note: …uh, i've made a tumblr account, like, so long ago but i've only been recently active bc guys guys woah this season's anime are really, really good –
note2: tbh i haven't been writing for ages… ... t-thank you for tolerating me! o(╥﹏╥)o
note3: that tumblr… thing can now explain why i have succumbed to miraculous trash ;;
note4: i researched i swear
disclaimer: do i have to

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important note! i haven't slept the whole night and it's already 5 AM asjfjgld I just got this done and i'm going to sleep before i edit and proofread this again i'm so sorry everyone please bear with me don't hate me gwahhhh! ;;;; /sniffs
edit (5/17): i fixed some! please feel free to point out any spelling mistakes if there are any left! thank you so much!

—
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It starts when Alya gets that call.

"You want me to what!?" Alya practically screeches into her phone, jolting Marinette in surprise from her seat across. Alya is dumbstruck at first, but a wide smile starts creeping up to her lips, and a few minutes later into the call she's flushed and alert – excitement buzzing through her veins, lighting up her eyes.

"Yes… yes, I – yes, thank you! Thank you. Thank you so much – yes, yes. Yes? Why, of course! Thank you… thank you again! Yes, goodbye!" Click.

Marinette's immediately there to pry. "So," she hums, sipping her cocoa, "what was that all about—"

She wasn't able to finish her sentence, because Alya's on her face in the next second, eyes impossibly wide and brimming with barely concealed thrill. "I GET TO INTERVIEW ADRIEN AGRESTE!" She squeals loudly, drawing attention from all the other customers in the small coffee joint they're staying. "THE ADRIEN AGRESTE, MARINETTE! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT—"

"Hush!" Marinette says, placing her cup down and clamping Alya's mouth with her hands in one fluid motion. Marinette's eyes look at her with warmth and mirth at her friend's sheer happiness, but there's something else underlying those emotions – something that makes Marinette's blue eyes bluer than the ocean, vaster than the sky.

Alya opens her mouth to say something, when Marinette offhandedly says, "you should be more discreet that you're interviewing one of the most famous celebrities in the industry, Alya. You never know when a rabid fan or two is listening."

It takes Alya only four seconds to guess what Marinette is hinting at, and another seven seconds to get the hell out of the café as fast as lightning if she wanted to escape a hoard of fans carrying signature notebooks and camera phones, all wearing tees and crop-tops with the imprinted face of Paris' leading superstar.

"AU REVOIR MARINETTE I'LL PROMISE I'LL CALL YOU LATER OKAY?! – EEP!"

Marinette is left sitting alone on the table, and the quaint little coffee joint is close to bare with only another sole occupant intently reading a newspaper and the female barista who looks like she would do anything to trade places with one of the girls (and boys) chasing Alya outside left as its only inhabitants.

Marinette hums, eyes lidded and bluer and vaster, and finishes up her hot cocoa.

—

Alya has a variety of pictures and opened magazines scattering across her apartment floor. Pictures and articles of a certain blonde-haired, green-eyed hottie with an apparent 'killer smile' (publishes the preeminent Beau magazine) – and there are sticky-notes and chunks of papers spread out, with incoherent and hurried cursive writing only to be crossed out with a hot-pink sharpie later on.

To put it simply, Alya is currently a mess.

She's attempting to keenly read the latest articles regarding Adrien Agreste (there are six articles in total all revolving around Adrien interested in cats; it's ridiculous), when the phone suddenly rings, surprising Alya enough to drop the magazine onto her lap. Alya is pissed, because it's one in the freaking morning and she hasn't gotten a decent amount of sleep ever since she was appointed the interviewer of THE Adrien Agreste, but all her grumpiness fades away when she takes a glimpse of who's calling.

"Marinette," Alya greets tiredly, smiling despite of her crippling exhaustion fighting to take over her.

"Good morning, Alya," Marinette greets her friend back softly, immediately detecting the sleep-deprived tone in Alya's voice. "Why are you still awake?"

"Why are you still awake?" Alya shots back, grinning.

"I'm in China, remember?" Marinette's laugh is static through the ears, but pure at heart. "It's like seven in the morning here."

"Oh. Right – " Alya snorts, before her mouth involuntary stretches up into a yawn.

