the kettle without checking if it was nearing a boil. The steam had hissed up, scorching the inside of her wrist, the second the tea began bubbling over. She didn’t mean to get hurt, she just wanted to be helpful.
She didn’t expect that it would make Adrien so…upset.
“Marinette—seriously— why would you grab it like that?” he had sighed, exasperation tightening his voice in a way that she had grown used to hearing, ever since Lila had entered their lives. Except, when he inspected her heat-torn wrist, his frustration didn’t soften.
Adrien took her wrist gently, but his face twisted with a tension that she couldn’t miss.
He tilted the scorched skin toward the light, and hissed.
“This is going to scar.” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “I’m glad I haven’t recommended you to Father for the internship yet. There’s no way you’ll be able to design now—not like this. You’ll have to wait for it to heal.”
And she remembered being very still in that moment, his words hurting worse than the still throbbing burn of her skin.
“You need to be more responsible, Marinette.”
“I’m sorry, Adrien.”
“Careful!”
The whistle and hiss of steam rose in the background. Marinette flinched at the sound, instinct jerking her back. The inside of her wrist tingled, as if it remembered the sting of boiling water despite never knowing it. But Felix noticed first. And before she could blink, a firm, warm hand gripped hers—pulling it back, just short of the heat. A burst of steam hissed out of spout, twisting violently upward, just licking the air between them.
From this angle, Marinette could’ve mistaken him for another blond. But the way his hand was wrapped around her wrist was not gentle like Adrien’s had been. But it was not rough. Rather there was a subtle trembling of Felix’s hands, which Marinette read as urgent. For a moment, neither of them moved and just basked at the hissing heat which engulfed the air around them.
There was a click of the switch as Felix quickly turned the kettle off.
But his voice came softer, almost as if he were scolding himself for raising it earlier. “You almost burned yourself.”
“I—I thought that it had stopped boiling.” Marinette blinked down at her wrist, where Felix now fussed. She noticed it then, the severeness of his gaze. Scanning the inside of her wrist far longer than was strictly necessary, like he expected a burn to already be marking her.
For a blink, his expression tightened. His thumb hovered just above the inside of her wrist, ghosting the skin. His brows furrowing with…wait, was he worried?
“You design with this hand,” he whispered. The words were clipped, said with a weight that made Marinette’s throat go dry. “You wouldn’t have been able to sew for weeks.”
His words felt scorching, it was such a specific concern. Most people wouldn’t noticed which hand she favoured, since she was ambidextrous. But Felix had noticed.
Not only that, he was right. After she had burned herself in her former life, MDC’s fashion lines had suffered—severely. Clients dwindled because of her inactivity, models turned her down for better prospects, and in the end, Alya and Lila’s big exposé had been the final nail in the coffin.
Doomed as Gabriel’s thankless intern till the day she died.
Marinette blinked up at Felix, his fingers still curled around her wrist. Something pulsated in her chest, she should be worried— she should pull away. But—
“…I’m fine. I’ve handled this kettle a hundred times.” her voice sounded soft, young, even to her own ears. She rotated her wrist in his hand. His warm palm now felt almost scalding, as if she had been burned after all. “Look, you caught me just in time.”
Instead of letting go, Felix turned her hand over. Eyes brushing over the skin along the inside of her wrist like he was still expecting something to be wrong anyway. His jade eyes looked on, almost reverently.
“It wouldn’t have just stung,” he muttered. “Steam burns—can leave lasting damage. It would’ve scarred.”
“You make it sound like you’ve seen it before,” Marinette tried to joke, huffing out a small laugh. She tried to catch his eye, expecting an eyeroll— or, anything really. But she didn’t expect to glimpse the echo of sullenness which immediately engulfed his face.
This was… something. Something very un-Felix like. She’d seen him pull many expressions today. Bored, sarcastic, guarded—but this was something else. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen Felix look this unguarded and so unsure, so… far away.
“Just—” he muttered lowly. A small, almost afraid sound. Suddenly looking very unlike the cold standoffish boy, she watched arrive in the Bustier’s classroom.
His other hand drifted cautiously near her face—almost, just shy of brushing hair from her forehead where she knew strands of it probably stuck, his fingers twitching slightly. They stopped briefly at the pigtails, then, clenched into a fist, and promptly retreated.
“—just, take better care of yourself,” he exhaled, shaking his head. Like he had just realised his mind was somewhere else entirely. Clearing his throat, he released her wrist, before tucking his hands into his pockets.
Strangely, the loss of his touch now that he’s stepped away made something curl in Marinette’s gut.
It made her want to reach back.
The moment held, fragile and charged with tension. But the silence was not awkward, rather it was expectant. Felix looked conflicted, like something had worked itself loose inside of him. Strangely he had never looked older than he did to her right then.
When she managed to catch his eyes, he glanced away, his shifty eyes gone to studying the upholstery. Almost afraid of what might show in his face if he looked at her for too long.
