AN: Oh, boy, this chapter was a complete monster. I didn't write this in the beginning because of spoilers, but this story was loosely inspired by: W: Two Worlds (k-drama) and Pinocchio (webtoon by Maru). I had so much fun writing this because of all the support, so thank you. Also, thank you to Saij Spellhart for helping me out with this without realising what it was for, ahaha. My next story will be a singing AU! There'll be teasers and updates on my tumblr (xiueryn).

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir © Thomas Astruc

The following week, there was a few more pages added to the comic. The ink was dried, there was no smudging from the sketchbook being closed, and when Marinette opened it with wide eyes to see the new panels that had appeared, she shivered from confusion.

It was still not possible.

After she'd found the additions the first time since Adrien's disappearance, the dark-haired female had waited until her tears had ran dry before she tidied away the mess, pushing the box back to the other side of the dusty room, and kept the sketchbook underneath her arm as she walked into her bedroom where she placed it safely underneath her mattress.

So, the theory of someone purposely tormenting her was definitely out (it was from the beginning, she'd never described her ghostly friend to anyone, let alone tried to connect the dots aloud to the comic, so no one could've come to that conclusion).

It didn't update daily. Although it showed Adrien's life, it skipped time a lot, only featuring the interesting moments of his encounters, a brief glance of his endearing moments with his pets, or his internal thoughts that he hadn't told his faceless friends. Marinette noticed that the speech patterns she'd become familiar with, the way he'd furrow his eyebrows while thinking of something troubling, in the pictures, and she found herself brushing her fingertips across the images more than once before snapping out of it.

It wasn't right to long for what she couldn't have, but then again, nothing of her situation was normal.

After a month of watching the updates slowly take place, no sense of a schedule clear so she dutifully checked each evening after she'd returned home from work, and making sure to store the sketchbook in a different location after colour had appeared, Marinette started to question her sanity again.

But Alya had seen it, hadn't she?

With that in mind, Marinette warily tucked the sketchbook into her bag and met her friend for lunch, carefully revealing it after their plates had been taken away. As she expected, Alya was able to flick through the pages, making appreciative noises at the beautiful scenery, remarking on the crisp lines and the general mood of the comic.

"Didn't you send me a picture of this before?" the red-head enquired, a small smile on her lips as she turned a page.

She didn't see Marinette tense. "Yes."

With that confirmed, knowing that she wasn't imagining it and somehow—no matter how impossible—she was in possession of a comic that seemed to write itself, she started to question her life at all. She knew that magic didn't exist, and ghosts belonged in horror stories where they haunted victims with screams and malicious intent, not a bright personality and a bad sense of humour.

Adrien wasn't classed as dead; or, rather, he wasn't in his world. When his character had the accident, the one that was never shown or explained, other than the blackness of the pages and the hospital stay and recovery, his consciousness had travelled through to her side. He'd appeared as a mangled version of a ghost, unable to communicate with anyone but her, and she suspected that was because she'd created him.

"Or not," Marinette said, shaking her head with a groan.

It was also possible that it was the other way around; that his displacement over to her world had caused the blackout and coma, and not the opposite. There was no way of confirming or denying her theories, so they were just that—theories that she scribbled on tiny pieces of paper, sticking them onto the wall in her bedroom, where no one would venture if they came to visit.

A pressing matter alerted her when she read about Adrien asking his blurry friends if they knew anyone of her description, rejecting the idea that it was someone that he already knew, and didn't realise that was who he was talking about.

There was a limited amount of paper left, not enough to last endlessly, and she doubted the supernatural sketchbook she'd acquired was capable of producing pages out of thin air.

How had her father done it? She didn't know where his own work ended and the comic had started itself, unsure whether he'd been the one to predict for Adrien to be in an accident or not. With furrowed eyebrows and a weekend off from work, Marinette spent her time hauled up in the study—she'd cleaned it out slowly, wiping a surface each time she entered through the door—searching through the storyboards, trying to make sense of the situation.

As she'd started to suspect, the storyboards didn't include the accident. Adrien was supposed to arrive at friend's birthday gathering with a smile, enjoy his evening with snippet showing across the pages; he wasn't supposed to collapse in the middle of the street, and then be comatose for almost a year.

The supernatural elements must've started with her father's death, she concluded sceptically. There was evidence of her father's planning for the scenes before Adrien's accident, proving that he was the one that had been in control of the story. That meant he hadn't had to contemplate the situation of the sketchbook, to consider whether it was too unnatural to accept, or question his sanity along the way.

Marinette had wished for a normal life when she was little, back when reporters and other media-related employees used to try and use her childish ways to reveal about her father's life or work, and although she'd accepted she was living anything but a mundane life, she hadn't expected to be involved with something she couldn't explain. How would she tell anyone about it? They'd suggest she seek medical help, as she wouldn't be able to prove that she'd actually seen Adrien, and had been living with him for months.

The real question was whether he was still classed as fictional. Marinette had watched him breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest that never wavered due to his limited capability; yes, he'd been handicapped and in a deformed, but he had been there. She'd tried to deny the time they'd spent together, to shove it aside and class it as a breakdown of sorts from grief, but that wasn't right, and it wasn't fair to him.

Adrien trying to remember her was the main part of the comic now. He tried to recall her face in his thoughts, attempted to recreate her with his drawings—that were childish and undeveloped—even going as far as to check the newspapers and articles that had mentioned his collapse, trying to see whether the small picture displayed on them would show her in them.

The worst part was that he didn't know how to justify his curiosity. There was a nagging feeling that tugged at him, and all of that was written in text, available for her to see his intimate thoughts that should've been private.

She felt like she was intruding by reading them.

Running a hand through her dark hair, she confessed softly, "I'm so confused."

The sketchbook was alive, so he was, too. That's what she had to tell herself; that his face was there, clear and visible with his thoughts on display, while the others in the story were blurred and not in the focus of the pages, not intended to draw her attention. The fact that she couldn't recall a single name that had been uttered other than his proved that, too.

The sketchbook had acquired powers around the time of her father's death. If it sucked the life from him to coat the pages in magic, she was unsure, and she really didn't want to think that it was the cause of his departure. His death had been from natural causes, confirmed by the doctors, so she wasn't going to go down that path of blaming an inanimate object. So, that left one option—when he'd passed, it had awakened as Adrien fell comatose, presumably because his creator had disappeared.

If her father had been able to mould him into what he wanted, to lead his fictional son through a happy life, then shouldn't she have a say, too? The rules of the sketchbook weren't clear, not at all, but she had had a hand in creating him. Whether that mattered was unknown, but she wanted to see if she could take over her father's place.

If she was able to, if the pages allowed her to place the nib of her utensils onto the blank paper, then she could give Adrien the happy life he'd had previously; to forget about the time they'd spent together, to allow him to forget the dark-haired female that was predominate in his thoughts as of late. He deserved to returned to the blissful ignorance that he'd lived in previously, rather than stuck on the idea of her.

It wasn't as though she'd saved him when he fell. They'd come across each other by pure chance—

How had he gotten there? If Adrien had manifested from the sketchbook, then he should've appeared in her father's bedroom or study, wherever the carer had last left his work. There was no reason for him to have been outside, trapped amongst crowds that looked past him with unseeing eyes. He shouldn't have been roaming outside, far from the creaky gate that greeted guests.

Perhaps something had gone wrong when he appeared. Nothing was clear about the supernatural, so of course it would have hiccups, though Marinette had to admit that if she'd returned from transporting her father's body to find a groggy ghost in her home, she would've reacted completely differently. Perhaps violently, and then that would've been awkward when all she felt was a chill, rather than her fist connecting with someone's flesh.

She wanted to fix what was wrong. It would be closure in a way; to see Adrien happy without her, then she could move on and heal the wounds from their past. The fact that she was more cut up from his disappearance rather than any of her last relationships was telling, but then again, she had been living with Adrien (and that had to count for something).

With her resolve found, she experimented in the evenings, trying to hone her style to depict him well. It was unclear whether she had to try and copy her father's drawings perfectly, or if her relation to Adrien was what allowed her to be involved, so she decided to practice first, to try and become comfortable with drawing him first before she attempted to alter his life.

The first time she sketched his face, attempting to recreate his puzzled expression he wore whenever Marinette had shuffled downstairs with mismatched socks or forgotten articles of clothing, she didn't get through to inking before she burst into tears.

It was a new form of suffering; drawings her best friend from different angles, remembering his quirks and nervous gestures, trying to find the correct colours or guess the type of clothing that he could wear. She'd flipped through the previous pages of the comic, taking note of the interior of his apartment, and had found her father's designs for his home and character design at his current age. With shaky hands, she'd put them carefully into frames and then onto the walls of the study, so she only had to look up for his references.

The animal studies she'd done when he was living with her helped when she draw his cats. Their faces were always looking away, no eye colour showing, with their tails flicking whenever a speech bubble with their noises inside them was displayed.

As she planned on what to do, the continued to ink themselves, displaying Adrien groaning as he tried to figure out his feelings on why he felt lonely.

That had her stomach clenching uncomfortably.

He shouldn't feel loneliness, nor any other emotion; Adrien was supposed to be a fictional character that ended when his creator passed away, not living a life of his own in a supernatural book that kept her up-to-date on the situation of his life. To see his thoughts lost and uncertain, trying to recall her and the time they'd spent together—learning each other's quirks, growing close and fond—continued to remind her of hat she'd lost.

It wasn't as though she could make him real. Adrien was trapped in the book, where he belonged. She didn't want him to be in the state he had been before, stuck by her side and unable to touch her shoulder in comfort, but there was nothing else she could do for him. The power to pull him through to her world wasn't her own; it had only happened because the previous creator's life had ended, resulting in a strange occurrence.

She wasn't contemplating hurting herself to attempt to pull him through. If she fell into a coma, she highly doubted that she'd appear in his blurry-faced world.

"No," Marinette tried to convince herself. There were people left in her own world that cared about her, and she wasn't going to abandon them for the small chance that she'd be reunited with her best friend—the thought was insane and needed to be banished. She wouldn't leave Alya to pick up the pieces she left behind, nor for Nathalie to cope with her disappearance.

It wouldn't do for her to harm herself in her efforts for closure.

The first time she tried to use pencil on the sketchbook, she was baffled as it wouldn't appear. Regardless of how hard she pressed, no lines appeared on the blank area, and when she stubbornly reached for a pen, the ink reacted the same way. Frustrated, she closed the sketchbook harder than intended, irritation causing her eyes to grow hot from her incompetence.

She'd planned out a whole scene: Adrien would meet a blurry-faced female with dark hair and move on with his life, knowing that it wasn't her but it was enough. Marinette had the storyboards beside her, filling up the remaining pages perfectly as she'd rushed herself for the deadline.

The rejection meant that the sketchbook wasn't accepting her idea, or her as the new creator. She wouldn't have a say in what happened, stuck with watching as the remaining blank pages filled with Adrien's sighs and growing loneliness that she couldn't cure, no matter how hard she tried.

She wanted to cry.

-x-

Although she knew that her efforts were in vain, when Marinette passed by a flower-shop, she ducked inside to see the employees, staring intently at the aprons to see whether she recognised them. It had made her receive a few odd looks along the way, but she was absolutely certain that Adrien didn't work nearby.

She had to tell herself countless times that it wasn't possible for him to be from her world; his mother had died before he came into existence, and she'd searched local accidents and hospitals to see whether anyone had fit his description. All that aside, it didn't mean she couldn't inhale the floral fragrances, trying to imagine what he would smell like after a day of work.

She celebrated her birthday quietly, enjoying a meal cooked by Nino with a couple of friends. It wasn't the extravagant celebration that she might've once had, and when she was greeted at home by silence, rather than the quiet murmur of electronics left on, she might've cried for a good half an hour.

When the darkness surrounded her as she climbed into bed, the quiet of her house deafening as she could hear the noise of a clock, the distant sound of cars in the distance, she wondered whether her feelings had transformed into an obsession. It wasn't healthy to be so focused on something, but she needed to have results, to grasp onto some sort of an answer on what had happened. There was a decreasing time limit established by the sketchbook itself that she had to abide to, but that didn't mean she couldn't try to bypass it. Marinette had bought a new book, peeled off the plastic covering, and placed it beside the current, trying to see whether it would pass on the supernatural quality to the new one.

Of course, she didn't have much hope for that. The chance of it happening was miniscule, which is why she arrived at work with dark circles underneath her eyes, sleep becoming worse with every page that appeared. It seemed to be taunting her with the slow speed, only showing snippets of Adrien's life as he scribbled on notes and other surfaces, trying to piece together his complicated feelings.

If the ink would've let her, she could've made him happy. Goodness—if her stationery worked, she could've even drawn a quick note on his desk, greeting him or anything else. The thought of that had appeared more than once, a horrified thrill running through her as she pondered the possibilities, wondering whether he'd reply by hand or in his speech bubbles.

Marinette gasped, clumsy hands turning on her lamp as she sat up in bed, rubbing her tired eyes as she stumbled through the hallway, opening the door to the study and sitting herself down at the desk. The sudden idea had struck her, and she wanted to test it, not forget it after an exhausting day at work, so it was with her clad in light pyjamas and messy hair that she thumbed through the sketchbook, finding the last page that had appeared.

If she couldn't shape the flow of the story herself, did that mean she couldn't edit the rest?

She wasn't hoping for a miracle. Passing over the eraser, Marinette selected a pen, tired blue-coloured eyes searching through the page for a place to write, somewhere where words would've made sense, not appearing out of thin air.

On one of the panels where he was scribbling his thoughts—which included a lot of bold question marks—there was free space, but she'd have to write purposely tiny for it to fit.

"Please work," she whispered, aware that she sounded mad.

She wrote his name with a question mark, and to her shock, the ink was accepted. There it was in front of her, a tiny scribble of Adrien upon his piece of paper, blending into the mess of the the rest of the page.

But it was still there.

With renewed hope, Marinette tried to see whether she could scribble on anything else—his desk, the floor, even the snippet of bare wall that appeared—but the ink wasn't accepted anywhere else than paper, where it had been intended for writing to appear. She could accept the limitations as the idea working at all had been absurd, and now she just needed Adrien to catch sight of it.

She couldn't have been losing her mind. It was perfectly normal to try and communicate with a fictional character, or whatever he was classed as from his evolution.

There wasn't an update for two days, and she knew that that meant that nothing interesting had occurred for him, not noteworthy enough to grace the limited pages of the sketchbook. So it was on the weekend, after she'd placed her smart shoes for work away into the closet and rested against the soft couch with the sketchbook left tauntingly on the coffee-table that she checked again.

Adrien's first reaction to the note was to assume that it was from himself. It was a simple half a page that had appeared, a glimpse of the paper with Marinette's scrawl on it, and then his off-handed remark that he didn't remember writing it.

