Archive of Our Own

“Here,” a voice in the kitchen muttered, sliding a mug across the countertop.

Marc blinked, sand still stuck in his eyes from sleeping poorly, trying his best to focus.

It was no wonder Nathaniel had given him a cup of coffee before expecting him to talk—though, in Nath’s defense, it was usually the other way around.

Marc just…he hadn’t slept well. Tossing, turning, and tangling himself in his blankets all night was hardly productive, and didn’t exactly lend itself well to refreshing sleep in any capacity.

He had a lot on his mind lately, and most of it had nothing to do with their upcoming comic deadline—most of it.

Humming in thanks, he reached for the mug and curled his fingers around the Ladybug-themed handle. Despite needing far fewer cups of caffeine than Nath, he couldn’t deny just how much he appreciated it in these moments.

They’d been working on this volume for months, and the publication date for the previous volume had made it quite clear that this one would be expected early. It was the price of their popularity, Marc supposed.

He sipped at the coffee—devoid of the literal pound of milk and sugar that Nathaniel always poured into his—unbothered by the sun now streaming all the way through the living room and into the corners of the kitchen. The familiar scratching of charcoal on paper was soothing, if nothing else, though he fought a desire to ask what the hell Nathaniel was doing with his sketchbook so early in the morning. Marc knew damn well that Nath had been awake at the same time that he had—and again, Marc hadn’t gone to bed until after three that morning.

It was now—what, almost ten? Must’ve been, if Marc was squinting at the kitchen clock correctly. Nonetheless, why Nath was awake and alert was beyond him.

Marc was usually one who awoke with the sun, bringing in the day with a pot of coffee not unlike the kind Nathaniel still had by his side.

“Thanks,” Marc offered finally, rubbing the grit from his eyes as he glanced at the scene in front of him.

Aside from the fact that Nath’s bedroom door remained as firmly shut as it had last night, there were supplies strewn everywhere in sight. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Nath hadn’t slept in his room.

Pencils on the table, along with several sketches that appeared to have been moved, edited, or discarded. More charcoal, lined in a cup to keep from spilling everywhere—over there, on the living room’s coffee table. And—were those acrylic paints on the floor, with their brushes becoming a tripping hazard? Probably, knowing how much Nathaniel loved them.

The rumpled shirt and sweatpants that Nathaniel still wore told Marc the truth.

A thoughtful gesture, the morning coffee was a thoughtful end to Nathaniel’s night, not the beginning of Marc’s day.

Despite being the one who had insisted they stop worrying about the quickly approaching deadline, Nathaniel had appeared to spend that much more time preparing.

“Did you sleep?” Marc knew the answer, he just wanted to hear it.

Nathaniel’s distracted hum told Marc that his co-creator didn’t particularly care if he had slept.

“Little bit, yeah. But look—I fixed the detailing on Chrysalis’s wings,” Nath insisted, thrusting the drawing at him, a sudden light in the artist’s eyes that was certain to dim again as soon as Marc placed the sketch back.

And yeah, he’d admit it.

Specialization schools had clamored for Nathaniel after he finished lycée, and they would’ve probably given their right arm to have him teach nowadays. All the education had done for Nath was to improve him even more—linework more impressive, shading more professional, everything more…Nathaniel.

“It’s incredible,” Marc praised, the compliment instant and genuine as it left his lips.

He’d never seen anything like Nathaniel’s art, and he doubted he ever would again.

Thank God he’d gotten a do-over, all those years ago. They’d been kids, sure, but somehow it didn’t excuse everything that happened—between ruining someone’s art and getting akumatized to kidnap the perpetrator into replacing said art…yeah. It hadn’t been their finest set of moments, that was all.

But misunderstandings aside, they’d entered a comic book partnership so immediately afterwards that he’d almost convinced himself that he’d dreamt it. Marc had never seen Nathaniel so pleased to have him around. There had been stars in Nathaniel’s eyes, like he dreamed of the galaxy. Marc could only manage to give him the moon—but it was still something, wasn’t it?

The awe had faded, and they’d fallen into something of a routine at school. Art classes and lunch breaks had comic book ideas constantly thrown around. Technically, Nath had been caught drawing more than once in lieu of paying attention to class, so nowhere was safe from their brainstorming.

Nonetheless, it had worked, and they’d gotten published. And then published again, and again, and again.

As a teenager, Marc hadn’t thought he’d ever get world-class recommendations from several specialized schools and universities, and yet here they were.

They’d managed to slog through lycée, clinging to each other as much as possible—Nathaniel had desired nothing more than to pass his time solely with Marc, watching cartoons and writing their comic book.

To this day, Marc couldn’t quite say how they’d gravitated towards each other like they had—aside from Ladybug’s intervention, for which he would be forever grateful—but he was glad for it.

He’d been forced to split from Nathaniel’s side to attend university, and it had been a particular type of torture that he never wished to repeat. Marc had other friends, many of whom he’d met while away from Nath, but none of them understood him quite like Nathaniel did. None of them had ever poured their blood, sweat, and tears into a work they cared about just to hand it to him—as if he was the one with any sort of final say.

That had been what had happened when they attended different schools after leaving lycée.

Marc had stayed in the heart of Paris. Nathaniel had moved away, taking up residence at ISBA in Besançon.

Many of their shared weekends had been spent calling each other and sharing writing snippets or artwork until they could meet—the luxury of being in the same city happened only once or twice a year. In those four years, they learned a lot about time management.

Marc’s friends had often complained about his work ethic, though they never knocked Nathaniel—Marc wouldn’t have stood for it if they had. But it wasn’t as if it was a completely unreasonable ask to have him be available to go out once a week.

“At least once a month,” Marc remembered one of his friends grumbling. He’d only grinned in response and turned back to writing.

“You know the weekends are the only time I have free,” he’d protested. “Nathaniel isn’t busy with class either. It’s a good time.”

“And we’re really proud of your comic book,” his friend had responded, crossing their arms with something akin to thinly veiled displeasure. “But we’re here for you. Nathaniel lives hours away, now, and we get that you’re close. We just wanted a few hours of your time too.”

Marc had kept writing, humming acknowledging noises—and even now, he couldn’t say for sure what else they’d been talking about—but he froze at the exasperated sigh that ripped from his friend’s chest.

“If you two were a thing, I could understand. But you aren’t—”

…His brain had shut down.

He’d refused to visit his friends after that for a week just on blatant principle. Coincidentally, the friend who had voiced a very loud and uncomfortable opinion was nowhere to be found after that.

He hadn’t appreciated the disparaging tone, anyway. It had been a rude thing to assume, even if Marc really had spent all of his time hovering around Nathaniel.

Nathaniel had spent time with him, too, so it wasn’t as if Marc was alone. He wasn’t weird—if anything, they were equally as clingy with each other, but even that wasn’t true. He didn’t need Nathaniel, necessarily. Marc just liked spending time with him, and his other friends didn’t share their relationship. Nathaniel was his best friend, and Marc would do anything for him. That wasn’t the same thing. Was it?

Marc didn’t think so. They’d gotten through numerous akuma attacks by each other’s side, over the years.

That bonded people together fairly soundly, he suspected.

Neither of them were the outgoing type, anyway. Why Marc’s university friends had been so insistent on trying to change that was beyond him.

Nathaniel had always known that wouldn’t change—had never expected anything different.

Marc adored him all the more for it.

“It’s still just a draft,” Nathaniel insisted, taking back the sketchbook once Marc had taken in enough details to feel as if he could relinquish the beauty. His eyes were burning with the strain of memorizing the art. Nathaniel never did publish the drafts, after all. If Marc wanted to remember what Chrysalis’s wings had looked like in that moment, he would have to remember it himself.

“Doesn’t change how I see it,” Marc countered.

He politely ignored the pink tint to Nathaniel’s cheeks at the words.

Neither of them were big on accepting compliments, really. Nathaniel had grown accustomed to hearing Marc say such things, though, or Marc had assumed as much. There had been a time—several years ago—that the flush had stopped spreading up Nathaniel’s neck every time they complimented each other. Marc had assumed that would be the end of it. Lately, the pink tinge had come back, though Marc didn’t take it personally. Introverted people like themselves weren’t exactly the type to like attention.

“You got any plans for today?” Nathaniel’s redirection was most assuredly an attempt to dodge the subject, but that was fine.

Marc shrugged.

“Besides going to the store? Not really,” he replied.

“Do you want company?”

“Sure.” The charcoal scratching resumed, and Nathaniel’s eyes were no longer focused on Marc—too engrossed in a line detail that he’d apparently missed. “Didn’t you want to meet with the editor today, though?”

“Ah,” Nath’s voice held a note that might have been disappointment, or it might have been frustration at smudging a line. After all this time together, Marc was willing to take bets on it being the former, but nothing was out of the realm of possibilities. “Yeah. Well, maybe later, then.”

“Or,” Marc countered, polishing off the coffee in his mug—hardly even pausing as he handed the cup back into the artist’s outstretched hand, “I could go now. If I’m back by the time you’re done at the editor’s place, we could finish up by dinner tonight. It’s Tuesday, after all.”

Nathaniel straightened from dropping the mug in the sink, a bright look to his face that had been eclipsed by exhaustion just moments prior.

“God, I almost forgot. I’ll be done early. I promise.”

Marc’s lips twitched into a smile, a warmth encasing him as Nath returned a grin so immediate that it felt all-encompassing.

“Let me go get dressed, I’ll be back in a little while,” Marc assured, striding back into his room as Nathaniel called after him.

“Hey! Don’t forget that we’re out of the jam you like on your tartines.”

“Thanks,” Marc yelled back over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him.

He really had forgotten. It was the joy of sharing an apartment with his best friend—Nathaniel was too detail-oriented for his own damn good sometimes. Fortunately, that also translated into remembering things that were hardly of any importance—like Marc being out of his preferred jam. It was fortunate for him, at any rate.

If it were up to him, he likely would still have forgotten it a week from now.

Some things—their comic book, Nathaniel himself—were important enough to take precedence in Marc’s mind. Alas, jam was not one of those things.

He dressed as quickly as possible, tucking his wallet into his pants pocket.

The ring that sat on his left thumb was easily the most ostentatious piece of finery he owned—earring and mesh gloves included—but he wouldn’t take it off.

After all, he didn’t see Nathaniel on the way out of the apartment—the artist had probably given up on being awake and had chosen to nap, or at least took a break to pee for God’s sake—but his roommate was still there.

No way was Marc taking any chances with his ring, not in the middle of Paris. Not even if Nathaniel was still home, or rather, especially then.

“I still think you need better jam,” the tiny voice from his jacket pocket insisted, and Marc rolled his eyes as he walked down the street.

Orikko had a bad habit of being annoying in situations where Marc couldn’t respond—Marc was blatantly, obviously bold for someone who didn’t always like attention, and Orikko knew that. The tiny rooster kwami just liked being a little shit. Marc couldn’t respond to the comments when there were already people staring at him.

He’d look like a psychopath, and that was a one-way ticket right into akuma-town. He didn’t need any help with that.

As it stood, he had been reunited with Orikko years ago, after having been recruited by Ladybug on a temporary basis when Hawkmoth—or whatever the hell that man had called himself at the end—had threatened their safety.

Having a team back then had been something of a last resort, a boon against certain demise if they ever failed. Their miraculous hadn’t been nearly as important as Ladybug’s and Cat Noir’s own, though he’d found the sentiment a bit harsh. Sure, they were all needed—technically—and they all brought unique strengths to the table.

But beyond offering a helping hand here and there, what had they done beyond getting in the way?

Ladybug hadn’t thought that, clearly, given that he’d been permitted to keep Orikko so long as no one puzzled out his identity.

Paris was still riddled with akumas, but now it was almost comical. They didn’t need Ladybug to formally request their help—most of the time, whoever could slip away from their daily life showed up anyway.

Typically, that resulted in too many heroes and a skittish akuma, but Marc wasn’t exactly complaining.

He loved being a hero, but if the akumas could stop, he’d be grateful. It didn’t really matter if he was Rooster Bold or not—he would mourn Orikko’s company, if he ever had to return the little deity, but he hadn’t needed his superhero persona to do much other than to help him find himself.

As it was, he’d been confident in his own skin for quite some time now. The hero gig was simply a bonus.

He took a glance around him, assured himself again that no one was within earshot, before swiping a finger down the inside of his jacket—a gesture meant to rebuke Orikko for teasing.

A sharp pinch to his finger confirmed that Orikko had nipped him for messing up the kwami’s comb.

Marc grinned despite himself.

The prideful little thing had brought him constant companionship, constant advice, and constant headaches. Marc still wouldn’t trade his kwami for anything in the world.

“You hate everything that isn’t dried corn,” he replied.

Orikko’s sudden appearance at the edge of Marc’s jacket confirmed that he was alone.

“So?” The kwami’s eyes sparkled with something that might have been mischief, despite Cat Noir’s assertion that mischief was mostly Plagg’s domain. “Maybe I want to branch out into something else.”

“I’d believe that,” Marc quipped back, “if I haven’t been trying to convince you of that for years.”

Orikko looked generally unconcerned, aside from the little orange feathers puffing in indignation.

“And I’m within my rights to change my mind!”

“Sure. I’ll grab you a jam, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

“It’s the least you can do,” Orikko replied, a self-righteous tilt to the deity’s head. “I give you your powers, after all. If I want jam, I think I’m entitled to some.”

Coming from the kwami of pretension, Marc figured that wasn’t an outrageous comment. Orikko had been an arrogant, prideful shit since they’d been acquainted—admittedly, Marc hadn’t known exactly how much until later.

It had never bothered him, though.

The self-confidence was good for both of them.

“Fine. You have a preference on—”

A loud boom had his ears ringing, and the ground shook as he stumbled for his footing.

Goddamn it.

He couldn’t have just one day of peace, could he?

“Never mind,” Orikko grumbled, swooping from the jacket as soon as Marc had sequestered them into an alleyway. “As long as you make this asshole pay for interrupting my lunch ideas, I’ll consider that good enough.”

“Don’t want that jam?”

He couldn’t help it—confidence was one hell of a drug, particularly when all he used it for was to tease the kwami.

The rooster’s eyes rolled in the most human display of exasperation that Marc had ever seen. It took him a moment longer than he would have liked to realize that Orikko had assuredly learned the gesture from him.

“Whatever, I’ll decide later.”

“And I’ll hold you to it. Orikko, sunrise.”

Marc had never grown accustomed to the feeling of Orikko’s presence washing over him, filling him with the warmth and confidence that had given Orikko both consciousness and a solid form.

The kwami had told him, once or a hundred times by now, that the power was only to hold the transformation. The confidence, the strength, the sublimation? That was all Marc.

It was just as well—Orikko had also admitted that he would never choose a hero without the guts to back up a claim. The rooster’s holders had to be assertive in their abilities or risk being replaced—or so said the kwami, anyway. Marc had certainly had his moments of self-doubt, though Orikko had never abandoned him.

That aside, Marc supposed that he should count his blessings for his confidence. The goddamn fountain pen he sometimes used as a dagger wasn’t exactly the most reliable of weapons, anyway. It couldn’t be broken, sure, but what was he meant to do with it besides gouge someone’s eyes out?

…Knowing Orikko, that had probably been the intention. Talons as sharp as the rooster’s own would have been useful, and this was the compromise.

Still, he vaulted towards the sound of the explosion, hoping beyond all hope that he’d been wrong, that it wasn’t another akuma—and was immediately proven wrong as he leapt onto a neighboring roof and almost smacked head-first into Polymouse and Minotaurox.

“Hey,” he greeted, smiling at the gentle, matching expression that Polymouse wore.

“Hi, Rooster Bold,” she turned back to the ground in front of them, pointing. “I’m not sure they even need us this time. Doesn’t seem like the akuma got very far.”

There, on the cracked sidewalks of the street below, sat an obviously-akumatized victim, covered in what appeared to be rose blossoms. A heavy chain was wound tightly around the victim’s torso, with Ladybug and Cat Noir clearly attempting to restrain the person.

Why Ladybug hadn’t simply used the yo-yo to hold the victim became immediately clear when they slipped free of the chain almost instantly, a slippery substance coating the victim’s body from the roses.

…Color Marc impressed, then. He had no fucking idea what this akuma was angry about—the flowers weren’t exactly the picture of strength in any capacity, certainly not like this. It was rare, especially nowadays, that anyone could escape Ladybug and Cat Noir on their first takedown attempt.

But it did happen, every so often.

“You got any other ideas, Ladybug?”

The voice was familiar, and Marc fought the instinctive urge to bound to the streets and help watch the figure’s back.

“Sure, if you know a way to make him less slippery,” came her reply, not quite sarcastic but certainly sincere and firm.

So Marc did what he did best—whispered a quiet ‘sublimation’ into the wind, and leapt down into the fray.

The victim extended a hand outward, looking to direct his attention to the goat hero that had obviously been hovering to the side—away from Polymouse’s original line of sight—attempting to get out of dodge if the chain genesis went sideways.

Marc wasn’t going to allow the victim to so much as glance in Caprikid’s direction.

He had Orikko’s spirit, after all, and there was no way in hell that he was going to ever allow anyone to lay a hand in his friend’s vicinity.

“Obviously I can’t do that, Ladybug,” Marc yelled, blocking the victim’s hand with a grip to the wrist—forcing the victim to stay where he wanted them. No unsanctioned moves here, not when one wrong move meant flowers and sharp vines likely spreading in all directions across Paris. “But I can certainly be impervious to their flower goo.”

“It’s sap!”

The victim’s incentivized wail made even less sense. Wasn’t sap meant to be sticky?

Not his problem, really.

“I’m impressed, Rooster Bold! Just keep them there for a second.”

Ladybug’s voice was almost melodic in its smug joy, and he could see why someone like Cat Noir would have fallen head over heels in love with her. He would never understand the appeal, but that was fine.

