Adrien is drunk.

He is shirtless and lying on her bed beside Marinette, his head on her lap. Under favorable circumstances, this would be quite exciting. Considering he’s minutes away from vomiting, it’s less than attractive. She pushes his head toward her knees into a slightly less awkward position, and he groans.
Adrien and Nino showed up fifteen minutes ago, stinking of cigarettes and alcohol. Since neither of them smoke, they’d obviously been to a bar.

“Sorry. He said wehadtuh comeup ’ere.” Nino dragged his friend’s limp body inside her room. “Wouldn’t shuttup about it.”

Adrien burbled in a heavy, slurred accent. “Ayam sooo sooo sad. Hisss no' leffing me visit 'im.” Then his head rolled, and his chin smacked violently against his chest. Alarmed, Marinette guided him to her pillows and propped him up against the wall for support.

“Mahhhh-riiihhh, he’s dyin'. I’m serious.” Adrien widened his eyes for emphasis.

“I know, I know he is.” Even though she doesn't want to say it. “Will you stop that?” She snapped at Nino. He stood on the bed with his nose pressed against her Paris poster.

“Is he okay?”

“His dad is dying. I dontthinkhe’s OKAY.” Nino stumbled down and reached for her phone. “Told Alya I’d call her.”

“His father is not you-know-what. How can you say that?” She turned back to Adrien. “He'll be fine. Your dad is fine, you hear me?”

He belched.

“Jesus.” Marinette was so not equipped for this type of situation.

“Cancer.” He hung his head. “He can’t have cancer.”

“Alya iss me,” Nino said into her phone. “Chloé? Put Alya on. Iss emergency.”

“It’s not an emergency!” Marinette yelled. “They’re just drunk.”

Minutes later later, Chloé pounded on her door, and she lets her in. “How’d you know we’re here?” Nino's forehead creased in bewilderment. “Where’s Alya?”

“You called my phone, not hers.” She held up her cell and then dialed Alya, who arrived a minute later. They just stood there staring, while Adrien babbled and Nino continued to look shocked by their sudden appearance.
Marinette's room felt even smaller stuffed with five bodies.

Finally, Chloé knelt down. “Is he okay?” She felt Adrien's forehead, but he smacked her hand away. She looked hurt.

“I’m fine. My father’s dying and he doesn't want me to see him—oh my God, I’m so pissed.” Adrien looked at Marinette again. His eyes were glassy like black marbles. “Pissed. Pissed. Pissed.”

“We know you’re pissed at your dad,” She said. “It’s okay. You’re right, he’s a jerk.” What was she supposed to say? He just found out his father has cancer.

“Pissed is drunk for ‘drunk,’” Chloé said.

“Oh,” Marinette laughs shakily. “Well. You’re definitely that, too.”

Meanwhile, The Couple was fighting. “Where have you been?” Alya asked. “You said you’d be home three hours ago!”

Nino rolled his eyes. “Out. We’ve been out. Someone had to help him—”

“And you call that helping? He’s completely wasted. Catatonic. And you! God, you smell like car exhaust and armpits—”

“He couldn’t drink alone.”

“You were supposed to be watching out for him! What if something happened?”

“Beer. Liquor. Thatsswhat happened. Don’t be such a prude, Als.”

“Fuck you,” Alya said. “Seriously, Nino. Go f**k yourself.”

She storms out and Chloé decides to follow her. The door slams shut.

Breathe, Marinette. Breathe.

Nino appears to be passed out. Fine. Good. One less boy for her to deal with.

She should probably get Adrien some water. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to give drunk people? So they don’t get alcohol poisoning or something?

She eases him off her legs, and he grabs herfeet. “I’l be right back,” The bluenette says. “I promise.”

He snuffles. Oh, no. He’s not going to cry, is he? Because even though it’s sweet when guys cry, she is so not prepared for this. Training for being the Guardian didn’t teach her what to do with emotionally unstable drunk boys.

She grabs a bottle of water from her mini fridge and squats down. She holds up his head—the second time she's touched his hair—and angles the bottle in front of his lips. “Drink.”

Adrein shakes his head slowly. “If I drink any more, I’l puke.”

“It’s not alcohol. It’s water.” Marinette tilts the bottle, and it spills into his mouth and dribbles down his chin. He takes the bottle and then drops it. Water pours across her floor.

“Ohhh no,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Mari. I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay.” And he looks so sad that she sits down next to him. “What happened?”

Adrien sighs. It’s deep and exhausted. “He’s not letting me visit him.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“It’s what my father does, what he’s always done. It’s his way of staying in control.”

“I don’t und—”

“He’s trying to look strong even now. He's worried that I'd get close to him. So he’s not letting me visit.”

Marinette's mind spins. That doesn’t make any sense, none at all. “How can he do that? He is sick. Wouldn't having you there during the chemotherapy help him?”

“He's flying to San Francisco for the treatment.”

“But that’s— if something happens, wouldn't he like you to—” Marinette stops herself. The moment she finishes the sentence in her head, she feels sick. But there’s no way. People her age do not have parents who die. His father will have chemotherapy, and of course it’ll work. He'll be fine. “So what are you gonna do? Fly to San Francisco anyway?”

“My father would murder me.”

“So?” Marinette's outraged. “You’d still get to see him!”

“You don’t understand. My father would be very, very angry.” His voice is tired, as if he's explaining a very simple thing to a child.

The room turns silent. Nino stirs on the bed.

“Marinette?”

“Yeah?”

He pauses. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

But his tone is definitely not nothing. She turns to him, and his eyes are closed. His skin is pale and tired. “What?” Marinette asks again, sitting up. Adrien opens his eyes, noticing she'd moved. He struggles, trying to sit up, too, and she help him. When she pulls away, he clutches her hand to stop.

“I like you,” he says.

Marinette's body is rigid.

“And I don’t mean as a friend.”

It feels like she's swallowing her tongue. “Uh. Um. What about—?” She pulls her hand away from his. The weight of her name hangs heavy and unspoken.

“It’s not right. It hasn’t been right, not since you came back.” His eyes close again, and his body sways.

He’s drunk. He’s just drunk.

Calm down, Marinette, she tells herself without much avail. He’s drunk, and he’s going through a crisis. There is NO WAY he knows what he’s talking about right now.

So what does she do? Oh my God, what is she supposed to do?

“Do you like me?” Adrien asks. And he looks at her with those green eyes—which, okay, are a bit red from the drinking and maybe from some crying—and her heart breaks.

Yes, Adrien. I like you.

But she can’t say it aloud, because he’s her friend. And friends don’t let other friends make drunken declarations and expect them to act upon them the next day.

Then again . . . it’s Adrien. Beautiful, perfect, wonderful—

And great. That's just great.

He threw up on her.

*

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