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The morning light spilled through the Agreste kitchen windows, warm and golden, making everything look picturesque. Picturesque, that is, except for the blinding monstrosities currently on Adrien’s feet.
Louis squinted from his spot at the breakfast table, shielding his eyes as if the neon orange sneakers might cause permanent retinal damage.
Fifteen years old and already cursed with the burden of superior taste, Louis felt it was his duty—no, his moral obligation—to address this.
“Papa,” he began slowly, watching Adrien butter a croissant without a care in the world, “do you… hate yourself?”
Adrien froze mid-butter, brows knitting. “What?”
Louis jabbed a finger toward the sneakers. “Those. On your feet. They’re a cry for help.”
Adrien followed his son’s gaze and then smiled, as if Louis had just complimented them. “They’re comfortable! And I’ve had them for years. Since I was your age actually!”
Louis gave him the kind of look normally reserved for public safety hazards. “So has mold, Papa. That doesn’t mean you keep it.”
Across the table, Marinette choked on a sip of tea, covering her mouth to hide the laugh. “Louis…” she said in a warning tone, though her eyes sparkled with agreement.
Adrien looked genuinely confused. “What’s wrong with them? They’re part of my brand.”
Louis’ jaw dropped, and in a tone that sounded exactly like his mothers said, “Your brand is orange traffic cone chic?”
The real bombshell came moments later, when Adrien casually mentioned, “They’re my only pair of sneakers.”
Louis froze. “Only… pair?”
Adrien nodded like this was perfectly reasonable. “I don’t like clutter.”
For a moment, Louis could only stare at him, horrified. “Papa… you’re a fashion model with one pair of shoes. In orange. That’s not minimalism—that’s a hostage situation.”
That afternoon, Louis decided drastic action was required. Operation: Rescue Papa from His Crimes Against Footwear was officially underway.
When Adrien left for a quick errand in Marinette’s slides, Louis made his move. Sneaking into his parents’ room, he found the sneakers in the corner, lying in wait like some predatory animal. He scooped them up, wrinkling his nose.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to them, “you’ll be reincarnated into something actually wearable.”
In his room, Louis laid out newspaper, pulled out various fabric paints that may or may not have been stolen from his mother’s cabinet, and went to work. Two hours later, the transformation was complete—sleek white with sharp black accents. Louis smiled, satisfied. No more traffic cone energy. No more shame.
Later that evening, Adrien’s frantic voice echoed through the apartment. “Marinette! Have you seen my shoes?”
“Which ones?” Marinette called back.
“The orange ones! My only ones!”
From his room, Louis smirked. He yelled, “You’ll have to be more specific!”
Adrien tore through the place, checking under couches, inside cupboards, even behind the shower curtain. No sneakers.
Time ticked by until, finally, he sighed in defeat. “I’ll have to wear these…”
When he stepped out of the bedroom, Louis nearly choked. Adrien was in full designer clothing, hair perfectly styled—and on his feet were oversized plush black cat slippers Marinette had made as a joke. They looked suspiciously like Plagg.
Marinette covered her mouth, failing to hide a laugh.
That afternoon, the internet exploded. Paparazzi photos of “Adrien Agreste’s bold new footwear” were everywhere. The hashtags were merciless: #ParisProud #PurrfectRunway #SlipperKing.
Louis scrolled through the chaos later that evening, a smug smile playing on his lips. Phase one of the intervention was complete.
Next up: the big reveal.
...
The next day Adrien stormed through the front door, his usually calm expression replaced with a mix of fury and bewilderment. His phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket—notifications flooding in from every corner of the internet. Paparazzi photos, memes, hashtags… all mocking his current choice of footwear: the plush black cat slippers.
“What in the world…” he muttered, checking his notifications with a pale face. “#SlipperKing? #PariIsProud?”
Louis appeared from the living room, dramatically leaning against the doorway, hands on his hips like he was about to host a fashion show. “Ah, Papa! Welcome home. I see you’ve seen the effects of your poor taste choices.”
Adrien froze mid-step. “Louis… what did you do?”
With a flourish, Louis produced a shoebox wrapped in black tissue paper, spinning it in his hands like a magician presenting his grand finale. “Behold! Your salvation!”
Adrien’s eyes widened as Louis lifted the lid. There they were: sleek, pristine white sneakers with black accents, gleaming like something straight off a runway. The orange monstrosities were gone forever.
“They’re… they’re ruined!” Adrien sputtered, stepping back as if the shoes had bitten him. “They were my lucky shoes! Every photoshoot, every modeling contract… gone!”
