J'aimerais tant que ça marche
“Adrien, can I ask you something?” she says, one afternoon. They’re at Adrien’s apartment, sitting on the balcony, watching the birds. They brought out the chairs from the living room, they’re big and comfortable, they barely fit through the sliding door. It’s a clear grey afternoon, and bright, the sun shining through the clouds in the distance. There’s a bottle of rose just opened on the little table between them, and the dishes from lunch are in the sink.
“Anything, my lady,” Adrien says pleasantly, toying with his wineglass. It’s a dry, floral chinon. He likes his rose sweet, but Marinette thinks they’re syrupy, and he likes her much more than he likes sweet rose.
She hesitates instead of speaking, which puts some tension in the air. It occurs to him that she must be broaching a serious topic - of course she is, why would she announce that she had a question? His mind immediately jumps to how he’s been putting off sex, and he shakes off the idea. He’s just getting in his own head. She’s not going to grill him about it.
Adrien frowns despite himself, and looks over at her. She glances at him and looks back out towards the sky and his stomach tightens. He waits for her to talk.
“Are you attracted to me?” She says. His stomach drops as she does. The answer rings in his head, No, as loud as if he’d said it to her. But he can’t open his mouth. It takes him a moment to register the adrenaline flooding his system, freezing him in place. He’s been quiet for too long, she’s looking at him. He can see the disquiet in her face. She’s insecure. It’s his fault. He wants to say, ‘of course I am!’ but he know, he knows, he knows it’s a lie, why couldn’t she ask him this years ago, when he THOUGHT he was attracted to her, when he THOUGHT he knew what that was like and when he could have lied confidently to her face, pledged his eternal love and all that came unspoken with it.
He wills himself to say anything. No - to say the right thing. But there are too many thoughts racing around in his head to find the right thing. He has to tell her. he has to say, No. He has to say, no, I’m not attracted to you, because I’m asexual, and you’re the most beautiful thing i can think of at any given moment and I love you so much. But how? how do you say that and make someone understand? She won’t understand. She’ll be scared. She’ll be upset. It’ll be his fault. It’s all his fault. He sees upset flicker across her face, as he stares at her, unable to force his mouth open. No- No! he says, “I…” He WHAT? What can he possibly say to stop himself from breaking her heart?
She looks down again, and he can tell that his aborted stutter has answered for him. “Marinette,” he says, and she says, “It’s okay.” She doesn’t look okay. She’s not looking at him. Of course she’s not okay. Well, he supposes, it’s too late now. She has the worst of it. The truth will be hard for him but can only make it easier for her. She’ll see it’s not her fault.
He fights his own mouth for a moment and then says, “It’s not you - it’s not only you - I mean, it’s - it’s no one, I’m not attracted to anyone. Not like… I mean, not sexually.” Christ, what a mess. That’s a sentence he’d like to strike from his own record. Why didn’t he practice this, why didn’t he write a goddamn script?
Marinette’s eyebrows come together, and she’s looking at him again. “What do you mean?”
“I’m, uh, I mean,” he brings his hand up to the back of his head. This is always stupidly hard to say out loud. Although he’s only ever done it twice. Maybe practice will help. “Have you heard of asexuality?” He always asks it like a question, to minimize how strange it makes him sound.
Marinette is keeping her expression neutral, but he can tell when she’s thinking hard. He knows her too well. He knows when she’s stalling. He feels a little queasy as the adrenaline begins to peter out, leaving his heart beating and his hands unsteady. “Yeah,” she says, “Of- of course, I have. You’re…?”
“Asexual,” She says. “Okay.” She looks away from him again. Thinking.
He hates watching people change the way they think about him forever. It makes him sound dramatic, it’s obviously not life threatening, it’s not earth-shattering, but it’s uncomfortable. He’s just given someone a reason to think he’s strange, a reason not to understand him, a reason to be put off and discounted. He’s not sex on a stick anymore. What’s left of him?
He knows she’s probably as confused as he is. He wishes he hadn’t done this to her. Hadn’t brought this plague of confusion into her life. He never should have started dating her, how can he excuse this, when he KNEW, he knew he was like this. And he just lead her on and lied to her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says. His voice is strained, which draws her attention from the skyline back to him.
“Are you okay?” She says, and he shrugs. He doesn’t trust his voice. “Adrien?” He nods, unwilling to show how this is overwhelming him. Unwilling to guilt her into staying - she needs space to decide what she wants.
She knows him too well, though, maybe as well as he knows her - the thought tugs at his heart. She grabs his hand across the table, away from the base of his wine glass and into hers. She squeezes it. Rubs her thumb across his knuckles. “It’s okay,” she says. He shakes his head. She doesn’t have to say that for him. Things don’t have to be okay, just for him. But he can’t say anything, her fingers tight around his palm keep his throat locked up. “Adrien,” she repeats.
When he doesn’t say anything, she stands up and walks over to him, holding his hand and lifting their linked arms over the wine bottle as she sways around the table. She fits one of her knees beside him in the comfortable living room chair, and says, “is this okay?” She wouldn’t normally ask. She doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know what’s happening.
“Yes,” he says. She settles into his lap, watching him, like he could ever say no to having her near him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispers. He wants to apologize for being like this, but he knows that’s pathetic, so he apologizes for something he can control.
“It’s okay,” she says, and she leans into him, her head on his shoulder. Her hair smells good, and he leans his nose into it, but he doesnt wind his arms around her back like he wants to. He doesn’t really know if he can anymore. Would he be manipulating her into staying? She hasn’t had time to think about it, she doesn’t know if she wants to leave yet. He wishes he were stronger. Marinette says, “We’ll… figure it out. Can we talk about it?”
“We’ll talk about it,” Adrien says.
“I don’t know what you want,” Marinette says, against his shoulder. She wants him to guide her.
“I don’t know what I want either,” Adrien says, which hurts to say more than he expected. Out of everything, admitting this little truth to the top of her head cracks through him. He holds his breath, knowing that if he cries, she will feel the vibrations in his chest. He makes himself relax and lets the breath out with just a shudder. Marinette takes his arms and guides them around her. She doesn’t ask him any questions that afternoon.
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