"…is this about the interview again?"

"Oh Marinette!" Alya cries, rolling over on her belly to peer at one article of Adrien Agreste praising him for his 'fetching appeal and seductive features'. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm really good at this I promise. Like, I'm really passionate and all about journalism and interviewing a famous celebrity is an actual huge dream come true to me but – "

"Slow down, Alya." Marinette halts her gently, firmly. And Alya dimly wonders just when her bumbling and clumsy best friend grew up into a fine and lovely woman. "You're nervous because you think this will affect your whole career."

At her words, Alya releases a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. "…yeah." She gulps, reaching forward to wipe away invisible particles off her glasses. "I just really, really love this job, y'know? I can't bear it if the boss fires me! I've been writing gossip and following celebrities for as long as both of us can remember, Mari! Like remember those times I used to have that… that blog back in high-school?" Alya's smiling now, fondness seeping in her voice. "God, I really loved that show."

Marinette is silent on the other side, breathing deeply into the speakers as if she's about to explode. "Ohh, that." She's laughing softly into Alya's ears, and suddenly Alya is reminded of Marinette's look back at the café when her eyes turned lidded and blue and vast. She wonders why. "That old show about superheroes?"

"Don't undermine it!" Alya jokingly hisses, and Marinette's laugh is heard crackling from the call. "I mean it, Marinette! It wasn't just a show. It was like… like the Marvel or DC of Paris! But it wasn't even only famous in Paris – nor was it generally a comic publisher but still you get the point – it was famous in the whole world—!"

"You're fangirling," Marinette chokes out, sounding amazed, before launching into a fit of amused giggles again. "Wow you're really fangirling."

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Alya baffles, smiling now without even an ounce of sleepiness to her. "I used to always fangirl the show to you back when we were sixteen! But you never paid attention to me. You always disappeared after classes and most of the times you were even absent – and on the rare occasions that you were in class, you always looked so… sleepy…"

It's inevitable, the way Alya trails away when her fingers unconsciously pick up a magazine with the picture of Adrien Agreste, his long and slightly muscular arm entwined within the arm of outstanding actress 'Gabriella Chu'.

"Alya?" Marinette sounds panicked, nervous. "Alya I can expla—"

"Is it just me," says Alya loudly, confusedly; a nuance of elation in her voice. Marinette shushes quickly. "Or does Adrien Agreste have a very specific taste in women?"

"Wha—"

"I'll call you later Marinette." Alya says to the phone hurriedly, her eyes widening in curiosity and thought. "I think I just found something interesting."

—

It's when Alya has every single picture of all the rumored and official and unofficial girlfriends and dates and female companions of Adrien Agreste plastered on her whiteboard does she finally reach into an epiphany.

"Feast your eyes!" Alya gestures to her board with grandiose bravado, and Nino just sits there on his chair, squinting at her suspiciously.

"Uh, Alya," Nino drawls, eyes scanning the numerous photographs of Adrien Agreste together with his varied choice of partners uninterestedly. "As much as I'm proud of you for getting that invite of interviewing Adrien Agreste, I'm kind of worried that – I don't know – that lately maybe you've been digging in this too much? Like borderline creepy?"

Alya frowns. "What? No way. You see this? This— " she spreads out her hands again, this time gesturing to the top of the board where it said in an enthusiastic, bubble-font, 'ADRIEN [heart] AGRESTE's [heart] IDEAL TYPE FOR WOMEN [knife][blood][dead-emoji]' "—this is the pinnacle of all my snooping, Nino. I, for all my life of snooping, had never snooped this deeply before and therefore—"

"Can we just get right to the point here," Nino says exasperatedly. Although his exasperation is a good-natured one, it's still exasperation nonetheless. Nino shakes the baggy jacket sleeve from his hand to reveal a wrist-watch bleeping to a two o'clock sharp. "I still have to get back to the studio and record two whole albums, you know."

"Alright, alright!" Alya relents, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't the least excited of the prospect of showing another person her discovery. She's coughing a bit for a dramatic effect, before grabbing her pointer and tapping it stiffly against a picture of Adrien hand-in-hand with a co-actress named Odette Waters.