A noise of frustration left her at that. Half a page was all she was worth at that moment, apparently, and it hurt more than it should've. She didn't know if she'd expected him to remember her instantly—would he ever?—or ignore it, but the dismissal had her narrowing her eyes at the page.

There was still room on the note, and the convenient placing of it meant that she was still able to write on it. With a smile, she searched through the various pots filled with pens throughout the house, trying to find the most obnoxious one to announce her presence with.

It had glitter in it.

Her message was longer this time, telling him to respond by writing on the note, leaving no mention of her name or how it had came to be.

As expected, for once, Adrien's eyes widened when he caught sight of it the following day, clearly unprepared for the sudden appearance. At first he searched through his own pens, trying to see whether he owned it, and then listed off the various people that had been in his house since he'd last looked at it (which came to none).

He asked her whether she was haunting him.

The laughter that spilled from her lips was a tad hysterical. Her? He was unaware of the things that he'd put her through, including their first morning together where he'd absolutely terrified her after she'd woken up.

There was enough pages left for them to get to know each other either; the limit was counting down with every panel that showed his perplexed or shocked reactions, the timid way he brushed his fingers over the top of the note to see whether it was real, and if the ink was fresh and would smudge. The assumption that she was a ghost amused her more than it should've, though she didn't feel the need to make terrible ghost jokes, as he would've if the situation was reversed.

She told him in that glittery pen that she didn't have much time, needed to know that she didn't save him from his accident, and she definitely hadn't been present for it, then finished it off that it was futile searching for her. The few sentences filled up the remaining space, letters tight and squished together to allow it all to be seen, and she knew that she probably wouldn't have another chance after that. When words started to mysteriously appear on paper, the expected reaction was fear or paranoia, not attempting to befriend them.

When she checked the following day, there was a fresh note asking her who she was, no shot of his face or inner thoughts—one fourth of the page was focused on that alone, leaving the rest blank, ready for their interaction.

He had to be real in his own supernatural way to converse with her as he was. Marinette was unable to shape the story by herself, not having the power to bring her drawings of him to life despite how she'd practised.

She gave him her full name, and he responded with their shared surname in bold, complete with multiple question marks. A smile tugged on her lips from the reaction, and she imagined that his green eyes had widened, too.

They were starting to communicate through a skewed version of e-mails, which amused her greatly before she stiffened, remembering how emotionally messed up she'd been back when he'd disappeared. It was he who was considering her the supernatural force that time, and she didn't feel the need to deny that fact, as everything about the situation was hard to explain. It seemed too fictional to tell him that he'd spent the time during his coma in her world as a ghost, but then again, they were talking in the remaining five pages of the sketchbook.

With glitter-speckled ink, she asked if he remembered dreaming anything in his coma, to which he asked her how long she'd been stalking him to know about that.

She snorted.

With an estimation of ten replies, or more depending on how small Adrien's panels were at times, Marinette quickly scribbled that she had limited time that she could talk to him, and if he wanted to walk away and forget about her, it was fine. She was giving him a choice, a chance to forget about the glimpses of her blurry face that he'd seen in his thoughts when he was lost and confused.

Naturally, he didn't react like most would. Adrien asked her why he'd want to talk to her at all, that ghosts weren't usually so kind, so he tried to prompt her to tell him her hidden agenda.

His handwriting was endearing. When he continued to trace over what he'd inked out, making the lines bold and sloppy, it showed his enthusiasm, much like the loopy curls on his letters from where he'd been trying to write too quickly. If he put time and effort into it, she was sure that he could've had presentable handwriting that would've looked wonderful on greeting cards in his store, rather than the scribbles that she was sent.

Unsure whether to reach for a pencil, Marinette grabbed a black pen instead, then continued on to draw a small picture of her face, trying to show the shape of her eyes and the colour of her hair by messily scribbling within the lines. Underneath she included an arrow saying that that was her, and that they had been friends some time ago.

He had wanted to be more than friends once.

Although there was no image of his face to show the surprised expression, the sloppy handwriting and the smudges from where he'd accidentally wiped his hand on the ink showed his impatience. He asked whether she was breaking in to purposely mess with him and play a practical joke, and she choked back a laugh from the fact that she'd assumed that in the beginning, too.

Although she hadn't seen the sketchbook self-update in front of her eyes, when it was closed and tucked away in a safe place, the next time she'd look it would change. She assumed he was experiencing much the same, too, with the messages only appearing when he looked away, no matter how much he stared at the blank spaces, waiting for writing to appear.

Against her tactful thoughts, Marinette replied that he'd spent the time in his coma in her world.

He chose to ink his multiple question marks in different colour. The note had been looking drab from the lack of glitter, and that was what she wanted to reply to apply humour to their conversation, but there was only four pages left, and then they'd be stuck with festering wounds that wouldn't be closed anytime soon.

Running a hand through her wet hair, Marinette wondered whether it was a smart idea to start to communicate with him at all. Although he'd been curious, yes, he didn't have the memories to remember her, so he hadn't been in the same position as her. She'd lived through months, almost a year without him, and yet she still craved the relationship they'd once had.

She was selfish, then.

The next day, after staring at his question marks with a soft smile from how mismatched they were, Marinette chose to draw a simple picture of her father had his late wife, relying on colours to help identify them, along with writing their names underneath where she asked whether they were his parents.

The affirmative from him had her gulping.

Three pages remained. Adrien's impatience and confusion was portrayed with multiple punctuation to make up for the fact that she couldn't hear his voice and reactions, though she was starting to believe that the memory of his voice was fading from their time apart. The only reason she could accurately remember his face was because of the countless comics and the references that she had framed on the wall in the study, acting as a make-shift shrine that had her cheeks burning whenever she firmly shut the study room when visitors arrived at her home.

There was nothing that Adrien had said to her that she could relay to him, to prove that he had been in her life. He'd had missing memories and made up for them with a bright personality, and she doubted that repeating some of the jokes she'd heard was going to convince him that she hadn't simply leaned that by stalking him (if he was still suspecting that theory—and if so, she was certainly stealthy if she'd managed to break into his home every few days).

So, she went for the truth once more. Being blunt and forward, she stated that in her world, their father had adopted her.

Adrien asked whether she lived in a parallel world where they were siblings.

She licked her lips, taking in the small space on the page, counting that there was two more remaining. It wasn't enough to explain her life story, and that certainly wasn't important enough to tell him. She flexed her fingers from where they'd grown cold, almost numb, from gripping the pen too tightly while contemplating her answer.

"How am I supposed to get closure from this?" she muttered. If anything, her feelings would only be worse when their contact was cut, the supernatural sketchbook ceasing their strange connection.

It had got him through to her once, though. Surely, there had to be something that she could do, outside of physically harming herself in an attempt to reach through to him. She didn't want to wish damage upon Adrien neither, but he was bound to have already pieced together that something was strange about their connection, especially since she'd revealed that she was in another world.

Somehow, he was going along with her words, believing her instead of outright saying she was lying.

She replied tentatively that her father's death had caused his comatose state, and had somehow pulled him through to her world for the time that he was unconscious. Her heart was beating fast as she wrote out the quick explanation, hoping that it was enough to get through to him—surely, if he was to reject her, he would've done it sooner rather than begin corresponding with her.

The memory of his crumpled face when she'd pushed him away—forcing him to return once he'd accepted his identity—made her heart feel heavy. The time that had passed since then had convinced her absolutely that he wasn't her imagination, and that the her delusional realisation had caused harm and had split them apart.

It would've been selfish to keep him as a ghost, though. They couldn't have been more than friends; him as her ghostly lodger who kept her company in the evenings, while she lived the life of a recluse, refusing to have a part in her father's company.

She'd grown up since he'd disappeared, but that didn't mean she didn't want him any more. The Adrien she'd come to know had been someone she liked unconditionally, and perhaps if he was capable of touching her—his fingertips able to touch anything—then they could've grown into more.

Her cheeks warmed at that.

Adrien's response was short, a small scribble asking why. It had only one question mark.

There was no time to tell him gently. The comic had been kind to her thus far, focusing on the replies rather than his reactions and his everyday life, but there was only two pages left, and if she wanted to explain herself fully, she would've needed a lot more than that.

Marinette kept it simple; in her world, her father made a comic about Adrien's life, and that was how she was speaking to him.

She choked out a laugh as he sent back multiple question marks the following day.

How could she sum up her feelings in one page? She couldn't, not for him to understand fully, so she settled for what she should've said the last time they'd been together.

"You're real," she read aloud, feeling giddy from admitting it.

-x-

The day the final panel filled the sketchbook, thus ending the comic, came sooner than she wanted. The drawings had been small, allowing her to try and fit her scrawl in the notes to send him messages, and had been forgiving to her, not showing Adrien's life. The comic had focused on their letters until the final moment, the closing shot showing the pen he'd been using placed upon the piece of paper, illuminated by a lamp on his desk. It was an intimate shot that would've been appreciated at any other time, but only caused her eyes to itch as she took in the the image, realising that it was signalling the end.

The other sketchbook she'd bought in hopes of it continuing was blank. There was no sign that it was going to take up the supernatural abilities of the other one that she kept close to it, but she continued to check it daily, blinking back the tears as the blank and empty pages greeted her.

Their final messages had involved her explaining in brief sentences that she'd housed his ghostly form for months, telling him that he'd lost the memories of his life, and it was the comic that had made her think he was a fictional character.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry that the last message she received from him—the final one to show in that closing shot of his dimly-lit desk—was him calling her mad. She supposed he was right, in a way, but she felt saner and healthier than she did back when he'd disappeared, when she'd honestly doubted her sanity after the revelation.

There hadn't been many clues pointing to the alternative, though. Marinette could recall the times he'd told her about his day, commenting on people he'd seen and events he'd witnessed; all the things that she hadn't been there for, and couldn't have known, but it was knowledge of his own that proved that he was alive, and not supplied by her delusional mind. Sure, he hadn't said the composer of the different piano music she'd played, but that wasn't common knowledge he could've plucked from the top of his head. And even though he hadn't said them aloud, the bouquet he'd helped to select for Alya had had matching meanings, ones that couldn't have been picked at random because the flowers were attractive.

For the umpteenth time, she repeated underneath her breath the mantra of, "Real."

It was out there, off of her chest. Adrien had the basic gist of what had happened, the general idea of the amount of time they'd spent together underneath her roof, and he could do with that what he wished. Marinette was unable to do anything further, she knew that without a doubt. The sketchbook had ceased to work, leaving her stuck without a connection to his blurry-faced world, and she was trapped in her own.

She asked about the meanings of the flowers she'd bought when she purchased the bouquet for her father's second death anniversary. Nathalie, who was still acting as the boss with a stern face whenever she walked through the company halls, had planned a large event to celebrate the life that had been lost, to honour his accomplishments in life and highlight his career.

With the threat of purchasing coffee for higher-ups, Marinette was forced to attend with red-rimmed eyes and could only offer awkward smiles as the press called for her attention outside, and then the guests continued to express their condolences, placing clammy hands onto her bare shoulder in what was supposed to be comfort. The dark-haired female chose to stay by Nathalie's side as she worked through the crowd, allowing the woman she'd considered a motherly figure to dominate the flow of the conversation so she could freely sip her drinks in peace.

As nice as it had been to spend her days doing as she pleased with Adrien—being a spoiled brat with an unnecessary amount of money to help her through—having a stable job meant that she had to interact with others. She attended the employee dinners, the meetings with higher-ups when her presence was needed as her surname, rather than a low-level worker that was slowly working through the trials and work. Nathalie was adamant that she needed to be included in the inner-workings of the company, either by joining the meetings or receiving the papers and files to study in the evening when she was alone.

That was something she still shared with Adrien, though. She hadn't been born into the name Agreste, but she was still proud of it. Knowing that he still had both of his parents in his world, one where she hadn't been born into, filled her with more happiness than sadness. If his childhood had been anything like hers, then he was bound to have been happy with them.

She wondered idly whether he father had truly had control over the world, as the blurry faces and nameless figures had stayed anonymous through the years. Would her biological parents be alive there?

Well, it wasn't as though she could ask. That was out of the window, and she'd had more pressing matters to talk about rather than curiosity.

She was stuck on what to do with the countless sketchbooks. They were private, not something she wanted to share with others, and filled up a good portion of the loft from the multiple boxes. The study was already filled to the bring with bookcases and the desk, along with a armchair beside the window that had boxes stacked on top of it, making it out of use. She supposed that she could use her father's room for storage, and then figure out what to do with it if guests needed to stay over.

The sofa downstairs was comfortable, after all. She could deal with sleeping on it for a couple of days. So, with that in mind, she spent a few days moving the boxes from the loft and study into the bedroom, piling upon the bare mattress and dresser, leaving space for access to the sewing machine without it being too cramped.

Trailing her fingers over the cover of the last sketchbook, the one that had glittery ink caused her lips to curl into a fond smile, she wondered where she would've been if no supernatural events had taken place. Marinette assumed that she would've continued to be a recluse, not being as outgoing as she had been with him, mostly persuaded to visit places with Alya. And, well, she certainly wouldn't have booked a room at a karaoke bar by herself, let alone considered taking dancing lessons (before she realised how dangerous that could be, with participants moving around at will).

She'd had fun with him, even if he'd purposely ruined her terrible date and made her embarrass herself in public in the beginning.

When she went out to a restaurant with friends, consuming a few too many alcoholic beverages since they'd been brightly-coloured and even had fruit in them, Marinette had laughed and choked as she slipped in some of the worst puns in their conversations, gasping for air when she saw the dumbfounded faces that were directed at her. She'd always had a sense of humour, yes, but her puns had always been quite reserved, only appearing when she was particularly happy or feeling witty.

Nino choked on his drink when she made a cat pun.

Kim, who'd wormed his way into their group of friends a few months ago from starting to date one of them, was kind enough to give her a lift home. She waved enthusiastically and exclaimed her thanks—which was probably too loud for the neighbourhood at that time of night—and proceeded to stumble through the gate and then fumble with her keys, dropping them down on the floor.

"Adrien can pick them up now," she remarked aloud, lifting them up so they were level with her eyes. "That's nice for him."

Staring at inanimate objects at night wasn't a good idea, no matter how blurry her vision turned when she moved her head too fast, so she managed to unlock the door after her second try. Her high-heeled shoes were discarded messily in the hallway, and her jacket ended up on the kitchen table before she relaxed on the sofa, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath.

As enjoyable as it was to enjoy herself outside, whenever she returned home—no matter if it was from work or grocery shopping—the silence of the empty rooms wasn't welcoming. Her electricity bill had gone down since she wasn't leaving the television on while she slept, her laptop was given time to recuperate and cool down rather than being too hot to touch when she woke up.

She wondered again whether to get a pet for the company. There she was at twenty-five, working for Gabriel with two different positions, no romantic relationships to speak of, and her best friend only existed in pictures. Well, he should've been demoted now since he'd been gone for over a year, missing her last birthday—and she'd missed his again. The first time she hadn't known when it was, and she'd been too busy ignoring the sketchbooks and convincing herself that he wasn't real for the recent one, which made her cheeks flush in embarrassment.

