Ever as Before: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

by kz_madds

Summary:

I’ve been wanting to write this story for soooo long and I finally got around to it! I’m calling this a fix-it but really it’s a retelling that begins at the start of the film and expands beyond the original! See notes if you want to know more of what to expect <3
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This Gaston was here to break every woman’s heart by pledging his to the one who would never have him. Convenient, since it ensured he never had to actually be with any women, ever.
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Gaston was certain killing him would be less like self-preservation and more like shredding butterfly wings or shattering stained glass or shitting on the work of a talented artist. Even worse was the unexpected and wildly inappropriate feeling that the only threats of bodily harm he should be making to this man were of the consenting kind.
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“Morals are for knights and bishops and children. I’ve done things no God or king or child would ever forgive, LeFou, and I did them in service to all three." He reached for the other man’s drink and finished it in one swig. "I was abandoned by morality, so I chose justice instead."
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There was no pain he’d experienced greater than this; to know that he could never reciprocate the love he was given.

Notes:

What to expect:

*Adaptational heroism—Gaston as an anti-hero rather than a true villain
*Fixing the age issue of the beast’s curse—according to the song Be Our Guest and the age given in the original film, the prince was 11 when he was put under a spell for being “selfish and unkind”
*Fixing the inner beauty message—the beast isn’t beautiful, but Belle certainly is. And the enchantress. And Gaston. And the beast himself once he’s turned back. This has always confused me
*Fixing the Stockholm Syndrome-y parts
*Expanding on the characters’ development both in their personalities and relationships
*Making it 1000% gayer
*Exploring how this spell is most definitely a curse
*Expanding on the concept of memory magic

Chapter 1: Gaston

Later, when the local townspeople told the story to the occasional traveler and distant relative, they would call Gaston the villain. Later, when Gaston caught wind of the greatly fabricated tale, he would grumble about how the only villain he’d ever been was to himself. Belle would wholeheartedly agree, and while that wasn’t consolation enough to keep him from glowering moodily into a glass of wine, it was at least something. 

“I was merely a pawn in a greater system of evil!” he would whine when a man eventually murmured soft pleas in his ear to come to bed. 

“I rather like this version of the story,” the other man would chuckle in reply. “It makes you sound terribly sexy.” To which Gaston would then make a piteous show of moaning about the unfairness of life and how he wished a swift end to his misery etc. etc. until the other man offered to refill his glass. Again.

But none of that would happen until much, much later. For now, Gaston was merely the ex-soldier traveling the French countryside in search of some nameless thing—always just out of reach. For now he was living, not for the thrill of the chase as the townsfolk believed, but for the thrill of the show. 

He was reminded of just how much he craved that thrill as every eye tracked his swaggering steps down the town’s main road. It didn’t matter that his audience consisted of the same array of simpletons that characterized every village in the French countryside. It didn’t matter that there were fewer than two dozen in total. All that mattered was the rush; the way his nerves, always buzzing unbearably beneath his skin, finally settled—no, sang. Moments like this mimicked the uncanny awareness of a battlefield before the first sword was drawn. There was the same narrowing of his senses, the same tension in his shoulders, the same dry anticipation on his tongue. 

Maybe in another life Gaston would’ve been a performer. Traveled as a circus strongman. An acrobat. Hell, even a dancer. But war had claimed him instead, a war so purposeless it ended with generals scratching their heads and wondering why the hell they were sending people’s fathers and brothers and husbands to be skewered to death, anyway. Surely someone had ordered them to do so, but since no one could remember who that was, they’d sent those same men home with a pat on the back, a few coins in their pockets, and an adrenaline complex. 

That had been Gaston’s experience, anyway. 

He’d learned over the years that while poor provincial towns like this one were deeply unimaginative and almost criminally peaceful, they supplied him with remarkably attentive audiences—provided he took the necessary steps to set the stage. 

He’d spent every moment since he first rode down this very dirt road cultivating the backdrop for his character. Only a few days into his residence and the local gossips had already spread his stories and gleefully added their own necessary embellishments:

Gaston Garnier was the brawny nephew of an old widow home from the wars and searching for a young woman to sire eleven children and slave over his supper. When he wasn’t prowling for a wife, he was prowling taverns and winning card games like he could shit aces as well as cash. Some of the more ridiculous rumors claimed he ate five dozen eggs every morning, that he used antlers in all of his decorating, that he wasn’t afraid to bite a man in a brawl.

But no matter how outlandish the claims, everyone could agree on one thing; Gaston was a war hero, a pure paragon of a man, the kind every man wanted to be. And no man who was so decorated, so lauded and admired, could be running from anything. No man who was rumored to play women as successfully as he played cards could be the same one who had been caught bedding the baker’s son in the town over. Or the miller’s son two towns over. Or the blacksmith’s son three towns from that (or had he been a farmer’s son? He was already losing track).

Regardless, this Gaston was not the same. This Gaston was here to break every woman’s heart by pledging his to the one who would never have him. Convenient, since it ensured he never had to actually be with any women, ever. It was a good strategy, made even more convenient by this particular provincial girl’s equal disinterestedness and the fact he genuinely liked her. Belle was as sheltered as could be expected, but she had a head-and-a-half over the rest in intelligence. And she played along like a champ. 

Gaston hadn’t made friends since he left his patrol on the battlefields along with most of his humanity. He never stayed in one place long enough. He thought Belle might be getting close enough to count. He felt an odd kind of kinship with the woman; two outcasts fueling the town’s ravenous appetite for gossip for as long as it benefited them. 

Belle was the supporting character for this particular production.

“Hello, Belle,” Gaston called more loudly than necessary as he crossed the street. He stood directly in her path, making sure everyone watching maintained a clear view of the show. Then he placed both of his fists on his hips and flashed the disarmingly charming smile that would’ve had the blond Laurent triplets swooning. He knew they were amongst the eyes watching him. He’d made sure of it.

Belle had been reading and walking at the same time, which was a real hazard in his opinion. Now she lowered her book and treated him with a “do we really need to do this now?” look. 

Yes. Yes they did. It’d been several days since he’d made his devotion to her publicly known, and the triplets were beginning to entertain false hopes.

“Bonjour Gaston,” Belle replied primly. 

If his responding grin was a hair too smug, who could blame him? He knew Belle would play along because. . . well, it was in her best interest to do so, wasn’t it? What man was going to pester her when he knew Gaston had laid claim to her like a prized hen? The same Gaston who won every fight, who had muscles the size of barges, who could shoot a bird blindfolded?

None of them.

Gaston’s grin broadened as he plucked Belle’s book from her hands, shooting her a wink once his back was turned to the murmuring onlookers. 

“Gaston, may I have my book please?” she asked in real exasperation. She straightened the fabric of her skirts self-consciously, her hands fluttering anxiously without her book to anchor them. Gaston made a great show of opening the cover and tilting it the wrong direction. He thumbed through the pages and huffed in exaggerated disgust. “How can you read this? There’s no pictures!”

“Well,” Belle said, and he noticed the slight lilt in her voice that revealed she was trying very hard not to laugh, “some people use their imagination.”

“Belle,” he admonished, adopting his best impression of his own father’s disapproval, “it’s about time you got your head out of those books and paid attention to more important things.” 

The woman merely crossed her arms, her brown eyes alight with humor even as she schooled her expression into a look of stern defiance. 

He tossed her book in the dirt and her humor vanished. Good. No one was going to take this interaction seriously if she kept almost-grinning at him like that. 

“Like me.” He treated her with his best attempt at a debbonaire smile. Behind him, he heard three identical sighs of longing. Belle bent over to pick up her book and flashed him a genuinely irritated look (apparently throwing her book in the dirt had been a step too far) before rising to her feet again and dusting the cover clean. 

“The whole town’s talking about it,” he continued and began to circle her the way a vulture might circle its next meal. He’d hit his stride, and he was going to stretch it to the max. “It’s not right for a woman to read. Soon she starts getting ideas and thinking.” He shook his head in dismay at the very notion. 

“Gaston, you are positively primeval,” Belle replied tartly. 

“Why thank you, Belle,” he said with a laugh, because men whose talent was expectorating didn’t know what words like ‘primeval’ meant. And even if he didn’t, and obviously he did, he was at least educated enough to use context clues. “What do you say you and me take a walk back to your house and we can talk about our future.” 

“Maybe some other time.” 

Gaston hooked an arm around her shoulders as he heard the indignant murmurs from the other young women in the crowd, complaining about how lucky she was and what was wrong with her for not agreeing? He grinned and treated Lefou with a jaunty salute. His father’s hired handler simply rolled his eyes and turned to try his luck with the numerous eligible women now left disappointed in the street. 

Of course Lefou knew the game he was playing and seemed perfectly happy to pose as his lackey. Gaston suspected he put up with it because his father was paying him a hefty sum of money to keep him out of any serious trouble. The longer he took before settling down the way his father wanted him to, the longer Lefou would get paid.

“If you keep cheating your fortune back and don’t impregnate anyone, I will happily leave you to your vices in return for a good night’s rest.”

Which might’ve sounded suspicious, but Gaston had snuck into Lefou’s bag later that night to read one of the letters he’d drafted to his father and was pleased to discover it contained nothing but comforting platitudes. 

As soon as they were out of eyesight and earshot, Gaston unhooked his arm and shoved his hands into his pockets. “A great performance again, mademoiselle. I thank thee kindly.” He treated her with a mock bow, and Belle stifled a laugh behind her book. 

“Really, Gaston, is this little show of yours necessary? This is a library book!”

“Absolutely. People have to be frequently reminded of how madly in love I am with you. How else will I get a moment’s peace?” 

“By telling them the truth?” she suggested. 

“The truth? My darling Belle, I’ll tell them the truth as soon as you do.” 

The woman shook her head but didn’t argue. 

While the people in this part of the country might leave much to be desired, the country itself was positively picturesque. Sun-dappled trees stretched above their heads, wild roses bowed in the warm afternoon breeze, and little cottages were nestled like carefully arranged flowers into the fields. Or it would’ve been picturesque, anyway, if not for the roses. 

Gaston hated roses. 

Belle led him up a small hill to one of the better-kept cottages and unlocked the front door. She ushered him inside with a wave of her book. He bowed again. “Much obliged.” 

He took two steps inside before immediately collapsing onto one of only two kitchen chairs, kicking his feet up on the table. She rapped on the toe of his boots with her keys and he placed them grudgingly on the ground again. He surveyed the quaint arrangement of home-made quilts and roughly-constructed furniture with a frown. Something was missing from this kitschy little cottage, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it

“Where’s your father?” he asked finally with a snap of his fingers. He couldn’t hear Maurice’s mutterings or the tinkering sounds that usually came from his workshop in the room next to theirs. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the squat old man waddling around town this morning, either.

Gaston had heard some of the more unpleasant folk around town claim Maurice was crazy, but he rather suspected Belle’s father was simply the result of a too-smart man in a too-stupid town, a man who no longer had a wife to smooth over his eccentricities the way other men did. Her daughter did her best, but Belle wasn’t exactly a social pariah herself. 

“Out,” Belle replied as she placed her book on the table and sat wearily in the chair across from him. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears and sighed. Belle had the hair of queens; a rich brown that reflected red in the sunlight. It was the kind of hair that made a simple blue ribbon appear like the prettiest adornment a woman could find. He was deeply jealous of it. Why did God give a woman like her a gorgeous head of hair if she was never going to use it to her advantage? “He left for the fair earlier this week,” she added. 

“Oh?” Gaston abandoned his thoughts about the current hair fashions for women and how grievously Belle ignored them. He sat up a bit straighter. “Got that crazy contraption to work, then, did he?” She hummed her affirmative, but her brows lowered in obvious concern. 

Belle supported everything her old man created, even when his inventions went against her better judgement. The woodcutting machine Maurice had been obsessing over for almost a year was a complicated and cumbersome contraption to say the least. Gaston had never seen it in action, though he’d asked for a demonstration more than once. Maurice didn’t fully trust him. Considering the reputation he’d so carefully cultivated around town, he thought that was reasonable. 

But Gaston knew all of Belle and her father’s hopes of leaving this small town for Paris or Marseilles hinged on his success at the fair. He assumed that was the cause for her concern. “When is he expected home?” 

“Today.” She bit her lower lip and Gaston resisted the urge to remind her that if she wanted to dissuade the other men in town, she should break that particular habit. And maybe crop her hair as short as possible. 

Instead he leaned across the table and placed a gloved hand over hers. He wore his uniform as a costume now. “He’ll be back. I know it.” 

She smiled gratefully at him. “Thanks, Gas.” He scowled at the nickname despite feeling relieved to hear it. She couldn’t be that worried if she was teasing him. 

“Thanks for putting up with me.” He squeezed her hand once. “Now tell me about this book of yours.” 

He spent the remainder of his visit listening to Belle as she enthusiastically shared the plot of her current favorite read while he made them a quick lunch of bread-and-cheese sandwiches. 

He had to do something to repay her for all the shit he was dragging her through.

“. . .it’s my favorite part. She meets Prince Charming, but she won’t discover that it’s him till chapter three.” 

“Prince Charming?” He placed her lunch unceremoniously in front of her. “Not princess?” 

Belle rolled her eyes. “I already told you. It isn’t about gender. It’s just. . .” 

“Romance,” he finished for her. “In general. You like it in books, but not for yourself.” She nodded and her cheeks flushed to a decidedly delicate, and even more decidedly feminine, shade of pink. 

God, maybe he should take her with him as soon as word of his affair with the cobbler’s son made its rounds. With a blush like that and a father who could invent wood chopping machines but couldn’t chop off a man’s balls if he laid them bare right there on the table, it was a miracle no one had tried to take greater liberties with her already. If only she would agree to his proposal. That would fix things for the both of them. He might even be able to stay in one place for a while.

He decided to risk reminding her that she still hadn’t given him a final answer. “Well, I won’t pretend to understand, but as my future wife, I love you anyway,” he said with a sly smile. “Now eat.”

“I’ve been willing to play along with your antics,” she said disapprovingly, “but a wedding? Really? Don’t you think that’s going a bit far?”

“If there was another way around it, trust me, I would take it. Honestly, Belle, I really think you should marry me.” He waved his sandwich animatedly in the air. “Then everyone will stop pestering us both. So long as you don’t mind entertaining a guest or two every few nights, we’ll both be the better for it. You can have your own room and everything. No romance necessary.”

Belle sighed. “You deserve more than that, Gas. I deserve more than that.”

“Of course we do, but life is never fair, and realistically, it’s the best either of us could expect from our situations.”

“I refuse to believe that,” she announced, her fingers tracing the embossing across the cover of her book. “There has to be someone out there who will love me without demanding anything I don’t want.”

“I promise I wouldn’t ask you to consummate our marriage even once,” he added earnestly.

She chased her sigh with a smile. “The way you’ve been lusting after Mr. DuBrais’s son—”

“Leave Antoine out of this!”

“—I believe you. I think you just want anything you can’t have,” she added knowingly.

“And that’s obviously you, darling,” he drawled, deflecting once again. He didn’t like how uncomfortably close to the truth she was. Perhaps Belle was even sharper than he gave her credit for.  He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t his fault. The wars left him danger-starved and endlessly craving the next man to press up against the wall of an empty barn, the next excuse to skip town and start all over again, the next show to put on, the next stern look from Lefou. 

Gaston had been chasing every high since he finally healed from that blasted arrow he’d taken to the shoulder eight years ago. Since before the wars, really. He couldn’t pinpoint when restlessness set up primary residence in his heart. He didn’t remember being a particularly discontented child, but, then again, he’d left more than blood behind on that battlefield. Pieces of his memory had been lost along with it. It wasn’t an uncommon phenomenon. Many of the surviving soldiers expressed similar experiences. But unlike them, Gaston couldn’t just leave it be. He’d been chasing down the next man to fill that hollow place in his chest ever since.  

“Romance is more comfortable in books,” Belle replied. She nudged the leather cover towards him. “Why don’t you give it a try? Two lovers in fair Verona. What isn’t there to like?”

“I don’t read fairytales,” he replied with a snort. “They’re always so. . . straight.”

Belle rolled her eyes but didn’t push him again. They finished their lunch and he left her for the tavern where he planned to drink away the rest of the afternoon until Antoine finished at the shop. He was looking forward to dragging him into the abandoned shed near his house and letting the other man rescue his body from his mind for a few blissful, fleeting hours. 

Just another day in the life of Gaston Garnier. 

He’d just collapsed in his own bed, barely sober enough to remember to wash the smell of sweat and sex from his skin, when he heard a frantic rapping on his door. 

 

 

Chapter 2: The Beast

 The Beast hated roses, but, then again, he hated many things. He hated the shadowy corridors of his dark and crumbling cage-of-a-castle. He hated how he had to be something the enchantress knew he could never be. He hated himself most of all, which was a relief, really. It made everything else easier. He wouldn’t resist his own suffering if he believed he deserved it. He wouldn’t fling himself from the tower window if he believed he shouldn’t have a merciful end.

Soon he would believe nothing at all. Soon he would slip out of consciousness and into the black void of animalistic instinct. But soon never felt soon enough, and the beast was still counting down the days until the last petal fell. 

God he really hated roses. 

If only that doddering old man hadn’t cut a bloom from the faerie’s bushes. If only the beast hadn’t bargained for his life. If only he could stop hoping that one more act of selflessness would restore his heart and break his spell.

If only.

If only. 

If only.

Chapter 3: Gaston

When Gaston stumbled out of bed and dragged his ass to the door, it was because he thought Antoine had changed his mind and decided to spend the remainder of the night with him after all. How early did cobblers’ sons need to be up in the morning, anyway? Antoine had assured him that it was, in fact, very early. 

“Some people have to work for a living. We don’t all have war pensions and fathers with titles.”

Gaston never wanted to talk about his father, but he especially didn’t want to talk about him with Antoine, whose own father was positively genial. So he said, “and some people have paid more for their living than gold could ever buy.” 

Now Gaston stood in the front room of his very small and very bare cottage (of course he didn’t use antlers to decorate, imagine packing up room-fulls of those every few weeks). He was still half-asleep when he opened the door and was blearily surprised to discover it wasn’t Antoine on the other side. In fact, it was the very last person he imagined. 

Belle stood on his doorstep with her hood drawn. Her dark eyes were wider than usual and she seemed even paler in the moonlight. Gaston glanced first behind her, then down the street. “What the hell are you doing here so late?”

“I need your help.” She told him the whole story as he fumbled around his house, pulling on his boots and strapping his bow to his back.

Philippe, her family horse, had returned home that evening with the wagon but without Maurice. Belle spent the first few hours scouring the woods that skirted the edge of town but had been too nervous to venture any deeper on her own. She knew the stories that surrounded those woods even better than he did. She’d grown up with them.

Ghosts, ghouls, and monsters of all kinds were rumored to live there. Josephine, the older woman who ran the only inn in town, claimed she’d wandered too deep into the forest last year and stumbled across a castle. She couldn’t remember what happened to her after that, but believed she’d been kidnapped by faeries. 

 Regardless of whether such stories were true, Gaston wasn’t about to let Belle search those woods alone. He might be a miserable rake and an even more miserable drunk, but she was the only almost-friend he’d made since the wars. And anyway, what were a few wolves or ghouls when he’d seen his comrades’ intestines spill onto the grass at his feet? Or heard their cries for help as he followed orders to leave the dying where they lay? 

He reminded himself of this as he tied his horse to Belle’s and they started their search down the only path that led deeper into the forest. The branches rattled ominously without a trace of a breeze, and he wasn’t sure where all this mist was coming from. It certainly hadn’t been this misty at the village. And was that a howl somewhere in the distance?

Belle didn’t speak for most of the journey. She gripped Philippe’s reins tightly and kept her gaze fixed ahead as if her eyes alone were the reason the trail hadn’t vanished out from under their feet. Gaston, on the other hand, was feeling even less cautious than he might have thanks to the several bottles of wine Antoine brought up from his father’s cellars only a few hours prior. Fortunately he could ride drunk just as well as he could ride sober, a phrase that, now that he thought about it, was terribly funny. Horses weren’t the only drunk riding he’d done tonight. 

Hilarious. 

He was about to tell the joke to Belle, he thought lightening the mood would help them both, when she abruptly pulled on Filipe’s reins. Gaston’s own horse, Noir, snorted crossly as she narrowly avoided colliding with them. Gaston patted her shoulder soothingly. 

“Atta girl,” he murmured, “at least one of us has quick reflexes tonight, hm?” Then, more loudly, “Belle, why did you stop?”

In answer to his question, she simply pointed down the path ahead of them towards a sign he hadn’t noticed until now. Even with the lingering alcohol and encroaching darkness muddying his vision, he was able to read it well enough. 

“It says ‘no trespassing,’ doesn’t it?” Belle whispered weakly. 

Gaston kicked his horse forward and Belle and Filipe trailed reluctantly behind them. “Yes,” he confirmed and eyed the trees with renewed—if slightly inebriated—mistrust. If someone cared enough to hang a sign, they likely monitored the property. They may have seen the old man traveling through. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing depended on the friendliness of the land owner. The sign didn’t feel particularly friendly. 

He cursed inwardly. What was the old man thinking, getting himself lost in the woods? The path to the city was well marked and well traveled. Gaston should be sleeping off what he knew was going to be a fantastic hangover as soon as he was sober, not traipsing around someone’s private property looking for a woman’s confused father.

Aloud, he said, “likely that means there’s a property up this way. Someone who might’ve seen your old man.” He pulled his bow down at his side anyway and knocked an arrow. Just in case. “Any idea why he would go this way?” 

Belle’s eyes moved from his bow to the sign with increasing alarm. “He must’ve been lost.”

Or Philippe wasn’t, in fact, a hound dog and didn’t know the direction the old man went. 

Gaston wasn’t sure how much longer they rode like this, only that when the path widened and the trees thinned, his thighs ached from how tightly he was clenching the saddle and a blister was forming on his thumb from where he kept testing the string of his bow. He was sobering up nicely judging by the throbbing headache that pulsed behind his temples.

He saw the gate first. He motioned for Belle to stop and they both surveyed the iron tendrils and spikes that had materialized in the mist. He imagined the gate had once been quite impressive before time and neglect claimed it. Now the doors swung forward on hinges weakened by rust and decay. Dead vines curled up from the ground as if the forest itself was prying it open.

“What is this place?” Belle whispered. 

“No idea,” he admitted, which was only odd because Gaston had a map of this part of France currently rolled under his bed for safekeeping; a map that he’d studied quite diligently after he’d learned of the townspeople’s reluctance to enter the forest. He’d scoped it out as a potential camping place in the event he needed a quick getaway. This was all empty woods from what he remembered. Then again, while drinking didn’t affect his ability to ride a horse, it did fuck up his internal compass. 

“Philippe seems to think your old man is through that gate. S’pose there’s nothing else to do but check it out.” The hair on his arms and neck prickled in warning at his own words. Wandering through an unfriendly forest was one thing, but trespassing on someone’s property was something else entirely. Gaston knew very well that people were, more often than not, a greater threat than any wild animal could be. But if it was private property, the owners might know if the old man had passed through here. It was worth the risk. Probably.

Or perhaps his goosebumps were a result of the rapidly dropping temperature. He noticed Belle had drawn her cloak tighter around her. It was early autumn, which meant flowers were still blooming in this part of the country. Only the most sensitive trees showed signs of turning. He wouldn’t expect temperatures like this until December. Then again, Belle’s village was in northern France, and the weather here could be more unpredictable than in the rest of the country. 

“I don’t like this,” Belle said in a small voice. 

“I’m not thrilled about it either,” Gaston agreed.

Then the gate swung unexpectedly open and Philippe lost his shit. 

Belle cried out in shock as the horse bucked and twisted under her. She clung to the terrified animal’s neck to avoid being thrown off. Gaston swiftly dismounted his own horse—Noir looked like she was ready to end this now with a swift kick to Philippe’s nose—and helped Belle down. They spent several long moments calming the old horse.

“You know,” Gaston murmured when he finally settled down enough for him to pat his nose, “you would’ve made a terrible warhorse.” 

He was checking that the reins were tied and the saddle was still in place when he heard Belle’s gasp of horror. He whipped around, his hand reaching for his bow and his eyes scanning the mists for a threat. When it was clear they were not under attack, he loosened his grip on his bow and took a few steadying breaths. He was acting as skittish as the horse. 

He watched Belle push on the old gate and winced when it swung open on screeching hinges that made his headache flare in protest. She knelt on the ground before slowly rising to her feet again. She turned and held something out for him to see. 

It was a hat. 

“Papa,” she whispered hollowly. 

Gaston tugged Philippe and Noir through the iron doors to get a better look. But the hat wasn’t what drew his attention. “Is that. . .?” He’d been so preoccupied with the creepy gate that he’d failed to notice what lay beyond it until now. 

“A castle?” Belle breathed, her eyes going round. “I think so.” 

“Well shit, Josephine was right after all,” he muttered in disbelief. “Guess I owe Pierre Dubois ten coins.”

“Is there anything you don’t gamble on?” Belle demanded.

“That’s the secret of a good gambler, my dear.” He shot her a sly wink. “They only gamble on the shit that doesn’t matter.” 

Belle shook her head in resigned disapproval—an echo of all the similar headshakes he’d been given in his life. Then they both turned to survey the scene again. Before them stretched what he was certain had once been a magnificent courtyard, but the relentlessness of time and neglect had taken its course. Graceful marble statues were pitted and cracked and the white stone made them look like ghosts in the mist. The browning lawn was overtaken with weeds and the rose bushes snarled into unkempt mounds; their thorns glinted malevolently in the moonlight. In the center was a fountain, one that had clearly not been in operation for some time and had grown a healthy layer of moss and lichen.

Beyond the courtyard was the castle itself, mostly shrouded in darkness. He could just make out the outline of the largest stone tower thrusting high into the sky like an old woman’s middle finger. His gaze flickered from the massive wooden double-doors to the windows that glowed faintly from within, suggesting it wasn’t abandoned despite its dilapidated appearance. 

The realization came, not like a punch to the gut, but like a rare smell that conjured a forgotten childhood memory.

He knew this place. He knew this place. 

“Gaston?” Belle asked worriedly.

He shook his head sharply and tried to drag himself back to the present. He was gripping his bow like he was preparing for the almost-memory to attack him. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips and tried to steady himself with a few breaths.

“This place feels familiar,” he said at last.

“You’re drunk,” Belle admonished, but the squeak at the end stole all conviction out of the accusation. 

“I’m fucking insane is what I am,” he said with a rather delirious laugh. “Well there’s nothing else to do but investigate. Are you sure you want to come?”

“I can’t wait out here alone!” she replied, twisting her father’s old hat in her hands. “There are wolves! And if there’s a chance Papa is in there, I can’t just leave now.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought you would say.” He offered her his arm. “Just stick close.”

“I don’t think a bow is going to be effective against faeries,” she muttered but took his arm anyway.

“I’m a soldier,” he said in exaggerated indignation. “I’ve dealt with the Folk before.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Gaston flashed a smile that was more grimace than grin. “Why my dear Belle, what am I if not honest?”

“A nuisance is what you are,” she replied, but some of her fear eased and she leaned against him as they walked, apparently grateful for the support. 

Despite his growing headache and parched lips, Gaston couldn’t keep the anticipatory smile from his face as they approached the strange castle. He savored the sweet feeling of peace he felt only when he was in danger—even potential danger. 

And this place. 

This place. 

Even if he wasn’t reasonably certain Maurice was there, he couldn’t leave without exploring more of it. It was all achingly familiar. He knew there would be a small stable along the left side of the palace before seeing it. He knew where the extra oats for the horses were stored inside. And when he and Belle finished standing in awe in the shadows of the castle lawn, he knew how the handles of the great wooden doors would feel in his hands. Heavy iron. Cold. He reached for them. Twisted. Pushed them open. 

Belle drew her hood lower over her face and clung to his arm. “Is anyone here?” he called in his deepest, most commanding tone. There were certainly advantages to being a large man. “Hello?” 

The front doors opened into an impressive entryway marked with violently red rugs that were, if a bit dusty, still jarring against the white stone floors and walls. Directly in front of them was a sweeping staircase adorned with stone gargoyles that leered at them in welcome. 

Gaston inched forward, pulling Belle in with him as he did, before allowing the doors to swing shut behind them.

“Papa?” the woman warbled. She was digging her nails painfully into his bicep. “Papa, are you here?”

There was no answer except for the echo of her own voice around the cavernous room. 

“Well shit,” Gaston said with a whistle. “Maybe we should grab something to take home with us while no one is looking. I bet we could buy you and your old man a room in the city with just one of those candelabras.”

“We’re not stealing!” Belle gasped. Horrified. 

“Consider it a souvenir,” he replied with a shrug.

“I have a bad feeling this castle is enchanted,” she hissed. “Don’t touch anything.” 

As they inched their way forward towards the staircase, Gaston swore he heard someone murmur “well she’s not wrong, is she?”

He turned sharply towards the direction of the voice no one was there. Only more gold ornaments and richly patterned fabrics and cold, pale stone. “Did you hear that?” he asked Belle.

“Hear what?” She stepped closer to him and he patted her shoulder placatingly. 

“Steady. Steady,” he said absently while continuing to search the room for the source of the voice. 

Belle took a few deep breaths before stepping back. “Sorry,” she whispered. Her cheeks were rosy with embarrassment even as her hands clenched her father’s hat into fists. “What do we do now?”

“Find our unwitting host,” he said with a shrug. “Someone had to light these candles.”

Belle shivered. “Or something.”

“Fortunately for you, mademoiselle, I am a seasoned warrior and have faced worse monsters than whatever lives in this place.”

“Dragons?” Belle guessed as they made their way up the wide staircase. He’d seen the lights in the windows of the upper rooms, so it seemed like a logical place to check first.

“Enemy soldiers,” he corrected. “Armed to the teeth and ordered to leave no survivors.”

“Is that worse than dragons?” she asked, no doubt trying to distract herself from her own fear.

“Oui mon amor. Dragons don’t make a sport of killing.”

Despite this bleak observation, Belle seemed more reassured than before. No doubt she believed that if Gaston had survived a war, he could survive whatever was stalking the corridors of this palace. Good. Let her believe that. It had been his intention. 

But Gaston knew there were some enemies brute strength and a bow alone couldn’t fight. There were some demons in the world that he could not beat. Some of those had already taken permanent residence in his heart. What was one more to join the party?

But he would not let Belle get hurt on his watch. “Belle, I need you to promise me something,” he whispered when reached the top of the stairs. “If I tell you to run, promise me you will obey. Go to the stables. Philippe will know the way home. Don’t stop no matter what you see or hear.”

She hesitated and blinked up at him. In the weak candlelight, she looked so small and fragile; as small and fragile as he felt underneath all the bravado and self-deprecation he wore like a uniform he could never take off. A costume just like the war uniform.

“Okay,” she nodded. “I promise.”

“Good. Now which way do you think—”

To the right, down one of the long corridors, a door creaked open. Gaston flinched and expected Belle to shriek or grab onto him again, but she only drew herself up and set her chin. “Is someone there?” she called. 

He recognized the determination in her expression; it was the same look she gave him every time he mentioned his proposal. More stubborn than brave, perhaps, but what did it matter in the end? The outcome would be the same. Belle would not marry him for convenience, just as she would not leave this castle without her father. Which was a shame, really. She would be much better off as a coward.

He thought this might be the real reason women shouldn’t read or entertain dreams that deviated from their role in society: It cursed them to be forever disappointed by the world and everyone in it. Gaston couldn’t think of a single man he’d met in all of his twenty eight years worthy enough to sleep on the dirt outside that woman’s door, let alone anywhere closer.

That she’d enlisted him to help her in an emergency, a man she’d known for less than a month, a man who had a reputation for being the very embodiment of everything wrong with men in society, was a testament to just how little she thought of the others in her village. All Gaston did to earn her trust was tell her the truth, one that every man knew but none acknowledged: it was all an act. And, of course, it helped that he was bedding the only other man in the village who didn’t make her feel unsafe. 

Gaston rubbed his still-aching forehead. He’d promised himself that he would bring Antoine flowers this morning as an apology for keeping him up so late last night. He wasn’t willing to give up the possibility that this was all some strange misunderstanding and he, Belle, and Maurice would be out of this cursed place in no time. Maybe he would even have enough time to pick a few wildflowers on the way home. 

With this hopeful thought in mind, Gaston followed Belle as she stepped through the door. It opened up into another entryway to yet another staircase, this one narrow, spiralling, and bare of all decor. 

Gaston froze in the doorway. He knew where this staircase led, even as he asked himself how he knew. “Wait, Belle—”

That was when they heard a man’s coughing. 

“Papa!” She hurried up the steps before he could stop her. Cursing, he hastily climbed after her. His bow would be no use in such tight quarters. He yanked the arrow free, prepared to use it as a knife if he had to.

He expected someone to be waiting for them at the top of the tower steps. No one was. But his inexplicable memories were right. 

This staircase led to the cells of the palace dungeon. 

He gripped the shaft of his arrow even more tightly, too busy scouring the tower room for potential threats to notice Belle had knelt in front of one of the doors and reached for the hands of a man through the low, barred window. 

“Your hands are like ice,” she was saying, but her voice sounded distant to his ears. 

He couldn’t shake the once intriguing and now horrible feeling that he recognized this place. What kind of magic was this? He’d heard of plenty of strange enchantments over the years. He’d even served with a man cursed to blink five times between every word he spoke (he’d pissed off a particularly scrappy brownie somewhere in the west). But what kind of enchantment would trick someone into believing they’d been somewhere they hadn’t before? What would be the point? 

The fact he couldn’t name any obvious evil such a spell would bring only made him believe it was something very bad, indeed. 

At the very least, it was powerful.

He heard the sound of scuffing footsteps from the stairs behind him and lunged towards the door. 

“We need to get out of here!” he hissed over his shoulder, not bothering to check if Belle was listening. 

He’d fully intended to meet the owner of this castle. But now he was certain that doing so would be a very grave mistake. He licked his lips again as he peered down the staircase and into the darkness. The ever-present itch under his skin faded away and his senses snapped into focus. Even as his heart roared in his ears, he felt calmer than he had in ages. Alarmingly so. He was the mirrored surface of undisturbed water before the rain.

He heard more scuffing feet on the steps. Padded. Whoever it was must be wearing some soft-soled shoe. Slippers, perhaps. Well, if their pursuer was still in pajamas, perhaps they weren’t as threatening as he feared.

“Who’s done this to you?” Belle was demanding more loudly now from her position on the floor.

“No time to explain,” Maurice’s voice managed to rasp between wracking coughs. “You must go. Now!”

“I won’t leave you!”

That was when Gaston saw a face emerge from the dark stairwell. A pair of cat-like blue eyes glowed unnaturally above glinting white fangs and a snout. Curved horns resembling a bull’s jutted out of its skull. The monster had to be at least ten feet tall standing. It was hunched over and still blocked the entire stairway. It moved like a bear; lumbering, powerful, and quicker than a beast of its size should be. 

Gaston attempted to close the door, to put a barrier between himself and those fangs, but hesitated a moment too long. One of the creature’s giant paws pried the door open, and the other pulled back to strike him. Gaston turned so that his face was protected, waiting to feel those razor-sharp claws slice through his flesh. Instead the arrow was batted out of his hand. 

“What are you doing here?” the thing growled. Actually growled. Gaston almost couldn’t make out words beneath the snarl so deep it vibrated the air around them.

“Run Belle!” Maurice cried from the cells, even though there was nowhere for her to run. The creature was blocking the only stairway out of the dungeons. It crouched lower and its tail—yes, it had a tail—swept upward like a cat’s. Gaston didn’t know how much muscle was under all that fur, but he was absolutely certain it was more than he could take alone. 

And live to tell the tale, anyway.

If he could just lure him far enough into the room that Belle could sneak out while this thing was mauling him to death. . .

“That man is my prisoner, and you are trespassers,” the beast growled. Even on all fours he was nearly eye-level with Gaston. He crept closer. Gaston backed another step into the room. “You aren’t welcome here.”

He opened his mouth to reply—with what, he had no idea—when Belle asked loudly from across the room, “who are you?”

“The master of this castle,” it replied angrily. But when its eyes swung to see Belle behind him, it hesitated. 

“Please let my father out. Can’t you see he’s sick?”

Gaston wanted to ask if she didn’t see she was demanding answers from a four-hundred pound animal with fangs. There was no trepidation in her voice now. Her fear appeared to have vanished the moment she found her father.

“Then he shouldn’t have trespassed here.” The beast prowled closer and Gaston stumbled back another step.

“But he could die!” Belle cried. 

He thought rather ironically that, of all the people currently facing imminent death, he was in the worst shape at the moment. The monster glanced at Belle, but it kept its eyes and body always angling back towards him. 

“Please,” she begged, and there was a crack of emotion in her voice. “I’ll do anything.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” the monster snarled. “He cut a bloom from the Fair One’s rose bushes. If I don’t punish him myself, she will take retribution into her own hands. Believe me, what I have sentenced him with is a great kindness in comparison.” 

Gaston took another small step into the room, careful not to look over the thing’s shoulder at the open door. Just a little farther now. . .

“Now, Belle!” Maurice shouted. “Run!”

Belle did not run. “Wait! Don’t hurt him!” she screamed. 

Gaston saw the thing lunge. Saw a flash of teeth, heard a snarl so close he could feel it rumbling in his own chest. He lifted his hands and prepared for the inevitable. 

How strange it felt, the moment before his own doom. He’d felt it for the first time when he saw the arrow speeding towards him knowing there was no chance he would move in time. Then he’d felt it again when he saw the shaft sticking out of his own body, wondering why he didn’t feel any pain yet. Just cold. 

He waited for the pain to come now. 

It never did. 

There was impact, but not of fur or weight, but of something much lighter. No, not something. Someone. 

Gaston opened his eyes to see a man had thrown himself at him. A man who was decidedly shorter and slighter than he was. Bare-chested. With tangled, reddish brown hair and a vicious, animalistic twist to his face. One of his hands was reaching for his throat and the other clawed at his chest.

Gaston’s reaction was pure instinct. He hooked one arm around the other man’s neck, twisting him until he was thrown off balance. He then bodily hoisted him several inches off the ground and slammed him against the nearest cell door, his hands locking tight around his wrists. 

It was easy. He’d been in bar fights harder than this.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, addressing their attacker for the first time. His voice echoed loudly around the tower room and sounded more shocked than angry to his own ears.

“Let go of me!” the other man shouted. He attempted to wrench his wrists from his grip, but Gaston just huffed and spun him around to get a better look at him. When he tried to pull free again, Gaston elbowed him sharply in the abdomen, causing him to grunt in pain before the breath rushed out of him. 

“Don’t try that again or I’ll aim lower,” he said coldly. “Are you a shapeshifter?”

“Gaston,” Belle squeaked, “look out!”

That was when he felt a sharp pain at his ankle. “Agh! Shit! Ow!” He lurched back, releasing his grip on the shapeshifter. 

“En garde!”

Gaston looked down to see a singed hole in his pants and a flaming end of a candle pointed up at him. “What. . .?” 

He turned towards the door and nearly choked out another noise of surprise. What appeared to be an entire room of furniture barricaded the only exit. A coat stand, a clock, a foot stool, even a wardrobe. An entire room of furniture wielding kitchen knives. 

“I’m going mad,” he whispered in disbelief. 

“Master!” the candelabra called. “Are you hurt?”

An entire room of talking furniture wielding kitchen knives.

“I’m fine,” the man grunted from the floor. Except he wasn’t a man anymore. He’d morphed into a beast once again. “You.” The monster pointed a claw at Gaston. “What did you do to me?”

“I elbowed you in the stomach, what did you think I did?”

The beast dragged itself to its feet and Gaston was chagrined to see it towered over him once again. He flinched back when one of its massive paws forcefully lifted his chin so that he had no other option but watch the transformation this time. He saw the burst of golden light, smelled the sharp tang of magic, felt the fur shift to skin against his own. 

The beast was gone once again, replaced by the half-naked man with the wild hair. His hand was still cupping Gaston’s face, but now that he was no longer a ten-foot tall monster, the action was decidedly non-threatening. He had to reach up to touch Gaston’s cheek and his own chin tilted back to maintain eye contact.  

“How sweet, are you going to kiss me now?” Gaston asked with a none-too-pleasant sneer. “What will that turn you into next? A prince?” 

He didn’t like the expression on the other man’s face; he watched it shift from anger to wonder to something more guarded and pensive. Human. He also didn’t like the overwhelming feeling that even this was familiar; those long fingers against his cheek, the hard planes of his chest so near his own, the solemn pinch of his brow as he studied him. 

The shapeshifter lurched back as if burned and he was a beast once more. “Put this man in a cell across from the other one,” the monster growled. “The girl can go,” it added as if in an afterthought—as if it had forgotten she was there.

“But, master,” a voice sounded from the congregation of furniture—Gaston had no idea which of the objects was speaking—“the spell. . .”

“Yes.” Those catlike eyes studied Gaston again. “I am not a fool.”

“Spell? What do you mean spell?” Belle demanded.

And that was when Gaston realized he was the only one seeing the man change form. 

Chapter 4: The Beast

The rose was wilting.

The rose was wilting, and the beast was trying very hard not to panic. 

Panicking in this form was a uniquely unpleasant experience. It involved a lot of panting and pacing and laboring under the urge to lick his own fur. 

Such was the nature of his enchantment.

But he couldn’t panic now. He had to think. How long had the rose been wilting? Had he lost himself to the beast-form so completely that he’d stopped noticing it? 

He tried in vain to chart the passage of time in his mind. What had he done yesterday? This morning? Two hours ago? The harder he tried to remember, the more panicked he felt. Perhaps he didn’t want to know just how much time had passed, or, at least, not until he’d had time to calm down. He focused on a memory he could easily summon instead: 

Waking up. 

One moment he’d been adrift in a sleep-like state of animal instinct, and the next his consciousness had slammed into him with as much force as that stranger had slammed his body against a wall. He was going to have bruises from both. 

The memory was vividly clear in his mind; the way the floor had risen up under his feet, how his hands had balled the other man’s tunic into fists, how his bare arms prickled with goosebumps in the cool tower air. 

The warmth of the other man’s skin against his own. 

He hadn’t felt the touch of another human being in almost ten years. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how starved he’d been for it. He wanted to feel it again. He needed to feel it again. All of it. He feared his life very likely depended on it.

If that stranger hadn’t touched him tonight, if he hadn’t dragged him back into his own humanity, into his own self, would the beast have slipped away entirely? Would it have already been too late? He’d known for a while now that the more petals the rose lost, the less human he felt. But he thought he’d had more time. Another year, at least. He hadn’t considered the fact that not only would the final petal mark the end of all chances to break this spell, but he might lose his human consciousness well before that. 

It was taking every ounce of his self control not to climb those stairs that led up to the dungeons, open that man’s cell, and order him to touch him again. It didn’t matter how. They could swing punches at each other for all that it mattered. Just to feel like himself again, to remember that he still existed beneath the rage that threatened to consume him entirely—he would gladly suffer a few blows in exchange. It seemed like a fair price to pay. 

But the larger question, the one that loomed over all others, was how. How had that man done it? And why was no one else able to witness it except for them?

Perhaps it was a new torture the enchantress had devised; send him someone who had the power to remind him of what it felt like to be himself again just in time to lose it for eternity.

 “I’m so glad to see you’re back to your usual self, master.” 

The beast tore his eyes from the flower wilting behind its glass case and saw Cogsworth standing with Lumiere in the doorway. “I knew you would snap out of it eventually,” the clock added with a smug twitch of his second and minute hands. 

“Cogsworth mon ami,” the candelabra protested with a beleaguered sigh, “you told me just yesterday that you were certain the master was lost for good and we might as well get used to being trinkets for eternity.”

“How dare you! Your highness, I urge you not to listen to this waxy-eared, vanilla scented—”

“Vanilla scented!” The flames on Lumiere’s candles flared brighter. “I am not vanilla scented you insufferable box of gears!”

“How would you know? You don’t have a nose.”

“Neither do you!”

The beast ignored their bickering and continued pacing the room, too consumed with trying not to panic to engage with the argument. Lumiere’s wax was scentless. But what did that matter?

“Master,” Lumiere interrupted Cogsworth mid-rant. “Since the girl is going to be with us for quite some time, I was thinking that you might want to offer her a more comfortable room.”

“Girl?” He’d nearly forgotten about the girl. After much begging and pleading, she’d offered to take her father’s place and stay out his sentence at the castle. One year as his prisoner here. One year until the last petal fell. One year was all the beast—and every other wretched soul in this cursed place—had left. 

“Has it occurred to you that she could be the one to break the spell?” Lumiere asked.

No. It hadn’t. That girl wasn’t the one who could transform him with a brush of her fingers. But the beast wasn’t ready to reveal that to the others yet. Not until he understood it better himself.

The enchantress told him that the only way to break the curse was to learn to love, and for that person to love him in return. The man—the stranger—couldn’t be in love with him, and yet he’d weakened the curse enough for the beast to temporarily take human form again. 

Could it be possible that there was another way?

“Of course I have,” he lied instead.

“Good!” Lumiere waved his flaming candles in the air animatedly. “So you fall in love with her, she falls in love with you, and poof! The spell is broken!” 

“It certainly has to be more romantic than a poof,” Cogsworth muttered with a sniff from a nose he definitely did not have.

“I know more about romance than you do,” Lumiere said with a snort.

“Just because Plumette lets you fondle her feathers—”

“Plumette and I are madly in love, I’ll have you know!” Lumiere snapped.

“Oh? But does Chapeau know that? Because I heard them both in the closet just yesterday giggling and frequently bumping against the wall—”

“Enough!” the beast hissed. He didn’t want to know about the sex lives of his staff-turned-furniture. Before this enchantment, he would’ve sworn that wasn’t a thing that could exist. 

Lumiere was still glowering at Cogsworth when he returned to their prior discussion by saying, much more quietly, “awful hard to fall in love while living in a cold, miserable cell.”

The beast sighed. He didn’t actually need convincing. Any excuse to return to the dungeons was a welcome thing. “But what if she escapes? We can’t afford to risk an angry faerie on top of this curse.”

“I will tell the others to stand alert,” Cogsworth said confidently. “We will watch every door! Every window!”

“And the man?”

Both clock and candle treated him with identically blank looks. Which was to say, the same looks they always gave him. They didn’t have faces.

“What about him?” Lumiere finally asked.

“Is he getting a room, too?”

“Better not,” Cogsworth huffed. “We should keep him out of the way. He threw you against a wall despite being half your size. It was terrifying, really. I would’ve said it was impossible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” Eyes that he definitely didn’t have. 

“Terrifying,” the beast echoed. “But I can’t leave him in a cell alone.” He’d never taken prisoners before. The occasional traveler who stumbled across his castle was sent away none the wiser. But Maurice had committed a crime against the Folk they would not quickly forgive. He had no choice. And as for the other man, well, letting him go simply wasn’t an option. Perhaps he was more capable of abduction than he imagined. A side-effect of becoming a monster, he supposed. 

“Then send him away like the others,” Lumiere suggested. 

“I think the girl would be more afraid if he left,” the beast pointed out gruffly. “She can’t fall in love if she’s scared.”

Lumiere hopped towards him, the metal base clinking against the stone floor not unlike how a child would make a doll walk across a room. “You would be surprised.”

The beast frowned. Or it was his best approximation of a frown, anyway. “She believes that man is her protector. Likely they are already lovers.”

“Even more reason to get rid of him,” Cogsworth said.

“She can’t fall in love with me if she’s already in love with someone else,” he replied with a snort. “Especially if she knows I’m the one who came between them.”

“Then we must do a little investigating!” Lumiere rubbed two of his candle sticks together in a gesture that very loosely conveyed anticipation. “I know! We’ll put them in the same room together for the night and one of us will stand outside. That should tell us!”

The beast just rolled his eyes and returned to his pacing. “Even if I wasn’t a monster, no sane woman would fall in love with the person who imprisoned her.” That seemed like the more pressing issue here. It was easier to imagine a woman being into a fully sentient—if furrier than usual—lover if said furry lover wasn’t also her captor. In fact, now that he was actually faced with the possibility, he wasn’t sure he wanted a woman to fall in love with him who did.

“Thankfully sanity isn’t required to break this curse,” Cogsworth said tartly. 

“That’s the spirit,” Lumiere replied with an approving bump of one of his candles against the clock’s back. “Trust us, sire, Mrs. Potts will have a room ready and this spell will be broken in no time!”

He watched them leave, despair already gnawing at him, and noticed for the first time just how serious of a state his tower room was in. Shredded curtains, claw marks on the walls, broken glass scattered across the floor. . . It looked like a wild animal had been caged in this room.

In a very real way, there had been. 

That was when a new question struck him, one that threatened to send him into another bout of panic. How long did he have until this renewed consciousness wore off? A day? An hour? Less? Surely this stranger couldn’t reverse the toll time had taken on the enchanted rose. He couldn’t glue the petals back onto that goddamned flower. The beast would slip back into senselessness soon enough.

He saw only one solution to this problem, and short of chaining them to each other, he didn’t know how he was going to resolve it. “I’ll have to talk to him,” he muttered to himself as he paced. “Explain at least some of the curse. Ask him if he knows why he can temporarily lift it, and if he doesn’t, barter for. . .” He looked despairingly out the large windows along the far wall of the tower. Barter for what? His touch? He recoiled at the implication. What would a conversation like that even look like? There was no way he could frame it without sounding like he had other motives entirely.

“This is hopeless,” he said aloud to no one. Himself. The world.

After Mrs. Potts wheeled in on her tea tray to announce the room was ready for their new guests, the beast had prowled the hallway outside of the stairwell for some time before finally climbing. He heard the girl crying before he made it to the top of the steps.

“He didn’t even let me say goodbye! I won’t see papa for a year. Maybe longer if his sickness worsens enough. . .”

The beast paused on the steps out of sight. His shame grew to a suffocating pressure in his throat that prevented him from swallowing properly.  

“Shh,” the man murmured soothingly. “He’s not dying yet. And we’re still alive. We just need to focus on keeping it that way.”

“You’re right,” she said between sniffles. “I’m so sorry Gaston. I dragged you into this. . .”

“My darling Belle, do not apologize. Simply agree to marry me once we leave this place and all will be forgiven.”

Which made the woman laugh, if rather weakly. “You’re an even worse rake than I imagined. How dare you take advantage of our circumstances to exploit me like this.”

“Mm,” the man agreed. “I fear there is very little that is beneath me when it comes to exploitation. Shall I tell you stories of my past sexual exploits as proof?” 

“Oh my God no,” the woman groaned. “That would be a terrible way to cheer me up!”

The man, Gaston, laughed. A real laugh. From the belly. It filled the stairway like the peal of church bells and it continued ringing in the beast’s ears long after it ended. He decided he’d heard enough. He climbed the rest of the way up the tower steps and their voices immediately quieted. He entered the room and Gaston rose to his feet. The woman, Belle, shrank against the back wall and watched him with wide, fearful eyes. She was also the first to speak. “You didn’t let me say goodbye!” The fire behind that accusation surprised both the beast and her companion. Gaston squeezed her hand reassuringly before turning back to face him. 

“What do you want?” 

“I’m here to take you to your room,” the beast replied, and the dungeon’s bare floors amplified the ferine growl in his voice. 

“Room?” Belle whispered. “But I thought. . .”

“Do you want to stay in this cell all year?” Too harsh. Always too harsh. 

“No,” she said even more quietly. 

Gaston’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I’m a monster,” the beast reminded him. “You won’t believe the answer.” Then he stood on his back legs, unlocked the cell, and pulled the door open. 

When neither Belle nor Gaston moved to exit, the beast crouched down on all fours and moved back to give them more space. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just showing you to your room.”

Gaston’s appraising glare lingered a moment longer before apparently accepting this promise. He offered Belle his arm. “Do we at least get to know the name of our generous host?” he asked him coldly. 

“No,” the beast replied and turned his back to them. 

“You don’t entertain many guests, do you?” the man called after him.

“Never,” he confirmed, and didn’t speak another word until they reached their room. 

Chapter 5: Gaston

The first day in the castle passed like a goddamned fever dream. If Belle hadn’t been there to confirm what he was seeing, Gaston would’ve thought Antoine had mixed laudanum into his wine or that his war trauma had finally hijacked his sanity.

Their new room was lavishly furnished and just as unfriendly as the cells. Trading bars for drapes and a cot for a rose-painted bed only made him a prisoner in velvet instead of chains. Thankfully the only sentient furniture in their new prison cell was a particularly stuffy wardrobe named Madame de Garderobe who snored most of the night.

Belle fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but Gaston never slept well the first night in a strange place. In a place this strange, he wasn’t sure how many nights it would take before he was able to sleep. He wasn’t planning to find out. He sat facing the door at the foot of the bed and reviewed everything he’d learned about this place so far, hoping it would help him in his plan for escape.

In the morning, a teapot named Mrs. Potts (which came first, the name or the magic, he had no idea) wheeled in on a tray bearing an impressive amount of porridge. But after Gaston’s teacup unexpectedly spoke mid-sip, he lost his appetite and took only small bites from his bowl.

Belle, on the other hand, only needed half a night’s sleep and food to forget she was a prisoner. “You mean you’re all under a spell?” she exclaimed sympathetically when Mrs. Potts finished her story about how the staff in this castle had been humans enchanted into object form. Gaston had only been half-listening. These people’s problems were none of his concern. They were just as complicit in his and Belle’s abduction as the beast.

“It’s not all bad, dear,” the matronly teapot replied and nudged Belle’s hand reassuringly with her spout. “We are much less lonely now that we have guests.”

“Did the monster do this to you?” she asked next.

“Oh no!” the teapot and wardrobe both said in unison. But there was a long, heavy pause that followed it. “Well,” Mrs. Potts conceded with a sigh, “I suppose the master was the reason we were transformed, yes. But he didn’t do it knowingly. His curse is far worse than ours, you know. Believe it or not, there’s a man under that monstrous form, though I’m afraid we see less and less of it every day.”

Gaston almost said he’d seen plenty “man” in him last night, but decided to keep that knowledge to himself for now. He didn’t think it was wise to give away any more information than was absolutely necessary to their captors. He hadn’t even told Belle about the beast’s shapeshifting yet. He needed to see it again before he did. A significant part of him feared he’d imagined it—or that he wasn’t remembering correctly. With how the magic in this castle toyed with his memories, he didn’t think it was out of the question.

“If the spell isn’t lifted soon, we will remain like this forever,” Mrs. Potts explained sadly.

Belle tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear and leaned forward over her tray of empty plates. “How do you break it? Is it a kiss? It’s usually a kiss,” she added for what Gaston assumed was his benefit.

“No dear,” the teapot replied. “It must be much more than that, I’m afraid.”

“What is it, then? Maybe we can help.”

“Belle,” Gaston interrupted for the first time. “We’re prisoners. These people. . .” he paused. “These objects are our captors. We’re not helping them with anything.” It was just as likely as not that Mrs. Potts’s story was only a trap to add more people to their cursed menagerie. And if it wasn’t, well, Gaston had condemned people to worse fates in battle.

“But if the curse is broken, maybe they’ll let us go,” Belle argued.

He shook his head grimly. “That isn’t how the real world works.”

Belle bristled. “I don’t think we’re in the ‘real world’—if such a thing even exists—anymore.” She gestured vaguely to the room around them. “This whole place is enchanted, and I believe I know more about magic than you do.”

Gaston frowned but couldn’t come up with a counterargument that wouldn’t offend her more than he already had. It was true that he knew very little about magic. He’d never dealt directly with faeries or dragons. He’d never even left the human realm. But Belle was suggesting a bargain, and Gaston was very familiar with those. A bargain was nothing more than a high-stakes gamble; he didn’t engage in either unless he had the upper hand. It was why he never gambled over odds that weren’t already in his favor. How the odds favored him didn’t matter.

Lefou once made the mistake of lecturing him on this point, accusing him of having a “serious lack of morals.” “I don’t give a damn about morals,” Gaston told him after they were kicked out of one village and forced to flee to a tavern two villages over. “Morals are for knights and bishops and children. I’ve done things no God or king or child would ever forgive, Lefou, and I did them in service to all three.” He reached for the other man’s drink and finished it in one swig. “I was abandoned by morality, so I chose justice instead.”

Lefou didn’t say a word in reply, but he bought him another beer, which Gaston chose to interpret as an apology. His father’s handler had seen him sniff out a cheater in a gambling hall like a bloodhound, he’d seen him deal that cheater’s tricks right back to him, seen the perfect expression of horror on his face the moment he realized he’d been beaten at his own game. Gaston knew the consequences were well-earned because of how those men reacted; like he’d set their lands on fire, like he’d bedded their sisters and mothers and wives right under their noses, like he’d told every other man in the village that they only took it in the ass. It always ended in violence. But losing a physical fight was even more devastating to their egos than losing that card game had been. Gaston was bigger and stronger and more skilled than they were, which made him the only one who could truly hit them where it hurt the most.

If Gaston had learned anything in his twenty-eight years, it was that justice was best marked with violence. People who took advantage of others weren’t getting punished nearly enough if they weren’t clamoring to hurt someone because of it. He couldn’t explain any of this to Belle, who still believed kisses could make terrible men into charming princes.

After breakfast, they were joined by the candelabra that had burned him last night along with a remarkably stern pendulum clock. “No hard feelings, eh, mon ami?” the candelabra asked with a conspiratorial nudge with one of his candlesticks. How Gaston knew it was conspiratorial was beyond him. Damnable stuff, magic.

“Don’t make friends with him, Lumiere!” the clock protested in an almost unnerving echo of Gaston’s prior warning to Belle. “He cannot be trusted!”

“Do not listen to Cogsworth, monsieur,” Lumiere whispered to him, but still loud enough for everyone in the room to overhear. “He is simply jealous.”

“Jealous? Jealous?” The hands on the clock’s face twitched and the polished wood of his exterior flashed angrily in the candlelight. “Jealous of what?”

“Well, he’s much more handsome than you, isn’t he?” Lumiere teased.

“I’m a clock!”

“Yes, and you should stay that way. It’s a great improvement on your features.”

Gaston looked between clock and candle with raised brows—they were the first two people in this castle who truly captured his interest—when Mrs. Potts finally stepped (wheeled?) in. “Gentlemen, please! Make yourself useful. Our guests will need a tour if they’re staying with us. Cogsworth, you know more about the castle than the rest of us.”

All of Cogsworth’s suspicion evaporated. “A tour, you say? Well, ah, yes I. . . I suppose I do.”

“You don’t want him to lead a tour,” Lumiere said slyly. “He’ll go on one of his baroque design rants again.”

“I would like one,” Gaston said loudly before the two could resume bickering. He’d been looking for an opportunity to locate the best exit points of this castle before it got too dark to see. He hadn’t expected the opportunity to arise this quickly.

Belle was far more hesitant. “Well, I suppose so. But the monster—”

“The master is in his room,” Lumiere interrupted reassuringly. “He’s in one of his moods and may not come out of it for quite some time. And the West Wing is on the other side of the castle.”

“Which is off-limits,” Cogsworth added hastily. “We will not be going anywhere close to there.”

Gaston hummed. So the shapeshifter was hiding in the West Wing, then. He wondered what else these two would reveal if they were left to argue with each other for long enough.

When Belle still looked unsure, Gaston cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could see the library as well.” He knew there was one the same way he’d known about the stables and the dungeons.