Turns out, they got better and better at purifying akuma victims every time. What had once proved to be a monumental task for two teenagers had become a laughable pastime for a group of superpowered adults, capable of using their powers again and again, so long as their kwami could hold the transformation.

They rarely even needed their powers more than once. It felt like cheating, somehow.

All in all, he hadn’t even seen Polymouse and Minotaurox take off, though they must have. When he was finished talking with the akuma victim—reassuring them that they hadn’t actually managed to hurt anyone—the other heroes were nowhere to be found.

Ladybug had disappeared, too, with Cat Noir giving him a playful salute before following at her heels.

“Hey, Bold.”

But he’d anticipated that Caprikid wouldn’t have left just yet.

Marc turned and was graced with a lovely grin and a flower offered in his direction. At least Capri hadn’t gone out and physically brought roses with him, like Cat Noir had done when they were younger.

“Hi, Capri.”

The goat hero’s smile seemed to widen, somehow.

“Thanks for the assist,” Caprikid said, the flower still extended in Marc’s direction. “Didn’t really anticipate being stabbed with a thorn today.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

“Yeah, thank God for that,” came the response, low and sure and teasing.

“I’m not God,” Marc snorted, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the flower still extended in his direction.

He couldn’t help the amusement that bubbled from his chest at Caprikid’s grin.

“You might as well be.”

Marc shook his head, the floppy pieces of mohawk falling into an eye as the rooster comb blew in the breeze.

“You know I’m—”

“Interested in someone else,” Caprikid cut him off, sparing him the typical song and dance. “I know. Doesn’t change the fact that I appreciate your help.”

The flower was offered again, and Marc hesitantly took it, ignoring the way his fingers slid against Capri’s—the way the goat hero seemed to shudder and pull back.

A forget-me-not, huh?

Taunting him, then. Fate always seemed to be doing that lately.

And really, he wanted beyond everything else to blame Caprikid for continuing to adore him despite Marc’s constant assertions that he was in love with someone else. But Capri had never pushed—not beyond some light flirting, anyway. No boundaries that Marc had erected were ever crossed, and it meant more than he could ever say.

They’d spent most of their time glued to each other’s side in battle, aside from a few years where Capri’s appearances had been sporadic and random at best—most assuredly something to do with his personal life, not that Marc had ever asked. He wasn’t allowed to know even if he cared to guess.

He couldn’t say what had even drawn him to Caprikid in the first place, and it had been so long that he didn’t think he could pin a reason down now if he tried. All that really mattered was that they watched each other’s backs in the way that several other heroes did.

Ladybug and Cat Noir, Polymouse and Minotaurox, Vesperia and Miss Hound—they guarded each other and stood in place when their partner was threatened.

Marc had never objected to Capri’s constant shadowing, and Caprikid had never said a word against Marc’s own habit of countering with sublimation. They’d worked well together from the moment they’d met, and even now, he’d yet to find an exception to that simple fact.

He couldn’t say what he’d ever done to attract Capri’s attention, but in recent years it had become rather obvious that the goat hero had wanted him as more than a teammate, more than even a friend. Flushing pink, staring, smiling softly, complimenting Marc so smoothly it would’ve been impressive in any other circumstance…Caprikid hadn’t exactly been subtle. Not that Marc assumed he’d been trying to, either.

Capri had made his interest increasingly blatant, and if things were different, maybe Marc would have made a different decision.

Caprikid’s fluffy hair, the curved horns near the hair clips, the lean stature and confident way he held himself—yeah, well. Marc wasn’t blind. He just had someone else in mind.

He swore to everything holy that he’d told the goat hero all of that from the moment it had become clear that Capri was hitting on him. Caprikid hadn’t even seemed to mind. It was bizarre, really.

Which led them to how they were now—Marc didn’t change a thing about how he treated Capri, polite and teasing, but certainly not anything more. Caprikid still did ostentatious things like give him flowers from the akuma, and that was that.

…Though, now that he thought about it, it must have been a flower that Capri had brought with him, after all. The ladybugs had fixed the rest of the street, and there were no more petals littering the sidewalks.

“It’s nothing,” Marc shrugged, running his thumb—the one with his miraculous—along the edge of the forget-me-not. “You would do the same for me.”

“Yeah, of course I would,” the smile that laced Caprikid’s face was soft, far too tender to be anything but too kind, too close.

“I’ll see you, then.”

“Sure. Get home safe, alright?”

Those types of comments were why he didn’t entertain Caprikid very often, though Marc would admit that they never went beyond politely concerned.

“Thanks, you too.”

So he bounded away, choosing not to glance back, knowing what he’d see if he did—a besotted Caprikid, watching him go.

At least when Orikko dropped the transformation in the same alley that they’d chosen in the first place, the rooster was too distracted by the prospect of jam again to care about Caprikid. The little kwami usually had something more to say.

Thank God that wasn’t today, because they needed to go to the store and go back home.

So after grabbing groceries and the aforementioned jam—along with a different flavor for Orikko, though Marc wasn’t sure how he was explaining that one to his roommate—he stopped by Marinette’s bakery long enough to grab croissants and galettes.

He’d probably be a few minutes late to meeting Nath for their improvised brainstorming session, but Nathaniel loved Dupain-Cheng's galettes above just about every other dessert known to man. If it meant that Marc would have less time to write, then for once, it might be worth it.

Nathaniel was always, always worth it.

And when Marc finally returned home, having ensured that Orikko was safely tucked back into his jacket, he brandished the food in front of him like a boon—a grin on his face.

Nathaniel was exactly where he’d been left this morning with few noticeable changes—clothes had been changed, art supplies had been cleared away, the editor’s notes laid sprawled across the table. But there was Marc’s roommate, still sitting at the kitchen island as if he hadn’t moved. It was obvious that wasn’t true, but still.

Selfishly, Marc was glad.

Nathaniel had likely been too busy dealing with the editor to be anywhere even close to the akuma attack today, and they had subdued the victim rather easily. It was one of their quicker fights, despite how little damage the akumas seemed to do nowadays. There were always exceptions, but he was glad that it hadn’t been today.

Knowing that Nath had likely been safe inside the editor’s building brought more comfort than it probably should have. It wasn’t that Nathaniel was helpless, but they’d all been akumatized at least once, and the effects of being trapped by an akuma were even more widespread.

“Hey,” he called, pleased when Nathaniel’s gaze cut to him—lit up when those eyes caught on what he held in his hands.

“Oh my God, you’re the best.”

“I know,” Marc grinned, allowing Nathaniel to steal the boxes from his hand and bump him in the hip.

It startled a laugh from his chest, sincere and genuine.

Nath was still making gooey eyes at the galettes when Marc walked away, choosing to flop onto the couch with his journal. Was he likely to get any writing done, with the way he could still hear the alternating sounds of pencil scratching and adoring cooing over galettes? Not really.

But he didn’t have to continue erasing line after line of shitty dialogue when there was suddenly a buttery croissant being shoved into his face.

He blinked, staring, before glancing up to see Nathaniel raising an eyebrow at him, standing to the side of the couch.

“You’ve been rewriting that same scene since you got home. Just leave it,” Nathaniel said, waiting until Marc grabbed for the croissant to crouch carefully on the other side of the couch, tucking his legs underneath him.

“How do you know?” He raised an eyebrow in response, taking a bite of the croissant—fighting back a contented sigh at the flaky crust. There really wasn’t anything like Marinette’s family croissants.

Nath’s smug little smirk told him he’d been caught.

“You haven’t flipped the page.”

“Maybe I was writing small,” he countered.

Nathaniel snorted, loud and unrestrained—Marc was one of the few that ever got to hear that sound, and it brought a warmth to his chest that he adored.

“Not that fucking small. Besides, you love filling scenes with cute side details. You don’t finish even one conversation in a scene without flipping a page,” the artist pointed out, eyes daring him to contradict the statement.

Marc couldn’t.

He shrugged, and took another bite of croissant. Nathaniel was right, but how was he meant to admit that when the illustrator had been drawing the entire day without him?

“And don’t look at me like that,” Nath’s voice interrupted Marc’s solemn vow of stuffing his secrets down like the croissant in his hand. “I wasn’t busy all day, either. I drank probably half a pot of coffee when I got back from seeing the editor’s notes. It’s fine. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. It’s movie night anyway.”

Nathaniel wasn’t…wrong, exactly.

They did have time, no matter what Marc’s anxiety-riddled brain insisted. Their new volume would be due soon, sure, but he had more than a day to draft a script this time. It wasn’t that bad—they’d done far worse.

They’d been through thick and thin together. Marc was half convinced that he could toss a script at Nath the night before the volume was due and there would be a completed comic draft on their kitchen island the next morning.

And they always watched rom coms on Tuesday, anyhow. Might as well enjoy it instead of stressing.

“Yeah, alright,” he acquiesced, popping the last bite of croissant into his mouth and reaching for the remote on the living room’s coffee table.

It was his turn to fight for the remote anyway, though it was rare that Nathaniel ever put up much of a fight if Marc genuinely wanted something other than what had been picked. Alix could tease Nath all she liked when Marc wasn’t around, but it didn’t change the fact that Nathaniel was still the most considerate friend that Marc had ever had—bar none.

Moving in together to work on their comic after graduation had been something of a spur of the moment idea, from what Nathaniel had later admitted.

Marc had been graduating from university, standing at the exit and waiting for his parents after the ceremony—still dressed in an elaborate gown that had his school’s crest on the cuffs. He’d pulled his phone out to text his mom and see where she was when a hand had been laid in front of his eyes.

He’d nearly flinched—he never had been big on people invading his personal space unannounced—when a familiar, deep chuckle sounded from behind him.

He had whipped around so quickly that he’d nearly dislodged the new feather earring that he’d worn for the occasion, staring dumbfounded at Nath’s bright and unrestrained smile. It had been the happiest that Marc had seen his best friend look in a long time.

“Hey,” Nath had greeted, opening his arms in a rare display of seeking physical contact—Marc suspected the artist avoided it for his benefit. Nathaniel was surprisingly tactile with people he deemed worthy.

“You’re here! I thought—”

His arms had wrapped around the illustrator so tightly that he’d worried for the slightest moment that he’d choked the guy—but no, his bones were being crushed just as earnestly in reply.

“Nah, got out early just for this. I finished my exhibition piece anyway, so they said I just needed to be back to walk on Saturday.”

The admission, so sincere, might have made him cry if he considered it for too long. Marc chose to ignore the sentiment, though he’d reflected for days afterwards just how sweet it had been.

Nathaniel had caught a flight to Paris to get to Marc’s graduation in time, all for the friend and co-creator that he’d spent time with for years. It meant the world to Marc even now.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Nath had let go of him and grinned, a wide thing that seemed to look more smug every time Marc saw it. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh God,” Marc had laughed, a bright noise that attracted the attention of some students that milled around them—including some of his old friends, a few of whom had refused to speak with him again after making it clear that Nathaniel would always take precedence. They didn’t look pleased to see the artist, but that wasn’t his problem. “What now?”

“Well, I’m moving back to Paris,” Nathaniel started.

“Yeah,” Marc interrupted, rubbing a finger over the warm metal of Orikko’s ring subtly under the robes. “You’ve only mentioned it every time I call.”

He hadn’t been able to leave Paris, nor had he chosen to do so. Leaving Orikko hadn’t been an option for him, unfortunately.

“Duh,” Nathaniel had rolled his eyes, bright smile still in place—a hesitant, light expression on his face alongside a pink tint. “But, you know, apartments are so expensive. And, I mean, you’re gonna be coming over anyway every day to write. No point in spending double the money.”

Uh—

“What are you talking about?”

“Move in with me,” Nathaniel had shrugged, nonchalance painting his face though his shoulders had been pinned up to his ears, hands shoved in his pockets. Nath had never been a good liar when it came to his nerves. “It’s a better idea than paying rent twice, right?”

And, well, how could he have ever refused?

Nathaniel had turned out to complement him as perfectly as a roommate as he did in every other aspect. Marc woke up early, Nath stayed up late. Marc cleaned—turned out he was hopeless at cooking anything besides turning on a coffee pot—and Nath scraped together elaborate meals from practically nothing. It worked for them.

They stayed right by each other’s side throughout the years, ignoring those that thought they could offer more—an independent publisher that had lusted after Marc’s work, or the magazine that had begged to buy Nathaniel’s paintings.

In Marc’s opinion, they had a good thing going—really the one thing that had been his dream, with the perfect person as a co-creator—and he wasn’t going to ever do anything to jeopardize that.

Which was why, when the credits rolled on their movie night, his throat closed around nothing as he registered the way he was curled up on the couch with a blanket around them both. In and of itself, that wasn’t the end of the world. They’d shared blankets and the couch so often that it was second nature.

He couldn’t breathe at the way Nathaniel’s body had slumped into his own at some point, weight heavy as the artist slept.

It wasn’t Nath’s fault, the guy hadn’t slept the night before. He’d kept himself awake with half a pot of coffee to stay coherent for movie night.

But seeing the softness to the artist’s normally concentrated expression sent a jolt through him, a warmth to his chest and cheeks that permeated his whole body. The lean, muscular figure pressed into his own wasn’t just anyone.

It was Nathaniel, for God’s sake, and that made all the difference.

Marc might have said it was the worst cosmic prank anyone could’ve pulled, but that would’ve just been dramatic. He preferred to leave those antics to Marinette—who still broke into occasional panicked thoughts that Adrien didn’t reciprocate her feelings.

But this was almost worse.

Marc had been hopelessly enamored since he was a teenager. It was genuinely pathetic, but if no one knew, they couldn’t call him out on it.

He’d been so entranced by Nath’s drawings, the style, the artwork…he’d meant everything he’d ever said. A comic book with Nathaniel had seemed like nothing more than a pipe dream, a hobby that he could use for escapism when he was alone.

And then they’d been introduced, and he’d been so quickly proven wrong that it nearly gave him whiplash.

Nathaniel had apologized so many times over for accidentally getting Marc akumatized that he couldn’t even keep track of them anymore. He could always tell when the artist was feeling especially guilty—new leather journals would spontaneously appear on his bed or the couch with no mention of where they came from.

Marc had apologized for trying to force Nathaniel into making a comic book as an akuma, despite how nauseated it had made Nath look at the very first ‘sorry’ that had passed his lips.

They’d put it all behind them.

But it was impossible to forget other things quite so easily.

How could he ever forget that Nathaniel was one of the first people that tried to shield him from akumas, if they ever got too close? How could he forget that Nath was so calm, so reassuring even when both of them were struggling to make it through a deadline and pass lycée?

He would never forget any of that.

Endless support and encouragement were rolled into the sleeping form of the man that dozed on Marc’s shoulder, the most beautiful person he’d ever met. If he ever had a type, it was Nathaniel.

Times like this one were usually when Marc felt sorry for Caprikid. He hadn’t meant to ever lead the goat on, if he did, because he’d never—not really ever—had eyes for anyone aside from Nath.

But Nathaniel was his best friend, and the illustrator certainly didn’t see him the same romantic way that Marc wished.

There was no accidental touching, nothing out of the ordinary.

The only thing that even remotely counted as an exception was seeing Nathaniel occasionally grow concerned over an akuma—they hadn’t been a serious issue for a while, even if they remained a widespread problem that could become one. But even so, Nathaniel wouldn’t know that.

Marc knew it because he saw it firsthand.

He didn’t expect Nath to know the same thing, not when all the artist had to rely on were news outlets that parroted the same old nonsense that the akumas were the end of the city, that Ladybug was their last hope.

She was their last hope, technically, but the rest was just…a bit of an exaggeration. Serious akumas could happen, and they did, but Ladybug and Cat Noir were incredibly good at containing most of them before it got to that point.

Being concerned for his friend’s whereabouts when Marc kept fucking absconding to leap across rooftops dressed in rooster-like clothing wasn’t weird. He might have been more concerned if Nath wasn’t worried.

But none of that pointed to anything more than the genuine love—the platonic kind—that they both felt. Nathaniel just didn’t share his interest, and that was fine.

Marc swore to God that it was.

It wasn’t that Nath was straight, thank fuck for that at least. Seeing Nathaniel with only women might have been a special kind of torture that Marc wasn’t really prepared to endure.

But he hadn’t been hit on the entire time that they’d been acquainted. Hell, they’d talked about what type of people Nathaniel preferred. Smart, kind, a little sarcastic, exceptionally beautiful, unflinching and unabashed—Marc didn’t check all those boxes.

Knowing that he wasn’t Nath’s type was…well. In some ways, it stung like a bitch, even worse than if the illustrator really had been straight.

At least this way Marc could delude himself into thinking he had a chance, though, when the nights were long and Nathaniel was exceptionally affectionate. He didn’t often like considering it, though.

A tiny chitter escaped his jacket, followed by a harsh whisper.

“Hey,” Orikko hissed, as quietly as he’d ever heard from the sleepy kwami. “You should preen his hair.”

“No! That’s weird.”

“You’re weird,” the kwami insisted. “Roosters don’t pick just one mate.”

Not helpful, Orikko.

Still, Marc glanced at the man whose head had slowly migrated into his lap, who had curled tighter into a ball as he slept.

It was strangely endearing, and Marc didn’t even register when one of his gloved hands found its way into the strands of fluffy red hair. His mind definitely wasn’t going to replay the soft coo that the artist gave for weeks to come, most certainly not. Because that would’ve been inappropriate for him to consider, particularly when Nath trusted him to respect boundaries and not be a fucking creep.

His mind had wandered so far into concerning territory—trying not to seem like a creep being chief among the worries, yet being unable to keep himself from sifting the soft hands of hair between his fingers—that he hadn’t even realized the blue eyes that peered up at him, half-dazed.

“Sorry,” came the tired response, a small yawn that took up half of Nath’s face—Marc melted all over again. “Was I asleep?”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, fondness blooming in his heart despite the fact that he knew for damn certain he had to pull his hand back before Nath noticed. It was a miracle that he didn’t seem to care, while still half-asleep.

