“Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to yoouuu! Happy Birt-day, dear Adriennn—”

His door jerks open, and he glares at her with heavy eyes. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and white pajama bottoms with blue stripes. “Stop. Singing.”

“Adrien! Fancy meeting you here!” Marinette gives him her biggest smile. “Did you know birthdays deserve a holiday?”

He shuffles back into bed but leaves his door open. “I heard,” he says grumpily. Marinette lets herself in. His room is . . . messier than her own. And that says something. Dirty clothes and towels in heaps across the floor. Half-empty water bottles. The contents of his bag spill from underneath his bed, crinkled papers and blank worksheets.

“Love what you’ve done with the place. Very college-chic.”

“If you’re here to criticize, you can leave the way you came in,” he mumbles through his pillow.

“Nah. You know I love to make you suffer.”

He sighs, a long-suffering noise, and the bluenette smiles.

“So. We’re celebrating today. You’re the only person I know in Paris who is free. Plus, it's your birthday.”

A grunt. “I don't want birthday cakes.”

“Me neither,” she admits, “just an acknowledgment that today is important.”

He tugs his covers tight. “I'm 21 years old. Today's not important.”

“Oh, please. You said on my birthday that ‘age is just a number’.”

“Hmph.”

This isn’t going as planned. Time to switch tactics. Marinette sits on the edge of his bed. “Please? Pretty please?”

Silence.

“Come on. I need to do something fun, and you need to get out of this room.”

Silence.

Her frustration rises. “You know, today sucks for both of us. You aren’t the only one stuck here.”

Silence.

Marinette takes a slow, deep breath. “Fine. You wanna know the deal? I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. Heck, this is the most we’ve t-t-talked in weeks, and I’m the only one moving my mouth! It sucks what happened, and it s-sucks even harder that there’s nothing any of us can say or d-do to change it. I mean t-there’s nothing I can do, and that pisses me off, because I hate seeing you like this. But you know what?” She stands back up. “I don’t think your dad would want you beating yourself up over something you can’t control. He wouldn’t want y-you to stop trying. And I think he'll w-want to hear as many good things as possible when you go to San Francisco next month—”

“IF I go there next month—”

“WHEN you go there, he'll want to see you happy.”

“Happy?” Now he’s mad. “How can I—”

“Okay, not happy,” the bluenette says quickly. “But he won’t want to see you like this either. He won’t want to hear you’ve stopped attending class, stopped trying. He wants to see you graduate, remember? You’re so close, Adrien. Don’t mess this up.”

Silence.

“Fine.” It’s not fair, not rational, for her to be this angry with him, but she can’t help it. “Be a lump. Drop out. Enjoy your miserable day in bed.” She heads for the door. “Maybe you aren’t the person I thought you were.”

“And who is that?” comes the acid reply.

“The kind of guy who gets out of bed, even when things are crap. The kind of guy who calls his father on his own birthday instead of avoiding talking to him because he’s afraid of what he might say. But I guess I’m wrong. This”— She gestures around his room, even though his back is to her; he’s very still —“must be working for you. Good luck with that. Happy birthday. I’m going out.”

The door is clicking shut when she hears it. “Wait—”

With a faint glow of hope, Marinette cracks the door open again. “Yeah?”

“I don't know what to say.” His green eyes are blurry, and her heart melts as she notices him trying to wipe them off discreetly.

A smile grows on her face. “Take a shower, put on some warm clothes, and come find me in the parking lot.”

Twenty minutes later, Adrien jogs downstairs with his keys, and Marinette is relieved to find his hair is wet. He’s bathed.

When she sees him approaching his car, the bluenette grabs his hand. “No, we're walking there.”

“Really?”

“You have really good hair.” The words tear from her lips before she could stop them.

He snorts.

“I’m serious. I’m sure people tell you all the time, but it’s really good hair.”

Marinette can’t see his expression — since he's facing the other side— but his voice grows quiet. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says with formality. “And I’m not sure where we’re going. I thought we’d just leave and . . . we’ll know when we get there.”

“What?” he asks. “No plan?”

Her cheeks tint pink and Marinette adopts a strict voice. “Careful. I’ll make one.”

“God, no. Anything but that.” She thinks he’s serious until he turns around with half a grin on his face. The blue swats him, but truthfully, she's so relieved for that half grin that she could cry. It’s more than she's seen in weeks.

“Where’s your hat? I don't want you to catch a cold.”

He squints at her teasingly.

“Fine, freeze to death. See if I care.” But he pulls his knitted stocking cap out of his coat pocket and yanks it over his hair. This time his grin is full and dazzling, and it catches her off guard. Her heart stops.

Marinette stares until his smile drops, and Adrien looks at her questioningly.

This time, it’s her voice that’s grown quiet. “Let's go.”

*

Stars and dialogue boxes, please?