It struck Marinette then, how still he had gotten. She wondered, if she was now finally seeing the version of Felix that she might’ve known all along had time been kinder to her. What had the boy gone through the first time around, without her noticing this side of him at all?
The thought lingered, heavy.
She shifted her feet under her weight, and let out a soft breath through her nose. The corner of her mouth curved despite herself.
It felt dangerous.
But she felt like it didn’t matter. Not really.
“You know,” she said, breaking the silence, “you’re going to stare a hole into straight into that chair. It’s a very ugly chair, yes— but as far as I know, it hasn’t wronged you.”
For a fraction of a second, the blond didn’t react.
But then, Felix breathed in. When he turned to face her again, the tension that had been laid bare on his face was already gone, folded away nicely. And sure enough, the tightness unravelled slightly from his shoulders and the air between them felt less brittle.
“Forgive me, Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he said dryly, composure restored. “I’m afraid this ghastly thing started it.”
“Truly, a tragic thing,” she snorted. “I’ll have it escorted out immediately, for your safety of course Monsieur Graham.”
That earned her a soft hum. The corny joke seemed to unwind the tension, and whatever he saw in Marinette seemed to settle him. Felix straightened, his mask sliding neatly back into its place with the arrow-like sharpness returning to his eyes, like a suit of armour clinking shut piece by piece.
“Well,” he said, his tone was brisk and almost flippant. “I suppose, I should also mention something of importance.” Felix lifted his chin, regarding her with a seriousness that was wholly disproportionate to his next words.
“Pigtails. They do not suit you.”
“Excuse me?” Her hands came to clutch at the aforementioned locks, resting lowly above her shoulders. “What’s wrong with them?”
He hummed, and nodded at once. Certain like a jury in a court of low delivering a formal verdict. “Everything.”
“Everything?!”
Felix smirked, “I fear that they do not suit you. They are impractical, distracting—"
Marinette stood dumbstruck, her mouth agape. She waved her hands dismissively. “Now, wait a minute, wait a minute!”
“It is merely an objective observation, you understand.” Felix said, clasping his hands behind his back, all previous nerves she had witnessed from him only moments before, seemingly melted away in a matter of seconds. A faintest hint of smugness threatened to break through a growing smirk on his face.
She stared at him, scandalised and fighting back laughter all at once.
“It’s a common misconception between French and English. So no, I did not insult you. I am critiquing you. Constructively.”
“Oh my God.”
He shrugged unapologetically, and a small twitchy smile graced his lips. His face looking warmer with it. “If it’s any consolation, you’d look better to do away with them.”
She was trying very hard to glare and was failing. She muttered, “I liked it better when you were silent.”
“It’s a skill,” he said with mock-modesty.
“More like a disorder.”
Felix actually laughed, quiet and stifled. It was just like him. She didn’t know he could laugh like that. Had he always been able to? It was nice. He seemed to realize it too, his laugh then, fading into a gentle cough, and vanishing to blend with the rumble of the tea kettle that had just about finished boiling over.
They might’ve stayed there longer—waiting for the tea to cool—if not for a notification on Marinette’s phone. Her eyes flicked to her screen, and widened at the time. An hour already?
Felix tilted his head, “as amusing as this tour has been, I believe you mentioned that you needed to leave?”
She did say that. Even if she didn’t expect to enjoy her time with Felix as much as she did, her plans could not wait. The binder in her bag weighed like a heavy stone, and she needed to get it out of Dupont before their next class.
Marinette nodded, already pushing herself away from the counter. “The bakery. I probably should go before Adrien starts sniffing around for excuses to talk to me again.”
Felix clicked his tongue, and stepped ahead first, his long strides reaching the door before she could. He held the door open for her with an expression that bore no room for argument. Knowing better, Marinette slipped past him, growing to appreciate the familiar warm brush of air between them.
The door clicked shut, and the two of them fell into step in the hallway. By the time they began heading towards the courtyard, the sun felt too bright, the noise too loud, with the distant murmur of students echoing all around—like reality rushing back in.
“You know, you don’t have to come with me,” she said lightly. “I’ll be fine from here.”
“I know you will,” he replied casually, his hands behind his back and posture loose. Or at least, as loose as it could get in that Felix way. His jade eyes still alert, cataloguing, guarding. “But seeing as I am headed in the same direction, I shall walk you out anyway.”
She deadpanned, “you’re heading to the… courtyard…for?”
“Just— humour, me.”
The corner of Marinette’s mouth twitched, and they passed down the stairs leading straight to the doors leading out. Instantly, the city noise swelled from around them. A mess of students lingered on the broad steps, some rushing, and some gossiping. The afternoon rays of light filtering across the stone steps.
They were just about to hit the steps, when Felix slowed, with Marinette skidding to a stop next to him. She opened her mouth to speak— but she felt him, before she heard him.