“Didn’t mean to be,” Nath’s eyes closed again, and didn’t so much as twitch. “How’d the movie end?”

“Same as always,” Marc replied in a soft whisper, only half listening. “Ridiculously sappy, too sweet to ever be real.”

Nath gave a tiny mumble, and one of his hands trailed to Marc’s knee, running lazy circles over the jeans.

The writer stopped fucking breathing.

It didn’t mean anything—he knew that—but the contact felt validating. Here he was, playing with a sleepy Nathaniel’s hair, and the artist was drawing patterns into the fabric of his clothes like this was normal. Like Nathaniel did this all the time, like Marc had tacit permission for this.

Worse—it did happen, and Marc really did have permission. Nath liked physical affection, and Marc would never deny what he felt more than comfortable giving.

It still ached, a gaping wound that bled and festered every time he was reminded of what he couldn’t have. He adored Nathaniel’s friendship above all else, so he would never chance anything more.

But it didn’t stop him from wanting it, anyway.

…Not that he’d ever expected anything to ever change. Especially not in the way everything shifted just days later.

Friday rolled around, and the editor was pleased with their recent progress. That wasn’t new. Their collaboration was second to none, with both awards and prized volumes of their work plastered all over their own apartment walls.

But Chrysalis—their newest akuma-creator, the one that hoarded the butterfly brooch—had evidently issued a challenge to Ladybug that Marc himself had been unaware of before then.

One minute, he was sitting on the couch with Nath behind him, trying to lean over Marc’s shoulders to reach the bowl of chips in the writer’s lap. The next minute, an explosion rocked the city, and he had thrown the bowl—was spouting off some nonsense about watering their plants before vaulting away from the roof.

It was the stupidest, flimsiest excuse he’d ever given, and Nathaniel hadn’t even questioned him.

They didn’t even own plants, goddamn it!

And there was Nath, simply accepting that he needed air or some shit without ever bothering to overstep by asking.

Marc hated lying—he despised it.

But he tried his best to put it out of his mind, immediately focused on the scene in front of him as he reached the Eiffel Tower. There, in the center of the tower, was Chrysalis, bright wings glittering as they twirled out of Ladybug’s reach. Cat Noir was right there, too, but still didn’t seem to be able to get close enough.

Of course, that likely had something to do with the akuma setting off fucking bombs in the middle of the national monument.

From the rooftop, he could see Argos and Ryuko trying to sneak up on the butterfly, though Argos’s apparent refusal to use his ability put them at a significant disadvantage. The wind and electric powers from Ryuko might have been more of a hindrance than a help, but it was obvious that she was doing her best.

Marc didn’t think, and jumped in, calling on sublimation as he landed on the Eiffel Tower.

All he needed was to be impervious to Ryuko’s wind. The butterfly wings might not have been that strong, but he certainly could be, if that was what it took. Anything to restrain the bitch and help the little kwami that had been trapped in the brooch since Hawkmoth had begun using him.

Either way, he’d barely engaged before a particularly well-placed smack to the face with Chrysalis’s elbow knocked him further out of range. He was a close-combat fighter, but Chrysalis was making that difficult. If he couldn’t get in near enough, it wouldn’t matter if he was immune to Ryuko’s wind.

He gnashed his teeth, just once, and felt a familiar body land next to him—one with a furry chest and fluffy hair adorned with horns, large paintbrush staff noticeably drawn.

“You take the center, and I’ll take the right?”

Marc couldn’t help it—he laughed.

Something like mirthful appreciation crossed Caprikid’s face.

“To do what? To watch you get your ass kicked?” He countered, and was glad to hear the tiny chuckle that Capri gave.

“Not sure your attempt was any better,” Caprikid responded, a teasing glint to the goat hero’s eyes that shone brightly in the fading sun. “But I’m here now.”

“My hero,” Marc muttered, a sarcastic tone dripping from the words.

Capri’s smirk was so self-assured that it was obvious the man didn’t take the gibe personally.

And…really, Marc wasn’t even sure what had happened. He was joking with Capri like normal, cornering Chrysalis with Ladybug and Cat Noir, ensuring Ryuko could pin the butterfly user into a corner—nothing was amiss.

But Chrysalis’s face had gone desperate, a little frantic, before settling on smug and cruel.

Another explosion from an akuma rocked the entire tower, and Marc thanked every God he knew that they’d been standing on one of the platforms instead of clinging to the side of the Eiffel Tower. They’d likely have fallen if that was the case.

The explosion had looked to miss them, though, aside from the way the whole structure shook, throwing them off balance—so much so that Caprikid had shoved into his side.

“Watch—”

A sharp piercing noise hit his ears, the sound of wet squelching tearing through flimsy paper, a ragged gasp.

He turned, mostly to investigate—to make a cutting remark about Caprikid’s clumsiness affecting their battle plans—when he froze.

There, still gripping his hips like Marc was going to slip away and melt into nothing, was Capri.

A long metal spoke—most likely rebar—was caught in Caprikid’s stomach, the transformation tearing at the center.

Blood was pooling into the gray fabric, staining the white fur a sticky crimson that matted the material.

God, no.

Jesus.

“Are you ok?” Caprikid’s tongue had formed the words fine, but the panting afterwards implied that it must have taken a lot out of him.

All Marc could do was stare.

There was a desperation in Capri’s eyes, a wildness to them that seemed to relax only fractionally when they trained on Marc’s still physically-intact body.

His heart, on the other hand…well. He’d never wanted Capri to be hurt.

“Shit,” Marc mumbled, a gloved hand pressing to the bloody wound before he’d even realized what he’d done.

Even with the metal still in place, the blood was seeping. His hand didn’t seem to be doing anything aside from getting covered in rivulets of crimson for its trouble. Marc didn’t know what the rebar had punctured, but it must have sliced clean through something important.

“You’re not hurt, right?” Caprikid’s voice insisted through a hiss, and Marc tore his eyes away from the metal embedded in the wound to glance at the stress lining the other hero’s face.

A trickle of blood ran down Capri’s lip, the corner of his mouth stained a bright red, the liquid dripping into the fluffy chest fur—only half of which was still white and pristine.

Jesus.

Capri’s head had been spared the red splatter, but there—under one of the meticulously curved horns, hidden by fluff—one of the hair clips was losing its luster, the segments fizzling at the crack in the jewel.

Marc’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Caprikid! Rooster Bold! Are you both alright?”

Cat Noir had seemingly caught onto their unnatural stillness, and Ladybug was suddenly in the corner of Marc’s vision.

“Rooster Bold,” her voice called, unable to completely distract him from the way Capri was losing his grip on Marc’s hips, the way the goat hero was leaning more heavily onto him. “Get him out of here, keep him stable. We’ll deal with the akuma.”

“But—” He couldn’t just leave them.

Chrysalis was bound to get away if he left, but Capri…

“Go! Don’t worry about it!”

Right. Fine.

He scooped Capri into his arms—rather surprised that he could even manage to carry the other man of a similar stature—and leapt off the monument, scouring rooftops for someplace secluded.

Anywhere without eyes. Anywhere without cameras. He needed somewhere without prying individuals—people that would know who Capri was, that would use this against them.

If he lost Capri, to a public identity issue or through the injury…

“Hey,” Capri’s voice was weak, a little thready.

“Stop,” Marc insisted, finally hopping down and depositing the hero into a tiny alley that was hundreds of yards away from the fight. He settled his friend onto the ground, trying not to jostle the spike still embedded in Capri’s stomach as he crouched overtop the goat hero’s hips.

“I’m alright,” Capri smiled, a wobbly thing with none of its usual snark.

Marc had never wished for Caprikid’s self-assuredness more than in that moment. Now all he saw was the clearly fading strength of a man trying his damnedest to reassure him.

And for what?

Capri’s blood soaked into both of them as Marc leaned over top of his partner, and the hair clips still flickered precariously.

Anger suddenly flared to life.

“The fuck you are,” Marc snarled, fury overtaking him, crackling his words into something dark and vicious. “What the hell were you thinking? You never lose your balance.”

“I didn’t,” Capri still smiled weakly, eyes soft and expressive as they stared at him.

“You shoved me.”

“I meant to, yeah.”

God.

He’d known that—he’d felt it in his gut the moment that Capri had held his arms and hips like he was something important—but hearing it from the bastard’s mouth just stung.

“I didn’t want—”

A hushing noise cut him off, and Marc’s throat closed at the way a hand was suddenly pressed to his cheek. Rage fizzled back out, replaced by a wave of anxiety. He didn’t even care that the hand had wet streaks, the kind that would stain his face the same crimson as Capri’s stomach.

As he crouched over his teammate, the hero partner that meant so damn much to him, all Marc could focus on was the way his eyes went blurry. Dammit.

Crying wasn’t in the cards.

Neither was the soft, knowing way Capri just pressed the hand more firmly into his cheek—didn’t say a word when Marc leaned into it.

“It’s ok,” Capri whispered, a ragged gasp as blood trickled weakly from his mouth. “Ladybug can fix this, I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

Capri’s eyes were still bright, even as the hair clips stopped flickering, the jewels finally going dark.

“I’ll be fine,” Capri repeated, and Marc glanced away as the light from the transformation almost blinded him.

Jesus.

No.

He’d been hoping that the kwami could hold the transformation longer, but that had been an impossible ask. The miraculous was damaged, though how that was even possible was beyond him. In theory, the akuma victim or other holders might have had the power to harm the jewel, but this akuma had been a distraction, mostly. Even Cat Noir hadn’t been around Caprikid.

How the fuck had this happened?

If the rebar that injured Capri had been heated by the fall, or by Chrysalis—then it was possible. Highly improbable, but possible nonetheless.

Marc didn’t so much as glance over, resolutely staring towards the end of the alleyway and still covering most of Capri’s body with his own.

“It’s really alright,” the familiar voice cooed, washing over him and comforting in ways that he thought were impossible. “You can look. It’s not like I’m planning on mentioning it to Ladybug. No one else can see me here, either.”

It was strange.

The only person besides Capri that Marc had ever felt this comfortable with was—

A flash of red, not crimson like blood, brought Marc’s eyes back to the figure underneath him.

And he just about had a heart attack.

There, with a hand pressed to Marc’s cheek and a bloody piece of rebar sticking from his stomach—still spreading a puddle of fluids onto the ground, was Nathaniel.

The little smile was almost sweet.

“Hey, Bold,” the redhead whispered, a soft thing that was far too fond for the circumstances.

Marc wanted to drop dead.

Thoughts ran through his head too quickly for him to process, half-baked things that barely formed into coherency.

Why was Capri—Nath—even here? How had Marc missed…all of this? The fluffy hair, the bangs, the bright blue eyes? Sure, the miraculous had magic or some shit, but how had he missed it?

There had to have been cases of people figuring it out before—there had to be.

…Why hadn’t he?

Nathaniel was here—grievously injured and going to die—absolutely smitten with Rooster Bold.

What the hell.

“Sorry,” Nathaniel—Capri—was still whispering, the thumb on Marc’s cheek dragging slowly in a comforting motion. “I wish you could’ve seen this differently.”

God.

What could he even say to that? Logic insisted that he hadn’t ever anticipated seeing Nath under Capri’s mask, that Marc hadn’t ever expected them to be the same. He hadn’t even wanted to know who Capri was, lest Ladybug pull the goat hero from the team for revealing such a thing.

And now this?

Marc pressed his hand to the bloody wound a little harder and tried to ignore the tiny grimace he got in response. It was obviously worse without the transformation.

“Are you ok?” A tiny voice from his side asked, and Marc glanced over to see a goat-like kwami hovering near them, eyes panning anxiously from Nath to him.

“Fine, Ziggy. I promise,” Nath reassured.

“You can’t promise that,” Ziggy echoed Marc’s own sentiments from earlier. “Not when my miraculous is damaged. I can’t even hold a transformation.”

Oh, God.

That was an excellent point, wasn’t it? How was Nath meant to get out of this mess, especially when the miraculous was broken? He couldn’t exactly transform—not that Ziggy anticipated being able to help, from the way she’d burrowed back into Nathaniel’s overalls.

But Marc was a little more concerned by the pool of vermillion that still puddled—under his hand, his knees, Nath himself.

And Nath’s face looked a bit more pale.

Marc hated it instantly—hated Chrysalis even more. He’d been on the couch just hours ago, fighting over the bowl of chips instead of their next movie.

Why hadn’t he just allowed Nath to take some?

Those bright eyes were too busy staring at him to say much, but Marc couldn’t miss the tight grip on his hand—the one holding the bloody rebar in place.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” Marc muttered, not expressly focused. He adored Capri and Nath more than life itself, and knowing that they were the same didn’t help matters. But seeing Nath be honest and open while he sat in his hero suit just felt…imbalanced.

“I don’t regret pushing you,” Nath insisted, running a finger along the hand Marc still had pressed to his roommate’s gushing wound. “I’d never regret it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

Why couldn’t Nath just…have a little regret at making Marc suffer like this? It wasn’t his fault, sure, but hell.

“I care about you. I want you safe,” Nath coughed, a weak thing that spilt more fresh blood into the ground. “Why are you giving me shit for that?”

Because—“I don’t want to see you hurt, either.”

He’d never wanted that, and yet, here they were.

Nath’s eyes were soft, though.

“God, I wish I could kiss you,” he whispered, and Marc stopped fucking breathing.

But then his roommate hissed, and Marc tried to steady the piece of metal that was obviously shifting despite Nathaniel’s attempts not to move.

“I know that’s not fair,” Nath continued. “I can’t ask that of you—won’t ask. Just…you deserve to know that anyway.”

Jesus.

It was everything that Marc had ever wanted, and yet it was so, so very wrong.

Nathaniel was hurt, and he was lusting after Marc’s superhero counterpart like a man possessed. If it were really Marc—no Rooster Bold transformation in sight—Nath wouldn’t be saying that.

It tore Marc’s heart into two.

He hushed Nath regardless, pushing back hair that threatened to fall from the damaged clips.

Watching his roommate’s eyes close almost dreamily was a particular kind of pain, especially knowing that Nath never acted this way with him.

Sure, Marc was Nath’s favorite—or so he’d been told—but not like this. It was never anything like this.

“Bold, I—”

“It’s ok,” Marc insisted, eyes blurry as he cut off Nath’s response. “Just stay awake for me, alright?”

Marc’s hand trembled as he ran it through the strands of Nath’s fluffy hair, and the thumb on his cheekbone rubbed reassuringly.

“I’m awake.”

“Good. Talk to me.”

“About what?” Nath’s voice was considerably weaker, far more tired but no less focused.

“Anything,” Marc answered.

Nath seemed to mull over a response, before his eyes were open and alight with a subdued mischief that Marc would’ve given anything to see under different circumstances.

“Remember when we were kids, and your transformation had rooster feathers?”

God. Marc did remember that.

It had been a time in his life when he was finally beginning to grow into the person he felt comfortable being now. Back then, he thought if he could emulate Orikko’s personality, maybe it would make him act the same way.

Obviously that wasn’t how it worked, but Orikko had certainly made good on his promise to honor whatever transformation Marc had wanted.

Frankly, the transformation he had now—the black with gold trim, elegant and pompous in a way he didn’t know he was capable of portraying—hadn’t even been a conscious decision. He’d woken up one way and the transformation had been different. They’d all been too busy dealing with an akuma to bother heckling him about the costume change.

Orikko had chalked it up to finally feeling comfortable in his own skin. Marc had just considered himself lucky to transform at all.

But looking back, he couldn’t deny that there had always been one hero that watched him a little closer after that—Capri’s transformation had changed too, and his eyes were always on Marc.

Even now, the little spark of mischief aside, there was a fondness in Nath’s eyes that Marc would’ve given anything to see if he wasn’t transformed.

“Yours changed too. Do I need to remind you that you have ram horns?” Marc smiled, a watery thing that he was certain didn’t hide the broken shards of his heart. His eyes finally cleared, thank God, but only as tears fell down his cheeks.

Nath snorted, a tiny noise that was far too mirthful from a man still bleeding out on the concrete. The fingers touching Marc’s cheek wiped away a tear.

All it did was make his chest ache more.

“We’ve been through this,” Nathaniel huffed. “I didn’t pick the horns. That’s not how it works.”

“It is, though.”

Nath opened his mouth to respond and choked, coughing through a particularly vicious-looking ripple along his stomach—it took Marc a minute to realize that Nath had probably been about to laugh.

Instead, all Marc got for his troubles of keeping Nath awake was a pained groan, with his roommate’s half-lidded eyes staring as he gasped for air. The hand on Marc’s cheek dropped to his leg, squeezing tightly for a moment before relaxing.

“Shit.”

“I’m so sorry,” was the response that fell from Marc’s lips before he could stop it.

“Don’t be,” Nath spat more blood onto the sidewalk, a viscous and thick strand mixed with what looked to be tiny clots. Those bright blue eyes were still boring into Marc’s own, half closed or not—there was an intensity to them that rattled him. “I’d do it again.”

“Why would you say that?” Marc didn’t want him to do it again—he didn’t want to ever see Nath this hurt ever again. If it was something he could fix, something he could change, he wouldn’t ever want Nath to pull a stunt like this one.

But Nath just stared, like Marc was being silly for even asking.

“You know damn well why,” Nath insisted. “If it’s me or you, then I’m not going to stand there and—”

“I still don’t want to see you like this,” Marc interrupted, voice trembling in a way that felt foreign.

He was meant to be Rooster Bold—completely confident, unabashed, sure of himself in every way possible. Pretentious, if he could be called such a thing.

Right now, all he felt was uncertainty. He was nervous and nauseous, terrified of seeing Nath bleed out when there was nothing more he could do about it.

Marc couldn’t do a damn thing to help this.

And maybe that resonated with Nath, who just lightly drew circles on Marc’s thigh like that was meant to be a reassuring gesture. In a way, it was—it was the exact same way Nath had drawn patterns onto him during their last movie night—but he was so fucking scared that nothing really helped.