"Isn't she like the girl who played as his step-sister in that American movie?" Nino asks, raising his brow.

"Yes! Yes, but pay attention to her physical attributes."

"What, like the fact that she's wearing a skin-tight dress fit for a ten-year old—"

"Nino!"

"Okay, okay, fine," Nino grumbles, but turns his attention again to regard the actress who, in the picture, seemed to have leaned her head on Adrien's shoulder, completely smitten. Adrien on the other hand had looked completely distant, as if his mind was currently elsewhere than on the beauty he was holding hands with.

"She's got… uh, dark hair."

"YES!" Alya explodes at his face, and Nino lets out a startled scream and gets jolted from his chair in surprise. "YES SHE HAS DARK HAIR AND YOU KNOW WHO ELSE HAS DARK HAIR?!"

"Goodness Alya calm down—"

"Gwen Flitch! Charlotte Gomez! Nunnalee Montague!" Alya shrills at Nino's poor ears, pointer speedily going across photographs of similar fashioned dark-haired girls all stuck in the motion of being in the middle of pathetic attempts in capturing Adrien Agreste's seemingly aloof and hard-to-attain attention.

"Now, Nino, look at this." Alya is pointing at a cut-out picture (based on the glossed surface, he guesses it's from a magazine) of Adrien Agreste and a delicate-looking girl, smiling directly at the camera. "What do you think of her?"

"Meh. She's too Asian for me."

"Chinese," Alya is seething, eyes flashing into a starry vibrancy that only a perfectly good issue would trigger, "she's Chinese, Nino! And so is London Min, Mei Ling, Hannah Orleans – she's a half – but still – CHINESE, Nino!"

"So you're telling me," Nino begins, amused despite everything, "that Adrien Agreste likes dark-haired, or preferably Chinese, girls to bang with? Kinda racist but I'm not about to criticize a fellow dude's type of women here, Alya—"

"Look at it, Nino." Alya whispers. And then Nino understands.

Alya has stayed up the whole morning to categorize all the pictures together – all into one huge collage of Adrien Agreste with a different woman on his arm; whether it's on the runaway, or the red carpet, or just exiting the movies or lounging lazily in a private beach resort – Alya has searched them all, and well, the paparazzi and journalists always had posted the ones with Adrien smiling at the camera and the girl either doing the same or looking at him instead but—

Nino tilts his head and glances at how possessive it had seemed, the way the girls had selfishly clung to Adrien as if he would disappear in the next instant. But he can't possibly blame them, he supposes, especially with that distant look in Adrien Agreste's steel green eyes, as if he himself wanted to disappear… or perhaps wanted to be in the company of someone else, instead.

"Oh." Nino says, mouth agape. "Oh. Oh. You think… you think he's hiding a girl, who's like, the basis of all the girls he's been with, or something. Right?"

"Basis." Alya echoes, wrinkling her nose, but nods anyway, sighing. "If ever my theory's right, do you imagine how huge of an issue this is going to be? Adrien Agreste. Dubbed as the Parisian Playboy by monthly magazines – cool, calm, collected Adrien Agreste, who's not only called the most successful model by Forbes, but also entitled the next iconic face of fashion of the 21st century—"

"…you sure know a lot about the guy."

"—then only to find out he's just this poor, old, ridiculously handsome but broken boy who's stuck in love with a girl." Alya sighs wistfully, dreamily. Nino bristles. "Poor baby."

"A dark-haired, Chinese girl with the penchant for the color red, it seems." Nino observes blearily, tilting his head where he could see the recurring shade of scarlet worn and flaunted by the girls in the photographs and magazine cut-outs. He turns to see Alya gaping at him. "What?"

"…Je t'aime, Nino."

"What—"

It's his turn to gape now.

—

Alya has three more days to go before the big day, and she's stacking up her index cards with an incessant thrum in her hands, something whirring under the veins of her skin into a permanent, nervous flush. It's four in the afternoon with the sweet chestnut trees rustling along the crisp, midsummer air. The lovebirds are perched atop, chirping soft and warbling gently amongst each other, and Alya cocks her head up right on time to catch Marinette running towards her in a hurry, with her coral purse bouncing against each step she took.

