EDITED 3/3/20

Chapter 13: Growl

...

Twelve Hours Later

...

Chloé had never been so furious in her entire life.

"Ms. Bourgeois, we are doing everything we can to keep the media off hospital grounds—"

The loud chattering and exclamations from the crowd outside further fueled Chloé's anger. She grit her teeth. "Well do more."

The attending grimaced. "Ms. Bourg—"

"I don't care what it takes! Call the president! National guard! Declare a state of emergency! I don't care!" Chloé took a gasping breath, and abruptly clamped her mouth shut. She couldn't afford to start sobbing in the hospital lobby. She had a job to do.

At the moment, it was no exaggeration to say Chloé was the only one keeping everything in order; her father had his hands full finding France's number one terrorist, and his office was a trainwreck of frenzied politicians, detectives, secret agents, and burnt-out employees. Law enforcement was spread throughout the city, patrolling the streets from the ground and the air on high alert. Meanwhile, the damn media helpfully made citizens ten times more paranoid than necessary, especially since they were pretty damn paranoid to begin with.

Because Paris' heroes were down for the count, and nobody knew if they were going to get back up again. If they even could. If they would even want to.

And if Hawk Moth-erfucker decided to drop another akuma on the city . . . well.

They would be completely fucked.

So, seeing how everyone else in authority was utterly incompetent in the midst of this chaos, Chloé was the only one suitable to take the mantel. After all, no one could deny that Chloé was strong. Chloé had power, and she damn well knew how to use it.

So, not to say that she was their only hope, but . . . she was their only hope. If she succumbed to the chaos, so would the rest of Paris. (No pressure.)

So, with everything to lose, Chloé just did what Chloé did best: she screamed. "Do something, damn it!"

The man was avoiding eye-contact with her at all costs. He nodded jerkily. "Yes, Mademoiselle. Right away."

As he scurried off, Chloé closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. She wanted to calm down, but she was—just—so—frustrated, and if Sabrina didn't pick up her phone in the next five minutes Chloé was going to LOSE it.

It was tiring for Chloé to keep everything together when she was barely keeping together herself. She didn't have anyone to turn to—her father was out of reach, Sabrina was MIA, and Adrien was—unavailable.

As a result, Chloé hadn't had the time to process all of . . . everything that just happened, and thus she was currently walking the fine line between denial and dissociation. She'd barely snagged a moment to breathe since she, y'know, came back to life. On the sidewalk. In a puddle. Next to the sewer. As if dying itself wasn't traumatizing enough.

The memories of her revival were a dizzying mix of turbid to perfectly clear. Something that remained unfortunately distinct was the urge to puke her guts out right there on the street, which, by the work of a god, she somehow had managed to hold in. Until she got home. Where she promptly fled to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

Once Chloé's stomach had stopped turning itself inside out, she'd rinsed out her mouth and vigorously brushed her teeth, and when she still felt gross, she splashed cold water on her face until it had flooded all over the counter and down her shirt. Shaking and soaking wet, she shut off the faucet and leaned against the sink.

Raising her head, Chloé had seen her reflection in the mirror, and just the sight caused her stomach to twist all over again. Water had dripped down her skin in rivulets, and her ponytail was unravelling, and her makeup was smudged across her face in ugly splotches. Mascara and eyeliner were smeared below her eyes like inky tears, doing nothing to help the deranged, sickened gaze staring back at her. She wished she could will the memories to stop literally crawling up her skin.

Willing herself to take deep breaths, she pulled out a makeup wipe to scrub off whatever matter was left. She tugged the hair tie out of her ponytail, letting blond hair fall loosely over her shoulders, and gently combed her fingers through the tangles. After shakily drying off with a washcloth, and touching up a bit of makeup, she looked back at her reflection with a sigh. That was better. Not great, but. Better.

Chloé returned to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. She didn't feel like vibrating out of her own body anymore, but she still felt gross in a way that no amount of makeup wipes could clean. Maybe she should try calling Sabrina, because . . . well, Chloé always felt better when Sabrina was there. Sabrina knew Chloé better than anyone, perhaps even better than Chloé herself. Sabrina had stuck by Chloé even when she was at her worst, because Sabrina might've been a frightful girl but she was not a quitter. No, Sabrina was smart and gentle and attentive and caring and Sabrina would not leave her, Sabrina was her rock, her right hand, her . . .