Thank God that familiar magic washed over them just seconds later, and the metal rebar was conveniently stripped away—wound and blood on Nath’s body gone as soon as it had appeared.

Marc didn’t move his hand right away, regardless.

Magical fucking ladybugs or not, that didn’t change the fact that there was the lack of a wound in Nath’s stomach that had been there just moments ago. The partner Marc would do anything for had been pinned beneath him, hemorrhaging from some internal organ puncture that he’d been helpless to prevent.

He stared at the orange shirt he was all too familiar with, a pair of paint-stained overalls that showed no sign of the blood that had coated them just seconds ago—intact as they had been this morning.

Marc pressed slightly, hand digging into the fabric, and got no pained hiss, no tears, nothing.

No evidence that Nath had been injured at all.

“Bold, hey,” Marc’s fingers were pried off Nath’s stomach, and all Marc could do was stare as his roommate cradled the hand he’d been using to squeeze at the nonexistent wound that had lined Nath’s abdomen. “I’m alright.”

Nathaniel’s face held a pallor that Marc couldn’t imagine even if he wanted to, and Nath still squeezed his hand with a warmth that belied no sign of the blood that it had been covered in just moments ago.

All Marc could focus on was the way he was crouched over Nath, who didn’t seem to care in the slightest—bright blue eyes and gentle smile aimed his way—and it was suddenly too much.

He scrambled up, yanking his hand away before cursing and reaching back down to extend his fingers to Nath.

Marc hadn’t meant to possibly hurt Nath, but his roommate just looked startled above all else, eyebrows raised as he accepted the hand.

Marc pulled him up, and turned away quickly, throat threatening to close just as suddenly.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t look Nath in the eyes and pretend everything was fine.

“You should give Ladybug your miraculous,” Marc choked, swallowing haphazardly around the lump that tried to settle in his throat, seizing his vocal cords in a vice grip. “She probably knows how to fix it.”

“Bold, wait.” A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and he froze. He didn’t turn—couldn’t—but stopped. He was as powerless against Nath as he’d always been, now that he could stare past Capri’s arrogant attitude and see just how much it really resembled Nath’s own. “Can we talk for a second?”

“We’ve been talking,” Marc replied, trying to keep a lid on the nerves that still skittered up his spine, the way his hands still trembled. The fountain pen that rested in his gauntlet quivered at the tip, most assuredly a result of how badly he shook.

“That’s not what I mean. You’re upset,” Nath said, and the grip on Marc’s shoulder loosened ever so slightly. It stung more than he’d anticipated, to hear Capri’s assuredness from Nathaniel’s voice.

They’d always sounded so similar, now that Marc gave it thought. How the hell had he missed it? Shame welled in his gut. Surely others had managed to notice, right? His ignorance had nearly caused him to lose the one person that meant more to him than anyone else in the goddamn world.

How was he supposed to just…forget that?

“Please,” Nath hushed, soft and tender and altogether too sweet. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Rage sizzled in Marc’s stomach again, and the switch he held on his temper flared to life again.

He whirled back around, stepping clear of Nath’s grip.

Nath’s bright eyes blinked warily, as if he hadn’t expected the anger.

Fuck it. Nath wanted to talk?

Fine.

They’d talk.

“What’s wrong?! You almost fucking died, Capri!”

Thank God—thank everything holy—that he hadn’t used Nathaniel’s name. It would’ve been a giveaway that he wasn’t prepared for. If he knew Nath, then of course he would’ve had to explain how that was possible.

And Marc didn’t really want to get into the details right now, nor did he want Ladybug to strip him of his miraculous for something that he had complete control over. He liked being Rooster Bold, and he didn’t want anything to change that, but damn.

Something intelligible that looked a lot like a softness, a vulnerability that Marc had missed, shuttered from Nath’s face before it had fully settled there.

“And I told you I’d do it again,” Nath shrugged, completely and entirely unrepentant, by the way he seemed so unconcerned.

Marc still vibrated with adrenaline, but he was more willing to chalk it up to the fury he felt still rattling in his gut than any of the nerves he’d felt just moments ago.

“I don’t want you to fucking do it again! Goddammit, you can’t—especially not with your kwami unable to hold your transformation,” Marc hissed.

He was sure he looked as much like a territorial rooster as Orikko had always adored, with his body feeling like it could snap at any moment, but he didn’t care.

Nathaniel didn’t seem as if he gave a singular shit, hands shoved in the pockets of his paint-splattered overalls as if nothing mattered.

“So? Ziggy’s incredible, but I don’t need her help to shield you.”

“You do, actually,” Marc insisted, still huffing as rage filled him at the way Nath only shrugged again.

“If it’s me or you—”

“Stop saying—”

“Then I’d rather it be me,” Nath continued, eyes shining with a type of fondness that caused Marc’s breath to catch, even with the way Nathaniel still looked as sincere as ever. “If it’s something I can prevent, then I don’t ever want you to be hurt. I don’t want you to think you can’t rely on me.”

Shit, Nath really wasn’t getting it, was he?

“That’s not—of course I can rely on you,” Marc breathed, anxiety still spreading up his spine. “I didn’t say that I don’t! But you almost bled out, and Ziggy can’t prevent it, and—”

“Stop, please,” Nath shook his head, a tiny smile etched on his face. “I meant it, you know.”

“The part where you said you didn’t regret shoving me?” Marc’s eyebrow raised of its own accord, entirely scathing.

“That, too,” Nathaniel’s smile was far too sentimental to ever be called a smirk, but Marc had never seen this expression directed at anyone else. He’d been the only one lucky enough to see it—what else was he supposed to call it? Nath regularly snarked at Alix like they were siblings, but Marc never saw any of that. “I meant it when I said I cared about you.”

Jesus.

“Obviously,” Marc rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the words as best as he could. It wasn’t an appropriate time for his stomach to twist itself into knots, particularly not when Nath didn’t even aim those words at him—they were aimed at Rooster Bold, and that made all the difference. “You have a weird obsession with the idea of me and injuries.”

“And you don’t?” Nath challenged, expression morphing into a smirk finally—and this was something Marc was more familiar with, thank fuck.

“I’m not—I can’t do this right now,” Marc huffed, turning back around for a second time, hands still trembling.

Nathaniel didn’t move to touch him this time.

“Hey,” Marc’s roommate called after him, and he paused again. He didn’t feel even remotely better after yelling. He wished that it had helped. “Get home safe, alright?”

The familiar plea sent pangs of hurt in shockwaves down Marc’s chest, a festering feeling that wouldn’t heal no matter how many magical ladybugs were released into the air.

“Sure,” he responded, “you too.”

As if Marc wouldn’t see Capri when they got home—as if it wasn’t Capri that settled onto the couch next to him every week. As if it wasn’t Nath who fought by his side in battles and was preparing to eat galettes until they ran out.

As if Marc didn’t know Nath had almost died for him, and had not a second of remorse to show for it.

So he bounded back home, purposefully taking the long route, not wanting to see Nath any sooner than he needed.

It was a complete opposite to how he usually felt. If it wasn’t so goddamn foreign given the day’s events, Marc might have said he felt like a stranger puppeting his own body.

After watching Nath almost die to protect him, though, Marc didn't exactly want to see those beautiful eyes and pretend like nothing was wrong—like he wasn’t still so fucking angry that Nath was willing to throw down his life for Rooster Bold without a second thought.

Was his connection to Nath worth nothing? Did it not matter that Marc needed Nath—relied on him more than anyone else? They were best friends, weren’t they?

Did he mean nothing compared to Rooster Bold’s splendor?

…Was he jealous of himself?

Fuck, Marc didn’t even know anymore.

But it wasn’t about how Nath felt about Rooster Bold—not exactly.

How was Marc meant to live with the fact that Nath was entirely unbothered at the idea of death, if it meant keeping him safe? That wasn’t fair. If roles were reversed, Marc would’ve happily thrown himself in front of Nath, too.

Knowing that Nath was Capri just made everything worse.

So Marc stood in front of their apartment for a few minutes, knowing that Nath was inside courtesy of the lamps still on—it was pitch black by now, and Nath had to be scared to fucking death that Marc wasn’t back. It was the only reason he’d come back at all tonight, really.

If he could’ve begged a sleepover from Marinette, he might have. But she was likely with Adrien, and Nath was probably worried, and—

“Stop pussyfooting and go see your mate,” Orikko’s voice hissed from inside his jacket pocket.

“Don’t call him that,” Marc sighed, a weary thing that was too tired to be of any use rebuking the kwami.

“I won’t, if you go in and actually talk to him.”

Fine.

Orikko was right, anyway. He was being a fucking coward by standing out here and refusing to acknowledge what had happened.

He just needed to go in there and act like Nath wasn’t his hero partner Caprikid. Capri—Nathaniel—hadn’t sacrificed himself today, and Marc wasn’t still reeling.

He wasn’t.

So he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and walked in the door.

He’d expected Nathaniel to leap at him, ask him where the hell he’d been, tell him never to wander off for several hours again for the love of God—

But no, nothing.

Nathaniel was standing over what looked to be pot-au-feu, if Marc was guessing the beef and potatoes smell correctly, unbothered by the door creaking open.

All he did get from Nath was a glance over and a smile, a cheery hello.

“Hey, you’re back! Come taste this,” Nathaniel was chattering, apparently unconcerned that Marc was hours later than he usually was. “Apparently we didn’t have carrots, but we had more leeks than I thought. It seems fine to me, but I know you prefer carrots, so—”

Seriously. Not a single thing to say about him being gone for so long?

Nath practically fell all over himself to defend Rooster Bold, but all Marc got was a wooden spoon being brandished in his direction. There was no question as to whether he had stayed safe during the attack, nor where he had gone—since he wasn’t watering their fucking nonexistent plants—nothing.

Rooster Bold got told to get home safely, and Marc wasn’t even asked if he was hurt.

If there was any confirmation that Nath didn’t see him the same way that Marc saw the artist, that was all he needed. Sure, Nathaniel cared about him, but that wasn’t even remotely the same thing.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Marc hedged, wanting to hide in his room for a few minutes longer before being forced to interact.

Being a fucking coward, as he was sure Orikko would be quick to remind him if he hid from Nath.

“Yeah, but ‘fine’ doesn’t make you want to eat it, does it? If it sucks, we’ll order something,” Nathaniel continued, shoving the spoon further and further into Marc’s hand that he had to take it or risk dropping it by accident.

But he was more interested in seeing that there were different hair clips in his roommate's hair for once—no longer the silver wavy ones, but a pair of purple and blue shaded pins that Marc had bought him as a backup.

That had been before he knew about Caprikid.

The whole situation was so bizarre that a hysterical laugh threatened to bubble from his lips, and he couldn’t stop a few of the choked wheezes that left him despite his best efforts.

“Nothing you cook is that bad,” Marc coughed, trying not to laugh. He felt delusional, like someone was going to smack him upside the head and wake him up from this terrible dream.

That didn’t happen, and Nath was still smiling gently—expectantly—at the spoon.

Honestly, what was the point?

Marc tasted the fucking broth, and nodded approvingly.

“It does taste different without the carrots,” he acknowledged, cutting off whatever Nath opened his mouth to retort. “But it’s fine.”

“I’m so glad I’ve been relegated to ‘fine’ cooking, my dad will be so proud,” Nath snorted.

Marc handed back the spoon without another word, ignoring Nathaniel’s continuous attempts at conversation.

“I found that stash of dried corn we have in the pantry, that was going to be my next attempt if the leeks didn’t cut it,” Nath grinned, a particular spark of…something there. It might have been mischief, but Marc had a feeling he was just seeing things.

Capri and Nath being one in the same was fucking with Marc’s head, that was all.

But he didn’t exactly feel like talking.

Thank God that Nath picked up the slack for once, talking away as if this were a normal occurrence between them—at one point, it had been.

Now, though, Marc just needed to compartmentalize his thoughts a bit better. He was partially afraid he’d snap at Nath just for existing, which would probably scare his roommate half to death.

Marc hadn’t been mad, that had been Rooster Bold’s reaction. He had to separate the two halves of himself more than he typically did.

So he couldn’t afford to be upset—couldn’t let Nath know just how fucking furious and concerned he still was.

It wouldn’t end well if he did.

Thankfully, dinner passed without incident, and Marc passed on Nath’s offer to sit and watch a shitty rom com even if it wasn’t their usual day for such a thing. Maybe it was just Nathaniel’s attempt at being nice—he could tell that Marc was being a fucking cagey asshole, probably—but Marc didn’t want that.

He didn’t want to look Nath in the eyes after eating stew that his roommate had made following a near-death experience—a dish that surely could’ve waited, but it was Marc’s favorite and Nath knew that—and continue to pretend any longer.

He’d managed for an hour or two.

That was good enough until tomorrow, surely. He’d made a valiant effort.

Or, at least, that was what Marc told himself as he tried to sleep that night, having avoided Nath like it was his job.

“You’re being paranoid,” Orikko’s voice hissed from beside him, where the kwami perched in a small pencil case on his dresser. Lord knew the little rooster was usually up before Marc’s alarm even went off, anyways. The deity might as well function as his own personal wake up call.

Not that Orikko had ever seemed to mind.

“I’m not,” Marc whispered back, aware that Nathaniel had genuinely gone to bed this time—there was no sign of hallway lights reflecting from his closed door, and no sound either.

“He doesn’t know,” Orikko reassured, in a tone that was nearly gentle for such an arrogant, aloof kwami. “And he still cares about you. You know that.”

‘Still’ caring wasn’t the same thing as being so goddamn in love that Marc had almost passed out at the sight of Nath bleeding to death in an alley, having taken a hit that would have killed any of them. That wasn’t remotely the same.

Nath’s—Capri’s—devotion to Rooster Bold wasn’t the same as how Nathaniel treated him as Marc. There was no way around that.

Marc knew that his co-creator treated him damn well—they had been best friends for years, after all, and familiarity like that could only come with time—but Nath had never tried to die for him.

Nor did Marc want him to, but…he couldn’t exactly deny that his roommate had never looked at him the way he looked at Nath.

Marc opened his mouth, half set on exposing all this to Orikko, when he just sighed. There was no point in making the bird understand how love worked when he wasn’t even entirely sure that the kwami gave a shit.

It didn’t really matter. He could deal with it in the morning. Orikko was as temperamental as anything, but he’d been loyal. If Marc wanted to bitch, he’d be listened to—so he’d let it go.

Sleep would come, eventually, and it would let him drift off for a while. He thought he’d succeeded, at least mostly, when his thoughts went fuzzy.

Until he heard the screaming, anyway.

Marc flung himself from his bed, tangling his feet in his comforter and almost falling on his face as he tried to reach the door—more than aware that the yelling was Nathaniel’s own voice.

Because fuck his sentimental heart, but nothing mattered more than Nath. Nothing did.

He pried his door open and bolted across their shared hallway to bang on Nathaniel’s door. Marc would apologize for being rude later.

“Nath?” His voice held a note of concern that he hadn’t even recalled feeling—but no, there was worry slithering up into his chest and squeezing nervously. “Are you ok?”

All he got in response was a whine—a long, drawn out thing that was replaced by a whimper so soft that Marc knew he had to have imagined it.

Fuck it. Nath could be mad, if he wanted.

Marc twisted the knob and shouldered the door open, blinking as lamplight hit his eyes.

It was an almost garish sight every time he stepped foot into Nath’s room, but not for lack of coordination. Every surface was covered in paintings and drawings of every color imaginable—somehow, it worked for Nath. The light, unfortunately, was far too warm and yellowed to accurately reflect how beautiful the art was.

Marc had never shared the desire to plaster his own personal space with his art. Granted, Nath hadn’t seemed the type either, at least not with his comic book drafts.

But these—most of these paintings were obviously personal, crafted with a type of reverence so lifelike that it astounded Marc every time he saw it.

Of course, nothing compared to the sight of Nathaniel himself—clad in nothing but a Cat Noir t-shirt and plaid shorts in the most horrid combo Marc had ever seen—staring blankly forward, eyes wide with panic, breaths heaving as he hugged at his knees.

It broke Marc as badly as seeing Nath bloody had done.

“Are you alright?” The illustrator didn’t even seem to hear, aside from finally blinking up towards the doorway.

“Marc,” Nath’s voice cracked, a subdued and quiet thing. It was so damn vulnerable that Marc wanted nothing more than to take the fear and banish it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What’s wrong?” He wasn’t admitting that he may or may not have drifted off—even if he had, it didn’t matter.

He was far more concerned with the way Nath still heaved for air, still looked so damn afraid that he hadn’t even moved.

“Just,” Nath shrugged, a stilted motion that was far from the nonchalant gesture he’d likely been trying for, “dreaming. That’s all.”

“Hell of a dream, then,” Marc acknowledged, gently padding over softly to perch on the edge of the bed. Nath didn’t even flinch.

The artist picked at the hem of a shirtsleeve, watching him with a still-dazed expression.

“It was—a hero got hurt because of me,” Nath finally offered, pinching the sleeve between his fingers and wrinkling it. It took Marc a moment too long to realize that Nath was only referring to the dream. “He shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but he came after me. He…I was in the way, and he—”

Nathaniel’s voice cut off with a whine, and his head was lowered into the gap between his knees and his clasped arms.

Jesus.

Something uncomfortably similar to regret simmered low in Marc’s gut.

He’d been so worried about Nath seeming unrepentant over saving him—and obviously that was still true—but he hadn’t wanted his roommate to feel how he had, watching crimson puddles form underneath his hero partner.

“Who?”

Marc knew damn well which hero—he just wanted to hear Nath say it.

“Rooster Bold,” Nath muttered, choked and muffled. “He took an attack that an akuma meant for me.”

Marc scooted closer, just enough to lay a hand over Nath’s arm, and felt increasingly sorry that his roommate didn’t look at all mollified.