“Marinette! There you are.”
Felix drew in a sharp intake of breath at her side, when Adrien jogged towards them, golden hair tousled and glaringly bright. His easy smile was conspicuously absent, and he greeted them with a boyish grin which felt rehearsed. Beside her, Felix shifted subtly, placing himself half a step closer without touching her.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Adrien said, slightly breathless. His gaze lingered to Felix, disapproval in his eyes. “You just suddenly left— with…Felix. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
He reached out to touch her shoulder.
Marinetted stepped back before his fingers could land, the movement automatic. Adrien’s hand closed on empty air. His eyes tracked her movements with a frown.
“I noticed.” Marinette crossed her arms, meeting his imploring gaze evenly, holding it as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “And as you can see, I’m fine. So, you can go now.”
Adrien’s brows furrowed slightly. A flicker of frustration passed over the model’s face. He studied her like he was expecting for something to be there—some crack, some familiar warmth in Marinette’s face, and when he found nothing, he sighed.
He didn’t like what he saw.
Or, what was missing. Good.
“Of course,” he said slowly. “Of course. You disappear, and suddenly you’re with Felix—”
“Charming as always, cousin.” Felix cut in, no longer content on listening, his tone razor sharp.
Adrien ignored him, “if this is about Lila—"
“Not everything is about Lila.” She interrupted tersely. It was sharp enough to stop him cold. Distrust crossed his expression, then disappointment—which Marinette waved off before it could root. “If it’s about class, you can email me. If it’s anything else—that’s not my problem.”
The furrow of Adrien’s brow deepened further, the corner of his smile slipping at the corners. “Marinette. She didn’t mean it.” He said quickly. “Please. Let’s just talk.”
Then he took a step toward her.
Felix moved—fully obstructing Marinette now— so Adrien had to acknowledge him.
“Unless your hearing is just as impaired as your spine, I believe this discussion is over.” Felix remarked coldly. Side by side, someone could have mistaken them for a pair of identical twins. Same height, same face. But despite this, Felix seemed to loom. “If it’s a talk that you crave, then you may converse with me.”
“This has nothing to do with you Felix.” Adrien said through clenched teeth.
“The desire to be involved in anything at all must be a foreign concept to you, I’m sure. Still—" Felix smiled, thin and pleasant. He tilted his head toward the growing cluster of students who has slowed, inevitably drawn by the tension of situation. His gaze flicked pointedly toward the onlookers. “Anyone with ears might disagree.”
Silence passed between the three of them, and low whispers followed.
Adrien hesitated, his skin blanched under the unwanted attention, and after a moment he stepped back.
“I—” His eyes searched for Marinette’s, wild and expectant. Just like always, he wanted her to fix his mess. He pleaded, his voice low. “Marinette, please.”
Marinette inclined her head, already turning away. “Good afternoon, Adrien.”
There was a discernible twist of frustration in his face. It looked like he wanted to say more, argue, insist, step toward her again—but the weight of the crowd pressed in. He did not follow.
Adrien swallowed, and nodded stiffly, schooling his features into something passable. The smile he offered to onlookers was placating but undeniably awkward, before he turned and walked away.
This time, he left.
Marinette watched him go. The certainly settled in her chest, quiet but unshaken: this wasn’t the last she would see of him today. The thought grated at her. Because of the effort. The lengths he was willing to go, the lines he was willing to cross, all for Lila. He had never gone that far for the truth. He had never gone that far for her. She wondered briefly why he hadn’t questioned his relationship with her in her first life. Why hadn’t he simply chosen Lila instead of setting fire to her life.
Maybe it could’ve been different.
Could’ve, Should’ve and Will Be.
The noise of the school dissolved behind them, as they waited until Adrien’s shadow disappeared.
She nudged the boy gently with her shoulder. “Adrien’s gone. You can admit you’re escorting me now.”
Felix glanced down the street that led towards the bakery, which loomed ahead. He watches sedately, failing to rise to her taunting. “Go home, Miss Dupain-Cheng.”
“Thank you.” A small warmth unfurled in her chest. She smiled. “We’ll finish the tour another time.”
He huffed, the sound almost a laugh. “Spare the attempt to make it sound like I’ve done something noble. But if you insist—” A faint reluctant smile ghosted across his lips. “Next time, I expect a scenic route, not a full-scale escape plan.”
Marinette stepped toward the street, sunlight warming the top of her hair and her cheeks as she looked back to him. “This is Dupont. Escaping is scenic.”
His answer was a single exhale, exasperation clear in his voice but softened around the edges. “Begone. Shoo, now.”
She laughed under her breath, and finally turned to head down the path towards home, Marinette carried with her the warmth of the sun, and the warmth in her chest down the smooth pavement. When she glanced back just as she turned a corner—she found Felix still standing there, watching her go. His gaze burning into her.
The sight, for an instant, rooted her in place.