The call went to voicemail, and Chloé quickly hung up.

Chloé tossed her phone to the side and flopped down on her bed, hugging a pillow to her chest. With shallow breath, she fumbled for her remote and turned on the television.

And immediately sat up straight.

It felt like she was spying into someone else's nightmare. The anonymous footage was shaky and low quality, but she could easily identify Chat Noir running across the street, carrying a girl—Marinette, that's Marinette—in his arms. He already looked worn and ragged, swaying and stumbling over his feet, but determined to keep going.

The camera followed as his condition worsened, slowing and tripping until he was abruptly engulfed by a bright flash of magical green light. And when it left, all that remained was Marinette and her unmasked, unconscious partner:

Adrien Agreste.

Chloé had barely made it to the bathroom before she was, once again, spewing her guts into the toilet.

Oh, wait, but then it got better.

By the time she exited the bathroom, the footage had shifted to an aerial view of the Agreste mansion. The gates were swarmed by a zoo of nosy reporters, angry Parisians, and police officers desperately trying to contain the situation. Mid-sentence, the reporter spoke:

"—nymous tip, police have been investigating esteemed fashion designer Gabriel Agreste as the primary suspect behind the identity of Hawk Moth—"

Chloé threw the remote so hard it shattered against the wall.

"—mansion found abandoned, law enforcements have now declared a city-wide search for the suspect and have issued a warrant for Agreste's arrest—"

She left her room with a slam of her door, rattling the walls with its force.

That was what led Chloé here, to the hospital treating her best friend and mortal enemy, where she'd been for the past several hours, bossing around staff and making phone calls and forcing herself not to tear her hair out of her skull.

Swallowing thickly, Chloé stormed from the lobby and pushed open the door to the waiting area. At the sight of padded chairs, she dimly registered that she hadn't sat down in at least six hours, when she took a ninety minute nap in an oncall room.

Chloé suddenly became painfully aware of her burning legs and screaming spine. All at once she felt herself ready to drop. She staggered to the closest chair, head spinning, and slumped against the wall in exhaustion.

Allowing herself to get comfortable, she shrugged off her jacket and tied up her hair in a messy bun. When she kicked off her heels and placed her bare feet against the cold tile floor, every one of Chloé's muscles seemed to relax at the contact, and she sighed in relief. Maybe she could just take a ten minute nap here, regain her bearings, become less in danger of passing out. Yelling at people for nine hours straight sure took a toll on the body. Who knew.

Just as she was about to drift off into some place between sleep and death, she heard an incredulous, very familiar voice ask, "Chloé?"

Chloé groaned, not bothering to open her eyes. "Fuck off, Césaire."

Alya let out a prolonged sigh of exasperation, and Chloé fought the urge to scream. Fortunately, it wasn't long before she heard her footsteps retreating, accompanied by Alya muttering under her breath. She figured Alya had left the room for good, but a few minutes later, the footsteps returned. Chloé opened an eye to see her holding out a cup of water in her direction.

Chloé scowled. Alya just rolled her eyes and shoved it into Chloé's hands. "Take it, Chloé."

Her scowl deepened, but Chloé took it nonetheless. She took a spiteful gulp of the water without breaking eye-contact, although she found herself downing the cup thirstily. ". . . Thanks," she said reluctantly. God, that left a bad taste in her mouth.

Alya just shrugged it off and took a seat to Chloé's left. At least she had enough sense to leave an extra chair of space between them. "You looked like you needed it."

Chloé raised a brow and asked, "What's that supposed to mean," with a lot less bite than she intended.

"You look exhausted," Alya supplied helpfully, swiping at a few loose hairs in her face. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and looked slightly damp, as though she'd recently taken a shower. She was wearing sweatpants and a Jagged Stone hoodie. There were very prominent bags underneath her eyes. Charming.

Chloé grunted, crushing the cup in her hand. "Speak for yourself."