What could he even say without giving himself away?

“Incredibly specific dream,” Marc mentioned, aware that anything more would sound suspicious.

He couldn’t admit that it hurt him to see how much the day really had bothered Nath, even if Nathaniel still looked caught up in defending Rooster Bold.

Nath only shrugged, raising his head just high enough to rest his chin on the arm that Marc wasn’t touching.

“Yeah,” the artist acknowledged, and didn’t elaborate.

Of course, he didn’t need to—Marc knew why Nath, of all people, would be having that dream. Especially tonight, so soon after the reverse had nearly taken Capri’s life, and Rooster Bold had been so furious with Nath.

He wanted nothing more than to reassure Nath that it was fine, Marc was alright—Rooster Bold was safe—but he couldn’t. How could he? If his roommate knew the truth, his miraculous would be gone. He’d never see Capri again, and then how would Marc ensure that Nath wasn’t being a dumbass in battle?

So he did the next best thing—gently drew patterns into Nath’s arm in the same way the artist so often did to him. He was never one for physical closeness, most of the time, but exceptions could always be made.

For Nath, those exceptions would be made every time.

He heard Nathaniel’s breath hitch, and suddenly Nath moved, shifting to grab at Marc’s wrist like a man possessed.

“Would, uh—do you mind staying? Just for a while?” Nath’s eyes were on his again, suddenly wide and pleading, with no sign of the earlier fog. There was equal fear and desperation, though. Maybe Nath had assumed that Marc would leave when they ran out of things to talk about, but he couldn’t have been any more wrong.

Marc wasn’t going to allow Nath to wallow away until he was nothing but a shell, and he wasn’t going to leave Nathaniel alone with his fear.

It didn’t matter how much the idea made Marc’s heart pound, blood rushing through his ears.

“Sure,” he blinked. “I can stay.”

“God, you’re the best,” Nath replied, gently squeezing the wrist he still held, before dropping it. “Thank you.”

Even now, Marc was being called the best. Rooster Bold was hit on and given sincere adoration for his part. It just…life wasn’t fair, Marc knew that, but still.

“Of course,” he replied, watching as Nath flopped backwards into the pillows, patting lazily at the other half of the bed.

“Might as well be comfortable, if you’re babysitting my ass,” Nath grumbled, but Marc would’ve been an idiot to miss the bright red flush that tinted Nath’s cheekbones a pretty rose color.

Marc snorted as he plopped onto the pillows beside Nath, gave a tiny squeal when all Nathaniel did was tug Marc into his side.

It was almost too much.

Marc’s head was on Nath’s shoulder in a way it rarely was unless it was a movie night, with his legs threatening to tangle with Nathaniel’s own for lack of better space.

Fuck.

…And that was when Marc saw the drawings.

Not the paintings took up every wall—though those were remarkable, too—but the small drawings in the sketchbook, just feet from where they both laid, propped open on Nath’s bedside dresser.

It would’ve been bad enough for the subject of the drawings to have only been Ladybug or Cat Noir—at least they knew how dedicated their fans were, and it wasn’t a surprise.

But drawing Rooster Bold? Seeing himself in Nath’s exceptional line work, the details so lifelike that it may as well have been a picture?

God.

Marc was beyond flattered—beyond half-sick to his stomach.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” Nath’s voice was stilted, still rattled in a way it usually wasn’t.

“What’s, uh—” Marc paused, stopping the question that had nearly left his mouth.

He’d wanted, above all else in that moment, to ask to see Nath’s art. But he wouldn’t, and he knew better. It wasn’t as if Nathaniel had ever barred him from laying eyes on whatever he desired, but Marc had been the one so cripplingly afraid of other people’s judgements that he’d forbidden others from reading his works. It hardly seemed fair to demand that of Nath now—especially now—regardless of how willing Nath might have been.

Nath gave a tiny hum, an inquiring question more than anything, and the weight beneath Marc shifted ever so slightly as Nathaniel moved.

“What is it?” There was a hand resting on Marc’s back, and he knew damn well that it wasn’t his own. How Nath always felt so at ease with other people touching him was a mystery—Nathaniel wasn’t exactly tactile unless he chose to be, for one. But all Marc ever felt was the sensation of butterflies swirling in his gut that never abated, no matter how hard he tried.

“Nevermind,” he replied, and heard Nath exhale a curious little sigh.

The fabric of Nath’s shirt shifted slightly under Marc’s head as Nath reached over with one hand and stretched—most assuredly not a comfortable feat—and grabbed the sketchbook, handing it over.

And Marc had so many goddamn questions.

“You wanted to see, right? You looked like you were staring,” Nath shrugged, a movement that jostled them both.

“I—that’s not—”

“I don’t care,” Nathaniel shrugged, pushing the book more insistently into Marc’s hands. “If you want to look, you can. It’s not like I mind.”

Which was precisely why Marc hadn’t been planning to ask. Just because Nath didn’t mind didn’t give Marc the right to see anyway.

“You’re allowed to have privacy,” he muttered, only mostly under his breath.

Unfortunately, most likely from their close proximity, Nath’s little chuckle told Marc that he’d been overheard anyway.

“I know,” Nath replied, and the hand on Marc’s spine shifted—was replaced by the opposite arm landing on his stomach as he rolled flat to his own back, finally putting more of his weight on the bed than on top of Nathaniel.

It didn’t help matters that Nath was an affectionate fucker with everyone he loved, if they allowed it. And of course Marc was allowing it, he’d never seen the blankness to Nath’s eyes that he’d seen when he first walked in the room. If this was what it took to stave off the panic that his roommate had obviously felt, that was more than fine.

Marc didn’t actually mind—with Nathaniel, everything felt as easy as breathing.

But they’d never been quite this close before.

Movie nights were different. One or both of them usually ended up asleep, typically in varying positions sprawled across the other’s lap. That was par for the course, really.

This, though? Being held—clung to like a leech—in Nathaniel’s bed? Feeling Nath’s fingers tangle tighter in the t-shirt he wore, in the fabric of the shorts that rode up strangely now that Marc had rolled to his back?

None of this was familiar in the slightest.

Holding Nath’s sketchbook, at least, wasn’t a foreign concept.

Marc flipped from one page to the next, fingers ghosting over the buttery soft texture. Every page was more detailed than the last, and it set something uncomfortably like longing alight in his chest, a yearning in his gut.

There wasn’t a singular drawing in about ten goddamn pages that didn’t feature Rooster Bold. The hero’s eyes and wide smile—Marc’s smile—reflecting back at him from the page. Rooster Bold’s confident attitude, displayed in the easy way he balanced on the rooftops. A vibrant drawing with every color imaginable, the hero outfit shaded so well that it might as well have been photographed that day.

…And there, on the last page, was an image of Rooster Bold that Marc swore to God he’d never seen.

Of course, he didn’t exactly remember the other pictures, either, but this was different. Marc would have remembered staring at Caprikid with that sickeningly besotted expression—because that was likely what his face did when he looked at Nath. Not that he would ever know. To Marc’s knowledge, Nath had never even noticed.

He assumed that Nath simply fabricated the whole drawing—which was entirely possible, Marc knew, based on how fucking talented Nath was—but even so. Seeing himself, dressed as Rooster Bold, look as completely enamored as this…his heart splintered into fragments.

It shouldn’t have.

Nath was more than entitled to his feelings, and if he wanted Rooster Bold as a partner—a romantic one—then who was Marc to burst his bubble by revealing the truth? Not that it would change anything even if he did, aside from having Orikko taken away.

But it was so fucking hurtful in ways that it shouldn’t be, to consider just how much Nath cared for someone he didn’t truly know—particularly when Marc himself was right there, and they were the same fucking person. Nathaniel didn’t know, Marc was more than aware, but still.

He wasn’t wanted in that way, and he never would be.

Marc needed to come to terms with that.

“You alright?” Nath’s voice called, and the hand sliding across Marc’s stomach jolted him away from the staredown he’d been having with his superhero form.

He blinked, glancing over at Nath—and regretted it immediately, when Nathaniel’s face was inches from his own.

He scooted back a few inches, away from the warmth that Nathaniel had cocooned him into. If things had been different, he might have sworn that there was a flash of something like disappointment that crossed Nath’s face—just for a moment—before it was gone.

But that was ridiculous, and Marc needed to stop reading into shit before he hurt himself worse.

“Yeah,” he muttered, tucking the sketchbook closed and handing it back so he couldn’t see Rooster Bold’s incredibly detailed face. “Just…tired.”

A lie, sort of, but not entirely.

“I appreciate the company,” Nathaniel admitted, taking the sketchbook and gently setting it back on the table—having to pull away almost entirely from Marc in order to do so. But maybe that was for the better, anyway. “If you’re tired, then go to sleep. I know I woke you earlier. It’s selfish to keep you here when you have a perfectly good bed right next door.”

Marc was incredibly, impulsively tempted to ask why he couldn’t just stay in Nath’s bed, but he knew a polite dismissal when he heard one.

Just as likely, Nathaniel didn’t know how to take the awkwardness that Marc was certainly still exuding—if dinner had been any indication—and figured it was best to simply sidestep it.

Marc shook his head instead, aware how damn quiet and nearly peaceful it was without the kwamis in the room with them. Orikko had never butted in where he shouldn’t, but he was known to stick his nose where it didn’t belong—even if he wasn’t normally the prying type.

But without the little rooster to defend Marc’s actions, that meant that he had to do it himself.

“I really don’t care,” Marc admitted, noting the way Nath seemed to slide further from the center of the bed. He was determined to make things difficult, it seemed. “You were screaming.”

Wasn’t that reason enough to stay? His best friend had woken up from a nightmare about a hero’s death, sobbing as if any of this were his fault—even though Marc certainly wasn’t dead, and it might have given Nathaniel peace of mind to assume he wasn’t. Of course, Marc wasn’t the one that had tried to jump in front of metal rebar today, either, so fuck. He tried his best, honestly.

Nathaniel’s shoulders jostled as he shrugged, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as if Marc would ever refuse him anything.

“But you shouldn’t—”

“Does it look like I give a shit?” Marc raised an eyebrow.

Nathaniel had the good sense to look put out, if only for a moment.

“You really do need to sleep.”

“And I will,” Marc reassured, scooting closer to Nath again. “As soon as you do, too.”

Was he considering the logistics of sleeping in the bed with Nath, if that was what it took? Unfortunately. He didn’t need any help digging his own grave, apparently.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, of course I’m sure,” Marc quipped, grinning a little despite himself. He flopped back down next to Nath, choosing to ignore the skeptical look he got in return. “Now go the fuck to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Nath’s little snort seemed to release the tension from his body, and he was tucked right back up against Marc as if nothing had happened. Those bright, shining blue eyes screamed gratitude as they locked onto his own with a tiny smile crossing Nath’s lips.

“I appreciate you—more than I can say.”

And God, didn’t that just make Marc’s heart swell near to bursting?

Even if he wasn’t Rooster Bold right now, Nath would always appreciate him. Marc longed for more than he could have, and he wished beyond all else that things were different.

He wished that Nath would still have curled up next to him like this under normal circumstances; he wished to see that fiery hair tucked onto his shoulder as Nath slept—still with a hand lingering near his own.

Marc adored it, and he hated it more than anything.

But Nathaniel’s presence had always been a comfort, and Marc must have dozed off faster than he expected. The next thing he processed was gentle sunlight, streaming through a gap in the closed curtains and burning his eyes.

He blinked, fighting the urge to rub his eyes, and finally gave in—ripping free of the weight on his waist as he raised a hand.

And his heart almost stopped as he glanced over to the figure next to him.

Despite the yellow lamplight that had evidently shone throughout the night—Nath had never bothered turning it off, apparently, and preferred to turn their whole ass apartment into a fire hazard—the sun’s flecks of light were evident enough. They lit the room, eclipsing the warm lamplight behind Nathaniel.

Dear God, if Marc never saw another sight in his life he’d consider himself blessed beyond all comprehension. Going blind now would have been a fair price to pay for beauty like this.

There was Nath, fiery hair blazing in the sunlight, still sleeping peacefully as if he’d never awoken the night before screeching like devils were after him. An arm still pinned Marc to the bed, clutching a little tighter when he tried to wiggle himself free.

Affection bloomed in his chest, and he found a sigh falling from his chest before he could even process it.

He carded his fingers into the bright hair, marveling at the softness to the strands as he brushed them out of Nathaniel’s eyes. The lack of hair clips just served to accentuate how much Nath’s hair had grown since beginning to wear them—and knowing why didn’t help the heartache any.

Still, Nath’s eyes squinted open slowly, and Marc found himself smiling.

“Hey,” he whispered, and Nath’s eyes snapped up to his—gained a little awareness as he shook off sleep.

“Hi,” Nath yawned, a thing that embodied just how soundly he’d been asleep.

“You want to let me up? I’ll make coffee. I’d offer breakfast, but—”

Nathaniel’s chuckle interrupted him, and amusement mingled with the fondness that threatened to overtake him. Marc knew that his roommate wasn’t allowing him anywhere near the kitchen except for the coffeemaker, and that was perfectly fine.

“I’ll make something, just give me a few minutes.”

Nath wasn’t exactly a morning person anyway. It didn’t matter—Marc slid free of the loose grip that Nath still had on his shirt, clearly only half-processing the request—to return to his own room.

No better use of his time than showering and getting dressed, then. Nath would probably still be dragging himself out of bed—possibly literally—by the time Marc was done anyway.

There wasn’t any harm in wallowing for a few minutes, was there?

He knew well enough by now. Nathaniel didn’t want him—Nath wanted Rooster Bold. It hardly mattered that Rooster Bold and Marc himself shared the same fucking personality on the inside.

Rooster Bold showed his swagger far more often, and that was what Nathaniel wanted.

Marc understood that.

Nath would never, ever see him the same way—but surely that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. Right?

He was sure that Orikko would have applauded him for that. Marc might as well act on his fucking feelings instead of holding onto them like a vice, refusing to let go for fear that things wouldn’t turn out.

Things with Nathaniel might still end away from Marc’s favor, if Nath’s obsession with Rooster Bold was any indication. But they were the same person—Marc had come to that conclusion years ago—so that must mean something. It had to, didn’t it?

One last try, then.

Perhaps his pluck was the reason that Orikko had chosen him, after all, if he was willing to put in the work even after everything. If the timing had been right, Marc might have even claimed that he’d heard Orikko say that he was proud.

But that was a delusional thought, so it hardly mattered.

Marc was more interested in setting his little plan in motion. He wasn’t going to do anything so extreme as to actually flirt with Nath—couldn’t, not when his roommate obviously didn’t see him the same—but he was a confident fucker when given the chance. If he couldn’t at least make Nathaniel look this time, then…fine.

But he could certainly give it his best shot.

Which all probably explained how he found himself staring at the mirror in his room, studying the reflection that blinked back at him.

Nothing was different, really.

Everything was exactly the same.

Sure, he’d ditched the variations of brightly colored jackets and dyed shirts that he was so fond of, but he still felt like himself. It didn’t matter if he was wearing a button down with a fucking cravat or not—he wore one often enough as Rooster Bold that it still felt almost uncomfortably familiar.

Nath had been the one to buy it for him, anyway. The cravat had been given as a birthday gift, but Marc had refused to wear it. It resembled the way he looked in the suit just a little too closely for his liking—and he was bound to say something vaguely incriminating that could tie him to Rooster Bold if Nathaniel bothered paying attention.

The problem, of course, was that Nathaniel usually did pay attention.

So Marc had stashed it away, vowing not to wear it despite how much he adored the gift. He didn’t need more attention than he already had.

…But Nath adored Rooster Bold more than anyone else. If the artist was going to pay attention, he would likely do so for the rooster hero. Marc would have his attention, then, even if it was subconscious.

Was he playing dirty? Probably.

But if Nathaniel wasn’t going to look for anything else, then he sure as fuck was going to stare at Marc if he looked like Rooster Bold—he had to, didn’t he?

It didn’t change the fact that Marc still felt the same. The familiar confidence and pretension that flooded his body every time Orikko gave him the mask didn’t so much as emerge.

“You look good,” Orikko chirped, and Marc startled.

He shouldn’t have been so shocked. The kwami had sat dutifully—and without any complaint—for the better part of half an hour, if memory served. Orikko had perched on his shoulder when he applied eyeshadow, had taken up residence on the dresser when it became clear that Marc was doing more spinning around in his shirt than necessary.

It was the cravat, frankly. He felt altogether too much like Rooster Bold, and somehow, not nearly enough.

“This isn’t going to work,” Marc muttered, finally giving voice to the sinking feeling in his gut.

Because that was the truth of the matter, and Marc could sense it.

“Not with that attitude,” Orikko huffed, and all but punched Marc in the cheek with the way he was suddenly being headbutted by the kwami. “Now look again, like you mean it this time.”

It reminded Marc of being younger, with a similarly-tolerant Orikko at his side. Those days, Orikko would lift his chin and croon—insist on making Marc preen until he was as proud of himself as the little rooster was.

Nowadays, that had changed only marginally. He didn’t often need Orikko to remind him of who he was—nor of what he was capable—but the gentle nudge was nowhere to be found.

Marc almost preferred it.

Orikko hadn’t coddled him in quite some time, and it was refreshing in ways that he couldn’t place.

Nonetheless, Marc stood up straighter, lifting his chin and puffing his chest with a confidence he didn’t feel. He looked fine, Orikko was right. But Marc knew better—there was more to pretension than looking the part.

“Worth a shot,” he muttered lowly, and watched the little kwami tuck himself away in the room.

It was the only piece of hope Marc could cling to, however misguided the sentiment still seemed. Nestled deep in his heart was a seed of doubt that still hadn’t abated, no matter how hard Orikko tried to reassure him.

He was Rooster Bold—and Rooster Bold was just an extension of Marc. Nathaniel adored Rooster Bold with all of his heart, and the drawings had shown him that as much as Caprikid’s undying affection ever did.

