paint the sky black
(author's note at the bottom)
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Chapter 1: Awakening
(French edited thanks to Dame Amaryllis!)
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It starts out like this:
She is born on the dawn of a bright summer day. Her arrival comes with little fanfare; after the long night before, it's far too early in the morning for any sort of celebration. Still, despite the exhaustion lining their faces, her parents watch her in quiet wonder.
(Years from this moment, she will blame it all on cosmic intervention. Cosmic intervention, because clearly someone up there should be held responsible - ).
It all comes down to the ridiculous timing, of course. Ridiculous timing for the sun to rise at the very moment she is placed in her mother's arms. Ridiculous timing for its rays to brush against her near transparent hair, like feathers braided on a crown.
"She's beautiful," her father will whisper, awe lining his words. "She'll bring light to the entire world, our beautiful daughter."
"A lucky charm," her mother will then softly agree with fond eyes. "She'll make it a better place; make us better people."
Her father coos in response, more praise ready to leave his mouth, like little gems falling from his lips - )
They name her Marinette, for it is "she who raises." For she will be the one who brings them up, who will rise to the occasion, pull the light from the darkness, yadah, yadah.
It was a romantic thought. Probably felt appropriate in the moment, like destiny calling for its champion.
(Romantic or not, fate is fickle towards its fools.
The story of Marinette Dupain-Cheng begins in light and ends in something much, much darker).
No, like, actually. Color scheme and all - everything becomes much, much darker.
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To the parents of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, their daughter is just a little strange, drifting off into space at the most opportune moments. There are moments of clumsiness, of sudden excitement and sadness that pass by so quickly they almost seem imagined. It's enough to give any inexperienced parent whiplash, but they love her all the same, quirks and all, and chalk it all up to her young age.
For Marinette herself, the awareness of her oddness grows with every year.
It starts off subtle at first. She finds herself drawn to her mother's home language, her father's macarons, the fireflies dancing past her eyes.
Visions of cities she's never been to, cravings of food she's never tasted. Her eyes dance across the streets of Paris and she finds herself a bit displaced.
Nevertheless, she grows as any child should, young and carefree, despite the sense of acknowledgement that she is different. She doesn't know what that different could be, isn't quite aware that such a difference exists, but still, Marinette lives her early life in contentment.
She is raised with happiness, with care, with love and affection. Her parents are great caretakers, even if they're a little over the top, because their talent for macarons are off the charts -
"Marinette!"
She freezes, sweaty hands hovering above the oven tray, two of the sweets already stuffed into her mouth.
"Marinette," her mother walks in with an exasperated look, flour dusting her hands and apron. "What did I tell you about eating Papa's pastries before dinner?"
"... Don't do it?" Marinette guesses, after swallowing the macarons as swiftly as possible. She flushes and opens her mouth to apologize, in French, "Sorry -"
Wait, in French?
Well, yes, of course in French, she thinks, just a tad annoyed at herself. What else would she be speaking?
Of all languages, an abstract part of her grumbles, out of all the possible languages in this world, I'm stuck with French -
"Marinette!" her mother's face looms in front of her and she jumps to attention. "My goodness, girl, you've been so absent minded these days."
"Sorry, Mama," she goes for a sheepish smile, her previous bitterness flying far away from her mind. "Can I help with dinner then?"
"That would be wonderful," her mother returns the smile with a gentle touch. "We can make your favorite soup."
In the face of mouth-watering broth, Marinette blinks away any weird thoughts and takes her mother's offered hand with glee.
(She's only five - what does she know about the existential realm?).
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At the age of six, when she blows out the candles on an extravagant cake, she decides that she is indeed, very different.
There must be a reason, she guesses, taking a disgustingly huge bite out of her cake. It'll come in its own time.
She goes for another bite - and then catches her mother's stern look - before primly taking a much smaller portion.
All in due time, she thinks cheerfully, and wolfs down the rest of the cake.
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(A year later, her reason comes in the form of falling down two flights of stairs and landing painfully on harsh gravel.
Something rushes through her head - a breeze, the wind? - and fireworks spark behind her eyes. Stars circle her vision, white spots glaring brightly, a burning, ripped feeling on her chin -
Then, nothing).
