Chapter Text
“I think I need another job.”
Marinette slumped over the kitchen table in her unbearably tiny (cozy, her subconscious corrected, which she responded to with the patented Alya Césaire Eyeroll – no one in their right mind would call her dinky little one-bedroom cozy) breakfast nook, resisting the urge to crumple up the bill she held in her hand and throw it in the trash. It was only one of the veritable barrage that had arrived in the mail, each reminding her that her payments were late. Again.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “I love working for Maman and Papa. But the pay’s not spectacular. And now it’s either find a second source of income or sell a kidney on the Internet at this point.”
Alya stood at the stove, scraping tomatoes into a mixture of egg, cheese, and just a dollop of milk. She’d spent the past week at Marinette’s, since most of her things were packed away in preparation for moving in with her long-time boyfriend, Nino. In exchange for the pull-out under Marinette’s bed, Alya had agreed to buy groceries and make breakfast. Alya liked American breakfasts and she’d sold Marinette on the idea.
“Could you take on a few more shifts at the bakery?”
“Not without dropping a few classes,” Marinette sighed. “And my scholarship requires me to have a full load.”
“Maybe you could ask your parents for a raise?” Alya suggested, expertly flipping the omelettes in the frying pan.
“I couldn’t do that,” Marinette replied. Just because her parents owned the bakery didn’t mean she was entitled to a higher salary. She’d always felt that she made just enough, but since moving out, it had taken some pretty creative thinking to make her money stretch. “Then they’d know I’m having a hard time, and they’d insist I move back in.”
Alya brought over the omelettes, along with a pot of coffee. She waited until Marinette swept the bills aside, then set their breakfast on the table. “Well, why don’t you?” she asked, sliding into the opposite seat. “Your parents would love to have you back.”
“But I like having my own place!” Marinette exclaimed. She looked around at her apartment – cramped, dark, and overpriced, yes, but entirely hers. She valued having her own space, somewhere to call hers. It was why, as a child, she’d insisted on the attic being hers. It felt far away from the hustle and bustle of the bakery, a private bubble she could retreat to when the world became too much. “It’s hard and I hate budgeting, but I really do like being independent. But if I can’t find a better-paying job, I won’t be for long,” she added sullenly, eyes flickering downward in disappointment.
Alya tapped a teaspoon against her coffee cup, eyebrows knitted together. “Have you considered a roommate?”
Marinette blinked. “A roommate?”
Alya got that look on her face that told Marinette she was resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Her best friend was nice like that. “Yeah, you know, someone to split the bills with,” she explained. “It’s partly why Nino and I decided to move in together. I’m practically at his place all the time anyway, and it’ll be easier on our bank accounts.”
“Who’d want to live here?” Marinette asked, sweeping her arm in a wide arc to indicate the apartment. It was a little one-bedroom with no windows, and only a ragged screen dividing the outer room into a living room and kitchen. She loved it, this tiny space in the city devoted to her, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. However, she was honest enough to admit that it wasn’t exactly prime Paris real estate.
“Maybe someone from your class?” Alya suggested.
Marinette shook her head. “You’ve seen the mess one design student makes,” she said dryly. “I don’t think this apartment can handle two.” After sitting her le bac , Marinette had received a scholarship to ESMOD Paris, where she’d enrolled in the fashion design undergraduate program. It was her dream come true, but a nightmare for her mother, who was always calling to remind Marinette to clean up the papers, fabrics, pencils, safety pins, and magazines that were perpetually scattered around her apartment.
“I don’t suppose you and Nino have room for me,” Marinette added glumly.
Alya snickered. “I think Nino would kill me if I suggested it,” she replied. But at the deep sigh Marinette released in response, she added, just a bit worriedly, “I’m kidding! Nino would love to have you with us. And even if he doesn’t,” she continued, “I’d love to have you with us.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Marinette, waving a hand. “I wouldn’t do that to you and Nino. You guys deserve to have your love nest without having to worry about me.”
“But are you sure? I mean, if you really need a place to stay – ”
“Alya, come on! What kind of best friend would I be if did something that selfish? Don’t worry about me,” Marinette reassured Alya, gently petting her hand. “I’ll figure something out. It’ll be okay.”
“All right,” said Alya, doubt lingering in her voice. “I’ll keep an ear out for anyone who might need a roommate.”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
“You could move into my old place,” Alya suggested. “After I move into Nino’s, I mean.”
“There’s an idea,” Marinette replied, nodding. “Although your apartment’s even smaller than this,” she added, wrinkling her nose.
“What about if someone else needed a roommate?” Alya ventured, gesturing with a fork. “It might be easier to look up someone else in a situation like this, rather than someone just looking for a room. Would you be willing to move out?”
Marinette shrugged. “I guess? But their place would have to be nicer than mine!” she added with a giggle. She glanced once more at her apartment, the secondhand furniture, and the clutter that had accumulated over nearly a year of living there. “Much, much nicer.”
