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There are moments in Marinette’s life that she wishes, sorely, she could immortalize in some authentically mortal fashion—fixing memories as poignant as her journal entries and crisp as a photograph permanently in her mind, so she can relive them again and again and again. It isn’t any doubts she has in the abilities of a trusted time-worn journal or camera to capture such moments—their sentiments, or the way his hand stays poised above hers just a bit too long—but these things require her to break away from the moment itself, however briefly, and that’s the piece inviting this abject despair unto her searing bloodstream.
It is all very simple, she thinks: in order to keep the experience forever, she just has to step out of it. Just for one second. Right. But then how can she possibly step back in? Cost-benefit, pros and cons; if she moves now, where does all the magic go?
Maybe she ought to be studying, like he is. Maybe, just maybe, she ought to at least be casting furtive—seductive?—glances his way, rather than this blatant, lovesick staring she’s been doing instead. But if he’s noticed her distraction, he makes no indication of it at all. By her estimation, he is as engrossed in his work as he was ten, twenty, thirty minutes ago.
Should she be relieved by this? She thinks probably yes, except there is a niggling sensation in her chest that demands his attention in turn, like if she stares long and hard enough he will whirl around to discover the source of this prickling heat washing over him, their gazes will meet, and the moment will consume them both.
No, studying is no use; she can’t focus on anything but the way he looks now, sat on the floor at the foot of her bed with his knees tucked up to his chest and peering down at a book, of which its pages’ intermittent flipping is the only sound to break through the cacophonous beating of Marinette’s smitten heart. She could reach out and run her hands through his blond locks, could send her fingers down along his jawline and tilt his head back until he is looking up at her, and so perfectly can she imagine the surprise blowing up those gorgeous green eyes that she thinks she’d better just do it (for the sake of her hypothesis, of course).
It is exactly what she expects, but when their eyes meet, a breathless silence overtakes them, and then, with her hands poised just close enough to his cheeks that she feels it before she sees it, his lips curve up—down, really, from where she’s sitting. His next exhale releases itself as a soft chuckle.
She stares at him, blood rushing up to her face, and hurriedly pulls her hands away.
“Sorry,” she manages. “I’m not trying to distract you, honest.”
His neck is still bent back, so that his head rests against the silky duvet on her bed as he looks up at her with all the joviality of springtime.
“What were you trying to do, then?” he asks, and it is only so embarrassing because he is so genuine, like he really wants to know.
“Um—your hair,” she invents. “It just looks so...soft.”
She watches as he lifts a hand to briefly catch his tresses between his thumb and fingers, humming in thought. When it drops down again, all his attention comes back to her.
To her.
Isn’t this exactly what she wanted? But she can’t tell if the swelling sensation in her chest is a want or a need or an anxiety, and knows even less how she would ever actually name the cause of it if she could.
Maybe it wouldn’t make such a good journal entry after all, then.
Finally, he says, “It is pretty soft,” and submerged in the moment all over again. “You can touch it if you want.”
As she resumes her position just above him, she is relieved to discover that it is his cheeks drowned in sparkling rosé now. Even still, he doesn’t look away from her. She doesn’t think she can look away from him.
She doesn’t really know what they’re supposed to be at this point. Only weeks ago, she’s pretty sure they went on a date—he asked her, even—and maybe this is a date too, except that it’s not really anything new, is it? Even before, nothing had changed. He’s just...Adrien. The same Adrien he always was, and if she’s thinking about the way his skin felt beneath the pads of her fingers, it’s nothing she’s never imagined before; if her eyes are drawn now from his soft gaze to his soft lips, it’s hardly the first time.
Willing them to remain steady, she reaches her hands forward to gently entangle in his hair, and only stops to wonder if he will be able to sweep it back into its neat place later once it has already been mussed, but he does not say anything—does not even appear to be breathing, a fact she can only appreciate in the deafening silence of her own breaths.
She lowers herself down until their noses accidentally brush together, sending a shiver down her spine. There is no time to worry he has felt it before his hands are coming up to her cheeks and tilting her head, pulling it down, until her nose bumps against his chin. A gasp of surprise catches in her throat just before his lips ghost over hers, and then—
Their mouths pull apart with the force of her startled yelp as she leans too far in an attempt to find a better angle and her right knee pushes awkwardly against the duvet and slips back, sending her crashing down. His arms retract and he scurries away to give her room before she falls right on top of him. Desperately, her hands seek out the edge of her bedframe; they grip it to the point of pain as she struggles to leverage herself up. When at last she lifts her head, she sees that he has already turned to face her fully, his book fallen shut and trapped in the small gap left between them.
Her wide eyes meet his, and she opens her mouth to say something, anything, around the jumbled mess of vowels and consonants caught behind her teeth, but it quickly snaps closed again as he begins to laugh.
She pushes herself up to sitting, legs crossed, and drops her head into her hands with a muted groan. She should’ve just taken the picture instead; at least a camera has less risk of causing him a concussion.
Before she’s able to swallow back enough of her embarrassment to lift her chin and confront him, his gentle fingers are there, guiding it up for her. When their gazes lock together, he just smiles, that smile that never fails to steal all the air from her lungs.
“Maybe,” he whispers, “we can try that again?”
Her chest stutters. This time, he is the one bent down over her, his feet planted securely on the floor. He won’t fall, of course, but knowing that if either of them were to fall, it at least can’t be her is reassuring enough to draw her lips up into a smile too.
Rather than responding, she brings her arms up to wind around his neck and pull him closet. When their lips come together, it is surely as perfect as all the times she has imagined it, and she closes her eyes, determined to preserve this memory—her soaring heart, his warm, soft lips, these light touches, the tickle of hair at the nape of his neck against the backs of her hands—exactly as it is for as long as she will live.