A few hours later, she wakes to the smell of anesthetic and emptiness filling her lungs.
"Mon Dieu, Marinette, j'étais si inquiète!" her mother exclaims, rising from her seat next to the swathing white bed. "Comment ça va?"
Is that French? Marinette (though she does not realize it yet) thinks as she takes in the sore pain spreading throughout her body. Eyes blink at the two adults hovering over her.
"Where am I?" she asks, but sucks for her because she's French now, even if she doesn't know it yet, and what comes out instead is, "Où suuuuis-jeeeeee?"
What the actual fuck, is her next appropriate thought, and then considers a probable possibility.
Am I dead?
(As it turns out, at one point that certainly was the case.
Now… well, one can't be too sure anymore).
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Her (new? old? current?) parents take the news of her apparent loss of memories as well as any other set of parents would. Not incredibly well, but with as much grace and hope as they can muster.
She appreciates the effort, even though amnesia isn't exactly what she would call her current situation. Perhaps "the realization of the soul" would be more accurate, or spiritually, she would be a case of "reincarnation."
Details aside, Marinette is still Marinette, with just an extra dash of Before-Marinette to make things a bit more exciting. She's got over two decades of Before to deal with along with the seven years she's got here in Paris under her belt.
Piece of cake, she crows victoriously, while relishing the taste of actual cake in her mouth. The cream filling melts in her mouth and she nearly cries at its beauty.
God bless, she thinks, nearly shoveling the entire dessert into her mouth.
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"Marinette," her mother approaches her one evening, kneeling gently next to her little table of drawings. "It's been three semaines, penses-tu pouvoir retourner à school?"
At the familiar word, Marinette looks up from her doodles of roses. She's clever enough to connect the dots.
But school? Clumsily, she asks, "Semaines?"
Her mother pauses for a brief moment before letting a sigh. "Je vais prendre ça pour un non..."
"Yeah, you're right, mum. We should totally wait a little longer until I get the hang of this new language," is what she wants to say, but since her list of words is limited to five words, she instead carefully pronounces, "D'accord!"
Going back to public school? No thank you, she'll enjoy her unfortunate condition for as long as it takes.
Warm lips press against her forehead and Marinette leans into the heat.
"Occupe-toi juste de getting better," her mother murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from Marinette's face. "Je t'aime, ma fille."
In the slightest of moments, far too quickly for her mother to catch, Marinette pauses, before cheerfully returning the words she had practiced for many nights before. "I love you too!"
(It's not a lie, because she is Marinette, but Before-Marinette had her own parents and it's only just a little bit awkward at the moment).
She is rewarded with an enveloping, firm hug that conveys her mother's thoughts far more than what words ever could.
The door closes with a soft click, and in that silence, she takes in the baby blue walls around her.
A considering hum resonates in her throat.
"School?" Marinette collapses onto the floor with a loud huff. "Sounds hard."
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It takes her another year to barely pass France's language standards for public schooling. By then, Marinette has completely immersed herself into French culture out of sheer desperation.
(There comes a point where repeating the same motions get tiring, and the amount of times she's had to make the universal sign for bathroom is getting a little ridiculous…).
A heavy debate takes place on whether she should return to her former school. What if more familiar faces jog back her memory? What if she's bullied for not being as developed as the other kids? What if, what if, what if?
In the midst of such a topic, Marinette (who hasn't actually, really lost her memories - or at least, she certainly hopes not) decides these kinds of decisions can be left to the adults, and quietly steals away to her room above.
The calm shades of pastel blue in her room never fail to make her smile, but alas, she's a lady on a mission today.
With a grunt, she grabs her miniature chair and lifts it gently, careful to not let it scrape against the floor. A few minutes of labor and she's on top of it, stretching to reach the highest point of her bookshelf.
"C'mon," she mutters, the slightest hint of a lisp still lingering with her words. "Come to me, baby, you're okay, come on."
It's tough work but she makes due with sheer persistence. Her efforts are rewarded with a heavy thump, the weight of the bulky CD player landing in her arms and nearly knocking her off the chair.
