THE PAPARAZZI GOT THEIR HANDS on a photograph of Adrien.

"I mean, at least you looked good in the picture," Nino consoled on their group call.

Marinette couldn't help but agree.

Adrien was the pinnacle of Parisian style on a balcony of Le Grand Paris. Someone had snapped the photograph from across the street, capturing a flash of blonde hair and white button-up. Even the hazy resolution was not enough to hide the artful drapery of the blue scarf around his neck and the elegant slope of his nose, angled down to the textbooks on the bistro table.

Within a day of the photo hitting social media, it had appeared on as many news sites as Hot Boys of Paris thirst pages. (Usually Marinette would have printed out and pinned to her wall any picture as heart-stopping as this one, but this time the picture was nothing but bad news.)

It was unfair that Adrien looked that beautiful candidly—just like he did now, nestled on the same couch that she'd seen him passed out, the same couch that bore witness to their first interview yesterday. Marinette adjusted the cushion on her chaise longue and shuffled up to lean against the back, balancing her phone between her knees.

"Thanks, Nino," Adrien said, rolling his eyes bashfully.

His voice came a nanosecond after his lips moved on her phone screen, occupying the upper left rectangular cell. Nino's face—cast at a very low angle with two chins, since he was lying in bed—was next to Adrien's, while Alya and herself hovered below.

Since Adrien was barred from returning to school until at least the pretrial hearing, these group video calls had become Marinette's desperate attempts to keep him close, to keep him from drifting into vodka and other bad habits. They were lifelines that she flung out with ceaseless fervour and false positivity, trying to buoy Adrien above the waves.

If only he would grab on instead of insisting he didn't need help.

"Are you doing okay?" Nino asked, referencing what had happened after the balcony photo reached the paparazzi and media.

"Yes, of course," Adrien assured, a serene smile on his face. The smile was meant to soothe his friends, but Marinette didn't buy it. How could he act so carefree now, especially considering what was taking place right outside the hotel?

"You look ‌rough," Nino said.

Adrien waved a dismissive hand. "The chanting woke me up early, that's all. But they'll go home, eventually."

Within a few hours of the photo going live, the press swarmed the hotel.

The world finally knew where Adrien Agreste was hiding in custody, and it became hungry.

Any French publication or news channel that claimed a shred of legitimacy was covering the Agreste trial. It was such a scandal, the intersection of old money, power and Paris' elite. Right on the tail of the extremely topical Paris Fashion Week, too—which had suffered mass boycotts by sponsors, designers and models alike in response to Gabriel's crimes.

The Agreste complex appeared in the headlines of a concerning amount of webpages, whatever that meant, even though Hawk Moth was no longer a hot topic. Gabriel Agreste was not controversial because everyone unanimously knew he was evil.

But Adrien Agreste. . .

Paris was driving herself crazy, trying to figure out the now-mysterious teenager. Tabloids wanted pictures and the news crews wanted interviews, both armed with cameras and vans along the kerbside of Le Grand. How much of his golden child image was a ruse?

"Didn't they learn their lesson about stalking you?" Nino went on. "Especially at Le Grand. Chloé is going to pin their testicles to the wall."

"Chloé doesn't have to," Alya remarked soberly. "Adrien has more than enough people looking out for him."

Marinette made a grunt of agreement and concern. That was the problem.

Adrien had a core legion of supporters that would remain dedicated until the day they died, no matter the online scrutiny of his life. Around lunchtime today, the fans had received wind of the media stakeout. The comment sections of the newsreels and tabloid articles and social media posts had turned into a warzone within hours. Reporters fought for transparency, while fans fought back for Adrien's privacy and the presumption of innocence.

Hostile language, swearing, and even threats flew from all sides.

He had to have known, or at least suspected.

Of course, he gets a hotel for being a criminal suspect.

Whole class but him gets akumatised?

Who didn't see it coming?

Fuck off, you don't know even him.

Someone made the mistake of calling the fans keyboard cowards. A flame on gasoline, a stupid provocation.

When the press started pressing in—yelling up at the room where they wagered Adrien was, hoping to catch him on his way in or out—the slighted fans showed up in droves to form a human barricade outside the premises. It was civil until it wasn't, claims of slurs and cracked camera lenses turning into spitting, turning into intentional pushing, turning into fist fights.