Alya rolled her eyes again. "Thanks." She placed her elbow on the armrest and leaned her cheek against her fist. After a pause, she spoke again. "I didn't realize you were hanging around."

(Unspoken: you haven't visited Adrien yet.)

Chloé just scoffed and rolled her eyes. She chose to focus on how the cracked plastic dug into her palm rather than Alya's calculating (read: nosy) gaze.

She wasn't necessarily avoiding seeing Adrien, she just . . . needed to collect herself first. She still wasn't quite sure what to think of her best friend going through a laundry list of devastating events in a relatively miniscule fraction of time.

No, that's not right. She knew what to think. What she thought was that this was a shitty fucking situation.

She just didn't know what to do. What could she possibly do to help? How could she possibly fix this?

This wasn't something that could be waved away with a phone call to daddy.

"I've been busy with damage control," she said shortly. "Those media hounds won't get off the damn lawn."

Alya nodded contemplatively. Chloé exhaled and tossed the cup in a trashcan. The severed plastic left angry red lines on her palm, a few beads of blood peaking out. She absently flexed her hand, watching the blood dot her fingertips. It didn't hurt too badly, but it wasn't exactly pleasant.

There was a TV on mute mounted in the corner, and Chloé's focus landed on it just as the news was replaying the footage of Adrien passing out. Her stomach turned. "Can't they play literally anything else?"

Alya glanced up at the television and frowned. "God, Adrien doesn't need all this press. First his identity, then his father . . ." She trailed off.

"Agreste Senior did this to himself," Chloé sniffed. "I never liked that prick."

"Adrien deserves better," Alya murmured.

Chloé clenched her fingers into her cut palm and looked away.

She was so angry for Adrien. She was angry for everything he lost and everything he would never get back and everything that was left up to fate with the flip of a coin. However, she couldn't help but be pretty pissed at him, too.

After all, he was a self-sacrificial maniac who would give his life to any cause he believed in. Granted, those causes were always good in nature, if not lawfully so. But looking back on all those akuma attacks where Chat Noir took hit after hit after hit for Ladybug, fully accepting and willing to bear all the consequences for the greater good—it was too much.

He would always do what is right, and that made him the best and worst choice for a hero. Best, because he was indubitably faithful, determined, and trustworthy. Because he was good and just and he loved with everything he had, no matter how much of that love went to waste or was used against him in heinous ways. Worst, because . . .

Because the world wouldn't be a better place if Adrien wasn't in it, too.

Anyone could see from day one that there was no flicker of doubt in Chat Noir's green eyes. No question that he would lay down his life, as a stepping stone to victory, if that was what his partner needed. And he would drag himself back from the depths of hell, beaten and broken and bruised, if that was what his partner needed. Even if all he needed was to finally rest.

One day, Adrien could very well get himself killed. And he very nearly did. And, okay, yes, he literally saved thousands of lives in the process, and he was literally the only person with the power to do so.

But just let her be angry, okay?!

"Whoa, you okay?"

Chloé was pulled out of her thoughts once again by her reluctant companion (that is, Chloé was reluctant to call her a companion; Alya seemed to have zero problem crashing Chloé's downtime). Alya stared at her warily, phone hanging limp in her hand. "You look majorly pissed."

"Well I am majorly pissed," Chloé snapped. She was seething so much words just poured out of her mouth in a stilted, incoherent rant. "Ladybug is—fucked up, and Marinette is Ladybug, Chat Noir is Adrien and I died next to a sewer and Gabriel Agreste is a terrorist and Adrien is a fucking idiot and Sabrina won't call me back!"

Alya gaped.

Chloé fumed.

Alya closed her mouth in a thin line. After a heated silence, she decided, "I think you need more water."

Chloé slumped back against her seat. "Don't tell me what to do."

"I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need help from you."

"If not me, then who?"

That gave Chloé pause. She looked up from where she was glaring at the floor to see Alya staring back at her with a surprisingly honest, but still awfully tired expression.

She sneered. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"With pity."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," Chloé said. "What the fuck are you trying to play at, Césaire?"

