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who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts
- "Howl," Allen Ginsberg
Adrien had discovered that there was nothing quite like the lights of LA.
He thought that he’d seen it all in Paris. How could anything measure up to the glittering map laid below him as he dangled off the Eiffel Tower? But there was something incomparable about the view of Los Angeles from his high-rise hotel room. Maybe it was the sprawl. Maybe the constant helicopters, ferrying celebrities back and forth. Maybe it was the sliding beaded headlights of the highways. (Adrien swore this place was nothing but highways.)
Or maybe it was the city itself. The assuredness, the self-righteousness, the overconfidence of the entire roiling area. LA was the kind of city that you fell into; it was the kind of city that swallowed you. Like a pit of tar. Like a vat of dark oil. Of course lights would stand out in a gaping black hole like this; they were the only spot of relief in the eternity of night.
The lights of LA weren’t prettier, brighter, or more dazzling than those of his youth.
But they were, in their own twisted way, unparalleled.
Adrien had more friends here than he’d ever had before.
There was Matt, his manager, who always smiled at him and asked how he was doing before they got down to business. The question comforted Adrien; it let him know that Matt saw him as more than a checklist, a duty; Matt saw him as a person. It made him know he was respected.
There was Anastasia, his personal chef, who always ruffled up his hair and called him baby in that sweet, motherly way of hers. The kindness and gentleness in her when she set a plate in front of him and brushed his shoulder. It made him know he was loved.
There was Zane, his driver, who was always happy to strike up a conversation with him on their way to the next event. It was nice to talk about himself and be listened to; it was even nicer to hear about someone whose life had been long and fascinating. The conversation carried him. It made him know he was valued.
There was Kaden Katz, the reporter who somehow managed to show up to every event Adrien attended. He was endlessly amused by Adrien’s accent, and had apparently decided to ask Adrien how he was feeling every time they met. Adrien always answered, “Better than ever.”
Adrien sometimes—always, if he was being honest—wondered how his friends were doing.
Not his friends, he corrected himself. His classmates. The people he knew back in Paris. He tried not to use the word “friends” because it felt cruel to put that kind of weight on them. It felt cruel to expect that of them. Because he knew that they couldn’t deliver.
You can’t expect someone to be friends with the son of a terrorist, after all.
The company had whipped him away the moment the story went public, and for that, Adrien was immensely grateful. He didn’t want to see his friends’—he didn’t want to see his classmates’ faces when they found out exactly what sort of family Adrien Agreste really came from. He didn’t want to see the fear, the hatred, the bitterness, the resentment, in their eyes. His father had tormented them for years. His father had made their city hell to live in. His father had dominated their lives, and ruined them.
All for his mother. His mother, who Adrien loved, and they knew it. His friends—his classmates—would think that he would have done the same. (Would he have?) His classmates might even think he had done the same, had worked with his father, because of course they couldn’t know the work he really did—
He was glad he never got to see their faces. He was glad he never learned their reaction.
They did call, but it didn’t matter. He never had his phone with him when they called—it was always plugged in as he tried to settle in for sleep with his friend Anastasia’s food warming his stomach, or in some safety box while he was doing a photoshoot with his friend Zane waiting outside, or silenced in his pocket at a reception where he was talking to his friend Kaden. Most often, they called when he was asleep. He knew that timing could be explained away using time zones, of course, but he suspected they knew that he was asleep; he suspected that was why they called him then. He was grateful that he slept with his phone in the other room.
He got a few letters from Nino and Marinette. One from Alya. A card signed by the whole class. Not one of them mentioned his father, though, and that was what confirmed his fears—they didn’t really want to talk to him. They wrote out of courtesy, out of politeness. They didn’t want to hear back from him; they didn’t want to even risk touching that awful topic. So he didn’t write back. Eventually, Matt began collecting the “fan mail” and discarding it before Adrien could see it, and again, he was immensely grateful—grateful to Matt, his friend.
He woke up one morning to find that the exhaustion he’d chalked up to jet lag and business was in fact something more than exhaustion—it was a debilitating sickness. He sat up and the room spun around him; his sheets were soaked through with sweat. And when he tried to get out of bed, he found himself tumbling to the floor, shaking.
He managed to pull himself back under the covers, his head pounding, every inch of his skin stinging. The soft hotel mattress cradled the ache in his bones and muscles just enough that he could breathe, but the idea of trying to leave his bed made him want to cry.
Anastasia would notice when he didn’t leave his room for breakfast. Or Zane would, when his arrival to the limousine dragged later and later. Matt would connect the dots. Kaden would notice his absence at some later event. One of his friends would unlock the door and bring him toast and tea and medicine.
He lay there, trying to breathe deeply enough that the nausea rising in his stomach faded. The heat of the covers was not helping with the nausea, but every time he tried to shift the covers off—every time he managed to grit his teeth through enough of the aching that he could move the blankets—he started shivering. He blinked and blinked, trying to get the tears in his eyes to dry, but it was no use.
He waited, he waited, and still, none of his friends came.
It was only about half an hour later that he remembered that today had been a blessedly unscheduled day—a day with no events planned. So it wasn’t until the following day that somebody knocked on his door and asked him where he was.
He probably missed Plagg the most.
You would expect it to be Ladybug, but Plagg . . . Plagg was there for everything. He hadn’t realized how much he counted on the kwami’s presence until it was gone. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the company.
His new friends filled most of his day, but once he was done with Anastasia’s meals and no longer being interviewed by Kaden and Zane had dropped him off and Matt had checked off the last tick on his list, Adrien found himself completely alone.
The silence pressed in on his ears. The room felt empty. Time . . . minutes took too long to pass; he spent his free time waiting for night to come so he could return to the blissful oblivion of sleep, but then whole days and weeks went by without him realizing what had happened to time. It was like he had lost his grip on . . . everything, when he lost Plagg.
Adrien looked out at the city lights.
So many people. Each light was at least one person; so many of them were more. Behind those lights, bedrooms. Behind those lights, cars. Behind those lights, a train filled with passengers. Behind those lights, a street populated by walking couples, walking families, walking friends.
So many people. All of them bustling together, in and out of his view, living and loving and breathing together.
He watched from here in silence, separated from all of it. Lacking all of it—the partner, the family—
The friends.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the lights of LA.
If he disappeared now, he didn’t think anyone would notice.