If Adrien were entirely honest, Emeline Boutet was actually very, very impressive. There was a certain way that her hands moved across the keys, a way that she lost herself in the music - Adrien played piano because he had learnt it, not because he had to. At the very least, not with the fervor that Emeline emanated, so it was little wonder that Nathalie had thought that this might be of benefit to him. Attending one of Emeline’s many recitals - he was happy for her. He was. She was in love with the music, and there was something to be admired about that. But the seat by his side (reserved for his father) was empty, and the seat by his other side was filled with a dozing bodyguard, and Adrien really had had enough. There were things on tonight - this wouldn’t even have been a problem if he’d had some warning, but instead he’d had to cancel on Nino, again.
Emeline grinned at him from the stage, halfway through a bridge and enjoying every second of it. She was glowing. Adrien waved, somewhat half-hearted, and she had to return her attention to the keys.
Plagg had swiped some camembert from the little table out the front (Adrien suspected that the tradition of cheese at functions across Paris must surely have had to do with the sheer amount of cheese his - and presumably Ladybug’s - kwami consumed) and was looking very fat. He rolled over on Adrien’s leg (had sprawled himself out there, spread-eagled) and groaned loudly. It earnt them looks.
A minute of angry, whispered conversation later, Plagg had climbed his way back up into Adrien’s pocket and Adrien stood - this was enough. He’d come to the recital. It was too late to catch Nino but the number of severe looks he’d been getting from people thrice his age (because that was the only age category of person who came to things like this) had driven him out of his seat - people glared at him even more. “Sorry - excuse me - sorry - she’s amazing, isn’t she? - sorry,” Adrien sidled his way out of the pride-of-house seating with both hands raised in apology, back turned to the stage. He did not see Emeline watching after him. He did not hear the crowd’s collective, silent tutting when she missed a note.
He left through a side exit, into a dark little out-of-the-way alley. Somewhere inside, his poor bodyguard was snoozing, none the wiser to Adrien’s sneaking-away. It wouldn’t do to be seen as Adrien with all that media attention, the cameras, the reporters out the front of the concert hall - Chat Noir slunk away into the night.