"Ah, Mari—" Alya yells out, warily eyeing that one crack on the ground with poppy flowers growing, "Marinette! You might want to watch out—!"

Too late.

Marinette's doll slipper gets caught up in the crack, and her ankle twists painfully against the stone's edge until the momentum forces her whole body to fall to her right in agonizing slow motion – until a hand grabs her out of nowhere and steadies her against a lean body.

"Woah there, lady," says the stranger, dark green eyes glinting against a sunbeam that filtered across the leaves. Alya is beside them in an instant, and she dimly wonders why Marinette is all frozen like that – pale and shocked, not looking the least bit embarrassed like she usually would. Instead she looks scared, frightened, and underneath all that: ashamed. "You gotta be careful, running 'round Paris like that. If I wasn't here you would have face-planted on the cement like, like flat cheese. Or something."

Marinette seems to have realized something, because she unfreezes herself the moment the stranger begins to ramble on, and she visibly relaxes in his hold. Alya watches on curiously, not wanting to obtrude this strange interaction.

"How clumsy of me," Marinette murmurs, a lilting smile quirking up on one side of her cherry lips. "I'll be mindful of my surroundings next time. Thank you, Pierre."

At the mention of his name, 'Pierre' stops mid-ramble, and blinks slowly at Marinette before letting his eyes roam her from top to bottom, bottom to top. Alya almost intervenes, thinks that it's pretty rude of how some kid can just let his eyes wander like that especially with his friend. But Marinette is still wearing that pleased little smile, as if she knows better. And so Alya keeps quiet and keeps watching by the sidelines.

"Am I having too much cheese," Pierre whispers, slack-jawed. "Or is it really the LB right in front of me?"

"The one and only." Marinette grins up at him.

"Woah," Pierre finally allows himself to gape, stepping back, then stepping up again, shaking his jet-black hair away from his crinkling eyes. "Shoulda've recognized you from the moment you tripped. But woah – and I mean woah. When'd ya stop wearing those dorky pigtails anyway? Couldn't recognize ya without 'em, Ma-ri."

"Oh shut up. You're talking. When did you grow taller than me?" Marinette wonders in astonishment, reaching a hand and placing it on the bridge of his nose, where the tip of her head had reached him.

Pierre shuffles back, grinning lazily at her. "Well, it has been, like, seven years or something. Of course I'ma grow taller than ya, LB. I'm seventeen now. You should have seen Trinetta though. Hasn't changed, I tell ya. Still bossy and batshit righteous and all." Marinette almost rattles him out for his language, but Pierre has his shoulders bunched up and his forefinger wiping the space between the cusp of his nose and upper-lip, and if one would lean in closely maybe then they could see the delicate spread of pink that had dusted across his cheeks.

Marinette hums, smiling because she knows. And Pierre tilts his head back and smirks, merciful at the moment because he knows.

"So I would love to stay and chat for a little more while, but I can't stay in Paris forever or else you-know-who might hide my cheese supply again. Urrgh."

"That's too bad," Marinette says softly, acknowledging Alya at long last and tugging her hand to hold. Alya blinks at Marinette questioningly, but doesn't comment and lets Marinette thread their fingers together. Moral support. She thinks. "I would have loved it if you were to meet my best friend, Alya…"

"S'okay, we can talk and eat cheese some other time," Pierre sticks his tongue out, and Alya appraises him for the moment because one careful glance at the teenager and you can't deny that he's attractive. With dark forest eyes and unruly raven hair, black-clad and dangerous, as if he was the type to prowl along the alleyways. Alya shivers. "But for now, I…"

Pierre leans in to whisper something into Marinette's ear, and Alya feels her hand being squeezed tightly, and a pulse thumping fast onto her own lively rhythm, before slowing down entirely.

"What was that all about?" Alya asks suspiciously once that Pierre stranger has left, whistling all the way about cheese and annoying red-heads.

Marinette is silent, midnight-dark hair covering her eyes, unable to let Alya see what emotion is swirling on those usually bright and wide azure orbs. A moment passes, and Alya is getting increasingly worried for her friend, so she leans in to shake Marinette on the shoulder, when suddenly, her hand gets squeezed again – briefly, tightly – and Marinette raises her head to give Alya a small, relieved smile.