She blew air through her lips. "I'm sorry."

Again, Chloé was thrown for a loop. "God. Don't be sorry, just shut up."

And she did. And Chloé was left to sit in silence, like she'd been wanting this whole time.

Oh, fuck damn it.

Chloé sighed. "Why are you even here? I saw the rest of the Césaire clan leave an hour ago."

Alya turned back to her. She looked dubious (which, fair), but she still answered, "I was trying to see if I could get clearance to see Marinette, but she's still stuck in the ICU. She's . . . she's not doing too hot." She scrubbed a hand over her face. "And Adrien's still out, and I just . . . I needed a moment. Away from it all."

"Felt that," she muttered. Alya gave a faint smile, but otherwise didn't respond. After a less tense moment, Chloé hesitantly breached a more sensitive topic. "So . . . you've seen Adrien?"

Alya nodded. "He's been settled for about," she glanced at the time on her phone, "seven hours now."

Chloé already knew that, because she'd been notified as soon as visiting hours opened, but she just hummed with what she hoped came off as indifference. She avoided eye contact as she awkwardly tried to find the words. "Is he . . . and how . . . ?"

"He's beat up," Alya said quietly, "but he'll be okay." Then under her breath, she added, "Physically."

The blond nodded stiffly.

Alya didn't try to hide her scrutiny this time around. "Chloé, why don't you just go see him?"

Chloé glared. "I said I've been busy—"

"You aren't now," Alya pointed out. "Also, since when haven't you dropped everyone and everything just for Adrien?"

"Because everything I've been doing has been for Adrien," Chloé said. "And right now . . ."

Right now she wanted to punch him in the face.

"I want to punch him in the face."

Whatever response Alya was expecting, it most definitely was not that. "What."

She let out an angry huff, bouncing her leg with pent up fury. "I'm having a lot of—emotions—" (she spat the word like it physically pained her to admit) "—right now, okay? And I'm shit at emotions. So if I'm not angry, then I'll start crying and I—"

'And I won't be able to stop.'

Not for the first time this morning, couldn't believe she was opening up about this to Alya of all people. She really needed to invest in a therapist, because she really couldn't afford to crap on her reputation like this every time times got tough. If it was Alya this time, who would it be the next? Marinette? Fuck no.

Alya seemed just as shocked as Chloé about this development. "Wow," was all she could say.

Chloé let out a groan and knocked her head back against the wall, slumping further in her seat. "You asked."

"Do you always do this?"

"Do what."

"Bury your pain with righteous fury."

She hesitated for half a second. "No."

It was half a second too many. "So, yes."

"Fuck all the way off."

"That's some seriously destructive coping mechanism."

"I said fuck off," Chloé hissed.

Alya didn't flinch back, but she did frown. "I'm not making fun of you, Chloé . . . I just want to help."

Chloé dug her nails deep into her palm, reopening the cuts. "I don't. Need. Your help."

"It's not fair to take out your shit on people who didn't do anything—"

"Well, life's not fair!" she burst a bit hysterically. "Don't act all holier-than-thou. I'm allowed to be angry!"

"You think I'm not angry?" Alya cried. "I'm fucking furious. But it's not Adrien's fault and god help me I'm not going to make that boy feel one ounce worse than he already does."

Chloé snorted, nodding at the television, which was broadcasting a blown up picture of Gabriel Agreste. "Good luck."

Alya just glared back at her. Good. Chloé can handle being hated.

"Hey, I'll be more than happy to tell him for you," Chloé offered, this time with only half-sarcastic grace. "I don't mind being the bad guy."

Alya shook her head. "No, it's gotta come from Nino. He's the one that told the police."

Chloé felt her throat close up. "He what?"

The other girl shut her eyes. "Cha—Adrien came to us, before the akuma attack. Told us he figured it out. I don't even know—how the hell did he find out?" Alya looked to her, glassy-eyed. "So much has been thrust out in the open but there's still so much we don't know."

Chloé didn't know how to answer, leaving the words to hang in the air. She looked back down at her red palms, bizarrely feeling outside of her own body.

After a few seconds, Alya's phone dinged. Then she let out a choked sound.