“You have a library?” Belle asked tentatively. Gaston was certain that the woman would have to be very scared indeed to turn down a trip to a library, even if that library was in an enchanted castle guarded by a monster.

Cogsworth turned awkwardly on his clock-feet to face her. “Yes of course.”

“With books!” Lumiere announced.

“Scads of books,” Cogsworth agreed. He was already hopping out the door with Lumiere close behind him. “Mountains of books! More books than you’ll ever be able to read in a lifetime!”

“Just stick close,” Gaston said to Belle quietly. The woman looped her arm through his and they followed the other two into the hallway.

Despite fighting in a king’s war, Gaston had never visited a castle. As lord of one of the bigger cities in the west, his father had presumably visited the king on occasion, but he’d never taken Gaston with him. The beast’s castle was grand the way a wealthy mausoleum was grand, an armored catapult on a battlefield, a merchant ship at the bottom of the ocean. No amount of rugs or portraits or curtains could ward off the desolation that weighed down the stale air. Belle clutched Gaston’s arm tightly as they passed through ominously empty ballrooms and dining rooms and entertainment halls. The beauty of the intricately painted ceilings and carved marble facades dulled beneath layers of dust and neglect. Gaston couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole place was frozen in time; that the castle and all of its inhabitants had been left behind by the rest of the world. Forgotten.

The only reprieve from this dismal tour was Lumiere and Cogsworth’s querulous banter, which spilled merrily through the many hallways and staved off the worst of the gloom. Cogsworth described the castle’s minimalist Rococo style, quintessential of the baroque period (whatever the hell that meant), and Gaston remembered a little belatedly that he was supposed to be memorizing turns and potential exit points.

“Someone is a big fan of gargoyles,” Belle spoke for the first time during their tour. “I’ve counted at least twenty.”

Gaston surveyed the rows of snarling faces perched along the walls and stair rails with renewed suspicion. “Are any of those alive?”

“Of course not,” Cogsworth sniffed. “Don’t be absurd!”

“Because enchanted gargoyles are more absurd than clocks?” Gaston muttered to Belle. He was rewarded with a meek smile.

Lumiere, on the other hand, promptly burst into laughter.

“That wasn’t funny!” Cogsworth snapped.

“Yes it was. This man is funnier than you as well,” the candelabra sighed. “A real pity. Your sense of humor was all you had left.”

“You know as well as I do that I am the least funny person in this castle!” the clock sputtered indignantly.

Lumiere poked him with one candlestick and nearly knocked him off-balance. “Oh contraire! I find your unnecessary severity and generally dry personality exceedingly amusing.”

They saved the library for last. Belle froze the moment the doors magically swung open, too stunned to take another step. While Gaston didn’t share her affinity for books, he could appreciate an impressive collection when he saw one. This room was at least ten times the size of the village library and stacked so high there was a ladder on wheels to reach the top shelves. Unlike many of the other rooms they toured, this one was clearly still in use. There was a fireplace with fresh logs stacked in front of it and a book open on one of the tables beside the oversized armchairs. The chairs faced a massive window with an excellent view of the grounds. Someone had cleaned the window recently; it let in more light than any of the other windows in the castle.

“I’ve never seen so many books in one place in my life,” Belle breathed. “Can I. . .?”

“Of course, of course,” Lumiere said loudly over Cogsworth’s protest. “Read as many as you like during your stay here. I’m sure the master will be delighted to have someone in the castle who appreciates them as much as he does.”

“The master of this castle reads?” Gaston asked doubtfully.

“Indeed! A great deal!” Lumiere assured him. “He was in the middle of this one.” He jumped up onto the armchair, then to the table, and pointed one of his candlesticks at the open book.

“Voltaire,” Belle said thoughtfully, examining the text. “Candide, ou l'Optimisme.” She touched the pages briefly. “Beautiful.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, Belle perched on one of the chairs by the window reading while Gaston paced restlessly in the relative cover of the shelves. He turned over his now much-improved mental map of the castle in his mind, trying to determine the best path for both he and Belle to make their escape. An exit to the east of the castle seemed like the safest since it was the furthest from the beast’s own room and closest to the stables. They needed their horses if they had any hope of making it through those woods.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Mrs. Potts brought them lunch, but the sun through the library window was much higher in the sky. It bathed the library in orangey-gold light that was almost cozy. Gaston pushed through his fear of eating off of sentient dishware and finished two croissant sandwiches.

“Do those two ever stop arguing?” Belle asked the teapot. Cogsworth and Lumiere were at it again, this time about someone named Fifi.

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Potts said wryly.

“Don’t they like each other?” Chip, the small teacup that had scared Gaston this morning asked while trying very hard not to spill. Belle kindly lifted him up so he wouldn’t have to travel so far and took a sip. “That tickles,” the cup giggled.

“Of course they do, Chip,” Mrs. Potts said with amusement.

“Quite a lot, if you ask me,” Gaston muttered, leaning back so that he was sideways in his chair and could cross his ankles over one arm with his back against the other.

The teapot tilted her spout in his direction. “They’ve always been close friends,” she said vaguely, an answer that made Gaston snort loudly enough for the two in question to pause their argument.

“What are you laughing at?” Cogsworth demanded suspiciously.

Gaston ignored him. To Mrs. Potts, he said, “have you considered locking them both in a cupboard for a few nights?”

The teapot’s laugh was oddly whistle-y, but not unpleasant. “If only I could.”

“You’re not locking me in a cupboard with anyone!” Cogsworth gasped. Horrified. “What exactly would that solve? I can barely tolerate his presence with other people around!”

Lumiere, notably, made no attempt to agree nor disagree.

“I sleep in a cupboard,” Chip informed them.

Gaston was about to make another snide comment when a rumbling roar tore through the odd kind of peace that the library, good food, and unexpectedly nice company had created. Belle immediately lurched to her feet. Her book hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

“Is that him?” she squeaked. “Oh no. Are we not supposed to be in here?”

“Of course we can be here,” Lumiere assured her easily, but he hopped down from his perch on the table anyway. “Cogsworth?”

“Way ahead of you,” the clock called back. He was already half-way across the room.

“Do not concern yourself, mademoiselle. We’ll be back in just a moment!” the candelabra assured her.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Potts sighed. “Come along, Chip. Let’s get you back to the kitchen and cleaned up.”

“Aw mom, I want to keep talking to the pretty lady!”

Mrs. Potts ignored his whining and turned towards the two of them. “Please,” she said, “stay here until Lumiere and Cogsworth return.” And while she was addressing the both of them, Gaston was almost certain she was speaking to him specifically. “Nothing good can come of this if you don’t. For any of us.” She wheeled out of the library with Chip and their empty plates. The doors closed behind them. Both he and Belle stood in silence for several breaths.

“Well, now I have to see what’s going on,” he said.

“But Mrs. Potts. . .”

“Belle, no matter how nice these people are to us, we’re prisoners. As the stronger and more manly of the two of us—” he saw Belle about to protest and plowed ahead more loudly— “it is my duty to protect you.”

“What if you get hurt? Then there won’t be anyone to protect me,” she pointed out.

Appealing to his ego. Clever. “I wrangled that monster once before. I’m fairly confident in my ability to do so again if necessary.” Especially if said monster shifted into a man every time.

The woman twisted her hands nervously before nodding. “Fine. But be careful. Please.”

Gaston reached out and squeezed her hand before crossing the library and pausing just behind the doors. He’d done his fair share of sneaking around in his lifetime. Due to his particular taste in partners and the lingering backwards views common in rural France, discretion was an unfortunate but unavoidable skill. He pressed his ear against the door first. The voices were almost too faint to hear and sounded like they were coming from further down the hallway. He pushed the door open as quietly as he could and peered in the direction of the voices. They were around the corner.

Perfect.

He slipped out into the hallway and moved as noiselessly as possible towards the corner, focusing hard on keeping his breathing soft and even. When he reached the end of the hall, he paused.

“. . .not a good idea.” Lumiere.

“This isn’t a request!” the beast snarled in the same low, vibrating tenor Gaston remembered from when he first entered the dungeons. “They will join me for dinner!”

“But sire,” Cogsworth’s voice was an octave higher than usual. “You aren’t feeling well. You should go back to your room and rest until you’re more yourself.”

“He’s is right,” Mrs. Potts said sternly. “You are in no fit state for company.”

“This woman could be the one to break the spell!” Lumiere added. “But if you scare her half to death. . .”

He was interrupted with another guttural roar that made Gaston flinch. His fear and adrenaline sharpened his focus. He licked his lips before pressing his hand to his mouth. He risked a peak down the hallway.

The beast was on all fours in the middle of a ring of enchanted furniture, most of whom Gaston recognized from their scuffle in the dungeons last night. They were very obviously barricading the beast’s path down the hall. Meanwhile the beast paced in a tight circle, his whole body quivering with barely-contained rage.

“Please, master,” Lumiere spoke calmly despite the beast’s anger. “Remember the plan! We must win her over!”

“Perhaps if you give her the library. . .” Cogsworth said in an obviously desperate attempt of persuasiveness.

“Excellent idea, mon ami!” Lumiere said brightly. “She loves to read as much as you, sire. If that isn’t a basis for true love, I don’t know what is!”

“How could he give her a library that’s in his own castle?” a feather duster asked doubtfully. “I mean, it wouldn’t actually be hers.”

“It’s the symbolism, Plumette my love,” Lumiere replied patiently. “Master, if you fall in love with her and she falls in love with you, the spell will be broken!”

Gaston’s stomach plummeted from somewhere higher than those library shelves. He didn’t hear what was said next. The words Belle, love, and spell echoed too loudly in his mind.

Belle, who wasn’t comfortable with most men, let alone one who could transform into a monster.

Belle, who wouldn’t marry him because she believed they both deserved real partners.

Belle, who only liked romance in her books.

“Oh fuck no,” he whispered so quietly it was barely audible to his own ears.

And so he was horrified when he saw the beast’s ears prick up, saw him lift his snout into the air and take a few long inhales. Gaston moved away from the corner and pressed his back to the wall.

“He’s right there,” the beast said in a voice somehow even more savage than before, “I have to. I have to.”

“I’m so sorry, sire,” Cogsworth said then, “but this is for the best.”

A beat of silence, and then a roar of anger followed by the sound of something very large and heavy hitting the stone floor.

“Thank you, Chapeau,” Cogsworth’s voice was heavy with sorrow.

“No problem, boss. Don’t have much of this stuff left, though. Maybe enough for one more shot?”

Gaston breathed through his fear with the ease of someone who had experience doing so. He stole a final glance around the corner again. The beast was slumped on the floor, apparently unconscious. The coatrack was standing behind him holding a syringe.

They drugged the bastard.

Gaston didn’t wait to hear anything more. He moved as quickly as he could back to the library. As soon as he closed the doors behind him, he treated Belle with a grim smile. “We’re getting out of here. Tonight.”

Chapter 6: The Beast

In the beginning, the beast form was merely an alteration of his physical features. The enchantress cursed him to be a cat-wolf-bear hybrid, which, while unfortunate, didn’t necessarily make him a danger to anyone. Had he selfishly mourned his human features for the first year-and-a-half? Yes. Had he wondered why, if beauty was the object of this curse, she decided to turn him into an animal instead of simply making him less attractive to the eyes of conventional society? Also yes. 

If he knew then what he knew now, that the beast form would shift more than just his appearance, he would’ve put up notices around half the villages in France in search for a woman with very unique tastes. He would’ve kept it polite. A nice introductory spot of tea. A historic tour of his super-creepy gothic castle. A promise that, yes, he would return to human form upon the curse’s end and, yes, he would save all sexual advances until after that point.

Someone, surely, would’ve answered such an invitation over the course of a decade. But he didn’t know then what he knew now. He couldn’t turn back the hands of time and persuade his sixteen-year-old self to stop playing the role of a useless, tragic romantic hero and settle for a more practical approach. He didn’t realize the beast form was affecting him, his internal thoughts and emotions, until he was seven years into his exile. 

At first, it was just mood disturbances. A few angry outbursts. It progressed to oddly animalistic intrusive thoughts. 

I should murder that bird and eat its entrails. 

I should shred these curtains. They look exceptionally shred-able. 

I should lick myself clean instead of using soap like a normal fucking person. 

Those intrusive thoughts progressed to impulses, which progressed further to strong urges. Eventually these urges were so powerful that he had to prioritize which ones he was going to ignore and which ones he could stomach giving into. He would gladly shred curtains if it meant he had enough self-control left not to lick himself an hour later. 

With every fallen petal, he lost more and more of his humanity. 

Eventually, he forgot his name. Eventually, so did everyone else. 

Now he wasn’t simply influenced by his beast form; it took the reins right out of his hands. He tried to describe the phenomenon to Lumiere and Cogsworth once with little success. 

“It’s like I’m daydreaming, except I know I’m not actually daydreaming and I have no control over said daydream. The whole time I’m screaming ‘NO STOP DON’T DO THAT!’ to my own self but the dream doesn’t change.” 

Recently, he’d been able to hear the beast form’s thoughts, as if it was forming a consciousness entirely separate from his own. 

“Hungry,” the beast form would say.

“We’re eating dinner in an hour.”

“Hungry NOW.”

“Too bad.”

“FEED ME OR I’LL MAKE YOU LICK YOUR BALLS.”

It was a nightmare, but it was his own, private nightmare. He told himself that he could suffer Hell if he was the only one burning alive. But earlier this year, the beast form caused him to fly into such a rage over his plate being set on a table instead of the floor that he broke an arm off of Chapeau’s coat rack. It became necessary to have safety measures in place. After he’d regained control of himself, he, Lumiere, and Cogsworth researched sedatives that would work on large animals. It’d been grim work, and they all agreed to only use them when necessary, but it helped him sleep at night. He’d been drugged three times this month already. A new record. And tonight had been the worst to date.

“He’s right there,” he heard himself growl even though he hadn’t been the one to speak. “I have to. I have to.”

While the others didn’t realize Gaston was spying around the corner, the beast form did. The plan it made for what it was going to do to him if given the opportunity was the most horrific thing the beast had ever imagined doing to any human being. Perhaps he should’ve seen it coming. The beast form knew Gaston had the power to turn him back into his human form, even briefly, and it was not happy about it. In fact, it was so not happy about it that it was going to rip out his throat the first chance it got. 

“Stop! Stop, for the love of God, this man has done nothing!”

When, of course, the beast form ignored him, he started screaming internally at Cogsworth and the others instead. “DRUG ME! STICK ME IN THE ASS BEFORE I MURDER SOMEONE!”

Finally his prayer was answered. The sharp sting of a needle, and then he slipped into merciful black nothingness.

Now he was lying in what was left of his shredded bed in the West Wing wondering vaguely how long he’d been out and congratulating himself on his narrow escape. He tried not to think about how he got there (most likely they shoved him into the wardrobe again), or what would’ve happened if they hadn’t made those emergency sedatives. He remembered Chapeau saying they were nearly out, and he had no real idea of how he was going to restock. Most of what they used came from the castle infirmary, which was already sorely lacking basic medical supplies. Thankfully, the others didn’t experience illness or bodily injury as furniture and trinkets, so he’d been the only one using them. The enchantress’s magic kept the pantries stocked with food and the barrels filled with water, but it didn’t replace any other supplies. 

He snorted a sigh and tested his reflexes by gingerly pushing himself upright. The room was dark, which meant it had to be past nightfall. He’d been out longer than he estimated. Hopefully he still had a few more hours of full control over himself. The sedative wore off gradually, and he usually regained consciousness well before the beast form did. He needed to talk to the others about restocking the sedatives, and he should probably tell them about the now dangerous revelation that one of their guests could turn him human again. 

He grunted as he pushed himself out of bed. The floor tipped under his paws and he lowered himself onto all fours. The cost of the sedative lingering in his system was that his senses were muddied and he was clumsier during that time. 

A small price to pay. 

In fact, since they needed a restock anyway, perhaps they could adjust the dose this time so that the beast form would be too drugged to overwhelm him but he could remain mostly conscious as well. He doubted it was healthy to be in a more or less permanently drugged state, but if it kept the castle safe and gave him some peace of mind. . .

He heard it first. 

A soft rustle of fabric. 

A scuff of shoes against stone. 

His ears pricked up as he tried to locate where the sound was coming from. In his room, he knew that much, but he was still under the aftereffects of the drug and couldn’t tell exactly where. He thought it might be in the direction of his door. He turned slowly and inhaled through his nose. 

If he was in human form, he would’ve groaned in dismay. But he wasn’t in human form, and before he could check himself, he let out a high, wolfish whine instead. 

He would be able to place that scent even if he was half-dead.

“I know you’re there,” he said and tried very hard to sound non-threatening. But he was a four-hundred pound animal with fangs and a voice that was more growl than speech. He doubted it made any difference. “You saw what happened in the hallway. Why did you come here?”

No answer. The beast strained his ears before slowly shifting his weight and moving in the direction of the door. 

“It isn’t safe for you to be here,” he continued speaking. Pleading, really, though it didn’t sound like it. “I’m fine now, but when the rest of this drug wears off, I might not be able to control. . .” He snorted again, this time in frustration. 

How was he supposed to explain to this complete stranger that the angry, murderous monster he witnessed in the hallway wasn’t actually him? Well, it was him. Technically. But it was only one part of him, which didn’t sound particularly reassuring even to himself. And while he had reason to keep the woman’s father--and now the woman herself--captive, he really had no justification for locking this man up. He was in the castle against his will, and whether the beast gave him a nice room or a cell, he was a prisoner all the same.

“Look, after what happened today, I relinquish you.” His stomach clenched unpleasantly at those words. He didn’t want him to go, not before he had a chance to figure out why he could reverse an exceptionally powerful curse. Not before he had a chance to feel like himself again, one more time. He pushed that feeling down. Selfishness was what put him in this Hell in the first place. 

“You may leave. I will tell the others not to stop you.” 

Still there was no answer. The beast crept towards the door again, still on all fours, ears alert. If the man had slipped out of his room without notice and managed to not only figure out where he was sleeping but also get past the lock on his door, there was no chance he was here by accident. Probably he intended to kill him while he was drugged. That would be the smart move. The man he met in the dungeons did not strike him as a fool. He’d also been wearing a soldier’s uniform, which meant he’d likely killed people before. 

Perhaps he should feel more alarmed. He wasn’t sure what was more responsible for the apathy; that he was a monster three times this man’s size, or that he would welcome death. He would be dead already if not for his friends. If he died, there was no hope for them. They would be furniture and trinkets forever. 

“I regret to add that if you’re here to kill me, I will have to put up a fight,” he said into the silent room. “It’s not that I wouldn’t appreciate the deliverance death would bring, but I have friends who are counting on me. I would’ve jumped from the tower years ag--”

A hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind him--somehow the man had managed to sneak all the way around his room without him hearing a thing, which was both a credit to the other man’s skill and the drug’s powerful effects on his senses. 

The transformation was instant. One moment he was a four-hundred pound wall of fur and muscle, and the next he was crouching on his hands and knees on the cold stone floor. He yelped when he was pulled sharply backward, and the surprise of it, along with his impaired reflexes, prevented him from putting up any significant resistance. Strong hands yanked him up onto his feet by his arms and he tried desperately to regain his balance so he could fight back. Run. Something. 

But when the other man’s vice-like arm locked around his waist, pressing his back against him, the beast realized that even fully sober he would’ve posed no challenge to this man. He doubted there were many who could. 

“Go on.” The man’s breath was hot against his cheek but his tone could’ve frozen Hell itself over. “Fight back.” He lifted the hand that wasn’t currently digging into his abdomen up to his neck. 

The beast’s mind raced for an excuse, something that would convince this man not to suffocate him where he stood. Terror made his throat dry and his blood race but it didn’t wake the beast. Apparently, as long as this man was touching him, no emotion or physical danger could transform him back. 

Perhaps he should just enjoy the last precious seconds of his human existence. He was more of a danger to his friends now, anyway. They would be objects for eternity, but at least they wouldn’t live in fear of him. 

The thought was more painful than he expected, and he was startled when he felt tears slip down his cheeks. Maybe he had learned something over the last decade and was no longer as heartless as he’d once been. 

“My friends,” was all he managed to squeak out. “They’ll be cursed forever if you kill me now.” 

The man hummed. Almost thoughtfully. Almost. “Your friends, or my friend. It’s a hard choice, deciding whose innocent lives you save and whose you condemn.” The hand around his neck tightened. “But I’ve made that choice before, and I’ll make it again.” 

It was getting very hard to breathe. The pressure on his throat made speaking nearly impossible. “She’s only here because. . . of the rose. I would. . . let her go too if I. . .” The beast’s vision was turning gray at the edges and he felt more tears pricking in his eyes. His hands instinctively clawed at the man’s wrist and fingers. Desperate. Just when he was certain he was going unconscious from lack of air, the hand at his throat loosened just enough. He gasped—every inhale felt like fire in his throat. 

“Do you intend to torture me first?” he rasped. “I know it isn’t fair that I kept you here against your will, and even less fair that the faeries are so senselessly violent they would condemn that woman’s father over a flower, but I haven’t been cruel. If you’re going to kill me,” he added between more lungfuls of air, “then just do it.” His chest heaved and he coughed so violently he thought he might throw up. 

Gaston didn’t answer. 

The beast heaved a few more breaths. “Do it,” he said more angrily, now fully convinced the man was going to prolong his death out of some sick enjoyment. “I haven’t been myself in,” he swallowed painfully, “over ten years. Kill me now and at least I’ll never have to be in that monstrous form again.”

The arm around his waist tightened, but the voice in his ear was much less murderous than it’d been a moment ago. He sounded almost offended. “You’re trying to trick me.”

The beast laughed. Or tried to, anyway. His throat was raw and his lungs were still heaving breaths and what came out was half-wheeze half-choke. “The only reason I haven’t jumped out of this tower window of my own free will is because I thought there was a chance I could save the others.”

“By seducing my friend!” the other man hissed angrily. His hand at his throat twitched as if it was taking all of his control not to suffocate him now.

“She has to fall in love with me for the spell to break,” the beast replied incredulously. “I can’t seduce her.” As if he could seduce anyone. 

Whatever he’d been before the curse, he wasn’t capable of such manipulation now. The years of solitude and suffering had stolen any charm or vanity he may have once had. He didn’t remember his life before the enchantment, part of the way the magic worked, but he’d been barely sixteen when the enchantress punished him. He doubted he was old enough to seduce anyone.

“She doesn’t want anything to do with you,” Gaston spat. “She’s. . .” he paused, whether in respect for his friend’s privacy or for some other reason, the beast didn’t know. “She won’t break your spell,” he finished firmly. 

“I believe you. I mean, you know her better than I do.” The beast really wasn’t sure where this discussion was going, or why the man hadn’t killed him yet. “Like I said, I’m only keeping her here because her father cut a rose from the faeries’ bushes.”

“What?” 

“The Folk. I had to sentence that old man or they would’ve done far worse. Cutting their flowers is a death sentence if the Folk are the ones dealing the punishment.”

Another long beat of silence.

“I told you that,” the beast added more slowly. Confused. “In the dungeon. And again just a minute ago.”

When Gaston still didn’t answer, the beast realized the problem himself. “Hell’s teeth,” he breathed. “You didn’t believe me. You’re not here to kill me, not unless you have to. You’re here to stall while she escapes.” The beast swore again, more colorfully this time, and wrenched at the man’s grip on him for an entirely new reason. 

“You have to let me go!” He tried to twist in the other man’s arms and catch a glimpse of his expression. “She’s in danger. Real danger. We have to find her before it’s too late.”

“No.” But the beast noticed he sounded a lot less confident than before. “I don’t trust you. You’re lying!”

“For God’s sake she’s going to get her throat torn out by wolves!”

“Wolves?”

“Well, faerie wolves. Guardians of the forest. They’re half wolf half—” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Surely you heard them on your journey to this cursed place. Just let go of me.”

And miracle of all miracles, he did. The beast was almost grateful for the transformation this time. The pain in his throat all but disappeared, courtesy of growing a very large amount of muscle there, and he could breathe properly again. “Which way did she run?” 

“East,” he whispered, and the beast could finally see the other man’s face. He looked hollow-eyed. Haunted. “On horseback.”

“Of course she is,” he growled. Why wouldn’t she be? Why would anything ever be easy? “I’ll rescue your friend. Then maybe you’ll believe that I’m not trying to hurt anyone and stop hunting me in my own room.”

Gaston’s eyes widened. “I’m not letting you go alone!”

But the beast was already lumbering out of the room and into the hallway, only bumping into a few walls as he did. Still feeling the effects of the drug. Not good if he had to fight a whole wolfpack of faerie guardians. 

“Master!” he heard Lumiere call after him when he reached the front doors. “The girl! She’s escaped!”

“Where in God’s name do you think I’m going? On an evening stroll?” 

And he disappeared into the night. 

Chapter 7: Gaston

There was no way in hell Gaston was going to rely on some monstrous, half-drugged shapeshifting kidnapper to rescue Belle—even if said kidnapping beast seemed less violent than before. Gaston assumed that the drugs were responsible for the monster’s sudden docility. Who knew how long those drugs would last. The beast himself had hinted that it might not be very long.

Removing him as a threat entirely had been Gaston’s intention; sneaking out of his room, prowling the halls until he located the west wing, picking the lock on the door, and moving expertly into position. The job should’ve been easy after that. Silent. No one would’ve realized what happened until the morning, possibly later if Gaston chucked the body out of the tower window afterward. 

But the lack of violence from the beast was the problem. 

Gaston didn’t object to killing people by principle. It was simply that all of the people he’d ever killed had either been charging at him with a sword, pointing an arrow in his face, or threatening to murder his comrades. 

In his human form, the beast was nothing like the men Gaston had slain in battle. He was all graceful limbs and unblemished skin and slender hands. His voice was too soft, his pleas too earnest, and his fear too convincing. Gaston was certain killing him would be less like self-preservation and more like shredding butterfly wings or shattering stained glass or shitting on the work of a talented artist. 

Even worse was the unexpected and wildly inappropriate feeling that the only threats of bodily harm he should be making to this man were of the consenting kind. 

Gaston didn’t believe any consensual sexual practices were more or less virtuous than any others, but he’d never been aroused by holding the enemy in a death grip before.

The other man didn’t even have enough courtesy to beg for his own life. 

“I would’ve jumped from the tower years ago.”

A trick. It was all a trick. It had to be. 

Gaston’s inexplicably protective feelings over the shapeshifter were a result of magic playing with his emotions the way it’d been playing with his memories since the moment he stepped into this castle. The longer he stayed here, the more power he feared it was going to have over him. But now Belle’s life was in danger, and he couldn’t shift into a deadly predator to save her. He needed his horse. And his weapon.

“Absolutely not!” Cogsworth declared with a sniff. Gaston had found both clock and candle watching the window in the foyer and murmuring nervously to each other. “We do not give weapons to our prisoners!”

“We’ve never had prisoners,” Lumiere muttered and hopped down from the windowsill. 

“Where are you going?” Cogsworth demanded. 

“To get this man his bow.”

“But the master—”

“Just charged into the woods in the middle of the night to rescue the woman from Guardians,” Lumiere finished curtly. “If you can think of a better person in this castle who can help the master fight those, please speak up now.”

Cogsworth went notably very, very quiet, and Gaston knew that the faerie monsters, at least, were not a lie.

“I do not know much of your character, monsieur,” Lumiere said when he unlocked a hidden closet door in the stairs. “I do know your allegiance is to the girl. But if you can bring the master home alive as well, we would all be in your debt.”

Gaston was already reaching for the confiscated bow and quiver hanging on a peg nailed into the wall. He was relieved to see nothing was damaged and all of his arrows were accounted for. Six total. He hoped six would be enough. 

“He told me if he dies, you will be a candelabra forever,” Gaston replied while hastily strapping both bow and quiver to his back. They were wasting precious time here.

“Well, yes. But he is first and foremost my friend, and I would sooner spend eternity in this form than see him dead.”

Gaston blinked down at him. He had no face, and therefore there was no real way for Gaston to judge the feeling behind those words. Somehow he judged them anyway. “As would I for mine,” he replied gruffly. 

“Oh dear,” Gaston heard Cogsworth say as he crossed the foyer for the door. “He’s not going to save him, is he?”

“We will find out soon enough, I think,” Lumiere replied sadly.

The clock was right. Gaston thought the best-case scenario in this situation was for he and Belle to make their escape while the fae were busy unleashing their vengeance on the castle and the one who owned it. Gaston would take them both far away from these woods. Perhaps they would steal onto a boat. Make a life in a new country somewhere no one could ever find them. 

These were the nature of his thoughts as he hurriedly strapped on Noir’s saddle, hoisted himself onto her back, and kicked her hard in the direction of the woods. She galloped at nearly top-speed and he ducked low to avoid snaring branches and tangling spiderwebs. 

He didn’t have to steer Noir. She was a proper warhorse, the best he’d ever owned, and she knew how to fly into the face of battle as well as he did. 

In a very real way, neither of them had ever left it.

They were close enough now that Gaston could hear howling from the path ahead even over Noir’s snorting and pounding hooves. They didn’t sound like any wolves he’d ever heard before, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed that when they were searching this same damned patch of trees for Belle’s father not even twenty-four hours ago. These howls were much too high-pitched and they were frequently interrupted by odd clicking noises. Almost chirp-like.

When the beast said they were hybrid wolves, Gaston had imagined a pack of monsters that looked almost exactly like him. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the truth. 

The fight was taking place in a small clearing—the very one Gaston had told Belle to wait near. It wasn’t too far from the castle grounds (he hadn’t wanted her to go too deep into the woods alone) but it had enough low-hanging branches to use as cover in case of pursuit. He yanked Noir’s reins taut and wasted several precious seconds comprehending what he was seeing. 

His eyes found Belle first. The woman was wielding a large branch that was thicker around than both of her arms. She batted clumsily at one of the wolf-like creatures that was trying to attack her from above. 

The Guardians, servants of the fae, were monsters with long wings and spotted, owl-like feathers. They had the body of a small wolf (perhaps more coyote or fox-sized), sharp teeth protruded out of one mouth, and above it, where its nose should’ve been, was a beak. 

Gaston was just reaching for his bow to shoot the thing down when he heard the beast snarl and roar to his right. His head whipped around and he counted no less than five of the wolf-bird creatures circling him from above and one snapping at his ankles on the ground.

The beast had no weapons but his own teeth and claws. The sounds made by their fight was a Hellish cacophony of otherworldly noise. 

Gaston didn’t have to see any more to launch into action. These were the moments where he functioned best. Danger itself was not something he craved; only the familiarity of it. In moments of life-or-death, the answers were brutally clear, the steps perfectly logical. 

Knock arrow. 

Pull back. 

Aim between the wings. 

Pause only long enough to breathe through each motion. 

Holding your breath makes you too shaky to aim.

He hissed in triumph when the monster attacking Belle screeched once before plummeting to the forest floor in a shower of feathers. He dismounted and ran towards Belle, already pulling another arrow from his quiver as he did so. 

The woman’s shriek of surprise and terror alerted several of the creatures who’d been distracted by the beast—what they’d assumed was the larger threat. Gaston gritted a tight grin. Five more arrows left, and there were six of those bastards. 

Five.

The beast just slashed one out of mid-air.

Gaston drew a second arrow back. Then another. And another. It wasn’t joy he felt dropping those monsters one-by-one. It felt far too grim to be joyful. But it was something close. Satisfaction, maybe, the kind that came from having a talent and using it effectively, even if that talent wasn’t a particularly happy one. 

Now there were only two faerie monsters left, and the beast was keeping them occupied. It was time to go. 

“Come on,” he said gruffly and took Belle by the wrist. He dragged her towards Noir, who was already snorting in the direction of the path that led deeper into the woods. “Where’s Philippe?”

“Ran off,” the woman said. “Wait.” She dug her heels in and tried to pull her hand back. “Wait!”

Gaston paused long enough to look back at her. 

Belle’s expression was twisted in terror and her chest rose and fell rapidly, but her eyes were fiercer than ever. At some point her hair had come undone from its ribbon. Dark tendrils stuck to her sweaty cheeks and forehead. “Are you crazy? We’re not leaving him!” 

“He’s fine,” Gaston lied. Then again, it might not be a lie. The beast seemed strong enough. Perhaps he would be fine. “He can defend himself. My priority is getting you to safety.”

Belle shook her head and pulled again, this time managing to loosen Gaston’s gloved grip just enough to pry herself free. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. She turned away from him and back towards the clearing. The beast was on the ground, the last two faerie monsters preparing to pounce. 

“Shoot them!” she ordered. 

“Belle, he might just as soon turn on us.”

“Shoot them now!”

Gaston groaned. He had two arrows left, but those animals were close enough that he risked hitting the beast instead. It was too risky.

“Shoot, Gaston!” she shouted. “Shoot or I’m going to tell everyone you bed Antoine in the shed!”

He scowled. “What? Why would you do that?”

“So you’ll leave town and I’ll never have to see your stupid face again!”

Well then. If that was how she wanted to play. 

Gaston pulled his bow back. “If I hit him instead, it will be your fault mademoiselle.”

“You won’t hit him,” she said with a confidence he definitely didn’t share. “Shoot.”

He did.

He didn’t hit the beast. A miracle, really, and Belle didn’t appreciate that enough in his opinion. As soon as the last of the faerie creatures hit the ground, she tore across the clearing and knelt at the beast’s side. 

“He’s hurt! Help me lift him.”

Gaston stood next to her and shook his head. “We can’t take him with us. The village would panic.”

“We’re not taking him to the village.” She undid her cloak and began wrapping the monster’s wounded body. “We’re taking him back to the castle.”

“We are definitely not doing that.”

She tied the cloak with a sharp tug before standing up abruptly and turning to him. “There were twenty.”

Gaston blinked. “What?”

“There were twenty. Swarming above me. One of them got my shoulder.” 

Without her cloak, he could see the tear more clearly now. Her dress was stained with blood that looked almost black in the dark. “You didn’t get here in time. But he did.” 

“There couldn’t have been twenty. There aren’t enough bodies.” But when he looked down pointedly, all of the fallen Guardian’s had disappeared. 

Magic. Damnable magic

“He saved my life. Now you are going to pick him up the way you did before in that tower and take him back to the castle. He’s hurt because of us. Because of you.”

“He’s hurt because he took us captive!” Gaston almost shouted. Incredulous. “Now we need to get out of here before the faeries send more of those winged monsters.”

“I promised to stay in my father’s place, and when I broke my promise, he saved my life.” Belle pointed to the beast still lying at their feet. “But you made no promises. If you want to go, go.” She touched the wound on her shoulder and winced. “Go, Gaston. Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he said firmly. 

“Then help me.”

Gaston looked from Belle’s trembling chin to the beast’s prone body in disbelief.

“Help me,” she said again. Her eyes blurred with tears. “Please. You’re the only friend I have.” 

Shit, was she really playing the friend card now? That was low. Really low. “Friends don’t threaten blackmail, you know,” he muttered, even as he pushed past her and bent down to inspect the beast more closely. 

“They do when they’re being cowards.”

“I am not a coward,” he huffed indignantly. “I simply have better self-preservation instincts than you do.”

Belle’s smile was relieved. “Can you lift him?”

“Yes I can lift him. I eat five dozen eggs every morning, remember?” He was satisfied when that comment earned a high and rather shaky laugh. “Now stop asking silly questions and bring Noir over here.”

Once her back was turned, Gaston touched the beast’s arm. He shifted back into a man even half-conscious. Angry-looking scratches oozed blood down his cheeks, across his bare chest (and likely lower if Gaston felt inclined to look). His tangle of shoulder-length reddish-brown curls looked even wilder spilling across the forest floor than they had inside the dull light of the castle.

“You’re lucky you look like a fallen fucking angel right now,” Gaston muttered grudgingly, “or I would lie and tell her you were dead already.”

The man’s lids fluttered. “I don’t like you,” he rasped. 

Gaston’s eyes caught on the purple fingerprint bruises along his throat. “I get that a lot. Now let’s be real men and put on a brave show for the women.”

“Just leave me here to die.”

 “Much as I would like to, my best friend is blackmailing me.” Gaston lifted the man as carefully as he could. Considering the awkward angle, it wasn’t as careful as it might’ve been. “Also I have a very pompous clock to prove wrong.”

Chapter 8: The Beast

he ride back to the castle was not a pleasant one. 

After they finally managed to get the beast up onto the saddle of the horse, Gaston and Belle walked next to him while he rode as well as he could in his present condition. Gaston kept a hand around one of his ankles under the guise of preventing him from sliding off the saddle, but the beast knew it was also to keep him in human form. There was simply no way the horse could carry him otherwise. The horse seemed to agree. Clearly the animal trusted Gaston a great deal, because she snorted nervously when he helped him up onto her back. 

“Easy, love,” he heard the other man whisper. “He only looks like a monster right now. I know you hate magic as much as I do, but I promise he’ll ride like a man.” The horse huffed and shifted its weight nervously but didn’t throw him. 

“How can Noir carry him like that?” Belle demanded. So she still didn't see his human form, and Gaston hadn’t told her. If the beast wasn’t so goddamned tired, he might’ve wondered why.

“She’s a strong horse,” Gaston said vaguely.

Not two minutes down the road and he was already sliding. He was too exhausted, and his whole body hurt, and he hadn’t ridden a horse in a decade. How cruel it was indeed that the last two times he’d been in his human form he’d been in too much pain to properly enjoy them.

“We’re not even half-way there,” Gaston grumbled after the beast nearly fell off the horse. Twice. He looked at Belle’s arm worriedly. “We can’t keep stopping.”

“He’s hurt,” Belle said with more sympathy. “It’s a miracle he can ride at all.”

“Yeah, a miracle,” Gaston replied dryly. Then, without warning, he removed the beast’s foot from one of the stirrups and swung himself up behind him. 

“There’s no way Noir can carry both of you,” Belle squeaked. 

“Has it occurred to you,” Gaston huffed, adjusting himself so that one arm was clamped around his waist to hold him in place and the other reached around him for the reins, “that this monster is mostly fur and not actually as big and heavy as he seems?”

“No,” Belle said doubtfully. But when the horse appeared to have no issues carrying both of them, she fell silent. 

The beast was relieved that he didn’t have to try as hard to stay upright, and while he didn’t like the idea of being back in the arms of the man who had nearly strangled him and then wanted to leave him for dead, he saw no better alternative.

Eventually he must’ve dozed off, because a low voice in his ear was telling him none-too-gently to wake up. He opened his eyes just in time to suffer being lifted out of the saddle and into the other man’s arms like a child. 

“Is he still alive?” he heard Belle ask worriedly.

“If he wasn’t, do you think I would still be carrying him?” Gaston replied, and the beast heard his voice rumbling in his chest against his cheek. The man clearly hadn’t changed clothes since he arrived. He smelled like sweat and something oddly fruity. Wine, maybe? If he was still in his beast form, he would recognize it immediately. Funny. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a human nose.

As soon as they entered the castle, they were swarmed with furniture and small objects. 

“I just knew you would save him!” Lumiere cried as soon as Gaston set him down on the chair in front of the fireplace. 

The beast made an involuntary noise of distress and automatically reached out, snagging the other man’s wrist before he could move too far away. He wasn’t ready to turn back. Not yet. 

“I only did it to spite the clock,” Gaston replied, and the beast didn’t hear Cogsworth’s response. He was too busy feeling relieved that Gaston hadn’t pulled away from his grasp yet. 

Someone lit a fire, and the beast allowed the warmth of the room and the murmuring voices of his friends lull him back to sleep. He only awoke when someone patted antiseptic on his face and chest. He hissed in pain and opened his eyes to see Chapeau and Cogsworth leaning over him. 

But no one seemed to notice he was still hanging onto Gaston’s wrist until he’d nearly fallen asleep yet again. He heard someone—Mrs. Potts—ask, “would you like a chair, dear? Or we could try to make him let go.”

“A chair would be just fine, madame,” Gaston replied. “Thank you.” 

The next time the beast woke, he was in his bed in the west wing, and he was still human.

“Oh good. You’re awake. Are you by chance ready to let go of me? I’ve been sitting here for quite a while and I would like to bathe and eat at some point.”

The beast instantly let go, and the transformation hit him so hard that it took a few moments to catch his breath. He opened his eyes and squinted at the man sitting next to his bed with a book in his lap and an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Where are the others?” he asked first.

“In the dining room. Apparently they’re putting on quite the show. I can hear the singing from here. I’m sure Belle loves it.”

The beast snorted and strained his own ears. He could hear them, too. “They do love to put on a show,” he grumbled. Then, with more uncertainty, “how long have I been asleep?”

“All morning and most of the afternoon.”

The beast frowned. But that was hours. “You’ve been sitting here that whole time?”

“Well, you didn’t let go,” Gaston replied shortly. 

And for a moment the beast thought saving his life might’ve changed this man in some way. It certainly didn’t make up for the almost strangling and how he’d fully intended to leave him for dead, but it was proof the man wasn’t entirely out to murder him. 

“You’re less of a threat when you’re within my reach,” Gaston added bluntly. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to hurt anyone now that we’re back.”

The beast ground his teeth against a more unpleasant response. Of course that was the reason. He didn’t trust him. Why would he? “I only saved your friend’s life.”

“Because you need her to break your spell.”

“I told you,” the beast said more angrily, “I can’t make people fall in love against their will! That’s not how this works.”

“I would believe you, except the only way Belle has any chance of falling for any man, ever, would be if he very heroically saved her life and had an enormous library.”

The beast just stared at him in mute disbelief. Gaston frowned and took his wrist this time. “You’re really quite hideous in that form, you know.”

“Fantastic,” he said dryly. “We’ve finally found something we can both agree on.” 

Gaston scooted closer, searching his face the way a person might look at an animal in a circus. “So it’s involuntary, then. The shifting.”

“Why do you think I held your hand even when I slept? Because I’m lonely?”

Gaston’s brows rose, but his lips tugged at the corners for a reason the beast didn’t understand and frankly didn’t care to. Gaston told him anyway. “I’m gathering that you don’t enjoy being in the beast form. In fact, you dislike it so much that you’re willing to cling to a man you said you didn’t like and clearly don’t trust.” Gaston’s smile was positively villainous. He let go of his hand. “In that case, I won’t touch you again unless you promise to find a way to shorten Belle’s sentence.”

The beast gaped at him. “You. . .” he swallowed down his disbelief and horror. “You can’t do that.”

Gaston shrugged. “You tipped your hand. I’m just playing to win.”

“This isn’t a game,” the beast growled. “This is so much more serious than you know! Not just for me, but also for your friend!”

Gaston’s dark brows pulled over his eyes and he snatched his hand again. The world tipped and the beast felt his stomach lurch alarmingly. “If you keep doing that,” he protested, “I’m going to be sick. All of this shifting is making me dizzy.”

“I can’t tell if you’re bluffing when you’re a monster,” the man protested defensively. 

“Of course. Obviously you’re a gambler.” The beast wrinkled his nose in distaste. 

Gaston leaned back in his chair without letting go of his hand, an impossibly smug, and even more impossibly aggravating smile on his face. “I’m also a soldier, which makes me a trained killer. You can add that to my list of objectionable qualities. Oh, and I sleep with men. Does that disgust you as well?”

“No,” the beast replied coldly. “If that’s a vice, then it’s one I’m also guilty of desiring on occasion. And I don’t make a habit of condemning people who kill in service to their country, either.”

The two men glared at each other. Gaston’s face was a labyrinth of mistrust and suspicion and hostility. Of all the people who could affect his spell, why did it have to be this one? He clearly hated him, and not even saving his friend’s life was enough to earn his trust. It was hopeless.

“Fine,” Gaston said at last. “Tell me.”

The beast frowned. “Tell you what, how many men I’ve slept with? I don’t know. The spell stole most of my memories, and I was barely sixteen when I was locked in here. . .”

“I don’t care if you slept with your goddamned father,” Gaston snarled. “That isn’t what I’m asking.”

“What are you asking then?” The beast snarled back. 

“The spell, Adam! Tell me about the spell! You said this is more complicated than I know, so I’m asking you to explain it to me.”

The beast froze. “What did you say?”

Gaston looked like he was only a breath away from dissolving into expletives. Or throwing him across the room. He probably could throw him across the room. If he did, would he transform back into the beast mid-flight?

“I didn’t say anything! I’m asking you to tell me what the fuck is going on here!”

The beast shook his head slowly. His breath was trapped in his throat and his pulse was racing in his ears, making it difficult to hear his words.  “No. No, what did you call me?”

Gaston scowled. “Call you? I called you. . .” He paused for only a breath. Half of a breath, even. The beast noticed it anyway. “I called you Adam. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

He felt suddenly like he was transforming again, even though he could see Gaston’s hand still gripping his. The world contracted around him and his limbs felt momentarily disconnected from his body. “Yes,” he whispered. “How did you know that?”

“Lumiere told me while you were asleep. What does it matter?”

What did it matter? What did it matter? Not only did the beast know the man was lying, everyone in the castle had forgotten his name years ago, but he clearly was hiding something else. He had to be. “Who are you?” the beast asked now. 

“I already told you. I’m Gaston. Despicable gambler, ex-soldier, and ass fucker. What more do you need to know?”

The beast had lost what little remained of his patience. “First you can turn me human and now you somehow know my name? Do you really not have any idea how or why?” 

“I. . .” Gaston looked from him to their joined hands and back again. “No, I don’t. I don’t know why I know these things. I don’t know why I can turn you back.”

“Are you a sorcerer?”

Gaston’s eyes widened. “What? Of course not. I hate magic. I didn’t even know you were under a spell until the teapot told me!”

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You tried to kill me. Twice.”

Gaston’s gaze flickered briefly to his neck before meeting his eyes again. “If I really wanted to kill you, I would’ve done so already. I’ve had plenty of opportunities. We’re alone up here,” he added, “I could kill you now.” 

“Yes, so why aren’t you? You nearly strangled me the last time we were alone together. You wanted to leave me to bleed to death in a forest after I saved your friend.” The beast tried to pull his hand back again, but Gaston’s grip was too tight. “The answer must be that you want to keep me as a beast until that last petal falls. You’re here to torment me.” The possibility hit him square in the chest and stole the remaining breath from his lungs. “You’re here to give me everything—my form, my mind, my name—just so you can take it away and sell it back to me for a price.”

“What?” Gaston’s cheeks were paler than they’d been a moment ago.

“Of course,” the beast whispered. “You know I would do damn near anything to prevent the beast form from hurting my friends. What better way to take your revenge than to make me a slave to your every whim? With that kind of power, you could make me do anything, give you anything, tell you anything. I won’t be able to resist your touch no matter how you choose to deliver it. If you forced me into your bed tonight, there would be no act in service to your pleasure that I wouldn’t gladly perform if it meant I would wake up—”

  “Stop!” Gaston practically shouted. “How dare you suggest that I would. . . I’m no saint, but I’m not a villain, either!” 

“Your first demand was to shorten Belle’s sentence,” the beast replied dully, “even though you know I can’t. I’m simply wondering what impossible thing you’ll ask for next, and how much you’ll enjoy watching me descend into madness trying to achieve it.”

Gaston let go of his hand and rose unsteadily to his feet. He backed away from his bed. His expression was drawn and his eyes were sharper than the arrows he used against the fae’s Guardians. The way he looked in that moment, so powerless and horrified, the beast would’ve thought their positions had been reversed.

“Just what kind of monster do you think I am?” Gaston asked hollowly. And then he turned and slammed the door shut behind him.

It wasn’t until later that the beast noticed the book the man left behind on his chair. 

Candide ou l’Optimisme. 

Chapter 9: Gaston

Gaston never gambled against odds that weren’t already in his favor. How the odds favored him didn’t matter. Or they hadn’t mattered—not in a card game or a tavern brawl or someone else’s war. Not when he was winning over cheaters and drunkards and royal orders. 

Gaston had been very confident in the game he was playing. The discovery that he alone could control the beast’s shifting tipped the odds decidedly in his favor. He took the gamble and played the game the way he always did; by beating his opponent using his own strategy. Gaston could out-cheat a cheater and out-brawl a brawler. He thought he could out-monster a monster as well. 

He was right. 

Only this time, when Gaston played on his odds, it mattered. 

Now he sat alone in a tub of lukewarm water on the floor of his tower room worrying no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the grime the encounter in the West Wing had left on his skin. 

“Just what kind of monster do you think I am?”

The answer was that Gaston was whatever kind of monster he had to be. In this case, he was the kind that strangled people first and asked questions later, the kind that left a man for dead even after he saved his friend’s life, the kind that leveraged that same man’s desperation against an impossible request. 

He’d out-monstered the monster, all right. The problem was that the beast wasn’t nearly monstrous enough. There was a man under those fangs, just as Mrs. Potts claimed. A man near Gaston’s own age. A man he doubted could fight a broomstick if it fell over and struck him across the face. A man who seemed to be as much of a prisoner in this castle as the rest of them.

Gaston subscribed to justice, not virtue, and he knew there was no justice in beating someone at a game they were never playing. He’d made himself a monster to fight a lamb in wolf’s clothes. By the time he realized what he was truly dealing with, it was too late.

Gaston had suffered many looks of disgust and disapproval and fear in his twenty-eight years, but no one had ever looked at him the way Adam had tonight; like he was the one with fangs and horns and claws. Because, in that moment, he was. He thought he’d needed to be in order to protect himself and Belle. 

Every time Gaston had attempted to formulate an explanation in his defense, to prove to this stranger that he wasn’t capable of the kind of cruelty he was suggesting, his eyes had snagged on those purple fingerprints at the other man’s throat. The words wouldn’t come. 

Gaston had felt like a monster—a real one—often enough in his life. He’d felt it at thirteen after his pious father caught him kissing the stablehand. He’d felt it again years later after he killed his first soldier in battle. He still felt it, sometimes, while he was lying in another man’s bed knowing he would be gone in a matter of days or weeks and that hungry emptiness inside of him was no more satisfied than before. 

Perhaps the war and the subsequent years he squandered in bars and barrels and beds had tarnished him beyond polishing. Perhaps Adam was right to fear him; not in the way warriors feared him, or card players, or drunkards, but the way a man feared evil itself. 

Gaston tried to imagine using his leverage the way Adam described and was grimly relieved when the images he conjured in his mind made him feel physically ill. Not a monster, then. Not yet. 

The only way to convince Adam he wasn’t plotting his torture would be to give up his odds. Relinquish the upper hand. He thought it would likely be better for all of them if he did. 

Belle returned from dinner bright-eyed and smiling. “Oh good. You’re clean.” He grunted in reply. “I brought you food.” He grunted again. Belle huffed. “You’re welcome. Now I have to tell you about the dancing dinner plates!”

Gaston had been functioning without sleep for over forty-eight hours, which was likely the only reason he slept that night at all. He was out before Belle could complain about sleeping next to him. He dreamt of singing hairbrushes and dancing books and beds that screamed every time he finally got comfortable enough to fall asleep. When he awoke, it was much later than it should’ve been. He pulled on his clothes that he’d washed last night and was chagrined to discover they were still damp. He’d just opened the curtains to frown out the window at the mid-morning sun when he heard shouting from somewhere outside of their door. 

“What’s happening?” Belle asked groggily from the bed. 

“Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of it.”

“But—”

“Go back to sleep.”

The woman sighed and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head as she did so. Gaston bit back his impulse to tease her about sharing a bed; wasn’t it the perfect preview to their future marriage? Instead he cautiously opened the door and walked out into the hall. He had to turn more than a few corners before he located the source of the commotion.

There, at the top of the grand staircase in the entry hall, was the beast. Another throng of furniture and objects were attempting to corral him, except this time the beast didn’t appear to notice them. He was snorting and growling and slashing at anyone or who got too near. One of the gargoyles perched on the top of the steps was missing its head. Gaston wondered if it’d always been like that or if the poor bastard had been recently decapitated.

“Now what?” Cogsworth was asking Lumiere. “He can’t even hear us!”

“He usually has at least a few days in-between these episodes,” the candelabra complained. 

“A petal dropped last night,” Mrs. Potts said sadly before wheeling sharply to the left to avoid being slashed by the monster’s tail.

A collective groan met this news.

“Can’t be many left now,” Lumiere said with a sigh. 

“If something doesn’t change soon,” Cogsworth began, but paused when the beast stopped pacing and sniffed the air. The monster spun abruptly in Gaston’s direction. There was a moment when their eyes met across the hall, over the furniture and trinkets gathered between them. Gaston searched that gaze for any trace of humanity, but he could find no evidence of the man he spoke to last night. 

This had to be why Adam feared the beast form, why he would do almost anything to escape it; it replaced him with something savage and foreign and entirely out of his control.  

“I’m going to tear your throat out!” the beast snarled at him.

Gaston hummed and crossed his arms. “Good morning to you, too. Having a bad day already, are we?”

“Monsieur!” Lumiere cried. “Go back to your room! Let us handle this.”

“NO,” the beast roared. “I HAVE TO KILL HIM.”

Lumiere muttered a string of curses that made Cogsworth look properly scandalized. “You can’t say that about the master!”

“I can if he’s going to murder our guests!” Lumiere snapped back. 

Gaston ignored them. He kept his attention wholly on the beast. “Alright then, kitten,” he taunted. “Come and get me.”

What happened next was mostly bad luck. The beast lunged for Gaston, who moved so that his back was to the stairs in the opposite direction of the others. Mrs. Potts wheeled her tray past him in an attempt to bar the beast from reaching him, but she misjudged the space. One of her wheels hit the top stair, and then crossed over it into mid-air. 

Gaston had exactly one eye’s-blink to react. He lurched forward and caught the tray just as the beast leapt into the air. He gave the cart a good shove away from the stairs, but there wasn’t enough time to move himself as well. 

The beast crashed into him and they both toppled backwards down the staircase. 

Gaston heard Adam’s anguished shout as they fell and he instinctively twisted so that his own back and shoulders absorbed the worst of the landing. They rolled painfully down several steps before Gaston managed to grab onto one of the pillars holding up the railing with one arm. The other was pressing the man’s head to his chest. He narrowly avoided cracking open his own skull on the corner of the pillar.

For a long moment neither of them moved, they were too stunned and both robbed of breath. Eventually Gaston groaned as pain flared belatedly up his shoulders and spine. He was going to have some truly remarkable bruises from this little stunt.

“Are you hurt?” he asked Adam. He tried to sit up, but that was even more painful and instead pushed himself onto his side. The other man clung to him with trembling hands. Gaston lifted his chin roughly and examined his face, searching for signs of injury. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” Adam whispered. And that was when Gaston noticed the tears streaking down his cheeks. To his credit, he was only taken aback for a moment. He’d been cried on by plenty of men, usually on a battlefield. Occasionally in bed. The stairs were definitely a first. 

“Hey,” he said more quietly so the others wouldn’t overhear, “I took the worst of that fall, which means I get to cry first. And I’m definitely more hurt than you are. Wait your turn.”

Adam pressed his hands to his face before abruptly flinging his arms back around Gaston’s neck. “Don’t let go!” he yelped in panic.

Gaston grunted painfully as the other man’s weight threatened to knock him backward again. “I have my arm around you. You don’t need to tackle me down another flight of steps. Or was the first time so fun that you’d like another go?”

“No,” the man mumbled into his shoulder. “No. It wasn’t fun at all. You should’ve stayed where you were. There was a wall behind you before you moved in front of the stairs.”

Which made Gaston bark a surprised laugh. “Oho, there’s no chance you’re pinning this on me. You were so hell-bent on murdering me that you didn’t even see the people around you. I was scared you might kick the clock half-way down the hall if I didn’t move.” 

“Sometimes I wish I could kick that clock,” the other man muttered.

“Mm,” Gaston hummed his agreement. He lowered his voice even further. “But I fear Lumiere would never forgive you. And I’ve been burned by him before. I wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone—not even my worst enemy, which is obviously you.”

Finally Adam pushed himself upright, maintaining one hand firmly on Gaston’s shoulder. He studied him with an odd expression on his face. Some warring combination of exasperation and disapproval. “Funny,” he said flatly. 

“Was it? Maybe you could laugh.”

“Ha ha,” Adam replied in a monotone. 

Well, at least he wasn’t crying anymore. Gaston pushed himself painfully to his feet. Adam hastened to follow, immediately pressing himself into Gaston’s arms in a way that was somehow both reluctant and absolutely insistent. 

“You could just take my hand,” Gaston suggested. “Unless surface area makes the spell wear off more effectively. Then by all means, hug me all you like.”

“Surface area has nothing to do with it,” Adam replied sharply. “And I’m not hugging you.” 

Despite that assertion, Adam seemed to finally notice just how closely he was clinging to him. His face was half-buried in his chest and the hand that wasn’t still gripping his shoulder had balled the front of his tunic into a fist. Truly, Gaston had kissed men with more space between them than this. At some point a blush had started forming in the other man’s cheeks, rising up from his neck and ending at his ears. His posture sank a few inches, like he hoped the floor would swallow him. The word adorable flashed in Gaston’s mind before he could catch it. 

Not adorable. Cursed shapeshifter. With horns. Not adorable. 

“I choked you, you pushed me down the stairs,” Gaston said as he offered Adam his hand. “I think that makes us even.”

“Nothing about this is even,” he replied flatly. “As we established last night.”

Gaston eyed the congregation of furniture that was now peering down at them and murmuring to each other. He wondered how strange it must’ve been to see Adam’s beast form holding his hand. 

“Yes, well, I’ve been giving that some thought,” Gaston admitted. The sooner he addressed this issue, the better. “Would once a day suffice?”

Adam frowned at him. “What?”

“Once a day.” Gaston gestured to his hand the man was holding. “Maybe right in the morning, since that seems to be the most difficult for you? Do you think we need to time it? I’m sure Cogsworth would agree to keep track for you.”

Before Adam could answer, both clock and candle were hopping down the steps to meet them. “Master! Master, are you alright?”

“Fine.” Adam shot Gaston another unreadable look before turning his attention to his friends. “Just a bit banged up.”

“I think my leg is broken,” Gaston announced. With drama. He was hurt that no one seemed worried about his condition. They weren’t congratulating him on his selfless rescue, either. Really, where was Belle when he needed her?

“It is not,” Adam argued coldly. 

“How do you know?”

“Because you stood up just fine a moment ago.”

Gaston snorted. “Well, I do have famously high pain tolerance.”

“Fall down the stairs often, do you?” Adam asked in a tone that in no way invited him to answer. “Try looking where you’re going. It’s a skill I’m sure men like you could use practice in.”

“Men like me?” 

“Large, bumbling, brutes, yes.”

Gaston gaped at him. “Coming from a man who can shift into an actual beast!”

“My beast form is more agile than you could ever be.”

Gaston placed one hand on his hip, the one Adam wasn’t holding. “Then why did it launch us down a flight of stairs?”

“Because it didn’t know it would transform. If it hadn’t, it would’ve ripped your throat out before you hit the ground and still landed on all fours.”

“Are you bragging about how easily your beast form could kill me?” At Adam’s shrug, Gaston turned incredulously to Lumiere and Cogsworth, who were standing on the steps watching this conversation in baffled silence. “I shouldn’t have prevented this man from hitting his head. It might’ve improved his personality.”

Adam made no reply at this, but his lips pressed into a line and he looked at Gaston rather patronizingly down his regally shaped nose. Which should be impossible. Gaston was taller than him. 

“It looks like you missed a few tears,” Gaston added in an attempt to provoke him further. “Would you like to dry them on my shoulder as well?”

Adam flushed again, just as Gaston knew he would. “Cogsworth,” he said, still managing to sound imperious in spite of his pink cheeks. “I’m going to need a very loose shirt.”