His expression shuttered as they eyes met. Instead of turning away to melt into the shadows, like all the instances of Felixes in her memories, he stood there beneath the open sun. Undeterred by the intense heat and yellow rays of light which reflected off of his sandy blond head, like a halo.
The seriousness he wore on his face was ridiculous, still one that Marinette found so entirely serious for a face so young. But deeply, Marinette knew that it was fond.
Still.
By the time she was had reached the in front of the bakery, Felix now vanished entirely from her sight. But the certainty remained, as deep and true as the marrow of her bones.
She knew that he was still there, just beyond the corner—
—still watching her. No longer just her shadow, but oddly, a light in the dark.
The bathroom’s faulty LED lightbulb flickered on-and-off overhead with a faint buzz.
Marinette’s hands braced on the edge of the sink, and the cool hush of air settled around her like a chilled mist. Downstairs, the faint murmur of her parents and the groaning of the bakery ovens drifted up the stairs.
She turned on the faucet.
Water gushed out of the tap, slapping against the porcelain. The sharp sound caught on the walls, and echoed through the small cramped room. Marinette dipped her hands beneath the stream, letting the cold wash over her palms. She splashed her face.
“—Marinette!!! The financiers and madeleines are ready!”
The water splashed— cold, against her skin. Droplets of it trickled down her cheeks in fat rivulets, dew-like as it caught on her lashes. When she lifted her head, the mirror greeted her softly, as the droplets tracked relentlessly down her face like tears.
“Just a moment, Maman!”
A bright red comma appeared above her reflection followed by pair of luminous blue eyes. They tracked her movements, bright and worried.
Marinette dragged a damp hand down her face, the residual droplets of water licking at her palm. Her lips curved faintly, but it wasn’t a smile. “Don’t worry Tikki, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just, giving her exactly what she wants.”
“A punishment?”
“Some responsibility, Tikki,” Marinette corrected. She inhaled deeply, embers of her resolve alight in her chest. “It’s the first step.”
So…Lila wanted importance? Then Marinette would give it to her. She would still have the class binder—just the standard-issued one. Because if the liar craved praise without effort, authority without work, and sympathy without reason? — then Marinette would do everything in her power to make sure that her tenure as class representative in this life, even with Alya as her deputy at her beck and call, was just as agonising as Marinette remembered it to be.
Tikki drifted closer to the mirror. The kwami’s reflected face clearer now, and etched with unmistakeable worry. Marinette sighed, quickly realising the source of the kwami’s concern. Subconsciously, she touched the bare skin of her right wrist.
“Tikki, I know. I’ll be more mindful and—"
“I’m scared Marinette.” The goddess of creation zipped anxiously in the air, her two antennae twitching erratically on top of her head. “Fate pushes back when you push too hard, and when you try to rewrite too much at once. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Marinette shook her head, “whatever the cost is, I’m willing to pay it.”
The kwami swooped in to rest on her shoulder, nudging her cheek gently. “That’s what worries me.”
“I know that the flow of fate can change Tikki. And I know that mine will too.” Marinette whispered, nudging Tikki back with her index finger. The kwami hummed, but the slight quiver in her lower lip betrayed the tiny goddess’ worry.
She sighed, and turned to the mirror. The water still clung stubbornly on her baby hairs, small droplets of it trickling down her temples in thin rivers.
Looking at her reflection now, Marinette surveyed the absent creases in her face, the rosiness of her cheeks, her pin-straight black hair, and the way her pigtails rested low just barely touching her shoulders like two thin black paint brushes.
Her reflection stared back, bright-eyed and still flushed from the confrontation with Adrien. Her hair was still in pigtails. For days she had worn them on, like muscle memory. But the ties caught her eye now, and her stomach twisted.
She reached up and looped one pigtail around her finger. Red.
Adrien had given her red silk ribbons on her fifteenth birthday. They did not yet exist, but she still imagined their worn out and frayed ends twisting in her hair.
"Red, like Ladybug, for our very own Everyday Ladybug.” He said, with that blinding smile. “I saw them, and it made me think of you.”
In hindsight, maybe, it wasn’t just Marinette that Adrien thought about that day.
She’d worn them every day, even when they didn’t match. Even when the red clashed with her pink sweaters, or soft pink blouses. Even when Lila had leaned over during class and drawled her poison, for all to hear.
“I just think it’s so adorable that you still do pigtails, Marinette! It’s such a… youthful look. So brave, really. Especially for hair that short.”
And even when she had to endure Lila’s backhanded compliments, she still worn them anyway. Because she was their Everyday Ladybug.
But one day, two years ago, days before moving in with Adrien and abandoning the warm essence of her bakery home, in favour for the cold Agreste Manor that never was her home—Marinette looked at herself in this very mirror, and discovered that she didn’t like the person staring back. One of the many foolish decisions Marinette’s had ever made in her life, was ignoring how much horror she felt that day, and married Adrien anyway.