Alya pauses.

"I'm glad," Marinette says murmurs shyly, tracing her thumb across Alya's palm. "I'm glad that you're my friend, Alya."

Alya splutters, a blush rising rapidly to her cheeks. Isn't Marinette the klutz between them here? "Wha—What are you saying so suddenly, Marinette?!"

"Nothing." She replies innocently, smiling again. And then they continue on their way, hand in hand. Alya thinks of nothing for the rest of the day except Marinette's pleased, tinkering laughter when Alya announces that she and Nino have finally established a relationship ("It was about time!") and the way Marinette's hair have never strayed from its standard chest-length. Alya thinks that she never bothered to ask Marinette why she didn't cut it or let it grow, and thinks again that it's always been like that. Thick and neat and soft to the touch. Mostly tied into a bun at the base of Marinette's smooth nape.

Alya thinks of nothing for the rest of the day except Marinette's ocean eyes and midnight strands. And maybe that's exactly why she doesn't notice the camera flashing earlier when that Pierre stranger had casually chatted Marinette, black-clad and smirking and awfully good-looking, as if he was attempting too hard to be an ordinary Parisian civilian when he was something else entirely.

—

One day to go.

Alya is pacing around her apartment living room, feet shuffling nervously against the carpeted floors. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun of fading scarlet wisps and her black frames are askew on the curve of her nose, and she's muttering words quickly under her breath, brows pinching towards a tight knit on her forehead with each tick-tock of her phone's digital watch.

"If you keep that up," says her not-so-little-anymore sibling, body thrown languidly on the soft armrest of Alya's couch whilst switching channels using the remote control, eyes judging TV programs with unblinking speed, "you're going to get wrinkles, and that's just gross."

"Oh be quiet you," Alya sighs out loudly, and promptly collapses to the seat on the couch next to her little brother. "Why can't you just support me like any other family would during the time of dire circumstances?"

"You did not just say that. And what about your friend, anyway? Where's she now in your current time of dire circumstances?"

"Excuse you but my lovely friend Marinette, who would undoubtedly help me in my time of dire circumstances, is currently off in this fashion company, showing off her wondrous portfolio which I'm pretty sure would get accepted right away—"

"Wait, wait, wait," her brother stops her, and he's wearing this incredulous look that makes Alya wonder if she's overlooked something she's not supposed to (she has). "So you're telling me that she's only about to apply for an actual job as a fashion designer… now?"

"…yeah. I mean," Alya frowns thoughtfully, but automatically comes in Marinette's defense, "don't be too harsh on her. She's been in a real slump these past few years. She hasn't actually been the same ever since that one day back in high-school where she stopped wearing pigtails but I don't know it looked pretty good on her and all – but I guess I didn't think about it too much since I was really depressed that day too. Miraculous, the best show of all time, just got cancelled and I got so depressed and we were depressed together—"

"First of all, yeah I remember that day. You were eating two whole tubs of ice cream and won't stop chanting about Lady… Nur or something—?"

"It's Ladynoir you fake fan—"

"And second," her brother cuts her off, glasses glinting from the lights above, "I don't mean to be that way. It's just that your friend, Marinette, just seemed pretty well-off to me. So I just assumed that she had a job already and that the job was paying her off well. Her parents must be really rich, huh?"

"Uh… no," Alya says slowly, blinking. Marinette always had too much free time on her hands, and maybe even the latest and most expensive rolls of fabrics stored up in her boutique despite the fact that she didn't seem to be in the role of a part-time worker or so. "They're bakers…"

"…oh."

"Yes."

"Okay, um."

"Yes."

"That Miraculous show," her brother blurts out suddenly, as if he's desperate to escape from the situation he himself had compelled. "I remember bits and pieces of it when I was a kid. Something about superheroes?"

"Yeah!" Alya almost squeals, and there's an expression of queasy regret that falls upon her little sibling's face, almost as if he's regretted another decision he just made.

Too late.