She must've looked hysterical, choking out accusations about him while sobbing grossly, and he hadn't been able to defend himself against them. There wasn't anything he could've done to convince her otherwise because she'd been so stubbornly certain, and that only made her feel worse, with her stomach clenching uncomfortably from the uneasy feeling.

It was too bad that she had no means to apologise. She couldn't go back and edit the panels from the past; they were inaccessible as the objects had been moved and changed, no longer the reality on his end.

It hurt her head to try and think about the details while she was still slightly intoxicated. Marinette ran a hand through her hair, pulling the braids out and breathing a sigh of relief as she stretched her body.

She didn't have the power to change his reality; Adrien was living freely, while she had her own life, one where she wasn't able to touch his, and it made sense, of course. The fact that he'd crossed over and had found her had been a rare occurrence, and it wasn't as though she could step through the door to his shop.

Sitting up quickly, eyes wide as her stomach protested from the fast movement, Marinette slipped on the floorboards as she dashed through the house, footsteps audible as she ran upstairs and into her father's bedroom.

She had all these books, the volumes that showed a good portion of his adult life, and it wasn't right to leave them to collect dust when she could do something productive. It was a ridiculous idea that she would've immediately scoffed at in her sober state, but at that moment, as she stumbled when walking too fast, it seemed to be the best idea she'd had in a long time.

If she couldn't change his future, would she be able to change the shape of it into something else? Marinette searched through the boxes, wildly pulling out the sketchbooks that she'd carefully organised, selecting the volumes that showed him since he'd moved out of his parents' home.

She grabbed small pieces of bright-coloured paper, placing them by the spine to mark the pages that she needed to come back to at a later date, and she dutifully flicked through the multiple sketchbooks until her fingertips were starting to feel irritated from the continued use. The sun was starting to come for the morning, indicating that she had to make her way into work in a matter of hours, but the thought of napping for a limited time skipped her mind.

Co-workers asked her whether she was ill that day, and she decided it was best to say yes because, well, the lack of sleep was making her cranky and she wanted the tedious conversations to be over as quick as possible. It was a plus that Nathalie wasn't visiting her section that day, too, as she would've forced Marinette to visit a doctor to make sure she was healthy.

The marked sketchbooks greeted her when she arrived home, dark colouring beneath her half-lidded eyes. She took a nap before dinner, to try and gain acceptable response times and stop yawning constantly, and it was with a full stomach that she entered the bedroom.

"This is mad," she whispered to herself, running her fingers through her hair self-consciously. The only argument she could make was that drawing on the notes in the comics had been, too.

She sighed. In the end, it was with a shrug of her shoulders that she accepted that she'd rather try for the impossible than sit around doing nothing. It gave her something to do in the evenings, as long as she didn't sacrifice sleep for it again, and she'd contemplated acquiring a new hobby for a while.

The first step of the plan was finding a blank space on a wall big enough. Searching through the house, Marinette eventually found a section of wall that was clear, plaster with a small crack down it in the dining room. She pushed the table along to the side, awkwardly moving the chairs with the cushions on top so they were clumped together, as they couldn't be stacked on top of each other. It was the wall opposite to where the landscape painting she'd made when she was a teenager was placed.

Since she'd figured out that the sketchbook had been supernatural, it lessened the ridiculousness of her ideas. Marinette used a pencil and the longest ruler—metal, with her father's initials at the bottom—to mark out the rough shape on the wall, matching the measurements she'd taken from the rest of the house to make it average in size.

At the weekend, when she'd regretfully told Alya she was sick and had to cancel their plans to eat cake, Marinette sat on the floor of the kitchen with all the tabbed sketchbooks laid out in front of her, scissors in hand as she snipped the selected panels and arranged them so they were weighted down underneath plastic coverings with heavy objects on either side, unlikely to blow away by her erratic movements. The windows and doors had already been locked so they wouldn't interfere, and she really didn't want to be disturbed.

It was sort of like a puzzle and a collage mixed into one. Marinette used putty-like adhesive to stick the pieces of paper onto the wall, slowly adding to it each day that she had free time. She made sure to sleep a healthy amount, smile and make it through the tedious conversations at work, and eat dinner before she ventured into the dining room.

When she'd first started, she thought she'd struggle with the amount that the comic showed what she wanted to cut out and collect, yet as she continued, it became glaringly obvious that most of the shots in his home featured what she needed. The colours were different, along with lighting at different, but she assumed that wouldn't matter; it usually didn't for collages, and that was what she going for in the end, cutting small images and placing them together to make something larger in the end.

She gave herself papercuts along the way, wincing and sucking on the stinging flesh for a sense of relief, before returning to her work. It was frustrating and took a long time, but the longer that she continued, the more she thought that even if it didn't work, at least she had a somewhat creative decoration in the most boring room in her home. She wasn't planning to have dinner parties there any time soon, and could make do with eating standing up or on the sofa, as she had done with Adrien. The habit hadn't changed since he'd been gone.

It took almost two months to finish.

Covering the crack in the wall, hundreds—perhaps thousands, she hadn't kept count—of pictures that were stained different shades of brown were stuck; it was shaped to show the panels of wood and the shining metal of the doorknob that was unturned. She'd searched throughout the different sketches to see which door was shown the most, and she quickly realised that it was his bedroom that was shown, usually in the evenings.

It was the average size of the rest of the doors in her home—she hadn't felt like researching and trying to identify the actual door it was based on for the resolutions—located in the middle of the wall. Although it didn't match the rest of the door, she figured she could just buy a curtain to cover the archway into the dining room, or explain it away by saying it was a project of sorts for herself, and it was the only available space that had what she required.

Running her fingers across the many pieces of paper that were stuck on with far too much putty-like adhesive, a sad small spread across her lips.

She whispered to herself, "Absolutely mad."

When she woke up the next morning to see that it was unchanged, she assumed that it was only acting as normal paper because a lot of the other sketchbooks had been included (the mangled and cut apart books were stored back in boxes, placed on her father's bed for storage). Her tiny hopes were ruined, but she didn't have it in herself to cry. There hadn't been much expectation to begin with; it had all grown from a drunken idea that had seemed shining and holy at the time, a true epiphany.

As she locked her front door, she wondered whether she could class her fascination as obsession. She pondered on that for most of the day, idly contemplating why she'd thought snippets of a supernatural comic that had once only allowed her to write on notes would work as something else; to think that she'd be able to mould it into a door, a way to travel between the two worlds without the creator having to die, seemed a large leap for her to make.

With an unfortunate stain on her trousers from someone bumping into her and spilling their coffee, Marinette locked the front door behind her before shuffling out of the clothing in the hallway. She placed them in the wicker basket to wash at a later date, then stretched her arms over her head with an audible sigh. She wanted nothing more than to curl up into bed and sleep before doing anything productive, but she had work that needed to be done before dinner, and only then would she have time to unwind.

She wished she hadn't been drinking when she walked past the dining room archway, as there was a fallen figure on her floor.

Marinette coughed and spluttered, face hot and red, throat burning in protest, as she tried to get her breathing under control. Her vision was obscured by the liquid that had welled into her eyes, and it took her roughly wiping at them to clear her vision, yet the sight was still the same.

After she'd stopped choking, she had her cell phone in her hands, the number for the emergency line typed out but not connecting, as her first thought was to wildly jump to the slumped over form to be an intruder—but that wasn't right. There was a plethora of objects that could've been looted, yet there was no bag in sight, and nothing in the house had been noticeably moved or touched.

Her breath caught as she saw the blond hair.

It took a few moments for her to remember to move. The dark-haired female placed her cell phone back onto a surface, hands shaking from the nerves as she slowly padded forward, her sock-clad feet almost silent against the floorboards. Of all the times she'd imagined seeing him again, it had never included her being partially dressed after a tedious day at work.

It was ludicrous, insane, and absolutely impossible, yet she couldn't mistake the pale shade of his skin, the way his blond-coloured hair flicked out at the ends. The most noticeable difference was the fact that he was unconscious, the steady rise and fall of his chest indicating that he was okay, just slumped forward with his a cheek pressed against the floor, golden-stained eyelashes creating shadows over his face.

He—it was abnormal and spectacular all at once, and a strangled noise escaped her throat as she dropped to her bare knees in front of his sleeping body. Adrien was asleep, something that he hadn't been capable of before, and just that tell had her heart thumping in excitement from the possibilities that it could've meant.

With a trembling hand, Marinette started to reach out towards him, pulling back uncertainly when she was a few centimetres away. But, surely, if he was capable of sleeping, that meant it was different to the previous time. The fact that her insane idea of a door had worked baffled her greatly, and she flickered her blue-coloured eyes to see see the scraps of paper still stuck onto the wall, not resembling the door that was depicted whatsoever—but he was there, definitive proof that something had worked in her ridiculous plan.

The position wouldn't be comfortable for him—if he could feel discomfort—with his chest flat on the floor, limbs sprawled out at different angles, not none were dangerous. It looked like he'd fainted, honestly. Marinette scooted closer, bare knees almost pressing against his elbow that was nearest to her.

She hovered her fingers above his neck, audibly gulping before she lowered them and stiffened immediately as she came into contact with warm flesh, not feeling the shudder of cold that she'd always associated with him. Snapping out of her momentary shock, she persisted and searched for his pulse, and when she found it, the tears were welling up in her eyes from sheer relief that he was there, he was touchable—

His outfit had changed, too. The cardigan suited him.

-x-

After sobbing for a few minutes—grossly wiping her fluids on her clothing rather than disappear into the downstairs' toilet and risk him disappearing—Marinette had gathered her strength and rearranged him at first, body sweating from exertion by the time he was slumped with his back against the wall, not on the collage, and with a blanket wrapped around him for warmth.

She slept on the floor beside him for that night, too exhausted to attempt to haul him upstairs, and placed the cushions from the sofa behind him for comfort. When she woke up and saw him there, still peacefully breathing without stirring, she'd gasped and rubbed at her eyes frantically, trying to see whether it was her imagination. It was with the twinge of pain in her back from sleeping in an uncomfortable position that assured her it was not.

Marinette checked his pulse—steady, healthy—before she slowly carried him up the stairs, wincing whenever his body hit the floor too hard when she lost her grip. There was bound to be bruises across his skin when he woke up, a collection to match the splattering of colour that had started to appear on his face, proving that he'd fallen over harshly. Since the other bedroom was out of commission due to storage, she readily tucked him into her bed, then stepped back to stare at the surreal sight of Adrien wrapped up in her duvet peacefully (other than the bruises that adorned his face).

It took three days of sleeping terribly on the sofa, since it wasn't as nice to sleep on at nights than sitting on it during the day for a short period of time, and worriedly checking on him every day for something to change. Marinette had made sure to leave a note on her bedside table, explaining that she'd gone to work and would be back soon if he woke up, along with a glass of water that she refilled each morning.

She'd just settled down on the couch, clad in her pyjamas and ready for the tossing and turning she was bound to do, when she heard a noise from upstairs. It wasn't him talking, though; it sounded as though he'd fallen out of bed, and that was what spurred her to slip on the floorboards as she sprinted up the stairs and opened the door to her bedroom.

Clutching his hands to his head, expression twisted in pain as he grimaced, Adrien was sat on the floor with the duvet half pulled off over his body. He was muttering something incoherent under his breath, and she could do was stand there in the hallway, uncertain with a pounding heart as she watched his disorientated state.

He must've heard her because a few moments later, his eyes cracked open—his bleary, sleepy eyes that were almost half-lidded from waking up—and stared at her with an unreadable expression.

Her stomach lurched.

Over the three days she'd pondered how he'd react; contemplated whether he'd freak out and turn hysterical from the sudden change, perhaps not remember their time together still, or maybe run out of the front door before she had a chance to explain that she was the one that he had been talking to some time ago.

Adrien always ruined her expectations. The first words out of his mouth were, "You're wearing pyjamas."

She furrowed her eyebrows, looking down at her brightly-coloured trousers quickly. "Yes?"

Shifting the duvet around him, cardigan sleeves pushed up and still on as it had felt too intimate to undress him, the blond-haired male looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Kidnappers don't usually dress so vulnerably. Is this your first time?"

She stared.

There must've seen something amusing about her face because he burst into laughter; it was the breathy high-pitched kind that she'd associated with him when it wasn't forced, and that perplexed her further. That wasn't what was normal when someone was lost and confused, but then again, humour had always been his shield for when he felt uncomfortable.

"Do you recognise me?" she whispered, voice cracking at the end.

Running a hand through his messy hair, wincing as he tried to stand up before staying settled on the floor, Adrien looked at her with a lopsided smile. "Are you going to try and convince me that you've always loved me from afar and that you can't hold yourself back any more? If so, I'll have to stop you there," he replied, a hand alternating between pointing at each of them. "We have to have some boundaries between us, Marinette. I can only be friend-zoned once before I get expectations."

He knew.

Her answering smile was blinding, and she watched as he returned it, dimples showing as he looked at her with that fondness that she'd missed, and it was a matter of seconds before it drained from his face as he looked down to his body and paled.

Marinette was rooted in the doorway, confused and utterly unsure of what was happening, as the blond continued to run his hands over the duvet, putting his face into the material and making a strangled noise that was muffled due to his position. Adrien stayed like that for a while, face hidden as he was hunched over on the floor, and her feet stayed rooted to the spot as she tried to think of the cause of his breakdown. Of course, he hadn't wished to be with her, and that could've been the cause of it—but he'd been so happy for a moment, the whites of his teeth showing as he grinned before a realisation had struck.

As he patted down his clothing, knuckles turning white as he gripped the cardigan tightly, she walked forward, dropping to her knees in front of him and carefully reached out to place a hand on his shoulder in what was supposed to be comfort.

He panicked from it, though. Adrien scooted back so his back connected painfully with the bedside table, head pulled up with a flushed cheeks from the limited air within the duvet, and had an expression of distress as he backed away from her touch. His eyes were wide, standing out against his pale skin, as he looked at her.

Softly, she called, "Adrien?"

To her horror, she could see tears welling up in his eyes, and he was blinking rapidly to try and dismiss them. Marinette dropped the hand that had been reaching out for him, placing them on her pyjama-clad knees as she considered the situation.

Adrien was there—alive, breathing, capable of showing complicated emotions—but he wasn't seriously accusing her of kidnapping; rather, he seemed to know who she was immediately, and had teased her before bursting out in laughter. Then he'd realised his surroundings, what was placed on him, and reacted to her touch.

She wetted her lips.

"I—" Marinette started before she stopped to clear her throat. "What do you last remember?"

Although he wasn't pressing against her backside table with a lot of force any more, Adrien didn't relax fully as he pulled the duvet around him, hands clenched around the material for a sense of stability, and that made her truly wish that hypothesis was wrong. There was a pain across his expression, facial features contorted into a grimace as he stared silently at her.