Because thing about her is that she’s still a fashion designer in her heart, in her brain, in her soul. It’s a part of her Marinette-ness that will never fade. By Gimmi’s decree, Marinette’s connection with fashion was the law by design, and as immutable as gravity itself. Not even Gabriel, or Lila, or Adrien, could wrest that from her. Not even time. Back then, Marinette would catch those ephemeral moments— that spark that makes things interesting, that gives them life and makes them beautiful or makes them ugly. That habit did not stop even when she became Gabriel’s corporate slave.
Her reflection felt wrong, not because she didn’t recognise herself, but because Adrien had looked at her and expected to. And Lila, Gabriel, Adrien, and yes, even Marinette herself—they made Marinette ugly.
Her fingers tighten around the hair ties, and she tugs— because that ugliness isn’t staring back at her, not like before.
When her voice came, it was a quiet, relieved. To think, it took Felix pointing it out for her to realise it.
She laughed wryly, “He was right. Pigtails don’t suit me. Maybe they never did.”
Her inky hair breaks free, spilling like free-flowing water on her shoulders, like it doesn’t know how to behave outside of being pigtails. Her fingers pause as she stared at herself, hair now loose and wavy around her face. It made her feel softer, lighter.
A lump, digs in her throat, and a sting catches in her eyes. Not because she’s angry, or sad. But because she’s satisfied.
Because Marinette, makes Marinette beautiful.
She didn't ask for it, any more than she asked to be killed. She hadn’t asked to come back. It just happened. Yet another passing fact, the cherry on top of her messed up sundae.
Ugliness happens, and Marinette has come to expect it. All her string of failures, and her defeats a greater ugliness than any insult her mind could ever conjure. But beauty happens too, and she forgot how it could look like, how it felt. And how her mind will weave it, draw it, and attempt to capture it to immortalise forever but can’t.
She wishes she could take it all back. Her joy, all the love she had to give, her beauty, and actually be 14 again and wonderfully naive.
But this is what she has, two plain red hair ties, gifted long ago by Soqueline’s own hand, a waste bin, and memories of a future she cannot let come to pass. Marinette wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and lets the soft elastics fall.
Tikki blinked up at her.
“Don’t worry Tikki. It’s not about me running from Fate to flee from the past.” She met her own eyes in the mirror, older, sharper, and alive. “This is about me winning back my future.”
“—Marinette!!” her Maman hollered, shattering the moment like glass.
“Yes Maman! I’m coming!”
Marinette turned, stepping off the foot of the stairs, the cosy warmth of the bakery already heating her up. It felt warm in that soft comforting way only home could be. Flour still clung faintly on the countertops, and the sweet scent of sugar hung in the air. Rays of sun filtered through the lace curtains, scattering golden specks across the tiled floor.
She could scarcely believe that she had once rushed through this beautiful space with ink-stained fingers, faraway dreams and blind faith in the goodness of people. Then, she believed that if she worked hard enough, loved enough, endured enough, it would all eventually work out in the end.
Well. She knew better now.
She never planned for her future, not truly. There were some vague dreams here and there. Three children, two boys and a girl— Emma, Hugo, and Louis. A townhouse, a hamster— Adrien. But it was nothing real. Just musings of a teenage girl in love.
The day that Marinette’s world ended at the tender age of twenty, she learned that the future is unpredictable. One day, you wake up to your husband’s smile. You remember the way he held you, and the gentleness of his words as he told you that he loved you. And the next day, you realise that you never really had him, or had anything at all, and then you die.
Marinette Dupain-Cheng was fourteen again—at least that was what the world saw when it looked at her. A naïve girl with soft plump cheeks, still growing into her baby fat. But inside, she was twenty. Inside, she carried the weight of a life already lived to its bitter conclusion.
Her fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, where her hair was in a low French twist, secured stylishly with a decorative hairpin. It was adorned with pink enamel flowers, and beads which caught light when she moved. She had changed it only minutes ago, fingers as steady as her resolve, as she pinned it in place.
It wasn’t something a fourteen-year-old would normally choose. That, she thought was the point. The style made her feel older. A quiet reminder that she wasn’t starting from nothing, that she was living for herself honestly this time around, and no longer shrinking to fit with what the people around her expected from her.
The familiar chime of the oven echoed distantly. Her footsteps carried her to the kitchen—
—and straight into her Papa.
“Oh—!” Tom Dupain halted mid-step, a pot of hot water steaming in his hands.
Marinette reacted instantly; hands lifted to steady the pot before it could drip. She half-expected it to burn her wrist. It would be just like fate to spite her.
But it didn’t. She wasn’t sure if that made her uneasy, or suspicious.
“Careful Papa,” she said gently.
Her papa blinked at her, then his face broke into a broad smile that always crinkled his eyes. It made his whole face soften like dough. She eased her hands, and he moved to place the pot into the nearest countertop before turning back to her.