If Nath didn’t look his way now—when Marc resembled his rooster persona in every way but the obvious—then there was nothing more he could do.

He wasn’t willing to flirt with Nath and make things awkward, no matter how much he might have liked to do so.

Instead, he pulled open the bedroom door and sauntered towards the kitchen, a strut to his walk with the way he exuded something akin to arrogance. Marc didn’t feel confident that Nath would even care, but it was still worth a try.

Nathaniel was sketching lazily at the kitchen island when he approached, the charcoal scratching against paper as Nath hummed a quiet acknowledgement.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Marc returned, dropping his voice into something soft as he leaned across the island, content to watch Nath sprawl across a stool like the world’s biggest cat. “We have a couch, ya know.”

Another quiet hum, before Nath frowned as he smudged a line.

“I know,” Nath huffed, finally glancing up—and Marc prayed for the first time in months.

Prayed that Nath would see him, would finally look at the fluffy ruffles that adored his chest, at the colored jeans that were so tight that they felt as if they’d cut the circulation to Marc’s thighs. Maybe Nath would finally see the way Marc still leaned across the island, trying to get closer without invading his roommate’s space.

…Marc prayed, above all else, that Nath would drag that charcoal right down the drawing as he realized just how fucking hot Marc looked. It would ruin the entire page—if not several, depending on how deep Nath would press—but it was a small price to pay.

Nath would stare at him like he’d hung the moon—like Capri always stared at Rooster Bold.

…But no. Nothing.

Nath’s eyes flicked up just long enough to smile, a tiny, lighthearted thing that didn’t seem to match the way Marc was still leaning over the kitchen island like a fucking asshole. There was a moment—a brief one—where Nath’s eyes seemed to hesitate on the cravat adorning Marc’s neck, and Marc held his breath. But then those bright blue eyes were back on the paper, as if nothing had happened.

Marc just—he didn’t understand.

Rooster Bold had captured Nath’s attention like this, hadn’t he? What was the difference?

Sure, Marc knew enough to admit that Nathaniel had never looked his way—why he’d expected this to go anywhere else but this exact scenario, he wasn’t certain—but he was still a hero. They were the same fucking person, for God’s sake.

“Just figured I’d let you have the couch while I made breakfast,” Nath shrugged. “Didn’t think you really wanted me pulling another stage five clinger act like last night.”

And there—Nath’s shoulders were drawn up to his ears again.

“I didn’t mind,” Marc insisted, throat choking on nothing at how fucking apologetic Nath was acting.

Nathaniel seemed to catch that his voice wasn’t quite up to par, but Marc didn’t care.

“You’re not big on people invading your space,” Nath clarified, as if it wasn’t plenty clear the first time. “I should’ve—”

“I’m serious,” Marc interrupted, watching as his roommate’s bright eyes just turned to blink at him, seemingly baffled. He shrugged in response, the tiniest of smiles quirking the corner of his lips upwards. Regardless of how Nath felt about him, the last thing Marc wanted was for Nath to harbor some sense of guilt. “I don’t mind.”

“You do any other time,” Nathaniel’s eyebrow raised, a challenging thing that would have made Marc flinch if this had been years ago—if he still attributed every single interaction to a personal judgment.

“Not if it’s you,” Marc countered, uncharacteristically honest. For Nathaniel, he would do just about anything. Didn’t Nath know that? He should.

Gratitude shone in Nath’s eyes, a light thing that looked so goddamn pleased that Marc had to glance away. He didn’t particularly want to see that—as if he wouldn’t happily do anything for Nath.

“Yeah, alright. You flatter me enough as it is,” Nathaniel snarked, rolling his eyes as a smile finally crossed his lips. “Just go sit.”

“You don’t want me to burn the apartment down and cook with you?” Marc teased, glancing over his shoulder as he walked towards the couch.

“Hell no,” Nath snorted, mirth sparkling in his eyes when he looked at Marc, an expression altogether too similar to Capri’s with far less express devotion present.

No different from their normal relationship, then.

Marc’s heart shattered under the weight of that stare, and ground to bits when Nath turned away to pay more attention to breakfast. That was what Marc had been relegated to—less important than breakfast.

It stung, even if it shouldn’t have. He was being ridiculous. He’d known that Nathaniel was interested in Rooster Bold, but even looking the part didn’t seem to matter.

What did seem to matter was the way his journal was still on the coffee table adjacent to the couch, where he had laid it the day prior. He certainly hadn’t been up to writing when he’d been attempting to avoid his roommate—until Nathaniel hadn’t even cared where Marc had been. That had been the final straw, really.

Even now, not a page was displaced. The pencil was still tossed haphazardly next to the pages, the leather journal held open only by the fabric of its built-in bookmark as it laid face down on the table. There was a blue pen—capped, thank God, though he didn’t remember replacing it himself—placed rather pointedly next to the journal. Marc’s only guess was that he had tossed it when he’d run out to transform.

Nath had clearly picked it up, but it was just as obvious that he hadn’t touched anything else. No journal, no pen—nothing. Marc’s writing was still his own, without Nathaniel’s input, even though Marc wouldn’t have cared either way.

All it made him do was hurt.

He’d been mostly capable of pushing away the negatives, more focused on how much he adored Nathaniel. It didn’t matter so much if Nath didn’t want him as a romantic partner—the artist was his best friend. They lived together, they created comic books together.

Nathaniel was his fucking hero partner, for God’s sake, though Marc hadn’t known.

He had Nath in every way that mattered—every way except for the way he wanted. But it was selfish of him to want anything more, even if the person Nathaniel really wanted was still…Marc.

He didn’t register what Nathaniel gave him, nor did he register much beyond his automatic movements to swallow whatever it was that had been cooked on his behalf.

Nathaniel was clearly trying to make conversation, from the way his voice chattered on unnaturally—like he knew Marc wasn’t going to speak—despite how normal Marc had felt just minutes ago.

As it stood, he blinked and found himself with his journal in his hand, scribbling self-absorbent nonsense about how lovely Nath’s loyalty was by the time he’d realized what he’d done. Nathaniel was parked on the couch beside him—even as Marc threatened to overtake the whole couch with his legs on two of the three cushions—and clutching his sketchbook tightly.

How long had Marc been out of it? How long had he been operating on autopilot, where he ignored Nathaniel entirely?

Thank God that Nath hadn’t even seemed to notice. Marc must have been feigning interest appropriately, though nausea swirled in his stomach at the thought that he’d been convincing. He always paid attention to everything Nathaniel had to say, and the knowledge that he hadn’t—even accidentally—felt so much like the worst betrayal he could have committed.

“So, of course, Chrysalis isn’t Hawkmoth.” Nathaniel rambled, the excited sort of voice he usually gave when he had an idea that often piggybacked from Marc’s own. “The problem is that people are probably sick of—”

Marc nearly jumped out of his skin at the way there was a hand suddenly touching his ankle, a warmth that crept up his spine and straight to his heart.

It was becoming ridiculous, frankly.

Nathaniel was still spewing ideas that would have been wonderful, Marc was certain, if he had actually been paying attention. But Nath’s hand was steadily tracing little circles into Marc’s ankle, and the whole thing felt so surreal that he wanted to puke. It might solve the nausea, at any rate.

Nathaniel was always, always like this. It meant nothing.

…That was the problem.

Marc ached, and this wasn’t helping. He slid his ankle from Nath’s touch, tucking it underneath him as he sat up fully—on the farthest cushion from his roommate.

Nathaniel finally stopped talking, at that.

“Sorry,” Nath offered, and Marc’s eyes were glued to the way Nath had balled his fingers into a fist, settling the hand in his lap—so very far away from Marc, as if it was prone to wandering. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Marc meant to speak—had opened his mouth to say as much—but nothing came out save for a little squeak. It was so unlike him nowadays that he cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again.

“No—you didn’t.”

“Sure,” Nath eyed him from the corner of Marc’s vision, and guilt settled around Marc’s neck like a noose—threatening to pull tight. It wasn’t as if Nathaniel was judging, or even being snide, but even so.

“You didn’t,” Marc repeated, more pointed, a bit more insistent. Nathaniel could put his damn hands everywhere and it still wouldn’t have bothered Marc in the slightest, not really.

Of course, there wasn’t any way to say that without sounding like an asshole—particularly not when he would’ve been forced to own up to his love otherwise—so he didn’t.

Not that it helped the way Nath still watched him curiously, like Marc was the one being weird.

And he genuinely couldn’t help it. He probably was being a weird fucker to Nath, who had no idea why his roommate had volunteered to water their nonexistent plants and now refused to even be in Nath’s vicinity for no good reason. Marc didn’t have a reason to be so avoidant—Rooster Bold did, and that wasn’t relevant.

Worse still was the lack of suspicion, the lack of harshness in Nathaniel’s eyes. For all intents and purposes, those bright eyes almost looked understanding, but such a thing wasn’t even remotely possible. Whatever it was that Nath thought he understood would have been wrong—there couldn’t be anything further from the truth than assuming Marc had gone fucking nuts, and that was the only logical assumption.

Granted, he certainly felt like he was losing his mind, with the way Nathaniel very obviously didn’t feel the same, the knowledge that Marc himself was always going to want more than what they had, torturing himself with the look in Capri’s eyes—

Marc jackrabbited to his feet, the nausea still swirling in his gut, clutching the journal closer to his chest with a hand.

He’d pushed Nathaniel away because he couldn’t get his goddamn shit together, and there was Nath, still staring at him with something akin to confusion.

“Sorry—I don’t—” Marc gestured vaguely, waving his hand in the direction of the hallway. “Bathroom.”

He sped off before Nath could even open his mouth, before it occurred to Nath to stop him and ask why the hell he was acting so goddamn skittish. Marc hadn’t acted like this for years, and this was what did him in?

He shut the bathroom door behind him, slumping to the floor in front of the toilet as the nausea culminated in the sensation of his mouth salivating more than he considered himself capable. He hated it immensely—even moreso when he tried to swallow and only succeeded in making his whole body shudder through a retching motion.

Marc had known all along that Nathaniel wasn’t his, would never be his. He’d simply chosen to delude himself into thinking that the illustrator might change his mind—that maybe Marc could somehow convince Nath that he was worth it. That maybe, somehow, Nathaniel would wake up one day and realize exactly what he’d been missing, that Marc adored him more than anyone else on the goddamn planet.

It had been stupid of him to assume otherwise. It was his own fault.

“Hey,” a voice squawked from under the door, and Marc turned his head enough from where he’d practically buried himself in the toilet bowl to see Orikko, suddenly phasing through the door to hover near him. “That didn’t go as planned.”

Marc couldn’t help it.

He snorted a quiet laugh, the most self-deprecating noise he’d heard from himself in quite some time. He really must have looked pathetic, if Orikko hadn’t bothered to tell him to snap out of it.

“Yeah,” Marc admitted, sitting back on his haunches and swallowing more saliva once he felt only half sure he wasn’t going to vomit. “It wasn’t going to.”

“And I told you not to see it that way,” Orikko started, little arms crossed, but Marc shook his head—leaned back against the wall adjacent to the toilet.

“Even if I had,” Marc countered, “do you really think it would have made a difference? He wants Rooster Bold.”

“You are Rooster Bold, kid. We’ve been through this, don’t tell me you’re regressing.”

“It’s not—I don’t feel any different.” Marc was well aware that he’d believed himself unable to be a hero, when Orikko had met him, but the rooster was right—it had been years since he’d felt that way. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want me as I am.”

“You don’t change who you are in the suit, Marc,” Orikko chirped, an arrogant tilt to his pompous little head. It must have been serious, then—Orikko never used his name like that. Not unless he was being a dumbass, which was increasingly infrequent. “You never did.”

“That’s not how Nath sees it.”

“I wish I was Plagg,” Orikko narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I could smite you, then.”

“What’s stopping you?” Marc smiled, a distracted thing. He knew damn well that he was just taunting the deity, given how Orikko’s powers worked, but the response seemed to take some of the ruffled appearance away from the rooster.

“Your shitty attitude,” Orikko conceded, a begrudging thing with underlying affection—not that Orikko would probably ever admit that. “Where would I find anyone half as good at being a showy fucker as you?”

Rare praise from the kwami that so often preferred sharp jabs and prideful remarks, but Marc knew that Orikko meant it all the same.

A flicker of appreciation overtook the disappointment and despair that threatened to drown Marc, and for a moment, he assumed that everything could go back to how it had been—if he could pretend that Nath’s interest in Marc’s superhero persona meant nothing.

Everything would be fine.

…Wishful thinking, obviously, from the way Orikko’s feathers suddenly ruffled—stood on end as the bird hissed something threatening, crowed rather loudly despite Marc’s insistence on quiet.

The fuck was Orikko worked up about?

It was still just them in the bathroom, it wasn’t as if Nathaniel had seen anything.

Hello, Delusion.

What the hell?

Oh, come now. You didn’t really think you could outrun me forever, did you? I really don’t mean to intrude, but you’ve been brainwashed by the man you love into thinking you were special.

Marc was fucking hallucinating. That was the problem. He didn’t often hear voices, but shit—clearly he needed to see a psychiatrist. The trauma he’d been through with Nath was obviously too much.

It’s been far too much for you to handle alone. He should have been there when you needed him. He should have stood by you and supported you. It would have been the rational thing to do, with the one you love. If he thinks you’re so special, he should have made that clear.

Who?

He assumed that his mind meant Nath, but that wasn’t true. Marc knew better—they weren’t dating, they never had been, but he’d never doubted Nathaniel’s support.

Nath had never abandoned him.

No? But he cares so much about Rooster Bold, it hardly seems as if he has any time for you. He’s been so in love with that superhero that he never cared about what happened to you, did he?

“I don’t know what the fuck they’re saying,” Orikko was in his face all of a sudden, eyes wild. The screeching was louder than Marc had ever heard from the kwami, and he had the bizarre urge to shush Orikko before he alerted Nathaniel by accident. “But stop listening! You don’t need them!”

Need who?

Orikko claimed it didn’t matter—Marc was both himself and Rooster Bold, sure—but obviously it made a difference to Nathaniel.

And what a shame that is, isn’t it? Even as one of Paris’s beloved heroes, you were never quite enough. He tricked you into thinking that you were, and now here you are, suffering.

“Marc! Drop the journal or I swear I’m—I’ll—I won’t give you my powers anymore!”

Orikko’s shriek reeked of desperation, Marc could hear it.

He didn’t see what any of that had to do with his journal, though. Did it really matter if he held onto it for a while longer? He thought Orikko supported him, too.

See? Even the little god doesn’t value you for who you are—only what you offer him.

“Marc?” There was pounding on the bathroom door, and he glanced away from the kwami still snapping his beak to stare at the way the door rattled. “Are you ok?”

Nathaniel.

Marc had probably scared him, running off to the bathroom like he had without any notice. And Orikko was the one doing most of the yelling.

Marc hadn’t spoken for a while, had he? Nath probably thought he was dead in here, not having a hallucinatory conversation with his mind.

“Yeah—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, swallowed a little, and tried again. “Fine.”

After all, regardless of whether he’d worried Nath or not, did it really matter? Nathaniel obviously didn’t care in the same way he did.

Exactly. And if you do nothing about it, then he’ll continue to bulldoze all over you if you don’t show a little authority.

Which was strange, wasn’t it? He showed authority all the time as Rooster Bold.

“What’s going on? You sound like shit, and I know you didn’t throw up. You only gagged once.”

Nathaniel could tell?

But you didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for him to show up when it’s convenient. He could have very well left you to your thoughts, but here he is, intruding on your space as usual.

He enjoyed it, though. He’d never objected—Nathaniel gave him more than enough space when he desired it. That was what mattered.

“Marc, seriously,” Nath’s voice called again, and there was more insistent knocking on the door. “Tell me what’s going on. I’m—you’re starting to worry me.”

Liar. He’s never cared about you less. He wants the journal in your hand.

The hell did that have to do with anything? Nathaniel valued him for more than his writing, they’d established that from the start. When they were kids, maybe he might have believed this strange voice in his head, but now it all felt so convenient. He could have had this thought long before now, that wasn’t changing.

So why did it matter if he let go of the journal?

“I’ll open the door if you don’t answer! Sorry—I know you don’t—you’re allowed privacy, but this isn’t like you!”

The tremor in Nath’s voice made ice congeal in his veins, sliding down his back—and yet, Marc still couldn’t speak.

Orikko was trembling, staring at him and the door in alternating measures.

Marc was shaking his head before he’d even realized it, drawing the rooster’s attention.

“Please,” the kwami begged, and wasn’t that a thought? He’d never seen Orikko plead with him like this, with eyes that showed a flicker of fear—a voice as high and warbly as Marc’s own probably was when he was afraid. “Let me stay here. He won’t care—I need to see that you’re ok, kid.”

“Pocket,” Marc responded, fighting through the scratchiness that still threatened to overtake his throat. Whether he felt like shit from retching or from the sensation of despair that still seemed as if it would swallow him whole, well, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

“But—”

“Please,” Marc asked in return, and was grateful when Orikko simply glanced at him a moment longer—something like concern visible there—before tucking himself into the inside of Marc’s jean pocket.

Good. The last thing he needed was for Nath to see Orikko, not when—

The door slammed open, and the split second of confusion on Nathaniel’s face was very easily replaced by something deeper. Marc might have called it panic, if it weren’t for the way he saw Nath draw a harsh breath and slowly drop to his knees.

“Marc,” Nath’s hands were up, purposefully showing his palms, an empty and insistent gesture that only further confused him. Marc had never seen Nath try to slink closer like this in his life—if he were to put a name to the behavior, he might have called it cautious, but that was ridiculous. He’d never hurt Nath. “Hey.”

Marc tried to answer—tried so fucking hard—but it was like the sorrow had a grip on his tongue. All that he could manage was a garble.