“But Père,” Adrien protested, “you said I could – ”
“I said no such thing,” M. Agreste said dismissively. He waved a hand, indicating the maid could take away his breakfast. The girl rushed forward to clear the table, deftly taking away the empty plate and utensils and replacing it with a steaming cup of tea. “I said I would consider it. And I have. The answer is no.”
Adrien clenched his fist around his fork. He knew his relationship with his father now was by and far a large improvement from his childhood, when he felt like a prize-winning dog being displayed at a show. But Gabriel Agreste had turned his obsessive need for his son to be perfect into an equally obsessive need to ensure that he was protected from – well – everything.
Even enrolling in university had been nothing short of a battle. Adrien had won that fight, but only because his father had decided that becoming a concert pianist was a career path worthy of an Agreste. At the time, Adrien had asked if, like his classmates, he could live in a dormitory or a student apartment. The look of disdain that had flashed across his father’s features was familiar, but his reply of, “After your first year, I shall consider it,” was not.
Like a fool, Adrien had taken M. Agreste’s answer to mean that he had a chance. His father, however, had very quickly dashed those hopes.
Something in Adrien rebelled at the notion. “Père, with all due respect,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ve been nothing but an exemplary student, no? I’ve never missed a photo shoot and I’ve kept up with my fencing. Nothing will change if I live on my own, I promise.”
“Monsieur,” a voice spoke up, soft but firm, “if I may be frank?”
Adrien looked up at his father’s assistant – not Nathalie, she’d been promoted to management in his father’s company some time ago. Her name was Camille, and she was a petite blonde with big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a gentle smile. Adrien pessimistically wondered how long it would be before his father stomped out that warmth.
“Yes, Camille?” M. Agreste said frostily, in a tone of voice that was known to make interns cry.
To her credit, Camille’s smile never wavered. “It’s been said that a certain amount of independence is beneficial to young people’s intellectual growth and maturity,” she said lightly. “Perhaps allowing Adrien to live on his own would teach him skills necessary in adult life?”
Adrien gaped at Camille. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Maybe Camille’s spirit wouldn’t be so easily crushed after all. As M. Agreste turned back to his son, Camille glanced at Adrien over his father’s head and winked.
M. Agreste raised an eyebrow. “I hardly believe there is anything out there that could teach Adrien something he could not learn in here,” he said condescendingly.
“Oh, but Père, there are so many things I must learn how to do,” exclaimed Adrien. He could sense his father weakening. His response to Camille was merely a token show of disagreement. The moment his assistant had pointed out that there was an aspect of Adrien’s upbringing and education that could be improved upon, Adrien knew his father would eventually relent. It was the same with Nathalie, when she’d innocently suggested that keeping Adrien from going to school with peers and making friends would have deleterious effects upon Adrien’s mental health. “I need to – learn how to balance a checkbook! And cook. I don’t know how to plan a budget. I can’t sew.”
“It would be most unseemly, monsieur,” said Camille gravely, not a trace of laughter in her face, “if the future CEO of your empire could not sew.”
“He could learn how to sew here,” M. Agreste grumped.
“I need to learn how to take care of myself,” Adrien insisted. “I understand your concerns. But you know I wouldn’t be the best I can be if I didn’t at least try to be independent.”
M. Agreste steepled his fingers together and eyed Adrien over the tops of his glasses. Under the table, Adrien crossed his fingers. If there was one thing guaranteed to make his father agree to something, it was the threat of his son not being perfect. This manipulation had gotten Adrien what he wanted a few times in his life, but he desperately needed it to work now. He wanted out of this grand, ostentatious mansion, where he felt so isolated from the world, unable to relate to any of his friends.
After an impossibly long silence, M. Agreste leaned back, sighed deeply, and said, “Very well, I will allow you to move into your own apartment. But,” he added sharply, forestalling Adrien’s celebration, “I have two conditions.”
Adrien grinned and nodded. “Anything, Père,” he said, almost vibrating in his seat with happiness.
“I will choose the apartment.”
“Of course.”
“And I absolutely insist that you won’t be by yourself. I won’t do you the indignity of having one of our staff move in with you,” M. Agreste added quickly, just as Adrien opened his mouth to protest, “but I require you have a roommate. Someone I trust to look out for you. If you’ve chosen a roommate, you will introduce this person to me and if I approve, then you may move out.”
Adrien nodded. It was more than he’d hoped for. “Yes, Père, thank you,” he said, just barely resisting the urge to get up and hug his father. M. Agreste was often scandalized by such open displays of affection.
Moving day for Alya and Nino was a huge production, thanks to all their friends who wanted to help out. There was Kim, who couldn’t resist challenging everyone in hearing distance to a contest of who could lift the most boxes (“Some things never change,” Alya muttered in Marinette’s ear), Ivan and Mylène, still together after all these years, and Max, who offered the services of his truck so Alya wouldn’t have to rent a moving van. Naturellement, Adrien and Marinette were also there, although Alya had relegated Marinette to cleaning duties after she’d broken a plate for the fifth time.