Louis planted a hand firmly on his chest, eyes glinting with righteous determination. “Papa, your dignity was at stake. I have rescued you from a fashion disaster. These shoes are no longer an affront to Parisian elegance. They are the embodiment of style itself.”
Adrien stared at him, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “You… you painted over my sneakers?”
“Yes,” Louis declared, voice rising dramatically. “I gave them purpose, Papa. A future. A life free from neon shame.”
Marinette stepped lightly between them, hands raised in tentative diplomacy. “Louis… Adrien… maybe we can just—”
From somewhere near the kitchen counter came a small, grumpy voice. “I liked the orange ones. Tasted like cheese dust.”
Plagg emerged from behind the fruit bowl, licking his lips innocently, as if the destruction of millions of dollars in designer footwear wasn’t a big deal.
Louis froze. Adrien blinked. Marinette groaned.
“Tasted like cheese dust?” Louis asked incredulously. “That’s your commentary?”
Plagg shrugged, a mischievous glint in his tiny eyes. “Cheese is honest.”
Adrien sank into a chair, holding his face in his hands. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”
Louis, of course, had already begun pacing, outlining his next fashion lecture. “Papa, this is not about what you ‘say.’ It’s about what the world sees. And now, thanks to me, they will see perfection.”
Adrien peeked through his fingers. “I… I think I need a moment.”
Marinette sighed, muttering to herself, “And this is why fashion interventions are dangerous.”
Louis smiled triumphantly. Phase two of his master plan had begun: convincing Adrien that his new, painted sneakers were not just acceptable—they were legendary.
Adrien stared down at his newly painted sneakers, the white-and-black pair gleaming like little fashion trophies. He had spent the last fifteen minutes trying to convince himself that wearing them was fine. Necessary, even, to avoid further internet ridicule over the plush cat slippers.
But as soon as he stepped out of the apartment, disaster seemed to follow.
The first sign came at the café. Adrien reached for his morning coffee, only for the cup to slip through his fingers and splatter across his crisp white shirt. He groaned. “Not a good start.”
Then, sprinting for the bus, he missed it by a fraction of a second. The doors closed just as he arrived, the driver giving him a sympathetic shrug.
And finally… the pigeon.
A single, very determined pigeon zeroed in on him from a nearby rooftop, wings flapping like it was auditioning for an aerial stunt show. It dive-bombed him mercilessly, and Adrien ended up squawking as if he were a contestant on some cruel reality show.
By the time he came back home, he was disheveled, his coffee-stained shirt dripping on his sneakers, and feathers stuck in his hair. He muttered to himself, “It’s because of the shoes. My luck… it’s gone. The paint… it stole my luck.”
Meanwhile, Louis watched from a safe distance, arms folded and a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Papa, you have to understand: pigeons are tastemakers. They only target the most fashionable individuals. Consider yourself honored.”
Adrien glared. “I do not feel honored. I feel attacked.”
Marinette, walking up to them, frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe… it’s not just coincidence,” she whispered under her breath, eyes flicking at the sneakers. “What if… what if the shoes really were lucky? Maybe… the kwami had something to do with it?”
Adrien groaned, pulling at his collar. “Great. Now not only am I cursed, but it’s fashionably cursed.”
Louis raised an eyebrow. “Fashionably cursed? I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Adrien shot him a look that could melt steel. “No, Louis. That’s… that’s literal torture.”
And Marinette, muttering about kwamis and curses, decided she might have to do some discreet research. Somehow, she had a feeling that Adrien’s bad luck wasn’t entirely imaginary—and if the sneakers were involved, she might have to intervene before Louis’ “fashion heroics” caused any more chaos.
The curse—or perhaps the lesson in style—had only just begun.
...
At the end of the week Adrien had finally had enough. The white-and-black sneakers had officially become a magnet for disaster: spilled coffee, a bus that always left early, and now a pigeon that seemed to follow him like a personal stalker. Enough was enough.
“Plagg,” Adrien muttered under his breath, slipping into his room, “we have to fix this. Whatever Louis did… it has to be reversed.”
Plagg, perched lazily on the bed, yawned and stretched. “Finally! Someone gets it. I’ve been saying those were good cheese-dusted shoes!”
Adrien rolled his eyes. “Not the point. I need them back to… orange.”
Plagg’s ears perked up. “Orange? That’s not my favorite, but sure, if it keeps you from getting attacked by pigeons.”
