"I am still so confused," Lucinda stated, as she sat in your living room; Chat Noir was next to you, fiddling with his fingers anxiously, while you had your face in your hands, utterly mortified.
"I don't either," you whispered defeatedly.
"Are you sure he's not your boyfriend?" Lucinda questioned, gesturing to the cat boy, and brushing a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes.
(Ok, wait, why were you friends with so many blonds?)
"He is not," you replied tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Well, hopefully one day," Chat Noir corrected, with a smirk, to which you let out an embarrassed gasp, and elbowed him angrily.
"I thought you were in love with Ladybug!" Lucinda spluttered, before humming curiously, "Not to be rude, but... you were always chasing after her like a lost dog."
"For your information, madam, I am a cat," Chat Noir retorted haughtily, and you basically fell over at his response, "and I am in love with Ladybug." (He didn't sound too sure though.) "(Y/n) is simply a friend of mine."
(Yeowch.)
"Yes, I'm sure," Lucinda responded, sipping her tea. "Despite the fact that you just implied that you'd like to be their partner."
Chat Noir turned to you, pointing at Lucinda with a raised eyebrow, "She has an attitude."
Lucinda let out a small laugh, and shook her head, "I've got an attitude because I think it's a bit strange how you're apparently dropping in to see one of my closest friends every few days. And also, I'm confused as to whether those cat ears are real or not."
"Wait, but what does that have to do with anything?" Chat Noir asked blankly.
"No, no, she's got a point," you remarked, squinting up at the top of his head.
"Not you too!" Chat Noir huffed, and pinned your hands to the couch, after you slyly reached up to try and touch his ears. He looked you dead in the eye, and gave you a very small smile. "No touching," he lilted playfully, running a finger down the bridge of your nose.
You glared straight back, though your shoulders were tense, and you were all too aware of how close he was right now; he smelled of... expensive cologne?! And you were sure that Adrien wore the exact same stuff! You were more than sure!
A cough interrupted your staring session, and you both glanced sideways, to see Lucinda, sitting there, the definition of the eyes and lips emojis. You choked awkwardly, and shuffled away, and Chat Noir laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully, while Lucinda just gazed at you both incredulously, clearly not really knowing what to say.
"Errr, anyway, uh, let's not bite off more than we can chew," you stammered, with a strained smile. "We are just friends, ok?"
Lucinda narrowed her brown eyes over the rim of her teacup as she analysed both of you, visibly not buying your claims. She then sighed melodramatically, and stood up, gesturing to Chat Noir, "Listen, I respect you and I do prefer you to Ladybug, but will you grant me a private audience with my friend?"
"Well, alright," Chat Noir mumbled, with a small frown, "it's getting late anyway, and I need to meet m'lady for our nightly patrol."
"I'll see you off," you stood up hurriedly, and escorted him out of the room, and to the window of your room. "I suppose I'll see you in a couple of nights time," you spoke, strangely flustered, for some reason.
"If you don't mind me being around," Chat Noir replied, with a grin.
"Of course I don't," you blurted out before you could stop yourself; instead of trying to backtrack, you stood your ground, though, and didn't shy away from his gaze.
"You flatter me too much," he finally replied softly, "I really don't deserve all the praise I get from you."
"Oh no, you do," you denied, with a small grin, before playfully pushing him into the edge of the window. "Now, off you go, cat boy, you're needed by the Parisians."
"You don't have to shove me," he complained, jumping out, but before he disappeared, he offered you a shy smile. "You really have no idea how great you are," he murmured quietly; and then he was gone.
You blinked, and then rubbed your forehead, releasing a shaky laugh. "Christ, he's cheeky," you mumbled to yourself, before closing your aperture, and quickly heading back to the living room.
"Where are your parents, anyway?" Lucinda asked, as you sat back down, "They never seem to be around. I only really see them on Saturdays."
"They're at work," you supplied, grabbing a biscuit from the table, and stuffing it into your mouth. "We need to pay the bills somehow."
Lucinda frowned, and shook her head, with a frown. "We really can do nothing but work, can we?" she sighed, with a weak smile.
"We work, and work, until we end up in the ground," you added miserably.
"Why doesn't anyone care about us?" Lucinda asked, her tone suddenly broken, and her hands shook, as they wrapped around her cup.
"Because we're nothing," you responded quietly, "because we provide for them, and that's all they'll ever want from us. They don't care because they have everything they need."
"It's so unfair, but I guess there's nothing much we can do about it," she laughed mirthlessly, wiping her eyes. "I did come here to tell you that they fired my mum, you know? They didn't even tell her why, they just made her pack her bags and go. They made half of the workers go, where she works, and no one knows why."
Your lips parted in shock; it wasn't common for people to get laid off in these parts, and it had happened to your parents several times, but it still was obviously shocking. And with her mum as her only source of income, Lucinda was clearly distressed, since nobody seemed to fucking give a single shit about her struggling family.
Well, that was the thing. No one did care. The upper class did not spare a glance to those suffering under them, the people who tried so hard to get by - instead, all they did was rob them of their pride, and step on their faces.
Who toiled night and day, by hand and mind to earn your pay? The workers. Who bled for your countries and counted your dead, just to get food on the table? The workers. Who was told to keep up with the times, who was told that their skills were not needed? The workers.
And when the prospect was war, who was given a gun and pushed to the front, and expected to die for their land of birth, even though they'd never owned a patch of land? The workers.
Oh, you lot were the first ones to starve, the first ones to die, the first ones in line for that pie in the sky, and you were always the last to get what you wanted.
God, fuck the patriarchy.
"Bloody hell," you mumbled, reaching out and placing a hand on her knee, as she started to cry, "I'm so sorry, Lucinda."
"I'm tired," she sobbed, "I'm tired of being looked down upon, I'm tired of people treating my mum like garbage. It's just not fair, and there's nothing we can do, can we?"
"Apart from going on strike, not much," you answered, shifting to sit next to her.
Lucinda sighed, and leaned against you, with a sniffle. "I hate life," she chuckled.
"Yeah... it really sucks," you agreed, patting her head. There was something oddly poetic about the awful situation that everyone in this neighbourhood was in, since although you were all suffering, at least you all had a common struggle and enemy; despite there not being much you could do about it.