"Okay, almost died there, but that's fine, no problem," Marinette blabbers as she hums an upbeat tune. Placing the player onto her desk with gentle care, she caresses its cold surface lovingly. "Lots of time for fun, yup, yup!"
Still humming, she plugs the player in and turns it on. An awkward minute of silence passes as she waits with bated breath, until -
Soft, taps on the high hat, a lilting melody from the trumpet, and the growing sounds of jazz creep through the speakers. The music grows to a swell, picking up in speed and, in response, she raises the volume to its highest level.
The jazz band is in full swing, trombones sliding from note to note, and anticipation shakes her tiny, little bones. Two more measures and then -
Grabbing a nearby pen, Marinette brings it dangerously close to her face and inhales deeply,
"It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing," She bellows in her high-pitched voice. As always, her English is impeccable. Her knees slam to the floor as she nearly screams, "DOO WAH, DOO WAH, DOO WAH, DOO WAH, DOO WAH, DOO WAH, DOO WAH, DOO WAH -"
At this point, her parents have had enough time to get a clue of her antics and, unsurprisingly, the sound of hurried steps precedes the trap door opening with a slam.
"Marinette!" Her father calls out, a smile hidden behind his beard, while her mother looks far more stern. "What did I say about using the CD player?"
"It makes no difference if it's sweet or HOT," she continues, shuffling in place, her pen in both hands. When a short interlude comes by, she turns to her parents with a sheepish smile. "Uh, keep it down?"
By the time she's changed her dancing steps to use her pen as a cane, her father has long since joined her, with the remaining member of the family laughing helplessly into her hands.
(Six months later, her parents gift her with an old, but fairly good trumpet and absolutely no one is surprised when she bursts into sudden tears.
It's not the same as before, no, but it's a piece of her heart nonetheless).
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Before Marinette's untimely (but probably very necessary) accident, she had been slated to enter an accelerated program that would find her finishing her education much faster than others.
Now, with the abrupt switch in "cognitive ability," she is back to where the rest of her peers stand.
("Stunted," is what they all say, but bah! Wait till she hits English class - she'll throw each and every other kid's ass into the air with Shakespearen lines she'll have memorized the night before).
She's not entirely bothered by the apparent delay. That just leaves her more time to bake, to play, to dance and sing. It gives her more time to simply live, to explore the streets of a city she's never been to Before, to serenade the people of the City of Love with her trumpet -
"Marinette Dupain-Cheng!"
With a silent curse, Marinette lowers the trap door to her room and tries very hard to hide any hint of her guilt as she walks down the stairs.
"Yes, Maman?" she asks, the perfect look of innocence. "Did you need help in the bakery? I was just about to put my things away."
Her mother folds her arms and Marinette knows better than to wince, but nearly does so anyway.
"You've been out on the streets again, haven't you?" the woman, although only a few centimeters taller than Marinette, seems to tower over everything else. "Even though I told you not to?"
"Nope!" Marinette says, lying through her dirty, deceitful teeth. "I have done no such thing."
At that same, precise moment, a bill for five euros floats elegantly onto the floor between the two.
"I give you ten percent of all my earnings!" Marinette shrieks, in pain or in dramatism, she isn't too sure, but regardless, the tugs to her ear still hurt. "I have been a faithful daughter!"
"You can be a faithful daughter by washing the dishes for the rest of the month!" Her mother snaps back, in Chinese this time, which means oh man, she must be pissed. "I've been telling you for so long to stop wandering around so late, haven't I?"
"I'm sorry, Mama," Marinette pleads, switching to Chinese as well because she knows her mother has a soft spot for it. With a quick twist, she escapes from the hold on her ear and rushes to the sink. "I'll start doing the dishes right away, yes."
There is a moment of silence, filled with the jarring clanks of tableware.
The punishment isn't so much a surprise, but the sudden burn in her eyes certainly is.
"Oh, Marinette," An arm wraps around her shoulders as soon as the sniffling begins to start. "I'm just worried for your safety. You're only ten."
A part of her wants to wail. In fury, in frustration because she can feel herself running around in circles, head winding up and down. She rubs her eyes furiously - man, fuck these hormones.