"Ladybug and Chat Noir," Alya swoons dreamily, eyes softening into an eclectic haze of nostalgia and longing. "Oh damn, I was such a huge nerd back then – and I'm not denying it. I remember I always had the latest updates on when the newest episodes were coming out, and how I literally made mom and dad broke because I kept on asking for art commissions, and I used to stay up all night just gradually descending into the horrific world of Miraculous trash. God, I really, really loved that show. But hey, I wasn't the only one. I actually made tons of friends in the internet back then with the people who loved the show as much as I did! And we used to fangirl together and send screenshots and make gifs and edit pictures while crying on how perfect Ladybug and Chat Noir were together. Ladynoir was my freaking life."

Her brother snorts, but shakes his head fondly, smiling. Alya sends him a tiny smirk, because she can definitely attest to the fact that he'd be just as much of a fan she was if he were her age. "Ladybug and Chat Noir were the main protagonists, right?" says her brother thoughtfully, humming, "Chat Noir… was that blond guy with the black suit and cat ears who was head over heels with that dark-haired, blue-eyed, Chinese chick, right?"

Alya blinks.

"Ladybug," she corrects, a little hesitantly, oddly, "you mean Ladybug."

Her little brother shrugs, not quite seeing what's wrong. "That's what I said."

"No…" Alya says slowly, a strange thought suddenly creeping into her mind. She doesn't know why her heart is beating so frighteningly fast, and it makes her voice more breathless, doubtful. "You said…"

"This just in, folks!"The TV blares out so suddenly, startling Alya and her little brother. And normally Alya would have switched off the electronic screen with one flick of the remote control and continue on her where her train of thought was taking her but—

"Hey sis," her brother calls out to her warily, eyes widening into saucers as they both take in the picture that suddenly covers half the space of the TV program in full zoom, the TV Host continuing to gossip and chatter dramatically in the background. "Isn't that…?"

There's no mistaking it. Despite the slight blur due to movement and the fact that the picture's corners are all stuffed by leaves and brambles (as if the person behind the camera had been hiding behind a bush), there's just simply no one else Alya knows who has that particular tint of dark hair, or blue eyes, or pallid, rosy skin, or aesthetic, Chinese features—

The slow, staggering realization comes in with the shrill of the TV Host's voice.

"…This photo was taken last Tuesday afternoon in front of café Lachapelle, where former celebrity and youtube sensation Pierre Etoilé – who used to play as the lovable and mischievous character 'Plagg' in the hit series 'Miraculous' and who had just recently resurfaced in show business through his modeling breakthrough after an almost seven-year hiatus – was spotted with an unknown girl whose identity is currently classified! You heard that, people! It seems like the two share a close relationship, as seen in the photo where you can clearly see our dear little 'Plagg' – who's not so little anymore! – lean in to this mysterious girl… but for what? A kiss, perhaps? How intima—"

Alya's out of the door faster than a heartbeat.

—

The first thing that Alya feels is anger.

Anger so powerful it bursts through her; through the innards of her body, through her veins, through the uncomfortable churn of her gut, and through the fervid thump-thump-thumping of her heart, violent and stormy, until she can feel it sizzle under the gradual angry flush burning shamefully on her cheeks. She's feeling a lot of things at once – feeling mad, and humiliated, and betrayed, and scared, because as she steps down from the car and takes in the lush redolence of her destination – Marinette's home – the one thought that makes her hard to breathe out of everything in the end is, 'who are you, Marinette?'

Who are you?

Her thoughts are a chaotic mess in her head, and she distinctly feels a headache coming, along with the painful reminder of her ostensible lack of sleep for the past few weeks. She walks quickly ahead anyways, trying to at least array her thoughts in a sensible and coherent order in order to justify herself on why she's even furious at Marinette in the first place.

Because it doesn't make sense, Alya thinks, gritting her teeth and entering the elevator whilst pressing the buttons to Marinette's floor. She isn't quite sure, but Alya's gut feeling has always been particularly strong. She's leaning her head against the cool surface, mind in a state of utter havoc that it's almost painfully difficult to concentrate. Alya flashbacks to seven years ago; thinks of Plagg – back when he's about ten years old and grubby-faced, acting out as the pompous and cunning little kwami he had been in Miraculous, and thinks of him again on that particular mid-summer afternoon, garbed in nothing but plain black shadows, tall and smirking, leaning in to Marinette to whisper like they're long lost buddies, sharing a little secret—

Alya thinks of him calling Marinette 'LB' and 'Ma-ri'; thinks of Marinette and her expensive rolls of fabric hidden in the boutique; thinks of Marinette who has too much time on her hands and her eyes and her hair and her heritage – Alya shuts her eyes tiredly after a moment, frowning, because somehow in her heart she feels like something is still missing… something vital. Something that will finally fit in the last piece of the puzzle. Something that's been under her nose this whole time.