Getting Alya’s belongings safely from her old apartment to the new, bigger place she and Nino would now share was the fun part. Everything else was tiring, sweaty work. They spent the rest of the day helping the happy couple unpack, and there were more than a few squabbles about where a rug would go or in what drawer would the cutlery be placed. However, they managed to finish up soon enough, and Nino opened a few bottles of red wine to thank everyone. The group began to disperse, exchanging “you’re welcomes” and “my pleasures” as they left. Finally, only Alya, Nino, Marinette, and Adrien were left, finishing off the last of the wine.
“Alya, I love you, but I am never doing that again,” Marinette groaned, collapsing on the couch in a dejected heap. “Five plates, a mug, and a vase. That’s a new record.”
Alya laughed. “I didn’t like the vase anyway,” she said teasingly. “It was horribly ugly.”
Nino slung an arm around her shoulder and tapped her on the nose. “That was a gift from my sister,” he said dryly.
“Exactly.”
Nino rolled his eyes. Marinette suppressed the urge to laugh. He looked frighteningly like Alya when he did that, although she supposed that they’d been together so long, it was only to be expected.
“Do we get dinner?” Adrien asked, grinning mischievously. He was perched gracefully on the edge of the couch next to Marinette, idly twirling his wine glass.
“How does pizza sound?” Alya asked.
“Parfait,” Adrien replied, in such a good imitation of his father, the feared Gabriel Agreste, that everyone dissolved into laughter.
“I’ll go order the pizza,” said Alya as she whipped out her reliable cell phone and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’ll set the table,” Nino added, following her.
Which, of course, left Marinette alone with Adrien.
He was still as handsome as the day they’d first met, although the soft, childish fifteen-year-old features had given way to a chiseled jawline and cheekbones Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar waxed poetic about. His eyes hadn’t changed though, Marinette mused. She was prone to thinking about Adrien’s eyes in ridiculously sappy metaphors – the phrase ‘the green of the leaves in spring’ had appeared in her diary quite a few times.
She, along with the rest of their school, had nursed an unbearably embarrassing crush on Adrien, but Marinette prided herself on liking him for deeper reasons than his looks. (Although he certainly was easy on the eyes, but that wasn’t the point.) When they’d first met, she’d actually detested him, thinking him nothing more than one of Chloé Bourgeois’s simpering minions. Then she’d been treated to another side of him, a genuinely nice guy who’d simply had the misfortune to grow up with a spoiled brat like Chloé. Since that afternoon under his umbrella, when their hands had touched, she was smitten.
Through the good offices of Alya Césaire, the best Mom Friend ever, Marinette had learned not to blush, stutter, and fumble every time she so much as looked in Adrien’s direction. After she’d more or less managed to get herself under control (although Alya would call it ‘making your enormous crush on him less painfully obvious’) she and Adrien had become good friends. Over time, her crush had faded into a fond and just slightly cringe-worthy memory, brought up during nights out with Alya when they were both just this side of tipsy.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Adrien asked, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a little jealous.” He gestured around with his glass. Marinette worried about the inch or two of wine still in it. Alya was rather fond of the rug in the living room (although, to be honest, it was far more likely that she would spill something, rather than Adrien). “It’s a really nice apartment.”
“Your bathroom is bigger than the whole place,” said Marinette disbelievingly.
“It’s not that,” Adrien replied, brow furrowing in thought. “It’s that it’s theirs, you know? It’s like – ” He trailed off, unable to articulate his meaning.
“Like a space of your own?” Marinette finished. A frisson of warmth ran through her. This was why she and Adrien just worked together, why their friendship had become such an important part of Marinette’s life. It was like they operated on the same wavelength, like their minds were so closely attuned that they could almost finish each other’s sentences, unspoken meanings understood in the space of a heartbeat. “Somewhere in this world that’s just for you?”
“Yes, exactly!” Adrien exclaimed, pointing his glass at Marinette. “You get it, you really do.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’ve wanted to move out for so long, but Père just doesn’t understand.”
Marinette tutted sympathetically. “He won’t let you get your own place?”
Adrien suddenly brightened. “Actually,” he said, “he said he’d let me move out, but…” He trailed off, looking speculatively at Marinette.
“But what?” Marinette asked timidly. She’d met M. Agreste a handful of times over the years, and even the mere mention of him never failed to make her nervous.
“Pizza will be here in a bit!” Alya declared, bounding into the living room with the enthusiasm of someone about to partake in greasy junk food. “We’re eating in the kitchen though, no way am I letting you guys mess up my living room.” She paused, taking in the way Adrien was regarding Marinette. “Did I interrupt something?” she asked, just a hint of slyness creeping into her tone. She had never really given up captaining the S.S. Adrienette , no matter how much Marinette protested that they were just friends now, thanks very much.
“No, no,” said Adrien, not taking his eyes off Marinette. “Not at all. I was just thinking of – ”
But whatever it was he was thinking off was cut off by a loud screech from their gracious hostess as the wine glass finally tumbled out of Adrien’s grasp and spilled its contents all over the white shag rug.