Chapter Text
“She likes you and you like her.”
Alya’s been repeating this about five times now, and Adrien’s been nodding the same amount or moreso, which is making him a little dizzy.
Then again, anything involving a certain fashion designer tended to make him dizzy, so it wasn't anything new.
“Adrien, you have to tell her,” Alya says suddenly, as if it's the first time she's considered it.
Adrien almost nods again, but he stops abruptly and proceeds to shake his head vigorously. “Nooo, no-no, Alya, that's—haha, that is a bad idea.”
She glares at him. He's not sure if there's extra magic on Alya’s side because even her glasses join in on the glaring, and Adrien's mentally kicking himself for forgetting to bring his shades. Alya hmphs, then grabs his arm and drags him to the street behind the school. “You are the worst, you know that?”
The model keeps steady, projecting his photogenic self to keep himself in check. The mere idea of confessing destroys him, because now there's no mask to hide behind if he messes up. “How so?”
Alya puts her hands on her hips. “C'mon kitkat, haven't you been listening to me?”
“Um, yeah?”
She huffs.
“Alya,” he starts solemnly, “it's a bad idea.”
“Hey Plagg, are all your cats deaf, or just this one?” Alya hisses, loud enough for the kwami to hear, but soft enough for Marinette, who just exited the collège, to not hear them. She tugs Adrien farther into the street as Plagg flies out of his pocket.
“Hrmm… he's one of the worst cases, I'd have to say,” Plagg comments, rubbing his chin. “Hard not to hear when you repeat it that many times. I'm actually surprised.”
“Thank you,” Alya says, extracting a chunk of camembert from her bag and tossing it to the cat god.
(They’d taken to packing food for all their kwamis, just in case someone forgot or ran out mid-fight. It was a good practice, and Fu had given them a day off for figuring that out all on their own.)
Adrien gags as Plagg happily devours the cheese. “Still smells detestable, but Alya, seriously—“
The reporter grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. Aggressively. “You LIKE her!”
“I thought that was establ—“
“AND.” Shake. “SHE.” Shake. “LIKES.” Shake, shake, shake. “YOU!”
She lets him go and Adrien's eyes widen comically. His mouth forms an ‘o’, and Alya is seriously considering forcing him and Nino to spend time away from each other, because they're both oblivious and hanging out nearly every day has only worsened that.
Nah. That’d be too harsh. They'd cry for days, she thinks.
“Alya—“
“Yes, marshmallow?”
“I'm going to tell her.”
Alya nods in approval, and pats his shoulder. “Good man, Agreste. Good man.”
(He does not tell her—he chickens out when he sees her, and Alya has half a mind to strangle him.)
(She doesn't, on account of that would suck for Marinette and like, Paris, and possibly the world, if Chat Noir ceased to exist.)
(She does, however, schedule enough dates with Nino to force Adrien to either sort-of double date with Marinette or be devoid of not-training-or-school-related interaction with his best male friend.)
(Sucker.)