She opened her mouth to enquire what was wrong, but he made a winded noise and reached up to clutch his head with pale hands, eyes squeezed shut as he groaned in displeasure. There was clearly something wrong, even so that the sound of his pain was causing her to feel nervous and concerned when it was paired with his pale skin, that certainly wasn't his natural shade.

"Adrien?" she questioned, hands digging into the material of trousers to stop her from reaching out to touch him again.

He didn't have the chance to reply. The distressed noises stopped as his hands fell limp, muscles relaxing and no longer tensed, as he fell unconscious. Marinette scrambled forward, catching his head before it could reach the floor and bruise him further, releasing a deep breath slowly before she lifted him up into the bed once more. It was easier than going up the stairs again, at least.

When she woke up for work the next morning, she checked in to see that he was in the same position she'd adjusted him into previously, and left some medicine beside the note that explained where she'd be. She was restless throughout the day, jittery hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly when she was driving, and had accidentally tripped over into one of the newest interns since her thoughts were preoccupied.

She went into her bedroom immediately after kicking off her shoes, but he was still unconscious.

Adrien had said that he'd been disorientated the last time around, back when he'd been unable to feel pain. It might've been the same, only he could fully feel it and couldn't handle the pressure that his body was experiencing. She felt guilty for that, touching the nape of her neck as she idly watched a television show, barely paying attention to what was happening.

The following night, he woke up. Marinette had been brushing her teeth when she heard the noise of him falling out of bed—again—and quickly spat out her mouthful. Knocking on the door to announce her presence, giving him a moment to collect himself, Marinette entered and found him huddled up in the duvet, a hand gripping the blond strands of his hair tightly as his eyes were squeezed together tightly.

She felt it appropriate to point out, "There's painkillers on the bedside table beside you."

A noise that sounded similar to a grunt and one of approval left him as he clumsily groped behind him, almost knocking over the glass of water that she hadn't replaced that morning. He found the two pills that she'd left out, and hastily placed his palm over his mouth as he swallowed them dry.

Blinking, she remarked, "A glass of water is up there, too. I mean, not that that wasn't impressive, because I can't do that."

"Stop being cute while I'm in pain," he grumbled, a bleary eye opening as he looked behind him to find the glass. After taking a drink, letting the hand from his hair fall onto the duvet that was practically a cocoon at that point, he released a sigh of what sounded like relief. "Why am I able to feel, Marinette?"

That wasn't a question that she could respond to instantly when it came out of nowhere. Marinette hovered in the hallway, hand on the handle as she shifted her weight to another foot, debating her answer before she settled with asking again, "What do you remember last, Adrien?"

He stood up with shaky legs, sitting on the bed of the bed with the duvet draped over his legs as he rested his elbows on his knees, clutching his head in his hands and effectively hiding his expression from her. The position was one of pain or sadness, and combined with how unkempt he looked was unsettling; she hadn't physically seen him with dirty hair or clothing that shouldn't have been worn for multiple days on end.

"We..." Adrien trailed off as he ground his palm into his temple. "That I'm Adrien, I guess."

With wide eyes, she repeated, "You guess?"

"Well, yeah," he grumbled, voice hoarse and thick with sleep still. "You were telling me I'm not real."

Her breath caught in her throat. "You—that's what you remember last?" Marinette questioned, a feeling of horror building within her, torn on how to feel about his condition. "You were with me and not alone?"

"What are you on about, Marinette?" he groaned, running his fingers through his dirty hair before grimacing and flexing his fingers. "Please, just tell me what's going on. My head is killing me right now, and I really need to pee."

After helping him up, awkwardly trailing along behind him to make sure he didn't fall over, Marinette waited outside of the bathroom for him to appear. Adrien had splashed water on his face—he hadn't been sweaty before, so it wasn't that—causing the damp strands of his fringe to cling to his skin, and droplets of water were dripping from his chin onto his clothing.

She hadn't bought him any clothing, and all she had left from her father's wardrobe was a few large sweaters that would've swamped him. While she came up to Adrien's shoulder, meaning she had to look up whenever they were close together, her father had been taller than that, one of the reasons why his designs tried to include sizes for all heights (weights had been argued, but not implemented).

Clutching onto the frame of the door with one pale hand, Adrien offered her a small smile. "So, did you manage to exorcise me in the end? I'm assuming not, since I'm here right now."

"You've been gone over a year," she whispered, voice soft and full of regret.

Barely audible, Adrien repeated underneath his breath, "A year."

"You're real, okay?" Marinette blurted out, nervously clutching her elbow as the words spilled out of her, sometimes stuttering from the rush. "I—I really fucked up. I can't deny that, and I don't expect you to forgive me, but—but—I wasn't wrong, Adrien."

A humourless laugh escaped him. "So, what now? I'm a real part of your imagination that you made up years ago? I may not remember anything, but that doesn't mean I—" Adrien cut himself with a groan, reaching up and clutching his head with his free hand, the other tightening on the frame to keep himself steady. "Fuck."

As much as she wanted to move forward to offer him support, she knew that their emotions were too unstable at that moment. If he swatted her hand away—as one of their first physical interactions—she would've burst into sobs in an instant.

"Look, I... I kind of summoned you here," the dark-haired female confessed, guilt painting her features. "We—I found a way to communicate with you a little while ago, and when that stopped, I-I just really missed you. I didn't think this would happen."

"We've been talking?" he enquired, voice clearly pained as he kept his eyes shut.

She shifted her weight on her feet. "Through letters." It seemed the easiest way to simplify their exchanges. "Adrien, you didn't know who I was—well, you kind of did? You remembered that my hair was dark, and my gender, but you didn't know how we met or anything about our time together."

"I don't understand," he murmured, leaning his shoulder to rest against the frame as the hand that was on his head disappeared, but he didn't open his eyes, or stop furrowing his brow from the pain. "If I'm fictional, how the hell do you explain us talking? Fuck, I don't even know how long I've been here."

"This is the fifth day," she replied honestly. "You were unconscious for a lot, and it looks like you might pass out again, so please, can you get back into bed? I promise to explain myself later, but I'm running really fucking late for work."

He released an audible breath. "You work now."

It wasn't a question.

"A lot of things are different," Marinette answered. "You, for example, are a fully functioning human being who's close to collapsing. It's not like the last time where you could stay up infinitely watching trashy television shows."

An amused noise escaped him as he cracked opened his eyes, a frown still on his lips. "I'm sorry you're late for work."

"I'd call in sick if I wasn't classed as the owner," she replied, shrugging her shoulders lightly. "I know someone would request a doctor to visit me unless I can provide proof that I've already done so, and that would only lead to someone finding you."

As much as she wanted to call an ambulance and have him treated, there was the major detail that he had no identification on him, and that it wouldn't hold up in her world, where he technically shouldn't exist. It was with that in mind that she helped him climb back into bed, promising that she'd be back by the end of the day with medication and food that wouldn't be too rich for him, and his replies were slurred and quiet when she left (not before replacing the glass of water and leaving a plate with a few crackers in it).

He was awake when she returned with food she'd bought at a nearby restaurant, and a separate bag with medicine she'd bought at a pharmacy. Their meal was still warm as she placed it in a bowl and carried it upstairs, feet bare from taking off her high-heeled shoes for the evening. Adrien responded to her knock with an incoherent noise, one that she took to be a sleepy greeting, and the sight of him rubbing one eye as he yawned was what greeted her, and she was so utterly overjoyed with such a simple thing that her smile met her eyes.

"I need to buy you clothes," Marinette remarked aloud, eyes darting to the crumpled cardigan that was draped over the frame of the bed. "And toiletries, and—"

A throaty laugh escaped him. "Calm down, Marinette."

She smiled sheepishly at him. "Sorry. I'm just finding this hard to believe. I—I thought I lost you, Adrien."

"I'm in your bed with a killer headache, and it's not from intimate activities," the blond pointed out, pillows propped up as he leaned back against them. "Tell me you've got the good drugs."

She carefully passed the bowl over to him, and then the cutlery. "Only after you've eaten at least half of that."

His grin was lopsided. "Bribing me with drugs is low, even for you."

"If you keep your mouth occupied so you can't butt in, I'll tell you what's happened since your disappearance," Marinette offered, sitting down on the stray armchair that she had by the window, rather than on the end of the bed. It looked like he needed the space for his feet, as they were almost hanging off of her mattress when he slept. "Including why you're here now."

When he had his first mouthful, Adrien looked at her expectantly with his cheeks stuffed.

-x-

Adrien accepted it as well as could be expected. He disbelieved her at first, especially when she got to the part of talking to him via the sketchbook, and it was only from showing him pictures of the door that she'd created downstairs that he'd started to realise that her words were true. That didn't mean that he wasn't frustrated with his memory, or the splitting headaches that plagued him. The painkillers didn't dull the violent throbs much, but he was able to stagger himself to the bathroom without her help.

Begrudgingly, he agreed to let her pay for clothing, as he couldn't stay in the same outfit for days on end, especially when he had nothing more than a few sweaters to change into when she washed them. He was wearing one of the jumpers, and the loosest pyjamas bottoms that she owned, but they ended up showing his ankles. At least his sense of humour was fine; he laughed it off and commented on how soft they felt, running his fingertips over the material.

Marinette showed him the scraps left of the comics, a large amount of panels cut out from her quest for the collage, and the first time he'd stared at the image of his face, his expression had been blank before he averted his eyes. She didn't comment on the tears that gathered there.

She explained her theory; hands animated as she gestured back and forth, even to the windows at random points to emphasise her enthusiasm. Adrien didn't interrupt as she theorised about her father's death, and how he'd flickered into existence in her world from her father's disappearance, stating that she assumed the knowledge of his identity had been what was needed to draw him back to his original body.

"I don't know if you're from parallel world, and I somehow managed to draw you when I was younger, or if you're truly fictional, but that's not what's important," Marinette declared. She'd pulled the armchair closer to the other side of the bed days ago, to sit nearby as he ate his meals, and to spend time together as she was determined to keep him bedridden until he wasn't stumbling from pain. "You exist, you're real, and maybe I was too in denial to see that before, but I'm not now."

He swallowed his mouthful. "To be fair, I didn't even class myself as alive back then. It's really fucking weird to suddenly feel everything after I've been so—so accustomed not to."

It wasn't as though she'd gained her best friend back instantly. Adrien was unhealthy, could barely walk, and often kept his eyes closed when they spoke because of the splitting pain of his headaches. He didn't know if he'd suffered from them before, and Marinette had no answers since the comic hadn't focused on his illnesses. All she knew were mostly the positive things—such as his favourite food and drink, which caused her to smile to herself whenever his expression visibly brightened as he had a mouthful of them.

When he bathed—since showers were out of the question if he fainted—Marinette sat outside the door with a book, just to make sure that he was okay. The clothes she'd gotten him to choose online had arrived the day after ordering them, and they'd had to guess his sizes after he'd fallen over when trying to stand up for her to measure him. Marinette promised that she could adjust them if they were too drastically different to his figure, and that had earned her a fond roll of his eyes that had her cheeks hurting from smiling.

There was still a sadness to him, though. Sometimes when she came into the bedroom, after a night of crappy sleep on the sofa (she really needed to move the boxes in the other bedroom into the loft for space), he'd be staring out of the window with a blank expression, which would make her pause, unsure whether to disturb him.

And then there was the confession of, "It feels like it was only last week that you wanted me to leave." It had been soft, quiet, and barely audible, but she heard it and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

"I'm sorry," Marinette confessed for the umpteenth time, regret and embarrassment clear in her voice and the way she shuffled on the spot. "I-I know this is different for the two of us, but—"

"Marinette," Adrien cut her off with a call of her name. "It's okay, really. I forgive you, but only if you promise never to do that again. I'm actually capable of sobbing now, and that is something you do not want to see."

She blinked. "I want to see everything about you."

Shaking his head, there was a small smile on his lips. "I've discovered I'm ugly when I cry, so no, you do not."

A breath of amusement escaped her. "You?" She pointed to him with her index finger. "You're even attractive when you're unconscious with blossoming bruises from the fall, Adrien. That's a filthy lie and you know it."

He leaned back against the pillows, eyes clenched shut with that pained expression that she'd become used to. In the times that he was awake, it seemed that the pain was increasing, getting worse for when he had his eyes open and tried to look around for an extended period of time. Marinette had babbled on about perhaps trying to find somewhere to make him fake identification, but that came the problem of the fact that she was known because of her father, and photographs were taken of her candidly on the street. She didn't want to think about trying to explain to Nathalie why she thought it had been a good idea to do something illegal when she was twenty-five.

"Want me to go for a bit?" she offered.

"No, I want you here," Adrien replied immediately, not a hint of hesitation. "Just, maybe, be a bit quieter if you can."

Settling down in the armchair, regretting not changing out of her clothes from work as they were stiff and she couldn't easily curl her legs up underneath her in the skirt, she asked in a whisper, "It's getting worse, isn't it?"

He huffed. "I don't really have a good scale of pain, but this is the worst it's been, yes. And don't you dare apologise for this."

"I literally forced you here and made you fall unconscious on my floor after you hit your head," she defended hotly, the same weak argument that she'd brought up every time he tried to convince her that it wasn't her fault.

"I'd rather be in pain than unaware of my life," Adrien retorted, eyebrows furrowed as he palmed at his temple. "And don't you dare say I was living just fine without you—the me I am right now lost sense of time when you banished me last. Hell, you even exorcised me, Marinette. That's some serious power you've got there."

She'd managed to get one leg underneath her. "All I did was make you realise you're Adrien Agreste, who's apparently my brother from another universe."

"Maybe you're in the other universe, too," he quipped.

"Maybe," she agreed, eyes staring at the ceiling rather than the pain in his expression. "Everyone's either blurred out or their faces aren't visible; I don't even know the name of your cats, let alone your best friend over there."

There was no response from him for that, not even a noise of acknowledgement.

She licked her lips.

Placing her chin on her palm, Marinette decided to tentatively, start with, "Adrien, what if your memories are altered when you cross sides?"

A sound did leave him at that; it was a low and short hum.

"I mean, it would explain everything, wouldn't it?" she continued, trying to keep her voice from raising from her enthusiasm at the theory. "It's already impossible that you manage to come through to here, especially in your actual body like you are now, so it could be true, right?"

As the seconds passed without him answering verbally, only the sound of the duvet moving as he most likely readjusted his position, Marinette didn't think anything of the quietness. She'd assumed that he'd wanted to contemplate it to himself, or was feeling too sick to answer, so when her eyes flickered over to him a minute or so later, her eyes widened in surprise as she quickly stood up, stumbling from the leg that she'd been sitting on not cooperating properly.

"Adrien?" Marinette called, trying to determine whether he was conscious.