The police were getting involved now.

Adrien said, for what seemed the twentieth time, "I'm fine."

How much of you is a ruse? Marinette wondered.

How many nights did he spend tossing and turning, as opposed to drunkenly wasting the hours away? Were his answers in the interview airbrushed half-truths or bitter memories? He was clever and kind, but was Adrien cleverer than he was kind, or the other way around?

The answers wouldn't change how she felt about him; that was impossible. But they would inform how Ladybug treated him when she saw him next. Did he need a gentle touch or did he need someone to slice through all the lies he'd wrapped himself in?

"Are you sure you're fine, Adrien?" she asked gently. Whenever she shut her eyes, she could almost picture him crashing on his couch, the air stale, the light dim and sultry.

"Absolutely." He nodded, blonde waves shaking. Marinette's face grew hotter. "I only feel bad for all of you guys. The class. The school. You never asked for all this attention."

"Neither did you," Alya pointed out. She sat at her desk, occasionally funnelling a handful of crisps into her mouth. "You didn't ask for any of this scrutiny either, Adrien."

If Adrien heard, he didn't respond, though there could have been the tiniest pinch between his brows. The pixels couldn't capture such a fleeting thing, so Marinette wasn't sure.

She liked group calls way better than interviews. While looking at the screen, she could stare at Adrien's expression as much as she wanted—his soulful green eyes and lush mouth, picking apart his gestures and words—without him feeling the weight of her gaze.

It was better than being in private with him, where she was the sole focus of his attention. Under that intimate attention, Ladybug could do nothing but squirm and flounder and try to hold the pieces of her composure together. Yesterday, she had wanted to simultaneously hug him and cry for him and tell a dumb joke to cheer him up and rage about Hawk Moth on his behalf, and none of that was professional.

"The media have been leaving you guys alone, yes?" Adrien continued, a sliver of protectiveness limning the question. "Tell me if anyone bothers you."

"Ah, worry not," Nino snorted, exuberantly reminding everyone of the day Chloé told off a crowd of adult professionals.

He assured Adrien that they'd all doubled down on their internet security and would never, ever consider selling his secrets out to the press. When Adrien asked about how school was going, Nino relayed how some British exchange student had joined the fencing team, claiming to be the best fencer in his age bracket, so he'd really better get his ass back to school and show him what's up.

"Benjamin Webber," Nino scoffed. "How do the Brits say it?" He adopted an accent. "Twat?"

Alya asked, "Is his name one B or two?"

"What— one, babe," Nino blinked. "Benjamin."

Alya was actually inquiring about the surname. Marinette knew her best friend too well: she probably wanted Benjamin's full name to sic her investigative skills on that boy's entire digital history.

But Nino didn't realise, and Adrien slid into the conversation with humour twinkling in his eye. "B-Ben," he deadpanned.

"B-Ben," Alya snorted, a soft rustle in Marinette's ears. Then she cracked up, wheezing, "B-Ben!" louder and louder on her side of the line. Her quarter of the screen started shaking as she laughed. When she tipped her head back, cackling loudly, the Mrs. Potato Head filter fell off. "I don't— know— why— that was funny."

"Well, clearly anything Adrien says is comedic gold," Marinette said. She hadn't been joking, but Adrien thought she was. Suddenly he was laughing, too, from his belly, warm and open-mouthed and full.

"Hey, N-Nino," Alya chortled. "How's your evening going?"

"Hey, N-Nino," Adrien piled on, "I miss you, bro."

"Har-har. Come back to school, man," Nino pouted, after his girlfriend and best friend finished making fun of him, "and say that to my face."

Adrien's smile froze on his face. Alya cleared her throat, and Marinette held a breath in her spasming chest.

It was impossible. They all knew that.

Adrien couldn't come back to Francois Dupont until the judiciary of Paris permitted him to. Nor could his friends visit the hotel—in case, somehow, he used them to smuggle the Peacock Miraculous in or out of the building. This paranoid protocol was something Marinette had to enforce herself.

Until she recovered the Peacock Miraculous, Adrien Agreste was still a person of interest in the Agreste vs. Paris trial. He would need clearance from every type of authority to go back to school. His movements and transactions were all traced. It was only because of a present lack of evidence, means, or motive that his iPhone remained unmonitored.