Chloé snapped her head up. Alya was staring at her phone in shock, lips parted and eyes unblinking. "Adrien's awake," she breathed.

Those two words startled Chloé out of her haze. Disregarding her astray heels, she shot to her feet, which finally tore Alya's eyes from her phone—

They held eye contact for a moment, before Alya's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare."

—She ran for the exit.

When Adrien woke up, her name was on his lips.

As consciousness settled in, he began to feel every ounce of pain over and under his skin—burning muscles and creaking bones and a brain that felt like hammered, bloodied meat. Biting back a groan, Adrien cracked open his eyes with as much willpower as he could scrape up.

Through hazy vision, Adrien saw he was in a small, quiet hospital room, with blue walls and white tiles. The air smelled strongly of antiseptic, mingled with hot coffee and fresh flowers. There was an IV stuck in his hand, and some scratchy sheets tucked around him, and the air was far, far too cold—frozen and sterile and everything he hated.

Adrien had no idea what landed him in the hospital or how he even got there, but he supposed that didn't matter, now. He sluggishly sifted through his memories, though he didn't recall much. The last thing he could remember was . . . a blur of anxiousness and terror, because . . .

. . . of Marinette.

That's right. There had been the akuma battle, and Adrien had been bringing Marinette to the hospital, but he couldn't remember making it there. At some point or another, he must have collapsed, and . . . been rescued, he guessed.

Any other time he might've felt embarrassed, but all Adrien felt in the moment was relief; he was still in shock at even making it as far as he did, at even lying here, in this bed, blinking, breathing, being.

And if Adrien was here, then Marinette must be here too, right? She was probably right across the hall. She was probably taking a well-deserved nap, resting and on her way to recovery, or . . . or maybe . . .

Or maybe she was in the morgue.

Ice settled in Adrien's chest, as if he sucked all the cold out of the room in one wrenching breath. It was terrifying how easily he tipped on the verge of panicking, but he didn't know how to slow the beating of his heart or the shaking of his hands or the terror that threatened to take over and absolutely obliterate every rational thought that attempted to pass through his head. Only one thought rang clear, urgent, persistent:

'I have to see her.'

Gritting his teeth, Adrien pushed the sheets down his waist and tried to sit up. However, there were more wires attached to him than he originally thought, tethering him to machines. Also, he really overestimated his physical capability to sit up, because everything hurt and he almost cried when he jerked his head a little too quickly.

With a sigh, he slumped back to his pillow. After a moment of wallowing, he gingerly rolled onto his side and faced the window. For the first time, he tiredly noticed the orange sunrise peeking through the shades, as well as the vase of get-well flowers sitting on the windowsill, and—

Nino, right beside him.

Somehow, Adrien had initially failed to notice that Nino was curled up in the hospital chair, resting his head against the windowpane. He was staring out the window pensively, eyes half-lidded, headphones over his ears and utterly oblivious to Adrien's disbelieving gaze. His expression was jaded, and his bottom lip was caught between his teeth in worry. He looked so tired.

Besides that, though, Nino appeared to be fine. There was no blood, no bites; just dark, healthy skin, gold eyes, and the rise and fall of his chest, breathing life in and out, in and out, in.

As if sensing his consciousness, Nino tilted his head towards the bed. When he saw Adrien staring back at him, he instantly grinned and threw off his beats, much of his fatigue fading in an instant. "Adrien, you're awake!"

Adrien could only stare back owlishly, his mouth hanging open involuntarily. He remembered curing the city, but the reality didn't settle in until he saw the results sitting right in front of him. Nino, tangible and steady, patiently concrete, not about to crumble underneath his fingertips.

He must have been staring for a long while, because Nino's smile melted away. "Uh, dude? How're you feeling?"

Adrien shook his head to snap out of his shock, though immediately regretted the motion when his brain sloshed around his skull. Still dazed, his words came out fractured. "I . . . you're here."

"Yeah, I am," he laughed quietly, though a little shaky. He fumbled for the nightstand, where he pressed the button to summon the nurse. He pulled out his phone to type out a quick text before repocketing it. "Al's here too; she should be back soon."