Chapter 10: The Beast

The beast prowled the length of his tower room. The magic of the spell was scratching at his consciousness, vying for more control and threatening to send him into another rage. At the end of each circuit, he cast his gaze out of the largest window and growled at the sun, which kept rising a little higher each time. Mocking him.

What was taking the man so long?

Almost a week had passed since the beast pushed Gaston down the stairs, and the man had knocked on his door at sunrise every morning to offer him his arm and walk the halls of a castle still slumbering. The first few encounters had been tense, they’d hardly said a word to each other and Gaston brought him back to his room within half-an-hour. “What is this going to cost me?” the beast had asked after one of those first morning strolls. “Surely you aren’t here out of the goodness of your heart.” 

“No,” Gaston had replied with a shake of his head. “I’m here because you said once a day would keep you from losing control again. Preventing you from hurting anyone else in this castle is more than fair compensation.” 

The beast hadn’t believed him. “You’re lying. There has to be something else you want.”

Gaston had opened the door to the west wing and treated him with a chilly smile. “You’re right, Adam. There is something I want from you, but since you apparently know me better than I know myself, I’ll let you decide what that thing is.” 

The beast hadn’t been able to formulate a reply in time. The man had already disappeared down the hallway.

Perhaps they would’ve kept going like this—walking together in uneasy silence, eyeing each other mistrustfully, exchanging stiff goodbyes, and spending the rest of the day avoiding each other—except half-an-hour just wasn’t enough time. Or, rather, it was only enough time. The beast still spent most of the night afraid it wouldn’t be. He could beg the man to stay longer, to touch him longer, but not without humiliating himself in the process. 

He settled for the next-best option. Distraction. 

On the fourth morning, he tugged Gaston by the elbow towards the front door. “Did Cogsworth tell you about the aviary?” 

Gaston had stopped in the middle of the hall, his eyes moving from him to the door and back again. “No. You keep birds?”

“We have ravens. Amongst others, of course.” 

Gaston’s brows rose, and the beast was satisfied to see a spark of interest in his face where there had only been guarded wariness before. “That’s. . . hm. Is it true ravens can mimic speech?” 

“Of course. Fable is very good at it. I’ve had lots of time to train her,” he added a shade bitterly. “Do you want to see?” He waited in agonized silence as the man considered his suggestion.

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes. 

Finally Gaston nodded. “Alright. For a little while. Belle will be concerned if she wakes up and sees I’m still out.” 

By the time they left the aviary, they’d spent an hour longer together than usual. The beast had hoped Fable would peck the man to death the way she did with the other castle staff, but Gaston had been so cautious and gentle that she was persuaded to sit perched on his shoulder and nip curiously at the buttons of his tunic instead. It didn’t matter. The rest of the day, the beast experienced a level of mental ease he’d forgotten could exist. He couldn’t stop grinning when he lay in bed that night with nothing stalking his mind but his own thoughts. 

Mostly his own thoughts, anyway. 

There had been a moment in the aviary that kept resurfacing unbidden in his mind. Fable had cooed something at Gaston; a sound the beast had never heard her mimic before. It almost sounded like the man’s name. But Gaston had been too distracted to notice, and the beast assumed he must’ve misheard. When Fable had hopped onto the other man’s head and peered comically down at him, Gaston had gently touched her beak with his index finger. “No biting,” he warned. Then, more warmly, “aren’t you a clever girl.” 

“Clever girl,” the raven promptly repeated and waved her tail feathers happily. “Clever girl.” 

Gaston beamed at her, and it was as if someone had thrown open the windows of one of the darker and dustier rooms in the castle. It wasn’t just the way the light of Gaston’s smile touched all of the shadows in his face, but the beast felt as if he was taking a peek into a room he hadn’t visited in a long, long time.

He got the same feeling on the fifth day, when he suggested a walk around the courtyard. 

“I see the enchantress didn’t turn anyone into gardening tools,” Gaston observed dryly while surveying the unruly weeds and shrubs. “Are those the roses?” 

“Careful,” the beast warned as the other man pulled him closer to the mound of thorns and blooms that grew in a wild patch across from the fountain. Even with the overgrowth, the circle of faerie stones could still be clearly seen in the morning light. There was only one break; a series of small stepping-stones that led towards the center. Gaston didn’t hesitate. 

“Hey!” the beast yelped. He tried to pull the much larger man off the path. “Bad idea.” 

“Why? This is clearly a safe way in.” 

“Nothing is ever safe with the Folk!” the beast hissed. 

Gaston just hummed. “Come on, Adam. You’re already enchanted. What do you have to lose?” 

He wanted to tell him that he was under a spell cast by an enchantress, not a faerie, and that the Folk were far more wicked and powerful than any human sorcerer could ever be. But before he could, Gaston was already walking deeper into the bushes. 

“Stay behind if you want,” he called back lightly. 

Well. The beast definitely didn’t want to let go of him yet. He’d barely been on his arm for fifteen minutes! And he had to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. He followed close behind Gaston, maintaining a tight grip on his elbow. When they reached the center, they stood together in a small patch of green grass that was overgrown almost to their knees. Here they were surrounded entirely by snarling thorns that had grown to a height well above their shoulders. The heady, floral scent made the beast’s nose itch and he had to suppress a sneeze with the hand that wasn’t gripping Gaston.

He was about to tell the other man that it was time to go, that they should leave before the fae got too curious, but the words died on his lips. “Who. . .?” the beast breathed.  

Strands of dark hair had escaped Gaston’s tie sometime during their walk and clung to his neck and shoulders. His sun-bronzed skin was golden in the early morning light, and the pinky-red blooms matched the color of his lips perfectly. The beast was overwhelmed with the inexplicable feeling that he’d been here before, in this exact spot, with this exact person. The certainty of it stirred an ache in him that was very different from the one he felt when he missed his human form, or when he feared he couldn’t save his friends. He felt suddenly overwarm and dizzy. 

“Adam?” Gaston asked in concern. 

The beast didn’t remember sinking to his knees, nor did he remember taking the other man’s hand instead of his arm. 

“Are you—” The beast met Gaston’s gaze from his knees. He watched the other man’s eyes flicker across his face and linger on his lips. He watched him part his own as if in response. The ache in him reached a degree so painful it robbed him of breath. Then the moment—whatever it was—passed. 

The beast swallowed thickly. “I’m fine. A headache.” he gestured to the roses with his free hand.

“I fucking hate roses,” Gaston grumbled and pulled him easily to his feet. “Come on. This place reeks of magic.” 

The following morning, yesterday, Gaston was even quieter than usual. When the beast suggested they view the castle greenhouses next, he flat-out refused. In a moment of desperation, the beast made a last-ditch effort to stall by asking the man a question about his past.

“You wear a uniform,” he blurted when they were half-way down the hallway to his tower room. “You mentioned you were a soldier.” 

He immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. Gaston’s jaw tightened and he avoided his eyes. “What about it?” 

The beast realized that he really had no question to follow up with that wouldn’t sound outlandishly stupid. He cycled through possible answers in his mind. None of them seemed promising. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “That’s one type of torment I haven’t had to endure.”

Gaston did look at him then, though the beast was too flustered to properly evaluate his expression. “There are more ways to make men into monsters than magic.” And when he extracted his arm, the beast let him go. 

He felt the consequences of his mistake the rest of the day. He couldn’t sleep that night. He feared that if he did, he wouldn’t wake up with his human consciousness. He spent the night at the table near the window studying the rose behind its protective glass. 

He stopped his pacing to study it again now. 

Four petals. The same as last night. The same as the night before that. And the night before that. He inspected the flower more closely, scanning every inch for evidence of more browning thorns or curling leaves. But it was nearly identical to how it’d looked a week ago. 

Gaston might not be able to reverse the toll time had taken in the rose, but the beast had a theory that he could slow it. That theory, so far, had been proven correct. If the man could buy them all more time, perhaps there were other effects they hadn’t discovered yet. 

It wouldn’t matter if he stopped coming altogether. 

For the first time since this nightmare began, the beast forced himself to consider exactly what he would pay him in return for more time. Maybe a small payment would suffice. Now that Gaston knew he wasn’t trying to endanger anyone, his behavior had shifted from murderous to suspicious. Perhaps he was more reasonable than the beast originally feared. He could give him money. There was plenty of that in the treasury below the castle. Even a handful of coins a day would, by the year’s end, make him very wealthy, indeed. 

If the man didn’t want money, surely there was some other service he could provide. Something reasonable and not at all sexual in nature. The beast tried to think of what service that could be, but he really had no skills beyond reading and being a highly effective murder weapon. Unfortunately, while Gaston might not enjoy reading, he was definitely not illiterate, and the beast preferred to keep the “murdering” skill as a very last resort. 

He would feel more comfortable labeling the possibility of exchanging sexual favors as “unlikely” if there hadn’t been certain. . . looks over the last week (the one in the rose bushes notwithstanding). Those looks may not have been overly-desirous, exactly, but they were definitely looks, and the beast thought that was enough to warrant preparation. He would spend some time in the less savory section of his library. Educate himself on what to expect. He’d lived alone in a castle for a decade and remembered nothing from his life before the curse. Short of endeavors in self-pleasure, which were frankly humiliating in his current form, he had only a vague idea of what he might be asked to do and zero experience doing it. He comforted himself with the knowledge that as long as the act involved some degree of physical contact, he would stay in human form and wouldn’t have to participate in another man’s beastiality fetish.

Probably.

His imagination had just conjured up several scenarios where that wouldn’t be the case when he heard a knock on his door. Hope leapt in his chest and he bounded across the room on all fours. But when he pulled the door open, it wasn’t Gaston.

“Good morning, master!” Cogsworth greeted happily. 

“I’m glad to see you’re in a good mood this morning,” Lumiere added as they crossed the doorway and entered his room.

The hope in his chest withered and he closed the door roughly behind them. “What do you two want?”

“It’s been a week since the girl’s arrival, and you have done nothing to woo her!” Lumiere chided. He hopped up onto the chair and then the table with the glass case. The beast should’ve thought to cover it again before answering the door. 

Cogsworth stayed on the ground and waddled next to him as he spoke. “I’m afraid he’s right. You barely speak to her at all.”

“She’s always in the library,” the beast pointed out. His relationship with Belle was truly the last thing he wanted to discuss right now. He’d only recently earned her trust and now his friends were expecting him to romance her. 

Earlier in the week, after Gaston finally told Belle about his shifting, the woman had studied him with critical eyes. “So you’re in human form right now and I just can’t see it?”

The beast looked from Gaston and back to her before nodding. She reached out a hand. “Would I be able to tell if I touched you?”

“Yes,” Gaston answered for him. He looked like he was about to say something to discourage her from testing it, but the beast had already taken her outstretched hand.

Belle’s eyes widened first in surprise, then in wonder. She took another step forward and lifted her hands to his face, brushing her fingers along his cheeks and chin. Gaston pulled him firmly back and stepped between them. 

Belle placed her hands on her hips. “He isn’t going to bite me.”

“He might,” the other man replied. “I haven’t put my fingers close enough to his mouth to test it.”

“I don’t bite people,” the beast protested. But after noticing Gaston’s raised brow, he added, “usually.”

Belle appeared unconcerned. Saving her life and owning a library wasn’t enough to win her heart, but it certainly won her trust, and that felt just as significant. The beast didn’t get the impression the woman trusted easily. They’d even read together, and the woman had listened to his thoughts on his book with the kind of starved attention that made him wonder if she had many people to talk to in general. 

Belle treated Gaston with a look that the beast couldn’t parse; the kind that only a friend could read. “Why don’t you describe him to me?” she asked then.

“Belle,” Gaston said in warning. 

“What? I can’t see him. How else will I know what he truly looks like?”

“No.”

“Come on, Gas. Just tell me a few of his best qualities.”

“No,” Gaston said more firmly this time.

Belle hid her laugh behind her hands and covered it with a polite cough. The beast genuinely had no idea what was happening or why the woman’s eyes were sparkling so mischievously. 

“I guess you’ll have to paint me a picture instead.”

“I’m not painting him,” Gaston hissed, and Belle could no longer contain her wide grin. 

The beast turned to him in surprise. “You paint?”

The other man stopped glaring daggers at his friend and shrugged. “Not anymore.” 

The beast was just wondering why he stopped and where a soldier would have learned a skill like that when Lumiere interrupted his thoughts. 

“Do we have your approval then, master?”

The beast had only been half-listening to his friends as they outlined their plan to break the spell. Something about giving Belle the library, taking her on long walks, having dinner together. The beast kept his eyes trained on the door. He needed to find Gaston himself. Soon.

Lumiere was just saying something about table etiquette when there was another knock on the door. 

Finally. 

“You two need to leave,” the beast said curtly as he lumbered past them for the door. “Now.” If either Cogsworth or Lumiere said anything in protest, the beast didn’t hear them. He opened the door.

“Belle?”

The woman stood in the middle of the hallway looking very much like a person who wanted to be anywhere else. She twisted her skirts in her hands and gnawed viciously on her bottom lip. “Um, sorry,” she said and flashed him a nervous smile. “I’m just. . .” Belle glanced down at Lumiere and Cogsworth who had joined them at the door. “I was wondering if Gaston was here.” She moved to glance around him, as if she expected to see him lurking in a corner or lounging on his bed.

“Why would Monsieur Gaston be here?” This question from Lumiere. 

“Oh.” Belle glanced from the candle to the beast and back again. “Well I know he comes here every morning, so when he didn’t come to our room last night I assumed. . .” Belle’s blush was really very pretty, and the beast might have appreciated it more if it wasn’t also absolutely mortifying. He knew exactly what she assumed. “I mean,” she cleared her throat awkwardly, “it’s just his style, you know?”

“What is?” Cogsworth demanded. The beast really wanted to kick him now.

Belle’s eyes widened. “Well, at the village he was always getting into. . .oh, not trouble, exactly. I mean it’s not like he was paying anyone for. . . but even if he was, we all need some form of employment to survive, you know?” She stopped speaking only long enough to take a breath. “I don’t blame him for sneaking around, either. He has to. Just because the laws are kinder now doesn’t mean people’s minds have changed, especially people outside of the capitol. My village is very traditional in that way. Oh, and it’s not that I think he has poor taste!” she added hastily and shot the beast a mildly panicked look. “I like Antoine. Not in the way Gaston does, but that’s not because there’s anything wrong with him. I’m just not into anyone in that way, really. I wish I was sometimes.” 

Belle, the beast was gathering, had a habit of talking too much when she was nervous. “He isn’t here,” he interrupted.

She flashed him a grateful smile for rescuing her from her own conversation. But when he didn’t say anything more, she went right back into her nervous chatter. “Oh no, I just realized. . . I didn’t mean to imply that your preferences fall in any one direction. I barely know you. Not that I care if you do! I mean, obviously I don’t, Gaston’s preference definitely trends in a different direction, and he’s my friend—probably my best friend. Whether you are or aren’t, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make assumptions.”

The beast looked down and saw both clock and candle staring at her in baffled silence. Of course they were. The two of them had an attraction so thick he could slice it in half with a spoon, but even if he fed it back to them they wouldn’t know what the hell they were tasting.

“My preferences fall in all directions,” the beast said simply. A fortunate coincidence, really, given the nature of his spell. “But Gaston was not with me last night.”

Belle flashed him another smile. “That must be nice,” she said, and appeared to truly mean it.

The beast had no idea how to respond. Should he thank her? Apologize? Tell her that, yes, it was in fact quite nice for gender to pose no obstruction to his sexual attraction? 

When he didn’t respond, which was the best response in this case, Belle’s flush deepened. “Sorry. I ordinarily wouldn’t bother you, but I checked everywhere else in the castle. The library, the kitchen, even the outhouse.” She was biting her lip again, and he had half a mind to tell her to stop before she hurt herself. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

The beast glanced out the window, fighting back a sudden surge of panic. Surely he hadn’t left. He wouldn’t leave. Not without Belle. He’d been acting more distant yesterday, but surely that wasn’t because he was plotting some escape. 

“Don’t worry,” he said firmly, “I’ll find him.” 

Chapter 11: Gaston

Of course Gaston didn’t leave the castle. As a soldier, he never left people behind unless he was ordered to. As a friend, where he might lack in reliability, he more than made up for in loyalty. But he was also in desperate need of an escape, and if he couldn’t find one physically, he was forced to resort to other methods.

The castle cellars were easy to find. Gaston knew where to look (on the east side near the aviary), knew how to pick the lock (like he’d picked it before), and knew where the less valuable wine barrels were stashed. He even knew there was a cot folded up in one of the closets (as if someone had left it there just for him). There was nothing, therefore, preventing him from drinking himself into an absolute stupor. 

In fact, Gaston couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk. He preferred to maintain most of his faculties; he’d learned the hard way that if he drank too much, he was liable to belt decidedly raunchy—and even more decidedly gay—shanties at the top of his lungs and scandalize half the town. But there was no one here to kick him out. No Lefou to count his drinks and take the fourth one out of his hands. So he drank until he fell asleep, and when he woke up, he drank again. He drank away the torment of being trapped in an enchanted castle. He drank away the intolerable notion that he would have to reside in said castle for a year. He drank away the exhaustion from a week of poor sleep and the paranoia from nearly breaking one-too-many sentient objects. 

But mostly, he drank away the memories. Not his memories; the ones the enchantment kept putting into his head. It’d been bearable when it was just rooms and doors and courtyards. Those were easy to shake off. Easy to ignore. They didn’t involve another person. 

Gaston lifted his half-full mug of wine to his lips and hoped this would be the sip that put Adam entirely out of his mind. Because even more than the castle, he was what Gaston needed to escape from.

For over a week now Gaston had been plagued by familiarity magic. Nowhere he and Adam visited together was new, no shift in his expression was unexpected, no pressure of his fingers unfamiliar. The castle, the aviary, the courtyard, those goddamned rose bushes—the sense that Gaston had done it all before was growing stronger every day. While talking to Mrs. Potts after breakfast, the magic made Gaston “remember” Adam took his tea without sugar. When joining Belle in the library, he remembered Adam’s favorite genre was poetry. When washing himself in the basin before bed, he remembered this was the soap that made Adam smell like lemons and sandalwood. 

It was maddening. 

Perhaps he would eventually learn to ignore these fake memories if they stopped at tea and books and soaps. The problem was that they didn’t stop, and when Adam knelt at his feet in those rose bushes, Gaston realized just how serious they were becoming. 

At first he’d been annoyed. Why was the man kneeling? Was he too afraid of the Folk to even stand upright? Then Gaston looked at him, really looked at him, and experienced a deluge of the strongest faux-memories so far. He knew how Adam’s hair would feel in his hands (fine and easily tangled), knew how many freckles dotted his neck and cheeks (twelve), knew how he would taste if he kissed him (like the sage he used to clean his teeth). He’d been alarmed when these images seemed to only escalate in intimacy. He’d dragged Adam out of that ugly ring of thorns and shut himself away, hoping that if he didn’t exist near him, didn’t speak to him, didn’t look at him, the potency of the magic—whatever it was—would diminish. 

For over a week now Gastob had asked himself why. Why was he remembering things he’d never done with a person he’d never met? Why would someone cast magic that made a stranger familiar? It wasn’t until now, when he was too drunk to lift his cup without sloshing wine on his fingers, that he thought he was being bewitched. 

Adam was using magic to make him fall in love. Gaston was certain of it. Was the essence of love not exactly this—the deep and intimate knowing of another person? Adam needed someone to fall in love with him in order to break his curse, and planting intimate visions dressed as memories in his head was an effective way to do it. 

“I can’t force people to fall in love. That isn’t how this works.” Or that was exactly how it worked, and Gaston had been foolish to believe him. 

He felt even more certain Adam was using magic to manipulate him when he considered the situation from his perspective. Adam wanted to escape the beast form at all costs, and he feared Gaston would use that power he had over him to his advantage. What better way to ensure he never could than by beating him to it; by playing the game using his opponent’s own strategy? Only this time, Gaston was the one who wasn’t playing. 

Until now.

There were many reasonable responses he could’ve had to the realization that he was suffering under a love spell. Drinking himself under a table was certainly one of them. He might also feel horror. Betrayal. Abject resistance. Back when he was much younger and still believed he didn’t have to play by the rules, he probably would’ve pitched an absolute fit. But Gaston had been forced to become well-versed in reality over the years. Now he believed his best chance at happiness was not to abstain from the game, but to beat it; to learn the rules of the world and play them better. 

The truth was that Adam wasn’t the monstrous abductor Gaston had thought he was. In fact, he was as much a prisoner in the castle as the rest of them. Without suspicion and resentment to shield him, he was defenseless against the magic-induced yearning that was growing stronger every day. He saw no point in resisting it. If this love spell led to the end of the curse, Gaston would end it. Why the hell wouldn’t he? No one would be forced to exist as furniture, Adam would have his human form back, and Belle would be free. Likely the love spell on Gaston would evaporate as well, and if it didn’t, well, he’d thrown his luck in with men who were much worse than the one who drank tea and read poetry and trained birds. 

Of course this decision didn’t come without risk (for one, he didn’t know for sure whether the Folk would let Belle go once the curse was lifted), but Gaston had the upper hand. He should make a winning move now before the tides turned.

These were the nature of Gaston’s drunken and only half-rational thoughts when the cellar doors opened. When he heard something heavy and awkward clambering down the ladder, he was genuinely pleased. The sooner they got this show over with, the better.

The beast stalked into the back room where Gaston was sitting on the lone table in the center. He promptly stood and was pleasantly surprised when the motion caused him to sway only a little. He was in better command of himself than he thought given how long he’d been drinking. 

“So this is where you were,” the beast said with a low growl of disapproval. Its nose twitched. “Do you know it’s nearly mid-afternoon?” 

Of course Gaston didn’t know this. How could he? He was in a windowless cellar.

“I’ve been searching for you for hours,” the beast continued more angrily. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Gaston argued in his defense. “Hard.” 

The beast looked at the cup still on the table and snorted a breath. “I can see that.” And Gaston was surprised he could detect the man’s dry humor under all of that growling. “I’m here to make an offer.” 

Gaston frowned. “For what?” 

“For you to keep coming to my room every morning,” the beast snarled. “What else?” 

“I don’t need an offer,” he said, and was careful to pronounce all of the consonants clearly. He was doing great. Lefou had obviously been overcautious all those times at the tavern. Gaston could handle his liquor just fine.

The beast shifted its weight uneasily. “You don’t?” 

“No,” he confirmed. Then he reached out, aiming for the animal’s shoulder, but misjudged and brushed the side of its head instead. Gaston blinked once and those same wary, gray-blue eyes were set in a human face. “I already know what you want,” he added rather proudly.

Adam’s brows lowered. “What I want is to not be in my beast form.” 

Gaston rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it. It made the floor tip perilously under his feet. “Dunn,” he slurred. Then realized he was slurring (he was doing so well) and tried again. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.” He lowered his hand down the other man’s face, tilting his chin up towards his. 

Adam’s cheeks flushed. His brows pinched together as if there was some complex problem on Gaston’s face that was taking all of his attention to solve. “What I’m doing to you?” he repeated slowly.

“You’re driving me mad,” Gaston said with a sigh. 

Adam opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He was red all the way to the tips of his ears. Embarrassed that Gaston had caught him in the act of enchanting him, obviously. “I suppose we should start with a kiss, then?” 

Adam nodded solemnly. “Yes. Alright.”

Gaston pulled him closer by the waist with one hand. The other was still cupping his cheek, and he slid his fingers along his chin until he could brush his thumb against the other man’s lower lip. If he was kissing someone to lift a spell, he was going to make damned sure it was worthy work. 

“That’s the way these things usually go, isn’t it?” he asked ironically. 

Adam lifted his hands to his shoulders, steadying him, which Gaston thought was entirely unnecessary. “I have no idea.”

Chapter 12: The Beast

The beast had wanted to ask a few more questions beforehand. Questions like, will I be expected to kiss you every morning, or just this once? Gaston had implied that a kiss was just the start. The beast wanted to know where, exactly, they were going, and what the “finish” looked like. 

By his definition.

While he appreciated that Gaston had the courtesy to ask instead of forcing himself on him without warning, he still didn’t feel prepared. He would’ve liked to take some notes in his library, or ask Belle what kind of partners the man had taken in the past. At the very least he would’ve liked to brush his teeth again. Gaston was infinitely more experienced than himself, and, ultimately, that was the reason he stopped worrying. He thought it was very likely that no amount of questions or research or preparation would make up for a decade of total isolation. He would just have to play up the confidence he didn’t feel and do his best. 

Or he would have, if Gaston didn’t end the kiss soon after it started. 

“Did it work?” Gaston asked immediately afterward. It sounded more like “dititwer?” 

The beast didn’t know how to respond. What was he supposed to say when he had no idea what “it” was? “No” was obviously the wrong answer, Gaston’s tone and expression had been hopeful, but if he said yes, he wouldn’t know what he was agreeing to. Clearly he’d missed something.

The beast replayed the relatively brief kiss in his mind again, searching for his mistake. Gaston had tasted like wine and moved as clumsily as he expected given his long hours of drinking. But the beast hadn’t expected his nervous uncertainty to be met with gentle arms and lips so undemanding that they were practically patient. Gaston had kissed him like he had all the time he could ever want; time so far beyond this moment that he refused to rush something as small as the brush of his fingers or the tilt of his chin. And the beast, who had spent every moment of his remembered life running out of time, thought there was nothing he wanted more. 

Which was why he hadn’t expected it to end so quickly. After the man drew back, the beast had felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment. He’d hastily tamped that feeling down by reminding himself that this was an exchange. It wasn’t real. He’d consented to this trade because he needed to maintain his sanity, not because he actually wanted to kiss this man. 

God, he must be very naive indeed to have forgotten that so quickly. 

“By ‘did it work’ are you asking if I enjoyed it?” the beast asked slowly. “Because that’s a complicated answer, and I doubt you’re sober enough to hear it.” 

Gaston squinted at him again. This close, the beast could count the crinkles at the corners of his eyes (three on the left, two on the right). Their color was not very unlike his own (blue), but there was a ring of gold near the pupil that put him in mind of a halo. Those eyes, along with that ridiculous cleft in his chin, belonged to the kind of man who orchestrated wild court scandals in a king’s palace, not to a displaced soldier traveling the countryside. 

Those poor provincial boys didn’t stand a chance. 

“Of course you enjoyed it,” Gaston said shortly. “I don’t kiss people in ways they don’t enjoy.”

The beast thought that was a bit overconfident. “I don’t particularly enjoy being coerced into it,” he pointed out flatly. “But I guess I do appreciate that you aren’t ordering me on my knees yet.”

Gaston’s squint shifted into an irritated glare. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m the one being cursed!”

“Coerced?” the beast clarified with confusion.

“Yeah, that too,” Gaston said dismissively. “And in the garden you knelt at my feet all by yourself.” The beast was just deciding he must be more drunk than he looked when Gaston added, “Don’t you want your fucking spell broken?”

Oh. Oh. 

Gaston thought he was doing him a favor instead of the other way around. He’d assumed that a kiss would be enough to break his spell. The beast only wished it was that simple. Still. It was an understandable mistake. If all he knew about magic was from storybooks, he would probably assume everything could be solved with kisses too. Was all that talk about how he was driving him mad just drunk raving, then? 

“No.” The beast shook his head. “That isn’t how it works. A kiss isn’t going to break my spell. Someone has to fall in love with me. You can kiss people you don’t love, and you can love people you don’t kiss.”

“I know that.” Gaston’s lips twisted into an annoyed frown. “How long until your spell works, then?”

The beast blinked at him. “My spell? You mean the one the enchantress cast? I think it’s working quite well as it is.”

“Not that,” Gaston snapped. “The love spell you cast on me. How long until it works? I’m not going to make it a whole year without dropping at least one plate, and I really don’t want tableware murder on my soul.”

The beast rubbed the bridge of his nose. What was the point of reasoning with someone as drunk as Gaston was now? He was getting dizzy just listening to him. “I’m sorry, Gaston, I truly don't know what you’re talking about. There aren’t any love spells on you. Even if there were, none of them would be strong enough to fool an enchantment this powerful.”

Gaston appeared truly disappointed by this news. He searched the beast’s face again, this time more anxiously. “Then why do I keep getting reminded of you?” When the beast could only manage to stare blankly at him in response, the man appeared to grow even more agitated. “I know magic is the only explanation, but I don’t know why.”

There was a long moment of silence as the beast digested this. He felt as if he was trying to steer a particularly unruly horse. Every time he wrangled control over their conversation, Gaston tore the reins from his hands again. The beast had thought Gaston was looking to exchange favors, but instead the man thought he was doing him a favor by lifting his spell, except it was apparently also motivated by the very desires the beast had assumed were motivating him before. 

He thought he was going to need to pour himself a cup of wine after this. 

When he finally spoke, he did so slowly and in a tone as neutral as he could make it. “Has it occurred to you,” it was no use, his cheeks were already warming, “that maybe you’re thinking about me because you’re attracted to me? Without magic?”

Gaston barked a humorless laugh that echoed harshly around the cellar walls. “I’m not attracted to you!” Then, after a short pause, “Well, I find most men of your size and shape attractive, but that isn’t. . .” he shook his head with a kind of drunken helplessness. “This is different!”

The beast tried to hide his skepticism, but judging by the look of indignation on the other man’s face, he didn’t do a great job of it. “I told you before that I’m no saint,” Gaston hissed, “but that doesn’t mean I want to bed every man I meet!”

The beast gaped at him. “You want to bed me?” His cheeks burned even hotter than before and he spoke without thinking. “I thought you just wanted to. . . I didn’t think—I mean I guess it’s sort of the same thing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to bed you,” Gaston said in drunken protest. “I don’t even want to kiss you! These memories and feelings aren't real—that’s why I thought you cast a love spell on me!”

“I see,” the beast said, even though he definitely did not see. He’d never heard of the kind of magic Gaston was describing. Of course there was magic connected to memory; there were charms to help people find missing items and he’d once read about a sorcerer who could dislodge long-forgotten memories from a person’s past, but they weren’t conjuring memories that had never existed. 

“I really don’t know what you’re experiencing then,” he added lamely. He refused to look in the other man’s face and tried very hard to appear unaffected by such a vehement rejection. 

Gaston noticed anyway and swore rather guiltily under his breath. “Adam, please don’t take this the wrong way.”

His response was sharper than he’d intended. “Why would I? I didn’t want to kiss you, either.”

Gaston winced. “Yeah, I probably deserved that.” He rubbed his chin and looked even guiltier than before. “But if you knew kissing me wouldn’t lift the spell, then why did you agree when I asked?” 

“If you only wanted to lift the spell, why did it matter to you whether I enjoyed it?” the beast asked instead of answering. There was no way in hell he was going to tell Gaston the truth—that he’d assumed kissing was his price for turning him human every morning. Not now that he knew he’d apparently never wanted to in the first place.

That was a good thing. It meant he wouldn’t have to worry about the man demanding anything more than that in exchange for his cooperation. 

“Because I don’t kiss people in ways they don’t enjoy,” Gaston repeated stubbornly. 

“What do you know about what I enjoy?” the beast muttered.

But Gaston had apparently stopped listening. He moved his hands to the beast’s forearms as if holding him in place. “Wait. What did you say?”

“About how you don’t know what I enjoy?” the beast guessed.

“No, no. Earlier.”

“About how I didn’t want to kiss you?” 

“Kissing,” Gaston breathed. “Kissing!” He squeezed his arms, and when the beast finally looked up into his face, he saw that the other man’s eyes were alight with sudden and inexplicable intensity. “You said ‘you can love people you kiss and kiss people you love.” 

“You can kiss people you don’t love and love people you don’t kiss,” he corrected. 

“Yes! Exactly!” Gaston looked supremely proud of himself. The smile that curled his lips was almost triumphant.  

The beast shook his head in disapproval. His patience for this man’s drunken antics was thinning. “Just how many tankards of wine did you drink?”

Gaston shook his head vigorously. “Adam,” he whispered, and the beast still felt a jolt every time he heard his name spoken out loud, “do you really expect me to believe there’s nobody in this castle who loves you?”

Chapter 13: Gaston

Lefou had been right, he made terrible decisions when he was drinking. Gaston hoped whatever sum of money his father was paying the man was a handsome one, because he’d clearly done an excellent job keeping him in line over the years. Uncoincidentally, the moment Gaston left the village (and Lefou) behind was the moment everything went to hell. 

After he and Adam returned from the cellars, the latter shut himself away in the west wing for the rest of the evening, leaving Gaston to sleep off his splitting headache and contemplate the most recent chapter in his book of poor choices. While it was true that he’d kissed worse men under worse circumstances (once he’d kissed a man the night before his wedding—that was around the time Lefou started confiscating his drinks), the consequences had never been this high. Gaston was gambling with his own sanity, and he was losing.

Adam’s attention had been overly focused, his lips too hesitant, his posture unnaturally stiff. Gaston remembered thinking, for a very brief moment, that his thirteen-year-old self had kissed the stablehand with more skill than this. That moment passed, and he was overwhelmed with a powerful certainty that even this was familiar. How else would he know how to soften the tension in his posture, how to coax confidence from his lips, how to direct that focus where he wanted it? It was because he’d done it before. Except he hadn’t. 

But when Gaston’s approach worked, when Adam lifted his arms to rest along his shoulders, when his lips yielded more eagerly to his own, when pleasure stained his cheeks deliciously pink, Gaston felt that certainty all the more strongly. He knew what his next move would be. And the move after that. And the move after that. The whole sequence unfurled like a map in his mind, and he yearned to chart those parallels to their inevitable crossing. 

He broke off the kiss far sooner than he’d planned, far sooner than his commitment to the craft would ordinarily allow. If he hadn’t, he might’ve stopped caring about why he’d kissed him and simply allowed himself to be swept away by the magic of this place. Of this man. It’d never been so tempting as it was in that moment. Self-restraint really wasn’t a strength of his. If he was being honest with himself, it was one of his greatest weaknesses. 

Not only had their kiss failed to lift the castle’s enchantment, but Adam also wasn’t responsible for the magic that was affecting Gaston’s memory. He’d been wrong on all counts. The kiss had done nothing but mangle things so thoroughly that he’d offended Adam with a rejection he didn’t actually mean.

Of course Gaston wanted to kiss him. He’d wanted to kiss him over a week ago when he had him in a fucking death grip. What Gaston had meant to say was that he shouldn't want to kiss him, and he didn’t know why he did—not because he didn’t know why he found the man attractive, but because he didn’t know why that attraction was so overwhelming. 

There’d been miscommunication all around, and Gaston knew he was the one to blame. He was far too experienced to be making these kinds of mistakes. Why Adam had agreed to kiss him in the first place was still a mystery, but, then again, he supposed it would be impractical for a man in his position to refuse kisses on the rare occasion they presented themselves. 

Except he didn’t need to kiss anyone to break the spell. 

“It can’t be,” Adam argued after he made this point in the cellars. “It can’t. . . you’re drunk,” he added, as if that alone was enough to discredit his revelation.  

“All that means is I can add interpreting magic spells to my list of talents I maintain while drinking,” Gaston answered smugly. Like an idiot. 

Adam gave him that all-too-familiar glare of disapproval that Gaston was accustomed to seeing in Lefou and Belle and his father. Incredible that this man had only known him a week and he was already disappointing him. 

Except Adam must not have been entirely disappointed, because just before they entered the castle, he tugged on his elbow and searched his face with those solemn, gray-blue eyes that didn’t shift no matter what form he was in. “Tomorrow morning. Will you come?” he asked softly.

“To keep the monster in you asleep? It’s in everyone’s best interest, isn’t it?” 

Adam studied him even more closely than before, and his attention was so sharp that Gaston feared it would prick him if he his own strayed even an inch in any direction. “I want you to help me with the curse as well.”

“So you do think I’m right!” 

“I think I’ll try almost anything to break this curse,” the other man argued flatly. “As I believe I’ve already demonstrated.” 

That last comment made Gaston feel guilty all over again. After he retired to his own room and collapsed onto his bed, the last thought he remembered having was that he would apologize in the morning. Properly.

Gaston was no stranger to apologizing. He fucked up far too often in his relationships with others to let his pride interfere with his sense. One of the few positive lessons he’d learned from his father was exactly this.

“We cannot avoid hurting others, my son. We can only mend what is ours to repair. And do you know what I’ve found? That mending brings people even closer to us than before.”

Gaston had done a lot of mending in his life. He thought he could stitch a quilt large enough for a whole village with the patches from every harmful mistake he’d ever made. Perhaps if he was more careful, if he took less risks and put on fewer performances, he wouldn’t have to apologize as often. But Gaston had long ago decided that making apologies was more tolerable than shrinking himself to appease a world that was doing its damndest to stamp him out of existence. 

It was, therefore, in the name of apology that he arose extra early the following morning. He left Belle a note with a description of where he was going (a new requirement she placed on him after his ill-fated night in the cellars). Then he pulled on his boots and set out through the entry hall and across the castle grounds. 

There was no hour early enough to avoid the magic’s torments. The gray morning light that framed the stone walkway and marble statues immediately put him in mind of Adam’s eyes. It was no surprise when, with the man already on his mind, Gaston saw the wild tiger lilies growing near the fountain and remembered they were Adam’s favorite flower. 

“Is it too much to ask for even an hour of mental peace?” he asked the empty courtyard mournfully.

The courtyard seemed remarkably unrepentant in response. 

Gaston picked enough flowers for two bouquets and trudged back in the direction of the towering stone that formed the old castle’s silhouette. He saw a light illuminate in the windows of the west wing. Perhaps Adam had slept as poorly as he had.

He dropped Belle’s flowers off in their room, lying them next to his note on the side table, and traveled his usual path through the quiet hallways. 

He wondered if he should warn Adam about the increasingly poetic nature of his intrusive thoughts. He feared following an “I’m sorry for kissing you” with “you should know that I’m now comparing your eyes to the weather” would only cast further doubt on his intentions. He decided he should wait. The effects of the spell, or whatever this was, were still manageable. 

He knocked on the door to the west wing, and it opened almost immediately. The beast stood in the doorway, teeth bared, nose snorting, and a ferine snarl already forming in the back of his throat. 

Clearly Adam hadn’t had a good night. 

Gaston lifted his hands slowly, the way he might communicate to a dog that he meant no harm. “Good morning,” he said and kept his voice soft. “My my. You look like shit.”

The beast’s nose flared again. “Soon,” it growled. “Soon I will hunt you down. And when I find you, I will take great pleasure in tearing your flesh from your bones.”

Gaston, who had fought in wars and was therefore more accustomed to threats on his life than any man should be, simply hummed. “Get in line, kitten. You aren’t the only one who wants my head on a platter.”

“I do not want your head on a platter.” It said the last word like it'd never heard of the concept. “I want it between my teeth.”

“Right,” Gaston snorted. “Adam, I’m going to rescue you now before your friend here tells me more about what parts of my body it wants in its mouth.” He reached for the beast’s shoulder, but the animal snapped at his hand. As soon as the beast’s teeth made contact with his skin, he transformed, but Adam couldn’t quite prevent himself from biting down in time. 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” the man gasped. He lifted Gaston’s hand, the one that wasn’t holding flowers, and examined it closely from front to back.

“I thought you said you didn’t bite,” Gaston teased. He couldn't help it.

Adam stammered something about how he tried to stop it, etc, etc. Gaston gently pulled his hand from the other man’s grasp and placed it on his shoulder before pressing the flowers into Adam’s hands. “I’m fine. I kissed you and you bit me. I think that makes us even again.” 

“Hardly,” Adam replied while staring in surprise at the flowers in his hands. “Kissing doesn’t hurt.”

“Doesn’t it?” Gaston asked and squeezed the man’s shoulder. “These are ‘I’m sorry’ flowers. Because something doesn’t have to hurt to cause harm.” 

Adam glanced up at his face before looking immediately away. “You didn’t need to apologize.”

Gaston sighed. “I’m not going to argue over whether I needed to do it or not. If you don’t want me to bring you more flowers tomorrow, tell me you accept the apology. Otherwise chivalry will demand I continue my gift-giving.”

“What would the next gift be? Roses?” Adam’s tone was so even that Gaston didn’t immediately catch his meaning. 

“Was that a joke?” he asked incredulously.

“A rather unhappy one,” the man replied and treated him with a crooked smile.

Gaston gaped at him. He’d never seen the man smile before. Thanks to the castle’s magical memories and his blunder last night, he already knew Adam had nice teeth, but he wasn’t expecting dimples. 

Gaston blinked rapidly as a new series of images sprang up behind his eyes; Adam smiling down at the book resting in his lap with the library fire blazing merrily behind him, Adam catching Gaston’s eye across the ballroom floor and grinning over the shoulder of his dance partner, Adam smiling up at him, his hair pooling in the grass around his head as Gaston leaned down to kiss those dimples one at a time. He traced his lips to the corner of his mouth, then lower under his jaw, stopping at the base of his throat where he felt the other man’s sigh form and release. . .

“Sorry,” Adam said awkwardly. “It wasn’t very funny.”

Gaston swallowed hard and willed the images to return to wherever they’d originated from. He realized he still hadn’t returned Adam’s smile, and that the man likely thought his expression of surprise and mild horror was about his joke. He managed to force a grin. “Then, to make up for not breaking your spell, I will come here every morning to supply you with endless jokes at my expense.”

Adam’s posture relaxed and he flashed those dimples at him again. “Speaking of the spell, I was up late last night thinking about what you said.” He opened the door to his room wider and tugged him inside by his hand. “I think you should see the rose for yourself.”

Gaston hadn’t been inside the west wing since the night he’d sat next to Adam’s bed after carrying him back to the castle. The room was still in shambles; broken furniture sat pushed up against the walls, ripped curtains hung limply over cracked windows, frames of what Gaston assumed were portraits were shredded to obscurity. The man’s bed was perhaps in the worst shape. The canopy was leaning to one side from a weakened post, and the torn covers were arranged into a kind of nest. Gaston had only seen the man sleep in his human form. When he slept in his beast form, he must curl up in those blankets like a cat. 

“I know it’s a mess,” Adam said, apparently noticing Gaston taking in the room. 

“I’m just. . .” he frowned. “Are none of your friends willing to help you fix this place up?”

“What would be the point? The beast form only destroys it again.”

And it was this, seeing the man’s room in disarray, knowing it’d almost certainly been that way for years, that made Gaston truly consider the unique kind of hell Adam was living in. He imagined waking up every morning and eating breakfast without utensils because he didn’t have hands to hold them. He imagined catching his reflection in mirrors or glass windows and seeing something foreign and monstrous staring back. He imagined fearing he was a danger to his friends, and at the end of it all, going to bed alone, unable to even sleep like a human being. 

“Adam,” he asked as the other man placed the flowers on the windowsill and pulled up a chair that had minimal damage for him to sit down, “what did you do?” 

The other man paused, one of his hands still holding Gaston’s, the other gripping the back of the chair. “Do?” 

“Yes. I can only think of a few people I’ve ever known in my life who deserve this kind of torture, and I knew warlords.”

Adam let go of the chair and tucked his hair behind his ear with his free hand. He was pointedly avoiding Gaston’s gaze. “I don’t actually remember what happened. The magic prevents me from remembering anything about my life before this.” He gestured rather helplessly to himself. “But the way the enchantress tells it, she came to the castle and asked me for a room for the night in exchange for a rose. I turned her away because I found her repulsive, and so she cast a powerful spell over me.”

Gaston lowered himself down into the chair. Adam let go of his hand and touched his shoulder instead. A black tablecloth, most notable because it didn’t have so much as a loose thread, was draped over the table in front of him. 

“She used the rose for the spell,” Adam continued, and pulled the tablecloth back with one hand to reveal a glass case, the kind Gaston had seen the bakery in the village use to display taller pastries and other confections. Beneath the case was a single rose. A single dying rose. 

Gaston’s stomach churned. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the tower room. His eyes were locked on the rose, unable to look away, noting its curling leaves and browning petals with increasing dread. 

“I am cursed to remain a beast until the last petal falls.” Adam stood next to where Gaston was sitting. He pointed to the bottom of the case, which was littered with shriveled petals. More than a dozen of them. “When it does, the curse will become permanent, and I will be a beast for all time.” 

Gaston looked up at him, evaluating his face. The man’s cheeks were pale and his brows were drawn over his eyes. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. 

“C'est des balivernes,” Gaston said with a shake of his bead.

Adam startled. “What?” 

“C'est des balivernes!” Gaston repeated more angrily. “You didn’t give a stranger a room for the night and she curses you for eternity? You were how old when you were cursed? Sixteen?” It took effort for him to unclench his jaw enough to continue speaking. “Do you know how fucking selfish I was when I was sixteen? I don’t know a single teenager who isn’t. It’s part of growing up!” 

“No,” Adam said, almost kindly, like Gaston was the one who needed comfort. “I appreciate your understanding, really, I do, but I earned this punishment. It’s my cross to bear.” 

Gaston waved off his words as if they were insects buzzing in his ear. “And then she put that spell on not only you, but the entire castle as well?” Gaston stood up abruptly and leaned over the table, shrugging off Adam’s hands that tried to pull him back by his shoulders. He studied the rose as if it held the answers to his questions. “A sixteen year old boy tells a stranger that a flower in return for a room in his own home isn’t acceptable, and the entire castle staff has to suffer for it?”

“It’s part of the punishment,” Adam protested and tugged more insistently on his shoulders. “Gaston, please. I’m afraid you’ll break it. That would be very very bad.” 

He finally leaned back, but he didn’t relinquish the rose from his glare—until the implications of Adam’s story finally hit him full-force. “Wait.” He tore his eyes away from the glass and swept his gaze up to scrutinize Adam more closely. “You’re the owner of this castle.”

The other man’s eyes were as solemn as ever. “Yes.”  

Gaston sucked in a breath. “You’re royalty.” 

The man hesitated before nodding gravely.

“I kissed a prince?” Gaston nearly shouted. Shock and horror flooded him. The castle staff called him “master” without using his title. Why had no one bothered to tell him? Adam could have him exiled. Beheaded. Worse. 

The man winced. “I’m not. Not anymore. I have no people to rule over and no memory of ruling them.”

 “Doesn’t your father, the king, know you’re here? Why hasn’t he done anything to help?” 

Adam shook his head again. It seemed like something in his neck was broken. Every word Gaston spoke was met with firm headshakes. “He won’t remember me. No one would. I don’t even remember.” 

Gaston swore. Really swore. It made Adam’s brows lift comically high. “What does turning you into a monster have to do with selfishness?” he demanded.

“She said ‘beauty is found within,’” Adam answered weakly. “If you would just read—”

“I don’t need to read it.” Gaston began to pace, except since he couldn’t step out of Adam’s reach, he settled for walking in a circle around him. He hissed a breath through his teeth. “So you turned away an enchantress who was an old woman because you thought she was ugly.”

“Well, she was only disguising herself as an old woman. She’s actually quite beautiful,” Adam corrected. 

Gaston threw up his hands, which made Adam hurriedly reach for his shoulder again. He continued pacing, but with Adam’s hands on his shoulders, the other man spun around on his heels as if they were in some kind of strange dance. 

“So an old woman demands a room in exchange for a flower from the sixteen year old prince of France. When he tells her no and she reveals that she’s actually a beautiful woman only pretending to be ‘ugly,’ she then accuses you of judging appearances. She turns you into a monster and everyone else into furniture even though they had nothing to do with any of this. And for what purpose? To teach you to value inner beauty, even though the enchantress herself is beautiful and the only woman who has knocked on your door is also one of the most beautiful women I’ve met in this end of the country?” Gaston stopped pacing and waited for the explanation the other man would give.

Adam finally nodded. “Yes. But I think you’re missing the point.” 

“I must be!” Gaston stepped closer and Adam looked up at him from beneath his lashes, his eyes examining every corner of his face. When they lowered to his lips, Gaston felt that same yearning grip him from those rose bushes.

Adam looked quickly away, cheeks darkening. He kept his eyes on the floor when he answered. “None of that matters. How old I was or what I said or who my parents are. The enchantress saw there was no love in my heart. The only way to break the spell is for me to learn to love, and for that person to love me in return.” 

“There are people here who love you already.” Gaston lowered his voice to disguise the bite of anger still lingering there. “Lumiere, Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts.”

“Yes, I know,” Adam whispered. He glanced reluctantly back up into Gaston’s face. “But the spell still isn’t broken. It must be me. It must be that I can't love them back.”

“C'est des balivernes.”

Nonsense. 

 

 

 

Chapter 14: The Beast

Several mercifully uneventful weeks had passed since he first showed Gaston the rose, and the beast was curled up on his bed in the west wing listening to Cogsworth’s list of grievances he and Lumiere insisted on speaking to him about as soon as the other man left that morning. 

“I’m telling you, we have a saboteur in our midst!” Cogsworth cried. “Mark my words!” 

The beast looked from his windowsill, currently brimming with flowers, to the numerous sketches and paintings he’d tacked between to the torn portraits and shattered mirrors; splashes of color amidst shades of gray, like rare sunbeams filtered through prison bars. He looked back to Cogsworth, who was waddling anxiously in front of the encased rose to get a closer look. “Saboteur?” he prompted. 

“Yes!” the clock cried. “Every plan we have devised for you to win the young lady’s heart, he has gotten in the way!” 

Lumiere, who had been very quiet since he entered the west wing, sighed wearily. “Oh here we go.” 

Cogsworth ignored him. “First, there was the very romantic dinner we planned for you and the lady!”

Almost two weeks ago now, Cogsworth, Lumiere, Mrs. Potts, and the other castle staff put on a candlelit dinner in the library instead of the dining room. They’d insisted that the beast sit in a chair (despite not fitting well in one) and sip from his soup instead of licking it the way any normal, self-respecting beast would. It was the first time he’d eaten with his guests since they arrived. Belle had agreed, most likely because she had nowhere else to run to if the dinner was in the library. The beast tried to smooth over the awkwardness with talk about Shakespeare, which the woman had very gratefully spoken on for some time.

Until the library doors crashed open. 

“Hey, no one told me we were eating here tonight,” Gaston whined as soon as he entered. He approached the table and took the seat directly next to the beast. Neither he nor Belle answered, and Gaston’s brows rose as he took in the meal and the candles and the very obvious awkwardness that permeated the air. 

Please save me. God, please, please, please save me. 

Gaston slid his foot under the table until it nudged the beast’s. He tried very hard not to yelp in surprise by the unexpected transformation before covering it with a cough. 

“Maybe try using a spoon instead of slurping,” Gaston suggested with a small smirk tugging the corners of his lips, like he knew, like he’d done it on purpose. “You’ll eat slower that way.” 

The man’s foot didn’t move for the rest of the meal, and the beast ate his soup with a spoon. A spoon. And he drank from a glass. He could only imagine how strange it looked to Belle and the others (indeed she’d kept her eyes determinedly on her plate) but he caught Gaston occasionally watching him as he ate, a look of pure self-satisfaction on his face. 

“Eat with us again,” he urged him the following morning after handing him his newest gift, a sketch of the courtyard fountain before without the moss or lichen or cracked marble, before time had taken its toll. 

“Why? So you can make fun of me?” 

The man had only huffed. “No. Well, maybe a little. But I promise it will only be a little.”

So the beast ate every meal with Belle and Gaston, and every meal Gaston slid his foot under the table. Sometimes he hooked it around his ankle, and once he’d widened his posture so that his leg was pressed against his from the knee down. The beast had struggled to focus on his meal that night, and Gaston had touched feet only ever since. 

“And then,” Cogsworth continued loudly, bringing him back to the present, “there was the time you were supposed to take her out to feed the birds. The snow was lovely until that man started throwing it at you both!”

The beast remembered that day very well. At the demands of his staff, he invited Belle to walk the grounds with him. It was always winter at the castle, just another layer to his punishment, but that day the snow had softened the decaying castle and courtyard into something very near beautiful.

They didn’t make it half-way to the fountain before Belle shouted in surprise and whirled around, batting snow from her hood. “Gaston, I know that’s you!” she shouted. 

They turned around and the beast had to block another snowball from hitting her in the side with his paws. “That’s it,” she hissed. “Adam, tell me where he is so I can stuff snow down his trousers!” 

They heard Gaston laugh from behind the fountain, and Belle sprinted ahead, hood falling, cloak billowing like a fur flag behind her. Gaston made for the relative cover of the trees, but he wasn’t as fast as the beast. He beat Belle to him. 

“Cheater!” the man cried just before the beast tackled him to the ground. 

“Oh, like you have any right to call me a cheater. Hurry, Belle!” the beast shouted behind him. “I can’t hold him, he turns me human, remember? He’s quite a bit stronger than me when I’m not in my beast form!”

As if in concurrence to that, Gaston’s hand locked around his wrist and he rolled, pinning him to the ground beneath him. The beast gasped as the snow soaked his tunic and hair, the cold almost unbearable against his human skin. He didn’t need to wear warm clothes in his beast form; his fur was plenty thick enough on its own. Now he was freezing. 

“Hell’s t-teeth it’s c-cold!” he cursed. 

Gaston’s hands were still along his wrists, his knees digging into his sides. His cheeks were flushed from the run and the cold, and puffs of vapor formed around his face with every hard exhale. He stared down at him, bewildered, as if he’d forgotten that he could turn him human. 

“G-gaston, I-I’m barefoot, r-remember?” the beast said through chattering teeth.

The other man blinked and then immediately let go of him. “Oh shit. Sorry. Sorry. Shit.”

The beast transformed back just as Belle arrived and promptly shoveled snow down the collar of the man’s cloak. 

“See how you like it,” the beast said in approval. 

Even now he could remember with perfect clarity the feeling of Gaston’s weight above him, the sight of his lips—even rosier than usual from the cold—so near his own, the reluctance to move until he remembered where they were. 

The beast had struggled to fall asleep that night. 

“And then there was the afternoon we planned for you to both read by the fire!” Cogsworth shattered his memories yet again. “We even locked the door!” 

That was exactly what they did. The beast and Belle read together most afternoons, but it apparently wasn’t private or romantic enough. His friends had locked the door, and even went so far as to assign Chapeau to keep watch outside. It probably would’ve worked (the privacy part, not the romantic part) if the beast hadn’t noticed Gaston setting up his easel on the lawn just below the library window. 

“Did you give those painting supplies to him?” Belle asked when she noticed the reason he kept sneaking glances outside. 

“We’ve had them for ages. No one else here can use them anymore.” 

Belle’s brows rose. “Huh.” 

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t have?” The beast tried to imagine what kind of trouble the man could cause with a paintbrush, then thought Gaston would cause trouble no matter what he was doing or where he went, and gave up.

The woman just shrugged and looked back down at her book, though she appeared to be concealing a smile. “He said he never wanted to paint again. That’s all.” 

This was followed with a long stretch of silence wherein neither of them spoke. “It’s not as cold or wet as it was last week,” Belle finally said. “Maybe Gaston has the right idea. We could read outside.”

“You don’t think he would mind?”

“No.” Belle treated him with the full power of her smile. “I don’t think he would mind at all.” 

If Belle wanted to go outside, the castle staff had to let them pass. And the woman was right. Gaston didn’t mind. As soon as they joined him in the courtyard, he sat the beast down in front of the easel. 

“I’m a terrible artist,” he protested, though he knew it was useless. The list of directives he could successfully resist from this man was growing concerningly short.  

“How do you know? You don’t remember anything before your spell. You could be Rembrandt for all we know.” Then Gaston sat in the grass directly next to him, one of the knees of his crossed legs pressing against the beast’s thigh. “Now that you can hold a paintbrush, try to fill in my lines there.” 

When it became very obvious that the beast was bad at painting, curse or no curse, Gaston took it upon himself to steady his wrist by reaching around him. “Your strokes are too slow. You need more of a sweeping motion.” 

“I think I’m going to read by the fountain,” Belle said from somewhere behind them. 

The beast watched her walk away and felt inexplicably guilty. “Do you think she’s upset?” he asked Gaston.

“That I’m teaching you instead of her?” 

The beast swallowed. Unable to respond. The man was leaning so close he could feel his breath against his ear, and his hand along his wrist had loosened enough to slide up his forearm in a way that he knew had nothing to do with paint strokes. 

“I don’t think she would like it,” Gaston murmured. 

The beast let out a shaky breath. “Painting?” 

The man hummed, and the sound reverberated pleasantly in his ears. “What else?” 

The beast probably would’ve stayed like that for as long as the man allowed if Sultan, the castle dog-turned-footstool, didn’t see them sitting on the ground and take it as an invitation to play. 

“Sultan, no! Bad dog!” the beast cried as he knocked over the easel and splashed paint all over the velvet cloth on his back. 

Gaston only laughed and waved a paintbrush in the dog’s direction before throwing it, only for Sultan to chase and be unable to bring it back. The dog whined, and Gaston looked chagrined. “I didn’t think that one through, did I?” 

“He loves chase. Even if he can’t bring it back to you,” the beast said more warmly. 

Gaston let go of him and stood. He walked over to where the paintbrush was still lying in the grass, Sultan circling it determinedly, and threw it again. The dog barked happily and chased after it. Then Gaston walked across the lawn and picked up the brush to throw again. And again.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” the beast whispered to himself. 

Except he wasn’t alone. 

“Careful, mon ami,” Lumiere said. When the candelabra had joined them on the courtyard, the beast had been too busy watching Gaston to notice. “Or I’ll start to think our plan is working after all.”

It was Lumiere who mercifully cut Cogsworth’s ranting off now. “And what do you propose we do with Monsieur Gaston? Lock him back in the dungeons?” 

Cogsworth huffed. “No. We should send him away. I’ve said so from the start, haven’t I?” 

“Are you forgetting that the monsieur can turn the master human, which is very likely the reason no petals have fallen in almost a month? Or that he is the only one who remembers the master’s name?” 

“It’s suspicious!” Cogsworth declared. “I don’t like how he looks at him. Like he’s plotting something.” 

“Quelle horreur! Tell me what you think he’s plotting,” Lumiere said and jabbed the clock pointedly with one of his candlesticks. 

The clock sputtered. “I don’t know! Something objectionable, I’m sure.” Which only made Lumiere dissolve into a fit of laughter. “What? What is so funny?” The clock appeared truly rattled. “What do you think he’s plotting, then?” 

“My answer was going to be the same as yours, mon ami, I promise.” 

The beast snorted a sigh. Moments like these made him feel bad for Lumiere. He knew he’d already tried to move on with Plumette, but the feather duster was about as interested in an exclusive relationship as Cogsworth was in comedy (which was to say, not at all). Could he not have picked an easier person to be infatuated with? 

“Could you?” a small voice at the back of his mind whispered. 

Except Gaston wasn’t the problem. The beast was the problem. A decade of living in this castle and the beast had never once questioned whether the love of his friends was enough to break the curse. When Gaston first said it in the cellars, the beast had assumed it was because they had no choice but to take care of him, he was their only ticket out of this hell. But deep down he knew it was more than that. The castle staff didn’t have to make his meals or tend to his injuries. They didn’t have to tolerate his foul moods or help him manage his unpredictable temper. Even if he believed they did it as a form of self-protection, they never blamed him for what had happened.

The beast was the one preventing the spell from breaking. He had to be. The enchantress looked into his heart and saw no love there, and even after ten years of relying on the kindness of others, he still hadn’t learned. The feelings he had for his friends; they were something else. Something less. The realization made him feel more like a monster than he ever had before.