“You look very chic, mon petit pain,” Tom punctuated it with finger guns and a wink.
She giggled softly at her father’s antics. Feeling self-conscious, her hand moved to her hairpin. “Too much, Papa?”
He laughed, his baritone voice deep and warm. “No, never! You look just like your Maman when I first met her.”
From the back as if summoned, Sabine Cheng emerged, two medium-sized pastry boxes in each hand. She took one look at Marinette and paused.
“—OH. Look at you Bǎobèi.” Her Maman’s eyes lit up and she tilted her head. “That hairstyle suits you beautifully.”
Marinette smiled, small but genuine. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you, Maman.”
Sabine moved to adjust the collar of Marinette’s blouse with gentle fingers. “You look very grown up.”
Tom laughed. “That’s right! Our little girl is turning into a young lady.”
Marinette flushed under her parents’ praise, lifting a hand to smooth down the strands of her around her face. She was already a young lady. A young lady who had taken all of these moments in her life for granted.
“I wore these, since Ecole Elementaire because of Socqueline.” She said slowly. “I thought that if she could stand up to Chloe for me, and be brave, then maybe if I copied her, I could be like that too.”
She moved to embrace both of her parents. Tight, warm, and grounding. “But I don’t think I need that anymore. I think I’m ready to be brave all on my own.”
Neither of her parents said anything for a moment, but she felt the intensity of their embrace. Heat touched her cheeks. And she swallowed the lump growing in her throat. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed this. She could’ve punched her past self for foolishly leaving this life of warm pastries, and warm hugs, in favour of cold orchestrated pleasantries and an even colder mansion.
When she pulled away, Tom said, his voice thick with emotion. “Then you’ll have to teach your Papa how to be brave.”
Sabine pressed her forehead to Marinette’s, loving her in the way only a mother could. She murmured. “When did our baby girl become so wise?”
Marinette closed her eyes, letting the warmth settle into her bones, into places that had grown cold since she died. And she breathed it in, the steady rise and fall of her parents’ chests, and the weight of their love for her.
“I just thought,” Marinette said softly sniffling, with a bright smile, which in that moment felt unbreakable, “that it was time for move forward, and begin looking toward the future.”
Yes. She knew how this story ended. But more importantly—she knew how to change it.
The metal door of her locker clicked shut. The bell hadn’t rung yet—thankfully.
She didn’t move right away, making a show of lingering at the locker, fingers still resting against the rusted steel.
If Marinette wasn’t already searching for it, she would’ve missed it, but there it was—out of the corner of her eye. She spotted movement and the sound of shuffling, hesitant footsteps masked by the casual locker room chatter.
Adjusting the strap of her own bag, she turned away and headed toward the cafeteria. Marinette still had half an hour to spare. And she needed an audience for this show.
She quietly slipped into the bustling cafeteria with a pastry box tucked under each arm, the warm rich scent of butter and cinnamon clinging faintly to her clothes. Most of the cafeteria food had already been picked at, so students were already dispersing. But the side tables still had a few stragglers.
Briefly scanning the cafeteria’s side entrances, Marinette counted the seconds in her head, and waited, tapping her foot in rhythm with the tick tick ticking of the wall clock. Heedless, to the multitude of eyes that tracked her.
And just like she hoped—she spotted that Lila, had at last slipped back into the cafeteria. Right on time.
The auburn haired italian was carrying a baby pink canvas bag that obviously wasn’t hers, cradled against her side. The pink contrasted strongly against her terracotta jacket. From a distance, Marinette could almost catch a glimpse of Lila’s smirk as the brunette weaved confidently through the room—like the cat that ate the canary.
Except. Marinette thought rather evilly, to herself. Lila wasn’t the cat.
Before Lila even reached the centre of the room, she was already making a show of wincing as she rolled her shoulder in front of all of her cooing sycophants. “My arthritis has been acting up again, the pain’s really bad today.”
But despite Lila’s exaggerated wince, Marinette felt the attention drift— to her. She allowed them to settle on her like dust, unacknowledged. Conversations hushed, and heads moved, but Marinette simply adjusted her hold on the pastry boxes, and moved around the chairs clustered at the center of the room where Lila was holding court.
Marinette didn’t look at Lila. She didn’t have to, to know that the liar was seething.
Predictably, a sharp conspicuous cough broke through the cafeteria murmur, and then another which was louder.
“I—I’m sorry.” Lila rasped, and already a tall tale was being spun. Something about chronic disease and a compromised immune system. A childhood spent in and out of hospitals. The details, which assembled themselves into a shoddy mosaic of suffering. The stares immediately retracted. Her cohort surged in as they crowded around her like headless chickens, showering her with their pity.
Marinette smiled serenely. She could trust Lila to act impulsive when she felt ignored. Impulsive people were always easy to move.