At least he could still focus on just how bright and blue Nath’s eyes were.

Intruding on your space again, and for what? He cares more about Rooster Bold than he ever will about you. That’s not fair of him.

Marc winced, his head pounding like a bass, and he heard Nath coo something softly.

“It’s ok,” Nath’s lips seemed to say, though everything sounded like Marc had taken a plunge into the ocean. He was still in the bathroom, right? Why the fuck could he hear underwater? “You’re alright.”

Bold of him to say, isn’t it? You’ve never felt worse in your life, and he’s diminishing your feelings. That isn’t right.

Was it?

Nath had never done that.

Of course he does. He always does.

But that couldn’t be right, could it? Nathaniel had always given him the time of day—except when he’d disappeared for the day, and when Rooster Bold had been on Nath’s mind.

That wasn’t Nathaniel’s fault, though. Marc knew better than to get his hopes up, and here they were.

“Marc,” Nath’s voice insisted, and suddenly there was a palm taking Marc’s hand—a warmth enveloping his fingers. Nathaniel’s eyebrows were furrowed into a concern so deep that Marc worried Nath would have permanent indents. “Just breathe. I’m here. Whatever’s wrong, you know I’m here for you. Anything you need.”

Was he, though?

…Was he?

No, he hasn’t been there for you. He wants the superhero, and you can’t change that.

Right. His mind was right—of course not. It wasn’t Nath’s fault, but…Marc was tired of seeing Nathaniel gush over a version of Marc’s own self that was still a piece of him. Why wasn’t he enough?

But you are—you just have to show him that, Delusion.

“Seriously,” Nathaniel’s hand squeezed his, and for a moment, all Marc could focus on was the genuine worry that overtook Nath’s face—the pinched eyebrows, the tightness to his lips, the set of his eyes…it hurt to see. “I’ll do anything. But you’re scaring me.”

He was scaring Nath?

Why?

“Don’t listen, please,” Nathaniel’s other hand was suddenly on Marc’s face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. With every touch, the despair receded. At least Marc could think, now. “They want to use you, and you’ll feel awful. You remember, don’t you? It’s been a long time, I know, and I’m so sorry for not asking what was wrong any sooner. I thought—hoped you’d tell me.”

Nathaniel’s panicked admission stalled his own.

If there was something he was meant to remember, he didn’t.

Nor do you need to—but he’ll never care about you the same way, and you really ought to stop assuming that he could.

Yeah, he did need to stop doing that.

But what was he meant to remember?

“Please,” Nath hushed, a softness to his voice that nearly eclipsed the worried tone that still warbled from his throat. All it did was make Marc’s chest ache. “It sucked ass to listen to Hawkmoth—even if I didn’t know until afterwards. Surely Chrysalis isn’t any better.”

It was meant as a joke—something to break Marc’s concentration, likely, and something to make him laugh.

But what did Chrysalis matter? Marc was fucking hallucinating.

He thinks he knows you better than you know yourself. It’s insulting, isn’t it?

Not really. He’d never considered Nathaniel’s intimate knowledge of him as anything incriminating. Marc adored that Nath kept tabs on him about as much as the reverse happened. He should’ve cared less, quite frankly.

…And the hold his despair had on his mind lessened with a snap.

There was still a niggling sensation in his gut, one that felt wrung out and exhausted—one that still fought against the voice that was no longer audible, only a sense of foreboding in his body—but it was bearable.

He pressed his cheek harder against the hand touching his face, finally abandoning the journal to grab at Nathaniel’s wrist, instead—lightly touching.

“There you go,” Nath cooed, relief leaking from his voice in a way that Marc had never heard. “You’re alright. Thank God, you’re ok.”

Marc blinked, body wracking itself with shivers, and tried to focus on the bright eyes watching him intently.

That would’ve been far easier to do if it weren’t for the fucking butterfly—no, not a butterfly, an akuma—fluttering around the edges of his discarded journal.

Realization set in, sinking in his gut like a stone, right along with a sense of concern.

Because he knew enough to realize that if he hesitated too long, the akuma would simply find somewhere else to go—someone else to torment. It was almost easier, in a way, that Marc himself had been the target.

He could go handle this, once he extracted himself from Nathaniel, who still stared at Marc knowingly.

“You alright?”

Those bright eyes bored into his own, and the hand pressed to his cheek drew little patterns into his skin. The sensation that he was going to throw up had nearly entirely gone away, thank God, most assuredly from Nathaniel’s presence.

But Nath looked as if he’d taken on the burden of being willing to vomit, from the nauseous, concerned set to his mouth. If Marc stared hard enough, he thought he could see Nathaniel’s lips trembling as they were pressed into a line.

Marc’s heart hurt worse.

He had Nath’s attention now—for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m fine,” Marc mumbled, lips tired and numb. It was such an unconscious echo to what Nath had told Rooster Bold just yesterday that an ill-timed chuckle threatened to burst from his mouth. As it was, humor that felt more akin to panic was still trying to emerge from his chest.

“Like hell you are,” Nath’s eyes narrowed, just a bit, but it didn’t make him look any less striking. Maybe that reflected on Marc’s face—he wouldn’t know—but Nathaniel’s gaze softened again after a moment. “You were almost akumatized. I don’t—you don’t have to tell me why.”

Nath’s voice paused, a warbling to the tone as he swallowed harshly and finally looked away from Marc.

“You don’t have to tell me, specifically,” Nath repeated, still staring at something that Marc couldn’t begin to comprehend. There was nothing in the corner of their bathroom aside from a lack of eye contact, which was the likely explanation. “But you should tell someone what’s going on. I—I want it to be me, but—”

Oh, God.

“I just—” Marc’s throat closed around his words, but at least it drew Nath’s eyes back to him. That meant something, didn’t it?

Not when Nathaniel thought Marc didn’t trust him, though. That was what he’d done by pushing Nath away, wasn’t it? It hadn’t been the intention, but look what he’d managed, anyway.

Guilt gnawed at Marc’s chest.

“It’s not you. I want to—you’d be the first one I told.”

Nathaniel’s eyes just looked so goddamn forgiving that it hurt Marc’s whole body. He didn’t deserve Nath, and he never had. Never would, at this rate.

“It’s ok,” The illustrator offered instead, seeming to instantly absolve Marc of his shitty, avoidant behavior. It wasn’t fair. He deserved to be the target of Nath’s fury, for acting so goddamn entitled to Nathaniel’s attention when he knew better.

“I want someone I can’t have,” Marc said, forcing his tongue to form the words.

Something like understanding lit in Nathaniel’s eyes, and he dropped the hand pressed to Marc’s cheek and scooted a little closer to sit against his side. It was comforting as much as it shattered Marc all over again.

“Yeah?”

Dammit, why was his throat refusing to cooperate today?

All Marc could manage was a undignified squeak, a nod so tiny that it might as well have never existed—Nath saw it anyway, thank fuck, but still.

“Me too,” Nathaniel shrugged, reaching for one of Marc’s hands. He didn’t have it in him to argue, nor did he have the capacity to push Nath away if he tried. “He’s incredible. I love him more than anything in this world, and I’d die for him. I know he doesn’t—”

Nath’s voice broke, and Marc found himself squeezing the hand in his own as a reflex. Too many hours spent reassuring Nathaniel of every damn thing would do that, he supposed, not that he minded in the slightest.

His heart was crushed to pieces, bleeding and oozing all over the ground. Hearing Nath say he loved him—loved Rooster Bold, more specifically—was somehow the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. It hurt like Marc had shoved his whole chest through a paper shredder, but it was still incredible. He might have called it bittersweet, if the feeling wasn’t more akin to taking his poor emotions and scattering them to the wind.

It was everything he’d ever wanted, in exactly the way he’d always wanted to hear it—but it was addressed to the wrong person, and he was unable to change that. He couldn’t be Rooster Bold for Nath, not when they weren’t meant to interact that way. Marc wished he could, but that would’ve been too hard for both of them, as it was.

“Doesn’t what?”

Nath’s humorless laugh stung, the sensation of being stabbed with Orikko’s fountain pen dragging like pins and needles across his body.

“Doesn’t love me,” Nathaniel said, and Marc glanced over. He’d expected those eyes to be staring anywhere in the room, focused on the pain that resonated through Marc as if it were his own—but no, Nath was staring right at him with a tiny smile that seemed so resigned.

Jesus, Marc wanted more than anything to take the pain away—he could, if he transformed into Rooster Bold right now. Orikko had begged to be allowed to stay outside of his pocket, and if he had allowed it, things might be different right now.

But that was a pipe dream, and Marc knew it.

Nath was in love with the wrong person, and Marc couldn’t do anything about it as a civilian. He’d wanted Nath to see him—see past being a best friend—but God.

Was it worth this? Seeing Nathaniel so fucking resolute, like it hardly even mattered?

“Did you tell him that?”

“Not in so many words,” Nath shrugged, and ran a thumb across Marc’s knuckles. The shiver he suppressed was purely involuntary. He hadn’t anticipated having a conversation like this while sitting on their bathroom floor, though they’d had weirder conversations. “I told him I care about him, but I knew he was interested in someone else, anyway. I wasn’t expecting reciprocation.”

During the akuma, then. That had been when he’d heard those words from Nath for the first time, albeit in a slightly different context than usual. Marc had heard Capri murmur his praises for years, but he’d never anticipated Capri and Nath being the same person—it had been a shock unlike anything he’d expected. And now here Marc was, stuck listening to his roommate’s rather commiserating lament instead of chasing akumas.

A jolt went through him as an icy sensation shot down his spine, and he scanned the room.

Where did the akuma go?

There was no butterfly in sight, but it had just been here—surely it couldn’t have gone far.

“Hey, what’s—”

“The akuma,” Marc breathed, taking one last glance around the room before concluding that it wasn’t there, shuffling to his feet with less coordination than usual. “Where did it go?”

Nath’s detail-oriented eyes searched the room before landing back on Marc’s own, the hand still in his own clutching loosely.

“I don’t see it. It probably flew off—maybe back to Chrysalis.”

But that wasn’t probable. Akumas never went home unprompted, not unless Chrysalis or Hawkmoth called them. They just didn’t.

Nath knew that, as Caprikid—he had to have known that. Why was he acting like he didn’t?

“I have to—the akuma—”

“Hey,” Nath’s hand tightened on Marc’s own, drawing his attention from the far corners of the room, as if Marc would ever be able to spot an errant akuma when even Nathaniel hadn’t. “It’s ok. Let Ladybug and Cat Noir handle it, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Nath—Capri—couldn’t make a promise like that, not when it was Marc’s job to go chase down the very akuma that he had caused. It was his fault that someone else was going to be akumatized, and he was just fortunate enough that Nath had snapped him out of his spiral before he ended up a victim, too. That was the last thing they needed.

Marc was responsible for this.

He tugged a little more insistently at the hand that Nath still held, only slightly surprised when he refused to let go. It wasn’t like him, not to give Marc space when Marc asked for it.

“I need to go—”

“Water plants we don’t own?” Nathaniel’s voice was devoid of judgment aside from a small bit of humor, but the raised eyebrow on Nath’s face melted away so quickly that Marc almost thought he’d imagined it. “It’s fine if you just want space. But—just—don’t leave this time? Please?”

God.

And now he was torturing poor Nath, who probably really was worried sick every time Marc disappeared without a trace every time an akuma attacked. When Caprikid was out with Rooster Bold, did he worry over Marc all the same?

He must have.

Marc’s heart cracked in two.

Blue eyes were trained on him, and there was an almost pleading quality to them that Marc had never seen. They were beautiful, and he hated that they’d been reduced to whatever the hell this conversation amounted to—Nath’s eyes held a veneer of something Marc might have called fear.

“Please.”

Marc twisted his wrist, pulling a little more insistently at the hand Nathaniel still held—wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not when Nath finally let go.

“I can’t—” Marc stumbled back a step, eyes remaining locked on Nathaniel, who hadn’t moved. “That’s—I need to go—”

“You don’t need to do anything about the akuma,” Nathaniel insisted, the pleading quality present even in his voice. “You were almost akumatized, did you forget that part? You don’t look good, Marc. I’m serious.”

Glad as he was to know that Nathaniel did care about his safety, it wasn’t overly helpful at this moment. Whether Marc had almost thrown up or passed out just minutes ago had nothing to do with the akuma that was probably rampaging the city as they spoke.

“That doesn’t matter,” Marc hushed, and his legs were only marginally more steady now that he’d had a chance to breathe.

Nath looked gutted, and Marc hated more than anything that he’d been the cause.

“Of course it does. It always does.”

Were they talking about the same thing?

Marc couldn’t exactly just shirk his responsibilities, and Nathaniel would never ask that of him, if he knew.

“But I have—”

“You matter,” Nathaniel said, only slightly louder, though no less focused. “You matter to me. I don’t know what I would do without you, and I don’t want—”

Shit.

Alright, he hated to do this, but he didn’t really have a choice. Did he? Overthinking it was just going to waste time.

“I just want space for myself! Please! You’re being overbearing,” Marc’s voice echoed across the now-silent bathroom, and he peeked a glance at Nathaniel.

He almost wished he hadn’t looked.

Nath was chewing on his bottom lip in a way that Marc hadn’t seen him do since they were kids, both hands wrapping around his arms in a strange sort of hug.

Marc wanted to apologize, but Nath had started talking again before the thought could even fully cross his mind.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to—God. I just, I don’t want you to leave. Just this once, Marc. If—anywhere in the apartment, it’s yours, ok?” Nath’s shoulders hunched forward, eyes peering into Marc’s in a manner that looked defeated.

Marc sighed, a would-be apology cracking the desperation in his chest.

“I’m sorry, you’re not overbearing. I really just need—”

“Space, I know.”

Marc turned, feeling like the absolute worst fucking human on the planet for leaving Nath sitting on the bathroom floor when he’d had been the one to follow Marc in here.

As soon as he dealt with the akuma, then he’d come back. He’d beg Marinette for galettes until she gave in, and surely Nathaniel would forgive him. Hopefully.

Maybe.

And then—

“Bold, I’m begging. Don’t go, not when I can’t follow you.”

He paused, instinctive, and felt a shiver course its way up his back.

Because it was Capri who called him ‘Bold.’ That was the only hero who ever bothered giving him a nickname. It was fitting, given the circumstances—Nathaniel had gotten a nickname from him, too.

And knowing who held Ziggy’s miraculous now, it was little wonder that a nickname like that would slip from Nath’s lips when he was addressing Rooster Bold.

But Marc wasn’t—he hadn’t called Orikko.

He wasn’t Rooster Bold right now.

Despite himself, Marc turned back around, blinking slowly.

“What?”

Nath blinked back, and it was only when recognition shone in his eyes that Marc gathered that Nath had realized what he’d done—what he must have admitted. Because it was an admission, wasn’t it?

Marc hadn’t told, he’d never said a word.

But here was his roommate, sitting on the bathroom floor and hugging his arms. Nath raised his head, stubborn as ever.

“You heard me. Don’t go, please.”

“No, the other thing you said.”

Nathaniel just shrugged.

“I can’t protect you from here,” Nath replied. “Not when you’re out there hunting down an akuma, Bold. Not when Ladybug still has my hair clips.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Marc insisted, and felt very much like he was parroting the words he’d said just yesterday. “I need you to be safe.”

“And I don’t want to just waste time and worry whether you’re safe too, not while I’m sitting on my ass and twiddling my thumbs.”

“What are you saying?”

The sinking feeling in his gut already knew what Nathaniel was implying—but shit, Marc wasn’t dumb enough to admit anything aloud. Not until Nath opened his mouth and confirmed it.

Nathaniel inched closer, just marginally, before stopping out of reach, still crouched on the floor.

“I know, Marc,” Nath said, eyes unflinchingly meeting his own. “You really do make the best Rooster Bold. Orikko chose well.”

The chill in Marc’s veins congealed into something solid as he stared at the determined, sincere look in his roommate’s eyes.

Nath couldn’t know—couldn’t admit that he knew. They’d be up shit creek if Ladybug found out, and Nathaniel seemed to be close to glaring at him, as if it didn’t even matter.

“But please,” Nathaniel was saying, and oh, they weren’t done talking, were they? “You’re so goddamn capable, I never doubt you. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Marc’s legs lost their sturdiness, and he slunk to the ground—one of Nathaniel’s hands braced near him awkwardly, as if unsure if he was permitted to reach.

The concern in Nathaniel’s voice was almost as noticeable as the hint of fear in his face, and Marc despised that he could so easily tell when his roommate’s feelings were hurt.

“How long?” Marc’s voice warbled, a broken tone that threatened to give out completely.

Nath just tilted his head slightly, drawing his hand back to his lap.

“What do you mean?”

“How long have you known?”

Nath wasn’t stupid—his little shrug and sudden refusal to meet Marc’s eyes told him that much.

“Years,” Nathaniel’s confirmation was a gut-wrenching thing, claws and nails tearing into Marc’s stomach at the thought. “I came home from specialization school, and suddenly everything made sense.”

The fuck was that supposed to mean?

The confusion must have shown on his face despite Marc’s refusal to voice the question aloud, because Nath just smiled, slightly proud—slightly sad.

“You always disappeared when an akuma did, at the same time I did. When I was still away, you always hung up a call when an alert came through. We have three bags of dried corn in our kitchen—corn that you don’t even eat, need I remind you,” Nath raised an eyebrow, though the expression faded when Marc didn’t so much as flinch.

The gentle smile still present on Nathaniel’s face made him glow, even in the shitty bathroom light. It didn’t matter. To Marc, his roommate was—always and forever—the loveliest person he’d ever met.

“And you act just like him,” Nath continued, very obviously referring to Rooster Bold.

Marc wanted to be upset, he really did.

But hadn’t he said the same fucking thing about Nathaniel, if only in hindsight? He hadn’t known that Capri shared Nath’s life—looking back, though, it should’ve been obvious. Here was Nath, telling him that Rooster Bold was even more clear.