He stayed in his room the rest of the day, unwilling to answer the door even when Mrs. Potts wheeled up to his door with tea. “When you’re ready to talk, dearie, you know where to find me.” 

The following morning Gaston knocked on his door even earlier than usual and the beast nearly fell out of bed in his haste to answer it. There had been no mid-afternoon transformations yesterday, no painting instructions or snow fight tackling, and he was feeling the consequences. He feared how reliant he was becoming on him. If his condition only continued to worsen, would he have to hold Gaston’s hand all day? And what about at night?

He pushed those fears away for now and opened the door. Gaston stood with his hands behind his back and an unusually worried slant to his lips. He squinted into the beast’s face before cursing and reaching for his shoulder with one hand. “I can’t read you when you look like that,” he grumbled. 

“I’m fine,” the beast assured him, because the man kept studying him like he was looking for something to be wrong.

“I didn’t see you yesterday after our morning walk. And when I asked after you, I was told you weren’t opening the door for anyone.” He frowned. “I even sat painting on the grounds near your window for an hour waiting.”

“Oh.” The beast felt his cheeks warm—the traitors that they were. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Yes, that was what worried me.” Gaston searched his eyes again. “Did the beast form overwhelm you again, chaton?”

The beast shook his head. “No. Well, it might’ve been a bit worse than usual, but that was because I didn’t touch you after our walk in the morning.”

Gaston’s frown deepened. “Don’t lock yourself away again. Or if you must, write me a note.”

The beast snorted. “Because you’re afraid I’ll lose control and hurt someone?”

“Because I’m afraid you’re hurt,” Gaston argued bluntly.

The beast’s stomach lurched. He wanted to tell this man the truth; that he didn’t deserve his concern, just like he didn’t deserve the gifts he kept bringing him. The beast had intended to accept the man’s apology weeks ago, but he’d been too eager to see what he would bring next to put a stop to it. 

Selfish. I am still so selfish.

He eyed the hands still hidden behind Gaston’s back. “Did you bring me something?” 

The man looked like there was more he wanted to say but thought better of it. “It’s a mirror.” He held it out for the beast to take. “I painted it. Sort of. I thought, since you can only be in your human form when I’m around, you might like to see your real face from time to time.”

The beast recognized the mirror as the one of the shattered ones that sat in the corner of his room near the door. It was large enough to be hung, but it wasn’t much bigger than his hand. The man had carefully arranged the glass back into place. He clearly hadn’t been able to find or salvage all of the pieces. Wherever one was missing, he painted it with tiny leaves and flowers. The effect was a wild, overgrown flowerbed with his reflection at the center. 

It was lovely in a way the beast struggled to put to words, so he didn’t try. He blinked at himself in the mirror instead. He looked older than the portraits he’d destroyed years ago when he could no longer stand to see what he once was. There were permanent creases between his brows and at the corners of his lips, but they weren’t the kind he saw on Gaston’s face; lines from smiling and laughing. These were lines of sorrow. His eyes were the same color, but far more solemn than those portraits. 

But his hair was what truly caught his attention. He knew it was unruly—he could feel it—but in this mirror it looked positively wild. He hadn’t cut it in a decade, aside from the occasions he suffered Lumiere to groom him as the beast (which was humiliating for a great many reasons).

Gaston still had one hand on his shoulder. He squeezed. “Adam? Are you alright?”

“I really need a haircut,” he managed to stammer.

Gaston laughed. “That’s what you have to say after seeing your own face for the first time in ten years?”

The beast tucked his curls behind his ear, but they sprang back up again. “Gaston,” he groaned, “you have to cut it.”

The man looked surprised. “What, really? Why?”

“It looks like a bird’s nest, that’s why! I could try to cut it myself. . .” He lifted the ends up to his face. “I should just cut it all off, shouldn’t I?”

“No,” Gaston said quickly. “I’ll do it. I don’t mind.”

“It would just be easier—”

“I’ll cut it,” Gaston said firmly. “Just point me in the direction of shears.”

 

 

Chapter 15: Gaston

Gaston sat on the floor of Adam’s room with a pair of scissors in his hands and a single thought in his mind.

Bad idea. This is a very bad idea. I should not do this.

He glanced around the room again, noting the flowers Adam had carefully arranged on his windowsill and the paintings he’d hung on the walls. His paintings. Not a single one was missing. There was even one tacked next to his bed; the one of the fountain the way Gaston remembered it before time and weather had worn it away. Well, it wasn’t actually his memory, was it?

Over the last few weeks Gaston had grown increasingly desensitized to the enchantment’s influence. He was no longer particularly alarmed when images surfaced in his mind that he didn’t recognize as his own. In fact, he was coming to expect them. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Adam asked him now. He was sitting directly in front of Gaston with his lower back leaning against his crossed knees. The man’s tangled curls spilled down his back and fell nearly into his lap. Gaston thought Belle’s hair was unfairly pretty, but Adam’s hair was even less fair. Not because it was the kind he wanted for himself, but because it was the kind he wanted to play with, press his face into, knot in his fingers. 

Bad idea. 

He pushed that thought down again. “Of course I don’t,” he scoffed. “I used to cut hair all the time during the wars, and we rarely had shears. This will be easy.”

Which was true. Gaston had cut many soldier’s hair during his years of service. Most of them had been his friends or comrades, and none of them had hair quite like Adam’s, but it wasn’t like Gaston hadn’t bedded men with nice hair before. He was far too experienced to be flustered by something as small as hair cutting. He wasn’t flustered, and if he was, it was only because Adam was a prince and he didn’t think his skills were fit for royalty. That was all. 

“How short do you want it?” he asked after telling himself this with the grim resolution of a commander ordering his troops to battle. What else was he going to do, let the man cut it all off himself for the sake of convenience? 

Absolutely not. 

Adam held his new mirror up to look at the hair already framing his face. He pointed to his chin. “About there, maybe?”

“If you cut it there, you won’t be able to tie it back or tuck it. Maybe a little longer?”

“I would rather cut it all off,” he grumbled, but Gaston pretended not to hear him. 

“I’ll tie it for you afterward. How’s that?”

Adam nodded reluctantly. “Alright.” 

Gaston reached forward and gently gathered all of Adam’s hair behind his back where he could see it. He sectioned it the best he could, though at one point he had to request more ties to use against the other man’s unruly tresses. Adam watched him in the mirror and Gaston kept his eyes pointedly on his work. He didn’t want to fuck up knowing that Adam would likely cut the rest of it off if he didn’t like the outcome.

He didn’t know why the idea was so intolerable that he was willing to put himself through this mild torture. He just couldn’t imagine Adam without his wild hair. Or he didn’t want to—which was why the bad idea warning flashed again. He was no longer a ragingly hormonal teenager. He could control himself when he really needed to. And if he had to shift his sitting position at some point, no one but him would have to know why. He wasn’t entirely undisciplined. 

Gaston didn’t speak for the duration of the cut. Neither did Adam. 

“How does that look?” he asked when he finished. He pushed his hair to the front for him to judge the length using the mirror.

“Much better,” Adam sighed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I still need to tie it, and I hope you aren’t tender headed.”

“I’m not sure if I am. No one has touched my hair before. My real hair. Well, they probably have,” he added hurriedly, “I just don’t remember it. I’m sure I’ll be fine though.” Gaston actually heard the click of the man’s teeth when he clamped his mouth shut. He couldn’t see his face, Adam had put the mirror down, but his ears looked redder than before. 

Gaston told himself it was nothing, it meant nothing other than he was embarrassed, and gathered his hair in his hands again. This time he combed more fingers through the persistent tangles. Every time he thought he’d smoothed one side, he found more on the other. He’d just pulled the hair back along Adam’s part when he felt him shiver. 

See? This is why it was a bad idea.

Gaston glanced over Adam’s shoulder and saw his long-fingered hands digging into the rug in front of him, his knuckles pale from how tightly he was clenching. He should pretend he hadn’t noticed it. He should play the role of the gentleman. Adam was a prince. He was an ex-soldier of dubious reputation. He was under some strange enchantment that Adam had no control over and should be fighting it with all his willpower. So why, then, was he leaning forward? Why was he pressing his nose against the crown of his head, confirming that his hair did, in fact, smell exactly like he knew it would? 

Adam inhaled sharply and held his breath. He was frozen in place, as if he feared Gaston’s touch was a butterfly on his shoulder that even breathing might scare away.

Or it could be fear. You don’t know for sure that it isn’t fear. You can’t see his face.

You could ask.

“Adam,” Gaston whispered. Except that was the same moment the man turned his head so that his lips were nearly grazing his ear and the question he had prepared evaporated from his mind.

“Yes,” the man whispered back even more quietly, so quietly that Gaston couldn’t determine if he was prompting him to finish his question or if he was giving him permission to continue.

Gaston’s hands were still in his hair, and Adam must’ve leaned back because his ear was even closer to his lips than before, and now images of kissing the spot right there along the corner of his jaw were flashing in his mind, and he couldn’t decide if they were a result of his inexplicable memories or simply his own, current imagination, and why did Adam smell so nice, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be an animal most of the day? And didn't he remember the last time he kissed him? He told him he didn’t want it. He doubted a few weeks had changed his feelings that dramatically. 

He should ask. Just ask.

But by now the tension between them was so taut it was making it difficult to breathe normally, let alone speak. Was his attraction to this man really this disabling?

“I think I prefer it down, actually,” Adam said finally when Gaston still didn’t move or speak. He straightened up before pushing himself to his feet. “It probably wouldn’t stay tied anyway.”

Gaston cursed inwardly. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t the kind of person to drag anything out like this. He knew how to communicate his feelings. It wasn’t like this was his first time. It wasn’t even his tenth time. 

Regret pierced him, as sharp and unexpected as an arrow to the chest. He looked up at Adam and tried to gauge the extent of damage his inaction had caused, but the other man was doing a marvelous job avoiding his gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” Gaston managed to say. “Adam. I’m. . .”

“You don’t need to apologize. I like it better down. I don’t know if it would survive the transformation anyway.” And there was an odd flatness to Adam’s voice that twisted the shame-arrow in Gaston’s chest. 

It was time for him to leave. That much was obvious. Gaston let go of him and he shifted back. “Don’t lock yourself away,” he begged when he reached the door. 

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Adam-as-the-beast replied as he placed the mirror on his desk. 

Gaston left without another word. He rubbed his sternum where the pain still lingered. He knew there was only one way to alleviate this horrible feeling. 

It was time to ask for help. 

Immediately after breakfast he followed Belle to the library. “Can I talk to you? Privately?” he asked her in a low voice. 

The woman frowned at him. “You may try, but this is an enchanted castle. We could lock ourselves in a broom closet and be spied on by one of the brooms.” 

“It’s important,” he insisted.

Belle’s brows rose and she shot him a surreptitious look. “It’s about Adam, isn’t it?” 

“Shh!” he hissed. “Not so loud!” He looked down the hall as if one of the coats of armor standing at attention might have overheard. 

“Let me guess. You did something stupid and now you want me to help you fix it.” 

Gaston scowled but held the library door open for her anyway. “No.” She led him to a darker corner of the library shelves. “Well, maybe,” he admitted. “How do you know it’s my fault?” 

Belle just looked at him. “Do you want an honest answer to that question?” 

“Yes? No. I mean, maybe?” 

“Because Adam’s favorite character in Shakespeare is Ophelia—he told me so—and you are very obviously a Hamlet.” 

Gaston rubbed his chin. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“Adam would.” She leaned against one of the library shelves. “I was wondering when you would make this my problem. Honestly I’ve just been grateful you told me about his human form and that I felt it for myself. Seeing you flirt with a monster has been deeply unsettling. If you didn’t tell me, I would think your preferences must lie in a whole different universe entirely and would absolutely judge you for it.” 

Gaston gaped at her. “First of all, I am not attracted to him in his beast form.” The little smirk on her face was almost enough to make him reconsider enlisting her help. Almost. “I’m not. He’s terrifying. And furry. And he has horns.” 

Belle just laughed.

“And even if I was, which I’m not, I can’t touch him anyway without turning him back.” 

“I’m no expert, but I don’t know if touching is always necessary.” 

“Belle,” Gaston gasped, caught somewhere between impressed and horrified. 

She erupted into more giggles. “Okay, okay. What’s the problem, then? Don’t tell me you plan to break his heart. Because I will be unhappy about that.” 

Gaston shook his head. “What are you talking about?” 

“Adam.” She frowned and eyed him with real incredulity this time, like he was behaving even more unintelligently than she expected. “He’s obviously smitten with you. I thought he was smarter than that, but whatever effect you have on almost everyone except me must make up for it.”

Gaston was offended on multiple levels. “He isn’t smitten. And I have reason to believe my attraction to him might not be real.” 

About mid-way through his explanation of the effect the magic of the castle was having on him, Belle’s lips pressed together and her eyes widened in concern. When he finished the whole miserable account, she reached out and grasped his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? That sounds dreadful.” 

“I was afraid you would think I was mad.” 

“I can’t imagine if someone put those thoughts and feelings inside of my head without my permission.” She shuddered. “And you’re sure no one is casting magic on you himself? It would be an efficient way to break the curse.”

“No. I may have. . . ah, already tested that theory.” 

Belle studied him for a long moment, and Gaston had the horrible feeling that the woman could read him like one of her books. “You kissed him,” she said matter-of-factly

Gaston winced. Nodded. “I did ask, and he did say yes, but I don’t think he said yes because he truly wanted to.” 

He then took an even longer amount of time explaining Adam’s reliance on him and how it would be all too easy for him to use that reliance to his advantage, that Adam himself was already expecting it, and that Gaston didn’t want to use it even accidentally. 

Belle pinched the bridge of her nose. “Honestly, Gas, considering how long you’ve been dealing with all of this on your own, I’m impressed you haven’t done anything worse.” 

Gaston crossed his arms. “Your faith in me is truly inspiring.”

“This would be a lot for anyone to handle alone.”

Well, that made him feel a little better. A little. 

“Are you looking for my advice? Or just wanting someone to confide in?” 

“Advice,” he grunted. “As much as I might not like what you say.” 

She tucked stray strands of hair behind her ears and looked thoughtful for a long moment. “I would be very, very careful,” she said finally. “There’s powerful magic at work here. It’s different magic that’s affecting you both, and yet both seem to be pushing you closer. Maybe even against your will.”

Gaston nodded slowly. “Yes. I thought that was because whoever was casting the magic wanted me to break the curse. But there are people who love him here already. The curse should be broken.” 

“It should,” Belle agreed. She hesitated. “I’ve also been thinking about this more than I’ve admitted to you.” 

“About what? Me kissing a monster prince?” 

“No,” she snapped, and then groaned at his no-good grin. “About this spell. I asked Mrs. Potts and she helped me write down the whole thing.” She reached into her apron pocket and handed a folded piece of parchment to Gaston. “It doesn’t add up.” 

He read the text twice before handing it back to her. “It says nothing about kisses. Or true love. It just says ‘learn to love another and earn their love in return.’ Adam told me he thinks the enchantment isn’t broken yet because he can’t love.” 

“That’s obviously not true. I’ve only known him a few weeks and I know that’s not true,” Belle huffed.

“Maybe you should try telling him that,” he said. “He might believe you more than me.” 

“Gaston, something is wrong with this enchantment.” 

He looked from the parchment in his hands that was covered in the woman’s camped script and up into her face. “What do you mean?” 

She gnawed on her lower lip. “It’s just. . .” she studied the spines of the books on the shelves next to her without seeming to really see them. “I don’t think it’s a spell at all. I think it’s a curse.”

Gaston frowned. “Aren’t those basically the same thing?”

Belle shook her head. “I’ve been doing research here in the library on the difference between spells and curses. The scholars all seem to agree that a spell is labeled a curse if the magic was used to cause intentional suffering.”

Gaston nodded slowly. “Turning the whole castle into objects, isolating them for ten years, and erasing them from the memories of everyone who loves them sure sounds like intended suffering to me.” 

“Exactly. By every definition I’ve found, the enchantress didn’t put a spell on Adam and the people here. She cursed them. And no one who puts curses on others is good. Cursing is inherently evil magic. It’s never fair.”

The truth of Belle’s words didn’t hit him, but rather settled onto his shoulders like a heavy weight. Like dread. “You mean that this enchantress—whoever she is—didn’t cast magic on Adam and all the people here to teach him a lesson about love and vanity. She cursed him because she wanted to hurt them.”

Belle nodded, her eyes widening with alarm. “What if. . .” she hesitated, as if speaking the words aloud might make them true. “What if the enchantress lied to make Adam feel like there was no hope?”

Gaston had to force himself to unclench his jaw. How had he not considered this already? He didn’t know fairytales the way Belle did, but even he knew enough to have realized that this spell was evil. Belle was right. There was no such thing as benevolent curses. Cursing never made the world or anyone in it better. The enchantress had cursed Adam and then fed him the only lie that would make him believe he deserved it. He would never question her intentions if he thought he was the evil one. 

“Oh if I get my hands on that witch, I’m going to snap her neck,” he growled. 

Belle took the parchment he was now crumpling in his hands and said, more sadly, “if the magic of this curse is pushing you two together, then it is possible that it might be for some evil intent.” 

Imagining that his drunken decision to kiss Adam had the potential to cause them both real harm and not just hurt feelings made real fear rise in his throat. “But why? What harm could come of it? I mean, other than broken hearts when I inevitably fuck it up.”

Belle shook her head. “I don’t know. But I think we should talk to Adam and the others. They might know something we don’t, something that they thought didn’t matter before but would now.”

“I’m not admitting that I want to bed their prince,” Gaston protested. “And certainly not to said prince’s face. He already resents me for kissing him.”

Belle reached for his hand and squeezed it. “You can tell them about the images the magic keeps putting in your head, just. . . maybe not all the details.”

Finally Gaston sighed in defeat and rubbed his chin. “Damn, this conversation really didn’t go the way I hoped.”

“You hoped I would pat your arm and say ‘there there?’”

“No, I hoped you would tell me to just go for it.”

Belle smiled sympathetically. “You’re a good man, Gaston. Despite your many, many flaws. Which, honestly, just makes me more impressed by your goodness.”

“Why are all your compliments also insults?” he grumbled.

A little more humor crept into her smile. “What else are friends for?”

Chapter 16: The Beast

The beast was surprised when he came down for dinner (the first time he’d left his room that day) and found nearly everyone in the castle gathered around the dining room table. Even Sultan was weaving between chairs and nuzzling Gaston’s leg. The beast watched as the man leaned down to absently scratch the footstool’s velvet cushion. 

“What’s going on here?” he demanded. The beast form was itching at his nerves, making him even more irritable than usual. It didn’t help that he’d spent most of the day locked in his room brooding over that goddamned haircut. It’d never occurred to him that a man’s fingers in his hair would feel particularly erotic (why would it?), but clearly that was just another example of ignorance born from inexperience. He’d never been more aroused in his life. Well, his remembered life, anyway. 

And then Gaston had nearly pressed his lips to his ear, and every exhale of his breath against his skin felt like the man was blowing into a hearth, coaxing the flame in his body to catch. It very nearly had. In that moment, the beast forgot all about magic and curses and roses. He forgot that he should be less trusting, that this man had a kind of power over him he should be afraid of (a reminder that, to his dismay, had the opposite effect). But then nothing happened, and when the beast was unable to stand it any longer, Gaston had apologized and left. 

He promised himself that, after dinner, once everyone else had gone to bed, he would spend more time in his library lest there was some other seemingly innocuous touch that was going to burn him alive from the inside out. Then he could avoid it. Or at the very least expect it.

Gaston stood immediately upon his entry and took his arm before dragging him to the table and sitting him down in the chair directly next to his. He seemed tense; in fact, they all did. Whatever little meeting they’d been having without him, it didn’t look like a happy one.

“What happened?” he tried asking again, but had to bite the inside of his cheek when Gaston moved his own chair so that they were sitting so close that they were practically hip-to-hip. His foot hooked around his ankle under the table, and the beast had half a mind to confront him right then and there. He couldn’t keep doing this. Touching his hair, sitting so close, tackling him to the ground, giving him handmade gifts, only to do what? Push him away? 

Maybe he would want you if you could love properly. He sees what the enchantress saw. That’s why he’s pushing you away.

The beast was biting his cheek so hard now that he could taste blood. Someone put a plate of food in front of him but his stomach turned at the prospect of eating it. He wished, for not the first time in his remembered life, that he could shrink into the tiniest speck of dust on the floor, to become something that could be swept away. Harmless. 

Despite all of the warmth and care he knew he felt for his friends, it wasn’t enough. He must not know love at all. He was so heartless that he didn’t even know what it looked like. Felt like. And without his memories, how could he rectify whatever grievous sins he’d committed in his past? How could he ever hope to learn to love when he didn’t know where he’d fallen short to begin with? 

There was no pain he’d experienced greater than this; to know that he could never reciprocate the love he was given, that no matter how hard he tried or how strongly he felt, his heart would never be worthy of the care and kindness of others. 

“So that’s why Belle and I believe that this spell is actually a curse and we need to break it the old-fashioned way. And by that I mean murder. By me. I am going to murder the witch who did this to you.”

The beast hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation until that point. Gaston was sitting too close, and his pain was too great, and it was getting more and more difficult to justify his existence in this world. Now he turned to glare incredulously at the other man. “You’re not murdering anyone,” he snapped. “What are you talking about?” 

Belle, who was sitting across from him, reached out and gently took his hand. “This isn’t how spells work, Adam,” she said kindly. “You were cursed, and curses aren’t used to right the wrongs of an unjust world. They aren’t used to turn bad people into good people. Curses are evil magic, and evil has a strong motivation to keep people feeling small and worthless. It knows we have the strength to vanquish it otherwise.” 

“That bitch lied to you,” Gaston added vehemently. At Belle’s glare, he cleared his throat. “Sorry. Children.” 

Mrs. Potts only tipped her spout in his direction. “Chip is in the cupboard for the night. There are only adults here, dearie, and I happen to agree with your choice in words.”

Gaston nodded like that settled the whole matter. “Even the teapot gets it.” 

The beast rubbed his forehead with the knuckles of his index finger. “I appreciate you all for supporting me. Really, I do. I’d like to believe what you’re saying--it would absolve me of all responsibility. But I can’t wish away my heartlessness. I must fix it, or else risk dooming us all.” 

This was met with silence from the group. Gaston looked like he was a breath away from more swearing, but it was Lumiere who spoke first. “Heartless people don’t question whether they have a heart, and they certainly don’t desire to change it.”

“He’s right, Adam,” Belle said and squeezed the hand she was still holding. “That woman came to this castle in disguise knowing you would turn her away. She set it up so that you would believe that you deserved the curse she put on you, so that others who still remember you would believe they couldn’t help you.”

“And you did,” Gaston said. Not to the beast, but to Lumiere and Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts. To all of the castle staff sitting at the table. “You must have. Why else didn’t you see the truth sooner?” 

Along, heavy silence that formed in the wake of that accusation. It only seemed to encourage him. 

“Adam was turned into a monster and you believed it went more than skin-deep. Perhaps you didn’t think he deserved it--that any of you deserved it--but you believed he needed some love greater than what he already had, greater than what you had for him in return.” Gaston’s lip curled. “You never once questioned whether it was the enchantress, the one using evil magic, who was the villain here.” 

“Gaston,” Belle whispered in warning, though not necessarily in disagreement. 

The man shook his head angrily. “Belle and I have only been here a month and we realized this enchantress, not Adam, is to blame. What have you been doing?” 

The beast wanted to protest. He wanted to defend his friends, to explain to Belle and Gaston that they had it backward. It was him. He was the problem, not them. He was the one who couldn’t see past appearances, who was selfish and heartless. He didn’t deserve their love. Gaston was suggesting they didn’t deserve his. He couldn’t find the right words to do it.

“You’re right,” Mrs. Potts said at last, and the grief he heard there made the beast ache in a way he never had before. “You’re absolutely right. I believe I can speak for all of us when I say that we never believed the master was incapable of love, but we also never accepted that the love he had already should be enough. And for that, I fear we have done more damage than ten years as fixtures could ever do.” 

Someone, most likely Plumette, burst into tears. Even Lumiere looked stricken, though how a candle with no face could look stricken was made possible only with magic, and perhaps the fact that the brass of his body didn’t shine quite as bright. Cogsworth’s minute and second hands drooped and even Sultan whimpered as if he could sense the sadness in the room. 

“Perhaps we deserve to be cursed,” Cogsworth said mournfully. 

“No,” the beast croaked. “No, that isn’t. . . this is all wrong. It’s me. The curse is my fault. It. . .” 

Gaston pulled an arm around his shoulders. “Shit, Adam,” the man said softly, “if you’re heartless, then I must be the fucking devil.” When the beast treated him with a disbelieving look, he added, “I’ve killed people, remember? I’ve cheated men out of their fortunes and on several occasions out of their marriages.” Belle made a despairing noise at the back of her throat at that. Gaston just shrugged. “We could argue the morality of my choices all night. Lefou and my father love no discussion topic more. The point is that if I’m not heartless, then Adam certainly isn’t.”

The beast looked at the expectant furniture around him not knowing how to respond. For ten years he’d believed true love would save him, that it would change him, somehow. He thought it would provide whatever he was missing. He thought it would make him whole again. That was how it went in the storybooks. But it was also true that love had changed him already. The love and support his friends had shown him over the last ten years was worth far more than romantic candlelit dinners or long walks in the snow or books by the fireside. It was a hell of a lot more than a kiss, even a spectacular one.

“But how do we break the curse if the enchantress lied to us?” Chapeau asked into the silence.

“We need to know more about this enchantress,” Belle replied firmly. “And we need to compare it to other known curses that have been recorded across history. There might be some clues.” 

Gaston sighed, and the beast felt his chest rise and fall against his side. He was practically tucked under his arm now. He wondered if the other man noticed their proximity, or if he just didn’t care. “Just shout when it’s time to murder someone,” he said and shot the beast a sly wink.

Belle snorted. “Unfortunately, I think our research begins with you, Gaston.” 

The man frowned. “Me? Why? I don’t know anything about magic. I don’t read fairytales.” 

“Belle’s right,” the beast said softly. “You can shift me back into my human form and slow the rose’s wilting. You remembered my name. Also my best form really hates you.” 

Gaston rubbed his chin with the hand that wasn’t still around him. “I guess that is a little much for coincidence.” 

“The magic is also influencing his memory,” Belle added. “And many of the flashbacks he’s experiencing are rather. . . romantic in nature.”

What? 

Gaston had never mentioned that. He said he was reminded of him frequently, but he didn’t say it was anything romantic. “What flashbacks? What is she talking about?” the beast demanded. 

Gaston cleared his throat awkwardly. He looked from Adam to Belle, who raised her brows pointedly. The man slouched back in his seat and removed his arm from around him. “I know a bit too much about you,” he said finally. “Including some things no one should know who isn’t. . . ah, very close to you.” 

A new kind of silence settled over the table. Lumiere exchanged a look even magic couldn’t translate with Mrs. Potts. Plumette whispered something to Chapeau who had to stifle a laugh with a cough. Even Belle’s eyes sparkled in a way that was a shade too mischievous. 

“What things?” the beast demanded. 

Gaston slouched a little lower in his chair. “Maybe we should talk about this another time?” 

“What things, Gaston?” he prompted again, this time more fearfully. 

“Um.” The man looked helplessly around the table before sighing in defeat. “I knew your favorite flower before I gave it to you. I knew you took your tea without sugar before you sat with us in the afternoons. I knew what your favorite type of reading was before Belle told me. I drew the fountain because I knew it was your favorite part of the courtyard. I knew what scent of soap you use when you bathe before I got close enough to smell you.” He paused. “Can I stop there, or. . .?” 

“You knew how I wanted to be kissed,” the beast whispered, the realization igniting such shock and horror that he didn’t care if the others overheard. “You gathered that from memories of kissing me before?”

Gaston winced. “Yes. But they aren’t mine. It’s the magic, which Belle and I think might be evil.”

The beast ignored him. “What else do you remember us doing?” He reached out and gripped the other man’s shoulders. “Gaston, what else do you remember?” 

“Do you want the honest answer, or the answer that will help you feel better?” he asked with a nervous smile. 

“Oh my God,” the beast whispered. “Oh my God.” 

“I think it’s time for bed,” Mrs. Potts said the way a mother would tell her children to go to bed when the adults were talking. “Out with you, everyone. We will talk more tomorrow.” 

“It’s not like I want them,” Gaston continued hurriedly once the others had left the dining hall and it was just Belle, him, and the beast still sitting at the table. Belle snorted loudly and Gaston shot her a glare. “I don’t! I know it’s an invasion of privacy. I don’t know where they’re coming from or why, but I think they must be connected to everything else that’s. . . strange between us. And I tried to avoid you in the beginning. I thought it would keep them from getting worse. But you need me nearby to keep the beast at bay, so I really don’t have a choice.” 

The beast was too afraid to ask anything more. He decided that for now, he’d heard enough. He pulled his knees up to his chest, not caring if he turned back into the beast without Gaston’s foot against his. He would welcome it. The beast form hid his mortification far more effectively. 

For the second time in one evening, he wished he could shrink into nothing. 

“See,” Gaston whispered to Belle. “I told you we shouldn’t have told him.” 

“He has a right to know if you’re having visions of bedding him,” the woman whispered back sternly. 

“To be fair, I haven’t had visions of that. Yet,” Gaston added rather unhappily.

The beast groaned again. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not,” Gaston promised. “But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting them.”

“You two can talk details later,” Belle said, clearly wanting to spare herself. “They have to be someone’s memories, don’t they? Unless you think the magic just makes them up out of nothing? And why are they all so. . .?”

“Intimate?” Gaston offered. The beast made a third piteous groan, and Gaston patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Sorry. I thought that would be better than calling them ‘sexual.’”

Another hour of discussion and the beast still couldn’t get past his mortification enough to remove his head from his hands. He wasn’t sure how he was ever going to look the man in the face again. He tried reassuring himself that they weren’t real, but if they weren’t real, how could so many of them be true? 

It wasn’t until the beast returned to bed that he was able to work through his horror enough to consider other implications of this revelation. He wondered if all of those little moments he and Gaston had shared over the past few weeks were the result of the magic’s influence. Without it, he might not be attracted to him at all. He’d said as much, hadn’t he? 

“I don’t want to bed you. I don’t even want to kiss you. These memories aren’t mine.” 

And again tonight. 

“It’s not like I want them!”

Gaston didn’t push him away because he thought he was heartless. He pushed him away because he never wanted him in the first place. And why would he? The beast was cursed to take the form of a hideous monster. And even when he wasn’t in his beast form, he had no delusions around his appearance. He was much too thin and pale and his hair was unkempt at best. Gaston was built like the ex-soldier that he was; muscular and broad-shouldered from practical use rather than vanity. He had a face fit for royal courts and hair as black and silken as Fable’s feathers. He was funny and charming and almost damningly honest. He lived his life on his timeline and no one else’s. He certainly wouldn’t want to live on his. He wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for Belle and her contract with the Folk. 

When the beast finally curled up in his bed in the west wing after bidding the others goodnight, he was grateful that his beast form couldn’t shed tears.

Chapter 17: Gaston

 That night, Gaston had the first nightmare. 

He dreamt of rose bushes the size of the castle, of thorns as long and sharp as knives, and of a woman with hair the color of blood. He chased her across the overgrown castle courtyard, certain that she was his only way out. But every time he drew close enough to reach her, she laughed and vanished into the roses as easily as if she was one of them. The dream ended when he was swallowed by those thorns, their vines thicker around than his forearms and moving, constricting painfully around his limbs and dragging him downward. The thorns pushed deeper into his skin until he screamed. Then they went down his throat. 

He awoke gasping and drenched in sweat.

Dream. Not real. Dream.

The meek morning light cast their chamber in gray and blue hues. From the lump under the covers, he heard a soft snore. Well if all of that thrashing didn’t wake Belle, the woman was able to sleep through anything. The fondness that accompanied that thought helped banish the lingering terror. He pushed himself out of bed and downed the glass of water from his bedside table. When that wasn’t enough, he moved to the washbin to splash more on his face. 

Gaston was no stranger to nightmares. They were one of the many consequences of fighting in a war. But he’d never had a dream quite as vivid as this. Clearly he’d been thinking too much about magic and curses.

He glanced out the window. It was early. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the sky was lightening close to the tree line. He would see if Adam was awake, and if he wasn’t, he would take it as an opportunity to walk off the dredges of his nightmare. 

He liked walking the castle the most in the mornings. Not even the cracks and dust on the windows could diminish the cheer brought by early morning sunlight like a magic all its own. The red rugs seemed brighter, the walls softer, and the gargoyles less menacing. In moments like these, Gaston thought the place was almost welcoming, though whether that was due to the mysterious spell he was under or a reflection of his true feelings, he didn’t know. 

By the time he reached Adam’s door in the west wing, he felt refreshed, the sharp edges of his nightmare fast fading into his memory. He knocked lightly, not truly expecting the other man to be awake yet. But the door immediately swung open and a four-hundred pound beast pounced at him. Gaston instinctively lifted his arms and looked down into Adam’s red-brown curls. Startled. 

It was nice to have men throwing themselves at him again. He’d missed it.

“Thank God you came early,” Adam sighed. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take it.”

When he didn’t let go of him, Gaston placed light arms around his waist, light enough that Adam could easily step back if he wanted to. “You can always come find me. If the beast form gets too strong for you.”

“I don’t want to wake you up in the middle of the night. Belle will think. . .” 

Gaston resisted the impulse to smooth the man’s hair to keep it from sticking to his chin. “What will she think?”

“You know what,” Adam grumbled.

“Mm,” Gaston agreed. 

We could kill two birds with one stone and prove her right. Aloud he said, “She probably would think that. But is her opinion of your virtue really more important than your wellbeing?”

“The problem isn’t my virtue.”

It wasn’t? Interesting. The list of reasons Gaston shouldn’t proposition this man was growing shorter every day. 

“You’re already walking with me an hour in the morning and shifting me back at least twice during the day,” Adam explained more anxiously. “If I have to start visiting you in the middle of the night as well, I’m going to be seriously concerned about where this is headed.”

“You mean at some point you might not be able to leave my side?” Gaston asked. Amused. 

When Adam didn’t answer, he weighed his next words carefully. “I will go to great lengths to keep this castle, and you, safe.” 

I will share your bed if I must, but in this hypothetical scenario, you would likely have to sleep in my arms, and I’m sure that would go over about as well as the hair cutting. 

Adam still didn’t answer. Gaston leaned away enough to look into his face. “If you don’t promise to find me when you feel like you’re losing the battle with your beast form, I will be forced to come here every night to check on you.”

Adam stared up at him, and his face was set with a kind of solemn intensity Gaston didn’t trust himself to name. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

Gaston nodded. “Excellent. I look forward to future nighttime excursions. But for this morning’s adventure, do you think we have time to visit the aviary again?” 

Gaston had experienced the most magic-induced memories in the aviary, which was why he hadn’t returned since. He’d spent most of his stay at the castle trying to avoid the enchantment’s effects. Now he was seeking them out. He and Belle had discussed it for a good deal last night while lying in bed.

“If the enchantress wants to keep Adam cursed, why would her magic show you visions designed to make you fall in love?”

“Because love has nothing to do with breaking the curse,” he replied unhappily.

“There must be some reason for them,” Belle argued. “I think in order to figure that out, you need to visit places that trigger these false memories and look for patterns.”

“The only pattern I notice is how they all make me want to push the Prince of France up against the nearest wall,” he grumbled.

Today was no different. He and Adam crossed the grounds arm-in-arm, and when Adam moved to unlock the aviary door, Gaston knew he wore the key around his neck before he reached under his shirt. His eyes lingered at the other man’s throat a beat too long after he tucked the key away. 

“You’re having another memory, aren’t you?” Adam asked accusingly. 

Gaston lifted his eyes from his collar. “Memory?”

Adam crossed his arms, which only tugged the tunic lower. The man’s skin contrasted the deep blue of his baggy tunic. It had to be oversized to survive shifting, and Gaston was becoming rather attached to it. The way it slid off his shoulders, exposing more skin than he intended, was somehow even more attractive than his shirtlessness had been. 

“You keep looking at me,” Adam complained.

Gaston hummed. “It’s usually polite to look at someone while talking to them.”

“You know what I mean.”

Now that Adam knew the extent to which the magic of the castle was affecting him, Gaston wasn’t sure how they should proceed. He’d been honest last night and the man had nearly crawled under the table in embarrassment and horror. But lying seemed pointless. They would all need to be transparent with each other if they had any hope in breaking this curse. 

“I remembered the keys,” Gaston said simply and touched his own collar. “Where you wore them.”

Adam frowned. “That isn’t particularly. . . intimate.”

“It isn’t. Not all of my memories of you are,” he added with a shrug.

“Then why do you keep looking at me?”  

Gaston commanded his eyes not to stray from the man’s face and answered honestly. “I like how you look in that tunic. And in this light.” He smiled apologetically. 

Adam’s cheeks flushed, and Gaston couldn’t help noticing the splotchiness of it extend down his neck. Lower, probably. He told himself he wouldn’t look. 

I’m twenty-eight, not eighteen. I don’t need to gawk at men’s chests anymore.

Then again, it’d been over a month since he’d exercised self-pleasure. He ought to fix that. Maybe it would improve his behavior around the Prince of France. He’d been avoiding it out of worry that the man would haunt even his fantasies. And he was sharing a bed with his best friend. The privy really wasn’t as convenient of a location as it might seem.

“You’re only saying that because of whatever magic you’re under,” Adam protested, tugging his collar higher up as he spoke. 

“I said the memories are a result of magic,” Gaston corrected. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable. It won’t happen again.” He wasn’t so far gone as to abandon basic human decency, and that included ogling where ogling wasn’t welcome.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Adam muttered. Glowered. “I’m paranoid! If I had visions about kissing you at random moments throughout the day, you would constantly wonder about it too!”

“Then I will tell you,” Gaston said firmly. “Every time I notice one. I’ll even tell you what I saw.”

The man hesitated. Nodded. “Alright.”

“Now, are we going to visit my favorite bird or not?”

Adam looked like he might say something more, but instead he turned to open the door to the aviary and gestured none-too-hospitably for Gaston to enter first. As they walked between cages, they heard a raven’s caws above all the other birds.

“I think she wants to say hello,” Adam grumbled and opened the first gate to their left. 

The bird was perched on one of the swings (Adam had many toys for Fable due to ravens’ uncommon intelligence). She stopped cawing when they entered and instead repeated sounds that mimicked speech. Well, only two sounds. Over and over again. It took Gaston a moment to register what he was hearing.

“Is she saying my name?” Gaston asked and watched the bird in amazement. “She is! Did you teach her that?”

Adam stood very still near the cage door, and perhaps if Gaston wasn’t quite so enchanted, if the bird didn’t choose that moment to perch on top of his head again, he might’ve asked him what was wrong.

“No,” Adam said softly, “I didn’t.”

“She must’ve heard you say it before.” The raven hopped onto his shoulder and continued her determined mission to steal his buttons. “You’re a clever girl, aren’t you?”

“Gas-ton,” the bird spoke again. It was a truly remarkable imitation. She even mimicked the sound of breath after the word. Gaston was about to ask Adam what other words she knew when his eyes snagged on a seemingly unremarkable spot on the floor near the cage door. 

“I’m having another memory,” he said aloud this time. 

It came as a series of brief flashes at first. He and Adam training Fable with dead mice the stable boys caught around the castle grounds, Adam whining jealously when Fable warmed to Gaston first, the two of them sitting on the ground near the door while the bird hopped from swing to swing, Adam leaning into him until his head dropped onto his shoulder. 

“Tell your dad you want to stay another month.”

They were both younger in this vision—they were young in most of the ones the magic showed him. 

“Why?”

“Because Fable wants you to stay another month.”

“Only Fable?”

Memory-Adam lifted his head and searched his face, his expression as serious as ever. “If I told you I do as well, would you agree to stay?”

“Perhaps. But my father isn’t an easy man to persuade.”

“And if you were to court the Prince of France? Would that be persuasive enough?”

Gaston had pretended to deliberate on this point. “Do you think Raphael would accept my offer?”

Memory-Adam shoved him in reply, and Gaston very suavely caught his arms to pull him closer. “What makes you think I could suspend any desire of yours?” He cupped Adam’s cheek in one hand, dragging his thumb along his lower lip just as he had in the cellars. 

Now Gaston studied the same spot on the floor, marveling at how much more detailed the magic was making these visions. He usually experienced them in brief flashes, maybe some strong emotions. Words, occasionally. He’d never seen a full conversation like that before. Was intentionally triggering these visions increasing their power? 

Belle said he was supposed to look for patterns. Try to understand how these faux memories were connected to  Adam’s curse. But all they did was make his chest ache.

“Gaston?” Adam prompted. 

“You asked me to court you,” he said and nodded to the spot on the floor. “There. It was all very sweet. The visions are getting more detailed.” 

Adam didn’t answer. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, and whatever they were, they didn’t seem to be happy ones. Well, if Adam didn’t find the idea of courting him agreeable, Gaston could hardly hold it against him—not when he’d spent the last decade swearing he would never make such commitments himself. It wasn’t that he’d never wanted them, only that he knew his restlessness wouldn’t allow it. In Gaston’s experience, the price of wanting something he couldn’t have was always more than what the thing itself was worth. It was better to live for the show than to live for what a life he could never have.

But that restlessness had been curiously absent since arriving at the castle, and for the first time in many, many years, he wondered what it would look like to live for something else. Something real. 

They stayed in the aviary for a little while longer before Gaston decided Adam’s somber mood was a sign he needed time to himself and suggested they return to the castle early. “Maybe next time you could show me what happens when you take her out to fly,” Gaston suggested as they walked back to the west wing.

“Of course,” Adam replied rather distantly. Then, in a seemingly abrupt jump in topics, “Gaston, did you have any jobs before the wars? You were. . . Sixteen when you were conscripted?”

“Seventeen,” he corrected. “And if I did, I don’t remember.” He noted Adam’s questioning look and sighed. He was enjoying his morning. He really didn’t want a discussion about his life on the warfront to ruin it. “The war takes many things from you, and almost all of us suffered from some form of memory loss.”

“Memory loss?” 

Gaston wished the man would go back to his silent brooding. “I remember my childhood well enough. Most of what I do remember from my late teenage years was from my time in service, and that was all blood and death and pain. My commander told us that no person’s mind is able to hold those kinds of memories easily, and they often push others out to make room. It’s alright though,” he said at Adam’s stricken expression. “One of the men in my patrol couldn’t remember his wife’s name or what she looked like. It’s why I didn’t immediately tell everyone here about the way the magic affected my memory. I thought it was just war trauma fucking with me.”

Adam seemed to need time to reflect on this because he made no attempt to answer until they were standing in front of his door again. Gaston had been grateful, mistaking his silence as an indication that the conversation was over. It wasn’t.

“Gaston,” Adam said and turned to face him with his hand still clinging tightly to his elbow. His eyes were even more serious than usual—if such a thing was possible. “It takes several months to train Fable to say new words. I haven’t said your name in front of her except for once, the last time you visited, and I heard her say it then, too. You were distracted, and I thought I must be mishearing things. . .”

Gaston frowned. “Huh. Really? That’s odd.”

“It isn’t odd. It’s impossible. Unless. . .” Adam was studying him even more closely now and his grip on his arm was so tight Gaston could feel the bite of his fingernails against his skin. “Unless you’ve met her before.”

Gaston frowned. “But I haven’t.”

Adam shook his head. “Do you know that for certain? You said you don’t remember much of your years right before the war.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t visiting castles. My father has a title, but we live far away from here. A week’s ride, at least. And he never liked court or its politics. He called most of the king’s new laws ungodly.”

“But you would’ve been invited as well, and at that age, you could’ve traveled here alone,” Adam replied softly. Almost grimly, like he was delivering news of someone’s tragic passing.

Gaston shook his head again. No. It was impossible. He couldn’t have traveled to the castle as a late teenager, let alone stay long enough to train a raven. He would remember something. War trauma didn’t steal that much.

“Gaston,” Adam whispered plaintively, “what if it wasn’t the war that stole your memories? What if it was the curse? What if all the memories you’ve encountered here—of me—aren’t a result of magic, but are actually yours?”

Chapter 18: The Beast

The beast spent the remainder of the day in his tower alone. He didn’t want to argue with Gaston about his memories. He didn’t need to. There was only one explanation for how Fable had learned to say the man’s name: Gaston had taught her himself. In order to do so, he must’ve spent a great deal of time in the aviary and around the castle in general. He didn’t remember any of it, not because of war trauma, but because the magic that stole his memories was the same magic that erased the beast and his staff from everyone who once loved them.  

The question wasn’t whether Gaston’s memories were real. The question was why he was getting those memories back. 

The beast had a hunch that the reason Gaston could interrupt the curse and temporarily return him to human form was also the reason he could retrieve his memories. The enchantress’s magic didn’t work on Gaston. Not very well, anyway. He and Belle claimed the enchantress was evil and had cursed him for selfish reasons. The beast still struggled to believe it (it was much easier to blame himself; he had more control that way). But if they were right, then she almost certainly wouldn’t want someone immune to her magic trampling her plans. Not when his fate was so nearly sealed. 

The beast lifted his head from the table. He’d been staring bleakly into the wilting rose for the better part of the evening. Now a new revelation sharpened into focus. 

Gaston’s resistance to the effects of the enchantress’s magic suggested he was the way out. Gaston was the key to breaking the curse. Of course he was. The man was saving him every time he touched his arm. 

He would save them all in the end.

But before he could properly contemplate this revelation, before he could allow it to inspire any kind of hope, the beast form sunk its claws into his mind. 

No. Not now. Please not now!

He pushed hard against it, tried to shave it back down where he could control it, but he might as well have been pushing against a stone wall. He was too tired to fight, and he’d skipped lunch and dinner. The beast was hungry, and there was no meal it wanted more than the man who had the power to destroy him forever. 

I will finish this now, the monster told him with violent glee.

The beast lumbered out of his tower room and down the hall while Adam mentally tugged and thrashed. Cold dread pierced what remained of his consciousness as he fought frantically for some way to convince the animal to stop. 

He resorted to begging.

Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.

The beast responded by visualizing in excruciating detail how he intended to do just that. Every image was more grotesque than the last; ripping Gaston’s eyes from their sockets, breaking his limbs one by one before finally tearing open his ribcage and devouring his heart. 

It was all very dramatic and absolutely horrifying.

Adam watched helplessly from inside his own head as the beast stopped in front of the door of Gaston and Belle’s room. It was locked, thank God, and for a moment Adam hoped that might be enough to stop him. The beast scratched viciously at the wood of the door, only stopping to occasionally shove its nose underneath it to confirm its prey was inside. 

Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer. 

The door opened.

A half-dressed Gaston greeted the beast in the hallway. The moonlight from the castle windows illuminated the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Scars shone like silver veins along his bare arms, the largest of which was located near his left shoulder and was nearly the length of Adam’s hand. His hair was undone, falling in damp, inky waves against his collar. Gaston had been bathing. The beast knew it. The mint soap was strong enough to burn its nose, causing it to dip its head in disgust. Adam caught a glimpse of the man’s underclothes through the animal’s eyes. They hugged low along his hips, accentuating the line of dark hair that trailed from his belly button downward, disappearing beneath the fabric below.

Ordinarily Adam would’ve thought catching Gaston freshly clean and mostly undressed was a happy accident. Ordinarily he would’ve stammered and blushed and made a fool of himself. But the beast was in control, and it had no such reaction.

“Adam,” Gaston spoke softly for the first time. He was watching the beast with wary eyes. “Are you there?”

The beast snarled in reply, and before Adam realized what it intended to do, before Gaston could react, it bounded past him and launched itself into the room and onto the bed.

No! She isn’t the one you want!

But the beast was already dragging Belle out from under the covers by her hair. Her scream was interrupted by the animal’s snarl. “Make another sound and I will eat you first.” Belle’s cry cut off, but Adam heard her whimper of pain and fear as the monster’s claws closed around her throat. 

Several agonizing moments passed while Adam waited for the beast to tear her open, for it to feast on the woman he could’ve very easily loved. A woman who embodied everything he once thought would save him; kindness, intelligence, bravery. Nothing like the rakish, unruly, infuriating bull of a man who pulled Adam out of the darkness with hardly a brush of a finger. Gaston was the only one who could stand between Adam and the monster. He was standing there now. And the beast hated him for it. 

“Let her go,” Gaston said softly. Calmly. He was always frighteningly calm under threat. “She isn’t the one you want.” 

“Do as I say if you want her to stay alive,” the beast snarled back.

Gaston didn’t respond, but Adam saw through the beast’s eyes the tightness of his jaw and the motion of his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. For another long moment no one moved or spoke, the tense silence interrupted only by Belle’s stifled sobs. 

“Well? What do you want me to do?” Gaston asked at last. 

Adam sensed the beast’s struggle with this. It was only an animal. It couldn’t think more than a few steps ahead. But it was hungry enough that Adam thought it might eat Belle anyway and live to plan another day. 

This was all his fault. Why had he locked himself away? Why had he skipped meals? He knew what happened if he isolated himself too much. Why had he not found Gaston sooner?

“Stop thinking!” the beast snarled. 

Gaston frowned. “Thinking?”

But the monster wasn’t talking to him. Adam seized on the next immediate thought that he could. Given the circumstances, it was (understandably) about the half-naked man in front of him. 

What would Gaston think of him after this? Would he blame him for not containing his beast form, for locking himself in his room? Would he be disappointed? He never should've let his moodiness put them all at risk. After all, the memories weren’t Gaston’s fault. And if he’d been in love with him before, maybe he could be again. Or he would try and realize Adam was different now and push him away. 

He summoned the memory of their kiss in the cellars. Gaston had been so soft and patient. Of course he was a good kisser; he had years of practice. But Adam had no memory of kissing anyone. Even if there was a chance Gaston wanted him despite how much he’d changed, he would only disappoint him with his lack of experience. . .

“Stop! Stop!” the beast roared and put his paws over its ears—as if that could block out the stream of Adam’s rapid thoughts. 

“Belle!” Gaston called sharply. 

What happened next was a series of events Adam struggled to follow. Belle darted towards Gaston just as something very large and very heavy struck the beast from behind. It knocked him onto his stomach and threatened to crush him under its weight. 

What. . .? 

It was Madame de Garderobe, the only mobile piece of furniture in the castle heavy enough to pin the beast to the ground. The animal roared and snarled and scratched, but it barely shifted the wardrobe an inch in any direction.

“Are you ready, Madame?” Gaston barked. “He’ll be hurt if you don’t roll in time.”

“I was born ready, monsieur," the wardrobe sang. 

The pressure lifted, but before the beast had the chance to rise and resume its attack, a strong hand clamped down on one of its horns. Gaston plucked Adam from the depths of consciousness at the same time he plucked him from the castle floor. He attempted to plant him on his feet again, but Adam’s legs buckled and he pitched dangerously to the side. 

He couldn’t catch his breath. Why couldn’t he catch his breath? If he couldn’t breathe, he would suffocate, and then no one in the castle would be human again, and. . .

He needed to breathe. Breathe!

“What’s wrong with him?” Belle asked. Her voice was muffled, as if he was hearing her voice from underwater.

“His body still believes he’s in danger. The wash basin, Belle, if you please.” Gaston’s voice was clearer, closer, but Adam still couldn’t attach any meaning to his words. His existence had narrowed to his breath and nothing else. No emotion, no thoughts, not even a position in space. Just one insufficient inhale after another.

“The danger is gone, Adam,” Gaston soothed. “I’m here. Belle is here. No one is hurt. You’re safe now. You’re safe here with me. With us.”

Adam didn’t know how many times Gaston repeated those words before his mind could register them. Something jarringly cold drenched his brow and cheeks and he flinched back.

“You’re safe, Adam. You can open your eyes now.”

Another cold compress and he started to shake his head. “I can’t breathe,” he rasped. Speaking the words felt like hurling a ball with all his strength only to see it bounce a few inches from his feet.

“You can. You’re breathing right now. Let’s do it together. Take a deep inhale.” 

Adam shuddered and grasped for the arms that tightened around him. 

“Try again,” Gaston repeated gently. “Inhale.”

He inhaled.

“Good. Now exhale.”

The air rushed out of him and took the worst of his panic with it. He sagged against Gaston’s chest, which was very warm and solid, too exhausted to even hold himself upright.

“You’re alright. You’re alright.” Adam felt the man’s sigh of relief against his cheek. “You’re alright,” Gaston repeated again, although who he was comforting now Adam wasn’t sure.

“How did you do that?” Belle asked. Impressed.

“Practice. It happened to all of us at some point on the war front. I cried like a baby into my captain’s arms once.” Gaston shrugged, and it made Adam’s head bob. “There are some fears a body doesn’t forget, even when a mind knows they’re gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Adam croaked. It felt as if the beast had clawed out of his throat instead of his mind. He couldn’t swallow without wincing. “My fault.”

Belle patted his arm and assured him that it wasn’t his fault at all, that he shouldn’t blame himself for something he couldn’t control, etc. But Gaston was having none of it. 

“You locked me out after I told you not to. You went to your room to sulk because you realized we were probably lovers a long time ago. The memories are real—so what? It isn’t an excuse to put yourself and everyone else in danger.”

Adam bit the inside of his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. He was right. It’d been selfish. But he’d just wanted time to himself, time to process the world that was quickly spiralling out of control. Time was never a luxury he could afford. It hadn’t been for a decade.

His eyes stung. He wished Gaston would let go of him. He wished he would never let him go. The emotions were all muddled uselessly together and he didn’t have the patience to separate them.

“Gaston,” Belle scolded. Adam didn’t need to see her face to know she was angry. “You’re scared.”

The man scoffed. “I’m not scared.” 

“Yes you are. You’re always an ass when you’re scared. An overprotective, stubborn, unhelpful ass.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of anymore. The danger is gone,” Gaston replied shortly. 

“Then why are you holding him like you’re afraid someone is going to take him from you?”

Now that she mentioned it, Gaston’s grip was painfully tight, and he’d tucked his head under his chin and hunched his shoulders in a protective posture. The harshness of his words was in direct contrast to the careful way he smoothed his hair and dried his cheeks.

There was a long pause where Adam imagined Belle and Gaston glaring daggers at each other. He already knew who would win. 

“Alright, Belle. I’m scared that the next time his beast form takes him, I won’t be able to bring him back,” Gaston admitted at last. “And if he kills you because I was too late. . .” His breath caught and he tried again. “If I lost both of you, I think it would destroy me.”

This was followed by another, even longer pause. Adam couldn’t imagine their expressions this time. Finally Belle sighed. “Why are you like this?” she asked resignedly, but there was unmistakable fondness in her tone that hadn’t been there earlier. 

“Devilishly handsome?” Gaston guessed. 

“A very good man wrapped in a very bad package.”

“Don’t bring my package into this. We’ve shared a bed for a month and the privy has seen more of me than you have.”

Belle groaned in disgust before hiccuping a laugh. “You’re so emotionally attuned to yourself and others. Would it kill you to act like it?” 

“Yes,” Gaston said simply. “Adam, are you going to stick up for me?” 

“Just kiss already,” he rasped. 

Belle made a surprised noise of horror and Gaston laughed so hard he could feel it rumbling in his own chest. 

“If you all are quite finished, I could use a hand or two,” the wardrobe said from where she still lay on her side across the floor. 

“Of course. My apologies, Madame,” Gaston said. He looked down at Adam. “If I let go of you for a moment. . .?”

“I’ll be fine,” he promised, even though every nerve in his body screamed the opposite. He pretended not to notice when he pushed himself upright and Gaston leaned instinctively forward, as if to pull him back into his lap. “You can’t lift that wardrobe one-handed,” Adam looked pointedly at Gaston’s hand that was still gripping his shoulder. It was a reasonable response. Certainly more reasonable than telling Madame she could wait until morning, crawling back into the man’s arms, pressing his face into his bare chest, and inhaling the smell of him until he fell asleep. 

Yes, definitely more reasonable than that. 

“I’ll be much stronger in my beast form,” Adam finished firmly.

“How do I know it won’t take you again?” Gaston asked. And, damn it all, Adam couldn’t read the emotion behind those words. The weak light cast foreign shadows across his face. 

“As long as you are near,” he said slowly, every word rubbed painfully against his dry throat, “it won’t. I’ll be able to reach you if I feel its presence.” 

This time Adam caught the meaning behind Gaston’s questioning look. And what about after that? After they helped Madame. After Belle went back to sleep for the night. What then? 

Adam could think of only one reasonable solution.

Chapter 19: Gaston

Gaston was not having a good night.

After spending the better part of the day grappling with memories that had, apparently, been his all along, he’d just finished a relaxing bath when he heard scratching on his door. The beast form had overwhelmed Adam again, but this time it threatened to eat his best friend instead of him. If not for a sentient wardrobe, it very well might have. Now he was standing in the bedroom of the prince of France attempting to explain why he couldn’t tie him to his bed every night.

At least he was no longer in his underwear.

“If I’m tied, then even if the beast takes over while you’re sleeping, it won’t be able to hurt anyone.” Adam regarded his bed more thoughtfully. “Do you think we should use chains instead? What if it’s too strong for ropes? I don’t think we have any of those in the closet.”

“I’m not chaining you to your bed, either,” Gaston said through gritted teeth. 

Maybe he wasn’t trapped in an enchanted castle after all. Maybe he’d died in his sleep the night Belle knocked on his door, and hell for him was being tormented by an attractive man with wild hair for all of eternity. He wouldn't even be able to complain if it was. It seemed like a fair sentence.

“If you don’t touch me while you do it,” Adam argued stubbornly, “I’ll be in my beast form and you’ll know how tight the knots should be. It won’t hurt.” 

Gaston tamped down a hysterical laugh. He’d heard those exact words before, albeit in a very different context. It took a moment before he felt in control of himself enough to unclench his jaw and speak. “Hurting you isn’t the problem.”

“What is the problem then?” Adam demanded.

This was the hair-cutting disaster all over again. For a moment Gaston thought he should try to explain it, but what would he say? 

It’s a bad idea because, whether you want to admit it or not, there’s far too much tension between us.

“You can’t just take my word for it?” he asked instead.

Adam frowned. “Maybe I could, but I don't have any other ideas.”

 Gaston shook his head. Learning the hard way it was, then. “Very well,” he said with a sigh.

Adam hesitated only a moment before extracting his arm, shifting back into the beast and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Gaston picked up the rope they’d dug out of one of the hall closets on their walk over—why there was so much rope in that particular closet, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know—and reflected on the last time he’d tied a man to his bed. He’d been too drunk to untie him when they were finished and had to use a knife to cut him loose. He’d clumsily nicked the man’s ankle in the process. 

Gaston had regretted drinking so much then. He only wished he was that drunk now.

He moved to the foot of the bed and sent a small prayer of thanks to whoever cared to listen that the other man was truly hideous in his beast form. As long as he didn’t touch him, he could pretend he really was tying down a monster instead of a man.

Meanwhile Adam-as-the-beast looked from Gaston’s face to the rope in his hands. He leaned back for all of one breath before immediately sitting upright again. He surprised Gaston by standing, misjudging his size relative to how close Gaston was to the front of his bed, and knocking their knees together. A flash of golden light, and Gaston was staring into Adam’s scarlet cheeks, their faces less than a hand’s-width apart. 

Right. This is what I get for praying.