Turning her head, her eyes caught a flash of red hair at the end of the cafeteria hunched over a sketchbook with a half-eaten sandwich, and a blonde chatting animatedly beside him.
“Hey,” she greeted, sliding into the seat across from them. She cracked open two of the pastry boxes, letting the scent of fresh madeleines and financiers waft in the air. “I brought peace offerings.”
Nathaniel looked up first, his eyes brightened. He reached for a madeleine with an impressed whistle. “Well, look at you Nette.”
Aurore squinted at her for a second, and then grinned. “Hey, yeah! I’ve never seen you without your pigtails. You look really good.”
Marinette ducked her head with a shy laugh, and tugged at a loose strand of hair. “Thanks, you two. Guess the peace offerings are working a little too well.”
Aurore made an offended noise, and Nathaniel scoffed mid-bite, “no way, this is a hundred percent honest. Here we were thinking you’d abandoned us for Felix,” he singsonged dramatically.
“It was just a tour,” Marinette groaned, “but I’m sure news has already spread around Dupont that says otherwise?”
When Aurore wiggled her eyebrows, her lips smiling around a small financier, Marinette rolled her eyes. “Urgh. Please don’t start. Dupont’s full of gossips worse than Adrien’s online fanclub.”
“—speaking of, Adrien,” the blonde girl said lightly with a glint of curiosity, “word along the grapevine says that you two had an argument in front of Dupont. With Felix.”
Marinette picked at her croissant, and hummed. “Argument’s a strong word. Adrien wanted to talk to me about Lila. I just refused to engage, said I was busy.”
Aurore nodded gravely, “and that’s it?”
Nathaniel brushed crumbs from his sketchbook. His mouth thinned and he leaned forward to speak softly. “That’s not how Rossi’s spinning it. Apparently, you humiliated Adrien. Made it seem like you snapped out of nowhere with Felix influencing you, and how Adrien’s some sort victim.”
“Oh?” Marinette’s eyebrows lifted while she held back a smile. Lila was perfectly heinous when she felt snubbed. Perfect.
“Not just that,” the artist’s grip on his pencil tightened. “Said she was worried about you. That she tried to talk to you because she hates seeing her friends tear each other apart—or some sad bullshit like that. But you rebuffed her.”
“Nath. You’re kidding. That psycho! What’s her problem?” Aurore’s irritation flashed, hot and fast. The weathergirl looked seconds away from lunging at the Italian girl right then and there. “First, she threatens Marinette, and now this? Marinette, you know if you’d just let us post that video, I could ruin her.”
Nathaniel’s head snapped up. “She what? What video? Aurore!”
“Oops.” Aurore shrunk in her seat; an awkward smile spread across her face. “I should’ve led with that.”
“You don’t say? Merde, every time I think that liar can’t get any worse.” The red head turned to give Marinette a once-over, concerned eyes assessing her slowly. “Are you okay?”
“Ah. Just a bruise,” Marinette dismissed with a hand wave, “nothing I can’t handle.”
Nathaniel glowered, “she can’t keep getting away with this.”
Aurore nodded softly, breaking a madeleine in half. Quiet fury simmering behind her eyes and worried lips. The blonde frowned, casting an imploring look at Marinette.
“So…that’s it?” Aurore murmured. “We just…let her keep lying?”
Marinette didn’t answer right away. She folds her hands together into a platform and rests her chin atop them, eyes half lidded as they flicked briefly to where Lila was still coughing theatrically.
“Not quite,” she said softly. “Lila will trip over her own stories eventually. People like that always do. It just takes time.”
Nathaniel hummed quietly, leaning back in his seat, his expression contemplative. “The problem isn’t the lies, it’s that everyone keeps repeating them. Once something’s everywhere, people stop questioning it.” He spun a pencil between his fingers. “I mean, has anyone ever actually heard of Lila outside of Gabriel and the Ladyblog?”
Aurore let out a sharp breath, running one hand through her hair, while scrolling through her phone with the other. “You’re right. Look, almost all of these google searches before Lila became a Gabriel model, are all from Alya’s blog,” she tilted her screen for Marinette and Nathaniel to see. She read softly, “From the Front Lines: How Lila Rossi Helped Ladybug Save Paris. Teen Activist or Hero? Lila Rossi’s Global Impact just at 14—"
The blonde girl shook her head now scrolling faster, a deep scrowl on her face. “Not only that, all of these articles only reference one another, and they’re all from Alya’s blog. This isn’t how sources are supposed to work. This…isn’t journalism, this is just fandom.”
Marinette tapped her fingers lightly against the pastry box. This wasn’t anything new. She’d scanned through Alya’s blog posts in the last 3 days since she arrived in 2015. From the very first upload to its latest “inside scoop”, Marinette had noticed what had escaped her during her first life.
And that was that, the rot was already there long before she and Alya’s falling out. Long before she was gurgling on her own blood. Long before, Lila had embedded the knife between her ribs.
