"the moth's apprentice" chat noir x y/n

When All Hell Breaks Loose

Content warning: SELF HARM ( also this chapter is really depressing) 

I hadn't tried to speak with Adrien, nor had I heard much.

The revelation of Emilie's sudden revival hadn't come as any surprise to Paris—obviously, the wish had other magical properties. Life, as it seemed, was moving on, despite the gravitational shift of reality, the defiance of mortality.

Ironically, the first person I heard from after everything was Alya, asking me where Marinette had gone. She wondered if Marinette had somehow gone on vacation and forgotten to tell her. I told her I didn't know, even though I knew very well that Marinette was probably locked up in her loft room—hiding her face from this strange, terrible world that was sure to unfold.

So far, I hadn't seen any consequences from bringing Emilie back. The Agrestes, including Adrien, remained in their mansion; I'm sure they had much to talk about, and I didn't expect Adrien to ever speak to me again.

Gabriel called me, though—now that he wasn't Hawkmoth, he had a terrifyingly pleasant air that was perhaps more disturbing than his Akumatizing voice. For once, he appeared at peace—a silver lining in the black pool of misery that had become my life. I didn't know what would become of the Agreste family or the fate of Paris now that the metaphysical axis had been shifted.

I decided to make a list of the things I knew for certain. 

1. Nothing would ever be the same. 

2. Adrien and I were done. 

3. Adrien would never speak to me again. 

Now that I was sufficiently annoyed, I quit my list making, realizing that the rest of the items would only be about Adrien Agreste. 

My room was quiet without him -- his dumb comments, stupid blonde hair, and occasionally charismatic personality. I missed it. I missed him. How could I ever get through this? 

There was an art to drowning. It started with a quick flash of pain, followed by a dull ache that sunk into my bones, leaving me emptier than ever — numb. Void of feeling. 

I hurt Adrien — I failed Marinette — and above all, I royally screwed the delicate balance of life and death. How many people can say they've sacrificed everything for nothing? 

I stayed in bed for three days, and my only excuse for it was that I was sick. I'd caught a horrible flu — is what I told my mom. She didn't believe me. 

"Look, honey, breakups are hard," she said, in a poor attempt to console me. "But it'll get better. It always does." 

I hid myself under my covers, tucked all the way up to my chin. It never gets better. Even when it does, the 'better' only lasts for so long before your insides feel like screaming again. 

When I'd wasted away for as long as I could, I clambered out of bed, dressed myself, and immersed myself in the dreary, painful air of Paris. It had been perpetually gray outside, blustery and rainy since the resurrection. If that was any indication of the future 'consequences', things weren't looking up. 

It was summer, finally, which meant no school to hide behind. The skin on my neck tingled with the Raven pendant's absence. The miraculous were gone now — mine included. The power of creation and destruction properly eradicated every hint of magic and there was no known way to bring them back. 

And so, powerless, empty and pained, I sat atop the Eiffel Tower, waiting for it to rain. The sky opened up eventually, bleeding and pouring on my skin. I imagined it could wash everything away. But nothing except for the sting of torn flesh can really numb the soul. 

There came a clanking, like a rusted gate being opened. I expected to be kicked out of this sector of the tower — it was closed off, after all — but I was used to sitting up here when I had the ability to fly. 

Lo and behold, a sullen Adrien Agreste. He was soaked to the bone, his face languid and sullen. His fingers trailed along the gate, dripping with rainwater. I felt the blood pool in my ears. His eyes were downcast, so he didn't see me at first. 

When he did, his face showed no emotion. Not even anger. Instead, it was like looking at a blank canvas. Adrien's expression was vacant, as if he were looking right through me. His blonde hair hung in chunks around his face, darkening each divot of his cheekbones. 

There was a slow shuffle of movement as he came to stand beside me at the railing. 

"She's doing fine." His voice cut through the silence. 

I swallowed, nodding. Forcing myself to look out at the city. Anywhere but his face. 

"It's strange though," he said. "I'll walk into a room and she'll be there, and for a second I get so, fucking happy. And then I remember why she's there and I don't feel anything at all. It's wrong, you know. It's wrong to have a ghost living in your house." 

My voice came out hoarse and broken. "Isn't it better when some ghosts don't stay buried?" 

Anger, now. Hard and cold. "No. It's not." Adrien gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. "It's not better. Because you have no idea how many ghosts will show up after you decide to uncover just one. You can't have only one." 

"Why can't you?" 

Adrien scoffed. "Jesus, you're naive." His words hurt, but they were true. "I hope you're ready, Y/N. Because when all hell breaks loose —" he shook his head. "I just hope you're ready." 

And then he left.