At least standing in front of the man’s bed hadn’t triggered any new—and truly salacious—memories. They all stopped just short of explicit, although whether that was because of the progression of this spell or because he’d never actually bedded Adam in the past, Gaston had no idea. They always looked young in his memories. Maybe they’d been too young. 

He was already undressing the man in his mind every time he had time alone to follow through with the consequences. He wasn’t sure what adding real memories to that fire was going to do to him. Other than making him act even more like an idiot than he already was, of course. 

“On second thought,” Adam stammered, “maybe you could just tie my hands and feet together. I think that would be enough.” 

Gaston held his gaze for another long, tense moment before wordlessly kneeling at his feet to tie the ropes at his ankles. He heard Adam’s soft noise of dismay and wasn’t surprised when he immediately tried to pull him back up by his arms. Gaston obediently stood. But now Adam’s grip was tighter than before and his cheeks were positively crimson. He had tried to warn him. It wasn’t his fault the man couldn’t take his word on anything. 

It was a poor excuse and he knew it. A gentleman would refuse and make Adam figure it out on his own later. But as Gaston admired the man’s long lashes, the perfectly straight angle of his nose, the flush that had reached the tips of his ears, he found he didn’t regret his decision one bit. This close, he could hear the uneven cadence of the other man’s breath, every swallow thick and almost scandalously audible. And no wonder—Gaston had bedded men with only traces of the static that he felt between them now. 

“Maybe tying isn’t the best idea,” Adam managed to squeak. “My beast form could probably break through ropes anyway.” 

“Mm,” Gaston agreed, not trusting his own words lest they betray him. 

“Do you have any ideas?” Adam asked softly.

Many. Gaston had many ideas, and none of them had anything to do with Adam’s beast form or the threat it posed to the castle. The fact he’d loved the man in the past, that he had memories of innocent flirting and polite kisses felt like permission to skip ahead. And the bed was right there, not even a half-step behind them. It would be easy—the easiest thing in the world—to lower Adam into it and pick up exactly where those memories left off. He already knew how he would start. As if he’d thought about it many times before. As if he knew him too well to begin anywhere else. 

Except Adam didn’t have the memories he’d involuntarily gathered over the last month, which meant he also didn’t have the emotions that came with them. The only version of Gaston Adam knew was the current one; the one who tried to kill him, kissed him during a drunken experiment, and then very reluctantly pined after him for weeks afterward. 

It wouldn’t be fair for Gaston to ask Adam for what he hadn’t earned, not even if he’d earned it in the past. Gaston was no gentleman, but he never pushed for what wasn’t enthusiastically given. 

He’d been on the receiving end of such pressure himself. 

He took a step back and Adam let out a long breath, his shoulders drooping in apparent relief even as his brow pinched from some more complex emotion. 

“I don’t suppose you would consent to allowing me to sleep outside of your door,” Gaston said slowly.

It took a moment too long for the other man to register his words. “As in. . .on the floor?”

Gaston shrugged. “I slept on the ground for most of my time on the war front. I won’t mind.” 

An even floor was certainly more comfortable than sleeping on branches or in tick-infested grasses. But Adam didn’t seem to appreciate that. “I can’t sleep in here on a comfortable bed knowing you’re outside sleeping on stone,” he protested.

“We can stick a mattress in the hallway then. It’s better than tying you,” Gaston added and cleared his throat. Adam’s cheeks reddened again. “Unless you have a better idea?” 

“No,” he replied quickly. “I should be able to reach you in time if. . .” he looked from the bed to the door, gauging the distance. Evidently it was close enough because he finally nodded. “I know where we can find another mattress.”

Even in the man’s beast form, it took them the better part of an hour to maneuver the mattress around the tight spiral stairs. By the time Gaston bid Adam an awkward goodnight, got himself situated on his new hallway bed, and propped his head up against the wood of Adam’s door (ensuring he would wake if it opened), it was very late. He should’ve been asleep within minutes. 

But the tower was mournfully quiet. There was no snoring Belle beside him, no furniture to bicker with, and no windows with which to gauge the passage of time. He wouldn’t have slept any better back in his old room, of course, at least this way he could rest knowing everyone was safe, but he didn’t understand how Adam could stand sleeping here alone every night. 

The thought only reminded Gaston of just how much Adam didn’t deserve this—none of the castle staff did. He couldn’t get over the injustice of it. It made his skin itch and his ears ring in an odd, high-pitched tone. It was the same feeling he got when he saw someone cheat a man out of his pocket change at a game table, or when he woke up in a man’s bed feeling dissatisfied (and never because of the partner himself). 

Usually it was his sign to move on. Go to the next town. Start over. But he couldn’t do that now. He would stay in this castle for as long as Belle was being held captive to faeries. And even if the damnable creatures freed her tomorrow, he wouldn’t leave Adam and the rest to perish at the hands of this curse, either. He would escort Belle home and come right back. 

And he’d once given Belle a hard time for having poor self-preservation skills. 

Until Gaston figured out who this enchantress was and where she was, he was stuck here. He couldn’t fight or fuck or flee his way out of this problem, and he thought he might be going mad because of it. 

What would Lefou say?

His handler was always good at giving advice that restored order to his life. Probably he would tell him to read a book for once. Surely there was information about this enchantress somewhere. Adam had a massive library. Belle was spending most of her time there looking for answers, and if she hadn’t found anything yet, Gaston doubted he would. Probably he would just fuck up her system. The possibility that the curse would prevent any of them from finding an answer had occurred to him already. He hadn’t had the heart to voice that fear to Belle yet. 

Gaston was no expert in magic, but he had fought in a war. Those memories were still very much intact. 

He knew sorcerers were commonly used by the king in battle, although very few were powerful enough to fight on the front lines. Magic in humans was a dwindling resource; weakening with each generation. There were efforts made by the crown to pair magicked people together, in or out of marriage, simply to keep the magical bloodline alive. Human generations lasted less than a hundred years, which was unlike faeries, who lived to five-hundred, and dragons, who could live into the thousands. It was really no surprise human magic was the first to dwindle. 

At some point Gaston must’ve fallen asleep, because he was chasing a woman across the castle courtyard again. Much of the dream was the same as the one before; thorns as tall as the castle and as thick around as tree trunks, a red-haired woman leering at him as he fought through snarling vines, his own shouts of anger ringing empty in his ears. The vines pulled at his ankles until he stumbled, and then they snaked around his arms and legs, dragging him down. He braced himself to meet the same excruciating end, except, this time the woman spoke.

“Good and evil live on after death. A mortal prince can hold no power over me.”

Gaston struggled to free himself, refusing to scream at the pain, even when he bled.

“Death claims the good and the evil just the same,” he snarled, and the words on his tongue tasted green. Foreign. “Your morality will not spare you from that end, even if I must bring it to you myself. Only in death is there justice.”

When he jolted awake from the door behind his head opening, he remembered none of it.

Chapter 20: Adam

As it turned out, a poor night’s sleep, mortifying himself in front of Gaston, and very nearly eating Belle was not the worst consequence of Adam’s decision to isolate himself. When he couldn’t make it through the rest of the night without having to rely on Gaston’s help, he knew he was well and truly fucked.

The other man’s head had been propped up against the side of the door, and when Adam opened it, he awoke immediately. Gaston swiftly shoved himself to his feet, one hand straying automatically to his waist before he seemed to remember where he was. Disoriented, he reached for Adam instead. 

“Sorry,” Gaston muttered gruffly when he noticed his worried expression. “Force of habit. I’m used to sleeping in uniform and waking up under attack.”

Adam shook his head. “That isn’t the reason for my concern. You look like you’ve been running.” 

Sweat plastered Gaston’s nightshirt to his chest and his hair to his cheeks. His hands, always so unyielding, now trembled slightly. Adam wound his arms around Gaston’s and gripped him just above the elbow. Steadying.

The other man took another moment to reorient himself before pulling from Adam’s grasp enough to mop sweat from his brow. “Nightmare,” he explained with a grimace.

“Do you often get nightmares?”

“They’ve been much worse since I arrived here.” 

Gaston wiped at his face again. Adam didn’t mean to stare, but it was dark, and they were alone in this tower, and their most recent encounter was still fresh in his mind. The sight of Gaston’s sweat-slicked skin in the low torchlight certainly wasn’t helping matters. Adam had assumed that he would be too shaken from almost eating Belle to care whether or not Gaston was kneeling at his feet. Or standing over his bed. 

It was just more evidence for how he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Why hadn’t he asked Gaston for ideas from the beginning? Sleeping outside of his door was a far more reasonable solution. 

Before he could catch himself, Adam’s gaze lowered to the man’s open collar. It was stained darker than the rest of his tunic, and the skin there was practically glistening. He’d never considered sweat to be particularly attractive (it always made him feel gross), and so he was surprised when the sight inspired him to imagine other activities that might make a man sweat in his bed. Adam didn’t just want to feel Gaston’s slickness beneath his own hands; he wanted to be the reason it was there in the first place.

Gaston noticed his ogling and raised a pointed brow. “Did you not sleep well, chaton?” he asked knowingly.

Adam fought to regain control of his distracted thoughts. He lifted his chin in defiance, even as his cheeks blazed hotter than ever. He might be woefully inexperienced, but he wasn’t stupid. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to be the reason Gaston was on his knees or sweating through his tunic. He would leave the moment Belle was free, and the poet in Adam could never take a man to bed and remain unaffected. He was under enough torment without getting his heart broken over Gaston Garnier. 

“I didn't sleep well,” Adam confirmed and turned back towards his bedroom. “The beast woke me up. Judging by the moon, I’ve only been asleep for four hours and it already regained power.” He nodded towards the cloth covered table. “I fear this is even worse than we thought.”

Gaston looked over his shoulder and all suggestive humor faded from his expression. He took his hand and they wordlessly crossed the room together. Adam stopped in front of the table with bated breath as Gaston pulled the tablecloth back. 

The rose was beneath its glass, as always, but a new petal—as red as fresh blood—lay at the bottom of the case. Gaston inhaled sharply in alarm, but Adam merely lifted the hand that wasn’t holding Gaston’s to his nose and massaged it. He was too exhausted for the usual impending doom upon discovering another petal had fallen to hit him immediately.

“I’ll sleep outside your door every night,” Gaston said firmly. “And I reserve the right to break it down if I think it’s been too long.”

Adam kept his eyes closed. Gaston’s hand was the only anchor between reality and despair. The man squeezed it. It was his turn to be concerned. “I’ll sleep at the foot of your bed if you would feel safer,” Gaston said anxiously. 

“No,” Adam croaked. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” the other man argued bluntly. 

Adam finally opened his eyes and offered him a watery smile. “Yes, but I’m afraid I must be.”

Gaston turned his back to the rose and examined every corner of Adam’s face with eyes that looked inky in the low light. “You must be fine,” Gaston agreed at last. “But not yet. Not when it’s only me here.” 

More unwelcome tears slid down Adam’s cheeks. His beast form never cried. Maybe grief was more easily carried on the shoulders of monstrosity. But now Gaston’s hand was in his, and his mistake—all of them—fell on thin, human shoulders. Adam’s legs buckled beneath their weight. 

Gaston automatically reached for him, but he stopped short when Adam shook his head. The man had already held him once tonight. He didn’t think he could safely take any more. Gaston didn’t try to reach for him a second time, but he did help him sit down in one of the chairs. His hand lingered on his shoulders while Adam wept silently into his hands. 

“What can I do?” Gaston asked after a long silence stretched and Adam’s tears had mostly dried on his cheeks. He was standing behind him, so he couldn’t see his face, but the words were hard as ice. 

“Break my curse,” Adam answered softly. “You can turn me human. You can access memories." The words caught and he had to swallow before continuing. “I think you’re the only one who can break it.”

Gaston didn’t speak for a long moment. Finally he moved to stand next to him and waited until he looked up. When Adam did, he was surprised by the violent anger he saw there—enough to make him shrink back in his chair. 

“I will find whoever did this to you,” Gaston promised softly. Dangerously. “I will find them. And I will destroy them.” 

Adam stared. Stunned. He waited for some indication that he was exaggerating, but Gaston’s expression was gravely serious. 

“If I have to walk through the fires of hell on mortal feet, so be it. I will not rest until it’s done.” And in that moment, there was an almost unearthly quality to the man Adam didn’t recognize. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve questioned whether the man was entirely human.

“How?” Adam asked at last. 

Gaston lifted his eyes from his face to glare at the rose in its glass case. His expression darkened even further, and while Adam had always known the man was dangerous, he looked absolutely villainous now. Barely-restrained rage tightened his jaw and flashed violently in his eyes. 

“Do you remember anything about the night you were cursed?” Gaston asked tightly without tearing his eyes from the rose.

“No.” Adam studied the remaining two petals as well, trying in vain to summon memories that weren’t there. “But I remember waking up. I was in the ballroom. I remember wondering why I’d fallen asleep in my formalwear. The castle staff were there, too, almost as if. . .” he paused. Almost as if we were all in the same place when it happened. 

“Formalwear?”

Adam nodded. “I was wearing this gold coat. . . the beast form shredded it years ago or I would show you.”

Gaston hissed out a breath. “I know the coat you speak of. I have memories of dancing with you in it.”

“You think the night she came was the night of a dance?” Adam asked uncertainly. 

“You weren’t wearing that coat in any other memory I’ve had,” Gaston replied shortly. “If I was there that night, maybe we can trigger a memory of it.” He nodded once—eyes steely, jaw set. “Tomorrow. I’m ending this tomorrow.” 

And with that the man made him promise to come find him again if he felt the beast form rising. Then he left his room without another word.

Adam-as-the-beast stared after him in disbelief. Probably he should feel excited that they had a plan, or concerned about Gaston’s uncharacteristically hostile behavior. 

Instead his pulse quickened and his breath constricted in his chest. Gaston’s words replayed themselves over and over in his mind.

“If I have to walk through the fires of hell on mortal feet, so be it.”

That didn't sound like the promise of a man hoping to escape the first chance he got. 

“You must be fine. But not yet. Not when it’s only me here.” 

Adam-as-the-beast stood from his chair and shuffled across the room to his bed. He curled tightly into himself and willed his mind to slow. 

Gaston would promise to traverse hell for any of his friends. He would certainly do so for Belle. He wouldn’t shame the woman for crying, either. 

And perhaps he would’ve continued to believe that Gaston’s overprotective ess was a sign of friendship only if Belle herself didn’t corner him the following afternoon. 

“Why is Gaston planning a party?”

Adam looked up from the book he was reading. After walking with Gaston in the morning—the man had been unusually quiet and communicated mostly with grunts and head-shakes—he’d retired to the library in search of information on their enchantress. He didn’t actually believe they would find anything, he doubted a sorcerer that powerful would keep the answer lying around for him to discover on his own, but he wanted to feel like he was doing something to help.

Now Belle dropped into one of the armchairs across from where he was crouched in the floor near the fireplace. Her expression was marred with frank bewilderment. “He’s been in there all morning arguing with the castle staff about table settings and piano arrangements. I even heard him give Mrs. Potts permission to sing as long as it was quiet.”

Adam snorted. In his beast form, it sounded rather unfortunately like a dog’s sneeze. “He’s trying to trigger a memory.”

“Of what? Party decor?” the woman asked incredulously.

“I told him last night that the earliest memory I have was waking up after the curse was cast,” Adam explained. “All of us were in the ballroom and I was in my formalwear. He thinks the enchantress cursed us at a party, and if so, he might’ve been in attendance.”

Belle blinked. “Oh. Hm. That’s. . . smart, actually.”

“I knew he was planning to dance with me,” Adam mused. “I didn’t realize he wanted to recreate everything else as well. He must think the other memories he has were from the same night.”

Belle propped her chin on one hand and considered him for a long moment. “He’s going to dance with you?”

Adam did his best approximation of a shrug. “He thinks it will trigger his memory.”

“Does he?” Her smile was too devilish. Adam pretended not to notice. He refocused his attention on the book in his lap. 

He didn’t get far before she spoke again. “I’m surprised. The Gaston I knew didn’t dance. He didn’t paint or pick flowers or talk with birds, either.” She shook her head fondly. “I wonder why he’s changed.”

 “He wanted to break this curse. That’s why he’s dancing with me,” Adam replied in a tone he hoped communicated “end of topic.” 

But either the beast’s snarling tone masked it or the woman chose to ignore him, because she continued gaily with, “of course, of course.” 

A short pause wherein Adam hoped that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.

“So did he sleep in your room last night or. . .?”

“He slept outside of my door,” Adam replied shortly. “We brought up a mattress.”

“Did you?” Belle hummed. “That was resourceful.”

Adam nodded and kept his eyes on his book. The woman didn’t say anything more, which was what he’d wanted, after all. Somehow the silence was even worse.

“When the curse is broken, or when I’m lost to the best form for all eternity, I’m sure he’ll go back to being the man he was before.” When Belle didn’t answer immediately, he added, “I don’t know much, but even I know better than to expect men like him to change.” 

A little voice in the back of his mind reminded him of his promise last night. Adam dismissed it. It was far more likely the man was saying whatever he thought would comfort him in. They were friends, and he already knew Gaston was protective of his friends. 

When Adam looked up at Belle, he was surprised to see her expression was softer. Almost pitying. “He has bedded many people,” she agreed. “If that bothers you, I don’t fault you for it. But I would also be doing my friend a disservice if I didn’t say that what he lacks in virtue he more than makes up for in loyalty. He doesn’t promise anything he can’t keep. If a promise is what you require, tell him. I’m not sure if he’ll give it to you,” she admitted, “but I would be disappointed in him if he didn’t. You’re much too good for him.”

Adam gaped at her. “I’m not too good for him,” he spluttered. “I don’t know anything about. . . about anything!”

He hadn’t known about the hair cutting or the bed tying. He didn’t know whether the promise Gaston had already made him counted!

Belle raised her brows pointedly. “You know Shakespeare. Keats. Byron. What does he know? How to use a bow and arrow? How to fit himself in the right hole?” She rolled her eyes. “You read, Adam. You know more about what it means to be in love, what it means to be alive, than he could ever learn in a bed or on a battlefield. You’re also a prince of France. If he doesn’t promise you the moon and more, you can order him hanged for idiocy. Actually, I think it would be a crime if you didn’t.” 

 The woman noted his dumbfounded silence and sighed. “Maybe I’m the wrong person to ask about this,” she admitted. “I’m not overly impressed with physical intimacy. It seems like it might be nice as long as the person I’m with is on the same page I am. But I do know Gaston trips over himself every time you walk in the room.”

“Are you sure it isn’t just the memories?” he asked rather desperately.

Belle shook her head. “No, Adam. Believe me, that man would promise his father’s fortune just to kiss your feet.” A pause. “Oh no,” she groaned, pushing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “That’s a sex thing, isn’t it? That isn’t what I meant.” 

Adam’s eyes widened. “It is?”

Belle stared at him for a long moment before they both promptly burst into laughter. The sound was absolutely horrible in his current form, a kind of snorting growl that was frankly alarming, but it only made Belle laugh harder. 

“Truly the blind leading the blind,” Belle gasped between hiccups of giggles. “Please don’t tell him I said anything about feet.” 

“I won’t,” he promised. “Though that isn’t as bad as what I did last night. I asked him to tie me to my bed. I thought it would keep my beast form from hurting anyone.” 

Belle covered her mouth with both of her hands, her eyes as wide as Adam’s had been a moment ago. She leaned forward and whispered her reply, as if worried someone might overhear. “You didn’t.”

Adam pushed his face into his paws, his responding laugh considerably less happy than it’d been before. “I didn’t know.” 

“That poor man,” Belle sighed, though her tone didn’t sound particularly sympathetic. “It’s what he deserves, of course, but I still feel for him. From now on, if there’s something you aren’t sure of, let me know and we’ll research it together.” 

Adam’s chest swelled with unexpected gratitude. “You wouldn’t mind?” 

Belle waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. It’s an educational opportunity for myself as well. Just promise to leave out the details,” she added with a grimace. “Or I’ll get too grossed out.”

Adam nodded. “I will.” He hesitated. “Do you think we should look up dancing? What if there’s something I shouldn’t do?” 

Belle considered this seriously for a moment. “While dancing? Probably not. But we can still check just in case.” 

“Thank you,” Adam sighed, his relief lifting an unexpected weight from his shoulders. “I’ve been too scared to look on my own.”

Belle squeezed his arm. “I definitely know that feeling. Come on. We still have some time left before he’s finished in the ballroom—it didn’t seem like they were getting anywhere quickly.” 

Chapter 21: Gaston

Chapter 21

Gaston

 

Gaston found Belle and Adam-as-the-beast sitting together in the library. Adam had a book in his lap and Belle was leaning against him in order to see, her head resting on his shoulder. Their furtive whispers were punctuated occasionally with giggles. Gaston had hurried to the library because he’d lost track of time, and he was certain four hours had passed already, and feared Adam was minutes away from turning back into a murderous beast. 

Well, at least he knew there was no present danger.

Despite entering quietly, Adam-as-the-beast immediately lifted his head, ears twitching, nostrils flaring. They made brief eye contact across the room before he ducked his head back down and whispered something to Belle, who squeaked and moved to push the book behind her back.

Hm. 

“Gaston, I was just about to come find you,” Adam said at his approach. He scooted away from Belle so he could stand without knocking her over. 

Gaston noted the woman’s flushed cheeks with a raised brow. “Were you?” He offered his arm to Adam, who hesitated only a moment before taking it. It confirmed what Gaston suspected; the man’s cheeks were even redder than Belle’s. 

“We were doing research. On magic,” Belle added. The woman really was an awful liar, and Adam wasn’t any better. 

“If you two were having a romantic moment, please don’t let me interrupt,” Gaston said at last, and while he infused enough humor into the comment to make sure it wouldn’t be taken seriously, his shoulders tensed and his teeth ground together. 

For God’s sake, he couldn’t actually be jealous, could he? Since when was he jealous of anyone, let alone Belle? He’d been envious of her hair before (who could blame him), but that was more grudging admiration than anything. He should know better than to be jealous of. . . of what? How close they were sitting to each other? It was beyond ridiculous. 

Then again, Gaston had been half out of his mind all day. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised.

He hadn’t been able to fall asleep after Adam woke him the second time, his mind spinning with thoughts of petals and memories and curses. He’d listened to Adam’s tears of fear and grief, unable to do anything but stand there. The inaction made his skin itch so fiercely he would’ve crawled out of it entirely if he could have. He didn’t feel helpless in that moment. He was angry; angry at how powerless he was, angry at the enchantress for hurting these innocent people, angry at himself for not earning Adam’s trust enough to even dry his tears. 

Gaston had tried very hard not to feel hurt when Adam pushed him away. The man had allowed him to hold him while he panicked, only for Gaston to immediately take advantage of his naivete for the chance to drool over him like a half-starved dog. If Adam felt safer in Belle’s arms than his, Gaston had no right to feel jealous. 

“You know it isn’t like that,” Belle snapped. She stood clumsily, still concealing the book behind her back. Somehow she’d detected his underlying emotion even under all of his gravitas. The woman was beginning to know him a little too well. “Adam asked for my help. That’s all.” And her glare said stop being a jackass. 

“She was helping me research dancing,” Adam added more unhappily. “Since I don’t remember anything.”

“You don’t have to tell him, Adam,” Belle interrupted coldly. “We can sit alone together in a library and he doesn’t have to know a damned thing.” She took the book out from behind her back and grudgingly slid it onto the shelf. 

Adam looked awkwardly between Belle and Gaston. His grip on his elbow was tighter than usual, as if preparing to pull him back. As if Gaston would ever lay a finger on that woman. That Adam thought it might be necessary only increased his shame. 

Gaston offered his hand to Belle instead, palm raised. The woman sighed. All of her anger seemed to deflate along with her breath, because she followed it with a roll of her eyes. She took his hand and suffered him to press it to his lips lightly in apology. 

“And they say chivalry is dead,” she teased. 

Gaston let go of her hand and quirked a smile. “Perhaps only severely maimed.” He turned to Adam. “Are you so nervous about dancing that you need to reference a book?”

Adam’s posture relaxed and he glanced once at Belle, who smiled encouragingly back. “I just don’t want to embarrass myself again,” he admitted. 

“Then I fear I owe you an apology as well.” Gaston offered his free hand to Adam, who glanced from his upturned palm to his eyes and back again. He took it far more carefully than Belle had, the pressure of his long fingers feather-light. Gaston lifted his hand ceremoniously to his lips, pressing his words against the man’s skin. “I wouldn’t ask you to change a thing you’ve done, chaton.” Gaston let go of Adam’s hand but held his gaze until the other man looked away. 

With Adam’s attention now wholly consumed by the floor, Gaston shot Belle a see-I-can-be-a-gentleman grin. 

“Right,” she huffed, “I think you’ve caused enough trouble.” But her eyes sparkled with approval. “Don’t you have a party to finish planning?”

“I do,” Gaston agreed regretfully. He leaned in so he could speak more softly in Adam’s ear. “I’ll come find you later.” Then he treated Belle with a wink before moving towards the library door. 

“See? I told you!” he heard Belle say just before the door closed behind him. 

Gaston didn’t have much time to wonder what she meant. Recreating the memories he had of the ballroom was turning out to be more difficult than he expected. For one, the castle staff—Lumiere and Cogsworth in particular—had their own ideas for how it should be done. For another, the new memories that had been triggered so far weren’t particularly helpful ones. 

He remembered what seat he’d sat in; between a portly man who wouldn’t stop asking after his father and an older woman who smelled so strongly of lead powder it made his own skin burn. He remembered sneaking looks across the room to the king and his family, admiring the way Adam’s wild hair stuck out like a beacon no amount of ties could dim. 

Now, when Gaston scoped out the corners of the room, he remembered which wall he’d stuck to after the tables were cleared and the dancing began. Adam had people he was obligated to dance with first, including his cousin and his father’s favorite marriage prospect, a shapely woman with excellent manners and no sense of humor. 

She was the one from his other memory, the one where he’d mimicked her stern expression from the sidelines until Adam caught him and flashed his wide, dimpled smile. 

Gaston couldn’t be certain whether these memories were from the same night or from various parties over time, but Adam was wearing the same gold coat and jeweled brooch in all of them. Even more compelling, the man’s hair was the same in each one. Gaston thought it would be nearly impossible to force those unwieldy tresses into an identical formation from one night to another. 

Of course there was the chance these memories were all from the same night, but not the night the enchantress cursed the castle. But Gaston thought it would be an advantage for the enchantress to have everyone in one place when she cast her memory magic, and the party in Gaston’s visions had been big. He estimated there were hundreds of dignitaries and noblemen in attendance. Whatever they’d been celebrating, it must’ve been important. A birthday, maybe? Holiday? And perhaps there thought was a reason he’d been bombarded by so many memories of this ball. Obviously the enchantress had gone to great lengths to scrub it from his mind, and the fact they kept coming made him think he’d been very reluctant to forget. . .

“I’m telling you, mon ami, it would be far more romantic to have the curtains open!” 

Abandoning his thoughts on the enchantress for the time being, Gaston strode across the ballroom where Cogsworth and Lumiere were arguing near the largest windows. 

“But it makes this room too warm,” the clock argued stubbornly.

“It is winter!” Lumiere cried. “We can open them during winter!” 

Gaston stopped in front of the curtains and crossed his arms. He’d been dealing with their bickering for the better part of the day, and he was done. Without asking for permission, he leaned down and picked Lumiere up by the base and tucked Cogsworth under his arm. He marched them across the ballroom floor, ignoring their squirming and clamoring protests. He walked purposefully through the bustling kitchen, kicked open the back door, and was pleased when the cellar door opened of its own accord. Sometimes there were advantages to an enchanted castle. He thrust both clock and candle down the ladder. 

“We can’t climb that!” Cogsworth cried, staring at the ladder and Gaston already halfway up it. 

“Monsieur, we still have so much work to do!” Lumiere whined.

Gaston climbed out of the cellar and knelt so that he could look down at them. “You two are going to stay down there until you figure your shit out. I don’t care what it takes, whether you need to talk or fight or fuck, it doesn’t matter to me. But I will not come get you until you can prove you can treat each other like adults!” And with that he snapped the doors closed.

“Keep an eye on them,” he told the cellar. He didn’t bat an eye when it waved a door in his direction. 

He strode back into a kitchen that was much quieter than it’d been a moment ago. He stopped in front of the stove and placed his hands on his hips. “Well? What are you all staring at? Do you want me to bring them back?” 

No one said they did. 

Gaston smiled grimly. “Excellent. Then let’s get back to work.” 

Several hours later and night was already falling. Gaston had drawn the curtains back from the enormous bay windows the moment Lumiere and Cogsworth weren’t there to argue about it. He’d been pleased to discover they were even prettier than he remembered. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and were composed of hundreds of individual glass panes that Chappeau and Fifi spent much of the late afternoon cleaning. 

Now Gaston admired their work and made a note to himself to compliment them both later. Candlelight, music, and dancing under the stars—it was all very romantic, indeed. It was a shame he was only doing this to remember what had happened the night Adam and the rest were cursed. Maybe the man would consent to a dance--a real one--afterward. Maybe if he minded his manners and didn’t keep undressing him with his eyes. . .

“Whoa.” 

He turned to see both Adam and Belle standing in the entrance to the ballroom. Belle was the one who had spoken. She surveyed the newly furnished, and thoroughly cleaned, room with suitable appreciation. Meanwhile Adam-as-the-beast stared at the tall windows near where Gaston was standing with an expression that was impossible to read. 

“I said I would find you,” Gaston complained once he’d crossed the ballroom floor. He was rather put out that he wouldn’t be able to sweep Adam into the room and surprise him like he’d planned. 

“You took too long,” Adam replied unapologetically and tucked his arm against his. “The beast form was clawing at me.” Though whether he was being honest or using it as an excuse for no longer being able to wait, Gaston wasn’t sure. 

He studied Adam’s now-human face as he surveyed the room, his expression shifting from surprise to wonder to pensive thoughtfulness. “If this doesn’t trigger a memory,” he said at last, “I don’t know what will. I think I’m remembering. Or recognizing, at least.” 

“Do you like it?” Gaston hadn’t realized until that moment just how much of this had been to impress him. Yes, he’d cleaned and decorated the ballroom hoping to trigger a new memory that would unveil a clue for breaking this curse, but he’d also wanted Adam to admire his work. He was rewarded when the man looked up at him and smiled, dimples on full display. 

“I’ve never seen this room look like this,” he sighed. “It’s beautiful.”

And if Gaston was still the infatuated late teenager from his memories, he might’ve said something foolish. Something like “not as beautiful as you,” or any such compliment. But he wasn’t that kid anymore, and neither was Adam, and he didn’t know what that made them now. 

So he said something even more foolish instead. “Then I’ll recreate every room in this castle from my memory for you.”

Adam’s smile faltered. “Until you find the answer for breaking my curse?” he asked quietly, 

“Until there isn’t a room I enter that doesn’t remind me of you,” Gaston countered gently. And so I can see you smile at me like that again.

Belle cleared her throat loudly. “Right, well, if you need me, I’ll be over where the food is.” She left them standing in front of the door without looking back. 

Gaston watched her go with amusement. “She’ll be fine,” he added when he noticed Adam’s worried expression. Truthfully, he thought Belle was enjoying all of this a little too much. Wasn’t this just like her storybooks? 

Except Adam didn't seem reassured. In fact, Gaston wasn’t sure he even heard him. “And when there are no rooms left?” 

Gaston paused. He looked from Belle, who was already sitting at the table and chatting with Mrs. Potts, back to Adam. “Hm?”

The man’s voice was soft and almost pleading. “When every room in this castle matches what you remember, when you find the answer that will break my curse, when there is no memory left of me that you haven’t recalled.” Adam’s solemn eyes were more serious than ever. “What will you do then?”

Gaston studied his anguished expression for a long moment, noting the way his hands pulled at the ends of his hair and the way his weight shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, the man was aiming at, but it was clear they were no longer just talking about rooms in a castle.

“Will you leave?” Adam asked him at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ah, there it was. So this was the man’s fear. Not the fact Gaston had almost killed him (twice), or that his motivation was solely to bed him, or that he would push him into feelings he didn’t have yet. His fear was simply that he would leave. And could he blame him? 

Gaston could easily reassure him on those other points, but he’d spent the last ten years of his life leaving. Every man he met, every bed he shared, every friend he made--they all knew he wouldn’t stay. He’d believed it made things easier. Less painful. Not just for others, but also for himself. If Gaston entered a town already knowing he would be gone in a few weeks or less, there was less risk. The only commitment he wanted back then was to spend his war pension and his father’s stipend on temporary lodging and liquor. 

Now he wondered whether his roaming had been quite as aimless as he’d once believed. If he looked at a map, he would see that he’d traveled in a nearly straight line from one end of the country to the other. To here. Had he wandered because he was a battered, discontent man unable to settle down, or had there been more intention behind his journey than he realized? Was it too far-fetched to believe he’d been subconsciously searching for this place, for this person, for all that time?  

Ordinarily the question wouldn’t even occur to him, but living in a castle steeped in so much magic, where inanimate objects could talk and men could shift into real monsters, made anything feel possible. Gaston had arrived at Adam’s doorstep fearful and restless. Now entire days passed without his nerves stirring. He no longer clambered for a fight or longed to put on a show. He was stuck, more stuck than he’d ever been in his life, and yet he’d found inspiration to paint, to walk the grounds in the early morning sunlight, to stir harmless trouble amongst good people. 

He wasn’t cured. There was still that same something gnawing at him. In some ways, it was even more powerful here. But for once he didn’t think running away would fix it. In fact, he thought the answer might be right under his nose. If he was going mad, it was because he still hadn’t figured out what it was.

“No,” he said at last. “Not unless you wished me to.”

Adam appeared surprised by this answer. Surprised and doubtful. Gaston didn’t think there was anything he could say that would be convincing enough to change his mind, his past behavior was too damning, so he didn’t try. 

He didn’t expect the man to trust him. He still hadn’t earned it.

“Now come,” Gaston said with a rather unhappy smile, “I need to see you in a few different locations before I decide this whole endeavor was in vain.”

Chapter 22: Adam

Chapter 22

Adam

 

Adam spent the next hour feeling at best like a decorative floor ornament, and at worst like one of the stone gargoyles that lined the corridors of the castle. Gaston placed him in various spots around the room; in front of the large windows, near the door, between the pillars that lined the perimeter of the room. He even went as far as to watch him eat at one of the larger tables near the center of the ballroom floor. It was all mildly humiliating, as Belle’s poorly disguised laughter reminded him. 

“This isn’t working,” Gaston grumbled after Adam requested to finish his meal in peace. The other man hadn’t touched his plate. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the table and scowled at the ballroom as if it was personally responsible for hiding the memories they needed. 

Adam looked out at the room as well, albeit much more favorably. The sun was fully set and the warm candlelight from the tables and chandeliers reflected gold in the polished marble. Stars bloomed against the darkening sky, appearing one-by-one through the glass panes of the towering bay windows. Soon there would be too many to count. Why hadn’t Adam opened those curtains sooner? He could’ve moved the dining room table here and enjoyed every dinner beneath the stars. The closer he came to the end, the more he wished he’d done at the start. If they didn’t break the curse in time, he hoped his last moment of human consciousness would be spent admiring the sky. 

“Maybe the magic is too powerful for you to remember,” Adam suggested when Gaston continued to brood over their results--or lack thereof.

“Oh, I’m encountering memories alright,” the man muttered. “But none of them are useful. It doesn’t help that I have to stay right next to you.” 

Adam paused with his fork half-lifted to his mouth. “Is our proximity a problem?”

Gaston stopped glaring at the room long enough to offer him a resigned smile. “You haven’t noticed?”

Adam’s cheeks flared and he dropped his gaze into his plate. Of course he’d noticed. He could no longer take Gaston’s arm without being distracted by the muscle that shifted beneath his fingers, or the warmth of his skin through his tunic. He couldn’t stop measuring the space between them with his eyes, every shift closer causing his heart to jump a little higher in his throat. Now that Adam knew Gaston didn’t want to leave the moment the curse was broken, he was finding it more difficult to stay on his guard. 

Gaston had made no promises beyond breaking his curse, and Adam knew he shouldn’t expect a man with his past to stay just for him. No matter what Belle said, Adam didn’t believe he was “too good” for anyone. He especially didn’t believe he was too good for Gaston, who had bedded more skilled—and more attractive—partners than himself. He might just as easily change his mind about leaving once he grew bored with his inexperience. 

“The problem is that I wasn’t your escort the night of this party,” Gaston continued, pulling Adam out of his spiraling thoughts. “I wasn’t sitting next to you at the royal table or walking arm-in-arm with you around the room while you spoke to whoever the hell princes are expected to speak to. In my memory, I always saw you from a distance.”

“Well,” Adam said slowly, “then perhaps we need to recreate a time when I was close to you. In proximity, I mean,” he added quickly, then thought saying so only drew attention to a comment Gaston likely wouldn’t have misinterpreted anyway. 

The man raised a brow but fortunately didn’t give the blunder any more attention. “That would’ve been when we were dancing.” 

“We haven’t tried dancing yet,” Adam pointed out equably. He wasn’t sure why Gaston had put it off. He thought that was the whole point of this endeavor. Perhaps Gaston didn’t want to dance with him after all, and he’d lied in the library when he said he wouldn’t be embarrassed by his lack of skill.

“We haven’t,” Gaston agreed. 

“You seem reluctant,” Adam prompted, not truly expecting an explanation.

Gaston folded his arms across his chest and regarded him with unusual gravity. “That’s because I am. It appears we have once again reached a place of obligation. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to ask you to do something you didn’t want to do.” 

Insofar as Adam expected an answer, it wasn’t this. Gaston was reluctant to dance with him because he assumed Adam didn’t want to. And he had admitted to being nervous. It would make sense for Gaston to assume those nerves were due to reluctance rather than a fear of being inadequate. 

It was the second time tonight Adam had misinterpreted the man’s intentions. Was there ever going to be a time when Gaston didn’t surprise him?

“I am not unwilling,” Adam said carefully. “If I had the option and declined, it would only be to avoid disappointment.”  

Gaston hummed. “Believe me, chaton, you won’t be disappointed.” Adam rolled his eyes at the man’s beguiling smile. He was beginning to sympathize with Belle’s exasperation. Gaston’s overly self-aggrandizing humor was always the most charming when Adam was the least interested in being charmed. 

“You know what I meant,” he muttered. 

“Do I?” Gaston asked more seriously, his smile fading. “First you fear embarrassment, now disappointment. Do you really believe I am so disapproving of you?” 

Adam didn’t know how else to say “yes,” and so he simply nodded instead.

“What have you done that you think I disapproved of?”

“I locked myself away and almost hurt Belle,” Adam answered immediately. 

Gaston frowned. “Well, yes, but as Belle so wisely pointed out, that disapproval was more about my own fear than anything you did intentionally.”

“Then there was afterward,” Adam reminded him more reluctantly. “With the. . . ropes.” It was no use, his cheeks were already burning again. “You definitely disapproved then.” 

This was exactly why he’d planned to avoid the topic. He feared he wouldn’t be able to look the man in the face again if they discussed it. His cheeks were already warming.

Gaston, to Adam’s mystification, appeared offended by this answer. “Why would I disapprove of that?”

“I didn’t take your advice. I forced you into. . . an uncomfortable position.” Adam kept his eyes determinedly in his food as he spoke. Why were they even having this conversation? Surely it wasn’t that important for Gaston to appease him. He didn’t have to lie for his benefit.

“Forced?” Gaston scoffed. “Were you threatening me? I could’ve said no, and even if you didn’t understand why, you wouldn’t have forced me.”

Adam paused. He supposed that was more or less true. He hadn’t done anything to make the man agree--it wasn’t like he’d pulled out a weapon. But it was still his fault. If not for his ignorance, it wouldn’t have happened at all. 

“If you saw disapproval in my expression,” Gaston added a shade more bitterly, “then it was directed at my own selfishness.” 

“But I should’ve known better than to ask in the first place,” Adam protested. 

Gaston shook his head firmly. “Adam, I’m afraid you have this backwards. I stood at the foot of your bed knowingly. I took advantage of your inexperience. You should disapprove of me.”

Oh no. Adam wasn’t going to let Gaston shift blame away from him again. He and Belle had already convinced most of the castle staff that he was innocent of any wrongdoing and that the curse was some evil ploy of the enchantress. Adam wouldn’t let him blame himself now.

“Did I seem uncomfortable or ask you to give me more space?” he demanded. “Do you expect me to believe you wouldn’t have left my room immediately if I had?” When Gaston didn’t answer, Adam tilted his chin stubbornly. “You disapproved of yourself. I didn’t disapprove at all.” And his voice must’ve grown louder than he realized, because a hush settled over the ballroom. He felt the weight of every eye on him and sat a tad straighter in his chair. He couldn’t help feeling a spark of triumph. He’d won this. He was certain of it. 

He returned his attention to his meal and didn’t look at Gaston again, not even when his lingering gaze scorched him. Finally the man spoke, and it was so quiet Adam was certain no one else heard. At first he wasn’t certain he’d heard. “If I don’t disapprove and you don’t disapprove, then what, exactly, is stopping us?”

Surprised, Adam looked up without thinking and was pinned beneath Gaston’s penetrating gaze. His eyes, always a more vibrant blue than his own, shone even brighter than usual. “Dance with me,” he urged softly. Adam tore his eyes from the man’s face and looked towards the table where Belle and the others were still watching them. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. 

“We can still call it obligation if you need to,” the other man added more gently. 

Adam didn’t miss the meaning behind that assurance, and he doubted even Gaston understood just what it meant to him. If Adam wasn’t ready to name this yet, then they wouldn’t. If he still needed to hide behind obligation, Gaston would not drag him out into the light. And if at any point Adam could go no further, he would not reproach him for staying behind. 

Gaston was giving him more time. He was always giving him more time. He’d been slowing his curse since the moment he walked through those castle doors. Every brush of his fingers, every confrontation with his beast form, every patient response to his ignorance was a gift. Time was only ever something Adam lost. Every day, every hour, every petal was one less until The End. He didn’t get to take time away from anyone else, not when he’d already taken so much. He knew no one could afford to wait on him. 

Except for one. 

How was Adam supposed to protect his heart when Gaston kept giving him the one thing he wanted most—and for no other reason than he could? Gaston asked for nothing. Expected nothing. He said he did it to keep the castle safe, but then happily shifted Adam back every chance he could. He painted him pictures and brought him flowers and held him when he was afraid. Really, Adam thought he might be expecting too much from himself. Men in his books and poems fell violently in love for much, much less. 

If I don’t disapprove. . . And you don’t disapprove. . .

“Alright,” Adam whispered at last. Nodded.

Gaston’s smile somehow managed to be as relieved as it was roguish, and it prompted a rather nervous smile from Adam in return. Gaston offered him his hand in much the same way he had this morning. Instead of kissing it, he pulled him to his feet and walked him to the farthest corner of the ballroom from the others and nearest to the windows. Over the man’s shoulder, Adam could see the courtyard with the rose bushes and the marble fountain that looks spectral in the moonlight. Above them were the stars, at just the right angle to compare to the other man’s eyes. And when Gaston’s hand lowered to his waist, Adam knew there would be no salvaging his heart after this.

The little bit of practice he and Belle had done in the library wasn’t enough, Adam still stepped on the other man’s toes, but every time he did, Gaston took it upon himself to remedy the problem by pulling him closer until stepping wasn’t possible, anyway. If Adam wasn’t quite so distracted, he may have noticed when a teapot began to sing about tales and time and how beautiful being wrong about someone could be. Or perhaps it was only the wind whistling through the glass windows.

“Did you remember anything?” Adam asked at last when he and Gaston had stopped moving but hadn’t yet let go of each other. He’d noticed the way the man’s eyes had wandered to something over his shoulder during their dance only to snap back to his face moments later. 

“Yes,” Gaston confirmed quietly.

“What did you remember?” And when Gaston appeared reluctant to answer, Adam pressed, “you said you would tell me.”

“I did,” the man agreed with a sigh. He let go of Adam’s hand and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear instead in a gesture that Adam felt was oddly familiar, even without his memories. “I remembered dancing with you before.”

“I’m sure I was much better at it then.”

Gaston nodded. “You were. But you hated it. You had to dance so often at parties, after all. You spent most of the time in my arms scowling and complaining about the other courtiers.” He smiled fondly at this description. “And I spent it plotting how to get you away from everyone else so I could kiss you. I fear I am the same man now that I was then,” he added wryly.

Adam hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “Was your plot successful?”

Gaston’s eyes lowered to his lips and it seemed to take effort for him to answer. “Yes. I took you out onto the courtyard.” He turned to nod towards the glass door positioned between the windows. 

“Oh.” Adam swallowed, only to discover his mouth had gone dry. What an odd reaction to have. Counterproductive, too. “I think it’s a bit too cold now.”

“It is,” Gaston agreed. “But in my memory, we were at a very large party. Tonight is much more private.”

That was when Adam finally noticed everyone else had left them alone in the ballroom. He looked from the empty tables back up to Gaston. The man’s arms were still around him, but his smile was sadder than it’d been before. “We’ve already kissed once out of obligation,” he reminded him gently. “It didn’t provide us with any answers.”

“If it wasn’t obligation this time, maybe it would,” Adam said, not trusting his voice above a whisper. He could no longer resist licking his lips—his mouth really was terribly dry—and Gaston stared. Transfixed. 

Hm. Maybe that was the advantage.

“Do you feel obligated to try a non-obligatory kiss?” Gaston had leaned forward as he said it, the breath from his words ruffling Adam’s hair.

He cleared his throat clumsily and an expression of almost physical pain flashed in the other man’s face. “No obligation,” he assured him quickly, his cheeks heating again.

Gaston only seemed more enchanted than before. He lifted one hand to tilt his face back, his lips less than a hands-width from his own. “How do you want me to kiss you, if not out of obligation?”

Adam considered this as he admired the other man’s halo-rimmed eyes. “How did you kiss me in your memory?” 

Gaston sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. “Like we had all the time in the world.”

Adam heard those words echoed in the slow coaxing of Gaston’s lips, in the feather-light touch of his fingers, in his breath that lingered in Adam’s mouth, along his jaw, against his ear. They reverberated in every guiding step forward the man took, and when there were no more steps left, the weight of those words gently pressed Adam’s back to the cold glass of the window. Adam remembered saying them to himself after their kiss in the cellar, back when he’d thought Gaston was obscenely patient even in his clumsy, inebriated state. 

He’d had no idea just how agonizing that patience could be. 

Gaston carefully pulled open Adam’s collar and tugged one of the oversized sleeves down his shoulder, exposing what had to be miles of skin given how long his lips lingered there. Adam pushed his hands into the man’s hair, savoring the silken feeling between his fingers. Gaston hummed a sigh of approval and Adam had to resist the urge to repeat the motion. He wanted to hear him make that sound again. His mind was just conjuring several ideas for how, when Gaston’s head abruptly lifted. He shifted his posture to look over his shoulder through the windows.

“Gaston?” Adam tried to turn to see what had caught his attention, but there was nothing beyond the glass except an empty courtyard. When Adam looked back up into Gaston’s face, he noted the faraway expression and slackness to his eyes. He was encountering a memory, and judging by how tightly he was holding him and how rapidly his breath was coming--very different from the uneven cadence from their kiss--it wasn’t a good one. 

Unsure of what else to do, Adam leaned his head against his chest and smoothed his hands along his shoulders. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m here.” It sounded far more foolish in his own voice than Gaston’s (he knew very well that Gaston was far more capable of keeping him safe than the other way around), but Gaston’s arms loosened, so Adam repeated the words anyway. 

“Stay here.” 

Adam lifted his head in surprise and relief. “What?” 

Gaston had returned from whatever memory he was having, but the man who had been pressing him against a window did not. His expression was as cold and dangerous as it’d been when he promised to walk through the fires of hell to break his curse. 

“Stay here,” Gaston repeated, every syllable sharp and laced with anger. “I’ll take care of this.” And without any warning, he let go of him and opened the glass doors to his left.

“Wait!” Adam scrambled to follow. He caught the doors before they closed and stumbled into the cold night air. He had to half-jog to catch up to the man. When he did, he tried to pull him back by the arm. “Tell me what you saw.”

Gaston shrugged him off. Adam felt like a fly trying to attack a boulder. When Gaston was cradling him so gently in his arms, it was easy to forget how strong he really was. 

“Gaston, wait. Wait! I’ll keep following you until you tell me what you saw!” 

That seemed to get the man’s attention. He stopped near the fountain and turned, shoulders hunched, eyes flashing, hands gripping into fists at his sides. “She wasn’t an enchantress, Adam,” Gaston hissed. “She was a fucking faerie.” 

Chapter 23: Gaston

Chapter 23

Gaston

 

In the end it wasn’t the dance that helped Gaston remember, or the way he decorated the ballroom. It wasn’t the places Adam stood or how he ate his meal. It was the way the man felt in his arms, the taste of him on his lips, the soft shudder of his breath. 

It was the sight of the rose bushes through the window.  

Gaston had spent most of their dance bullying himself into some semblance of civility every time Adam licked his lips or struggled to swallow. He certainly hadn’t been thinking about memories or the curse. Perhaps that was why it worked. One moment Gaston was admiring the warm tones of Adam’s skin in the candlelight, and the next he was pulled sharply out of his body and into another consciousness entirely. 

“It’s a deal,” a woman with flaming red hair and a vicious, needle-pointed smile agreed in a voice that was feathery soft and twice as sharp.

Gaston was standing in the rose bushes, his shirt undone and an ache in his chest so painful it threatened to split him in half. He looked down at the bloodied rose in his hand and sent a prayer to whoever would listen—his mother, maybe—that Adam would accept it. Then he held it out for the faerie queen who took it with a flourish. 

“I thought a Mortal Prince would be harder to beat. But perhaps that was Nierta’s mistake for giving her power to a human.” 

She morphed into a haggard old woman with craggy teeth and a swollen eye. As she hobbled towards the glittering gold windows of the castle, the world tipped sideways and Gaston collapsed into the grass. The last thing he heard was his own voice telling himself that he must remember something, but he’d forgotten whatever it was. 

“Don’t do this!” Adam cried from behind him now.

But Gaston didn’t feel the ground beneath his feet as he walked nor the chill of the air that whipped his cheeks and hair. Memory of the faerie queen’s sneering face flashed in front of his vision. His hands stung from the thorns of a rose he picked, a rose that was now sitting under a glass case in the west wing, a rose that had only two petals left. It was his blood on those thorns. It was his curse—not Adam’s—on this castle. He didn’t know how, but he knew how he was going to find out. 

Gaston had nearly made it the length of the courtyard, ignoring Adam’s frantic calls to stop, when something struck him from behind. He turned to see a branch ricochet off his shoulder and clatter against the stone path. He looked up just in time to see Adam-as-the-beast launch himself forward and clear the space between them in a single leap. 

As it turned out, having a very large monster running at him was enough to bring him at least partially back to reality. Adam barreled into Gaston before he could react, and even though he shifted the moment his shoulder collided with his stomach, there was still enough force to knock the breath out of him. Gaston dropped to his knees and, in his prone state, was unable to keep his balance when Adam shoved him into the ground. 

“You’re. Not. Killing. Faeries!” Adam hissed in his face. He was breathless from the sprint, his hair wilder than ever, his eyes alight with fury and fear. Gaston felt the sharp angles of his knees dig into his sides as he attempted to use all of his weight to keep him down. “We need to talk about this, Gaston! We need a plan. We can’t go storming into—”

It was easy to roll them both over and reclaim the upper hand, except now Adam’s body was pressed between Gaston’s and the ground beneath them, and he abruptly remembered making this same mistake in the snow weeks ago. He’d suffered the consequences for days afterward. “You can’t stop me,” he said aloud. Inwardly he seriously doubted anything other than the man’s request would be powerful enough to move him voluntarily now. 

“I can,” Adam snapped back. 

Good God, even underneath him the man managed to look down his nose in disapproval. 

That, Gaston thought rather dazedly, is the look he should’ve given me when I was standing at the foot of his bed. “What are you planning to do? Bite me?”

Adam’s eyes flashed with that familiar stubbornness that he should’ve known not to challenge. Adam lifted his hands, knotted his fingers in Gaston’s hair, and pulled his head down until his mouth collided with his. 

There was exactly the length of half a breath where Gaston believed it wouldn’t work; half a breath where he imagined he could shrug off Adam’s desperate means of intervention and continue his mission to get the answers they needed. There was only one place he could find them, and he wanted to do so while the memory was still fresh in his mind. He could roll around on the ground with the Prince of France later, preferably when he was no longer in danger of becoming a beast for all of eternity. 

Then that half-breath passed. 

Self-control was a virtue, and Gaston didn’t have it. 

Adam didn’t bite him, but he did pull him down with enough force to catch his teeth clumsily on his lower lip. When Adam tried to overcorrect his momentum, Gaston pressed back with even more force, causing the man to make a muffled noise of surprise before yielding with devastating ease. 

Gaston should not be kissing him like this. He should not. Not so soon after they tried their first non-obligatory kiss in the ballroom. Not when Adam had no memory of him beyond the ass he’d been most of the last month. Gaston should not be dragging his teeth down the man’s neck, not even if Adam tilted his head to give him a better angle. He should not be sliding the hand at his waist up under his tunic, not even if it prompted Adam to hook one of his legs around him. Gaston was certainly not going to bed him for the first time here, on the ground. It would be uncomfortable. And cold. Perhaps if it was a fourth or even third time he would consider it, but not for the first. Not Adam’s very first. 

Gaston’s mind understood this. The rest of him had no such reservations. 

Adam didn’t appear to have reservations, either. Even in the weak moonlight Gaston could see the flush darkening his cheeks and neck. His breath was marvelously uneven, inhaling sharply at every new contact Gaston made and releasing shakily against his chin moments later. When Gaston slid the hand at Adam’s waist under his knee, hiking his leg higher on his hips, he was rewarded with a keening sigh of anticipation. 

Not good. If Adam was going to be this vocal about it, Gaston was in much more danger than he’d estimated. 

“I finally have the memory we need,” he said into Adam’s ear, “and you want to do this now?”

“If it keeps you from getting killed by faeries,” he murmured back.

Gaston swore. “This is just a distraction, then.”

“Stalling, actually. Don’t stop, I’m still working out what to do next.”

Gaston reluctantly repositioned himself to get a better view of the other man’s face. “Don’t tell me you intend to lure me back to the castle with the promise of a night in your bed.”

“Would that work?” Adam asked in apparent curiosity.

“No.” Then Gaston grunted more reluctantly, “well, yes, it probably would, but you can’t stop me forever. Also revealing your plan ensures I won’t fall for it.”

“Bedding me was your plan,” Adam reminded him. “Mine was to beat common sense into you with another tree branch.”

Gaston lowered his head and closed his eyes briefly in surrender. His knees were already hurting. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have noticed bruising until much later. Now he wondered if he was reaching an age where fucking on hard surfaces just wasn’t as feasible—or enjoyable—as it used to be. 

“If you’re trying to distract me,” he muttered grudgingly, “you’re doing a remarkably good job of it.” 

From somewhere near them, a high, tittering laugh sounded, followed by a whispering so soft it could’ve been mistaken for the rustling of leaves. Both he and Adam froze, their position on the ground preventing either of them from turning. Danger pricked Gaston’s arms and the back of his neck. An odd whining started in his ears and an herbal taste flooded his mouth. The visions from his memory returned, and with them, the same sensation of being disconnected from his body. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, standing between Adam and the rose bushes not even a yard from where they were lying.

“I know you’re there,” he hissed into the darkness. The ringing in his ears had reached a volume that was nearly painful. His hands itched for his bow. A knife. Anything. “You’re keeping us all locked in this godforsaken place, and if you don’t let us go tonight I will burn your flowers to ash!”

“Gaston,” Adam squeaked. He was grasping for his arm again in an attempt to pull him back. “You can’t kill the Folk. Not without magic.”

Gaston didn’t reply. His eyes were locked on the bushes with their twisted thorns and overgrown vines. This feeling was familiar. The world snapped sharply into focus just as it had on every warfront of every battle. It didn’t matter the odds. It didn’t matter how many of his comrades would perish. Gaston would survive. He always survived. Back then, he thought it was simply a different version of hell. Instead of shaking hands with death, he was cursed to take the hands of it in the bodies of his friends as he carried them into their graves. Even when the arrow struck his shoulder, he hadn’t died. He wouldn’t die tonight. Not because of any logic, but because he simply wouldn’t. 

Perhaps it was delusion, and every young man at some point in their lives felt invincible just as he felt now. That was always what LeFou told him. But now that he was in an enchanted castle glaring into the foliage of magic, it wasn’t so difficult to think that there might be another reason. Now he thought the reason he didn’t die before was the same reason he wouldn’t die tonight. 

“Come out,” Gaston said, dropping his voice low. “I have questions. If you answer them, there may be no need for violence.”

The bushes trembled, and the vines began to move. They twisted and stretched until they formed spindly thorned limbs with no face. There were three of them in total, and once they took a general shape, there was a soft flash of light and three naked women stood where the grotesque vine-creatures had a moment before. They were all tall, taller than Gaston, and lethally beautiful. Their bodies were shaped like a curved blade, their hair moved like the surface of depthless waters, their eyes struck like the cold flash of lightning. Adam stopped trying to pull Gaston back and pressed closer to him instead. Gaston tucked him in under his arm. “Steady,” he murmured. 

“You called us, Mortal Prince,” one of the faeries, the middle one, sang in a voice that made him feel as if he was trying to listen to a scent. 

“I didn’t call anyone,” Adam whispered fearfully.

This made the three faeries laugh, and it was a horrible, ear-screeching sound. Gaston barely heard it above the ringing, but Adam shuddered and pressed even closer against him. The other man’s fear was enough to stoke the fiery anger in Gaston’s chest. 

“Enough,” he snarled, and the faeries immediately fell silent. “Where is she?”

“We can call the Moral queen now, if you like,” the first faerie said. She turned to her companions, who hid villainous smiles behind their hands. “But that wouldn’t be any fun.”

“We’ve been watching you,” the second faerie to the right added hoarsely. “Watching you is much more fun, just as the calamity faerie said it would be.”

“We like him,” the third faerie spoke in a voice higher than the rest. “The world would be so dull without calamities.”

Gaston didn’t have the patience for faerie riddles. He wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted by their meaningless chatter. It was likely designed to confuse him. 

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now,” he asked coldly. “You kept my friend here against her will. You sent guardians after us. How do I know you aren’t the ones cursing this castle as well?”

The faerie in the middle leaned forward to leer at him. “We have no such power! We are here to watch and wait until the last petal falls. Then we will tell the Moral Queen that the time has come. Kill us now and she will come too soon. Not even you can stop her plan. Not when your blood is on the flower.”

Gaston ground his teeth. “Tell me what I need to do.” 

“What will you give us in exchange for an answer?” the second faerie asked with a suggestive smile. 

“I won’t give you anything,” Gaston replied flatly. “You will tell me what I need to know, and I will let you keep your miserable lives.”

All three faeries flinched at this threat, even as Adam made a noise of protest and despair. The faeries weren’t smiling anymore. 

“We are not foolish enough to make enemies with a faekiller. We came when we were called. It is a fair exchange.” 

Gaston’s sense of justice warred with his desire for vengeance. He didn’t want to agree with them, but as far as he knew, the flower fae had done nothing to hurt them. They sent guardians after them when he and Belle tried to escape, but that was because they’d violated their agreement. In the cold, twisted logic of faeries, it was warranted. Gaston had no real reason to kill them now. He knew they weren’t the faerie in his vision. 