"As soon as possible," Adrien promised, "and then I'll take my crown back."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

As soon as the four of them hung up on the group call, Nino and Alya jumped into a private call of their own.

His girlfriend was following a live announcement from Chinese authorities. It was late at night, but the time difference meant Alya was often most active at midnight. The police captain's statement was about the money laundering scheme, the plot that stretched between several pawn shops, gang connections and the Shanghai underbelly.

Alya was far too good at multitasking to justify asking her to stop, whether it was the dead of night or the middle of the school day. She and Marinette would eat lunch in the cafeteria, transfixed by the daily news, shovelling food into their mouths without glancing at it. Alya would go for jogs with the upbeat soundtrack of radio updates on the Agreste investigation in her ears. While they had their nighttime phone calls, just like this, she would scroll through online articles about Adrien and his father.

And it was fully okay, because she was Rena Rouge and Adrien's friend. This—helping the investigation—was the right thing to do, even if it wasn't easy.

Even if Nino wanted to take everyone he loved into a padded cave with endless snacks and video games and never emerge back into this cruel world.

He told Alya nearly everything on his mind. Was Adrien truly fine? Sure, he was active online and responding way quicker than he used to. But his messages were always vague and cookie-cutter. His answers to Nino's questions about the hotel riot bullshit all read like:

i'm fine

Doing as well as expected

Can't wait to see everyone again. :)

Just generally tired dw

Marinette seemed to think—and Alya agreed—Adrien wasn't doing as well as he seemed, implying in her usual emotive, scattered fashion that he was masking deep, overwhelming pain. Was she right?

"If he is struggling," Alya reasoned, the light of her phone screen glinting off her glasses, "we can't force him to open up. Adrien knows that we're always here for him. We just have to wait for when he actually wants to take us up on it."

If Adrien didn't want to talk about his feelings, there was no amount of encouragement that would change his mind. "But I hate waiting," Nino pouted.

"I know, babe," she cooed, sending a soft look of comfort through the video. His pulse slowed, settling into something closer to peace, but his thoughts raced onwards.

Nino told her nearly everything on his mind, except the cold anxiety that he couldn't even articulate, let alone speak aloud.

Was Nino the only one mentally unable to do his homework or work productively on the investigation? Was he the only one drowning himself in Super Penguino play-throughs, Jagged Stone tour bloopers, and the greatest hits of Harry Clown, to keep his mind from sinking?

Sure, there were some idiots at school spreading stupid rumours. Sure, the doom-scrolling sucked. But it wasn't like his father went to prison or like he was stuck in paparazzi-infested waters.

How did Alya stay so immersed in the news without getting overwhelmingly sad at how crap everything was? She was a superhero, and Marinette was the manifestation of unconditional support. Nino didn't even know what he was feeling, let alone how to explain it to someone else.

The thing was, he and Adrien had never talked about their feelings much.

Before Gabriel's shitty parenting became global news, he'd never asked about their relationship. Until the Graham de Vanily's released their publicity statements, he'd never asked about Adrien's mother. These last four weeks he hadn't even known where exactly his best friend had been staying until the press fucking leaked it.

There had always been a wall between them, something to do with Adrien's busy schedule but also the don't-ask-don't-tell instinct that Nino grew up with. A strong man was a silent man. A silent man was a strong man.

When it came to emotional support, he felt really weak.

Buck up, he shook himself.

Ladybug had presented him with an unbeatable opportunity to help Adrien. She partnered Alya and Nino on the same investigation task, trusting them to build a coherent dossier about Hawk Moth's crimes from an existing police database.

If Nino couldn't be a research machine like Alya or the champion of encouragement like Marinette, then he could damn well be a good friend in another way. He was going to bust his ass for this case. The sooner he completed his job, the sooner the trial would be over, and the sooner Adrien could attempt to move on.

"Babe," he murmured, a second wind of energy pulling his head up from his pillow.

"Yeah?" Alya whispered, ever conscious of her family members, who all slept at reasonable times. Alya was the only one who scurried around the house past midnight.

"Research date tomorrow?"

Her eyes lit up. "I thought you'd never ask."