"I, I'm sorry, Maman," She croaks, cheeks flushing fiercely. "I just, I feel like I'm going crazy, being here all the time."
It's just… she's not a child. But as it is, with how she looks to everyone else, she might as well be.
"Oh, Marinette," Her mother says again, with a deep sigh. "Maybe your father and I made a mistake, sending you to a new school…"
"I don't need my old school," Marinette sniffs, disgusted at her runny nose. "I need to do things."
Her mother looks contemplative at those words.
"We can talk about it more when your father finishes work," the woman says decisively. "Until then, you're to come straight back after band rehearsal. I'll be extending your punishment by a week every time you're late."
On any other day, Marinette would have protested - set up a compromise, plead for a shorter sentence. But her sudden emotional upheaval leaves her exhausted, and so she whispers a solemn agreement.
She returns to her room sullenly, collapsing onto her bed and resting the back of her hand on her forehead.
"Still ten, huh?" she murmurs, eyes closing at the very last memory from before.
The truth of the matter remains: Marinette knows intimately that nothing is always safe. She hates herself for knowing it, hates herself for worrying her mother, hates herself for going out anyway.
She's lived nearly three decades and that kind of lifestyle is what ultimately led to her death, after all. Left her swimming through a river of red.
(A near disgusting thought enters: could she have been courting a reenactment? Looking for it?)
"They never said it would be this hard," her voice spreads outward, thinly, and briefly, she remembers that she needs to brush her teeth before going to sleep. Can't ruin these perfectly good teeth.
Her lungs expand, the fears encased in her body rushing erratically through her veins.
"I'm sorry, Mama," she whispers to the darkness of the room. "What a disappointing daughter I must be."
(Would she stop her antics? Could she?
But she needs to see for herself. Needs to keep taking steps forward, needs to not look back.
What happens if she stops? Stops looking at this new, amazing world, and sits here, wallowing in her memories?
If she doesn't leave, if she doesn't confirm it, if she doesn't make sure that the outside world is okay, will she be left here, a husk of herself, fearful of taking a single step outside?)
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Months pass and eventually, Marinette's punishment is lifted. The incident, however, is not forgotten.
"What would you like to do?" her father asks one summer day. He hands her a whisk and, delighted, she sets off to beating her cream into submission. "You're always moving about, trying to do so many things at once. I think it would be good for you to have something to focus on."
"Well, there's band at school," she points out, bringing the whisk to her mouth to have a taste. It only results in the entire bowl being taken out of her hands, and she sighs in disappointment. She adds, "But the trumpet is a means, not a solution."
"I see," her father says, a look of confusion across his face. "I'm not too sure what you mean by that, but your busking will have to stop. It's time you find a safer outlet."
Marinette brings her palms to her burning cheeks.
"B-Busking?" she sputters. Her feet stomp on the ground. "It's not b-busking! It's more beautiful than that. I'm serenading the people of Paris."
"More like you're tooting at them and then they take pity on you," her father jokes, laughing heartily at her offense.
They spend the day away in the bakery, kneading dough, sifting flour, dusting sugar - oh man, oh man, is she drooling?
"They're beautiful," Marinette whispers, swooning at the sight of chocolate melting through the croissants. "My babies," She coos.
"Pfft, alright, princess," wide, strong arms pick her up and away from the oven. "Let's go get some dinner."
"Yes, dinner! I love dinner!" Marinette cheers. Her father is absolutely built and has no trouble running through the house at her command, lifting her above his head like a sumo wrestler.
Their reign of terror only stops when an even bigger threat stands in their way. Scolding them fiercely for the amount of flour they've tracked into the living room floor, her mother stands with her hands on her hips as both Marinette and her father sulk back down the stairs, off to grab brooms to clean up the mess.
"I'll figure something out eventually," she tells him once he tosses her a dust pan. "You know how it is, Papa. I always do."
"I'm sure you will, little dove," he presses his lips on her forehead and she preens at the contact. "I never doubted you for a moment."
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It's the anniversary of her parents' wedding and like always, the family of three go out to splurge on a nice dinner.
They're on their way back home after eating at a fancy Italian restaurant, walking down the brightly lit streets of Paris. Her parents leisurely stroll down the cobblestone road a few paces ahead of her, arms linked and leaning close together.