“And that’s the part everyone misses. It only works if no one bothers to check…before it’s too late.” Marinette stated, already having lived the consequences before. But these kids didn’t have to know that.
Nathaniel leaned forward, peering at the screen, lips twisted in a scowl. He reached out a finger to tap on a few articles. “It’s like an echo chamber. Control the first story, so every version that pops up after lines up. I mean look at this crap.”
“And people don’t bother checking once it sounds legit. Especially when it’s tied to the Ladyblog, and coming out of the mouth of Ladybug’s so-called ‘bestie’” Aurore emphasised in air quotation marks.
Nathaniel leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs, frustration clearly emanating from the artist. He threw a hand in the air. “I’m just surprised La Coccinelle herself hasn’t come forward to debunk Rossi.”
‘Why indeed.’ Marinette thought sullenly. There was no one to blame. Not even Alya, not even Lila. No one to blame but herself, for tying the noose around her own neck.
In her first life, she’d never thought to look beyond Alya. She was too content to grant her former best friend independent monopoly over how Ladybug is perceived in the public eye. Telling herself it was trust, friendship and loyalty.
But now looking back, Marinette realised it had been arrogance. She remembered how easily the narrative slipped from her hands, how she’d handed it over so willingly. And instead of fixing her mistakes, confronting Lila, taking charge of the truth as was her right—she ran away. Foolishly believing it will all work out in the end.
To think, it was always this obvious. They always say that hindsight is 20/20.
“So,” Marinette suddenly said to Aurore, “if you were Ladybug, what would you do instead?”
Aurore blinked, mid-way through biting a financier.
“Me? I don’t know, I would start clean, I guess? An official blog. No hero worship, no shipping, no conspiracy theories...” She shrugged. Except, as she processed her words, she really began thinking about Marinette’s question, ideas forming as they escaped her lips. “Instead…official statements for press release, mental health hotlines, nearest safety houses and akuma active locations. A centralised blog catered not just for Ladybug, but for the people of Paris.”
Nathaniel huffed a laugh. “Imagine that, a Ladybug-related blog that isn’t trying to predict her love life if someone did start over.”
But then, just like Aurore, he started looking thoughtful. He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook, and began drawing a long line. Aurore craned her neck for a better look. “It’d need some structure for one. Cesaire’s blog is an eyesore. What the new blog needs, is a clear design and organisation. A clear header, a better navigation bar, and colour scheme that doesn’t blast your goddamn retinas—”
Aurore started talking, excited now just as Nathaniel who nodded eagerly along, his pencil dancing across the page forming the barebones of a website layout that already looked better than the Ladyblog. Both imagining and drafting ideas and possibilities far too big for their cafeteria table.
For a website that didn’t exist. At least not yet.
In Marinette’s first life, she’d ignored moments like this when they came to her. Dismissed them as hypotheticals, assuming the world would correct itself if she worked hard enough.
Marinette smiled faintly into her hands, eagerly watching Aurore and Nathaniel with something akin to tenderness, that touched her own heart. She was wrong—hypotheticals could be the most dangerous weapons of all, if one placed them in the right hands.
She said nothing aloud, she didn’t need to—the idea had already taken root in their heads, just like it had in hers that morning.
Across the cafeteria, an olive hand placed a baby pink canvas bag in clear view of Marinette. A glance was thrown, arrogant eyes narrowed with familiar petty challenge.
The opening gambit from a script Marinette knew all of the lines to, down to its final act. But oh, there was a twist.
Murky green met glacial blue. A heavy sense of foreboding hung over the air, thick like storm clouds and malignant like a bad omen. A silent limbo, like a storm pausing mid-sky.
‘Come closer Lila. Take a good, long look,’
Marinette thought with ice cold clarity. She leaned forward, elbows propped onto the scratched-up table, her hands steepled. Not in prayer, not in hope. In verdict.
She would not bare her throat.
She was not the cornered animal here.
She would not perform, or plead, or fracture herself into someone easier and more palatable for the class to handle. Whatever Lila was waiting for, whatever Adrien wanted, it would not come. Marinette was done reacting. Marinette had already chosen, and nothing would move her hand.
Let Lila see them talking. Let her watch. Let her assume. Witnessing a conversation she couldn’t hear, with two people she couldn’t ensnare, with a narrative she can’t control. Let the brunette assume it’s gossip, or homework, or some silly musings of losers. And let her be wrong.
Because right here, just a few seats away from Lila at this scratched-up cafeteria table—were the foundations of something dangerous to her that was being laid. Line by deliberate line of Nathaniel’s expert hand in pencil and pastry crumbs, the future was being rewritten.
The storm that Lila was waiting for—the tears, the humiliation, the ousting—would never come.
Marinette wasn’t in the storm. Rather, she was the quiet gathering pressure that tore through the sky.
And Lila was standing alone at its centre, in an open field.