“Fine,” he grumbled. “What do you want in exchange?” 

The faeries spoke in unison. “The painted mirror, the one that reflected the human prince’s face through the queen’s magic. It has power we want.”

“Power? What power?” Gaston demanded. Irritated. “I have no magic.”

The faeries exchanged vicious smiles. “More than you might,” the second faerie sang. “More than you ought,” the third faerie agreed. “More than you know now,” the first faerie finished.

Gaston scowled. He knew the Folk loved mirrors, enchanted or not. According to the man he served with on his platoon, faeries were obsessed with their glamored reflections, driven by the need to manipulate every mirrored surface in existence so that they never had to see their glamorless forms. 

 “Very well. I will give it to you. Now tell me what I need to do.”

“We will hide you from the Queen while you go to him,” the middle faerie said more gravely.  

“Go to him? Go to who?”

The first faerie sneered again. “The calamity faerie knows what you’ve forgotten. He will answer your questions, questions we cannot.”

“Will he tell me how to break the curse?” Gaston pressed.

The faeries didn’t agree nor disagree. “He will tell you what you have forgotten.”

Gaston was growing very tired of this infuriating interaction. “Or I could burn you now, keep my non-magic mirror, and take my chances with the queen.”

“You will not die by her hand,” the third faerie spat. She jabbed a finger at Adam, “but the human prince will be lost in form and memory. Do this and you seal his fate. Flower Folk do not lie, not like the Moral Queen.”

Gaston tightened his grip around Adam as the whining in his ears reached a fever pitch and something dangerous stirred in him; something that had been dormant for too long, biding its time, not letting him rest. The faeries’ heads all cocked in one direction. Their pointed ears twitched, and Gaston got the wild impression they heard the same ringing he was hearing. They cowered and clung tightly to each other, eyes overly wide. 

“We will not touch him,” they cried. “We have never touched him! Even the guardians do not obey us, and you already killed them all!”

The beast in Gaston’s chest settled, but it didn’t go back to sleep. He fought to take several steadying breaths. He felt suddenly lightheaded and nauseous. New questions swirled in the fog of his mind. What would’ve happened if these had been the faeries responsible for hurting Adam? What monstrous force inside of him would’ve been unleashed? 

In battle, that inner demon had only swiped lazy paws at his enemies, too subtle and easily ignored. He’d blamed the much-softer ringing in ears on an overexposure to cannonfire.

Now he wondered what, exactly, was living inside of him.

“Fine,” Gaston said at last, once he was certain he was in control of himself. “Who is this faerie I need to speak to?”

“He is your friend,” the flower fae said again in unison, and Gaston had half a mind to command them to speak one at a time. The chorus of voices was fucking creepy. “He is waiting for you in the place you left him.”

It took Gaston a moment to understand who they were referring to. A friend? He didn’t have any friends. Other than Belle, and maybe Antoine, but he had no idea what a cobbler’s son would have to do with this. 

Finally it hit him. “Lefou?” he nearly shouted in disbelief.

But the faeries were already fading, bending back into the bushes and arranging their petaled hair into blooms. “You will have twenty-four hours to return,” a voice whispered from somewhere within. “We cannot hide your absence from her a second longer.”

Gaston waited to hear something more, but the bushes fell silent and the courtyard was empty once again. He looked down at Adam, still half-buried in his chest with his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s safe, chaton,” he murmured gently. “They’re gone. It’s only you and me now.” 

“A dream,” the other man croaked. “This is all a horrible dream.”

Gaston continued speaking soothingly as he walked—and Adam shuffled—back towards the golden candlelight that spilled out of the ballroom windows. A lighthouse in deadly waters. 

They entered through the glass doors and made it halfway across the room before Belle joined them in a state of uncharacteristic drama. “Where have you two been!” she shouted, her skirt billowing, her even-toned voice shrilly. “I thought we lost you as well!” 

Based on the woman’s distraught expression, Gaston didn’t think now was the time for the full truth. “In the courtyard.” A pause. “Wait, you said ‘as well?’”

Belle nodded. “Cogsworth and Lumiere are missing! The stove told me you might know where they went.”

“Ah.” Gaston winced guiltily. “I believe they may still be in the cellar.”

Chapter 24: Adam

Adam-as-the-beast stood in front of the cracked window of the west wing watching Gaston ride across the courtyard, past the fountain, the rose bushes, and out into the field beyond. He watched both man and horse get swallowed by the treeline, and then he kept watching. Not because he was still looking for him, but because he wasn’t ready to look away.

“Cogsworth,” Adam said without tearing his eyes from the spot in the trees. “Four hours starting now, please.” 

“Of course. I’m already on it,” the clock replied, and despite his attempt at a cheery tone, it sounded too forced to be in any way convincing. 

There was a light clinking sound, followed by Cogsworth’s disappointed sigh. “I thought I was doing well,” he whispered.

“You are, mon amor,” the candelabra whispered back soothingly. “But I still think I should handle this.” Adam only vaguely registered the change in Lumiere’s tone and address. For once the two didn’t immediately descend into bickering. 

“I just want to help,” the clock protested sadly instead.

“I know. Perhaps you could assist Chapeau with the vials? He is not nearly as good with measurements as you.” 

Cogsworth was, of course, very flattered by this. “I am good with measurements.”

“Very good,” Lumiere agreed more slyly.

Adam heard the sound of a clock rattling as it hopped along the floor, followed by the door to the west wing opening and closing. He still didn’t move his eyes from the tree line—doing so would be giving up hope. If he turned now, he would be forced to accept that Gaston was truly gone. 

“I can’t last twenty four hours without you!” Adam had cried while trying to block Gaston’s path to the door. 

Gaston had simply placed a gloved hand on his shoulder and moved him easily aside “Last night you made it four before the beast form threatened you. I will be back within four hours. I swear it to you.” 

Nothing Adam said or did could convince him to stay. Gaston insisted that he had to go back to the village as the flower fae instructed, that it was the only way to break his curse. 

“And if it’s a trap and you don’t return?” Adam had asked, because that seemed far more likely in his opinion. The Folk didn’t help humans. At the very best, they played non-lethal (but still very harmful) tricks on them. 

“I will return. Even with no memory of what I was searching for, I still found you,” Gaston had continued with aching tenderness. “Do not fear for even a moment that I won’t find you again.”

“Master,” Lumiere ventured, interrupting the memory. “There is no need to worry yet. Chapeau will have the sedative ready in plenty of time, and there are still hours left before you must lock yourself in a cell. I do not wish to hear anymore about faeries. Tell me about the dance. Was it très romantique?” 

“Yes,” Adam confirmed softly. “It was.” 

Another long pause. When it was clear Adam would not elaborate any further on the dinner or the dance that followed, the candelabra tried again. “Do you fear that the monsieur won’t be back?” 

Adam’s eyes were still fixed to the treeline when he answered flatly, “I know he will return. He won’t abandon Belle.” 

“He won’t abandon you, either,” Lumiere insisted.

Adam had thought so as well, which was why he’d hoped Gaston might give up on breaking the curse. Despite his promise, they now knew they were up against a faerie, not a human enchantress. Adam knew it was too dangerous. And his curse didn’t have to be broken. As long as Gaston remained at the castle, the final petals wouldn’t fall and the two of them could stay like this—exactly the way they were now—for as long as they wished. It would certainly be safer than attempting to murder a faerie queen. 

“Can you be happy here?” Adam had asked.

“Can anybody be happy if they aren’t free?” Gaston’s expression had been solemn, but his eyes were alight with intensity. “Please, Adam, do not make my arms your prison. Do not seek sanctuary in a touch you cannot refuse. Do not surrender your humanity to me. I will not take it.”

God how those words cut into him—and Gaston claimed he didn’t enjoy poetry. Adam didn’t try to stop him again.

Now he forced his breath out past the ache in his chest. He closed his eyes (somehow it felt less final) and slowly turned from the window. When he opened them again, he saw Lumiere had climbed atop the nearest table and was regarding him with dimmed flames. 

“He will return for you,” the candelabra insisted. “He loves you, mon ami. I do not believe he ever stopped loving you. When there was no memory of you left in his mind, his heart did not forget. He never needed to fall in love with you here. He only needed his mind to recall what his heart already knew, what your heart knows as well.”

“That isn’t real,” Adam said with gritted teeth. “I can’t believe that.”

Lumiere huffed. “Do you not believe the love you feel for us, your friends, will continue to exist long after you leave this earth? Do you not believe in meeting someone for the very first time and feeling as if you have always known them, as if your heart reserved a space for them before you could? Do you not believe that we are, all of us, connected in ways too powerful for any force to break, not because of who we are, but because we exist together in this world? This man’s love for you is no more impossible than any of those!”

Adam leaned heavily against the table before lowering himself into a chair that creaked threateningly under his weight. “If Gaston isn’t back in time, it won’t matter what any of us believe.” He shook his head. “Leave me in peace.”

“I will find the girl,” Lumiere muttered. “You two can read together. That should cheer you up.” 

Despite his protestations, Lumiere left and a knock sounded on his door a few minutes later. Adam reluctantly opened it. Belle stood in the hall wearing an old dressing gown with her hair undone past her shoulders. She was crying.

“Don’t you just hate him?” she blurted before Adam had a chance to say hello. He was further surprised when she moved to hug him, beast form and all. 

“I do,” Adam agreed as he tried awkwardly to pat her shoulder with his overlarge paws. He’d needed a hug more than he realized.

“We should get married while he’s gone,” Belle sniffled with bleak humor. “It would serve him right.” 

Adam snorted an unhappy laugh. “It would, wouldn’t it?” 

He helped Belle into one of the sturdier chairs and apologized for his lack of handkerchiefs. The beast form didn’t cry. It’d never occurred to him to have one handy. The woman only shrugged and wiped her nose and cheeks on her sleeves instead.

“Do you have a plan?” Belle asked once they’d both been miserable together for long enough. She’d tucked her knees up to her chest, the worn skirt of her gown still covering her ankles. Adam had chosen to sit across from her on the torn bed. “You know, in case he doesn’t get back in time?” 

Adam nodded. “At hour three I will lock myself in a cell in the dungeons. I plan to give Lumiere and Cogsworth the key, unless you would be willing to take it instead. Chapeau will stand guard with a sedative. When the beast form takes me, he’ll administer the needle. It should buy us all another hour. After that. . .” Adam snorted a sigh. “I suppose I have two petals left.” 

But God only knows how long the next petal will hold. The amount of time he could maintain his human consciousness without Gaston’s help had shortened exponentially with every fallen petal. 

Belle shivered. “That sounds awful.”

“It is better than hurting someone.” And he was certain she understood he was referring to her last night.

After a long moment of silence while he glowered out the window and Belle chewed worriedly on her lower lip, the woman abruptly stood and crossed the room to sit next to him on the bed. She curled up so that her head could rest on his shoulder while the rest of her slight frame was tucked against his side. “It’s not so bad,” she remarked. “Like snuggling with a large dog.”

Adam made a disbelieving noise and tried to act offended. He doubted he did a convincing job. Really he felt honored. And more than a little grateful. 

“I’m actually very snuggly,” Belle said upon noting his surprise. “Also I trust you not to make it weird. Most men would make it weird. That’s the real problem I have with proximity.”

Adam thought hugging a monster was plenty weird enough. “I won’t,” he promised sagely.

After that, a more comforting kind of quiet settled over the west wing. Adam appreciated Belle’s ability to tolerate silence now more than ever. He was tired of talking, tired of making sense of the situation they were in, tired of feeling responsible for fixing it. The events of the last few days were a blur in his mind. It was hard to believe that only two days ago he and Gaston had visited Fable in the aviary. 

“Belle?” Adam ventured softly. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he guessed it was close to an hour. They were both half-asleep, exhaustion stealing into the space fear had been before. 

“Mm?”

“Do you think Gaston is human?”

A long silence followed this question. It was so long, in fact, that Adam looked down to see if she’d fallen asleep. 

“Not entirely,” she whispered at last.

 Adam knew when she wasn’t surprised by the question that she’d had suspicions even before tonight. Instead of asking her what, exactly, she thought he was, he opted for the only question that truly mattered. “Do you think he’s dangerous?” 

Belle lifted her head enough to evaluate his face. “To you and me? Not at all. But to anyone who tries to hurt us. . . I think he would be, yes.”

“They called him a Faekiller,” Adam added softly. “But I thought only magic could kill faeries.”

“There’s magic in Gaston,” Belle whispered. “I don’t know what else would explain the way he can influence your curse. But until tonight, I didn’t think it was very much. I didn’t even tell him I suspected it.” She sighed. “Maybe I should have. But Gaston hates magic, and I wanted to be more certain myself before I ruined his confidence in his identity.”  

“I don’t blame you for that decision,” Adam replied kindly.

Belle smiled sadly. “There are many things I wish I’d told him before now.”

“Me too,” Adam agreed.

Belle gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. “I don’t know what kind of magic he has,” she added even more quietly, “but if it is powerful enough to kill faeries, I think anyone who has caused us, and especially you, harm should be very afraid.”

And it was this reassurance more than all the rest that made Adam feel hopeful. He sent up a small prayer that the rose faeries had not been lying. If only for Gaston’s sake.

 He and Belle didn’t speak again, and they both must have dozed off because Adam awoke when there was a knock on the door. For one wildly hopeful moment, he thought Gaston had returned. But a whiff of the air confirmed he hadn’t. His heart sank as he gently extracted himself from a still-sleeping Belle and padded quietly across the room to open the door.

Cogsworth, Lumiere, Chapeau, and Mrs. Potts waited just outside. He looked at each of them, noting the key around one of Lumiere’s arms and the syringe hanging from one of Chapeau’s hooks.  

“It’s time,” Adam said in cold resignation.

“I made you tea,” Mrs. Potts said when no one had the heart to respond. “It should help you sleep as much as you can.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “All of you.” 

His friends insisted he carry the spare mattress outside of his door up to the dungeons. As Adam maneuvered it up the narrow spiralling steps, even more difficult without Gaston’s help, he had the grimly poignant feeling of coming full circle. 

Everything had started in the dungeons the moment Gaston threw him against a wall. It seemed fitting that it would end there as well. 

 Adam lay the mattress down in the nearest cell and stood, motionless, as his friends closed the door behind him. He heard the lock click, and then a cup of tea was passed through the bars. 

“He’ll be here soon, dearie,” Mrs. Potts promised. “Have faith.” 

Adam accepted his tea and lowered himself onto the mattress, already missing the comfort of Belle’s presence. But when he finished his tea and curled up in his usual sleeping position, he realized the bed still smelled like Gaston. He didn’t know if that made this awful situation better or worse. He pressed his nose into the fabric regardless. Sweat and skin and soap, along with many other scents undetectable to human noses and therefore impossible to describe. 

He’ll be back soon. He must be. 

There was nothing left to do but wait.

Chapter 25: Gaston

Gaston knew how to run. He knew how to ride Noir at near-top speed without hurting her. He knew how to keep his weapons and essentials packed so that they were always ready. He knew how to cast off the weight of the people he met and the attachments he formed so that they didn’t slow his pace. He knew how because he’d run from it all before; the war, his father’s demands, the people and places who couldn’t keep him. He’d run from his own feelings—loneliness and fear and anger. 

He’d found comfort over the last decade in his ability to outpace it all. So long as no one could keep up, not even his own heart, he would be safe. Going where he pleased and doing what pleased him there kept that itch under his skin from sending him into true madness. Real freedom came in surrendering the destination. There had never been an end to his flight before. The run was always away, not toward. Or so he’d thought.

But when Noir thundered across the castle courtyard, burst through the iron gate, passed the no trespassing sign still nailed to the tree behind, and sped down the path for the village, Gaston realized he’d never run before. Not really. Tonight there was no liberating breeze in his hair or anticipatory thrum in his veins. Tonight the cold air bit his nose and cheeks, low hanging branches tore viciously at his clothing, and the position of the stars, the only markers of time he could see without digging out his pocketwatch, loomed above his head as bitterly final as an executioner’s blade. 

When he finally reached the slumbering village with all of its cottages standing in a row, shutters closed, lights dark, he slowed their speed to a canter. “Almost there,” he whispered to the horse, patting her neck. “You’ll get a rest for a while. Got used to lazying about in the sun all day, didn’t we?” 

When the horse tilted her ears back and snorted, Gaston smiled grimly. “Yeah, me too.”

Seeing his cottage (was it even his anymore?) on the hill unsettled him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. The last time he’d stood on those steps, he’d been half-asleep, more than half-drunk, and entirely certain Belle’s father had taken a wrong turn and he would be back in bed before morning. The last time he’d stood on those steps, he’d known who and what he was. 

He tied Noir to the post near the front of the house, not bothering to set her up in a stable—he wouldn’t be there long—and was surprised when one of the windows inside glowed orange. Well, his first plan, which had been to sneak in while the other man was sleeping and demand information with a knife to his throat, was out of the question. 

A fight it was, then. 

Gaston slid out his pocketwatch and confirmed that he had just under three hours to return to the castle, then replaced it with a blade. He moved silently towards the door, reached for the handle—

The door swung open.

“About time you returned.” 

Gaston leapt back to avoid getting his nose clipped. Disoriented, he looked to see Lefou standing in the doorway with a lantern, still in his daywear. As if he’d been expecting him. 

That thought was disconcerting enough for Gaston to remember to lift his blade. “Don’t move,” he ordered softly. “If I have to kill you, I will.”

His father’s handler was not a tall man and rather wider around the middle than most. He had a bulbous-shaped nose and he was missing one of his front teeth. Despite these seemingly unimposing features, he could maintain an air of authority when it suited him. Now he was standing in a way that made him appear taller than he was and spoke in a way that served to remind Gaston that he was older and wiser than him. The graying at his temples and lines around his mouth, stern lines from frowning, certainly didn’t hurt, either. Now Gaston wondered if it was all magic. Faerie glamor. Surely this wasn’t how LeFou the Faerie actually looked. 

Right now LeFou the Faerie did not look impressed. 

“Figured it out on your own, did you? Well done mon grand, however, I don’t believe you came here to talk about what I am.” LeFou narrowed his dark eyes. “You’re here to discuss what you are, and judging by the speed with which you left that castle, I would guess you have precious little time to waste on petty skirmishes and unnecessary threats.” He looked pointedly at the knife in his hand. 

Gaston glared back at him. He’d spent the entire ride over steeling himself for what he’d believed would be a painful confrontation. LeFou had been, in many ways, even more of a father figure than his own father. He fully expected to be devastated by the revelation that the only person who had stuck by him through it all, even if he’d been paid to do it, had been evil. The fact LeFou was acting the same as before only made it more painful. But Gaston was no stranger to pain, either.

“Faeries are dangerous,” he said, more a reminder to himself. “I’ll keep my blade out.”

“Not nearly so dangerous as yourself,” LeFou replied with a snort. “Keep brandishing that knife at me if you must, but if you try to stab me, I’ll have to turn it into a frog, and I would really rather you keep that blade. I bought it for you.”

Gaston looked from the knife to LeFou and back. He had bought it for him. Ages ago. Shortly after the war. He reluctantly lowered it but didn’t put it away. 

“Ah yes, and the mirror.” LeFou looked towards Noir, who was still tied to the post. “Bring that inside as well.”

“The mirror?” Gaston squinted at him. “How do you know about that? It’s for the Flower Folk in exchange for hiding my absence from. . .” He stopped. He still didn’t know how much of their story he believed or should admit to his supposed enemy. 

“Yes, yes and they can have it when we’re done with it tonight,” LeFou said with a wave. “Really, Gaston, you should’ve demanded a higher payment. It’s worth far more than what they’re giving you.”

Gaston blew out a frustrated breath. “Why should I do anything you ask? I can’t trust a man who lied to me for ten years about his identity.”

LeFou adopted the same forced patience he’d reserved for getting him out of tavern brawls or knocking on his door when he had another man still in his bed. “Really, Gaston, it’s past noon! You may not have a job, but I’m certain your friend does!”

It was remarkable, really. For a moment Gaston questioned whether the other faeries had told him the truth. Surely this wasn’t how the Folk behaved. He’d expected LeFou to act. . . different, as if accusing him of being a faerie would lift a mask and reveal the villain that had been hiding underneath all along. Instead the man was lecturing him the same way he always had. 

“You never asked about my identity,” LeFou snapped. “And anyway, I’m a calamity faerie. I’m not one of the moral fae. I don’t deal in evil magic. Or even good magic. I keep things orderly and occasionally disorderly, which is neither good nor evil. My kind are either massive nuisances or housekeepers and nannies to the more powerful families.”

“I would try to guess which one you are, but they both seem equally fitting.” Gaston couldn’t help it. They’d sniped at each other like this for too many years. 

LeFou merely rolled his eyes. “The mirror, if you please. Or by all means, stay out here wasting time. I’m sure the prince of France won’t begrudge you the delay.”

“How do you remember Adam?” Gaston demanded. 

But LeFou only sighed. “The mirror.”

This wasn’t right. None of it. LeFou was a faerie, which made him the enemy, and no matter their history, no matter how many scrapes he’d gotten him out of over the years, no matter how much order he brought to his life. . . 

Order. Hm. 

Regardless, the soldier in Gaston wouldn’t drop his guard so easily. “But you have magic. No matter what kind it is, I’m sure you could hurt me if you wanted to.”

“I could try,” LeFou agreed, “but even if I wanted to hurt you, it would be a supremely stupid move on my end. Trust me, I know from experience. And if you kill me, you will never get the answers you seek. I’m currently the only one who has them. Unless, of course, you wish to call on your mother. I wouldn’t advise it, though. Her answers to conflict are. . . rather macabre.” He looked up at the sky and added, “that isn’t an insult, Nierta. Merely an observation.”

Gaston stared at him in disbelief. “You’re mad.”

Finally LeFou threw up his hands. “Come in or don’t come in. I’ve only spent years trying to help you. What do I care?” 

He turned and went inside, muttering to himself about presumptuous young people and leaving Gaston alone with his indecision. He looked to Noir, who was entirely unconcerned with LeFou’s presence. He knew damn well Horses sensed magic. “You knew all along, didn’t you?” he accused. 

The horse only bent her head to munch on grass where there definitely wasn’t any. Gaston swore, pulled out the mirror he’d wrapped in the saddle pack to give the Flower Folk upon his return, and entered the cottage. 

It was exactly how he’d left it—empty of all decor and lacking in even basic furniture. Gaston surveyed the tiny front room, the meager table and chairs, the basic fireplace in the corner, and was struck with a mournful, lonely feeling. Adam’s castle was fucking creepy, but it wasn’t bare. It wasn’t hollow. Not like this place. 

And to think he’d lived in bare rooms like this for almost a decade. Why invest in anything home-related when he knew he wouldn’t stay? LeFou noted his expression with interest. “Not as happy to be home as you thought?”

“This isn’t home,” he said quietly.

“Well it’s not your father’s estate, is it?” LeFou replied, though the knowing little smirk on his lips assured Gaston he knew full well that was a joke. An unfunny one, too. His childhood residence had never been a real home to Gaston. From that angle, he supposed the super-creepy castle was the closest to a home, and a family, he’d had since his platoon perished in battle—and wasn’t that a sobering thought?

“Now this will be far faster if we use the mirror. Bring it over here.” LeFou motioned to the table. Again Gaston hesitated, and again the man appeared impatient. “Really, Gaston, for ten years I followed you around the country. Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you, I would have already?”

Gaston approached the table as he spoke. “I don’t understand why you would help me, either.” 

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I really needed the money?” LeFou smirked again as he said it. “Now sit down. Put the mirror flat on the table.” 

He lowered himself into the chair across from him even as his nerves screamed at him that this wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right, and where was that dark, terrible thing he’d felt around the flower fae? It had stirred in the face of danger before. It was fast asleep now. 

He placed the mirror on the table and unwrapped it carefully. He didn’t know what the Flower Folk would do if he broke it, but he didn’t want to risk finding out. Even though the mirror was already broken. Technically. 

LeFou studied the mirror, the shards that were fitted painstakingly in place, the flowers blooming through the missing pieces in riots of color. Even the frame had been carefully mended and painted with green leaves and vines. Gaston thought, objectively, it was one of the prettiest things he’d ever made. And it had been meant for no other eyes but one. 

Oh, he’d been sick in love when he made this, hadn’t he? It was impossible to pretend otherwise, not now that he was seeing it here in the bare, colorless backdrop of his old life. 

LeFou’s brows rose and he looked up at him. “I haven’t seen you paint in over a decade. I’m glad the ability wasn’t lost to idleness.” 

Gaston clenched fists under the table in an effort to stay present in his body. He felt a little delirious, his mind struggling to disentangle magic and reality, truth from dreaming. For a dizzying moment he wondered whether the castle, and the people within it, were only a result of an ex-soldier’s mind’s final descent into madness. He squeezed his fists harder. 

I’m here. I’m alive. This is real.

“Tell me what I need to know,” he said at last through clenched teeth. 

“It will be far quicker if I show you.” LeFou picked up the mirror and turned it so he was looking into the glass surface. “Show me what I remember,” he commanded. Then he placed the frame face up on the table and pushed it towards Gaston to get a better view. 

He peered cautiously into the surface and was shocked to see himself—a reflection of the past rather than the present—sitting atop his family horse. He looked young. He wasn’t wearing his soldier’s uniform, but something he remembered his father wearing years ago; a red coat with gold stitching. His hands were gloveless and still unmarked from violence. 

 “How do we know the faerie queen will be at court?” his younger self asked glumly, startling Gaston to look up and across the table at LeFou. He hadn’t expected to hear through the mirror. But his father’s handler—faerie accomplice?—only nodded for him to keep watching. 

“Because she is the faerie queen. The question isn’t whether she will be there, but when. Our job is to wait until she arrives.” 

Gaston watched his younger self grip the reins of his horse (his father’s horse, he didn’t purchase Noir until he went off to the wars) and shift uneasily in the saddle. “I just found out I’m a god with death magic three days ago. I don’t know how to kill anything.” 

“God-touched faekiller,” LeFou corrected in the memory with a snort. “Nice try though.” 

But through the mirror, Gaston was surprised to feel a surge of pity. He could see, hear, and feel through the mirror? That was when Gaston realized the reason he couldn’t see LeFou, even as he heard his voice. The view in the mirror was looking through the man’s eyes. This was one of LeFou’s memories of him, memories of events the curse had stolen from Gaston’s own mind. He gripped the frame more eagerly.

“And we discussed this already. You don’t need to know how. The magic inside of you will take over when the time comes.”

“Am I really human if I can’t be killed?” There was a bitterness to that question that proved, even as a late teen, Gaston really disliked magic. 

“That’s a question for your mother. She’s always picked faerie mates in the past. Why she chose your father I have no idea. For now, all you need to do is try not to draw too much attention to yourself. Do you think you can manage that? The moral queen can’t kill you, but if she finds out you possess the magic to end her, she will do everything in her power to cause you harm.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Lie low. I know.” 

The surface of the mirror swirled black and a different memory swam, first muddled, then sharpening into focus.

In this memory, Gaston’s younger self was standing in a line that stretched in front of what he recognized as the throne room. Judging by the angle of the view, LeFou was in line behind him. The version of him in LeFou’s memory was gawking at the glittering gold chandeliers and marble floors with naked amazement. 

“Monsieur Garnier,” someone in uniform—a stern-looking, barrel-chested man with a brown toupee, gold pocketwatch, and a round face—announced and followed it immediately with a description of his father’s title and land. His younger self snapped to attention and followed LeFou’s whispered instructions as he walked with as much purpose as he could muster across the throne room.

“Votre Majesté,” he said with a bow first to the king and then the queen. They were swathed in a kaleidoscope of reds and purples, made even more vibrant by the corresponding jewels that dripped from their clothing and fingers. They wore identical expressions of polite, and mostly unseeing, interest. 

“Welcome to the royal court,” the king murmured absently. 

Gaston watched himself bow again in thanks, then turn to move down the procession, bowing a third time to the young man directly standing next to the queen. Even if they weren’t side-by-side, the resemblance between the queen and her oldest son would’ve been impossible to miss. They were both painted in bolder strokes; dark haired, dark-eyed, and heavy-browed. Handsome in the way of mountains rather than flowers. 

But when Gaston’s younger self moved to the fourth and final person at the end of the line, he froze.

“For the goddesses’ sake,” LeFou hissed in frustration after nearly bumping into him from behind. 

Gaston already knew who would be standing at the end of the line, even though he had no memory of it himself. He leaned forward in his chair, his nose practically pressing to the glass of the mirror. Through LeFou’s eyes, he saw Adam as his teenage self had seen him for the first time. He looked young, of course, as young as the precious few memories Gaston had salvaged over the last month. He wore darker garb than the other members of his family, trading vibrant reds and purples for dark blues and greens. But his wild copper curls and solemn eyes were exactly the same.

The teenage Gaston in the mirror recovered himself, opened his mouth to speak (an apology, probably) but seemed to think better of it. He half-bowed, then seemed to think better of that as well, because he paused mid bend and offered his hand instead. The youngest prince of France looked from his upturned palm to his face, sweeping over him only once before taking it. Gaston watched his teenage self lift Adam’s fingers to his lips. 

There was a beat of exasperation through the mirror, LeFou wasn’t happy about this blunder, and then Gaston let go of the prince’s hand. He flashed Adam a smile that impressed even his much older and more experienced self; troublesome, but with just enough dazed admiration to remain honest. It was a smile he likely couldn’t recreate now if he tried. There was an innocent, wondering quality that he’d lost many, many years ago. 

His younger self finally turned to make way for the next person to greet the royal family, but still shot another look over his shoulder. LeFou smacked him across the back of the head. 

“Ow!” 

“Get a hold of yourself,” LeFou snapped. 

The mirror-view turned and LeFou—who apparently couldn’t resist a glance back either—caught the youngest prince concealing a smile behind his hand. 

The surface swirled black again, and a new image was taking shape. A bed, dresser, and nightstand sharpened into focus. Gaston didn’t recognize the bedroom, but, then again, there were many he hadn’t visited in the castle. The feeling of exasperation was strong in this vision, and it seemed to suggest LeFou was waiting on something. 

Or someone. 

When his younger self opened the door, he was jacketless, windswept, and wearing a rather sheepish expression. 

“You’re late,” LeFou accused. 

Teenage Gaston shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “I went for a walk.” 

“Did that walk happen to include a stop by the aviary?” LeFou asked dryly, no doubt in reference to the feathers still stuck to his hair and tunic. 

“It did, in fact. What’s wrong with the aviary?” 

“What’s wrong with it?” LeFou cried. “Only that you’ve been spending every evening there for a fortnight!”

“I like birds,” his younger self replied with a glower that was more petulant than disobedient. 

“Need I remind you why we’re here. Just because we haven’t seen the queen yet—”

“She’s coming in two months,” his younger self muttered. “Ada—someone told me. Tonight. In the aviary.” 

A pause, wherein Gaston felt another flash of exasperation from the mirror. “Who?” 

“He doesn’t want me to say. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s been seeing me in secret.”

“Who in this court would care about being seen with you? It’s perfectly acceptable here for almost any eligible young man to. . .” LeFou’s words trailed off and Gaston’s younger self lowered his eyes to study his toes, his posture stiffening, as if bracing himself for a blow. 

“Goddess’s garters, Gaston, you’ve been sneaking around with royalty?” LeFou’s tone was incredulous to the point of horror. 

Gaston watched himself in the mirror sink a few inches into the floor. “It’s not like he’s the heir to the throne,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t matter! I told you to lie low, not start an affair with a prince of France!” 

He appeared deeply offended by this. “It isn’t an affair! Adam bought a raven and I’ve been helping him to train it to repeat words. He even let me name it.” And not even his indignation was enough to disguise the wistful quality to that response. “He likes me. Every day he sends me a note telling me what time to meet him. He waits outside the aviary door to let me in. He told me the faerie queen is invited to his birthday ball when I asked. Aren’t you glad we know when she’ll be here? Now we can prepare!” 

LeFou in the mirror said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “Yes. But for the goddess’ sake, mon grand, don’t do anything stupid or we could both be hanged.”

Gaston’s reflection nodded, and the memory didn’t so much fade this time as jump. 

“No,” LeFou’s tone was resolute. They were in the same room, but this time the memory looked sharper, the lines in the mirror harsher than they should be, the colors brighter. The emotion hit Gaston square in the chest—fear and horror and anger, too. “You must decline. I’ll work on an adequate excuse. We’ll. . . we’ll figure this out.”

“I can’t decline,” a teenage Gaston replied with a stubborn cross of his arms. 

“Gaston, if you are announced as formally courting the prince of France, the entire country will have eyes on you. People will look into your history—our history! People who are our enemies. I should never have allowed this.” 

“What would you have done?” his younger self demanded. “Locked me in my room? Ordered me to stop? Under what penalty? You’re a faerie, but I’m a faekiller.” 

Shock reverberated through the mirror. “Is that a threat?” LeFou demanded. 

Gaston watched the young man in the mirror straighten, watched his eyes flash and his fists clench even as he tried to hide them in the crook of his arms. “It is because you’re not listening. I can’t decline!” 

A long silence stretched. “I’m listening now. What are you saying, mon grand?” But the dread in that question implied LeFou already knew.

“I’m not a faerie, but I have a faerie goddess’s magic, just as you told me! This thing that is living in me,” he uncrossed his arms and pressed both palms to his chest, grimacing as he did so, “it isn’t protecting just me anymore.” 

LeFou swore in Faerie, a stream of words that Gaston was surprised he could translate without even trying. “Did you bed him?” 

His younger self hesitated. Shook his head. “No.”

A sigh of relief. “Then the bond isn’t complete. We’re leaving. Now. It’s no longer safe for either of us here. We’ll have to figure. . . something else out.”

“I can’t!” he shouted, and through the mirror Gaston heard a darker rumble underneath it, something ancient and much, much too powerful. He gasped when his own chest hummed back in response. “I won’t!” 

“Listen to me, Gaston,” LeFou said, and he was begging now. “If the queen realizes what you are, it won’t just be you and I in danger. The young prince will be as well. She will use him to get to you. Don’t you understand that? She can’t kill you, but she can kill me. She can kill him!” 

Gaston watched his own face crumple, watched himself sag against the wall behind him for support. “I know. I know! I didn’t do it on purpose.” He began to cry. “But he told me to stay, and now I could not leave even if you tied me to a horse and hauled me away.” 

LeFou was silent for a very long moment. “You will have to kill her first, then. That is the only way out.”

“I will. I swear to God I will.” 

The memory faded to black. The next image that swam to the surface was a nighttime view of the courtyard and Gaston was staring at his own back as he marched past the fountain that looked the same as his painting. 

“Gaston, please! You must tell me what deal you made with her!”

Through the mirror, he watched his younger self turn, his face unearthly in the moonlight, his skin illuminated from some power within. Golden, and growing brighter. 

“She got to Adam before I could kill her. I had no choice. Now his life is tied to hers. I had to make this deal. I’m giving up the power to kill her to save him. To save you all. If he loves me, he’ll take the rose and that will be the end of this nightmare.” 

The absolute terror through the mirror was enough to make Gaston’s breath catch. 

“She would never agree to that deal unless she knew he wouldn't take it! You’re giving up your power for nothing.”

“He will.” Gaston’s younger self had reached the rose bushes. He plucked one of the blooms, rubbing the thorns between his fingers until they drew blood. “She’s a faerie. She doesn’t understand love.” He abruptly turned to face the mirror. “Put that knife down.” 

“Drop the rose, Gaston,” LeFou’s voice was shaky. “Now.”

“No.” 

The mirror view inched closer. “Drop it or I’ll attack,” his father’s handler ordered.

“I’ll kill you,” Gaston heard his younger self say coldly. “You would leave me no choice.” 

“I will die by her hand anyway,” LeFou rasped. “I have to try to stop you.”

Gaston watched himself straighten. His face was unrecognizable in the dark. Cold and flat; a death mask. “You would’ve had a better chance with her.” 

A sudden bright, searing light, and then the mirror went black. 

Chapter 26: Adam

Adam knew Gaston’s proximity affected the curse. It wasn’t until he felt the beast clawing at his mind hours before it should that he thought to consider whether the curse would accelerate the more miles there were between them. 

“Chapeau,” Adam said from his cell, his ferine voice snarling even as his chest ached with hopelessness. “I’m going to need that needle now. And then I need you to prepare another one while I’m out.” 

“But sir,” the coatrack protested, “we’ve never dosed double before!” 

“Just wait an hour before the second one,” Adam-as-the-beast replied. “I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think you will,” his friend whispered sadly even as he reached an arm through the bars.

“Do it anyway.”

Chapter 27: Gaston

“What happened?” Gaston demanded. He set the mirror on the table and stood. 

LeFou simply leaned back, his eyes trained on his face. “You killed me, obviously.” 

Gaston hissed out a breath. “I couldn’t have killed you. You’re alive!” 

“By Nierta’s benevolence, yes. She sent me back down here because my job wasn’t finished. I owe her a debt, one that not even death could free me from. It’s fortunate, really. The mortal queen doesn’t have the power to wipe the memories of the dead. Why do you think I retained all of these when everyone else lost them?” 

Gaston began to pace the length of the front room, his body taught with too many emotions. Confusion, horror, fear, disbelief. They all clamored over each other in his mind, robbing him of all coherent thoughts. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths. He would treat this like he treated every battle he ever fought in; one step at a time.

“What happened after that?” 

LeFou shook his head. “I don’t know. I was dead. But clearly your beloved prince didn’t accept the rose. Of course he didn’t,” he added. “He doesn’t love you. The queen never would’ve made that deal if he did. And now the power to kill her is out of your reach. Probably she used it to power the curse. That would be the smart thing to do, and it would explain why this curse is so impossibly powerful. Mortal magic shouldn’t be used for curses,” he added bitterly. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We were together for eight years after I came home from the war! Surely in eight years you could’ve found the time to tell me I’m some prince of death whose true love is wasting away in a castle!”

LeFou just shook his head. “Your memories were gone, mon grand. Everyone’s memories were. You wouldn’t have believed such a story, and I had no one to back it up.” 

“You could’ve tried,” Gaston argued stubbornly. “You didn’t even try.”

“Sure, I could have. And then you would’ve asked your father to lock me in an insane asylum for lunacy. Do you think there was even a sliver of chance that you would’ve believed me if I told you that you were an immortal faekiller, a human blessed with a goddesses mortal magic, who spent a summer at court, fell in love with the prince of France, and then forgot all about it because the faerie queen you were supposed to kill cursed yourself and everyone else in the country?” 

Gaston opened his mouth to say yes, then closed it again. Of course he wouldn’t have believed that. The only reason he believed it now was because he’d spent months in an enchanted castle retrieving memories that lined up exactly with the ones LeFou showed him in the mirror. 

“You don’t have much time left,” LeFou continued with a sigh. “Gaston, your mother is convinced you can still fix this. I didn’t believe her until I saw your weakened magic spill out of you without you realizing it, delivering you home safe from the war, charming every man you met into your bed, sniffing out cheaters like a bloodhound, and pulling you ever closer to the castle. Back to him.” LeFou shook his head. “You don’t have the magic of good or evil, order or disorder. You have mortal magic—the powers of life and death.”

Gaston looked from LeFou to the mirror on the table and back again. “Faekiller,” he echoed. 

“Indeed. I don’t know why Nierta gave this job to a human,” he added in exasperation, “but you are the child of the faerie god of Mortality, destined to end a queen’s life when she became too powerful to die by any other means. Even a moral queen’s life must come to an end.” LeFou leaned over the table. “If you hear nothing else, hear this; the curse the queen put on the castle, on everyone, is a trap for you. She can’t kill you, so she took your power and put it somewhere she believes you cannot get it.” 

“The rose,” Gaston said and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The rose is powering the curse. The rose I picked. It’s my magic powering this godforsaken spell. That’s why I’m able to remember when no one else can. That’s why I can turn Adam human again. Because it’s me. It’s been me this entire time!”

LeFou just watched him in silence as all the pieces clicked together, a puzzled guillotine of his own making. “The power I need is powering the curse itself,” he said more quietly. “Which means to break the curse, I have to kill the queen. But to kill the queen, I have to break the curse. It’s a perfect trap.” 

“Inescapable,” LeFou nodded sagely. “Or at least, it seems to be.” 

Gaston shook his head. “Why was I so stupid?”

“You were young,” his father’s handler pointed out a shade more kindly. “And you were in love. And for fairies—in your case, people with faerie magic—love is a bit more. . . involved. It’s binding. Some believe that bond is fated, though I don’t particularly agree. The goddesses don’t even know. Nierta is of the opinion that love and death are a circle, not opposites. The only inevitabilities in life.” He shook his head with a sigh. “Once that bond is formed, there is no dislodging it. Your power shifts to protect your mate and your mate only. If you had fallen for a faerie, that faerie would use their magic to protect you in return. But you’re a human, mon grand, no matter how much magic your mother put in you. Of course you would love another human. Just be glad you didn’t share his bed,” LeFou added a shade more wickedly. “You would’ve gone absolutely mad after you were separated. With your habits, I’d worried that the reason it was taking you so long to get back here was because you’d climbed him the first chance you got.” 

Gaston stopped pacing. “I’ve barely touched him! I’ve only kissed him twice! Three times, technically, but the first didn’t count.” 

LeFou’s brows rose. “In two months?” 

“It’s been a very long, torturous two months,” Gaston bit back. He dragged another hand through his hair. “But he didn’t love me before.” 

“He didn’t,” LeFou agreed. 

“He doesn’t love me now.” 

His father’s handler didn’t respond. 

More dread settled in Gaston’s stomach. “It doesn’t matter if the feelings are reciprocated, does it?” 

“No,” LeFou confirmed at last. “It doesn’t. Why do you think faeries are always at war with each other?” 

Gaston groaned. “How is it possible I didn’t realize from birth I had death magic?”

“Because you didn’t have it from birth. Do you think Nierta was going to let her powers manifest in you as a toddler?” LeFou shook his head. “Sixteen was still too young, in my opinion. Just look at where it got us.”

“But on the war. . . wouldn’t I have noticed?” 

“You gave the queen most of your power,” LeFou reminded him. “And even so, did you ever have trouble killing?” 

Gaston’s shoulders slumped. “No.” 

“Did you need training to use a bow? Or knife? Or even a shotgun?” 

“Not much,” he muttered. 

“And when your entire platoon died, who was the sole survivor, with nothing more than an arrow to the shoulder and a pretty scar to show off to his paramours?” 

Gaston closed his eyes. “Please, I don’t need to hear any more.” 

LeFou didn’t stop. “The only real justice in this life is that it ends. Good, evil, orderly, disorderly, wealthy, poor, kings, beggars. . . death meets them all the same. Your very strong sense of justice is a symptom of your magic. And that’s just the death parts. You have life magic, too. Why do you think you go half-mad if you don’t have someone in your bed every other night? If you weren’t so loyal to your sexuality, you would’ve made dozens of children by now. Your fertility is unparalleled, although Nierta’s powers aren’t inheritable—” 

“Enough. Enough,” Gaston groaned. “Please for the love of God.” 

Finally the man fell silent. Gaston breathed in and out through his nose for several long moments, fighting to digest so much impossibility. “Are there any others like me?” he risked asking, half-afraid of the answer.

“No. Your mother has one child every five-hundred years when it’s time for a faerie queen to meet her just ending. They always get too powerful, queens.” LeFou sighed. “But she’s always picked faerie mates in the past. It’s not like your dad is anything special in that regard,” he added. “I would know.” 

Gaston almost didn’t catch the end of that sentence. “You would. . .” he stared at him. “Oh my God.” Somehow that revelation was more unbelievable than anything else he’d learned so far. 

“Why else would he be so homophobic?” LeFou asked with a snort. 

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this. You were bedding my. . .? He threatened to castrate me for kissing the stable boy!” Gaston almost shouted.

LeFou shrugged. “Well, he did cry through it every time. I understand your Christian god can be quite strict about such things, small and silly as they are. I think he thought he was saving you.”

Gaston put his hands over his ears and leaned against the door, unable to take any more truths. His dad fucked his faerie handler. His mother was a goddess of death. He was destined to kill a faerie queen. The curse on Adam and the rest was a result of his magic. He had magic. Adam didn’t love him. Adam didn’t love him.

“What do I do now?” he asked before he lost his grip on his sanity.

“Now? You need to get back, I’m afraid.”

That was very likely the only answer that could send him immediately into action. How long had he been there? It hadn’t felt very long. He dug into his pocket, pulled out his pocketwatch, and swore so colorfully even LeFou’s brows rose. 

“I have to go.” He lunged for the mirror and half-sprinted out the door, LeFou hurrying behind him. 

“If the curse becomes permanent, your power will be lost to you for good, and the queen will live another five-hundred years.” 

Gaston ignored him. He shoved the mirror back into his saddlebag and hoisted himself up, swinging one of his legs over so quickly he pulled a muscle in his hip. He was getting too old for this degree of urgency. 

But LeFou was determined. “If you don’t break the curse and kill the queen, the prince will never be human again. He will be lost to the beast form forever, and if you don’t want that monster to kill you or anyone else in this land, you will have to kill him yourself the moment it does.” 

That got Gaston’s attention. He paused long enough to see LeFou standing in the door, lantern in hand, eyes somber. “That won’t happen,” he said firmly.

His father’s handler (faerie? Lover? Who the fuck knew anymore) simply nodded. “Good luck, mon grand. And take care. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Sorry for killing you,” Gaston added with a grimacing smile, then snapped the reins and rode even harder down the street than he had when he’d arrived. By his time estimation, he had less than thirty minutes to return to the castle. Impossible, but as long as Adam had the sedative ready, he should be fine when he arrived. Drugged, but fine. 

A part of him feared that he wouldn’t find his way back, that the path would somehow conceal itself from him. Perhaps the Flower Folk would decide tricking him would be more “fun” than the mirror, or perhaps the faerie queen herself would’ve realized his effect on the curse and intervened. He imagined the red-haired woman from his dreams appearing in the middle of the path, blocking his way back. 

But the way was not blocked. He pounded down the trail, past the sign, through the gate. They hit the courtyard at full-speed, Noir’s breaths coming in gasps and sweat glistening on her coat even in the cold. Gaston knew he shouldn’t run her so hard, but he didn’t have a choice. He vowed to be extra nice to her when they got back.

He didn’t bother stabling her. He simply rode right through the front doors, leaping off the horse and landing on his feet, his ankles stinging from the impact. Noir immediately lowered herself to the ground, too tired to even lift her head. Gaston took the stairs two-at-a-time, calling out Adam’s name as he went. 

“Hurry, monsieur,” Lumiere called to him from the hallway. “He’s in bad shape!” 

By the time he reached the top of the dungeon steps, Gaston’s legs were on fire and his breath hitched painfully in his chest. Spots burst at the edge of his vision. The beast lay in a still heap of fur on the floor of the nearest cell. Chapeau had already unlocked the door. 

“He ordered us to give him two doses,” the coatrack said sadly. “The curse. . . it came on him faster than it should have. I think because of the increased distance between you.” 

Gaston barely heard him. He was already on his knees and gathering the man into his arms. Adam’s head lolled and his cheeks were deathly pale. Gaston fought back his rising panic and gently lifted the other man’s head to rest on his shoulder, sliding his fingers along his throat as he did so. His heart was beating. Faintly. He lowered his hand and pushed his face into the man’s hair, forcing himself to breathe through his fear and the wild run he hadn’t breaked from. 

“Mon amour, j'avais peur de te perdre. Je ne te quitterai plus jamais,” he murmured softly and smoothed the man’s curls. 

“Gaston! Gaston!” He reluctantly lifted his head to see Belle had joined them in the dungeons. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Raised her hand. “I just need a moment.” 

Gaston continued whispering lovingly into Adam’s ear until she joined them in the cell. “Is he alright?” she asked worriedly. Then seemed to notice the tears glittering on his cheeks. “Are you alright?” 

“No,” he replied simply. “Adam took two doses of sedative. I have faerie death magic and am the reason this curse is on the castle. I made a stupid deal with the queen I was supposed to kill because I thought Adam loved me. Also I murdered LeFou—who was resurrected—and he told me he bedded my father.” 

Belle stared blankly at him for a long moment. Processing. “Oh my. That’s certainly. . . a lot.” When he didn’t respond, she sat down next to him and gently wiped tears from his cheeks. “I’m glad you’re back, regardless,” she said with a smile. “It was miserable here without you. And I wouldn’t worry too much. Adam will be alright. We’ll take care of him until he feels better, and then we can figure out what to do about the rest.” 

Gaston let out a long, sighing breath and finally met her eyes. It was such a simple reassurance, but it lifted a weight from his shoulders that had been damn near crushing him. “Belle, I think I may be falling in love with you after all.” 

She wrinkled her nose. “I would prefer you didn’t. I think Adam would agree. I doubt he’s interested in sharing.” 

Gaston gaped at her, then a sharp, painful laugh loosened in his chest. She giggled rather hysterically in response. “He does love you, Gas,” she added once they were quiet again. She leaned her head against his unoccupied shoulder. “No matter what your other friend told you. This friend knows better.” 

His throat tightened. “I suppose only time will tell. Come on. Let’s get him by a fire. We’re going to need help.” 

The next ten hours were some of the longest Gaston remembered since the war. They’d dosed the drug to sedate a four-hundred pound beast, not a man with a build as slight as Adam’s. The side effects worsened every time Gaston touched him, which made him scared to touch him for too long. He was also scared he wasn’t touching him long enough. He was scared when the man vomited (every half hour). He was scared when he shivered violently one moment and then sweated through his tunic the next. 

He helped Belle and the others force water past Adam’s lips and pile blankets on and off of him as needed. Gaston didn’t sleep. He barely ate. All thoughts of the curse and his part in it were forced aside. 

Perhaps that was a good thing. 

Eventually the drug wore off enough for Gaston to feel comfortable leaving Adam in his human form. Once his fever broke and he could keep fluids down, Gaston carried him up to his room in the west wing with Belle trailing close behind. She didn’t question him when he climbed into the man’s tattered bed and tucked him in against his chest. She stripped the useless blankets and pillows and brought fresh ones from one of the other rooms. Then she filled several cups of water from the basin and left them on the side table. 

“Get some sleep, boys,” she said kindly as she paused at the door on her way out. “I’ll come check on you both in the morning.”

Gaston said something incoherent. He was asleep before she closed the door. 

 

Chapter 28: Adam

Adam awoke just in time to avoid being pitched over the side of a bed. Disoriented from sleep and sedative, he flailed his arms out blindly and managed to latch onto a rickety bedpost with one hand while the other struck something soft and unexpectedly warm. That something—or someone—thrashed next to him, kicking out a leg that only narrowly missed Adam’s crotch and caught him in the stomach instead.

“Gaston?” Adam mumbled in confusion.

There weren’t many humans in the castle, and only one of this general size and strength. But why was he here? Why was Adam here? And where, even, were they? The last memory he had was of the dungeons; the sharp sting of a needle harkening the muted, black waters of unconsciousness. Now every muscle in Adam’s body ached and his head pounded painfully beneath his temples. Worst of all was the god-awful taste in his mouth. 

Bile. 

Clearly Chapeau had been right. He’d double-dosed that sedative, and Adam definitely hadn’t been fine.

The man lying next to him tossed again, this time rolling into him and nearly sending him back over the side. “Gaston,” Adam rasped, “what’s happening?” 

No response. 

Adam fought through the darkness and blankets until he could glimpse the other man’s face. In the low, slanted moonlight and his improved angle, Adam could see Gaston’s eyes were still closed. He appeared to be having a fight with the pillows (and the pillows were winning). 

“Wake up!” Adam urged. “Gaston, wake up before you either strangle me or throw me across the room.”

Indeed the man seemed determined to throw him off. He likely would’ve succeeded if Adam hadn’t thought to reach for one of the cups on the nightstand and dump the contents over his head. Gaston’s eyes flew open and he immediately sat up. Adam lurched back as quickly as his impaired reflexes would allow, but it wasn’t quick enough. His nose made stinging contact with Gaston’s forehead. 

“Ow,” he groaned, the pain splitting his already-splitting head.

“What happened?” Gaston slurred groggily. He wiped water from his eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of his tunic before squinting into the darkness.

“You nearly threw me out of bed, that’s what happened,” Adam grumbled. No sooner had the words left his lips than he yelped in surprise when Gaston’s hands tugged him up from the tangle of blankets and away from the side of the bed. He braced himself on the man’s shoulders as the world swam dizzyingly out of focus. 

“Nightmare,” Gaston gasped between heavy breaths. “Sorry. Nightmare. Did I hurt you?” 

Adam let go of him long enough to rub his nose, checking for blood. “No.”

“How are you feeling?” Gaston asked next. “Do you need water?” 

Before Adam could answer, Gaston turned to reach for the remaining cup on the nightstand. But in doing so, he also moved out from under his grasp. There was nothing to anchor Adam in this half-drugged darkness, and he was desperate to avoid returning to his beast form. He panicked, leaning forward and falling nearly face-first into Gaston’s lap. He locked his arms tightly around the other man’s torso as his stomach rolled sickeningly again.  

“I’m here,” Gaston said in surprise and concern. “I’m right here. I won’t let go of you.” As if to prove it, he placed a protective arm around Adam’s shoulders and helped him sit upright. Then he pressed a cup into his hands. “Drink. You need it.” 

Adam lifted the water to his lips and hoped it would wash some of the foul taste from his mouth. Gaston waited patiently until he finished the entire glass. Then he took it from his hands and placed it back on the side table (this time without removing his arm). 

“I’m so sorry, chaton,” he murmured softly into the darkness once they were both sitting with their backs against the headboard. “I didn’t realize my presence in the castle alone was slowing the curse, otherwise I might’ve guessed leaving it would shorten the amount of time we had in between.” 

“I didn’t think of it, either,” Adam whispered back. 

He was just now recovering himself enough to identify his surroundings. They were in his bed in the west wing, though he didn’t remember how he got there. His light-parched eyes were drawn to the window across from them, where stars hung low in the sky. He thought vaguely that if it was night already, then he must’ve been out for longer than he anticipated.  Now he wondered what would’ve happened if he hadn’t taken that second dose of sedative. How close had they been to losing another petal? 

He shivered, though whether it was from his thoughts or his lingering fever, he couldn’t be certain. Gaston’s arm tightened around him and he took it as an invitation to move closer. He tucked himself against the other man’s side, his head resting on his chest just beneath his chin. Gaston wrapped both arms around him and ran soothing fingers through his hair. 

For a long moment neither of them spoke. 

“Why are you here?” Adam finally asked into the drowsy silence. Sleep was already blanketing him; his body lulled by Gaston’s warmth and the steady beating of his heart beneath his ear. 

“You were vomiting every half hour,” he replied softly, and Adam very much liked the way his voice vibrated in his chest. “And you had a fever. I couldn’t leave you.” A pause. “But if you’re feeling better, I can move back outside of your door.” 

Adam didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he pressed even closer, burying his face in the other man’s neck.

Gaston hummed. “You would rather sleep with me than the beast, then?”

“Are you asking if I would rather sleep as a man?” he whispered back, eyes drooping, “or if I would rather sleep with you?”

“Aren’t they the same?” And even through the haze of exhaustion and lingering sedatives, Adam could detect the sadness behind those words. What reason did Gaston have to be sad? Adam was the one who asked him to stay (even if he hadn’t used words to do it), and this was his curse to suffer.

“Obligation,” Adam sighed. “That’s the difference between them.”

“Obligation,” Gaston repeated in agreement. “Of course.” 

There was another long, heavy silence wherein Adam drifted off into the surreal space between sleep and waking. When he thought he heard Gaston’s voice again, he couldn’t discern if it was real or a dream. 

“Which one is it tonight?”

Gaston’s own dreams must’ve been peaceful after that, because he didn’t try to throw Adam out of bed again. But when there was a knock on the door early the following morning, Adam nearly fell out of it anyway. 

“It’s me!” Belle called brightly from behind the door. “I brought breakfast!” 

Shit. 

Adam scrambled to his feet, swayed dangerously to the side and caught himself on the sidetable. Except he’d left Gaston’s arms, which meant his overlarge beast form leaned all four-hundred pounds into the table and sent it crashing to the floor. Both cups of water and the lamp shattered, shards of glass and porcelain narrowly missing Adam’s bare feet—paws.

“Shit!” he swore aloud this time. 

A firm hand clamped on his shoulder from behind, turning him into a man again and tugging him easily backwards onto the bed. “It’s alright,” Gaston said, wide-awake thanks to his very loud morning alarm. “She knows I’m here.” 

He squeezed his shoulder again before letting go. Adam was unable to resist ogling as Gaston stood from his bed, stretched, raked exactly two hands through his hair (he envied him for not waking up to a nest on his head) and moved to answer the door. 

And to think he’d slept in that man’s arms all night and had been too sick to properly appreciate it. God really was cruel.

“Good morning, Belle,” Gaston greeted at the door.

“Is everything alright?” the woman asked worriedly. “I heard something fall.” 

“Adam still can’t stand. The sound you heard was a result of his latest attempt.” 

Adam tried very hard to not look like he was sitting on a bed he’d just shared with another man, regardless of what they had or hadn’t done in it, when Belle entered with a breakfast tray. His beast form had this advantage, at least: it gave away nothing.

She surveyed the mess on the floor and now-broken table before offering him a sympathetic look. “I’ll ring for Cogsworth and Lumiere. I’m sure they can find you another table. And a lamp.” She set the tray on the bed and Adam’s stomach rumbled loudly at the smell of food. Gaston sat directly next to him, so he could eat with utensils, he assumed, but the proximity made him feel overwarm anyway, and this time there was no monstrous face to hide it. If Belle noticed, she didn’t act like it. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better,” Adam replied before taking a very large bite of toast. “Still weak, though.”

Gaston reached over his lap to snag the second piece from the tray. “I don’t think you’ve eaten in twenty-four hours.”

“I was out that long?” 

Belle nodded. “Close to it.”

Adam contemplated this for a moment before abruptly turning to Gaston. In his drugged state, he hadn’t even thought to ask whether his mission was successful. “What did your friend say? Do you know how to break my curse?”

Gaston’s eyes flickered to Belle. “It’s a very long story, and not one I am keen on repeating.” 

She glanced between them before nodding unhappily. “You both should eat. I’ll gather the others. We’ll all meet here in half an hour.” 

Adam watched her leave. Only when she closed the door did he turn to Gaston. “Is it really that bad?”

“I’m afraid so,” the man grunted in reply, and Adam noticed the way he was avoiding his eyes. His dark brows were crunched together over his nose and his lips were pressed into a grim line. 

Adam took a few more bites of his breakfast and tried to ignore the tension building in the silence between them. What was he supposed to say to someone he’d only slept with? Was he supposed to pretend like nothing happened? Or should he apologize for being too sick to do anything more? Had Gaston expected Adam to be so eager, so unable to withstand the temptation of his proximity, that nothing would prevent him from shucking his clothes off? Surely he would understand how unreasonable that was. 

Maybe if he had more experience, he would know what to do. He decided he should at least try to acknowledge it. Surely it would be more uncomfortable not to. He took a deep breath. “Last night—”

“Adam,” Gaston interrupted before he could get any further, “if you’re going to apologize for not bedding me while feverish and drugged half out of your mind, I’m going to kindly ask you to stop now.” 

Adam closed his mouth with a click of his teeth. How had he known what he was going to say? “Can I thank you, then?” 

