Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 14: Love, Marinette

The Farewell

     Marinette jogged over to his spot under the orange blossom and the light posts flickered on above. She wore a fitted skirt and blouse, with her coat hung over her elbow and a scarf draped unto her head. It was as if she were headed somewhere, rather than this private talk, and he fought against a frown.

  He offered his arm and she linked her own through his, clutching at his sleeve as they made their way into the recluse of night. They said nothing at first and focused on their stroll— past the lake and past the refuge of flowers (the very one where this whole relationship had blossomed). He always felt like he had something to say to her, but now his mind was blank and sparse, except for the one dreadful thing that they both acknowledged but did not want to say. He could not even bring himself to look at her.

     "So, you were in Paris?" He muttered.

     She stiffened and gave a reluctant nod. Her eyes were anticipating his reaction, but he kept a blank look and stared on ahead. 

     "I was. You must know why?"

     He hummed. "So you got admitted in..."

     "I did. I didn't get to tell you before I left." She paused and her unsure eyes darted around. "I got the letter the same night after everything happened."

     'Everything' perfectly summarized what had fallen apart that night.

     "That's good." He said blankly. "This is what you've always wanted."

     She stopped walking and tugged on his sleeve. "Look at me, Adrien. Please."

     He obliged and her face fell. He was a different man, different from the one she knew— he was sure of it. She gave him a pitiful look, just as pained and conflicted as the feelings he had concealed.

     "A lot must've happened when I left. Tell me. I've been dying to know."

     He averted his gaze for a second and looked up at the empty, starless sky.

     "Did you know that there might be a war coming? I heard it on the radio yesterday."

     "No... it can't be." She said, her trembling voice betraying her. "It hasn't been that long since the last one. It can't happen. It won't."

     He breathed out heavily. "That's what Monsieur LeBlanc said. But, you never know. I guess that's where I'll be while you're in Paris."

     "Don't say that. You're not going anywhere." She pleaded. She squeezed his hands and a weak aura of her ambition was vague within her eyes. The face of her optimism was fraying at the seams and her eyes were glassy. He brought her to his chest and gave her a tight embrace. This only saddened her further and her shoulders shook under his touch, the fabric at his sleeve wetted by her tears.

     He tried to smile. "I'll be fine. I'll always be."

     All in a spur, she desperately asked the question they had avoided for so long.

     "What about us?"

     "You know." He whispered. "Isn't that what you've come to tell me?"

     "I don't want to. Trust me, I don't. But, what else can we do?" She said weakly, trying to convince herself more than him.

     His hands clutched her arms and he pressed his forehead tenderly against hers. He remembered it as one of the last happy moments in his life. The world was moving on, and they were only two of the many people thrown into the entire mess of it all. His heart could ache relentlessly, but the world would continue on its track and drag every else down with it. Her breath against his lips had sent him to familiar, tempting territory but it was a fleeting warmth, one that would not— could not— stay. His head rumbled on, trying to bury what could never be buried, and all efforts went astray as he opened his eyes and saw the person that lay in his beautiful future memory.

     She was the last, and only, person that he loved.

     "Say it."

     "I don't want to leave you."

     He let out a breath of a laugh. "You have to. You finally got what you've been working for."

     She didn't say anything back. Something had caught in his throat and his eyes stung and he looked down at the girl in his arms.

     He forced it out. "So, this is goodbye?" 

     Saying it aloud frightened him.

     Shakily, his hands grasped onto her waistline and his head collapsed unto her shoulder, feeling her chest rise and fall with every intercepted breath that struggled to escape, but only to come out as a desperate whimper. "What will I do without you?" He whispered helplessly, his voice hoarse.

     Her tears fell. "Adrien..."

     He cupped her cheeks, treating her preciously, and bent his neck to meet her lips, but she lay her thumb against his mouth and shook her head. Marinette held his hands and brushed her lips onto them before looking at him with pained eyes.

     "A kiss won't help." She murmured. "I love you so much. But, the way everything has turned out— it isn't enough. It's terrible to say, but it's true."

     His shoulders sagged and all his words were stuck in his throat, as he weakly held unto her hands, like an anchor.

     She brung his chin up to look at her and wiped a delicate finger across his cheek. Her gaze was a double-edged sword, and the contradiction of the moment was an excruciating one, as their final moment was filled with more love and tenderness and intimacy than they had ever once previously shared, his ultimate punishment from God. The way she stared at him then, it was nearly enough for him to retract all his words.

     "Maybe there'll be a time for us." She whispered. " I'll be waiting till then. But, it just can't be now."

     She pressed a final kiss to his cheek. As her face drew back, the cold air latched unto his skin in a chilling, icy way. Her tearful eyes glanced sorrowfully at him.

     "Adieu."

      It was barely a sound and was gone with the wind, like a hushed breath. She began to pull away and he feebly grasped onto her, his hands clasping her arms, but she slipped away from him as if he were grasping water, their hands meeting for one final squeeze before she bit back a cry and walked away. He did not watch her go, for his eyes were stuck on where she used to be, in his arms, though the warmth he lacked reminded him of reality. He stood there, for what only he could describe as a destructive amount of time, and cried with no intention of stopping. He heard the sickening sounds of the frogs and crickets, offering him sympathy, and the sorrowful howl of the wind, and the abrasive drawing of curtains, that dimmed the already cataclysmic-seeming estate.

     Everything that seemed impossible persisted.

     Marinette left for Paris the same week.

     The war started in three months.

     And, within all this time, he entered and left with nothing, except for a hardened mind, made aware of the ceaselessness of life, and a distant, far-off love that appeared attainable yet not, all at the same time. It was a temporary flame, one that had kept him alive, and as it extinguished, everything else fell to futility. 

     The time tragically flew and it became a love that grew to outlive him.