His head was slumped back, eyes still closed but the furrow in his brow was gone, but that wasn't what made her worried. Scarlet liquid was steadily dripping from his nose, decorating his chin, shirt, and the duvet in trails and stains as it fell. Marinette hastily scrambled forward, looking for a cloth of some sort to bundle underneath his nose, and quickly settled for the cardigan that she was wearing.

There was no response as she brushed the hair from his hair, awkwardly cradling his head as she placed the scrunched together cardigan on his nose, feeling the warmth of his blood as it coated the material and started to leak through to her hand. She looked for any signs of consciousness, but there were none; no fluttering of his blond-stained eyelashes, no mumbled complaints or any sense of recognition that his face and chest were wet.

She stayed there for fifteen minutes, stressing and wondering whether it would be worth the questions to seek medical help. She could call her doctor to visit her home—they'd been open to doing that before, especially on Nathalie's request—but then she'd have to explain the stranger in her bed. It felt so utterly selfish, but he didn't have an identity, and she didn't want to be separated from him if were to be discovered.

The cardigan was swapped out for one of his shirts, as it was the closest. The bleeding turned into a dribble over time, and she cautiously pulled the clothing back and waited to see if any more would emerge. When it seemed fine, Marinette fetched a wet flannel from the bathroom to clean his skin, though she didn't feel comfortable enough to change his clothing. She managed to pull the duvet away and change the sheet, but the blood had seeped through to the other side, and her washing machine wasn't big enough to clean it.

She ended up climbing up into the loft to find the duvet she'd stored away there, managing to put a new cover on it and then place it upon him in the time that he was unconscious. Marinette adjusted him down so he was on his back—like he was sleeping—before disappearing to make dinner.

That didn't mean she didn't check on him, though. She considered buying him a cell phone to call her with, but she knew that it was excessive and he would've been overwhelmed by her nonchalance at spending money on him. Back when he'd first discovered her acquired wealth, she'd refused to replace the television or laptop, and had only spent money for their random activities to get him out of the house.

The flushing of the toilet alerted her that he was awake two days later. Marinette had been in the middle of a call when she heard it, and had tried to speed up the pace of the remaining time. She shifted her weight on the spot, resting her free arm on the countertop to at least try and be comfortable, and it was ten minutes later that she was able to put down her cell phone and ascend the stairs with a glass of water.

She called his name, tapping her knuckles against the wood of the door.

He hadn't had another nosebleed since, but she'd found a cloth that was designed for the kitchen and put it on the bedside table, just in case.

Entering her bedroom, she was greeted by the sight of him sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp and wet from a shower—she really had been too immersed in the call, if she hadn't heard the water—with the towel folded up beside him, clad in the clothing that she'd found him in; the long-sleeved t-shirt, cardigan and jeans with holes in the knees. He was running his hands through the strands of his hair, trying to sort them into something relatively presentable.

"Hey," she greeted.

Adrien jumped, head snapping her way with a surprised expression, one that faded into him narrowing his eyes, not opening his mouth since it was pressing into a thin line.

Well, it was understandable. They'd been in the middle of a conversation two days ago, while she was unaware of his flickering consciousness. Marinette offered him a smile as she started, "I'm sorry for not realising you weren't feeling too good. I should've gone away—wait, no. If I did, then you might've choked on your blood."

He blinked.

"You had a really bad nosebleed and fainted," she explained. He must've known that, though, as there was bound to have been congealed or dried blood within his nose when he woke up. "How's your head today?"

The narrowing of his eyes didn't disappear as he opened his mouth to announce, "You stole my bedroom."

Tilting her head slightly to the side, Marinette's eyebrows were knitted together as she responded, "Well, no. This is actually my bedroom and I've been sleeping on the sofa downstairs. It looks pretty and feels nice for a few hours, but in the morning it feels like torture."

"My bedroom door!" Adrien corrected himself, hands thrown up momentarily to emphasise his point. "You're a thief. You literally stole away my bedroom, Marinette. I doubt I'll be able to use that door without coming through to here again."

Marinette stared openly, torn on how to respond. There was one thing that was glaringly clear—Adrien could clearly remember how he'd passed over to her world. From the way that he was talking to her with such familiarity, even the corner of his lips twitching in amusement as he tried to hold his serious expression, meant that he hadn't reverted to the memories of his own world, back when he only knew her from the notes. It—it hurt her head, honestly.

She swallowed. "Has your headache gone?"

"Don't change the subject," he scolded her, bare feet padding across the carpet as he came to stand in front of her stability for the first time since he'd appeared. "I'm perfectly recovered without a split personality."

"I wouldn't say it was a split personality," Marinette rejected. "You were pretty much the same."

His feet were almost touching hers. "There I was, home from a stressful day at work, ready to change and go to sleep, and what do you know? My door's suddenly a magical portal and I lose consciousness from stepping through. That sounds like a wonderful way to finish the day, don't you think so?"

Wincing, Marinette parted her lips to start to mumble her apologies, but she was cut off by him placing his palm over her mouth, warm flesh covering hers. She looked at him widened eyes, surprised by how easily he was taking being able to touch her—well, he'd accepted the help with moving begrudgingly when he'd suffered from splitting headache, but not casual touches—and happy to see the lopsided smile that had spread across his lips.

"When you stopped writing to me, I really thought I was mad," Adrien continued, keeping his hand on her. "I—I just thought I was making you up somehow, so I asked my mother if she could read one of the notes, too."

Even if she could've talk, she wouldn't have known what to say to that. It was similar to what she had done. When the hand fell from her mouth, she didn't try and interrupt him, just stood there, looking up at him as he struggled to find the right words.

"And she could. I ran out of there after snatching it up, not willing to explain myself." He shrugged his shoulders at that, a small laugh escaping. "She's so used to my silliness that she didn't bother pressuring me for answers. I honestly thought you were someone I imagined because of the flashes I had of you after I woke up in the hospital. I searched for you, did you know that?"

She nodded, but it wasn't necessary.

Not expecting her to answer, Adrien stumbled on, "I guess you do, since you read about me. That's just—it's so weird Marinette. I woke up over there sore and disorientated, and all I could wonder was why you seemed important to me, like I was the protagonist in a childish film."

Marinette reached out and intertwined her fingers with him, smile encouragingly for him to continue. It was better to let him get all the words off of his chest, rather than hold them in.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, a sort of desperation in his voice that she couldn't place.

There was many things that he could've been asking; why she made the collage, initiated contact at all, or pushed him away in the beginning. So, she settled with the honest confession of, "I missed you."

"You made a shrine because you missed me?"

She squeezed his hand. "I didn't mean to snatch you or injure you in the process. I just—I wanted to apologise properly and be with you again."

"You're coping perfectly fine without me," Adrien responded, eyes flickering to take in the smart clothing that she'd worn to work. "The Marinette I knew was unemployed and liked to wear jeans and pretty dresses."

"That may be so," she started, smile meeting her eyes as he returned the movement and gripped her hand tighter for a moment, "but I'm that Marinette and then some more, just like you're you, with much more Adrien added in."

The laughter was escaped him was breathy. "You're very eloquent," the blond teased her.

She could feel her cheeks warming. "I'm still me. I'm the clumsy girl you lived with, and you're my best friend, even if you remember your favourite things now."

"Are you sure I didn't get demoted in our time apart?" Adrien asked, amusement clear in his voice. "It has been over a year, after all. I even missed your birthday."

She blinked. "Adrien, I've missed two of yours."

"Well, that's true." He hummed. "As much as I'd like to spend time with you here, Marinette, I've been missing for..."

Realising that he'd trailed off for her input, she quickly tried to recall the date. "Eleven days now."

"Yeah, that long." He ran his free hand through his hair—the strands were mostly dry by that point, flicking out at the ends in their own style. "We need to see if I can get back because I'm sure my parents are going crazy from my disappearance. Actually, saying that, I need a good story to explain my absence because they're not going to believe me when I lie terribly and say that I went exploring from a mid-life crisis."

She snorted in amusement. "Adrien, you're twenty-five."

"Exactly!"

-x-

It worked like a door for him, and only him.

When Adrien reached towards the collage, his hand was able to touch the door even though it appeared to be flat and made up of cut apart pieces of paper, and although it didn't move, Marinette watched in horrified wonder as he was able to walk through into it. Slowly, he placed one leg in with an arm before he turned to look at her over his shoulder, an equally surprised expression on his face.

"It looked normal on the other side," he offered.

Dumbly, she nodded. "I'm sure it did."

"Really," Adrien insisted, his body half disappeared without bothering him at all. It was scarily wonderful to look at, a shock to the system and something that she'd probably never see again. "As long as you don't get rid of this shrine, I'm one hundred percent sure I'll be able to come back through."

Rubbing a hand quickly over her face, applying pressure on her eyes to prove that what she was seeing was real, Marinette looked at him with narrowed eyes. "It's not a shrine—it's art."

"Yes, of my bedroom door." He grinned wolfishly. "That's not what a stalker would do at all."

He offered to show her through, to explore his world together before returning back, but that offer was rejected when her hands were stopped by the wall, fingertips feeling the papers that were stuck on and nothing out of the ordinary. While Adrien was right there beside her, eyebrows knitted together as his body was able to reach through the paper without ruining them, not even causing a hole to appear around his limbs. It was strange and surreal, proving once more than she wasn't meant to have a part in shaping his world.

"I can't go with you," she whispered, voice cracking at the end.

He wasn't deterred, though. "Hold onto my hand."

"It won't work," Marinette insisted as she intertwined their fingers, gripping tightly as her other hand held onto his arm. "Just—please, come back to me, okay? I'm not asking you to leave your life and live with me. I'm not insane, I—I just really like spending time with you."

"I'll come back as soon as I can, Marinette. You've stolen my bedroom, remember? There's nowhere else I can go in the evenings," Adrien assured her, smile not quite reaching his green eyes. He reached forward to push a few stray hairs out of her face, and she could feel her face warming from the intimacy and familiarity of the movement. "You're going to come with me so I at least have the excuse of running off to elope with you."

For once, she was able to reach out and lightly hit him on the shoulder. "You're terrible," Marinette accused.

"And you're coming with me," the blond repeated, tilting his head towards the collage. "On the count of three, okay?"

She couldn't go through. Even with her holding onto Adrien, her body met the paper on the wall, not able to go any further. She could do nothing but watch as he disappeared through while she was stuck there, holding the hands that she'd had wrapped around him to her chest. It had looked similar to when Adrien was a ghost—if he could've been classed as that—to the times when strangers would pass through him without causing his image to be distorted or altered; they were simply able to walk through him, and that was what he'd done with the door.

As it wasn't a day where she needed to work, Marinette busied herself by clearing out the other bedroom, carrying the boxes up the ladder to the loft, almost losing her balance a few times. Her palms were reddened and hurting by the time she was done, clothes clinging to her uncomfortably, but both of the beds were set up, ready for the next time he was back, so no one had to fall victim to the sofa overnight. The sheets were changed, rooms cleaned, and when the countertops in the kitchen were gleaming, she sat down on the sofa with a sigh.

The cleaning had distracted her, but now she had time to stare at the clock on the mantle, seeing the time pass that he wasn't there. She was undeniably worried, fretting that it wouldn't work again, that the first time had been a fluke and he wouldn't be able to get through. And then there was the worry that if it did work, then he'd have to experience the splitting headache again until the two parts of his memories merged.

He didn't come back that evening. Marinette kept a light on in the dining room, slowly ate her dinner alone and stored his portion away in the fridge, willing herself not to stay in the room and stare at the collage for too long.

She didn't cry.

Marinette went out with friends the following day, finally taking up the offer of meeting as she'd neglected to keep in contact with most for almost two weeks. She knew that if she rejected for any longer without a legitimate excuse, some were likely to venture to her home, and Alya had the knowledge of where she kept her spare key.

She quenched their curiosity by saying she was busy with work—inspired by some nonsense—and apologised for not responding often.

Nino had the gall to ruffle her hair.

As Adrien didn't appear that evening, she ate his meal that she'd kept in the fridge. She didn't cook for him the next day, and her hopes were being crushed with each passing day. It had been nice to see him, yes, and he'd seemed genuinely happy for a moment when his memories had merged, but the concern for his family was one that she hadn't even considered. Even though she hadn't seen his friends and family, or even knew their names, they could be just as real as him, and she'd unjustly taken him without explanation.

"Oh, gosh," she muttered underneath her breath, running her fingers through her hair. "I really am a kidnapper."

That thought was quelled the following day after she'd returned home from work. Marinette had been preoccupied taking off her high-heeled shoes, feeling relief on her feet against the floorboards, to take into account her surroundings. So, when she looked up after starting to tie her hair into a loose ponytail to see his figure standing before her with a nervous smile, Marinette shrieked.

She almost lost her footing, only catching her balance as she reached out to put her hand on the wall, and looked at him incredulously. "Adrien?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't think I'd scare you," the blond started, hands suspiciously kept behind his back. The outfit was different; newer jeans that had no holes, and a long-sleeved shirt that had a button undone at the top. It was smarter than the attire she usually saw him wear in the comics, as he reserved shirts for special occasions (she didn't think she counted for that).

"You're back," she stated dumbly.

Rather than laugh at her—and her surely shocked expression that showed her relief and amazement that he'd chose to come at all—Adrien's smile met his eyes. "Sorry I took so long," he apologised, staying where he was in the hallway, hands tucked behind him in what she was quickly suspecting to be secrecy. "It turns out if you claim you had a mid-life crisis, you have to live with your parents for a couple of days to reassure them you're not insane."

A laugh escaped her. "I was started to worry that it wouldn't work."

"Oh, it definitely does." For a moment, his expression flickered to one of forced sadness. "I can see my room and everything, but as soon as I pass through the frame, it transports me here—which is still horribly disorientating, by the way. Both of my cats decided to spend the day on my bed and refuse to come out."

A guilty look flashed across hers. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't you dare." Adrien playfully narrowed his eyes, the smile on his lips giving him away. "I have no idea when you finish work normally, so I've been lurking in your home for an hour feeling increasingly awkward, even though I used to spend all my time here."

She could understand that. "I could get you a key, if you want." There was one outside that was usually stored away for her, but she could easily get another one cut instead, since that way he wouldn't have to feel locked in when she was away.

"If you'd be quiet for a moment, I'm trying to be spontaneous here," Adrien chided her lightly.

Smiling, Marinette held her hands up in a sign of surrender.

With a grin, he pulled his arms out from behind his back, revealing a small bouquet of flowers that were bursting with colour, a small ribbon wrapped around them and tied into a bow over the top of the wrapping. Marinette's eyes widened as he held them out for her, and she caught sight of the logo from his shop on the wrapping, realising that he'd brought them over with him.

Taking them into her hands and turning them around to inspect, ignoring his baffled expression for a moment, Marinette's eyes flickered up to his as she smiled and stated, "I guess you didn't fall over this time."

He scrunched his nose in displeasure. "I admit I was dizzy for a bit, but no horrible headaches or missing memories. I'd say that's a big improvement."