“Do the others—”

“Oh, God no. You know I’d never—”

“No, just…am I that obvious?”

Nathaniel’s little snort made Marc almost feel bad for asking, but the genuine amusement on Nath’s face made the stupid question worth it all the same.

“To me, maybe. I see you every damn day. The others never asked, so I assume they don’t suspect.”

He wanted to be snide and insist that they shouldn’t assume, but the fondness in Nath’s eyes, the way he smiled at Marc like he meant something, like he was finally being seen—it was almost too much.

“So—you’re—”

“In love with you?” Nath’s hand fidgeted, like he’d wanted to reach for Marc’s fingers before thinking better of it. Marc wished he’d done it anyway. Those bright blue eyes still met his own, despite the deep flush to Nath’s cheeks, an oddly beautiful sunburnt look. “Of course.”

“Why?”

Dumb question, obviously, from the baffled, incredulous face Nathaniel was giving him.

“God, Marc. Have you seen yourself lately?”

Well, yes. He’d just tried to fucking seduce his roommate, for God’s sake, and it hadn’t worked. But Nathaniel still looked to be on the verge of death with how flushed his face was, so perhaps it hadn’t been a total wash.

“Obviously,” Marc snarked back, just to be a bit of a shit—purely to tease Nathaniel, if only a little, and was rewarded with a small bark of laughter.

“Of course you have,” Nath hushed, leaning his head against the bathroom wall, turning sideways and staring directly at Marc.

The attention was everything he’d ever wanted, and somehow now felt as intense as he’d always imagined it would.

“I couldn’t do this without you. Comics have been our pride and joy for years, but I never would have bothered to try if you hadn’t been with me,” Nathaniel admitted, stretching one hand to rest loosely in his own lap, finally free of the tight hug he’d been giving himself. “You know how competitive this industry always is. Without you, I probably wouldn’t have just tried anyway.”

Warmth bloomed in Marc’s chest, finally freeing itself from some of the panic that threatened to overtake him. Ladybug hadn’t burst down their door after Nathaniel confessed to knowing Marc’s identity, and given that he’d evidently kept it secret for years, it didn’t seem as if that was changing. He anticipated worrying, but having Nath nearby to talk him through it?

Nath’s presence had always helped, that had never been any different.

“Surprised you wouldn’t have done it without me,” Marc muttered, finally finding the use of his voice again. “It’s not like you couldn’t have found another writer, with your talent.”

Based on the delighted sparkle to Nathaniel’s eyes, Marc wasn’t the only one glad that he could speak past the lump in his throat, despite the grim topic.

“It was always about doing it with you. You know that. Another writer was never an option. I only ever wanted to be with you,” Nath shrugged, a grin stretching across his lips that looked so damn excitable that Marc wanted—more than anything—to kiss him.

He had the option now, didn’t he?

He scooted closer, just a few inches, just close enough to reach the illustrator’s hand—tried to ignore the way his heart threatened to shatter again at the way Nath’s grin turned almost melancholy.

“But I won’t push the issue,” Nathaniel admitted, tucking his loose hand back to his body, seemingly content to ignore the way Marc sat mirroring him—legs crossed, facing one another.

Nathaniel was the goddamn sun, in Marc’s eyes. He would’ve happily done anything Nath asked, if it would’ve made him happy. Anything at all—if Marc could manage it, he would.

So why was Nath staring at him with that sorrowful smile?

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Marc, please,” Nath sighed, the bittersweet smile still lingering, not quite having slipped out of place. “You aren’t cruel. I just wanted you to know, that’s all. You deserve to know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He swore to God that he didn’t.

Nathaniel must have gone mad—must have. But Marc was being eyed as if he was the one that had lost his marbles, so really, what did that mean?

“I just—I do love you. Alright? I wasn’t expecting any grand gesture or anything, I know that I’m not—” Nath paused, seeming to choke on the words he tried so desperately to swallow.

And Marc genuinely couldn’t help himself.

He reached for Nathaniel, unsure if the heartbreak stabbing him into pieces was an appropriate feeling for the way Nath only froze—went completely still as Marc grabbed his wrist. Ordinarily, he would’ve been more worried about overstepping his boundaries, but Nathaniel seemed more concerned with the fingers around his arm.

“What are you saying?”

Because it really fucking sounded like Nathaniel was going to imply that—

“I know that I’m not who you want,” Nath finished, eyebrows pinched into a disbelieving, confused gaze at the way Marc tightened his fingers around Nath’s wrist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marc said.

Because there was no fucking time when he’d ever—not ever—said that he didn’t want Nathaniel. Marc would’ve known if he had.

“Please,” Nath squeezed his eyes shut, and lowered a hand to where Marc’s fingers met his wrist. The pressure there trembled, and Marc spared half a second to feel the way his roommate’s hand shook. “I knew what this would do to us, if I ever said anything to you. I figured Caprikid was a good compromise—since I’m him. If you rejected him, I thought I’d have my answer. Then we could still stay together.”

“But I didn’t—” No, Marc had turned down Nathaniel.

Again, and again, and again.

Capri had been showering him in gifts purely because Nathaniel knew damn well who Rooster Bold was—and God, Marc’s whole chest felt heavy.

Jesus, look what he’d done, all because he had wanted Nathaniel. He hadn’t known.

And now Nathaniel thought he wasn’t interested.

Fuck.

“I thought you just didn’t see me,” Marc hushed, pressing his other hand to Nath’s, and was rewarded with Nath’s blue eyes staring intently into his. “I thought I wasn’t an option, because you were in love with Rooster Bold.”

“You’re Rooster Bold,” Nath insisted, a strangely determined tone to his voice. “That’s why I love him—how could I not? You’re everything to me.”

Jesus.

Marc hadn’t really needed it spelled out again, but the sincerity in Nath’s voice had Marc’s heart beating double-time. The thumping in his chest was forceful enough to send blood rushing through his head. It might have given him a migraine if he weren’t too focused on correcting this grave fucking error before Nath left with the wrong idea.

“But I didn’t know,” Marc replied. He hadn’t known—and wasn’t that a thought? The very man he had wanted to notice him, and Marc couldn’t even see through the quantum masking. He should’ve seen it, or at least guessed.

“I know,” Nath shrugged again, and the nonchalant set to his shoulders had something like rage begin to boil in Marc’s gut. Where was Capri’s fire? His determination? It was as if they’d stripped Nath of his passion right along with his miraculous, regardless of the fact that Ziggy must have chosen Nath for his zeal. “But you’re in love with someone else. That’s ok.”

Marc wished that Nath would fight, goddamn it, not just roll over and take this—not even if he thought he was doing what was right for Marc.

“No,” Marc’s fingers tightened again, just enough to make Nath’s eyes widen slightly—he wasn’t trying to bruise Nath, he swore he wasn’t. But shit, if Nath wasn’t going to listen, then Marc was going to make him understand. “That’s—I never told you a name.”

“And for once,” Nath smiled wider, a broken, bittersweet thing with more regret than anything Marc had ever seen. “I’d rather not hear it, if that’s alright. We share everything, and I’ll listen if you want. I just—I’m sure they’re wonderful. I don’t mean to hold you back. But I’d be lying to claim that it wouldn’t bother me, to hear you tell me about how much you love them. And I don’t like lying to you.”

Marc was going to beat his head off the wall.

Here was Nath, so goddamn selfless that he was willing to listen to Marc wax poetic about his love—even if it hurt, seemingly without much complaint—and Nath still didn’t understand.

“You’re not hearing me,” Marc repeated, loosening his grip just enough to rub soothing, apologetic circles into Nath’s wrist. Patterns that Marc hoped conveyed the sorrow in his gut swirled from his thumbs lazily, a gesture that felt as if he was pouring his heart right into Nath’s own. “I didn’t know that you and Capri are the same person.”

“Marc, I’m serious. It’s alright. I’m not mad.”

Oh, for the love of God.

“If I would’ve known, I could’ve told you that there is no one else,” Marc hissed, finally low on patience despite how calm he usually felt. Maybe it was the near-akumatization, or maybe it was Orikko’s influence, but Marc felt more volatile than usual. Maybe it was neither—perhaps it was simply panic settling in at the prospect of losing the one person he loved above all else.

That would explain the way his hands trembled, wouldn’t it?

He’d assumed that it was only Nath’s hands that still shook, but maybe Marc was wrong.

As it was, Nath was staring at him with eyes that were suddenly almost comically wide, like this had been the last thing he’d expected. At least they were on an even playing field now. Good.

“What?”

“I’m not in love with anyone else,” Marc huffed.

“But you said—”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly admit to a complete stranger that I’m in love with my best friend, could I?”

Nath blinked, a hesitant quality to the gaze, before his head tilted sideways, brushing stands of his bangs over his face despite the new hair clips.

“Your ‘best friend.’ I don’t suppose that’s—”

“You?” Marc raised an eyebrow, watching as the hesitant pieces all stitched themselves together in Nath’s mind before his eyes, and Marc swore he could see the exact moment the lightbulb appeared in that intelligent stare. “Of course it’s you. Who else?”

A snarky piece of his mind wanted to insist that Nath should have known better, but Marc held his tongue. They weren’t like that with each other—never had been. Teasing was one thing, but seeing the vulnerability on Nath’s face?

Marc wasn’t going to be cruel. Nath had been right about that, if nothing else.

“But I’m just, I’m not,” Nath’s spluttering was familiar, if nothing else, and affection warmed Marc’s chest, barreled into him like a freight train. “I’m just me. I didn’t do anything that extraordinary.”

“You cook me breakfast every morning.”

“So?”

“You buy me new leather journals when I start running low on pages,” Marc tried again.

“Obviously,” Nath rolled his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I? I told you, I’d do anything for you.”

“So what makes you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”

The disbelieving expression on Nath’s face—complete with pinched eyebrows and a clearly averted gaze—had something in Marc’s gut snapping into two.

“You do so damn much for me, it’s a wonder that I wouldn’t fall in love with you. Who wouldn’t? I’ve admired you since we were kids, and this just feels like it was almost meant to happen. Ridiculous thought, I know, but to me it came so naturally. I progressed from admiration to adoration so quickly that I couldn’t even tell you when it started, just that I love you even more now than I did then.”

Silence sliced through the room for a moment, and something like nerves shot through Marc’s chest and slithered down his spine.

“Well? Say something, at least.”

“I feel like a fucking idiot,” Nath muttered.

Marc’s laughter punched from his stomach in a sharp staccato sound, a sudden jolt that surprised him and Nath both, from the looks of it.

But the wry, tiny grin on Nath’s face was absolutely worth it.

“So you never felt the need to explain who you were in love with because—”

“Forgive me for assuming that you didn’t have an alter ego.”

The absurdity dissolved him into another round of hysterics, and Nath’s deep chuckle alongside Marc’s own laughter was the sweetest thing he could possibly imagine—more harmonious than he’d remembered.

“God, I can’t imagine not having you with me,” Marc admitted, pleased beyond belief when an adoring sparkle shone through Nath’s hooded gaze, pointed so obviously in Marc’s direction.

“Me neither.”

Seeing Nath’s eyes wander from Marc’s own, watching the sliver of a tongue flick outwards—drawing attention to the way Nath was chewing on his lip again—well. Marc was only human, after all.

“If you don’t want me to kiss you,” Marc narrowed his eyes. The gesture was certainly in vain, from the way heat still scorched him inside and out, blazing from his chest, but he tried. “You have to stop staring at me like that.”

“Who said I don’t want that?”

A punched whine echoed through the air, and it took the darkening of Nath’s gaze for Marc to even register that the noise had come from him.

Whoops?

But there was a hand on his neck, suddenly, and Nath’s forehead pressed tightly against his own. Marc suspected the warmth pressed into his leg was from his roommate’s hand—scorching a brand into his thigh—and he minded it increasingly less the longer he felt it. He shut his eyes, vaguely overwhelmed by Nath’s sheer presence—not uncomfortably so, just…aware.

“Can I? You’re welcome to say no, of course. I’d never pressure you, I swear to God I’m not trying anything like that,” Nath murmured. Lips hushed against Marc’s own, a light brush against him that brought back the full body shivers with a menace.

He didn’t need to respond with words, did he? That seemed unnecessary.

Instead, he pressed his lips against Nath’s more insistently, taking a prideful amount of pleasure in the way Nath’s breath stuttered—puffed out in uneven spurts.

The hand on Marc’s thigh dug into his skin, clawing a grip that felt permanent.

Warmth swelled in his chest, something affectionate and longing that slotted into place. Marc reached for the back of Nath’s head, only half aware of his thoughts until he felt feathery-soft strands of hair dragging through his fingers.

A quiet noise—something that might have been a whimper, Marc wasn’t really sure—pressed from Nath’s lips right into his own, and the hand touching his neck dropped.

Nath shifted, and the warmth that had threatened to consume Marc whole moved along with him—tracing fire up his jawline, down his throat, anywhere Nath could reach with his lips.

“God,” Marc whispered, a hush that passed his lips without his knowledge—a quiet acknowledgement that Nath seemed to appreciate, if the way he still pressed lips to Marc’s skin was any indication. “I love you.”

The burning sensation abated only when Nath did, staring at Marc suddenly with eyes that looked glazed, a hooded manner that seemed more affectionate than possible.

Marc’s heart skipped as he sucked in a deeper breath.

“I know that now,” Nath grinned, pressing the weight of his cheek into the hand Marc held to his neck—grasped it with his own hands to press a lingering kiss to the inside of Marc’s wrist.

He was going to combust on the spot and drop dead. That was allowed, wasn’t it?

“Shame to think we’ve been wasting time,” he offered, aware the whispering tone was softer—sweeter—than the teasing tone he’d anticipated using.

Nath’s responding smile was more sincere than Marc had expected.

“No day with you is wasted.”

Gratitude unfurled through his limbs, and laughter punched its way free from Marc’s chest, a genuine, sudden thing that nearly startled them both. Nath, at least, didn’t seem as surprised as Marc had expected.

He leaned forward, feeling a burst of satisfaction in his chest at the way Nath’s forehead met his own without hesitation.

“Much as I really would like to stay,” Marc murmured, as gently as possible, and felt the hands still clutching his fingers tighten marginally. “I really should go see what’s going on with that akuma. It’s my fault, after all.”

“I beg to differ,” Nath shrugged, jostling them both just slightly—the grip on Marc’s hands loosened just enough for Nath’s thumb to slide over his knuckles. “If I had been honest, you wouldn’t have felt so alone.”

“We could sit here all day and shift the blame. It doesn’t change anything.” Marc twisted his hand, allowing his fingers to lace with Nath’s, just briefly, and fall onto his lap. “And I knew I wasn’t alone, I just didn’t think I was allowed to have you, too.”

“I’ve always been yours,” Nath’s lips ghosted over his for a moment, before Marc blinked as the pressure on his forehead receded—saw his roommate’s bright blue eyes meet his own with a determined grin. “You’re certainly not getting rid of me now.”

“I didn’t plan on it.”

Marc’s breath left him in a huff, a noise that likely did little to hide the fondness behind a veneer of exasperation. He’d never be annoyed, not by the person he adored above all else—not when it mattered.

“Good. Just promise you’ll be careful until I can get Ziggy back, alright?”

It felt altogether too much like a trick—too good to be true, like Marc was forbidden from having more than one nice thing in his life. But Nath didn’t seem to be joking, despite how staunchly he’d begged Marc not to leave just moments ago.

Maybe it was because Marc felt a lot more stable, now, and he likely looked that way.

Thank God. Small mercies, then.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised.

He couldn’t guarantee much more than that, but he wasn’t running headfirst into any fights without Capri around. Marc could promise that, if nothing else.

Knowing Nath saw him the same way he had always desired—knowing his roommate adored him as much as he felt the same?

It made all the difference.

And when the akuma was dealt with, Marc attempted to shoo Orikko back into his pocket, despite the kwami’s indignation.

“He knows about me,” the rooster huffed, tiny arms crossed in a gesture that Marc assumed had come from him. “He’s known for years. Who cares?”

“Fine,” Marc shrugged, opening the apartment door to find a beaming Nathaniel staring at him like he’d hung the moon—exactly as he’d always wanted. Suddenly the air felt thinner than it had while racing across the rooftops. “But you should probably leave for a while, anyway,” he insisted, eyes staying locked on Nath.

“Somehow, I think I forgot how damn territorial humans are. You think I’m bad, do you?” Orikko’s voice was strangely proud—bizarrely amused—and it should have made Marc nervous.

Ordinarily, it might have, knowing how fucking mischievous the deity was.

But seeing that exuberant expression on Nath’s face, and the way the artist still hunched over his sketchbook at the kitchen counter—brandished it towards Marc like a goddamn prize?

Well.

Marc’s face emblazoned in charcoal was a balm unlike any other.

“Figured you’d like to see what you look like without the mask, for once,” Nath grinned, a peculiar flush to his cheeks that didn’t change the incredibly adoring gaze aimed Marc’s way.

He wouldn’t change it for anything—it was everything he’d ever wanted.

“Only if you want to read what I’ve been scribbling in the margins of those old journals that I never allowed you to see,” he smiled.

Smug satisfaction bloomed as Nath’s cheeks burned.

“God, yes,” Nath muttered, not appearing to care in the slightest about embarrassing himself. “I love you. Anything you want to say, I’ll gladly listen.”

“That might take a while.”

“Doesn’t matter. For you, I’d be happy to wait forever.”

Hadn’t Marc done the same?

Fondness bled from Nath’s eyes like a fountain, an outpouring of something that Marc had somehow glanced right through for years—convinced that it was only Rooster Bold that Nath adored. He’d been wrong.

Marc wanted to spend the rest of his days making up for that. Nath was worth everything.

And now, with Nath sliding a cup of coffee his way as was their routine, Marc had the perfect chance. He wasn’t going to miss out on an opportunity like this again.