Adrien felt a small weight lift off his shoulders. Under the surface, he knew that the Cure would restore everything, but it was still so freeing to see the result, to see Nino safe and sound and right in reach.

But, speaking of . . .

"Marinette?" he whispered.

Something faltered in Nino's face, and Adrien's heart sank.

"She's here too," Nino murmured. He tried to smile again, but it was smaller, sadder. When Adrien continued to stare expectantly, he scratched the back of his neck. "I don't really know anything else. It's been, uh . . . it took a lot for security to even let me in here, and even then it's only because Ga—uh . . ." Nino shook his head, then steered to his point. "Alya's getting clearance for Marinette's room right now, so. She might know more, when she gets back."

Nino's eyes shifted when he finished, and Adrien felt even more uneasy. There was something his best friend wasn't saying, but there was also something Adrien wasn't fully piecing together. He was still kind of out of it, and definitely concussed, so excuse him for not having the clearest train of thought. But he was aware enough to tell that something was missing, and Adrien was struggling to iron out the mess.

'Something is wrong.'

Resolve flooded through Adrien's veins. Without another word, he weakly started to sit up again.

However, Nino quickly scraped his chair to the edge of the bed. He put a hand on Adrien's chest, pushing him back down with embarrassing ease. "Whoa, dude, I don't think you're ready for that quite yet."

"'M fine," Adrien grunted, attempting and failing to shake off his hand. "Lemme go, I have to—"

Nino interrupted him gently. "Bro, all you 'have to' do is get better. You can't do that by—"

Adrien felt impatience bubbling under his skin. "No," he pleaded.

"Adrien," Nino said forcefully, and he knew. He knew Nino was right. He just . . . he sorely wished he wasn't.

Defeated, Adrien eventually slumped back on the pillows. Hoping to regain composure, he took meditative breaths and closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning. He still felt short of breath, a little like he was about to free fall off a cliff and hit the ground mercilessly, but all he could do was nod his head in acceptance and keep breathing.

He could wait. She would be okay. Just a little longer.

After giving him a moment, Nino leaned forward and gripped his shoulder in reassurance. "Everything will work itself out, man," he promised. "It was touch and go for a while, but . . ." He tilted his head with a proud grin. "You did good. And Marinette's tough as hell."

Adrien's bottom lip wobbled, but he still managed to laugh. "Yeah, she is," he agreed softly.

Nino let go of Adrien's shoulder and picked up his hand. His grasp was like a furnace against the chill of Adrien's skin. "You'll be able to see her before you know it. You two—" He suddenly grimaced and looked at Adrien's hand incredulously. "Why are you so fucking cold?"

Adrien shrugged halfheartedly. He'd only been awake for a few minutes, but he already found his eyelids drooping in fatigue. "'S cold."

Nino shook his head and muttered something about incompetent hospital staffs. He stood up from the chair and went over to the closet, and after a bit of shuffling, he pulled out a fluffy white blanket. Nino tossed it over his bed, tucking it around his friend like an overbearing mother, and Adrien sighed into the warmth. "Thanks."

"Somebody's gotta take care of you," Nino said fondly. He pursed his lips. "Speaking of, the doctor should be here to examine you by now . . ."

And then the door exploded open.

It collided against the wall with a loud crash. The noise caused to the boys to jump out of their skin, Adrien with a pained hiss and Nino with a high-pitched shriek. Alarmed, both turned towards the source of the commotion.

The girl standing in the doorway, with a red face and no shoes and an icy blue glare capable of murder, was none other than Chloé Bourgeois. "Adrien, you asshole!"

Alya skid to a stop behind Chloé, too little too late. Adrien's heart leaped happily at the sight of her, disheveled and frantic though she was, but he didn't have time to cherish her arrival with Chloé growling in the doorway. Panting and out of breath, Alya wheezed, "I . . . I tried to . . . stop her . . ."