“For making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit?” Gaston asked dryly. “No.” 

“For taking care of me when I was ill,” Adam countered in protest. “For holding me when I was scared. For being. . .” he waved a general hand in his direction, “you know.” 

Gaston’s brow rose. “Being what?” 

“Patient.”

“It isn’t ‘patience’ to share a bed with a sick person without expecting to get laid,” Gaston argued flatly. “That’s consent, chaton. And basic fucking decency.” 

“You know that isn’t what I’m referring to,” Adam muttered. Clearly it would’ve been better if he hadn’t acknowledged it after all. Gaston was not in a good mood, and of course he wasn’t. They had far more important issues to contend with. Adam should’ve just suffered in the uncomfortable silence. 

“How have I been patient?” Gaston asked more bitterly. “Last night I pushed you into a dance, a kiss, and then very nearly took you right there on the ground.”

Adam stared at him in disbelief. “You didn’t push me into anything. You told me we could call the dance obligation if I needed to. You asked me if I wanted to kiss you and I said yes. And in the courtyard, I was the one with my legs around you!” 

Gaston shook his head. “You were stalling.” 

“That didn’t mean I didn’t like it. You knew I did. You wouldn’t have kept going otherwise!”

Gaston’s jaw clenched and he still refused to look at him. 

“Why do you keep assuming that I don’t want the same things you want?” Adam demanded in exasperation. “If you sleep in my bed again tonight, would you let me prove it to you? No more obligations.”

Gaston’s halo-rimmed eyes, at first avoidant, were now locked onto his. Unyielding. “Chaton, if you want me to spend tonight and every night after in your bed, there would be very few powers in this world strong enough to remove me from it. Certainly none within myself.” 

Adam stared at him in silence, cheeks warming, thoughts entirely blank. Before Gaston’s words could sink in, he was already speaking again. 

“I have faerie magic, Adam. It’s what lured me here, to this castle. To you.” Gaston leaned forward and gathered his hands in his, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. “If we seal this bond, if I bed you tonight, I think this magic would tear my soul in two before it let you go—no matter the reason.”

Adam sat for a long moment in a fog of surprise and confusion. Faerie magic? Why would Gaston have faerie magic? Unless he’d discovered he was half-fae, but then why wouldn’t he just say that? Could faeries even procreate with humans? Adam knew very little about the fae or their magic. There were no books in his library on the topic (a fact he now attributed to the faerie queen’s curse), and other than his occasional dealings with the Flower Folk, he’d never witnessed their magic himself. He’d read about mating bonds before, but only because faeries weren’t the only beings known to have them. 

“Wouldn’t this be something you experience with all of your lovers?” Adam asked at last. He didn’t have time to ask all of his questions now, not before the others arrived. He had to trust they would be answered when Gaston told them all what he learned from his friend. Clearly it was far more than Adam had imagined.

“No,” Gaston replied with a brittle smile. “I don’t usually bed men I love. Not in the way my seventeen year old self loved you.”

“Oh.” Adam’s cheeks flared even hotter than they’d been before. He’d asked for sex and Gaston was talking about hearts. Hearts, at least, were something Adam understood. He’d spent the last decade reading stories and poetry about love and the myriad of ways people encountered it. He’d thought such research would be necessary to break his curse. He’d thought that if he knew his own heart well enough, he would eventually learn to love properly and the spell would be broken. 

Ten years of diligent study and reflection hadn’t lifted the curse, but it had given him a lot of time to decide how he wanted to be loved. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in care and patience and thoughtfulness. Gaston had been all of those things. Adam had also hoped for mutual attraction, of course, though after reading about the consequences of lust and infatuation, he’d vowed not to bed just anyone (he’d known his heart wouldn’t be able to survive it). But Gaston was no longer “just anyone,” and Adam’s heart was long past preserving by now. 

He’d accepted that Gaston’s approach to love and sex was different from his own. He didn’t expect to be made an exception just because he wanted to be. So it was truly the last thing he expected upon inviting Gaston to his bed to get a confession of deeper feelings, even if they were ones made a decade ago. Now his pulse was overloud in his ears and there was an odd static under his skin that was making it very hard to think.

But Gaston had said it like he was delivering terrible news. Did he resent his younger self for his feelings? Was he angry that he might be magically tied to someone? It seemed very possible. Likely, even.

“Do you want that kind of a bond with me?” Adam asked at last, not trusting his voice above a whisper. 

Gaston’s eyes lowered to his lips and a look of such intense longing flashed there that Adam was momentarily robbed of breath. “God yes,” he sighed. But when he looked back up into Adam’s eyes, his expression was pained. “But I don’t know if you do.” 

“What makes you say that?” Really Adam wanted to ask what, exactly, would it take to convince this man that he wanted this? Would it really take tearing his clothes off before the man believed him? 

Gaston let go of Adam’s hands and drew back, but not far enough to risk shifting him into the beast. “Because you didn't accept my heart when I offered it to you ten years ago.” 

“What?” Adam followed Gaston’s gaze towards the table. 

The table with the glass case. 

The table with the glass case with the rose. 

“Oh no,” he breathed, the implication of the other man’s words sinking like a stone in his stomach.

Gaston glanced back, his expression grim. “I’m afraid love has more to do with this curse than we estimated.”

Chapter 29: Gaston

Gaston didn’t fall back asleep after Adam roused him from his nightmare. He certainly tried, but it was one thing to hold Adam because he wanted to protect him from the beast (and the possibility of choking on his own vomit); it was another thing entirely to hold him because he wanted him to. Gaston couldn’t sleep when the man’s body was molded to his own, when his breath grazed his skin with every exhale, when his hair cascaded down his shoulder in a sea of copper. He’d wanted nothing more than to drown in it. 

Except the problem was that Gaston did want more. A lot more. Truly the list of things he wanted from the prince of France was growing distressingly long and increasingly desperate. He wanted the sight of him spread out across his bed. He wanted the feeling of his skin unobstructed beneath his hands. He wanted to claim every unsteady breath, every straining grasp, every rising tension in his body. He wanted Adam’s slender fingers tangling in his hair, digging into his shoulders, stroking between his legs. He wanted to feel him from every angle, including ones impossible to reach on the outside. 

None of those wants were the real problem—not ones he couldn’t fix, anyway. If such feelings became too difficult to manage, he could (literally) take matters into his own hands. He would rest easy knowing such angst was a result of months of isolation and one-too-many nights alone in his bed. No, the real problem was that bedding Adam was the most reasonable want on Gaston’s list, and he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about it. 

In the hours following his arrival at the castle, Gaston had no time to grapple with everything LeFou had revealed. He’d been too worried about Adam’s condition, too preoccupied with helping the others in taking care of him, and too sleep-deprived himself to sort through his own thoughts. But once Adam was sleeping safely in his arms, he couldn’t keep running from them.

Hours of reflection ultimately lead him to the grim conclusion that none of it actually mattered. Or it did, but it didn’t change anything. Regardless of who his mother was, or what mistakes he’d made in the past, or what magic lived in his bones, Adam was still cursed and Gaston still didn’t know how to break it. 

 A younger version of himself, the one in LeFou’s memories, would’ve resented so much injustice. Why him? Why did a faerie goddess pick him to kill a queen? Couldn’t she do it herself? He was a human. She was a god. Faerie magic didn’t belong in human form. She was to blame for the mess they were in. A younger version of himself would’ve wasted his time mourning the life he and Adam might’ve had if not for his magic—magic he never wanted in the first place. Probably he would’ve raged against it with the level of vehemence appropriate to teenagers before immediately slipping into despair at the revelation that the man he loved didn’t love him in return. He would’ve hated himself for the mistake he made and that he’d killed someone—someone he trusted—because of it.

But Gaston was not that version of himself anymore. He was ten years older and a hell of a lot more familiar with life’s cruelties. He’d made mistakes, killed people out of self-defense, confronted despondency, and encountered feelings in others he himself couldn’t return. In that sense, none of this was anything he hadn’t dealt with before. Almost none of it, anyway.

Gaston suspected there was one experience his younger self had over him, one bit of knowledge that the curse stole and time alone couldn’t replace. The teenager he saw in LeFou’s visions knew how to be in love. Not just in love, generally, but in love with Adam.  

And that was where his list of wants turned into a problem. Gaston wanted things from Adam that were far more complicated than a friendly conversation or a hot night in an empty bed. Things like companionship and commitment and connection. He wanted Adam’s dimpled smile, his stubborn tongue, his nose-turning glares. He wanted his knowledge about poetry and magic and birds. He wanted his contemplative approach to life and the careful way he handled it. Gaston wanted to be handled carefully, for once. He wanted to be looked at with gravity free from disapproval. He wanted to be listened to with solemnity free from reproach. He wanted to be taken seriously even when—no, especially when—he’d done nothing serious, at all. 

Gaston didn’t know how to want such things from Adam. How should he act around him now? What should or shouldn’t he say? And why, in all of his memories, was he so goddamned certain the man had an equal list of wants for him in return?

That boy in the rose bushes had not, for even a moment, considered the possibility that the prince of France didn’t love him. He was willing to bet his life on it. He was willing to bet the lives of others on it. Perhaps he’d been a stubborn, foolish seventeen year old. Or perhaps he knew something about love, something about Adam, that he no longer knew. 

In the early hours of the morning, when the sun was just creeping over the treeline and casting small light-diamonds through the window panes and onto the bed, Gaston made his decision. He didn’t know how to be in love with Adam, but he did know he would tell him the truth. He would tell him that his younger self had been in love with him, and that it was his mistake that trapped him and his friends in this castle. He would tell him the truth even though the man would likely blame him for his years of torment. He was certain that it would eliminate all chances of the man falling in love with him again, and if that was the case, then the best way to deal with his unreasonable list of wants was to treat them as impossibilities. 

And perhaps that approach would’ve worked, had Adam not confirmed—less than an hour later while the two of them sat alone together—that the first items on his list, at least, were not impossible at all.

“Why do you keep assuming I don’t want the same things you want?”

The ruthless irony of those words only served to bolster Gaston’s resolve. Adam had to know the consequences of what he was asking him for. 

 Gaston was still telling the truth several hours later while the castle staff, Belle, and Adam listened to his whole miserable account. By the time he’d finished, it was nearing mid afternoon, Mrs. Potts had returned with tea (twice), and even Belle was out of questions.

“This curse was never about any of you,” Gaston said in conclusion. “It was, and has always been, a trap for me. Your families, your time, your humanity was stolen from you because I was a foolish teenager who thought he could outsmart a faerie queen.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Gaston wasn’t sure what he’d expected in response to his confession. Anger? Tears? A spontaneous tomato-to-the-face? At the very least he thought they would want to lock him in the dungeons for a few days in recompense. Instead a mournful kind of shock had settled over the west wing. 

Belle was the first to break it. “It was stolen because a faerie queen refused to accept her end as dictated by her own gods,” she corrected. “She’s doing everything she can to avoid it, including tricking a human into giving up most of his power, a human who was given mortal faerie magic at seventeen. Tell me again how that is your fault?”

Leave it to Belle to argue with him even when he was trying to take accountability for his mistakes. 

“If I’d just accepted the rose. . .” Adam added in a whisper. He hadn’t spoken a word since the others arrived and Gaston began his story. He refused to look at him, instead glancing repeatedly between the table with the rose and his hands that fidgeted anxiously in his lap. 

“She would’ve found another way to take Gaston’s power from him,” Belle replied shortly before Gaston could formulate his own protest. 

“It is our fault,” Lumiere said then. “We should never have allowed that terrible woman into the castle. If she hadn’t been invited, none of this would’ve happened.”

Gaston couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Of course you had to invite her,” he growled. “The Folk do not forgive being snubbed. As I said, I was the one who was supposed to kill her. I’m the only one who can. This is my fault.”

“No one can blame you for falling in love,” Mrs. Potts protested from her tea cart. “That isn’t always a conscious decision, dearie.”

“I was right all along,” Adam added in sorrowful agreement. “There’s something wrong with my heart.”

“What?” Now Gaston was truly frustrated. Nothing about this was going the way he’d imagined. “Just because you don’t feel the way I do doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. I have no doubt that after I fix this mistake, you will find someone you can love when I’m gone.”

But that reassurance only made Adam bury his face in his hands. Gaston reached for him automatically, then stopped, unsure if his comfort would be welcome. Belle swiftly moved to sit on Adam’s other side and pulled him into a tight hug. She glared furiously at Gaston over his shoulder. “For the love of God, could you stop being an ass for five minutes?” she snapped. 

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Gaston said in honest confusion. 

“I already told you he loves you,” she hissed. Then, more softly to Adam, “don’t listen to him. He doesn’t want to leave you. He’s just being an idiot.”

Gaston stared blankly at the others. But if he was hoping for help, he didn’t find any. 

“She’s right, monsieur, he does love you,” Lumiere proclaimed loudly from his position on the floor. “And we know him better than you.”

“We do,” Chapeau agreed.

Meanwhile Mrs. Potts had wheeled in front of Adam with another cup of tea. “Don’t be upset, dearie,” she soothed. “You two just need to talk this out, that’s all.” 

Cogsworth ventured more hesitantly, “perhaps if the master tries to take the rose now, he would be more successful.”

“Great idea, mon amor!” Lumiere interrupted, his flames flaring brighter in excitement. “He couldn’t take it before, but I’m certain he can now! Perhaps the spell can still be lifted!”

Even Belle seemed to warm to the idea. “Did the queen say whether or not Adam could try to take the rose again?” she asked Gaston. 

“I’m. . .not sure,” he admitted. “I still don’t have a memory of giving her the flower. I don’t know what the exact wording was.”

“But she told us that the master must ‘learn to love,’” Plumette piped up. “If he’s learned to love you now, he should be able to take it.”

Gaston didn’t want to argue with them, not when they all looked so hopeful. Inwardly he thought that the queen would’ve accounted for that possibility. And if Adam didn’t love him back when he was the well-mannered, bright-eyed, infatuated late teenager, Gaston thought there was very little chance he would love him now as a scarred, disreputable ex-soldier nearing his thirties. 

He’d tried to kill him. Twice. 

Adam lifted his head from his hands and Gaston’s heart ached when he caught sight of his tear-streaked cheeks. “It’s worth a try.”

“Adam,” Gaston called softly, but he’d already pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, shifted back into the beast, then gripped the bedpost to steady himself. Gaston swiftly stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. Adam shifted again and looked up at him. 

“Come with me. If only so I can be in my human form when I take it.”

Gaston swallowed back his flurry of apologies and concerns. If Adam believed he was in love, who was he to tell him otherwise? Was it too much to hope that he was right? The fact he thought there was a chance meant his feelings must be much stronger than Gaston realized. Good God that was going to make everything harder if this didn’t work.

He offered Adam his arm and the man took it, leaning heavily into him as they approached the table together. The tower fell silent when Adam removed the cloth with a sweep of his arm, revealing the rose still beneath its glass case.

Gaston’s eyes locked onto the three remaining petals and noted one was curling worryingly at the edges. He hissed out a breath of surprise when the thing in his chest abruptly lurched, as if it was trying to reach out to take the magic back. Just a month ago, he hadn’t noticed it moving in him at all. He felt even more nauseous when he saw the gritty, brown spots of dried blood still on the thorns. 

His blood. 

“Adam,” Gaston whispered into the tense quiet, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know, either,” he replied and quirked a quietly brave smile that made Gaston want to kiss him again regardless of the consequences. 

“About the curse?” he asked instead.

“About your heart,” Adam replied simply. Then he returned his gaze to the rose and pressed his lips into a determined line. “No more stalling.”

Gaston kept his eyes trained on Adam’s face as he lifted the glass. He wanted to say something else, but the words wouldn’t come. What should he say? It’s okay if this doesn’t work? He didn’t blame him if he couldn’t take it now, just like he didn’t blame him before? Instead he waited with bated breath as Adam reached his hand out to take the rose by its thorny stem. He hesitated, squeezed his eyes shut, and reached again. 

Gaston knew the moment it didn’t work, not because he saw Adam’s hand meet the invisible magic barrier, but because he saw the glimmer of hope behind his face dim. He tried several more times before finally lowering his hand. 

“Well,” Adam whispered hollowly, “if this isn’t love, then the queen was right. I’m incapable of it.” 

Chapter 30: Adam

There are some truths that can survive in the mouths of monstrosity, and the truth of the monster in Adam was one of them. The faerie queen hadn’t lied the night she cursed the castle. Her magic had simply given Adam’s heartlessness a physical form. The beast wasn’t a separate entity from himself, but a manifestation of his own inner evil. Adam knew this. He’d always known this. He’d spent the last ten years trying to tame the beast with research and poetry and the kindness of his friends. And when Gaston and Belle told him that they suspected none of this was his fault and that the real evil lived outside of himself, he’d been desperate to believe it. 

In the end, none of his efforts in reformation or self-deception had been enough. His heartlessness was going to be the ruin of him and everyone foolish enough to get too close. It didn’t matter what the faerie queen’s motives were. Whether she cursed him to teach him a lesson about inner beauty or because she needed to use him to prevent Gaston from accessing the power to kill her, his inability to love remained the same. 

Now he was right back where he’d been a decade ago. He cared desperately for his friends, he wanted Gaston in ways he didn’t remember wanting anyone, but it still wasn’t enough. It still wasn’t love. 

God, what more to love was there? The warm, joyful feeling he experienced while reading in the library with Belle, while Lumiere preached about the interconnectedness of the world, while Gaston held him in his arms, what was the name of that feeling if it wasn’t love? Attraction? Intense caring? Something else? He was already certain he would risk his life for any of his friends. What would it feel like to experience an emotion even stronger than that? 

The fact Adam couldn’t imagine it only further convinced him that he was beyond saving. If he wasn’t able to recover his heart in ten years, he doubted he ever would. Gaston would have to stay in the castle with him until the end of his life. Adam was cursed to be a beast, but Gaston was cursed to haunt the shadow of the man who didn’t love him to prevent innocent people from becoming fixtures for eternity. Or he and Belle would leave, the last petals would fall, and that would be the end. 

He wasn’t sure which scared him more. 

He was the only heartless one. Why should anyone else be forced to suffer for his selfishness? Or was it not enough for him to turn into a dangerous monster and he had to be tortured by the misery of everyone he thought he loved as well? Just how evil must he be if that was the case? 

Perhaps it would be easier to accept his fate if his friends didn’t continue to excuse the monster in him.

“It was one theory, Adam,” Belle said after he failed to take the rose and Gaston helped him sit back down on his bed. “It’s very likely that the queen accounted for the possibility that the two of you might find each other again and cast her magic accordingly. Bonding magic is powerful, and not very well understood, even amongst faeries.” She looked between Adam and Gaston with raised brows. “Some people say it’s fated.” 

“LeFou mentioned that,” Gaston said rather resignedly. “He also said he doesn’t believe it.” 

“A calamity faerie wouldn’t,” Belle snorted. 

If Adam was feeling more himself, he might’ve pressed her on that point. Clearly the woman knew a lot more about the Folk than he realized. Whoever had been in charge of the library in Belle’s provincial town deserved more credit. Books on faeries weren’t exactly staple reading for French countryfolk.

“Perhaps the master simply needs to fall more in love,” Cogsworth offered then. As if love, like time, was something that could be measured. “We’ll make more romantic plans, but for you and the monsieur this time,” he said and turned to Lumiere for backup. 

But the candelabra didn’t respond. He was watching Adam with dimmed flames and a concerned flash of his brass. Lumiere, of everyone in the castle, knew the extent of Adam’s anguish. He knew how the rose’s verdict would affect him, because he knew the darker side of Adam’s heart. Lighting darkness was what he did best. 

“Really, chaton,” Gaston added more quietly when Adam still refused to look at him, “after the way I treated you when I arrived, I don’t deserve your heart. Even when I'm on my best behavior, I’m not exactly an easy person to love.” 

Belle agreed with this wholeheartedly, and Gaston chose to ignore her. Adam didn’t bother arguing with him. Doing so would require him to admit everything he admired about the man, and what good would that do either of them? 

“Don’t fret, dearie,” Mrs. Potts piped up and  poured him another cup of tea. “We know you better than this faerie. Better than the monsieur and mademoiselle. We know how good you truly are.” 

Adam wanted to scream that he wasn’t. He wanted to shout at all of them that he didn’t deserve their kindness, and while the faerie queen had cursed them, his lovelessness would’ve hurt them all eventually regardless. And who was to say he wouldn’t continue to hurt them more than he already had? 

Gaston lingered after the rest left the west wing for lunch. Belle paused at the door, saw the other man wasn’t following, and closed it softly behind her. 

“Adam,” Gaston said once she was gone. “I know you still believe this is your fault.”

The welling grief and fear in Adam’s chest threatened to spill over into his words. “I can’t love,” he whispered, “and because of that, we’re right back where we started in breaking this curse.” 

“You can, and we aren’t,” the man insisted. He reached for his hand and Adam pulled away before he could take it. Gaston hesitated. Spoke even more gently. “We know the real reason she cursed the castle. We know that you and the others are innocent. You never would’ve been hurt if I hadn’t come here.”

“What are you saying?” Adam asked harshly. “Do you expect me to wish you’d never come, that we’d never. . ?” fallen in love. But he couldn’t say that, could he? Not when it was one-sided. He couldn’t swallow past the pain that formed a lump in his throat.

Gaston clasped his hands awkwardly in his lap, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them if they couldn’t hold his. “You never should’ve felt obligated to conjure feelings you don’t have. I asked too much from you.”

“Your heart isn’t too much, Gaston.” Adam could feel the other man’s eyes pinning him to the bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet them. The shame he felt was too great. “But if I asked you to dig your grave next to mine just for the chance to lie with you,” he continued even more quietly, “that would be.”

“I’ve dug graves for less,” Gaston replied gruffly. 

Adam did look up at him then. Surprised—and a bit alarmed. Surely he wasn’t suggesting that he still wanted to be tied to him. “But you deserve so much more,” he sputtered.

“Now you sound like Belle,” Gaston sighed and treated him with a sad quirk of his lips. “I think you both greatly overestimate what I deserve from this life.” He studied his face more openly and now Adam could no more look away than he could break this curse. “I won’t pretend to be an expert, but I don’t think love is about deserving.”

Adam didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t believe they were even having this argument. Why was the man looking at him with so much warmth and hope? He should be hurt. He should resent him for being unable to return his feelings.

“What if I don’t want anything more than what you can give me?” Gaston asked when Adam remained silent.

He shook his head. “It won’t be enough.”

“According to who? Magic? What makes you think a curse—inherently evil magic—knows our hearts better than we do?” 

This time Adam didn’t answer because he had nothing to say other than “because that is how it always is in the storybooks,” which didn’t sound particularly convincing even to himself. No one in those stories ever questioned magic’s intentions. Not once in his ten years did he equate his spell with evil. 

“If you believe my heart isn’t too much for you, and I believe yours is enough for me, what is stopping us this time, chaton?” the man asked at last, and the patience behind those words was truly devastating.

Adam didn’t answer, and Gaston took it as his cue that the discussion was over for now. He squeezed his shoulder once before standing and moving towards the door. Adam shifted back into the beast in a brief flash of light. 

“I’ll return the mattress to the hallway,” Gaston said before closing the door gently behind him. And even though Adam had detected nothing but respect behind those words, they left him feeling empty anyway. Of course the man couldn’t stay in his bed. Adam doubted he himself could tolerate more than one chaste night in the man’s arms. He said he wouldn’t ask him to form an unbreakable bond with someone who didn’t love him. 

“What makes you think a curse knows our hearts better than we do?”

Adam breathed through the rising pain in his chest. 

“If you believe my heart isn’t too much for you, and I believe yours is enough for me, what is stopping us this time?”

Adam had spent the last decade believing that there was something in him that was missing. He’d wasted countless hours looking for whatever piece that was, and just when he’d accepted that he would never find it, Gaston and Belle arrived and made him question everything; the curse, the magic, the enchantress, his own self. Now that feeling of incompleteness felt greater than magic, less like a spell and more like a memory, one that was embedded so deeply into the core of his being that not even a faerie’s curse could banish it. For the first time in Adam’s decade of remembered existence, he wondered why. Not why he couldn’t love, but why he knew his inability to love was the problem. Where did that certainty come from? What had happened in Adam’s forgotten life to make him believe he was unworthy of his loved ones? And why was he suddenly convinced that the answer to that question was the same answer to breaking the curse?

Now more than ever he wished he could remember even a little of his life before. There must be something he was missing. Why else would the faerie queen go to such great lengths to wipe their pasts clean? There was no way to know without breaking the curse fist. 

Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? There was someone who could remember, someone whose magic was powering the very curse trapping him. If Adam couldn’t get the memories he needed from himself, maybe he could get them from Gaston. 

The thought spurned his mind into action. There could be something the man was missing, some clue in his memories that only Adam could find because only Adam knew himself well enough. 

He spent the rest of the day in bed recovering his strength and ironing out the idea—and what he would say to Gaston—in his mind. By nightfall he could stand without swaying and even shuffle across the room unaided. By morning his plan was ready to be shared. 

“Good morning,” Adam said cheerfully when he opened his door to find Gaston already half on his feet for the second time in the last eight hours. He’d slept outside of his door again. As promised. 

Now the man blinked blearily down at him. “You’re in a good mood.”

Adam smiled ironically. “Not at all. I need you to talk to the Flower Folk for me.” 

He outlined his idea to Gaston as they walked the grounds. The man listened mostly in silence, occasionally nodding or pursing his lips in concern. When he finally finished, they were standing back outside of the door to the west wing.

“It’s a good idea,” Gaston said first, and Adam tried not to appear too affected by his approval. “If the Flower Folk can be persuaded to let us borrow their mirror, I think it would be worth trying. But I’ll admit I don’t like it very much.” 

Adam deflated at that. “What? Why?” 

Gaston dragged a hand through his dark hair and looked towards the tower steps, as if contemplating an escape. “Maybe we should talk to Belle first.” 

“Why don’t you like the idea?” Adam pressed. “Are you worried about dealing with the faeries again?” Gaston  couldn’t just say something like that and then leave him in suspense. 

“No,” the other man sighed, “I think I can reason with them. Or threaten them, anyway. But there’s no guarantee the mirror will work for me the way it did LeFou.” 

“You have faerie magic,” Adam argued stubbornly. “Why wouldn’t it work the same for you?” 

“I’m not saying I won’t try it,” Gaston reassured him.

Adam frowned impatiently. “But you said you don’t like it. Why?”

Gaston considered him for a long moment before apparently admitting defeat. “The mirror reflects more than just images, chaton. You will hear and feel through my memories as well.” 

“And that’s a bad thing?” Adam was still unable to see the problem. 

“Not bad, generally speaking,” he corrected. “But I don’t like it, and I don’t think you will, either.”

“How do you know that?”

Gaston rubbed his chin and sighed again. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

Chapter 31: Gaston

Just when Gaston thought Adam couldn’t possibly torture him any more than he already had, the man found a method even more excruciating than the last. Apparently it wasn’t enough that he’d asked him to cut his hair, tie him to his bed, or sleep in his arms. He wanted his memories, too. 

The fact Gaston was still willing to go along with him was proof that there were very few miseries he wouldn’t suffer in exchange for that spark of hope in Adam’s eyes. He’d had reason to fear he would never see it again. If a window into his private hell was all it cost him, Gaston would pay it. 

It was only now that they were both sitting together in the grassy center of the ring of roses with the mirror lying face-up on the ground in front of them that he realized just how high of a price this would be. Adam sat cross-legged with one of his knees pressed into Gaston’s thigh (to minimize the risk of shifting back unintentionally). That small amount of contact was more distracting now than it had ever been in the castle. Adam was brighter here, somehow, and it made Gaston feel like a moth drawn to a flame. It was more than the afternoon sun warming his skin and eyes and coloring his curls red-gold. Adam was sitting in a circle of magic, and he looked positively radiant. 

Of course he did. Gaston’s physical attraction to him couldn’t be punishment enough. He had to be magically attracted to him, too. 

 “We only have two hours,” Adam reminded him quietly, dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts. 

The flower faeries had grudgingly granted them two hours with the mirror, and that was only after Gaston promised to weed and trim back the worst of the overgrowth. Apparently faeries weren’t keen on gardening, despite being part-plant themselves. Even after Gaston offered to give them an item of his own in ransom, they refused to let him take it out of the flower circle. 

Gaston didn’t trust the faeries, and he definitely didn’t like the thick, heady scent that lingered in the air. The magic seemed to coat the back of his throat and rouse the thing in his chest from its slumber. Adam himself was oblivious to it all; the magic, Gaston’s inner turmoil, the memories he was about to witness. Gaston couldn’t let him go into this unprepared. He deserved a warning. A way out. Something.

“Before we start,” he said at last, “you need to understand that my seventeen year old self was infatuated with you.”

Adam shrugged. Avoided his eyes. “So you’ve said.” 

He tried again. “And you’ll be able to feel my remembered feelings through the mirror.” 

“So you’ve also said.”

“I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position,” Gaston tried one last time. 

“My discomfort isn’t as important as breaking this curse,” Adam replied gravely before nudging the mirror in his direction. 

Well, at least Gaston could say he’d tried. Truly, he doubted he could formulate an explanation adequate enough to make the man understand, even if he wasted the entirety of their two hours trying. There was a reason the memories of Adam were so difficult to ignore, why, at first, he’d avoided them at all cost, and why he’d been so convinced they were a product of magic. The intensity of emotion attached to them was difficult for even Gaston to comprehend, and he was the one experiencing them. Whatever Adam was imagining he was about to witness from the mirror, Gaston could guarantee that it was nothing compared to the truth. 

Gaston regarded the mirror unhappily as he removed his gloves, his mind racing for some last-minute excuse, some answer that could deliver him from the almost certain torture he was about to endure. But just because the cost of restoring the other man’s hope was steeper than he’d anticipated didn’t mean he still wouldn’t pay it.

He placed both of his newly-bare hands on the frame the same way LeFou had in his cottage. His reflection in the mirror wore a halo of painted flowers and an expression that was far more composed than it should be. Gaston had always been terribly calm in moments of crisis. Was that because of his death magic? Was everything he knew about himself just an amalgamation of magic and trauma?

He forced those questions aside—he was feeling miserable enough already—and took a few steadying breaths. Sometime after he entered the faerie circle a dull ringing had started in his ears. Now it heightened in volume and a sticky, herbal taste flooded his mouth. There was too much magic in these goddamned bushes. The sooner he got this torture over with, the better.

“Show me what I remember,” Gaston commanded like a man reading his own guilty verdict.

 He handed the mirror back to Adam and sent up a silent prayer that it wouldn’t work. Except the prayer was half-hearted at best. While a significant part of him didn’t want Adam to know the true nature of these memories, a larger part of him thought maybe he was right. Belle had been telling him to look for clues in his memories, and so far he’d been unsuccessful. Viewing them all for a second time in the mirror with Adam there as an objective observer might give them the answers they needed. 

The reflective glass rippled just as it had in the cottage, and Gaston heard Adam’s small gasp of amazement. He watched him lean forward, suddenly eager, and tuck his hair behind his ears to prevent it from obstructing his view. Adam stared into the surface with no small amount of wonder as the first image sharpened into focus. Gaston, on the other hand, only glanced at the mirror long enough to brace himself for whatever memory was returning to haunt him. 

It was one he’d encountered weeks ago; the first time he spotted Adam exiting the aviary. Unfortunately he could not glance away from the corresponding feelings that rolled over him one after another like punches to the stomach. First genuine surprise, then hopeful excitement, and finally nervous uncertainty. He knew Adam felt them, too, when his eyes widened and he briefly glanced up at him in astonishment before promptly returning them to the mirror. He studied it with the kind of rapt attention he usually reserved for his books. 

Gaston watched the surface darken and another memory rise, this one a view of Adam sitting at the royal family’s table from afar. They were in a much cleaner, more polished version of the dining hall. Gaston could hear voices through the mirror, but clearly his younger self hadn’t been paying attention to what was being said. The view hadn’t shifted from the royal table even once, and the degree of lovesickness emanating from the mirror was enough to make him seriously consider leaving the circle. 

He couldn’t run from this. Adam needed him to maintain his human form, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave him in a faerie circle alone. Gaston might not know as much about himself as he once imagined, but a coward, at least, he was certain he’d never been. Especially not in matters of the heart. He settled into his discomfort and watched the memories march across the surface of the mirror with grim determination. 

The memories began as brief images and flashes of emotions that steadily increased in length and detail. The mirror replayed them chronologically rather than in the order Gaston first encountered them, and he discovered viewing them in their original order of occurrence revealed more than he remembered. The disconnected and seemingly random pieces of the story suddenly fit logically together, the puzzle of his past finally solved.

Memories he’d mostly ignored the first time around appeared far more consequential in context; he and Adam training Fable for the first time, sneaking out of the castle to stargaze in the courtyard, locking eyes across rooms and seizing every excuse to speak to each other. The progression from innocent excitement to something more was, therefore, inevitable. But Gaston was still surprised by how greatly he’d underestimated the number of kissing memories he’d encountered. 

They were sweet enough at first; a chaste kiss in front of the fountain, down one of the more concealed library shelves, between empty stable doors. But they didn’t stay undemanding for long. Through his much younger eyes, Gaston saw Adam lying in the grass and felt the sharp longing when he leaned down to kiss his dimples one-by-one before taking a long, slow drought from his lips. He saw Adam dart across the aviary, laughing, saw a familiar arm hook around his waist and snatch Fable’s toy from his hands, only to abruptly decide there was something he wanted more and press the prince of France to the cage walls instead. He saw Adam lounging alone in one of the library chairs with his book forgotten on the floor and his long-fingered hands knotted in the front of his tunic. He felt him drag him down until his lips collided with his own, felt the almost unbearable longing grip him when he lowered himself onto his knees between the prince’s splayed legs. His hands, unmarked from war, slid up his thighs and he felt the wild satisfaction when Adam sighed his name into his mouth in response.

Knowing how the memories ended, without a single button undone or tie loosened, was the only reason Gaston was able to bear it. He turned his attention to Adam--the current Adam--and saw a brilliant flush had crept into the other man’s cheeks, marring the mask of careful scrutiny he’d worn at the start. Adam gnawed on the inside of his lower lip, looked quickly away only to look right back, tightened his grip around the frame. 

Suddenly the memories were far less interesting to watch than they’d been before. Gaston might’ve spent the rest of the time admiring the vision of Adam that he could see in current time instead of the one from the past had he not heard his younger self say, “what makes you think I could suspend any desire of yours?” The corresponding feelings of devotion hit him so acutely that they reverberated through his chest and sent the ringing in his ears into a crescendo. Those words took on a whole new meaning now that he knew what he was, now that he knew his teenage self knew what he was, now that he knew he would return to his room afterward only for LeFou to lecture him about how he was putting Adam in danger. 

The mirror shifted to the dance, Adam in his gold coat smiling over his cousin’s shoulder, Adam scowling in Gaston’s arms later as he complained about how his feet hurt from dancing, Gaston sneaking him out into the courtyard and into a darkened alcove. He pressed his lips to the exposed skin along the prince’s collar, lingering agonizingly at the base of his throat while Adam whispered how much he loved him with an earnestness that defied every fear current-Adam had ever had about his heart. 

Viewing the memories like this, Gaston thought he understood why his younger self hadn’t considered the possibility that Adam didn’t love him in return. There wasn’t a single moment in Gaston’s memory where Adam appeared uncertain, or unhappy, or unable to reciprocate. If there ever had been a moment of hesitancy in their relationship, Gaston hadn’t encountered a memory of it yet. It wasn’t only the kisses and the smiles and the flirtatious banter, either; it was the emotion that came with them, a degree of care he didn’t think he’d experienced for anyone since. 

The memories ended with the faerie queen’s promise and with Gaston holding the rose and praying to whoever would listen that Adam would take the flower. Finally the mirror went black before returning to its still, reflective surface. 

The rose garden grew very, very quiet. Gaston kept his eyes trained on Adam’s face, waiting, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. The man’s cheeks were as red as the petals of the nearest roses and his eyes were fixed to the surface of the mirror, to his own reflection that stared blankly back at him. A breeze caught the hair around his face, tugging it from behind his ears and obscuring his expression. 

Gaston cycled through a number of comments:

I tried to warn you. I knew you wouldn’t like it. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable.

Instead he said, more gruffly than he’d intended given the lump that was still in his throat, “I think we should return the mirror now. We don’t want to get in any more trouble with faeries.” 

Adam didn’t respond. Finally Gaston leaned over to take it from his hands, but paused when he noticed the sudden tension in the other man’s shoulders, the anticipatory flutter of his lashes, and the shaky exhale of his breath. The magic in Gaston’s body reacted to their proximity before he himself recognized it. It pulsed insistently through his veins, enticing him to move even closer than he already was. 

But Gaston knew no amount of closeness was going to satisfy his magic, because it didn’t want to be close to Adam. It wanted to be permanently embedded under his skin, and since that wasn’t possible, it wanted the next best thing. 

“Adam,” Gaston said hoarsely, his voice barely audible above the ringing in his ears. “Please look at me. Or say something.” 

Adam swallowed thickly and took a few uneven breaths. “I did love you,” he whispered. The volume wasn’t enough to disguise the unsteadiness behind his words.

Gaston studied the angle of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the curls that fell along his cheekbones. His answer wasn’t any steadier than his. “Watching those memories in order like that, I believe you did, too.”

“Then why couldn’t I take it? The rose.” Adam was still looking down at the mirror, and too late Gaston realized he was close enough to be reflected in it as well.

“I don’t know,” Gaston replied and held his gaze in the glass. “Maybe she lied. Maybe she never offered it to you.”

“Faeries work in contracts,” Adam replied with a shake of his head. “I know that much from dealing with the Flower Folk over the last ten years. Taking someone’s magic, even if they offered it willingly, must’ve required a very powerful one.” 

Gaston only nodded. He didn’t know nearly as much about magic as Adam or Belle did, despite being the only one of the three of them who had any of it. “Well, whatever the answer is, I think our time with the mirror is up.” 

Adam seemed reluctant to give it up. His eyes lingering on the painted flowers as if committing them to memory. 

“I’ll make you another one,” Gaston promised. He would paint the entire castle in flowers if it would please him. 

Finally Adam nodded and moved to hand him the frame, but abruptly drew back with a startled cry of pain. Gaston immediately dropped the mirror into the grass in alarm. Adam clutched his hand to his chest, his knuckles white from how tightly he was squeezing it. 

“You’re hurt.” Gaston reached to inspect his injured hand and Adam allowed him to take it. A jagged edge of the mirror had dragged across his palm, and blood oozed from a sizable gash that collected into tiny rivulets and followed the creases of Adam’s hand down his wrist. 

“It’s not that bad,” Adam said rather faintly. 

Gaston ignored his reassurance and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. He folded it over and began tying it around Adam’s hand. “It will feel a little tight,” he warned gruffly. “It has to be in order to stop the bleeding.” 

The magic thrummed in Gaston’s chest as he worked, agitated, no doubt, by Adam’s expressions of pain and the metallic scent of his blood. His ears abruptly stopped ringing when he pulled the knot tight. “There. That will work until we get you some proper medical supplies. We should head back—”

But Adam was already pulling the knot undone. 

“It has to be tight,” Gaston protested. He leaned forward and tried to block him from untying the makeshift bandage, but Adam was quicker. He twisted out of his reach and the handkerchief came loose, falling into the grass along with the mirror. 

Adam lifted his injured hand in front of his face. “It’s healed,” he breathed and looked up in disbelief. 

Gaston had reached around to prevent him from removing the bandage, and now he was even closer than he’d been before, close enough to feel the breath from Adam’s words against his chin. Gaston took Adam’s hand again and turned it over, ignoring the magic singing triumphantly in his ears. 

He was right. The cut was gone. A thin pink line and a trail of dried blood were the only evidence that it’d ever existed.

“Can your magic heal people?” Adam asked weakly.

Gaston gripped his miraculously healed hand more tightly when he answered. “Not people. But for you, I think it would do a hell of a lot more than that.” 

But before he could properly reflect on the implications of his magic’s healing abilities or the flush that had returned to Adam’s cheeks, a voice sounded from somewhere inside the circle of thorns.

“Selfish. Your father and I have both discussed it, and we agree you made the whole royal family—the whole country—look foolish. Your brother behaved better when he was your age!”

Startled, Gaston whipped around, searching for the source of the voices. There was no one there. Only him, Adam, and the mirror. The mirror. 

The mirror that had returned to life. 

“I’ll be better,” the child sobbed. “Mommy, I promise I’ll be better.”

Gaston gingerly lifted the frame and looked into the surface, noting the blood from Adam’s cut smeared across the glass. He didn’t see a child there, either, only the skirts of two very tall people. The emotion hit him like a fist to the stomach. Unimaginable fear and grief; so potent it stole all lingering heat from his body and brought the unexpected sting of tears to his eyes. 

“Don’t hit him this time,” the same woman sighed before walking towards an equally oversized door. 

The child shrieked and the mirror-view tried to run after her, but not before he was dragged painfully back by one of his arms. 

“You heard your mother. You won’t get hit. Now calm down, dearie. If you don’t, she might change her mind.” 

Gaston and Adam looked up at each other at the same time. They both recognized the second woman’s voice.

“Whose memory was that?” Gaston asked slowly.

Adam’s cheeks were steadily draining in color. “I think it was mine.” 

Chapter 32: Adam

When Adam first saw the serpentine vines slinking through the grass towards them, he was too shocked to warn Gaston in time. Truly he’d been suspended in some degree of shock for the better part of the afternoon, shocked by the vibrant version of himself he saw in Gaston’s memories, by the extent of the other man’s adoration, by his hand that he’d miraculously healed, and now this. Snake vines. 

“That was Mrs. Potts,” Gaston muttered and scowled down at the mirror in his lap, heedless of the vines’ approach until they curled around the frame and pulled it sharply from his grasp. He swore in surprise and anger as the vines dragged the mirror towards the nearest bushes, but beyond a few foul words and an initial swipe, he made no other attempt to prevent the faeries from taking the mirror back. Their deal had been for two hours and two hours only. They both knew their time had run out. 

And perhaps Adam would’ve been able to let it go, would’ve held up his end of the bargain without a fuss, if he didn’t see the surface of the mirror ripple just before it was swallowed by thorns. 

There were more memories.

There were more memories.

Adam didn’t remember deciding to stand. He didn’t remember deciding to pitch himself forward into the brambles. He transformed into the beast the moment he left Gaston’s side, and for once he was grateful for it. The beast had a better chance of recovering the mirror than Adam did. The monster in him had claws to cut through vines and fur to shield against thorns. The beast felt less pain, less weakness, less fear. It was destruction, yes, but it was also protection, the kind a person achieved only if they destroyed themselves first.

But Adam-as-the-beast wasn’t considering the cost of his transformation as he dug the mirror out of the bushes. His mind was wholly consumed with seeing the next memory playing across its surface. He wanted the kinds of memories Gaston had shown him; moments of laughter and love from a past he longed for. Hearing himself as a crying child, feeling a child’s grief and fear, wasn’t enough. He wanted more, needed more, and only the monster in him could get them. 

Rose bushes, even enchanted ones, posed very little challenge to the beast. Its claws were too sharp and its fur was too thick. It dug through the overgrowth until Adam could see the brightly painted flowers of the frame through the leaves. He was so close. So heartbreakingly close. If only Gaston hadn’t climbed into the thorns after him. 

The moment the other man’s hand touched him, Adam was human again. Thin-skinned, thinly-muscled, and clawless. Thorns that had only grazed him before were suddenly sharp enough to draw blood. Still he kept digging, even when his human nails bled, even when tears of pain spilled down his cheeks. 

“Enough, Adam! We made a deal.” But Gaston’s voice was small and insignificant compared to the clamoring demands of his heart. 

He couldn’t lose his memories again. He couldn’t.

Gaston must’ve realized Adam was beyond reason, because he stopped shouting commands and simply hauled him bodily out of the thicket. Adam tried in vain to wrench himself from his grasp by kicking, shoving, and even scratching, but Gaston was much stronger than he was. The hands that restrained him were iron shackles. Or, more accurately, they were iron anchors, but even anchors could be a prison to a boat that didn’t want to be moored. 

After several minutes of fruitless wrestling in the grass, Gaston finally stood and lifted Adam clean off his feet. He threw him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing, as if he’d only been able to resist as much as he had because the other man had allowed him to. With Adam dangling harmlessly off of his back, Gaston marched them both out of the roses and across the courtyard. Adam still fought his hold on him as the rose bushes shrank into the distance, pounding desperate fists against the other man’s shoulders and making every plea he could imagine. 

It was no use. Gaston didn’t put him down. He didn’t even seem to notice. When he kicked open the castle doors and started up the grand staircase, Adam appealed to his friends for help instead. Lumiere, Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts. Even Belle. But they stood back and gaped at the sight of them both, at Adam’s bloodied hands and wild, leaf-tangled hair, at Gaston’s grim expression and the solemn shake of his head. His pleas fell on deaf ears. 

Gaston was half-way up the spiral staircase that led to the west wing when Adam finally admitted defeat. He dangled listlessly from the man’s shoulder, his temples throbbing from being held mostly upside-down and his throat raw from crying. He didn’t have the strength to even lift his head, instead watching his tears slip from his cheeks and strike the stone steps below as harmlessly as his fists had struck the man who held him.

They reached the top of the staircase and Gaston opened the door to the west wing, strode purposefully across the room, and dumped Adam unceremoniously onto his bed. The blood that had been pooling in Adam’s head rushed past his ears and he blinked blearily up at Gaston through swollen, tear-blurred eyes. He reached for him automatically and noticed the violent tremor of his hands as he did so. 

However pathetic he knew he must look, he must’ve looked ten times worse, because Gaston immediately sat down on the bed and gathered him into his arms. Adam suffered the other man to dry his face and wipe his nose with gentle hands before tucking him in close, running soothing fingers through his hair and picking out leaves one-by-one. “Tu es en sécurité avec moi,” he repeated so many times that Adam eventually lost count. 

When he was calm enough to stop shaking, Gaston inspected his cuts and moved to retrieve the water basin and soap from his desk. Together they cleaned off the worst of the blood. The soap stung worse than the thorns, and Adam considered asking Gaston to heal him like he had earlier, but he couldn’t force the words past the despair that had inflated in the space desperation used to be.

Once Adam was clean and no longer bleeding, Gaston leaned back and peered worriedly into his face. “I’m sorry, chaton. I didn’t want to drag you out, but our time was up and it was clear you weren’t going to leave on your own.”

“There were more memories,” Adam managed to choke. “In the mirror. There were more.” 

“I know,” he agreed, and there was real sorrow in his eyes. “But we had to uphold our end of the deal.” 

“You’re a faekiller. You don’t have to do anything they ask. If you ever truly cared for me—” 

“I would’ve killed them for you?” Gaston’s tone was uncharacteristically flat. “I believe that is the only way they would give it up. Now that you aren’t there to watch me do it, perhaps I should.” He looked down at the scratches on Adam’s arms, hundreds of angry red marks that were the most concentrated on his hands but extended all the way up to his biceps, shredding him even through his tunic. 

“They hurt you,” Gaston continued more softly, but it wasn’t soft enough to disguise the flame of power that licked his words. It made them sound like magic. Like a spell. An odd pulse vibrated the air and Gaston abruptly rose from the bed to his feet. Adam blinked in surprise by the sudden shift in his demeanor. His eyes lowered from Gaston’s face to his clenched fists and it finally dawned on him what the man was about to do—what he’d asked him to do.

He’d asked Gaston to kill for him. And beyond the moral or ethical question behind such a request, did he know what would happen if he did? Would the queen notice if her faeries sentries were dead, the ones she’d assigned to report to her when the last petal fell? Would she come to see the rose’s progress for herself? What would happen if she discovered Gaston was at the castle trying to break his curse? She couldn’t hurt him, but she could hurt the others. She already had. 

Adam wanted his memories, but he wanted his friends’ safety more. 

“No,” he rasped despite the near-overwhelming grief the command brought him. “You will not kill them.” 

Gaston turned and regarded him expressionlessly from the center of the room. Adam had transformed back into the beast the moment the other man stood from his bed. Now Gaston leaned down and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was ungloved. He must’ve left them in the faerie circle.

“You will not kill them,” Adam repeated as Gaston searched his now-human face even more closely than he had before. “You were right to pull me away. You were right to let the mirror go. If you kill those faeries now, the queen may come, and we aren’t ready. She could hurt the others even more than she already has.” He swallowed. Hard. “My memories aren’t as important as our lives.” 

“They are important,” Gaston argued with a shake of his head. “I can see how important they are to you. I want you to have them. It isn’t fair I’ve been remembering mine—” 

“I will remember them once we break this curse,” Adam interrupted. “And that won’t require you to kill any faeries but one.”

Even though he knew it was the right decision, the lost opportunity to discover more about his past, about himself, stirred that all-too-familiar ache in his chest. But Gaston had already killed enough in service to the crown. Despite how badly Adam wanted those memories, he didn’t want Gaston to kill anyone. Ever. He especially didn’t want him to kill under his orders.

Gaston shook his head again in response, but this time it was less like disagreement and more like a horse might shake off a fly. “When I saw you were hurt, I almost murdered them all right there in front of you,” he admitted.

Adam had no idea what to say to this. He imagined standing powerlessly aside while Gaston used his magic to kill the Flower Folk. What would that even look like? Lighting the bushes up in magic-fueled flames? Snapping their necks with some carefully-spoken spell? Would Adam recognize the man as he did it? Would he still be the Gaston who dried his tears and helped him breathe through his panic and kissed him like ten years hadn’t been too long to wait, or would he turn into one of them; a cruel, bloodthirsty faerie with unimaginable power who would murder anyone who threatened him or his friends? 

“The magic in me is getting more difficult to control,” Gaston continued unhappily at Adam’s silence. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had much control over it. LeFou says it’s been leaking out of me for over a decade—whatever the hell that means. But it feels stronger now.”

“Do you think your magic would’ve forced you to kill them?” 

It was a horrifying thought. Then again, Gaston had faerie magic, and while Adam didn’t know much, he’d seen how brutal the Flower Folk could be. It would follow that their magic was equally cruel. He thought it was deeply unfair. Magic like that didn’t belong in human form. There was a reason humans weren’t born with it. For a faerie goddess to curse Gaston in such a way. . . Well. Adam knew exactly how it felt to be forced into carrying a power that overrode his own judgement. 

“I don’t know,” Gaston sighed and sat wearily back down on the bed next to him. He reached for his hand, and while Adam thought it was to prevent him from shifting back, it felt more like he was seeking comfort. “But it healed you without my trying. Without my consent.” 

That last word hung in the air less like a spell this time and more like a curse. Adam squeezed his hand and wished he knew what to say to comfort him. How could he reassure a man struggling to control magic he didn’t realize he had before yesterday, magic that shouldn’t be in his blood in the first place? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered at last. 

The question earned a humorless snort from Gaston, and when he spoke, there was a darkness to his tone Adam hadn’t heard since he’d first arrived at the castle. Since he’d seen him truly afraid. “I’m beginning to think we need to do a lot more than talk. I think I should train you to use a knife and ask you to carry it everywhere, just in case my magic decides to try anything. It wants you badly enough, and if it doesn’t need my—or your—consent to act, I’m afraid it might eventually try to force this mating bond without it.”

“Force?” Adam repeated. 

Gaston nodded grimly and refused to meet his eyes. “Yes. I mean it exactly the way it sounds. I asked you last night if there was something stopping us. But that was before my magic healed you without my asking it to. Now I fear what else it might do.”

Adam didn’t know what to say. He knew he should be more concerned about Gaston’s magic coercing him into assault over faerie murder (especially since he was the potential victim in the latter), but the idea of Gaston forcing himself on him was so unbelievable he couldn’t summon any fear. Truly, it was taking all of his self-control not to laugh. He was not going to laugh. Laughter would be deeply inappropriate given the man’s admission and his emotional state. 

It would help if it didn’t sound so ridiculous. Gaston had kissed Adam exactly three times since his arrival at the castle, and he’d blamed himself for unwanted coercion every time, even for the ones Adam said yes to, even for the ones Adam started. At first he’d been surprised. He’d thought a man as experienced as Gaston would be more confident in such matters, but “experience” by definition encompassed both the positive and negative. For every amorous encounter Gaston had enjoyed over the years, there must’ve been at least a few that he hadn’t, and while Adam didn’t know what those encounters were, the other man’s overprotectiveness around consent gave him a pretty good idea. 

Gaston’s unusual caution was the reason Adam couldn’t take him seriously. He knew, objectively, that Gaston’s magic was separate from Gaston, himself, but he couldn’t imagine he would hurt him in such a way. Which was why, instead of being properly horrified by his admission, Adam again found himself wondering what that kind of magic would look like. Would it bewitch Adam into saying yes when he really meant no--only a problem if he wasn’t very certain he would say yes regardless? Or would his magic turn the man into a mindless zombie who pinned Adam down and forced himself on him without warning?

Judging by the look on Gaston’s face, the latter wasn’t out of the question. 

“But you’re a faekiller,” Adam pointed out at last. “I’m just a human. Even if you weren’t almost twice my size, I doubt a knife would be enough to protect me from you.” 

He’d thought this was a reasonable response. Logical, even. It made Gaston cover his face with his free hand and hunch his shoulders as if he was trying to curl into himself, as if a man his size could ever appear small. 

Adam balked. He’d never seen him like this. Gaston was always so confident in a crisis. To witness him having a crisis was so disorienting that it took him too long to react. But he needed to react, and it needed to be the right reaction. Gaston had been there for him emotionally. It was time to return the favor. 

Pulling himself together, Adam squeezed Gaston’s hand again and scooted closer, resting his head against his upper arm. He said the only thing he could think to say. “We could just do it now. You know, get it over with.” 

He’d tried a humorous approach and immediately regretted it. It’d been a lot funnier in his head. Their roles had switched so dramatically in less than twenty-four hours. Last night he’d been the one despairing, believing his heart wasn’t good enough. Now it was Gaston’s turn.

The other man didn’t appreciate his dry humor on this particular occasion. Without lifting his head from his hand, he made a low, pained noise. 

“If we did, then your magic wouldn’t have any reason to force anything,” Adam rushed to explain. “It would be on our terms. And it would be consensual. So you wouldn’t have to worry.” When Gaston still didn’t respond, Adam backtracked. “Unless that isn’t what you want. You said last night that you still wanted to. . .be tied to me.” Shit, he definitely should’ve started with this issue. How was he messing up this badly? “I understand if you changed your mind,” he continued more lamely. “I don’t expect you to give up your freedom for me.”

“My freedom,” Gaston repeated dully. “My freedom isn’t the problem. When I was removed from your side ten years ago, I wasn’t free. I was lost.” Even though the man’s tone was ice cold, Adam felt much warmer than he had before. 

He hesitated. Spoke. “Then is there a reason we shouldn’t act now? Before your magic gets any stronger?” He wished he’d said it more confidently, but his mouth was dry and his heart was in his throat and he’d never actually propositioned anyone before. That is what I’m doing, isn’t it? Propositioning him? He was almost certainly doing it wrong. But the circumstances weren’t exactly in his favor. Gaston knew how inexperienced he was and had never held it against him before. 

Adam waited in no small amount of suspense anyway. He could’ve sighed in relief when Gaston finally lowered his hand that had been covering his face. He still didn’t look at him when he spoke. “I had a bit of a drinking habit before I arrived here. If I’d made plans with another man for later that night, I would stop drinking at least an hour beforehand. When LeFou came with me to the taverns, he would count my drinks for me. I liked to pretend it was because he didn’t think I could hold my liquor.” He shook his head with sorrowful fondness at this description. 

Adam remembered finding Gaston drunk in the cellars, the bottles strewn across the table, how he’d barely been able to stand up straight, and thought his friend’s forbearance was probably wise. But what did his drinking have to do with bonding magic? 

Gaston was watching him expectantly, waiting for his response, and once again Adam had no idea what to say. “That was kind of your friend to look after you,” he ventured with uncertainty. 

“Alcohol impairs decision-making, Adam,” Gaston explained patiently. “I will not take someone to bed if there’s a chance I will be too drunk to know to stop when asked.” 

Ah. Hm. He’d never considered the consequences of adding alcohol to sex. He supposed if Gaston was drunk enough, he could be more easily coerced into a bed he didn’t want to be in regardless of his size, and for someone as slight-of-build as Adam himself. . . Yes, that would certainly be a problem. 

It was also clear why Gaston had brought it up.

“You think the magic will be like drinking,” Adam said slowly. “You’re afraid even if we consent in the beginning, you won’t be able to stop later if I ask you to.” 

Gaston nodded, evidently relieved he’d grasped his meaning, though there appeared to be no joy in it. “Yes. Exactly, yes.” 

Adam shrugged. “Then I promise I won’t want you to stop.” 

It was Gaston’s turn to stare blankly at him. 

“I know I won’t want you to stop.” Adam hadn’t realized how provocative it sounded until he said it a second time. He cleared his throat awkwardly before adding, “so you don’t have to worry.” 

But apparently Gaston was struck speechless, and it made Adam wonder whether his answer was really that unexpected. Then again, he had told him no last night—but that had only been because he’d believed he was incapable of love. He hadn’t wanted Gaston to be permanently tied to someone who couldn’t return his feelings. Now that he’d seen himself through Gaston’s memories, he knew the truth: whatever was preventing him from accepting the rose, it had nothing to do with his love for Gaston. 

From that perspective, it made sense why Gaston was surprised. He wished things between them weren’t so complicated. But Adam had never been granted a reprieve from his mistakes before. The universe wasn’t giving him one now just because it was in the shape of a very attractive man with biceps thicker around than his thighs. 

At least Gaston didn’t disapprove of his answer. Even in his stunned silence, he looked uniquely enchanted by Adam’s awkward stammering and scalding cheeks. Some brighter emotion had crept back into his eyes and Adam swore he could see a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

Adam just wished he would say something. Anything. When he finally couldn’t take the silence a second longer, he opened his mouth to speak, only for Gaston to abruptly cup his face in his hands. He brushed his hair back from his eyes and Adam forgot everything he’d planned to say. 

“Mon cœur,” Gaston murmured, tilting his chin up towards his own and forcing him to look into his halo-rimmed eyes. “Order me not to stop and I would continue like your expressions of pleasure were the only measure of time left in the world.” 

“Oh,” Adam said rather more breathlessly than he intended, but he was now certain Gaston’s inhales could pull air from his own lungs. The closer he was in proximity, the less Adam could breathe. As for speaking, well. . . speaking was entirely out of the question. How else was Adam supposed to respond to a promise like that, anyway? Beyond climbing into the man’s lap. He could climb into his lap. They were sitting on his bed, and there was no one else in the room, and one of Gaston’s hands was sliding back into his hair. Adam was just calculating the mechanics of such a move—straddling seemed like the best option—when Gaston leaned in further so that his next words brushed his already-parted lips. 

“But when you give me that order, I want it to be because you know I could stop, not because you know I couldn’t.” 

Adam nodded. Truthfully he was no longer paying attention to the conversation. He just wanted the man to kiss him. Please. Please kiss me. 

Except he may have spoken that wish aloud, because Gaston hummed and quirked a satisfied little smile that would’ve enticed a man far more guarded than Adam was now. He leaned in closer and Adam automatically lifted his hands to knot into the front of his tunic, preparing to hold on through whatever happened next. 