"You bought me flowers," she murmured in wonder, fingertips reaching out to caress the sofa petals, some pollen catching on her skin. "I've only ever had them delivered when I'm ill."

"I hope you're not ill," he remarked, humming as he stepped forward and placed the back of his hand against her forehead to check her temperature. "I kind of planned to take you on a date—well, if you want to, that is."

She blinked. "A date."

"Yes," Adrien responded without missing a beat. "That's something I'm able to do now; no more having to sit on the arm of your chair, or have you opening all the doors and being purposely slow, as though you had something wrong with your legs."

Yet all she could say again was, "A date."

A laugh escaped him at that; it was breathy and fond, and the corner of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "A date, Marinette," Adrien confirmed, sounding thoroughly amused. "Or did you forget the little detail that I love you? You did reject my confession once before."

With wide blue eyes, Marinette retorted incredulously, "That wasn't a confession!" The flowers were cradled against her chest, petals touching her chin and causing pollen to scent her clothing as they were held close. "You said it like it would be something of convenience, and it didn't sound sincere at all."

"I was nervous!" he defended, colour blossoming along his cheeks and causing her to watch in wonder as it appeared. "I just—I didn't know how to ask you out, okay?"

She felt her own warm. "We wouldn't have been able to do anything."

"A long-distance relationship is still a relationship," he pointed out cheerily.

Pulling a sour face, Marinette walked past him, heading to the kitchen to find a vase that she'd stored away for the flowers. Adrien was laughing at the snub behind her, clearly pleased that his jokes still had the same effect on her, while she was trying to think of a good answer.

When he'd asked before, back when he'd been limited and she'd had a few alcoholic beverages, she had thought about it. Adrien was her closest friend, someone she enjoyed spending her time with, but one of the reasons she'd rejected him was because of his condition. The other hand been the nonchalance, to which she'd assumed he was only suggesting it because he wanted a sense of intimacy from only being able to talk to her.

"Are you sure?" Marinette asked softly, unwrapping the flowers to keep herself occupied, eyes focused on her task. "You—you have a lot more options now—"

Taking the scissors from her hand, Adrien replied just as quietly, "I'm sure, Marinette."

She moved to the side, allowing him to take over (it was his job, after all, so he'd do much better than her attempts to make the flowers arranged beautifully in the vase). A pleased smile curled on her lips, a private one that she kept to herself as she watched him work. His movements didn't falter as he placed each flower in a specific place, familiarity and confidence clear in each moment. She would've loved to see him work normally; to see the apron that he always wore in person, and smell whether the scents of the flowers stuck to him after a day of work.

"And because I know you're wondering to yourself, it's my pleasure to tell you that no, I was not dating anyone before I came to stay with you," the blond-haired male confessed, a quiet laugh sounding at the end. "I haven't been on a date since I woke up either."

Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, Marinette whispered, "Me, too."

"Why don't we change that now, then?" Adrien asked, words reminiscent to the ones he'd quietly asked in the karaoke bar—except they were stronger, not as nervous, and he had a lopsided grin as he turned to look at her. "I'll even let you drive me, just like the old times."

He was ridiculous, but that was why she liked him.

Marinette snorted. "Fine."

-x-

The main difference in their interactions was that they were reaching out to touch each other, using any excuse to brush their fingertips over the other's skin, or playfully whack lightly when a bad joke was uttered (usually it was her gently hitting him, rather than insult him where the customers around them could hear).

Adrien gave her as much time as she needed to get ready—all she did was change clothes and come downstairs to choose a different pair of shoes—and then clasped her hand, remembering that she preferred to walk most places, despite the comment to driving that he'd uttered earlier. He was comfortable leading, apparently happy to just walk through the streets with her, asking every now and then whether the restaurant they passed was a favourite of hers.

It was when they came to the one that she'd had her disastrous date with Kim that she groaned, resting her forehead on his shoulder to muffle her laughter. Adrien's grin when he lead them inside was slightly smug, even more so when they were seated in the same section as back then.

"I'm curious," Marinette started, menu resting on the table in front of her. "You managed to get here with flowers. Do you think you can bring anything through?"

He hummed. "We'll just have to find out in the future. I tested out my phone, by the way. There's no signal on it—network providers don't transcend universes, sadly."

She snorted a laugh at that. "Credit cards?"

"I already thought of that." The white of his teeth showed as he grinned. "I've got cash ready—don't you dare think about paying when you had to spend it whenever we spent time together before."

In her defence, he had been invisible to everyone else. When Marinette pointed out that she'd technically only paid for herself in those situations and therefore could split half of the total, as it was a fair arrangement for the both of them, Adrien had stayed silent and stared at her. After their meal, it should've been clear that he was planning something as he disappeared with the excuse of visiting the toilet, only to return with that smug expression that he'd had when they'd entered, holding the hand with his wallet in it so it was visible.

She scowled. "You're unbelievable."

"I've been told that before, but never as an insult," he quipped, tucking her chair under the table once she'd stood up.

Marinette stuck her tongue out childishly.

He was insistent that to make up for the unfairness of their interactions, so much so that he increased his pace to dart forward to open a door for her, even when she tried to match him, missing the handle by a second, so it caused him to him victoriously. Marinette begrudgingly walked through the doorways first, eager to beat him the next time.

By the time they'd arrived at her creaking front gate, he even opened that and did the mocking bow that she'd once done, even though they could've easily bypassed it by jumping over the top (as she sometimes did when she was playful or drunk, as it wasn't too high).

Her grin was smug at the front door, though. "You don't have a key," she sang.

Raising his eyebrows in amusement, he stated, "Marinette, I lived with you for almost a year."

And with that said, he proved himself by retrieving the spare key that only Alya knew about, unlocking the door and pushing it open before he turned to her and held them out, offering them to her.

She shook her head, brushing his shoulder lightly as she went through first. "You might as well keep that so you're not locked inside when I'm at work. You might go stir crazy."

"Why, Marinette, it sounds like you're asking me to move in with you," Adrien remarked as he entered the warmth of the house. The heating had been left on—from her neglect—so she shrugged off her jacket, while the blond-haired male pushed up the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt.

She might've stared at the exposed skin a bit.

"I stole your bedroom," she reminded him, lips curling up into an amused smile. "Unless you're willing to climb up a ladder and through the window?"

He grimaced. "How do you think I got these clothes?"

Laughter escaped from her, and it was honest and breathy, as she tried to picture it. "Why would you only tell me this now?"

"Because I knew you'd laugh at me!" Adrien defended, slipping off his shoes and padding across the floorboards into the kitchen. It was nice that he was still familiar with the layout of the house, and she assumed it was from her insistence that he treat it as though it was his home—from back when he was detained in her bedroom—that had him feeling comfortable enough to open a cupboard for a glass without asking for permission. "I had to convince my neighbours that my bedroom door wouldn't unlock, and then make up multiple excuses for them not to go in. They've known me for years, Marinette, and now I'm now known as the paranoid guy that locks his bedroom when he goes out."

She held a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle her amusement. "What did you do?" Marinette managed to stutter out, voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.

"I got someone to hold the bottom of the ladder while I broke into my own bedroom, of course." He paused for a bit to sip at his drink. "And then I came down with arms full of clothes and belongings that I needed—like my damn charger for my phone, Marinette—all of which I've stored in my living room."

The laughter continued to spill out of her, though, even more so when she looked up to see his lower lip jutted out dramatically. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she gasped out, tears brimming in her eyes from her enjoyment, and her chest was starting to protest at the use. "You probably look like a hoarder!"

He sniffed. "And it's completely your fault, I'll have you know."

"It's a good thing I cleared out the other bedroom, then," she remarked, smile widening as she saw the widening of his eyes. "What? You really didn't think I'd let you stay in my bedroom forever, did you?"

"Well, I wouldn't have minded sharing with you."

She grinned. "I'm not sleeping with you on the first date."

The night didn't end with a kiss, as most of the other dates had in the past, but with intimate touches, clasped hands when they sat down on the sofa together, and they naturally sought out each other to make up for the time that they'd missed. Marinette didn't flinch in surprise or pull away when she felt a hand in her hair, or when his hand was placed gently on her knee as they watched a film together. It was everything they would've done if they could've, not making their interactions uncomfortable at all.

The best thing about their relationship was that she was utterly comfortable with him. Marinette didn't worry in the morning when she rolled out of bed whether her clothing was unattractive, if her hair was a mess or any of those insecure thoughts. Adrien had seen her in her worst moments—could remember them clearly—and her hands didn't become clammy from those silly worries that always been there when she liked someone before.

Adrien was someone she had affectionate feelings for, truly. He'd been a constant in her life and her closest friend for months on end before his disappearance, and it seemed like they were picking up where they'd left off, regardless of the differences. His memories weren't skewed any longer, not thinking that their separation had happening only a week ago, and she was starting to catch herself staring at him for longer than necessary when they were together.

True to his word, Adrien appeared in the evenings, pyjamas tucked under his arms or in a small bag, and spending the night before he disappeared in the mornings to work. It was so utterly domestic, with the two of them taking it in turns to cook—or whoever managed to make it home first—and he started to bring personal items through the door with him.

Sadly, he couldn't bring his cats. They weren't able to make it through with him, though they did enjoy his bedroom because it was often left open while he was away at hers, which brought forward the worry of how he was going to clean.

"Well, you might just have to hire someone to," Marinette mused, pondering the implications. She couldn't go through, neither could his cats, so she doubted that anyone else would be able to, too. The blurry-faced strangers of his world hadn't been the intended ones for the comic, which lead her to believe that they'd be able to walk through his door without any problems. "I'll happily pay for it, if you'll let me."

When he started to reply that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, that cat hair would collect and there was a chance he'd be able to ignore it if no one ever entered his room, Marinette scoffed and said that the dust in the study had been bad enough when she'd neglected it for months, and that it was his bedroom, of course visitors would expect it to be clean, and what if his parents visited? There was countless arguments why he should just allow her to pay for it, to which he stubbornly refused each time.

So, they had a routine set up. They were living together because of Marinette's spontaneous idea to snatch his bedroom door without thinking of the consequences, but he wasn't mad about it. Adrien constantly reminded her that he was overjoyed to see her—placing a hand gently on top of her own, thumb tracing gentle shapes into her skin—and that he wouldn't trade that for access to his bed.

"Yours has a better mattress anyway," he announced, grinning wolfishly.

She might've shoved her spoon in his mouth.

When there was a day that he had a prior arrangement, Marinette would come home to find a note on the dining room table (the room still wasn't set up, with the chairs pushed aside to create as much space as possible), and another bouquet of flowers that was already arranged beautifully in the vase from the first time. He'd slip in when she was asleep, his bright smile greeting her in the mornings before they had to part ways for work.

It was like they had a secret life with each other. Adrien's family didn't know about her, and Marinette kept her own personal life to herself. She told her friends that she was busy with work for the upcoming weeks to set aside time to commit to making their situation work, dreading thinking of a time where the blond would request to end their connection, and she assumed that he'd told the same to his friends, too.

After their date—which had been successful, even if it hadn't ended in a kiss—he hadn't pushed for another, as they were both content to stay inside for the time being. Marinette enjoyed sitting beside him with their hands clasped, sometimes resting her head on his shoulder to be comfortable, and he'd wrap an arm around her as it was natural. It was what their time could've been; filled with warmth, friendly contact and fond smiles, and she didn't feel at all uneasy about it.

As she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, watching the exposed strip of skin as he dried his hair, the side of his face when he was concentrating, or the way he licked his lips during their meals, she acknowledged the attraction she had for him. There wasn't differences in their bodies holding them back any more, and Adrien had definitely conveyed his feelings as true.

It was a month after they'd started living together that they kissed.

Adrien had been sat beside her, babbling enthusiastically about one of the customers that had entered his shop that day, hands moving to emphasise his words. Marinette had made the appropriate noises to encourage him, watching with raised eyebrows as he continued to rant, eyebrows adorably furrowed as he tried to understand the customer's thoughts, and all she could think was that was the type of silly thing that she liked him for.

As he continued to ponder heatedly aloud, she reached over and gently tapped his shoulder, moving closer so their clothing-clad thighs were pressed against each other. He didn't jump from surprise from the sudden movement, simply turning his head to look at her quizzically.

She smiled, leaning closer so their noses were touching, warm breath greeting her as her eyes glanced up to see his reaction.

A noise of surprise left him as she pressed her lips against his, and it had her feeling all sorts of pleased and smug all at once, even more so as he shifted to the side, a hand placed on her arm and slowly trailing up as she began to apply pressure as her eyes closed. He returned the kiss tentatively, gently, and soon there was a hand cupping her face softly, thumb idly tracing soft patterns into her skin in a way that had her lips curling into a smile despite their position. It seemed that he could feel it, too, as a breath of amusement left him, grin clear as they continued.

Marinette loosely grasped onto his shirt to occupy her hands, resisting the urge not to run her fingers through his hair—he'd came home a few nights ago with a new haircut that he wasn't happy with, as it was shorter than he was used to. She'd learned so many new things about him, and the way that she could feel the warmth of his breath and the constant pressure against her lips had a pleased sound escaping her.

It only spurred him on.

Soon, there was a tongue languidly gliding over her lower lip in a silent question, and she complied with a hum, feeling the redness that had appeared on her cheeks. She was sure that if she opened her eyes, he would've matched. With mingled breaths that were coming out as pants, the kiss became slow and lazy, not the desperate and passionate one that she would've expected from a first kiss. Adrien's hand on her face was gentle and calming, movements almost nervous, as though he was worried that he was crossing boundaries that he wasn't aware of.

When they parted, Marinette took in the sight of his reddened lips, the splash of colour on his cheeks, and a lopsided smile appeared on her face as she saw his untouched hair. The fond look in his eyes was reserved for her, and knowing that had her pulse fluttering, a warmth in her abdomen demanding as it spiralled lower, all because even when she his faults, he was undeniably endearing and lovable. There's wasn't anything that she would change about him if she could; he was there, breathing and touchable, no longer the incomplete version of himself.

Of all the romantic things she could've said, she blurted out instead, "I wouldn't mind sharing a bed with you."

He threw his head back and laughed.

-x-

The first to find out about their relationship was some of Adrien's friends. The blond-haired male appeared frazzled as he came through one evening—late, Marinette had placed the small whiteboard from the kitchen into the dining room for convenience—quickly busting into a rant that she only understood half of, thoroughly amused as she cradled a warm mug to her chest.

From what she could make out, his co-worker, one that had worked for his mother beforehand and had informed his parents when he'd disappeared when he didn't open the flower-shop for the duration of his absence, had seen the picture of her on his cell phone. She thought it was sweet that she was his background image (her own was of him pulling an unattractive face, while the one of her was normal), and wasn't understanding the problem.