Behind them, Marinette skips lightly from side to side, relishing the clicks her feet make against the pavement. At the sight of her mother slowly resting her head against her father's arm, she slows down to a halt, and feels the corners of her mouth lift.
"Love, huh?" she says out loud, her voice soft and wistful. But it's a sound no ten-year-old should make and so she skips right on ahead, twirling to a tune in her head, swinging around the black lampposts.
She follows her parents as they make a turn, her heels stumbling as they try to match the beat of the rhythm only she can hear when abruptly, an achingly familiar melody hits her ears.
Almost as if someone has pulled on her arm, Marinette halts, her entire body lurching to the direction of the music.
Her head moves desperately to the left as her feet scramble forward.
There, there, there! She stares at the television inside an electronic store, chest heaving at the sudden movement. On the screen is a young girl, hair as black as night with pearls intertwined in the strands.
She's dressed in a brilliant red gown that goes down to the floor. Sitting on a bench, shoulders hunched over, fingers moving rapidly across a polished keyboard.
It's a Yamaha CFX, Marinette notes distantly, hungrily taking in the grand piano, full of bright, colorful sounds. Behind it stands an orchestra, the gleam of the brass instruments near blinding.
Marinette knows this piece. Despite her love for jazz, that is what she had done in her life before.
Marinette knows the Schumann concerto like it's the back of her hand, and all she can do is stare, transfixed as the orchestra swells to the climax of the piece's third movement.
The pianist is quite good, her runs clean and her octave jumps precise. Hands moving rapidly in succession, the violins behind her crescendoing to an overwhelming volume and -
Something wet and warm lands on her cheek.
"Oh," Marinette says dumbly as her entire world blurs. The sweet melody pounding in her ears, her chest turning and twisting, shivers along her back.
Her fingers are numb, and ringing in the faint distance, her parents call out her name.
All too aware of herself, she wipes furiously at her eyes and turns, walking away from the performance as it concludes to the thundering applause of its audience.
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"Dancing?" Marinette wrinkles her nose, trumpet mouthpiece in hand because her embouchure sucks and she needs the practice. "Like ballet?"
"We were thinking more along the lines of this," her father says after exchanging a glance with her mother. He hands her a slip of paper full of vibrant colors.
"Have your children learn any style of dancing," Marinette reads out loud slowly, her reading skills acceptable but not the best. "We focus particularly on… swing and tap dancing?"
Her eyes shoot up to her parents, their hesitation as clear as day, but all she can think about is that finally, she'll be able to dance with an actual cane.
"That would be amazing," she whispers before shrieking when her father lets out a cry of delight and picks up her up like it's nothing.
"You'll have even less free time than before," her mother warns her, though there is an indulgent smile on her lips.
Marinette laughs at the thought because that's exactly what she wants.
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notes for the story!
- as you can see, any and every other sin I could've done against this fandom, I have and will do - starting off with an OC!Marinette LOL
- she's quite different, as I'm hoping you've already noticed, but I'm also hoping that the more time you spend with her, the more you'll grow to like her
- the Schumann Piano concerto is an actual piece! It's incredibly beautiful and one of my favorites - there's a specific part at the very, very end that is so sweet and charming and I really encourage you to check it out! If you want links/recommendations or the specific timestamps, feel free to PM me or message me on tumblr!
- the jazz piece Marinette was listening to is a very very famous song called "It don't mean a thing" by Duke Ellington!
- I'm so so excited to draw out the parallel/ironic differences between this story and the actual show, and the more you notice, the more I will trap you into my web muahaha
- the next update won't be too far away, considering I have several chapters already written, so stay tuned!
and for general updates!
- I've spent a lot of time on this story, simply because it was such a breath of fresh air for me. I just moved across the country, was dropped from a long-term relationship, etc etc, so I really needed to write something that would make me happy.
- because of this, I'm hoping that this will also be a story that'll give you a break from other things - more than anything else, both Marinette and I are here to tell you that no matter where you are in life, even if you don't realize it now, you're going to be okay.
And as always, thank you to all old and new readers! Look forward to more!
- SE