That's okay, because when the elevator doors ding open and she steps outside into the lobby, she finds her brain ceasing all functions completely including the ability to think because her gaze swiftly lands on to Marinette's apartment door, only to find Adrien Agreste banging his fists against it.

Alya immediately ducks and hides behind the corner of the wall, breathing hard.

"Ladybug!" Alya jolts up in fear, cautiously peeking from her place behind the wall and finding Adrien still furiously banging on the door, screeching loudly in a voice so desperate it breaks Alya's heart. "Lady, please!"

It feels like a dream to Alya, and she watches from afar as Adrien lets out a frustrated yell, wipes the sweat from the sharp ridge of his jaw line, and continuously bangs against Marinette's apartment door much more fiercely than before. There's an intense look of determination in his usual cold, usual apathetic, usual stoic forest-green eyes, and it makes Alya feel like he's more alive and bright than when he's in his photo-shoots or movies – makes Alya feel like Adrien Agreste is just the same as the rest of them: human.

"Ladybug, please listen to me! The paparazzi are looking for you – it's not safe for you, I – gah who the hell am I kidding – Ladybug open the door!"

Alya realizes – when she looks at Adrien's unkempt attire and unruly blond locks, when she looks at Adrien and the sweat glistening his skin and the heartbreak so clear and vulnerable in his face – that Marinette is the one who did this; that Marinette is the one who had reduced the high and mighty Adrien Agreste to just this hurt little boy, just begging some girl to just open the fucking door.

Alya thinks of all the girls who ever had the luxury to walk on the red carpet arm in arm with Adrien Agreste, then thinks silently to herself that: ah, they're no Ladybug.

They're no Marinette.

But Alya thinks of Marinette too, with a sudden dawn of yet another gradual epiphany: when the days are done and late and they're left basking in the quiet balm of coffee and company, of fabric and blogs – when Alya is done with her tea and she's resting her head against the tender cushion of her chair, sometimes she'll glance up just in time to see Marinette, eyes closed and lashes curling long, a wide ray of gentle sunlight draping over her, turning Marinette's edges soft and beautiful and…

Lonely.

(Alya thinks of Marinette and that one day back in high-school, where she stopped wearing pigtails and held Alya as she cried endlessly over Miraculous. She thinks of Marinette and her ocean-blue, sky-vast eyes – lidded and tired and had always been sad, ever since that day.

Alya thinks of Marinette whispering, holding to her hand tightly as if Alya would leave the moment she'd let go, "I'm glad that you're my friend, Alya.")

Alya stops thinking after that.

She marches up next to Adrien, calmly takes out the extra key Marinette had given to her just in case – unlocks the door, steps aside, and tells him, "Go, Chat Noir."

He doesn't have to be told twice.

—

Alya doesn't mind that much, when the next day she learns that Adrien's agent had apologized profusely to her company, asking for forgiveness when they find out that Adrien has been missing – tomorrow, the day after that, and eventually the week after that too. The media goes wild, distributing out various theories and assumptions as to where Parisian's prince could possibly be, and it demands too much attention from the whole world that the issue with Plagg and 'the unknown girl' goes away and disappears completely.

It's one in the morning and Alya's still proofreading some boring article she got assigned to as a replacement for her initial task of interviewing Adrien Agreste. Her phone suddenly rings, and she answers it without a second glance, a smile ready to bloom in her face at the affectionate greeting that her best friend gives to her from the other side of the call.

"Why are you still awake?"

"Why are you still awake?" Alya shots back, grin widening.

"Alya," says Marinette, snorting, "it's seven in the morning here. We're in China, remember?"