"We're in a long-distance relationship, Marinette!" Adrien explained, throwing his hands in the air for emphasise. "That's what I told my parents, and now—now they're going to hear that I have a picture of the two of us on my phone, and they'll know that I didn't tell them—"

She raised a hand as though she was in a classroom, catching his attention with a confused smile. "The two of us?" Marinette questioned.

"Yes." Taking out the offending device from his pocket, he illuminated the screen and held it out so she could see it. "My arm's around you, see?"

It was, but only a portion of his shoulder was visible. "Unless you tell someone that that's your shirt, no one's going to know," the dark-haired female responded smartly. "Also, you could've just taken it on your mid-life crisis? You know, the one where you came to stay with me?"

A look of realisation appeared on his face as put away the cell phone. "I never actually said where I went," he muttered to himself, loud enough that she was just able to catch it.

She snorted. "Okay, easy," Marinette started, nodding her with a forced serious expression. "You went searching for the answers to your life, and instead you found me. I was on holiday and had to return home, so you did the same, but we kept in contact. What a romantic story to tell your parents."

Adrien crossed his arms over his chest. "I spent eleven days recovering in your bed."

"If necessary, you can say it was from intimate activities." She winked. "Actually, don't. We're not a fling."

Rolling his eyes, making it so she had a smile as she sipped from her mug, Adrien muttered under his breath that that wasn't how he wanted to introduce her to his parents. He spoke about the awkward moments of his previous relationships, of how they'd met his parents in ways that had either been planned or hadn't, and she found herself nodding along with the explained reactions.

"Our fathers sound very similar," Marinette mused, tilting her head slightly as she looked at him quizzically. "Do you think it's a parallel universe thing?"

He blinked. "I thought I was from a fictional world."

"I think I like my new theory better," the dark-haired female confessed, licking her lips after taking another drink of the lukewarm liquid. "Think about it—there's supposed to be an endless amount of parallel worlds, right? There was bound to be some where you were born."

Not looking convinced, Adrien settled himself down on a chair, running one hand through his blond tresses. "And, what? There just happened to be one where I studied fencing and took piano lessons when I was younger?"

"Those hobbies were based on my father—well, yours, so, yes." She shrugged her shoulders, almost jostling the mug out of her grasp. "I much prefer you being alive than a fictional character, so this is what I'm going to choose to believe. It's all insane, does it really matter what I think any more?"

As she sat down beside him, he leaned into her so their shoulders were touching. "Parallel world would mean that..." Adrien trailed off for a moment, clearly trying to grasp onto the right words as she waited patiently. "That would mean that we share the same people, except they've made different choices; partners, careers and small details. Right?"

"I guess. I'm not exactly a specialist on this."

He hummed to himself. "What if I name some of my closest friends, then? You might recognise them if their families stayed in the same area."

Considering that she didn't know any of their names, and Adrien often chose to keep the details to a minimum and give them nicknames while talking about them so she wouldn't get confused, she replied positively, "Go for it, I guess."

"Théo Grimault? He's a tall guy with brown hair down to his shoulders on my end," Adrien described, hand held above his had to try and indicate his height. "I can't remember his original surname since he got married before we met."

She tried to search through her mind, thinking of the families she'd met there were connected to her father, but none of them matched. "Not that I know of," she admitted sheepishly. "We could always try and search for them online, but I doubt he married the same person over here."

The blond-haired male deflated a bit, slumping back against the sofa. "Okay, he's out, then. I won't even bother asking you for his husband—he's horribly shy and doesn't use social media."

"I'm sorry."

A grin tugged on his lips. "Yes, how dare you not know everyone, Marinette. I had too many expectations of you."

If she hadn't had the warm mug in her hands, she would've bumped against his shoulder in protest. "Tell me another one of your friends, then."

"Chloé Bourgeois?" Adrien named, not pausing or looking her way to see her reaction as he raised a hand to try and indicate height once more. "Natural blonde, a little bit smaller than me—"

"I know her!" Marinette interrupted, reaching out to put the mug on the coffee-table as she turned to look at him, visibly surprised. "You've seen her, back when you were over here."

He blinked. "Are you sure?"

Nodding her head, she insisted, "She was at the park with her boyfriend one day, remember? I said I used to go to school with them, but we haven't spoken in a few years."

Furrowing his eyebrows, the blond had a contemplative expression before he uttered, "I—I think I remember? She looks a lot different when she's my best friend, also has a girlfriend, not a boyfriend. That's one of the changes here, I guess."

"Do you recognise any of my friends?" she asked, trying to remember whether he'd actually met them. After he'd started living with her, back when he'd only been visible to her alone, Adrien had drifted out of the room and spent his time away from her company, sometimes meeting her on the street when she was on her way back from gatherings.

He raised his shoulders as he shrugged. "It's been too long to correctly recall them, honestly."

And with that said, that was how Marinette decided it was time to stop avoiding her friends. Adrien returned to the other world—her chosen way to call it, since it had gotten confusing—and was happy to tell his parents, friends, and co-workers that he was happy in a long-distance relationship, so he could freely spend evenings in his apartment without them worrying about his social life. His parents were pleased that he'd found someone that made him smile, even more so when he relented to their pestering and showed the pictures that he'd taken of her a few days before (not that they knew that; they thought they were from back when they'd met during his mid-life crisis, or sent from her).

Marinette, on the other hand, was on the receiving end of disbelief from suddenly announcing that she was in a relationship when Alya came round with a bad film for the two of them to watch together, as Adrien was busy for the evening, spending the night at Théo's house (he promised to come back with a photograph, so she had a face to put to the name).

"You're dating someone," Alya repeated flatly.

She winced. "Yes?"

The red-haired female reached up to push her spectacles up as she narrowed her eyes, "You're dating someone, so that's why you've been a recluse and refusing to come out."

"I—yes?" A squawk of pain escaped as she was hit on the shoulder, and laughter spilled out as she tried to push her friends weakly slapping hands away from her. "Hey!"

"You promised never to be that type of person!" her friend accused her hotly, though her glare wasn't serious. "Come on, Marinette. We made a pact and everything so we wouldn't ditch each other because of love."

She held her hands up in a sign of surrender. "To be fair, you were already dating Nino when we met—or were you engaged? I don't know, you've been engaged for what feels like forever."

"That's besides the point," Alya retorted, talking louder than the dialogue of the film that they'd chosen to ignore for the time being. "Is it anyone I know?"

That was a loaded question. Alya had heard about him before, yes, but as two different people, and considering that she believed her internet friend to have been in a terrible accident, that left only one remaining. So, it was with her averting her eyes that she mumbled, "Aisle Boy."

"What was that?"

She cleared her throat. "Do you remember the weird guy from the supermarket? It was over a year ago. You nicknamed him Aisle Boy."

It took a moment for recognition to flicker onto her face, and then Alya was leaning back with a gleeful expression as she exclaimed, "No."

"Yes."

They stayed up into the late hours of the night, ordering food to be delivered and sipping carbonated drinks, laughing and genuinely having a good time. It was only when Alya ventured to the upstairs bathroom—claiming that the other one was always colder—and returned that she had a smug smile on her lips, and it took five minutes for the red-head to point out the extra toothbrush that was upstairs.

She had extra, of course. For Adrien to disappear to the other world to brush his teeth and return didn't make sense, so he kept some clothing in her room, had toiletries and other items to make himself feel more welcome. It wasn't as though she could tell her that, though, so Marinette settled with shrugging her shoulders, not giving a verbal reply as her friend started to say that she was smitten.

And she was. Marinette didn't see a reason to deny her feelings for him; the circumstances to their relationship were odd, yes, but she wasn't shy enough to not say she sincerely liked him to others. So, when it spread through their friends that Marinette was dating someone that had originally freaked her out (Alya's words, not hers), she chose to say that he grew on her from his persistence.

That was how they ended up walking hand-in-hand to a nearby restaurant to meet Alya and Nino only. Marinette had adamantly refused to meet a larger group beforehand because she was panicked of how to explain their situation, much like Adrien had been back when his co-worker had seen his cell phone's picture.

Marinette was fretting as they turned a corner, hand gripping his tightly as she babbled, "We met in a supermarket, okay? Then, we bumped into each other a few months ago, and you made this stupid joke—"

"You're worrying too much," the blond-haired male announced, pulling her to a stop so he could place his hands gently on her shoulders, shooting a reassuring smile before leaning in to kiss her forehead. "We don't have to tell everyone a detailed backstory, Marinette. Details are always bound to be different; we don't have to match up exactly."

She made a frustrated noise as she reached up to hold onto his arm. "I just want them to like you."

"They sound nice," he assured her.

"Just—just tell me if you want to leave, okay?" Marinette requested, looking up at him with a sincere expression. "I know it's unfair because I can't meet your friends, but I don't want to hide you in the house forever."

The night went better than expected. There was a disaster at the beginning where Adrien lost his footing after Alya had stood up and called Marinette's name to catch their attention, then he looked at Marinette with a dumbfounded expression for a moment before he was composed. He got along tremendously with Nino and Alya, so much so that they extended an invitation to their wedding within the first thirty minutes, which only made Marinette laugh since they still hadn't set a date or made any plans for it.

Later, she found out that the initial surprise had been because he recognised Alya. The surname was different, along with haircut and style of clothing, but she seemed similar to his version of her. The Alya that Marinette knew was apparently a lot more affectionate and allowed herself to express her feelings by touching, protective of her friends, and had a different sexuality. Adrien's version wasn't a close friend, but what he knew was from Chloé, who was dating her.

Marinette had taken in the information that evening when they were alone slowly, lips opening and closing without making noise, before she settled on, "Well, that's another point to the parallel world theory."

"It's possible," he conceded.

As Adrien was able to bring objects to and from the other world, Marinette took it upon herself to buy a small box and slap postage stamps upon it, then demand for him to tell her his address so she could make it seem as though it was delivered to him. She amused herself by buying different items—a few cat-shaped objects, even a pencil with a cat on it, mugs, and a frame that she put a photograph of the two of them inside—and packing them inside, before pushing it into his arms one morning.

"This is what some long-distance couples do," she insisted. "Now I won't seem like such a horrible girlfriend the next time you mention me to your parents."

Amused, Adrien felt it important to point out, "I haven't got anything for you, though."

"That's because I get to actually see you daily, rather than through webcams like everyone you know thinks," she retorted, directing him by placing her hands on his shoulders towards the dining room. "Now, go through there and make me seem like a good person."

"You're the best." He grinned, placing a chaste kiss on her lips before he straightened up, ready to head through the collage. "And we already know that my judgemental father would like you anyway, so there's no need to worry about my parents' opinions."

She scrunched her facial features together in displeasure. "It's different. What if they ask to meet me?"

"I'll say you're volunteering in a foreign country, so you can't."

"Please, don't," Marinette requested, horrified. It must've shown on her expression because his lips twitched from restrained laughter. "What if anyone asks to see me on webcam, then? You can't claim I'm horribly shy and won't meet anyone new, because then that would've applied to you, too."

His face was disturbingly blank as he replied, "We met when you escaped a mental institution."

Raising her hands momentarily in exasperation, Marinette sighed and mumbled, "Get to work before someone calls your mother about your absence."

His laughter filled the room as one side of his body disappeared, head turned towards her with a fond smile that reached his green eyes as he confessed softly, "I love you, too, Marinette."

It still astounded her that he did.

-x-

While their relationship was happy and filled with all things good, there were still times where she was sad. Marinette fiddled with her hands in her lap as they sat up in bed, lazing around since neither of them had to rush off to work that day.

Adrien had fit in with her friends wonderfully, telling them that he lived a while away in an obscure area, never giving a straight answer. He never seemed upset when the invitations were extended to him, happy to attend with his hand clasping hers in support. The main issue that had popped up was his lack of a cell phone, and he tried to explain that away by saying his last broke and he was in the process of buying one, but there was only so many times that he could say that before it became suspicious. He was insistent that he didn't need one for each world, and didn't seem to mind the idea of saying that he didn't like phones.

"I'm already known as the guy that locks his bedroom door." Adrien shrugged, though he had laughed himself to tears when he'd actually heard that uttered in his apartment building for the first time since the event. It seemed that the gossip circulated through his neighbours, and one child had eve asked him if it was true.

It was nice being with him. Adrien couldn't drive due to his lack of correct identification—she had to refuse to let him try and get away with flashing the license from his world—had to only pay in cash, and couldn't introduce her to anyone from his life, but he didn't seem upset with it. Of course, there were moments when his smile was half-hearted as he uttered the things that he wished they could've done, it was wishful thinking at all that they were together in the first place.

He'd placed a kiss to her forehead before and uttered, "My parents would love you if they could meet you, Marinette."

"My father already loved you," she'd gently reminded him in return.

They didn't try to understand the comic, the collaged door, or the explanation behind his appearances. The dizziness didn't disappear when he travelled to and from, but he hadn't passed out since his first arrival, which was a plus. When a piece fell down, adhesive left on the wall, Marinette gently returned the paper to the rightful place, heart pounding as she wondered whether it would work or not. Although only a few had fallen, the door still worked, so she supposed it was fine as though as it still looked like his bedroom door. Adrien was adamant that he didn't want to somehow undo his ability by discovering why he was there in the first place—as she'd done when confronting him with his identity—and she didn't fight him on it.

Resting her head against his shoulder with the duvet across her thighs, Marinette asked quietly, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

He hummed, attention turned towards her as his chin came to touch the top of her head, wrapping an arm around her. "What was that?"

She wetted her lips. "I mean, this—between us? It's a lot harder on you than it is for me."

"Why wouldn't I want to be with you, though?" He didn't sound offended; his voice was soft and intimate, one that was reserved for her and stray cats that he passed on the street. "You were there for me when no one else was, Marinette. I'm here because I love you, not because I'm trying to repay you for your kindness."

As it always did, hearing him confess his feelings in such a casual way had her lips curling up into a private smile. "You're basically an illegal immigrant right now."

"I'll try and apply for identification, then," he replied easily.

She snorted. "Good luck with that."

Not deterred by her short laugh, Adrien continued on to say, "Really, I can try. I'm sure there's some cases of someone losing their records, or amnesia with no one to provide an identity for them. I've had amnesia before, I can probably fake it—well, no. It's really hard trying to lie, and I'm not very good at that."

"Stick to the truth, then," Marinette murmured, closing her eyes as she breathed steadily, comfortable in their position. "Say you're a relative of Gabriel Agreste that lost all documentation somehow. I'm sure I've got some dead relatives that I never met that you can decide are your parents."

She could feel his chest vibrate when he spoke. "And, what, you'll try and support my lies and say we met when we were younger?"

"I guess so? I think it would be fine, I mean, why would I lie for a random person? Although, some might just think we're married already because of the matching surnames, and you saying you're related to my father might mean they'll test you. I don't know how blood tests work—will they find out you're a match to my father that way? Seriously, I have no idea. Will they even want one?" Marinette babbled, eyebrows knitting together from the idea. "I haven't watched nearly enough crime television to try and think of this properly."