Pushing Alya aside, Chloé stomped into the room, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. "Listen here, Agreste—"

Nino glanced frantically at Alya, who hovered behind Chloé nervously, before putting his hands up, as if he were trying to tame a feral animal. "Ah, Chloé, hold on a—"

"Did you have fun?" she asked Adrien with venom, completely ignoring Nino. "Did you have fun scaring the ever-living shit out of me, Adrikins? What do you have to say for yourself? Do you have any idea what it was like when I realized—" Chloé cut off, apparently overcome with emotion, and now Adrien was starting to feel more confused than terrified.

(He couldn't help but feel like he was missing something.)

Chloé exhaled. She pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a breathless laugh, although Adrien knew she wasn't amused. "You know what. You know what?" She leaned into his face and jabbed her finger in his chest. "Fuck you."

"Chloé," Nino said, affronted, even though the insult wasn't directed at him.

"Fuck you. Fuck you," she seethed, and Alya could only reach out uselessly as Chloé nailed the final head in the coffin. "Fuck you Chat Noir."

. . .

. . .

. . . Oh.

Oh no.

He whipped his head around the room. Alya opened and shut her mouth, unsure what to do. Nino cradled his head in his hands. They looked upset, but those were not reactions of shock.

They knew. They all knew.

Alya turned to Chloé. She didn't look angry, per se, but she did look eternally exhausted. Resigned to a fate where nothing would ever work out in an orderly fashion. "I can't believe you did that."

"I can," Nino said through his hands.

Chloé continued standing with a stiff posture, furiously tapping her foot. "You guys are too soft," she scoffed, in lieu of an explanation, though she did have the audacity to look a little apologetic. "You would've waited too long. He needs to know."

Alya grumbled something under her breath about a certain someone's emotional ineptitude, but didn't protest any further.

Adrien stared at them helplessly, mouth hanging open. Still numb with anxiety, he couldn't manage to voice his confusion.

"Huh?" he shrilled.

"When you passed out," Nino explained slowly, raising his head, "your transformation fell . . . ah, publicly . . . on Rue de Sèvres."

Publically. Meaning, in public. Meaning, in front of people.

Meaning, his secret identity was no longer secret.

Adrien exhaled shallowly. "Who knows?" he asked, barely audible.

Chloé sneered, but for once, it wasn't directed at him. "The whole city."

Just like that, the numbness was gone, replaced by absolute panic.

Fuck.

The horror must have appeared on his face, because Alya looked like she was about to cry. "God, I'm so sorry, Adrien."

Adrien tried to smile, but it hurt too much. It was too much. "It's not—not your fault." This was too much.

Nino could read him too well, though, and he tried to reach out and touch him, but Adrien shied away. "Adrien . . ."

"I . . . shit," he croaked, fisting his hands in his hair, wincing as he tugged the IV in his hand. It wasn't supposed to be like this, no no no.

This was what was missing from his conversation with Nino. He should have pieced it together in the way Nino struggled to look him in the eye, or how he wanted to avoid talking about Marinette altogether, or how he approached Adrien as if he were made of glass. He was afraid of the truth. Afraid of him.

Nino knew he was Chat Noir. Nino knew his father was Hawk Moth. Nino knew he was the one who left him and his girlfriend to die.

And now the whole city knew who both of their heroes were, and there wasn't a single damn thing he could do about it.

How could he let this happen?

Adrien was only pulled out of his thoughts by a sniffle, and he looked up to see, surprisingly, a teary-eyed Chloé. The fury had finally drained from her face, but all that remained was sadness. She was folding in on herself in a very un-Chloé-like manner; the girl who constantly demanded the spotlight was trying to disappear into the shadows.

When she saw Adrien staring at her, though, Chloé immediately stiffened and jerked her chin up. She furiously wiped at her eyes, mascara be damned, and turned towards the door. "I'm—I gotta go."

"Chloé, hold on—" Alya started.

She glanced to the other girl, then shifted her gaze to Nino. "Just tell him what you did," she pleaded, so quietly that he almost couldn't hear her, and for the life of him Adrien couldn't recall a time he'd ever heard her so broken. "Before I have to."

Before Adrien could get in a word, she brushed past Alya and disappeared around the corner.

The door clicked shut, leaving the three kids to themselves.