The plan was simple: undo Louis’ artistic handiwork and restore the sneakers to their original neon glory. Adrien laid down newspaper like a tactical operator, opened the paints and brushes, and prepared for what he expected to be a quick operation.
It was not.
Louis, of course, had anticipated this move. He appeared in the doorway without a sound, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “Ah. So the Great Rescuer thinks my masterpiece is… reversible?”
Adrien froze, paintbrush mid-air. “Louis! Don’t—”
Too late. A war had begun. Paint flew in every direction. Louis flicked black accents while Adrien attempted to repaint orange base layers. Plagg, delighted at the chaos, added tiny paw prints wherever he could reach.
Marinette opened the door to check on them and promptly stopped, covering her mouth. There were splatters on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Adrien’s hair had streaks of black paint, Louis had orange splotches on his face, and Plagg was sitting in the middle of it all, licking a particularly stubborn glob off the floor.
“Guys!” Marinette groaned, “what are you doing?”
Louis struck a dramatic pose, brandishing a paintbrush like a sword. “I am preserving fashion history!”
Adrien, now streaked in white, black, and orange, glared. “You’re destroying my shoes and possibly the apartment!”
Plagg tilted his head. “I say both are delicious.”
For a tense ten minutes, chaos reigned. Paintbrushes flew, brushes collided midair, and every attempt at order devolved into a slapstick battle of splattered color. By the time it ended, Adrien was orange with black streaks, Louis was black with orange splatters, and the sneakers… well, the sneakers were a chaotic masterpiece somewhere between Louis’ “sophisticated black-and-white” and Adrien’s “good luck orange.”
Marinette sighed and muttered under her breath, “This is exactly why fashion interventions are dangerous.”
Adrien glared at Louis. “Next time… next time, we are NOT involving paint.”
Louis smiled innocently. “I think the sneakers are… improved. Don’t you?”
Adrien groaned. Plagg purred contentedly. And Marinette… well, she started drafting a plan for a family fashion summit before the next disaster struck.
The war of the sneakers was far from over.
...
The Agreste household looked like a war zone had collided with a paint factory. Splashes of black and orange streaked the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling in places. Adrien sat on the couch, hair a chaotic mix of colors, staring silently at the sneakers. Louis paced nearby, looking like a general surveying his battlefield. Plagg, predictably, was sitting atop the sneakers, licking off the leftover paint.
Marinette clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone. Enough. We’re having a family fashion summit. Now.”
Adrien groaned. “Please. I don’t want to summit. I want my shoes back—and my sanity.”
Louis, undeterred, flopped onto the arm of the couch, arms crossed like a king. “We will summit, Papa. And I will win. Fashion history is on my side.”
Plagg yawned. “I vote for cheese dust.”
Marinette ignored him. “Okay. Let’s compromise. Adrien, Louis has a point about style, and Louis, Adrien… well, he also has a point about… luck, apparently.”
Adrien lifted the sneakers like they were radioactive. “Fine. What do you suggest?”
Marinette’s eyes sparkled. “A new design. We keep the orange—because apparently it’s lucky—but add accents that are elegant and tasteful. A truce between chaos and sophistication.”
Adrien raised an eyebrow. “And the pigeons?”
Louis waved a hand dramatically. “Fashionable pigeons recognize quality. You’ll be honored, Papa. Perhaps even worshipped.”
Plagg snorted. “I still like cheese dust.”
The pair of them spent the next hour collaborating. Louis guided the sleek black accent lines, Adrien insisted on preserving just enough orange for “luck purposes,” and Marinette provided backup with a small, diplomatic brush of her own. Plagg wandered around leaving tiny paw prints for “texture.”
By the end, the sneakers were—miraculously—stunning. Elegant, unique, and still a little chaotic, just like their owners. Adrien gingerly stepped into them.
That day went by relatively well for Adrien. No coffee spilled, no pigeons attacked, and the bus even waited for him.
Louis beamed. “See? Style and fortune can coexist.”
Adrien smirked. “I guess… I approve. For now.”
Plagg purred from his perch on the table. “I approve too… mostly because cheese dust still exists.”
Marinette sighed, finally relieved. “I’ll… just be grateful that no one called the fashion police.”
As Adrien headed out, sneakers gleaming, Louis muttered under his breath, “Round two is coming…”
Adrien shot him a wary glance. “Don’t even think about it.”
And Plagg, of course, whispered to no one in particular: “I’ll be ready for round three… if it tastes like cheese dust.”
The sneakers were finally at peace. The Dupain-Cheng-Agreste family? Slightly less chaotic. And the internet? Well… the hashtags would just have to wait.