"You've still got the drawings of me from when I was little, right?" he asked.

Blinking, she answered, "Yes, but some of them are beside pictures of me."

Shrugging one shoulder meant that her head was lifted into the air, and she laughed at the movement. "It's better than nothing."

There was still something that was nagging her, though. She decided to confess softly, announcing an insecurity that had bothered her for some time, "I don't want you to leave your world, but right now I'm practically hiding you."

"I don't have to leave anything," Adrien assured her, fingertips tracing the bare skin of her shoulder in soothing patterns. "I've got a nice service that cleans my bedroom once a month with no questions asked, and I'm able to spend my evenings curled up with you after feeling the sunshine in the other world."

She fiddled with the duvet with her wandering hands. "What happens when you decide that you want more than this, though?"

"The same could be said to you," the blond-haired male pointed out, no sadness or exasperation clear in his voice. Although the topics they were talking about made her frown, they weren't growing angry or restless. "I know that I can't marry you—at least, now as I am now."

Smiling, Marinette turned her head to press a kiss to his shirt-clad shoulder. "Isn't it a bit too soon to be thinking about that?"

"Hey, I don't know how long it'll take to try and gain citizenship or identification," he shot back, grin clear in his voice as he tightened his hold in the one-armed embrace. "And, in total, we've been living together for roughly a year and a half. It might be in our future to be forever engaged like Nino and Alya."

"You wouldn't need identification for that," she agreed with a laugh.

He released a chuckle, too. "The matching surnames would really throw people off when we tell them we're only engaged. Though, it would be even weirder if they ask if my family adopted you."

"They kind of did."

"Well, in this world." Adrien pulled back, showing his teeth as his smile met his eyes while he looked down at her with fondness. "I promise not to tell strangers you're my sister."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Sometimes, I wonder if your sense of humour can get any worse."

"Marinette," he gasped, placing a hand on his chest in an exaggerated manner, expression feigning hurt. "It was my jokes that made you fall in love with me."

She pointed her index finger at him with a lopsided smile. "I'm in love with you despite them, you mean," Marinette corrected, shuffling closer and running her fingers through his hair, rather than pointing at him still. "The bad humour makes me like you more because it assures me that no one's perfect; you're flawed, and I love you that way."

"That's terribly romantic and hurtful at the same time," he mused. "Does this mean I can kiss you?"

"I suppose so," she said with a laugh, leaning forward so their noses brushed, "since you were nice enough to ask."

His sound of his amusement was muffled as she pressed her lips against his, and although they'd kissed more times than she could count, there were still moments where their teeth awkwardly touched; the clumsiness was mixed with enthusiasm, and it was endlessly endearing. Marinette ran her fingers through his hair lightly—having found out that he was fond of that when they were intimate—and she smiled against his lips as they applied pressure, equally as heated and invested.

Marinette made a noise of surprise as he manoeuvred her, lips apart and eyes open so she could see his wide grin as she straddled him, knees on either side of him, duvet bunched uncomfortably underneath her backside. She reached back and pushed it away, settling down on top of the thin material of his underwear.

As she felt his cloth-clad arousal press against her, Marinette raised her eyebrows and asked, "Already?"

He wasn't embarrassed at all. Adrien wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer so their chests were almost pressed together, and announced while smiling unabashedly, "You're only in your underwear." And to prove that further, his eyes flickered down to her bare breasts for a moment, and she knew that her brassiere was placed on the armchair that she'd once sat on to talk to him.

"That means you're dressed too much," she quipped, hands gripping onto his t-shirt and starting to bunch it up. "Don't you want to be fair?"

She could feel it as he purposely hummed. "Maybe if you kiss me again."

So, she did. Marinette pressed her lips to his with fervour, eyes closing as she wrapped her arms around his neck and angled her head up slightly to be comfortable. The height difference wasn't much of a bother when they were sat down—she didn't have to try and stand on the tips of her toes when he wanted to tease her—and she was able to freely enjoy herself without the worry of not reaching.

Their breaths mingled together as the kiss deepened, tongues touching as his he held her close, and she made a noise of appreciation as she shifted her hips, their clothed arousals brushing into each other on purpose. She could feel the the pounding heartbeat within her chest was echoed between her legs, fast and demanding, warmth coiling within her abdomen as little bursts of pleasure appeared as he tried to mimic her movements to the best of his ability from his position.

She could feel him clearly through the flimsy material as she ground against him, breaths becoming unbalanced as friction reached her protrusion through her underwear. It wasn't teasing, though, as it sometimes was when she perched herself on his lap for a kiss before she disappeared for a prior engagement; their movements were slow,

Their kiss ended with a breathless gasp, and the sight of his reddened lips caused a smug smile to appear on her own.

"Your shirt," Marinette reminded him, shifting her hips once more.

There was colour across his cheekbones as he removed the article of clothing, letting it rest on the bedside table for the foreseeable future. "You're awfully demanding today," Adrien observed.

She grinned as she reminded him, "We had a deal."

"You're right," he acknowledged, one of the hands that that had been wrapped around her trailing over the skin of her hip, skimming the top of her underwear. "How could I forget that?"

With a quick kiss to his lips, that had him smiling, Marinette placed her feet on the floor and stood up, fingers tugging on her underwear until they were on the floor, and she was climbing willingly back on top of him, a little bit further back, so his clothed arousal wasn't touching her any more. To make up for that, though, Marinette fiddled with his waistband as his hands came back to touch her hips.

His hands wandered lower, one grasping onto her backside with a lopsided grin when she peeked up at him, as she pulled down the material of his underwear, one hand grasping his member, feeling the heat and softness of his skin. She moved her hand slowly at first, trying to become accustomed to the awkward position of her wrist, and the breathy noises that escaped him made it so she knew he was enjoying it.

As he trailed a fingertip over her cleft, purposely touching the damp skin and avoiding her protrusion and lower—where he knew she wanted attention to be directed at—Marinette retaliated with a particularly tight grip on his arousal, grin widening as a gasp escaped him. She moved her hand at a steady pace after that, adjusting her hold at the bottom and relishing in the noises that he made, while she knew that she was producing much the same as he slipped a finger tentatively inside of her. Their movements were erratic without much of a rhythm, sometimes staying still for a moment or two as they recovered from a gasp or the sudden rush of pleasure.

Marinette bit down onto her bottom lip as a second digit entered her, stretching her slow and tentatively, the way that he knew she liked. She ground down onto him, making it so his fingers reached deeper within her, throbbing pulse a persistent reminder of her arousal and want, all the while she jerkily tugged his member was varying grips.

She was impatient, though. As much as she'd liked to stay like that, sat upon his thighs and feeling the warmth of his skin on her legs and her hand, to indulge herself in the tiny bursts of pleasure that appeared as his fingers delved within her, she knew that she'd much prefer more, even though it meant a momentarily loss of contact.

Trailing her thumb over the tip of his member, Marinette murmured, "Do we still have—"

The fingers inside her curled as the blond interrupted her with, "Yes."

She was the one to remove her hand first, having to playfully slap his wrist when he continued to move (as she couldn't scowl when a noise of pleasure escaped her lips). Adrien offered her a grin as she climbed off of him, and she watched his body as he reached across to the bedside table, fetching an item from the drawer.

Marinette leaned in and pressed kisses to the exposed skin of his shoulder as he lifted himself up to remove the underwear fully, making sure not to leave any marks as the tell-tale noise of crinkling sounded. It wouldn't do for Adrien to return to the other world with intimate marks marring his skin on display when he claimed to be in a long-distance relationship, even if they were from her, he was insistent that her honour needed to remain in tact, so she settled with kissing him when she could.

When she'd started to pepper smooches across his jawline—a part of him that she appreciated when he was looking to the side often—he'd finished preparing, so he wrapped his arms around her and embraced her tightly, making it so his head was resting on her shoulder.

"This is romantic," Marinette quipped.

She could feel his chest vibrate as he laughed and scolded her softly, "Shut up, I'm appreciating you."

She smiled. "You can appreciate me in other ways, you know, like maybe ravishing me."

He didn't protest as she gently pushed him back, instead he complied with the adjustment, moving the pillows so he was on his back with his head slightly propped up to avoid discomfort, a smug grin on his lips as she repeated her earlier actions of straddling him.

"This is a sight I definitely appreciate," Adrien confessed, hands settling on her waist.

Childishly, she stuck out her tongue. Marinette raised her hips, placing one hand on his body for support while the other grasped his member, guiding his arousal so it gently prodded her arousal at first. She took in a deep breath as she shifted her weight, pushing down to allow the intrusion.

There was a few seconds of them breathing after she'd settled down on him. And then his fingers were tracing soothing patterns into her skin—waiting, patient and intimate—and she'd adjusted to the change. She could see the colour that appeared on his cheeks, the golden-tinged eyelashes that were visible from their distance, the fond expression, and smile that showed the indents of his cheeks—all of those details combined had her stomach clenching from budding arousal, and knowing that he was sincere when he looked at her with such a loving face had her heart beating rapidly.

A breathless noise escaped her as she lifted her up, hands steadying herself on his warm chest, making it so he almost withdrew fully before she took in another breath and sank back down.

The moan was from him that time.

Marinette slowly increased her pace, using his hands to keep her from falling forward as Adrien grip on her hips became tighter. He copied her movements, meeting her with a thrust to the best of his ability every few moments, fingernails surely creating little half-moon shapes in her skin as his eyes closed from the pleasure. Marinette was much the same, experiencing pleasure from the feelings and his sounds, spurred on as she rocked forward, making it so her protrusion rubbed against his pelvis from the movement.

The feeling was wonderful, and a noise of appreciation escaped her as she repeated the movement, enjoying the bonus friction and the way he was thrusting into her still as she fell forward, catching herself by putting her hands on either side of his head.

A huff of laughter escaped him, and she opened her eyes to realise that her hair that landed in his face.

"Sorry," she apologised half-heartedly, tucking the strands behind her ear and trying to keep it over her shoulder.

His response was to shift his hips, making her moan.

Their movements became erratic and desperate; Marinette clumsily tried to keep her hair back and breasts back from hitting him if she fell forward again, only for her to slump against him as the pleasure continued to build, a breathless gasp sounding as she buried her head in the crook of his neck, warmth from her breath on her face as she moved her hips to meet his thrusts.

The wetness between her legs made their actions audible, and her moans were muffled as the sound of their slick skin connecting filled the room. Marinette rocked against him, face burning from the small space and the ongoing sensations, legs tightening around him as she reached her peak.

The added tightness from her release had caused him to be close, she realised as he rutted against her, lifting his hips to seek his own as she tried to regain control over her breathing. He shuddered against her, a choked groan from his lips, and she placed sloppy kisses on his neck as he recovered.

"Gosh, I love you," he murmured, voice as breathless as she felt.

Tucking her messy hair behind her ear, Marinette kissed his neck once more before uttering, "I love you, too, dork."

The next day, he researched on how to apply for an identity.

-x-

Adrien's birthday was a date that she'd planned thoroughly for, since she'd missed two of his previous ones, she was determined to make it memorable. Her father had always celebrated her birthday when she was growing up by baking cakes with her in the kitchen, blowing up too many balloons and allowing her to have free reign over their activities for the day.

Nino helped her by volunteering his car to store half of the balloons in. She'd found a somewhat local store that sold balloons that had cat ears, and she'd bought twenty-six to match his age, only to find that she couldn't fit them all in her own vehicle. A bemused Nino had answered her phone call the day before Adrien's birthday—she'd requested a day off from work so she could sort out the details while the blond was away in the other world—and willingly allowed himself to be dragged to all sorts of shops on her whims.

When they were done and twenty-six balloons were hidden in the study, the room Adrien was least likely to go into, Nino stuck around to keep her company while she ran around, trying to hide all the different items from sight. His presents were hidden in the wardrobe of the spare bedroom, covered by a blanket that he never lifted, and she'd bought brightly-coloured napkins, party hats and even straws.

"It's like you're planning a party for a kid," Nino mused, thoroughly amused as she tested out the strings on one of the hats.

She made a rude gesture with her hand. "Because I know he'll love it."

"No banners?"

Shaking her head, Marinette begrudgingly muttered, "No, I might fall off the chair while trying to put them up tomorrow."

Adrien didn't find any of the hidden items that evening. He left for work the next morning, kissing her quickly on the lips before disappearing through the door with the assumption that she was going to work, and she knew that he'd be back late due to having dinner with his parents and closest friends. He'd joked that he'd take along a framed picture of her to make her feel included.

She busied herself with baking the cake, leaving it to cool down on the side before she ventured out to a local flower-shop. The flowers she picked out were ones that she'd researched online, wanting not to embarrass herself by having mixed meanings that he'd unfortunately know, and then bought the items she needed before she returned home.

It turned out that making a flower crown was harder than it looked on the internet. Marinette tried to follow the videos that her laptop displayed—it was still the old one that made awful noises after an hour of being turned on, making the radio in the background obsolete—groaning and cutting her fingers at times. She looked up written guides as well, following the pictures to try and make her monstrosity pretty.

The end result wasn't perfect, but she was proud of it. She had glue on her fingers from the ribbons she'd stuck on it, and there was pollen coating the countertops, but that didn't get rid of her proud smile. The cake wasn't much better; it was two-tiered and lopsided, coated in white icing, sprinkles and twenty-six brightly-coloured candles (that almost took up the entire top).

The flower crown was hidden in the cupboard where she kept the plates, cake covered, and she placed the childish party hats she'd bought in clear sight on the countertop.

He came through the door late in the evening, thirty minutes after Marinette had cleared up her dinner, with a wide smile and a large badge attached to his shirt that displayed his age.

"It suits you." She grinned.

Colour appeared in his cheeks as he glanced down to the offending addition to his outfit. "Oh, leave me alone. My mother came into work and insisted I wear it all day."

"You'll continue to wear it, then," Marinette insisted, walking towards him quickly to embrace him tightly. "Happy birthday, Adrien."

As she predicted, his eyes widened as he caught sight of the hats, and she had to cover her mouth to muffle her laughter as he made a show of trying each of them on, asking which one suited him best. The excited expression on his face was so utterly adorable that her smile started to mirror his, and she couldn't resist reaching forward to pull the string underneath his chin down before letting go, making it so it snapped against his skin lightly.

"That hurt," he protested with a grin.

Reaching up to grasp the hat, Marinette pulled it off carefully as she confessed, "I have something even better for you to wear."

His eyes were wide when she retrieved the flower crown. Adrien leaned down so she could easily place it on his head, the mixture of flowers and ribbons standing out against the mop of golden-coloured hair (that had grown out to roughly the same style that he'd had when they met). She didn't know whether he remembered the promise she'd once made when they were living together before, the want that she'd had to celebrate his birthday in the most ridiculous way possible.

"I really feel like a princess now," the blond announced, hand reaching up to adjust the crown.

Her laughter was honest. "You're old enough to pay rent, too."