Today had not been a good day so far for Marinette Dupain-Cheng. First, the bastard cat–bless his heart, he was sweet, but his insistence on coming to visit her whenever possible was starting to try her patience–had distracted her until one in the morning, at which point she’d remembered about the physics homework they had due this day. He’d offered to help her, but come on, how good of a student could Chat Noir be? She’d been up until three struggling through four damn problems while Chat catnapped in a secluded corner, and then getting him out had taken another ten minutes.
She’d gotten a little sleep after that, up until her dad had dropped a tray of croissants–an oven-hot tray of croissants–onto his foot. The resulting clatter had woken her up thoroughly, at freaking five-thirty. After that she’d just laid awake in bed, staring at her wall, until her mom called her down for breakfast.
And now she was trudging along towards school, except that even the freaking weather had decided to screw with her today. She has to struggle forwards with every step, squinting into a hurricane-force gale. She reflects briefly with a spark of optimism that at least it isn’t raining in spite of the clouds above, at which point–of freaking course–it starts pouring, the school doors mocking her as the crossing light glares a steady red. It’s a relief when she finally crosses the block and gets inside.
Well, up until Chloe happens.
“Look at her,” the banshee shrieks with malicious glee. “I really like your makeover, Marinette, it suits you.”
Marinette glances down. Her jacket is soaked and dripping, her shirt translucent with the damp–at least she hadn’t forgotten a bra today, small mercy–and there’s an uncomfortable squelching in her pants as she shifts. Still, she doesn’t look too bad.
Something jabs her in the back of her neck as she looks back up. She reaches back with a grimace.
It’s a twig.
Marinette reaches back again and plucks out another twig, then a leaf, then yet another leaf. She swears and slumps into her chair with a squelch, closing her eyes against the impending tears of frustrated rage. She’d heard that Adrien liked long hair a while back and now this bullshit had to happen?
There are footsteps and the quiet thump of a bottom meeting a seat. Alya drags her chair around and plucks the ties from her hair. There are a few twinges of pain as a few twigs refuse to let go–thank god for straight hair, Marinette reflects–but soon enough they’re all free.
“Brush,” Alya murmurs. Her voice is lower and scratchier than usual. Must’ve caught that bug going around.
Marinette raises a hand and points wordlessly at her backpack. There’s a ziiiiip as Alya opens up the pocket, rummages around for a moment, and pulls her small, straight-handled brush out. She starts working the brush through the remaining tangles with brisk motions, murmuring soft apologies whenever Marinette winces.
Marinette relaxes a little as Alya finishes and starts idly braiding her hair, then winding the braid into a tight bun. There’s further rummaging in her backpack for a couple of bobby pins.
“Thanks,” Marinette mumbles, as Alya fixes the bun in place.
She opens her eyes. Everyone is staring at her. Alix is staring, mouth gaping. Ivan to her right is staring. Nino to her left isn’t staring, but he’s filming her with his phone and suppressing giggles poorly. Mylene looks as though she’s trying to suppress an excited squeal with somewhat more success than Nino is, even if she is turning bright red. Alya, right in front of her–Alya?
She turns to look over her shoulder with the same kind of caution that hikers do when they hear a hungry growl from about ten centimeters behind them.
Adrien is sitting behind her, her brush clutched before him like a shield. He’s flushing.
“Um,” he says.
“Um,” she squeaks.
“Sorry about that,” he says, grinning sheepishly. She just rabbit-in-headlights stares at him, and his smile falters into the terror of uncertainty.
Chloe breaks the awkwardness by bursting into tears and running out.
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