No one spoke at first. In Chloé's wake, Alya carefully moved to the edge of the bed, arms crossed over her chest. Now that she was closer, Adrien could see the white knuckles that gripped her biceps and the suspiciously red tinge of her eyes. She tenderly sat down beside Nino, slumping against his side and burying her face into his shoulder. She looked so tired. Adrien felt so small.

Keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling, Adrien fidgetted nervously with his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered, but when his friends looked up at him he choked. He clumsily tried to piece together an apology, explanation, anything to help make this okay, to help lighten this burden that endeavored to shove him into the earth. "I-I was going to tell you after everything blew over, I swear, I just didn't—want to overwhelm you any more than . . . I couldn't . . . God, I mean, if I'd known you were going to find out like this . . ."

Nino shook his head, politely silencing his friend. "Adrien, we're not upset about that. We're just happy that you're okay."

"Water under the bridge," Alya agreed. "And I'm sure Chloé's sorry for telling you to fuck yourself."

Adrien shrugged with a small grin. "She was just scared." The grin fell, though, and he looked back down at his hands, clasping them in his lap. It still all felt so wrong.

The conversation dropped off, and the room settled in a somber silence. Adrien basked in the comfort of his friends' presence, letting it keep him at bay to the best of its ability. Nino intertwined their fingers together and Adrien tried his best not to cry.

Because there were so many elephants in the room that Adrien barely had any room to breathe, and he didn't have a clue how to address any of it without completely breaking, shattering and splattering like a gunshot to the head.

Because maybe his friends had accepted that he was Chat Noir, but there were so many things other things that had yet to be discussed. Like how they died. And how they almost lost Marinette forever. And how his father was the cause of it all. Just to name a few.

Adrien was at a loss, and—and he was just so tired. He was tired and out of place, hurt and terrified of how much it hurt, and he was so, so terrified of the unknown—of not knowing where he would go from here, of not knowing if he would get through this. God, he just wanted this nightmare to fucking end already, but it never would, not really. Because nothing would ever be the same, right? Because he's lost a part of himself, now, and he was never going to get it back. Because, sure, the Lucky Charm could rebuild cities and cure unholy possession and resurrect the dead but it couldn't even begin to fix this.

All he could do was destroy.

. . . Wait a minute.

Adrien jerked his head towards them. "Guys, where's Plagg?"

Nino blinked. "What's a Plagg?"

Chloé sniffled as she walked back into the waiting room. She sat back in her previous chair, breathing deeply through her nose in an effort to calm herself down, before slowly putting on her shoes.

She would never forget the broken look in Adrien's face for as long as she lived.

To cope, she needed to drown herself in work again and yell at people who actually deserved it. But just as she got her shoes fit on correctly, she heard yet another very familiar voice hiss her name. "Chloé."

Chloé jerked her head up. "Brina?" she asked.

Sabrina was stiff as a board. Her eyes were wide and panic-stricken, darting around as if expecting someone to jump out at her. She was clutching onto her coat as if her life depended on it.

"We need to talk," Sabrina said urgently. "Right now. In private. Right now."

Chloé opened her mouth to respond, but Sabrina's hand was already locked around her wrist, and before she got the chance to speak she was being pulled out of her seat. Sabrina dragged her clumsily down the hall, weaving through the crowd until they reached abandoned maintenance closet which Chloé was quickly ushered into without a choice.

"Are you out of your mind?" Chloé snapped. "I have been calling you since yesterday, and then you just show up here and lock us in a—"

"I know, and I'm so so sorry, I'm a horrible friend," Sabrina apologized. "I haven't checked my phone since the akuma attack because something really absolutely insane happened when I was with my dad yesterday and we passed by where Adrien passed out and I saw this rat thing on the side of the road but it wasn—"

"Sabrina," Chloé interrupted, "what the actual hell are you talking about?"

Sabrina scrunched up her face, like she was tasting something sour. She spent a good few seconds shifting from foot to foot anxiously before begging, "Okay, please, please don't freak out."

Chloé didn't even have a chance to think before Sabrina was unzipping her coat, reaching into her pocket, and—

...

"What the F—"