There's something that's changed in Marinette's voice, or over-all demeanor. And that itself makes Alya bite her lip to keep herself from smiling too widely. It's the way Marinette doesn't breathe out her words anymore like she once did when her heart was glass – the way when Marinette says 'we' referring to both of them who're together now, at least (after all this time; after seven whole years).

Alya knows it's far from over, especially when she has to stifle her giggles at the loud crash that resonates from Marinette's side of the call.

"You naughty cat!" Marinette shrieks, sounding aggravated – alive. Alya can get used to this. "You broke my grandmother's favorite china set!"

Alya can hear a distinct, static echo of "how clawful! Pawdon me for my un-fur-tunate—" before she hears something that suspiciously sounds like Marinette tackling Adrien to the ground, probably giving him a black-eye. Again.

(How would a normal person even react to seeing their first love/hate barging in their apartment room after they locked him out?

"Not that good," Adrien would say, cradling ice to his eye.)

Before Marinette excuses herself to sweep the broken pieces of the china set that his royal celebrity highness had so generously destroyed, Alya tells Marinette quickly, softly, as sincerely as she can: "I'm sorry."

Marinette pauses. Alya can tell she's furrowing her brows in worry. "What for, Alya?"

"That day back in high-school." Alya says, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears threatening to fall down Alya's crumbling face. "That day when – when you stopped wearing pigtails, remember? That day when the show got cancelled. I was so sad… I didn't think I could get up for days. But you?" Alya sucks in a deep breath, tears falling freely now. She's choking, crying, "it probably hurt you the most but I was so selfish and I didn't see—"

"Alya." Marinette voices out her name, lilting and calm, sweet and touched. Alya doesn't need to ask what Marinette means. You didn't know. You're forgiven. It's written already, in the way Marinette laughs quietly into the speakers, and how Alya immediately stops crying. It's in the way Marinette teasingly asks her, "hey Alya, while I go clean up this stupid cat's litter, I was wondering if you're still up for that interview?"

"Hell yeah!" Alya shrieks, and darts a quick glance at Nino to see him still sleeping peacefully right beside her in his thick and comfortable fort of blankets and pillows. Alya scoffs, fond and loved. Jerk.

There's a short shuffle in the near end, and suddenly the vibe changes and Alya just knows that Adrien has taken the phone. Alya thinks that if she were talking to the previous Adrien – the one with platinum-green eyes and hard lips and sharp, jagged edges – she thinks that she would easily be intimidated. That old Adrien who's cold to the touch and bitter to the taste is gone now, replaced by this Adrien who's still trying to muffle his laughter on the end of the receiver. Alya almost lets out a motherly coo.

"So Adrien," she says instead, trying to act all professional but failing, "I've figured out your pattern for girls."

Adrien winces and he doesn't try to hide it. "Honestly, when I realized what pattern I was going I was already in too deep and couldn't just stop." He says shyly, and Alya imagines him scratching his nape abashedly. "Up until now I can't understand how none of the paparazzi could figure out that I was stuck in love with Mari – Ladybug. Dark hair, Chinese, wears color Red all the time… Even I'm not that stupid and I'm the one doing it!"

"Well, maybe if you just revealed to the public you were Chat Noir in the first place. That would have helped."

"Nah, my lady didn't want to! She wanted me all to herself – ouch!"

Alya bursts out laughing, reaching a hand to squeeze her stomach, before suddenly remembering something. "Can I ask you one more thing, Chat Noir?"

"Go ahead." Adrien says, amiable and smooth and happy.

Alya hesitates, thinks of all the ladies Adrien had dated with, thinks of their scarlet lips and really dark hair and pale skin and then, "why never blue eyes?"

Adrien's answer comes in a soft whisper, "because my most favorite person in the whole world has blue eyes." He pauses, and Alya can hear the love in his voice, pure and unwavering. "Her eyes are so silly, y'know? So big. Like the ocean, and the sky."

Alya smiles.

—

Later in the evening Alya opens her fan-blog of Miraculous for the first time in many years, and uploads a picture along with a small caption. The picture is of Adrien and Marinette, their backs facing the camera, sunbeam draped lazily over them, creating halos on their heads and a softness to their edges, red and green and the blue ocean stretched before them, and:

[ ladynoir is canon; in and out of miraculous biatches asghdjlfkl ]

—

end.