Like Nobody's Watching

3a: in which adrien's father and anxiety causes some problems

I spend about an hour and a half listening to Ladybug's choice in song that night, familiarizing myself with its beat, its flow. I make a mental note to have Nino whip us up a mix after the next practice as I let the chords, the bass, the  pounding pulsing rhythm soak into my skin. I've only seen Ladybug dance once (excluding practice) but it feels like my brain recorded that dance, because every time I close my eyes at night, all I can see is her, teasing me with that half-smile, eyes a cool blue against the fiery red of her paint-mask, her body moving against the music like a fish through water. 

(The fact that Alya recorded the entire thing and uploaded it to her blog doesn't hurt either; I watch it almost every single day, and every time I watch I discover something new about her style, which in turn leads me closer to her personality - I hope.) 

Plagg pops by later on, while I'm working on my own choreography. "Yo, Adrien!" I turn off the music and come over, smiling. But Plagg's face is unusually grim, expression furtive, stance like he's about to leap out the window and into the Paris nightlife, and I'm suddenly worried. 

"Did something happen? Are you in trouble again?" He shakes his head, looking at the door as though he expects it to leap from its hinges and devour him. 

"Dad is on his way to your room," he whispers. "Minute forty, tops. I gotta jet - good luck." He slips out the door quiet as a shadow, and he's gone. I dart around the room, making sure my Chat Noir clothes are concealed in the secret wall niche, switching my stereo from the electric dance music to classical ballet, all the while wishing I didn't have to hide such a big part of my life from my father. But hide it I must, so hide it I do. 

Gabriel Agreste sweeps into the room not fifty-four seconds after Plagg leaves it, but I'm well-prepared. Tchaikovsky plays sweetly from my speakers, and I run through a choreography from last week's class like a robot, mind completely powering down as rigorous training puts my body on autopilot. He's dressed impeccably as always, in a white suit with a red-and-white-striped tie. If he were anyone else, I'd comment how candy-cane-like it is, but I keep my mouth shut. His glasses shine like new marble, and his piercing gaze fixes rigidly on me. "Adrien." I finish the move I'm in the middle of and reach for the remote to turn the music off. He holds up a hand. "That is unnecessary. It will only take a moment." 

I turn the volume down all the same, wiping sweat off my forehead as I turn to face him. "Yes, Father?" I haven't called him anything other than Father or Sir for years, but I have hazy memories of  shouting "Papa, Papa, play with us!" - memories accompanied by a blonde woman swinging me through the air while Plagg pouted before she pulled him into the festivities, by my father actually laughing and enjoying himself. But that's all behind us now. 

"I just received a call from the mayor." His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, and a shiver runs through my body, stiffening it. This has to be about Chloé - our fathers are close, and she's wrapped both of them around her little finger. "Apparently, you slighted his daughter at practice today. Is this true?" 

"Father, she was making fun of another girl in our class because she didn't get paired up with me for the partner choreography. She thinks that anyone who isn't her can't possibly be good enough to be my partner, which is ridiculous. The drawing was random, out of a hat." 

"Be that as it may, you must respect Chloé. Her father is in a position of extreme power, and it's only thanks to our longstanding friendship that I was able to smooth her ruffled feathers. You cannot alienate people like her, Adrien. It's a disappointment to your heritage, a disappointment to me." 

"Would Mama have stood for me letting an innocent girl get bullied by someone who can't handle losing to the luck of the draw?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, the Chat Noir tap in my brain turning on unconsciously. My father glares at me, and before I can react he's crossed the room in two bold strides and slapped me across the face. He's always careful not to seriously injure me, not to leave marks where they'll be seen, but there's a handprint on my stinging face as he turns in anger.