The man’s kiss was devout instead of devouring, so much so that Adam thought he could taste the same scintillating adoration on his lips that he’d felt from his memories. In that moment he didn’t need a mirror to tell him how his teenage self had felt. The memory of it was there, in the warm coaxing of Gaston’s mouth against his, in the imploring pressure of his hands that drew him ever closer, in the pleased sigh as Adam relinquished his grip on his tunic and pulled his arms around his neck instead. 

What had Adam done to deserve to be kissed like this? He’d spent the last ten years as a monster condemned to haunt a forgotten castle with no memory of who or what he was, and Gaston kissed him like he was the same boy from his memory. Adam knew he wasn’t that boy anymore, the young man who had the confidence to sneak past guards and duck into alcoves and drag Gaston to his knees. 

Adam couldn’t even ask the man to kiss him a little longer. 

Gaston pressed a final kiss to his brow before leaning back. Adam immediately ducked his head in an effort to conceal his expression, worried what it might reveal what he himself didn’t yet understand. 

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Gaston said then, misunderstanding the reason behind Adam’s disappointment. “I know I haven’t. But the truth is I’m in way over my head here. I’ve never been a man of great restraint, and this is. . . not usually how I do things.” There was a bitterly ironic tinge to those words. 

Adam only nodded, unsure of what else to say. 

Gaston merely sighed and continued more quietly. “But I do know I’m not willing to take risks with you. I know what it’s like to consent to sleeping with men initially and performing acts I wasn’t ready for or didn’t enjoy because I felt obligated to—because I’d already given them the initial yes. I won’t do the same to you. I have to know I can stop. If I’m hurting you or you aren’t enjoying something we’re doing, I have to know I can stop.”

Adam bit back his automatic reply. How will you know you can’t unless we try? They couldn’t know how big of a threat the magic in Gaston truly was unless they tested it. Surely there were things they could do that would be safe. But Adam only had a vague idea of what those things were, and he didn’t want to push him into something he wasn’t comfortable with. 

“Your magic will still be there,” Adam whispered instead. 

“Hm?” Gaston asked distractedly while fixing his mussed curls.

“When we break this curse. I won’t be a beast anymore, and the queen will be dead, but your magic will still be there. It will still want to seal this bond.” 

Gaston dropped his hand, and Adam caught the flash of anguish behind his eyes before he masked it. This was torturing him, too. Well. At least he knew he wasn’t the only one.

“Once I kill the queen, my purpose will be fulfilled, and I will beg my mother to take her magic back. Or at least make it go dormant again.” 

“Your mother. The faerie goddess,” Adam said doubtfully. 

Gaston opened his mouth as if he was about to say something else when there was a knock at the door. “Do one of you care to explain to us what’s going on?” Belle called worriedly from the hallway. “Adam looked hurt.” 

Gaston hesitated a moment before shooting him an apologetic look and standing. He dragged a hand through his hair agitatedly as he crossed the room.

“We’re both fine,” he heard him say once he’d opened the door. “Just had a brush with faeries.”

Gaston’s back was to him, but Adam saw the woman’s brows raise. She looked between Gaston to Adam-as-the-beast still sitting on the bed several times.

 “Please don’t tell me this is some weird bedroom role play you two are acting out, because I really don’t want to know if it is.”

“Belle,” Gaston sighed and dragged a hand down his face. 

“I saw one of my memories in the mirror,” Adam said. It effectively distracted the woman’s attention. 

“That’s impossible. How? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Start from the beginning.”

Gaston muttered something about needing to use the privy before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

“Ignore him,” Belle said brusquely. “All he does is brood these days. Tell me what you saw. I want all the details.”

Adam took one last look at the closed door before turning away. “It’s a long story. You might want to take a seat.”

Chapter 33: Gaston

“In over his head,” had to be the biggest goddamned understatement of Gaston’s life, and he’d underestimated himself plenty over the last twenty eight years. He’d been “in over his head” two months ago when he first stepped foot into this godforsaken castle and discovered the place was enchanted down to the teacups. He’d been “in over his head” when he realized the monster who ruled over said enchanted castle needed his touch to turn human again--like Gaston was some magical tamer of wild beasts in the worst circus imaginable. He’d been “in over his head” when he was barraged by visions of kissing the Prince of France at all hours of the day until he finally gave in and tried it himself, just to see if it would fix anything, just to see if it would alleviate his torment. Gaston was no longer “in over his head,” he was in so deep he couldn’t remember when he last saw the surface.  

“If this isn’t hell,” he muttered while sitting fully clothed on the wooden seat of the privy waiting for the magic under his skin to stop burning him alive, “I don’t know what is.” Gaston had never been a man of any particular virtue, but at least he’d been honest about it, and that was better than most. Surely that had to count for something in the eyes of heaven.

The pain wasn’t what was so torturous. Gaston wished it was only pain. He was accustomed to it. Expected it, even. There was no scenario in which he could sit on Adam’s bed, listen to him stammer through a proposition, and then kiss him like it might be their last, and not be in some form of discomfort afterward. 

The problem wasn’t the pain. The problem was that the magic was whispering in his ear like the fucking devil himself. Not with words, of course, (according to his father the devil rarely relied on words either) but the message was clear regardless. 

It will be unlike anything you’ve felt before. Whatever pleasure you’ve experienced in the beds of others, you will feel it here tenfold. 

The magic hadn’t prickled impatiently beneath his skin when he kissed Adam in the west wing, it’d seared him with a degree of gratification so intense that it eclipsed every pain he’d felt from it before. The magic was treating him like a dog being rewarded for his obedience, and the promise of more was waiting for him just one step further. 

When his father had first warned against the “sin” of kissing boys at eight years old, this was the degree of temptation his child-self had imagined. Now, still locked in the privy and knowing no fantasy would be enough to relieve the magic in his blood, Gaston felt hopelessness sting the corners of his eyes. His life had never been fair, but this was something else. This was cruel.

“I promise I won’t want you to stop.”

They were words Gaston had heard whispered in his ear in dark corners of taverns or hissed through clenched teeth between sweat-dampened sheets. He’d never heard them spoken with such sweet earnestness. Adam was so confident in his promise, not because he didn’t realize pain and discomfort was possible, but because he trusted Gaston to never put him in such a position. He’d made it without hesitation. Without question. And God help him, Gaston would sooner drown at the bottom of this ocean than lose that trust. 

He considered all of this as he sat in the privy with watering eyes and arms around himself like he’d eaten spoiled eggs and had just finished shitting himself into the next century. Gaston didn’t trust his magic. With someone else, someone with more experience, someone better able to defend himself, maybe he would risk it. But not Adam. Never Adam. 

“Gaston?” A soft tap on the door. “It’s just me,” Belle said tentatively. “I know you’re not using the toilet.”

He cleared his throat. “How do you know that?”

A pause. Then, “because if you were on the toilet for an hour, I would be able to smell it from here.”

Clever, Belle. Too clever. Gaston blinked hard and took a few steadying breaths. When he felt more composed, he stood and opened the privy door. 

“You look like hell,” Belle said with raised brows.

“Do I?” he asked ironically. “It’s all yours,” he added and stepped out into the hallway. 

She shook her head. “I’m here because Adam said you might need to talk to someone. Someone who wasn’t him.”

Gaston dragged a hand down his face. Of course he did. It was just the sort of thoughtful thing Adam would do. 

“But really I’m here because I want to know what’s actually going on. Adam’s version of what happened to you both today isn’t adding up. Whatever you’re hiding from him, you can’t hide it from me.”  

Gaston sighed. He really needed to pick friends less intelligent than himself next time. As if there would be a next time, as if he was ever going to go back to wandering the countryside after this was over. 

He didn’t want to tell Belle the truth, but even he wasn’t stubborn enough to deny that he could use an ally, if only to have someone tell him he deserved what he was getting. More significantly, Belle lived on the outskirts of the enchanted woods. Her village knew more about the Folk than most, on account of having frequent encounters with them, and it was likely that she might know something he didn’t. Perhaps there was something he was missing, something that would rescue him from this slow descent into madness. Even if there wasn’t, it would be nice to not have to suffer alone. 

“Alright,” he grumbled, “but we have to talk in here where there’s no furniture. I’m reasonably certain by now that the toilet seat isn’t sentient, though I suppose I haven’t actually checked.”

For the next half-hour, Belle sat and listened silently while Gaston told her everything; the pattern he noticed to his memories (he was certain now that past Adam had loved him), the reaction the man had to them, the cut Gaston had miraculously healed, and Adam’s memory that had played after it. 

“The memory was awful, Belle. He was a child, barely walking age, and the terror I felt through that mirror. . .” Gaston shook his head. “Before my father caught me kissing boys and turned on me, I was never afraid of him. I don’t think I was ever that sad as a little kid, either.”

Belle only frowned worriedly at this revelation, but Gaston could see her mind turning the information over. It felt good to tell her, even better than he thought, and he was further convinced it’d been the right decision. Thus encouraged, he waded into his own, personal torment more determinedly. He told her how he had to drag Adam out after their time with the mirror was up, their discussion about consent, and how Gaston was certain he was one more kiss away from his magic overpowering his self-control.

“You know I’ve never had much restraint when it comes to men, but this is serious, Belle,” Gaston continued more hoarsely. “My magic wants Adam one way and one way only, and I’m convinced it will do anything—anything—to get it. It won’t let us go at our own pace. It won’t listen to what he enjoys. It won’t start where he wants to start or stop when he wants to stop. I haven’t even touched him yet and my magic is demanding I put it up his fucking ass!”

Belle grimaced and Gaston covered his face with his hands. He drew a few steadying breaths before speaking again. “I’m sorry, I know this is more information than you want. I promise I wouldn’t be telling you if I knew what the fuck to do about it. I keep imagining my magic forcing me to keep going even if he isn’t ready, even if he is uncomfortable or in pain or. . .” He swallowed back more panic. “That’s assault, Belle, and if I hurt Adam the way men have hurt me in the past. . .”

 Belle abruptly stood from the toilet seat and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She had to stand on her tip-toes to do it. “That won’t happen,” she said softly.

“I’m afraid it will if I let this go too far,” he argued, and his voice broke at the end from what sounded an awful lot like a sob. But it couldn’t be. Gaston never sobbed—not since he’d returned from the wars eight years ago. He didn’t think he’d even cried. 

But the moment he hugged the woman back, it was as if all of the tears that had been building up behind his eyes released like a storm that had been brewing for much too long. “I would leave,” he whispered through his tears, “take you and go back to the village. Find someone else to help these people—LeFou, maybe—but I can’t. I have to touch Adam to keep him human, but touching him is now a threat to his bodily safety.”

“You aren’t a threat to him,” the woman soothed. “I know you aren’t.”

Gaston lowered his face into her hair, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of a woman he loved. “You can’t know that,” he muttered.

“I can. Your calamity friend told you faerie magic shifts to protect their mates above all else, above even themselves, right?” 

Gaston released her and dug his handkerchief out of his pocket to dry his eyes. “Yes,” he grumbled. He was impressed she’d remembered that part of his story, particularly since he only vaguely remembered it himself.

Belle nodded in satisfaction. “Then there’s your answer. I don’t think your magic can hurt Adam, not even if you wanted it to. Assault is a form of harm, Gas. You and I both know that.” 

It was his turn to nod. Of course Belle understood. If there was anyone in the world who would understand not wanting to be pushed into certain forms of intimacy, it was Belle. “Your magic may grow impatient enough to stop listening to you, but it will always listen to him.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Gaston pointed out. Even so, a little of the weight lifted from his shoulders. 

She crossed her arms. “I’m very nearly certain.”

“Nearly certain isn’t enough. I can’t risk it,” he argued. 

“Then don’t,” she replied with a shrug. “Or at least test it first. Now I hate to change the topic because I understand your concerns, I really do, but I’m much more worried about Adam’s memory than whether your magic will assault him.” 

The jump took him off-guard. “Adam’s memory?” he repeated in confusion.

She nodded and sat back down on the toilet, pulling anxiously on the ends of her hair. “Obviously it’s the blood that allowed the mirror to access his forgotten memories.”

“Obviously,” Gaston snorted, because it hadn’t been obvious to him. 

She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s the memory itself that concerns me, along with how Adam greatly downplayed the horror of it. Those emotions don’t seem like the kind children in happy families should be experiencing, or at least not as intensely as you described. I wish I’d been there. . .” she sighed. 

Privately Gaston was very glad she hadn’t been. “Children shouldn’t be terrified of their parents,” he agreed. “Even my father didn’t hit me as a young child. He threatened to castrate me and told me I was a disgrace to the family name, but by then I was old enough to stand up for myself.”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “Exactly.” She chewed on her lower lip and they were both quiet for several long moments, reflecting on their own childhoods, the good and the bad. Finally Belle ventured, “I wonder if there would be a pattern to Adam’s memories like there was to yours. It’s too bad the faeries won’t let us use the mirror again to see for ourselves.” Another short pause. “Do you think you could make another one?”

Gaston frowned. “Another one?”

“Another mirror, yes. Do you think you could make it exactly like the one the faeries have?”

“I don’t know how I made it,” he admitted. “I mean, I know how I made it, but I don’t know how my magic made the mirror. . . also magic.” 

“You did it once before.”

She was right. When he’d offered to make Adam another mirror in the faerie circle, he hadn’t considered replicating the enchantment as well. But it was his magic that cast it—the faeries themselves said so. Perhaps if he followed the exact same steps, used the same colors of paints and the same design, he could accidentally cast it again. 

He remembered how brokenhearted Adam had looked in the west wing with his red-rimmed eyes and tear-soaked cheeks and trembling hands. He’d reached for him even though Gaston was the one who dragged him out of the bushes. Adam trusted him now, not just sexually, but emotionally as well. Just a few days ago—had it really only been a few days?—he’d pushed him away. Gaston didn’t just want to keep the man’s trust. He wanted to prove he was worthy of it. If there was a chance he could remake the mirror, he would try. 

“You think his memories might tell us more about how to break this curse,” he guessed. There was only one reason why she’d been staring so intently over his shoulder into nothing. She was putting the pieces together, and Gaston wished she would tell him what they were. 

Belle blinked rapidly before his comment finally registered. “Hm? Oh, yes, I think it might. I have a few theories, though I would need to see at least one more memory to call it a reasonable guess. . .”  

The woman was still muttering to herself when Gaston left her. As much as he wanted to ask more questions about her theories, he now had a job to do. He spent the rest of the day in his makeshift art studio attempting to recreate the mirror. Lumiere and Cogsworth brought him fragments of another mirror the beast had broken, (according to them, he’d broken almost every one of them in the castle, but most had been cleaned up and disposed of by now). 

A few hours into his work, Adam himself stopped by to place a tentative hand on his shoulder and treat him with a nervously hopeful smile. “Do you really think you can make another one?” he asked, surveying his progress.

“I think I will do more than paint broken mirrors if it means you can get even one more of your memories back.” He pretended not to notice when Adam’s grip tightened, a real feat of self-control given the concentration of magic his touch sent skittering across his skin.  

“Thank you,” the other man whispered. 

Gaston kept his attention on his work when he spoke. “This was Belle’s idea. Thank you for sending her to me.”

“I thought you could use a friend,” he replied quickly. Embarrassed. 

“You were right.” 

Adam caught his gaze in the reflection of one of the mirror shards he was placing and immediately looked away, pink-cheeked. Despite the precariousness of their situation, Gaston couldn’t help feeling a burst of satisfaction. 

I shouldn’t feel satisfaction. I should be reminding him of how dangerous I am!

But it wasn’t until later that night, after he and Adam finished climbing the spiral steps that led up to the west wing, that Gaston was reminded just how “in over his head” he still was.

Adam had been quiet for most of their climb, and Gaston didn’t attempt to fill the silence. No doubt he had a lot on his mind, and he would let him mull it all over in peace. He still couldn’t help wondering at the nature of his thoughts. Was Adam thinking about the mirror? His memories? Their conversation about consent? Did he resent him for leading him on the way he had? Gaston wouldn’t blame him if he did. If he was a better man, he would’ve relinquished his attention the moment he realized he was a threat.

When they reached the door to the west wing, Adam stepped around the mattress that was Gaston’s makeshift bed on the floor. He let go of his arm to reach for the knob, but paused. 

“Gaston?” the beast rumbled. 

“Hm?” He was distracted, ruminating over which parts of himself he was most ashamed of. His reckless heart was high on that list already and rising fast.

Adam turned away from the door. He took his hand again, and the moment he transformed back into a man, Gaston abandoned all thoughts of shame and responsibility. Instead he was distracted by the way the torchlight turned Adam’s curls orange, a color that warmed his skin and made his eyes appear a much deeper blue. Light played lovingly across his face, the shadows caressing the hollows of his cheekbones, the curve of his lower lip, the space beneath his jaw. The artist in Gaston contemplated whether there was a way to capture such detail with a brush. Even if he had fifty more years to spend trying, he doubted he would be able to recreate it perfectly. Perhaps if he asked the man to stay exactly where he was now, he could mix the right colors to mimic it. . . 

Adam abruptly stepped closer and lifted his hands to Gaston’s shoulders. He tilted his chin up and brushed a butterfly-light kiss to his lips. Gaston held very still, fearing even the smallest move would scare him away. It wasn’t until Adam drew back that he realized he’d had it backwards; the man had been wanting him to make a move. 

There was a flash of disappointment in Adam’s solemn eyes before he lowered them to the floor. “Goodnight,” he whispered.

Gaston swore internally. He could tolerate many things; enchanted castles and evil faeries and magic mirrors. He could tolerate pining and angst and even occasional discomfort. He could not tolerate knowing his kiss had disappointed someone. He might be in over his head, but he would be damned if magic—something he was coming to hate now more than ever—turned him into a bad kisser. 

When Adam opened the door to his bedchamber, Gaston reached around him and pushed it firmly closed. Now he was close enough for his breath to ruffle the other man’s hair, and even with his back to him, Gaston saw his posture stiffen. Adam’s hand was still gripping the doorknob and his knuckles turned white even in the warmth of the torchlight. Gaston leaned down and Adam’s eyes fluttered closed. 

“You seemed hesitant,” he said softly.

“I was afraid of putting you in a position you didn’t want to be in,” Adam admitted with a shaky swallow.

Gaston couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about what he was comfortable with. He’d assumed it was because he was bigger and more experienced than everyone else. Now he wondered if it was something more.

Gaston tenderly brushed the stray curls clinging to Adam’s cheek aside before pressing his lips to his ear. “Believe me, chaton, I want to be in every position you can imagine, and even more you can’t.” Gaston’s magic pulsed its agreement, stealing much of the triumph he felt when he noticed Adam’s cheeks redden. “But for now I think it’s safe for me to kiss you properly.”

It hadn’t been a question, but Adam nodded tightly in answer anyway. Gaston took his shoulder with the hand that wasn’t holding the door shut and turned him roughly around. Adam looked up through his lashes while flattening his back against the wood of the door. His cheeks were even redder than Gaston realized and there was a marvelous, anticipatory shudder to every exhale. Before he could remind the man that, while he certainly wanted more, anything beyond kissing was too risky, Adam hooked both of his hands into the front of his tunic and dragged him forward. 

Gaston was pinning the man to the door, and all thoughts of caution fled. 

It was impossible to think when Adam’s lips were enticing his magic to act, when his magic was responding with a hum Gaston could feel in his bones. He was powerless to resist it, so he didn’t try. Instead he pressed closer, eliminating any space still left between them, and Adam lowered his hands from his chest to brace himself against the door. Vying to improve their stability, Gaston angled one of his knees between Adam’s legs. It was a strategy he’d used countless times before, but now he could feel the effect he was having on the man against his upper thigh, and the whining in his ears hit a truly dizzying pitch. He clenched his fists behind Adam’s back, digging his nails into his palms, and labored through several breaths. 

“Gaston?” Adam whispered his name, the syllables breathless and slurred with desire. 

Gaston shook his head in response. He needed a moment. One moment to compose himself. If he couldn’t, if Adam’s kiss and subsequent proximity could overwhelm him, how would he feel safe doing anything more? He had to prove he could handle this first. 

But just when he was certain he’d stymied the flood of magic and arousal, Adam rocked his hips forward. Gaston’s poorly-stifled groan was answered with Adam’s pleased sigh and he spiraled again. “Chaton,” he gasped, barely hearing his own voice above the ringing in his ears, “no matter how much faerie magic I have, I’m only a man, and you are. . .” 

He stopped. He couldn’t tell someone he was a danger to that he was everything. 

But he is everything. 

Gaston’s magic certainly thought so, and his heart was what got them both into this mess in the first place. Really, he thought the rest of him was beginning to resent being left out. 

Adam flashed a rather sheepish smile and placed both hands on his shoulders before gently pushing him back. Gaston clenched his fists again and braced himself for his magic to throw a fit, for pain or temptation or—even worse—for it to prevent him from moving at all. Instead it simmered and bowed into grudging obedience. Gaston stepped back without resistance. 

Oh, if Belle was right about this, too, he was going to have to kiss her on the mouth this time. 

“I know I’m making this worse,” Adam added more guiltily. “It was supposed to be a kiss goodnight.” He tucked his mussed curls behind his ear and looked away. “I won’t do it again.”

If kissing me like that makes my life worse, then I want you to ruin me. 

The Gaston he was before arriving at the castle had loved dramatic monologues, particularly ones he made to men he would never see again. If he was still that man, he would’ve said it aloud—or come up with something even better. But unfortunately being skilled in performing a confession of deeper feelings apparently didn’t transfer to the real thing. 

Adam reached for the door handle again and opened it. “Goodnight, Gaston.” This time he chased it with a quiet, vulnerable smile that Gaston longed to paint if only so he could stare at it later when he was gone. He was staring at it now. 

“I’ll wake you in a few hours,” the other man added when he still didn’t respond. Adam held his gaze several moments longer than necessary before turning to open the door and closing it softly behind him. 

“Well,” Gaston muttered to the closed door, “how could anyone go to sleep after that?”

Except Gaston did sleep. If he hadn’t, perhaps he would’ve realized too much time had passed. If he hadn’t, perhaps he would’ve rescued Adam in time. 

If his body hadn’t grown accustomed to being woken up in the middle of the night, he might have slept through to the end of the curse. Instead he awoke naturally and squinted into the rafters of the tower wondering why something felt wrong. His skin pricked and there was that odd, herbal taste on his tongue. 

Strange. The last time that happened, the rose faeries had threatened Adam. . .

“Adam!” Gaston shoved himself to his feet. He didn’t know how many hours it’d been since he saw him last, but he feared for the worst.

Panic catapulted his sleep-addled mind into action. He twisted the handle to Adam’s room, relieved to discover it was unlocked--he doubted his nerves could withstand the time it would take to pick it--and shoved it open, sending it banging loudly into the opposite wall. 

His eyes swept over the room, noticing three things simultaneously. Adam’s bed was empty, his clothes were on the floor, and directly across from him, the west wing’s window was open. 

Chapter 34: Adam

Gaston feared his magic would take more from Adam than he was ready to give, but Adam was certain now that it was the opposite. The magic didn’t want to take from him, it wanted him to take from it. 

Tonight Adam witnessed Gaston’s struggle to control his magic, but he also felt the magic himself for the first time. He felt it on Gaston’s hands when he touched him, a pleasant tingling that lingered at every point of contact the man made. It was in his voice when he whispered in his ear, a humming power that made every word sound like its own enchantment. Magic had filled Adam’s lungs, raised goosebumps across his skin, and buzzed pleasantly in his ears. It wasn’t the harsh, foreign magic that he felt when he shifted back into his beast form. This was warm and sweet and familiar. This magic was safe, not because it wasn’t powerful, not because it wasn’t capable of harm, but because all of it, every last ounce, was under Adam’s control. He didn’t know how, but with every motion of his lips against Gaston’s, Adam was directing the magic in him to act. If Adam wanted his injury healed, Gaston’s magic would heal it. If he wanted protection from attackers, his magic would defend him. If he wanted Gaston on his knees, his magic would make the man fall without hesitation. 

Gaston was right. The magic was out of his control, but not because it had its own intentions. It was out of his control because it was in Adam’s. 

He had no idea how to explain that to Gaston. The way the man was staring at him, magic-drunk and too dazed to speak, he doubted he would be able to comprehend it even if he tried. Adam decided to tell him in the morning after he had time to think and formulate a coherent explanation. 

Now he feared he never would. Adam fell into a sleeping nightmare only to be thrown head-first into a waking one. 

His body had always sensed the beast’s rising control early enough to stumble across the room, open the door, and latch onto Gaston’s arm. But tonight the animal snuck up on him when he was dreaming, sinking its claws into his mind well before he was fully awake. Adam didn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about, but he did remember his terror, the same terror he felt from his memory in the mirror, the same terror he was feeling now. 

Perhaps that fear was what roused the beast early. The monster in him liked to feed off of his emotions. In the time before Gaston’s arrival at the castle, Adam had been forced to practice a great deal of emotional regulation to keep himself—and the beast—in check. But in those days, a petal didn’t fall every time the beast form took control of his mind. Only a year ago, it couldn’t take control of him at all. 

Adam’s beast form had gained power with every fallen petal, but tonight it gained something worse. Intelligence. What had once been a simplistic brute with thoughts that had been confined to one-word sentences aimed to communicate basic needs was now a nearly fully sentient being. Stuck inside the beast’s mind, Adam watched its plan unfold. 

It knew Gaston’s touch would turn it back to human form. 

It knew there was only one petal left. 

It knew now that its strongest ally was not claws or teeth but time itself. 

Instead of attacking Gaston or the other castle staff, the beast formulated a much smarter plan. It was going to hide. 

“If he can’t find me, he can’t touch me. Then when time is up and the last petal falls, even his magic will not turn me. Then I will tear him open.”

The beast once again considered how it would kill Gaston before realizing it was wasting time. It padded noiselessly across the tower room, paused to sniff the air, and huffed. It could smell Gaston still asleep on the other side of the door, but unfortunately this time the scent didn’t send it into a blind rage. Instead it turned around and stalked towards the only other exit point of the tower. The window. 

Adam couldn’t plead with it. He couldn’t tell it that it wouldn’t survive a fall from that height. He couldn’t even wish Gaston would wake up in time to save him. 

From inside his own mind, Adam heard the beast’s order. “Tell me where to hide.” 

He could no more fight it than he could prevent the second-to-last petal from falling behind its glass.

Chapter 35: Gaston

Through the yawning, half-open window of the west wing, Gaston’s eyes tracked the beast’s hulking shadow as it leapt from the side of one tower to the roof of another with an agility that defied all possibility. Snow dusted the castle crevices and reflected pale in the moonlight, like clouds drifting across a stone sky. 

Gaston clenched his hands into fists at his sides and ground his teeth. It was taking all of his self-control not to launch himself through the window after the beast. A monster with claws and fur might be able to scale the west wing tower in such conditions without plummeting to its death, but one look at the flakes clinging to the ice-sheathed glass window panes convinced Gaston he would not. His magic was just as impatient as he was. It vibrated restlessly against his eardrums, which only served to make Gaston’s heart race even faster than it already was. Perhaps his magic could grow him a pair of wings. Didn’t most faeries have wings of some kind? 

But I’m not a faerie. I only have the magic of one. 

That same magic supposedly made him very difficult to kill. Gaston wondered vaguely what would happen if he fell from this tower. Would his bones still break? Would he experience the pain of death without the deliverance of it? 

He cast those questions aside. He would be of no help to Adam falling from a tower regardless. He narrowed his eyes and tracked the beast as it jumped to the next tower, realizing one more leap would be out of his line of vision. He climbed carefully through the open window and out onto the balcony, gritting his teeth against the wind that whipped his hair and the snow that stung his cheeks. He moved to the edge, leaned against the icy balustrade, and kept his eyes on the beast that was now only a smudge of fur in the shadows. 

The animal had stopped launching itself across castle rooftops and parapets and seemed to be looking down into something. A chimney, maybe? What room was it standing over? Gaston summoned the mental map of the castle he’d first constructed months ago and had never needed to use since. The ballroom was there, closest to the gardens, which meant the dining hall was in front of it, which would put the east chambers there. . . The beast crawled into the chimney and disappeared from view. 

Gaston’s magic buzzed louder, increasingly agitated now that the beast was no longer in his line of vision. It was making it even more difficult for Gaston to think. He needed to think. Why would the beast risk climbing down the side of the tower in the snow, throw itself from a dozen different rooftops, only to go back inside the castle? Was it possible that it understood the only way to stay in its current form was to avoid him? The beast had always been far too preoccupied with killing him to think that far ahead. If the beast had somehow managed that feat of intelligence, it had very nearly worked. If Gaston had slept even a minute longer, if his magic had roused him a minute later than it had, he wouldn’t have seen which room in the castle the animal had reentered. How long did they have until the next petal fell? Two hours? Less? 

Gaston forced himself to wait on the balcony for another agonizing moment, confirming that the monster had not re-emerged from the castle, then climbed back through the west wing window and pulled it shut. 

“Right,” he muttered grimly. “Hunting monsters it is, then.” 

Gaston was an experienced hunter--it had been one of his favorite pastimes over the last eight years. Granted, all of that experience had been in woods of some kind and none of his prey had been anything as large or dangerous as the beast, but surely there weren’t many places a four-hundred pound, ten-foot tall monster could hide in a castle. Surely. 

That optimism faded once Gaston moved as quickly and as silently as possible down the castle corridors. The castle was, after all, very large. There were many rooms he’d yet to visit, and he’d lived here for months now. The beast might not find many places big enough to conceal itself, but it could smell Gaston from a distance. It would almost certainly notice him before he noticed it, in which case the monster didn’t actually need to hide, it only needed to stay one room ahead of Gaston until their time ran out. 

He considered waking the others to help his search. The beast likely wouldn’t be able to smell furniture, and a clock or a candle had to be less appetizing than Belle. 

It could still crush a candlestick between its jaws if it was angry enough.  

Gaston grimly resolved to involve the others only if it was absolutely necessary. 

He was suddenly very grateful the curse prevented Adam from leaving the castle grounds. At least Gaston wouldn’t be forced to track the beast across the country. But with its immense size, numerous rooms, and hidden alcoves, Gaston thought the castle may as well have been a country. Perhaps if he’d spent more time exploring and less time ogling the prince of France, maybe he would feel more confident in his search now. 

One step at a time. He knew the beast had climbed down the library chimney, and so he would start his search in the library first. If he didn’t find the animal there, then he would decide what to do next. The real question he should be considering was what he would do if he did find it there. If he was quiet enough, maybe he could lock the door from the outside before entering. A standard lock likely wouldn’t trap the animal in the room for long, but it didn’t need to be long, only long enough. All Gaston had to do was touch him and Adam was safe. 

This was beginning to feel less like hunting and more like the hiding game he used to play with the boys that lived near his father’s estate. In that game, simply finding each other wasn’t enough. The person searching had to tag them, too. 

He needed to tag the beast, and soon. 

Gaston rounded another corridor. This one led him through the foyer and past the grand staircase. He clung to the shadows and kept his steps as silent as possible. His eyesight was sharp despite the almost nonexistent light and his ears pricked at even the tiniest scuff of his boots. He’d always imagined that his improved senses were a result of his nerves settling, as if simply paying closer attention was all he needed. Now he knew it was his magic that bolstered his vision and hearing. His magic was mostly dormant but rose in times of need.

It was wide awake now.

Gaston turned the last corner that led to the entrance to the library and flattened his back against the wall behind one of the suits of armor guarding the door. He held his breath and listened hard with his magic-enhanced ears, but the corridor was silent. He moved out from behind the armor and pressed his ear to the crack of the door. Nothing. Perhaps the beast had already smelled his approach and retreated to another room. How would he know which room to check next? There were no tracks to follow in a castle, no broken branches or bent undergrowth. 

Gaston fought back a rare surge of panic. He was always good in a crisis. Now he couldn’t prevent himself from imagining the worst. He imagined finding the beast too late and being forced to kill it--to kill Adam--in order to protect himself and Belle. He imagined speaking to the castle staff, only to realize they were objects that would never speak again. He imagined how his heart would break, how his magic would tear his soul apart. . 

Gaston took a deep, quiet inhale through his nose. He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. This was not going well. Worry wouldn’t help him now. It wouldn’t help Adam. 

He had magic now, didn’t he? Technically he’d had it for a while, but now he knew he had it. He should be able to use it, right? He didn’t know how to cast with faerie magic. Did it take a special instrument? A phrase? Would he have to speak Faerie in order to command it? 

He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to learn an entire language or locate a wand. And so he simply addressed his magic directly.  

Adam is in danger and I don’t know how to cast spells. I need you to help me find him. You have to help me find him. 

Gaston was surprised when he felt his magic respond to his plea. Surely it wasn’t that easy. He waited for the magic in his blood to rise anyway, waited until it was ringing unbearably loud in his ears and he could no longer stand the scorching pain beneath his skin. When he opened his eyes, the sound died immediately and the feverish heat cooled. He blinked into the darkness--or what should’ve been darkness. There were no torches lit in this corridor. The only light that had guided Gaston through the castle was cast from moonlit windows. Now everything in his line of vision was inexplicably sketched in glowing lines of gold. They looked exactly like the lines he would make to outline the corridor on his canvas before painting, except these lines were bright, somehow. Magic. Indisputably. 

He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he’d expected his magic to do to help him, but it certainly wasn’t this. Disoriented, Gaston squinted at the library door, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The lines around the trim and wood panels of the door were thicker and brighter than the others. They shone white into the darkness, and it put Gaston in mind of how he’d imagined the gates of heaven. 

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, noting how the light of the door pulsed, as if it was beckoning him. He fished a pin out from his belt, but when he touched the keyhole, it locked itself with a resounding click. Gaston didn’t have time to feel awe about this newfound ability. His magic was more concentrated in his body now than it’d ever been before, and it pricked impatiently beneath his fingers as he slipped into the library and shut the magically-locked door firmly behind him. 

Gaston half-expected to find the interior of the library to also be etched in gold, but the cavernous room was cloaked in shadows. He lingered inside the library door for several moments, bracing himself to find an angry beast charging him. It had to know he was there. It would’ve heard the door close. It would smell him. But if the monster was haunting this room, it didn’t reveal itself. Instead the library seemed to be holding its breath; it was perfectly silent and the only movement he could see was from the snow swirling outside of its high windows. 

His magic wanted him to move, but Gaston lingered in front of the door anyway, trying to decide what to do next. If he stepped further into the room, it would also put him further from the door, increasing the chances that the beast might sneak behind him and break through before he could reach it. But he couldn’t stand here like a sentry until the last petal fell, either. If his mere presence wasn’t enough to entice the beast to show itself, Gaston would have to try a different approach. Should he call out to it? Perhaps the monster could be goaded. Or, even more likely, speaking would only ruin any element of surprise he might have. 

Gaston waited by the door for as long as he dared, suspended in indecision, before finally moving to inspect the hearth. He kept his body angled so that he could always see the library door in his periphery. Sticking his head inside, he looked up, only to discover he couldn’t see much without climbing behind the grate. Frowning, he straightened back up and noted the soot that had collected along the stone and the rug in front of it. Either someone had done a poor job sweeping out the ashes, or he was right and a very large animal had just climbed down the chimney like Father fucking Christmas. 

He inspected the faint soot-tracks on the rug, which stopped in front of a bookshelf directly to the right of the hearth against the wall. Several books had been left carelessly on the floor, as if someone had been browsing and hadn’t bothered to put them away afterward. Gaston knew neither Belle nor Adam would leave books on the ground like that, and these books hadn’t been merely set aside. They were lying at odd angles, some with pages creasing and spines bent. Even if Adam or Belle was in a hurry, they would never leave books in that state. Gaston himself wouldn’t--just because he didn’t love to read didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate how valuable books were. 

He picked the books up one-by-one and placed them into a neat pile out of the way before turning to examine the shelf more closely. He noted the gaps where books appeared to be missing and looked back to his pile more thoughtfully. The books had looked less like they’d been left on the floor and more like they’d fallen. 

After wasting several more minutes scrutinizing the shelf in the dim lighting, Gaston recognized he was wasting time. He closed his eyes. “Can you do the light thing again?” he asked his magic. “Please?” he added, as if manners would make it more likely to respond favorably. Gaston’s magic wasn’t only willing, but eager to comply. It hummed in his ears and heated his blood, and when Gaston opened his eyes, he discovered another gold line had appeared. This one was drawn on the ground, beginning just above his right boot and disappearing beneath the bookshelf in front of him. 

“Adam is that way?” he whispered.

His magic didn’t respond verbally, of course, but the gold line on the ground seemed to grow brighter than before. Encouraging. Gaston lowered himself onto his hands and knees and tried to look under the shelf at the point where the line disappeared. But the shelves were built into the stone and extended all the way to the floor. There was no underneath. He ran his fingers along the floor anyway, discovering only dust bunnies and cobwebs. 

Gaston shook his head as he stood. Even a mouse couldn’t fit under there, let alone a beast of Adam’s size. Perhaps there was a way over the shelf? But that couldn’t be possible, either, since the shelves also extended all the way to the ceiling. Maybe the line indicated Adam was in the room next to the library? But why would it have highlighted the library door so brilliantly? And was this wall even shared with another room? 

Gaston was about to leave in order to find out but didn’t make it two steps across the room before his magic seared him with a blistering pain that sent him reeling backward. “Ow,” he gasped, instinctively rubbing his arms in a fruitless attempt to ward off the pain. “What was that for?” 

His magic didn’t answer. Perhaps the damnable stuff wasn’t on his side after all. Gaston could be wasting time here while the beast was prowling elsewhere in the castle. He checked his pocketwatch and noted, with returning panic, that almost an hour had passed already. How much more time did they have left? He should be trying to cover as much of the castle as possible, not following the whims of magic, which he didn’t trust anyway.

The line on the floor pulsed again, but this time it fractured into thinner lines that spread up the shelf like some strange webbed lightning. The lines of magic highlighted the spines of the books as it traveled, but converged at one book in particular. Gaston reluctantly moved closer to examine the spine. There was no title. In fact, now that he was studying it more closely, he didn’t think it was leather, at all, only wood that had been painted to look like a book. Odd. Why would someone paint such a thing? Gaston lifted a hand and tentatively traced his fingers down the spine. It didn’t feel like leather, either. 

The whining in his ears grew louder in pitch.

“Alright, alright,” he huffed. “I hear you, but if you keep blasting my eardrums like that, I won’t be able to hear anything for much longer.”

Gritting his teeth, Gaston did the only thing he could think to do and tried to remove the fake book from the shelf. He could only pull it out half-way. He tugged harder, but the book was well and truly stuck. Swearing inwardly, he was just deciding to check the room without the help of his magic before moving on to the next when he heard an intricate series of clicks. Alarmed, Gaston took a hurried step back from the shelf. The mechanical clicking stopped, and for a long moment, nothing happened. Then a soft creak, followed by a disturbance in the air around him, and the bottom of the bookshelf--about six shelves in total--began to rotate into the wall. The opposite side, the one closest to where Gaston was standing, kicked out several feet, sending more books toppling and revealing an opening. The line of golden magic on the floor cut directly into the dark space beyond. 

Gaston hesitated only a moment before entering. If his magic wasn’t illuminating the floor, the room would’ve been pitch black. It was barely the size of his closet in his father’s estate and the only furniture was a set of three bookshelves, one for every wall that wasn’t shared with the hidden door. They weren’t like the shelves in the rest of the library. These were so narrow that the spines of books stuck out over the edge of the wood. Even with how comparatively thin the bookshelves were, they took up a great deal of space in such a small room. Only one person could stand comfortably inside. Gaston could spread his arms and nearly touch the shelves on opposite walls

There was certainly no place for a beast to hide here. 

Gaston was just beginning to wonder why his magic would lead him to such a place, and why the room existed to begin with, when the faux shelf door behind him creaked shut. Another series of clicks sounded, and from the backside, Gaston could watch the intricate gears and cylinders of the door turn and fall into place. Before he could properly evaluate the mechanics of such a system, he heard something very large scratching at the ceiling above. He looked up into a pair of blue eyes that reflected in the golden light like a cat’s.

Gaston had forgotten the number one rule of winning a hiding game as the seeker. Always look up. 

Despite the surprise of discovering the beast had been above his head all along, Gaston couldn’t help barking a relieved laugh. He’d found it. Even better, he’d found it in a room that offered no cover. The monster had nowhere to run.

The beast seemed to realize this as well and was not very happy about it. “You weren’t supposed to find this place,” it snarled down at him. “He said you didn’t know--I know you didn’t know this was here!” 

“I didn’t,” Gaston agreed, tamping back another laugh. “But unfortunately for you, kitten, my magic can do more than banish you back to the depths of Adam’s mind where you belong.” 

The beast growled and flashed teeth that glinted malevolently in the magic-light. While the animal was distracted with its own anger, Gaston evaluated its position in the rafters. The room was shallow but tall, extending upward to nearly the same height as the ceilings of the library. Somehow the beast had climbed up the narrow shelves and was sitting on the exposed wooden beams that held up the ceiling. It was too high to reach, even if Gaston jumped, but if a four-hundred pound animal could climb these shelves, he was certain he could, too. 

“Now then,” Gaston said mildly, his panic receding with Adam nearly in his grasp, “let’s not waste any more time playing cat-and-mouse. Either you come down here or I will climb up there, but you will be shifting back either way.”

The beast growled again and swiped one of its massive paws at the books on the top shelf of the nearest case. Gaston tried to move out of the way, but there was very little room to move--in any direction, really--and had to cover his head with his arms instead. The book struck his forearm and hit the floor with a thunk. Before he could manage an indignant retort, another book fell. Followed by another. And another. Swearing in frustration, Gaston moved to the closest shelf and began to climb, swatting at books that the beast chucked at him as he did so. They made stinging contact with his back and shoulders. The bruises he was going to have after this little scuffle were going to be truly incredible. 

“Enough,” Gaston finally snapped after a book narrowly missed the back of his head. “There’s no escape for you. You’ve been caught!” 

“Come catch me then,” the beast taunted. 

Gaston gritted his teeth and climbed more quickly, pausing only to bat at projectile books. He was nearly to the ceiling when the barrage abruptly stopped. He felt a whoosh of air behind him. Surprised, he craned his neck downward to see that the beast had jumped from the rafters to the ground, a fall that would’ve certainly broken human bones. Now it was pushing against the shelf-door, grunting and scratching as it did so. 

“Oh no you don’t!” he hissed. 

He climbed down as fast as he could, and once he’d reached a height he believed wouldn’t break his ankles, he jumped. It wasn’t the smartest move—even by Gaston’s standards. If he wasn’t convinced that the animal was one more shove away from escaping, he would’ve climbed the rest of the way down instead. There was simply no way to control his fall. The room couldn’t accommodate two people comfortably, let alone one large person and one even larger monster. Gaston knew he would crash-land into the beast, and he knew Adam would shift back the moment he made contact. 

Fortunately Adam’s build was considerably slighter than the beast, and when Gaston’s boot struck its shoulder, the man shifted in time to flatten himself against the door and avoid being crushed. Gaston was not nearly so coordinated. He’d underestimated just how many books the beast had thrown; there wasn’t a hands-length of floorspace that remained uncovered. Abandoning all hope for his balance and instead hoping he wouldn’t twist an ankle, Gaston hit the ground and immediately fell backward, colliding painfully with the shelf behind him. His head made stinging contact with the leather spines of books and he instinctively reached out when more began to fall on top of him, not to protect his head, but to catch Adam’s wrist and latch on tight. He hadn’t suffered this many blows only for Adam to shift back into a beast while he was fighting a bookshelf.

“Are you alright?” Adam squeaked. He used his grip on his wrist to help pull him to his feet. 

“Fine.” Gaston was most certainly not fine, but nothing was broken and that was more than good enough. His eyes were watering from hitting his head, but aside from a few stinging tears, his vision was normal. A good sign. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not nearly as badly as I hurt you,” Adam replied unhappily. “We need to get out of here so you can lie down.” 

“Lying down sounds nice,” Gaston admitted. He wiped the water from his eyes and saw Adam clearly for the first time. For several long moments, he forgot all about the pain in his body. 

The other man’s back was to him as he inspected the door, his tangled mess of curls the only coverage he was wearing. There was nothing else obstructing Gaston’s view of the man’s bare limbs, which reflected pale gold in the magic-light. His eyes lingered along the sharp angles of his shoulders, the perfect taper of his waist, the gentle curve of his backside, and his long, long legs. He belatedly remembered seeing the man’s clothes, the ones fitted to survive shifting, discarded on the floor of the west wing. 

At Gaston’s silence, Adam turned his head, caught him staring, flushed bright pink and turned quickly back around. “I’m not entirely sure how to open this door,” he said quickly. Nervously.

Gaston needed to say something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth, no sound emerged. He tried again—and instantly wished he hadn’t. 

“Has anyone ever tried to paint you?” he asked because he’d wrongly assumed that pretending he hadn’t noticed the man’s bare ass would be more uncomfortable than a compliment. Recognizing his mistake, he backtracked immediately. “Of course you haven’t. You’ve been alone here for a decade. I only asked because you’re, um—” divinely beautiful. “Very paint-able.”

Adam didn’t answer, but the tips of his ears were so red now that Gaston was certain they were responsible for the rising temperature in the room. And why was it so cramped? Surely if someone was going to go to such great lengths to carve secret doors into libraries, they would want the space to be comfortable. He was standing as close to Adam now as he had been just a few hours earlier—when he’d been the one holding the door closed and Adam was wearing considerably more clothing—a fact he was not going to confirm with his eyes. He was not. He’d seen plenty enough already.

God help me, it’s not like I haven’t seen a naked man before.

Was his magic turning him into a blushing virgin as well as a faerie? If so, it was the most miraculous power he’d witnessed so far. Truly, with how immaturely he was handling this situation, he should just promise to keep his eyes closed until Adam put his clothes back on—like they were boys finishing up a swim in the local stream.  

Gaston was formulating an apology for both his inappropriate question and his even more inappropriate ogling when he was unexpectedly saved by the light of his magic blowing out.

Chapter 36: Adam

Over a decade of living in the castle post-curse and Adam had discovered exactly four secret rooms—one of which was more akin to a secret passageway—hidden in its walls. Of the four, the room in the library was the most cleverly disguised. The beast knew this because Adam knew this, and the line separating himself from the monster had blurred enough for the beast to gain access to his thoughts as well as his body. Adam had been forced to sit at the back of his own head while the animal made its harrowing escape through the tower window, climbed down the library chimney, and broke into the hidden room. 

When the shelf-door shut behind the beast, it shut out Adam’s hope for a swift rescue along with it. He’d believed his only chance of escape was for Gaston to employ the help of the castle staff, some of whom knew the location of the secret rooms. But how long would it take the other man to wake up, notice Adam was gone, surmise that the beast was hiding from him, and then rally the others to help him search? The answer was too long. Adam certainly hadn’t expected Gaston to find him within an hour, and he definitely hadn’t expected him to find him on his own. It was a testament to Gaston’s resourcefulness, but it was also proof of just how powerful his magic was. If Adam wanted to be found, Gaston’s magic would find him. 

Now they were both trapped in the cramped, windowless room that housed the castle’s most valuable books without so much as a candlestick to stave off the darkness. Just before Gaston’s golden light snuffed out, Adam had been trying to decide what was making him feel the most indignant, that the beast had used the country’s coveted knowledge as projectiles, or that it’d shredded his clothes in anger. Logically, he knew it should be the first, but currently it was most definitely the second. 

From somewhere nearby, he heard Gaston swear into the darkness. “Where did the light go?”

Adam didn’t attempt to reply. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer to that question, only that he didn’t know how to answer it. The magic-light went out because Adam had wanted it to. If he took the time to explain to Gaston that he controlled his magic, he would also have to explain why he wanted them to be plunged into darkness in the first place. Was he going to admit that he felt uncomfortable being undressed in front of him? The man might assume he would never want to be again, which would be very, very false. The problem wasn’t Adam’s enthusiasm, it was simply that no one had seen his naked body before—hell, Adam hadn’t seen his naked body before. It was far more unnerving than he’d anticipated; less like sharing a secret and more like unintentionally revealing one. Clearly he’d overestimated his own confidence as well as the other man’s helpfulness. He’d assumed he could rely on Gaston to know how to react in such a moment, but he’d only gawked at Adam in mute bewilderment. When he finally did say something, he’d told him that he was “very paintable.” Adam assumed it was a compliment, but why had Gaston sounded so hesitant when he said it? 

“I’ll try to cast it again in a moment,” Gaston said at last when Adam still hadn’t answered. “But first. . .” From behind him, Adam heard a rustling of fabric, and for a wild moment he thought the man was preparing to skip ahead. Surely Gaston hadn’t forgotten about his fears that his magic was a threat—which were unfounded, but he didn’t know that yet. Had it really taken him seeing Adam naked to throw caution to the wind? And were they really going to do this here? In a closet? In the dark? 

Gaston’s elbow lightly clipped his shoulder and Adam flinched. “Sorry,” he muttered gruffly. “Just need to switch hands for a moment.” He traded Adam’s left wrist for his right. “There.” Gaston pushed something warm into the hand he wasn’t holding. “You can wear that. At least until we get back to the west wing.” 

Adam looked stupidly down into his hands only to see more darkness. “Oh.”

“I’m quite a bit bigger than you,” Gaston explained, “so my tunic should cover most of. . . of what you might want covered.” 

Adam’s uncertainty eased beneath swelling gratitude. “Thank you.” A pause. “I won’t be able to put it on while you’re holding my hand, though.”

“Mm,” the other man hummed in agreement, and Adam tried to hide his involuntary shiver when the breath of it grazed his ear. He became suddenly very aware of the fact that if he was holding the man’s tunic, then Gaston himself wasn’t wearing it, which meant the other man was bare-chested, and the last time Adam had seen him bare-chested he’d ended up in his lap. 

“If you step back a little, I can help you,” Gaston offered more softly.

Adam hesitated. He wanted to ask if he was actually offering to help him, or if there was some double meaning to his words, but he didn’t know how without feeling even more uncomfortable than he already was. He wished, for what had to be the hundred-thousandth time by now, that he hadn’t been quite so sheltered. Fighting through his own embarrassment, he inched slowly back until his heel caught the toe of Gaston’s boots. He was close enough now that he could feel the heat from the other man’s body against the bare skin of his back. He hadn’t realized just how cold the air in the secret library room was until Gaston was warming him like a hearth. 

“Ready?” Gaston asked, his voice very close to his ear.

Adam nodded distractedly before remembering he wouldn’t be able to see him. “Yes,” he whispered and pretended not to notice the nervous fluttering in his chest. Gaston let go of his wrist and Adam fumbled to pull his tunic over his head. The other man wordlessly helped him locate the arm holes. It was long enough to cover him, but only just—the tunic barely reached mid-thigh. The fabric smelled like Gaston, of course, and Adam wondered if he would find it quite so distinguishable if he didn’t share his nose with an animal.

Now that Adam was at least partially dressed, Gaston took his hand again and squeezed it once before backing away as far as the small room would allow. The air grew cold in his absence and Adam shivered again. Stepped back again. This time he kept stepping until his shoulderblades brushed the other man’s chest. He heard Gaston let out a long breath before reaching his arms around him and pulling him in close, pressing his face into his hair. “Oh thank God,” he sighed, more relieved to be holding him than Adam expected. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you in time.”

Adam clung to the arms around him, warm and bare and much stronger than his own. Magic hummed beneath his hands and against his ears. Soothing. “You said you would always find me,” he whispered back. 

“I did,” Gaston agreed. “And I will. That doesn’t make me any less afraid. I would prefer it if you never left my side to begin with. I can only find you if I lose you first, and I’ve done quite enough of that already.” 

Adam swallowed hard against the threat of tears. Now that he wasn’t distracted by his own embarrassment, he realized just how tightly his fear was clinging to him, both from his kidnapping and from the beast’s attempts to hurt Gaston. He wondered if he was going to cry every time the man held him like this, or if safety was a feeling he would one day be able to take for granted. “You left my side,” he pointed out meekly. 

Gaston lifted one of his arms to smooth down his hair. “I know, I’m sorry. I thought it would make things easier. I’ll sleep at the foot of your bed—at least until I know for certain I can control it.”

“You can’t control it,” Adam whispered. 

There was a pause wherein Gaston drew an unsteady breath, and it occurred to him that the man might be just as near tears as he was. “This is my fault,” he said hoarsely. “A better man wouldn’t leave you to sleep with the beast. A better man—a gentleman—would have enough faith in his self-control to sleep beside you without putting you in danger.” 

“You aren’t putting me in danger,” Adam protested. But Gaston wasn’t done sinking into the waters of self-deprication. 

“I never imagined myself to be a virtuous man, but I thought I was at least an honest one. I told myself that if my preferences made me a rake to general society, even if they wouldn’t burn me for it like they might have before the laws were changed, then performing as a gentleman would cater to their whims. I told myself that as long as I was honest, as long as I communicated clearly and listened to my partners, as long as I was fair, I wouldn’t be the monster my father believed me to be. But I have been so unfair to you.” He pressed his face into his hair again and his words were muffled. “You thought heartlessness turned you into a monster, but my heart has turned me into one.” 

“Gaston,” Adam interrupted, exasperated. “Virtue isn’t the reason you can’t control your magic. The reason is me.” Then, before he could deny it and return to his tragic monologue, “I want to see you.” 

The magic-light returned, instantly bathing the floor in gold that reminded Adam of a sunset on still waters. It was beautiful in only the way flagrantly powerful magic could be beautiful. It thrummed hopefully in the air, seeking his approval. Gaston’s arms around him loosened but he didn’t let go. Adam turned enough to gauge the other man’s expression. He was staring at the floor in confusion, brows drawn low, bare skin bronze in the golden light. Adam’s gaze lingered on the hollows of the man’s collar, the thick cords of muscle that shifted under the skin of his shoulders, his hair that had slipped from its tie and fell in silken tendrils against his cheeks. 

“Dark again, please,” he whispered, and the magic-light went out. 

Adam felt the moment Gaston realized what it meant. His posture stiffened and his arms tightened around his waist. His breath quieted and he stood very, very still. Adam waited in wary silence for whatever reaction would follow. Would Gaston be angry? What if he didn’t trust him enough yet not to use the power over him to his advantage? Controlling the man’s magic wasn’t the same as controlling him, but it was close, close enough that he might resent him for it. 

“Do that again,” Gaston said at last. 

Very well. He needed more proof. Fine. Adam didn’t expect him to accept it easily. “I want to see again.” The magic-light returned, this time even brighter than before.

“Again,” Gaston repeated gently.

Adam frowned. Surely he could do something more productive than lighting the room. “I want that book put away,” he said. Gaston’s magic immediately lifted the discarded book from the floor and slid it back on the shelf. “And that one. And that one.” 

Adam must’ve used the man’s magic to shelve more than a dozen books before Gaston leaned down to whisper in his ear, his words carrying the edge of a threat that made Adam’s heart stutter and his breath catch in his chest. “It was you all along. It was never about a fucking mating bond. My magic only wants what you want, which is why I didn’t notice it at all in the beginning, back when you wanted nothing to do with me.” The arms around him tightened. 

“Are you upset?” Adam stammered. A seductive kind of fear trailed icy fingers down his spine even as his blood burned hotter with every frantic heartbeat. The last time Gaston had held him like this—his back against his chest, his arms a vice around his torso, his tone low and dangerous—he’d nearly strangled him. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Gaston lifted a hand to tilt his chin back until his head was resting against his shoulder. Oh, this wasn’t different from that first night at all.

“Am I upset that you’ve been in control of my magic all along?” Gaston trailed his lips along Adam’s jaw and down the side of his neck as he spoke, every word scalding his skin. “Yes. And believe me, the revenge I intend to take on you will not be swift. I will hold you hostage with the very tension that tormented me for weeks, and only when you’re desperate for relief will I deliver you. That’s a soldier’s promise.” 

Adam’s grip on the man’s arms tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut. He was so hot that his hands were slick with sweat and he could barely swallow, let alone speak. He nodded instead.

Yes. Yes, God yes.

Gaston’s demeanor abruptly shifted and he snorted in amusement. “For a man with no experience, you are remarkably masochistic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you swoon quite like this.” 

“I’m not swooning,” Adam managed to rasp and Gaston’s arms loosened enough for him to breathe properly again. 

“Mm. That’s far too innocent of a word, isn’t it? What happened to the angel I kissed in the cellar all those weeks ago?” Except Gaston didn’t sound particularly disappointed when he said it. “I would get a head start on my revenge now except I’ve had the great misfortune of being battered by at least two dozen books. And I’m bleeding.” 

“What? You’re bleeding?” Adam twisted in Gaston’s arms to get a better look at him. At first glance he didn’t see any evidence of wounds, just a lot of bare skin and muscle. “Where?” he demanded, willing himself not to get distracted. Gaston didn’t answer, and it wasn’t until Adam leaned over his shoulder that he saw the blood matting the man’s hair to the back of his head, staining his collar crimson. He swore. Loudly.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Gaston assured him with a wince. “Head injuries always bleed like the devil.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Any lingering heat in Adam’s body had cooled beneath his mounting concern.

“Because we were having fun,” the other man said with a shrug and a guilty smile. “I knew blood would ruin it.”

“Gaston,” Adam sighed, exasperated and worried and maybe a little charmed. A little. “We need to get you out of here. You’re bleeding on some of the rarest and most valuable books in the country!”

This made the other man adopt an injured expression. “Are the books what you care about? Not the man who heroically rescued you from the jaws of the beast?” 

Adam ignored him and moved to inspect the door. Gaston was forced to stumble after him with his hand locked around his wrist. “I would expect that from Belle, but not from you, the man who quite literally holds my heart—”

“Truly, I am very grateful,” Adam interrupted quickly. He’d already had to endure Gaston’s suggestive threats. He couldn’t withstand a confession as well. “Now stop whining and help me open this door so we can get you some medical supplies.”

Chapter 37: Gaston

Half an hour and one painful procession through the castle corridors later and Gaston was lying flat on his stomach with Adam’s hands in his hair, talking him through a series of instructions that weren’t nearly as fun as he wanted them to be. 

“Is the wound greater than half-an-inch in length?” he asked from his prone position on one of the infirmary cots. 

Adam’s careful fingers combed through Gaston’s hair to get a better look at his head wound. They’d washed out as much of the blood as they could first, but judging by the other man’s hesitation, he was still having trouble seeing. “It’s pretty long,” he said at last, the words tinged with worry.

“How long is long to you, chaton?” Gaston replied in an attempt to lighten the mood. He was disappointed when Adam didn’t laugh. If only Belle was here. She would’ve gotten a kick out of that joke—or at least complained about it, which was frankly just as gratifying.

When Adam did respond, it was in a very convincing deadpan. “You saw for yourself tonight. Do you want to show me yours for comparison?” Gaston snorted a surprised laugh and the other man continued with a sniff. “Surely you didn’t behave like this when you were injured during the wars.”

Gaston shrugged, then immediately regretted it. If the blooming bruises along his arms was any indicator, he could only imagine the state his back and shoulders were in. Indeed, Adam seemed to be taking extra care not to touch him anywhere but instructed. It was all wildly unfair. They’d been alone together. In a room no one could find. Undressed. Gaston’s magic had been very clear about what it wanted, and now that he knew it only wanted what Adam himself wanted, he’d had no reservations about acting on it. No reservations except for the bruises and the blood, that is. 

“A little humor goes a long way when your comrades are getting their legs sawed off in the tent next to yours,” he replied with a grimace. 

Adam met this response with a long-suffering sigh. “It’s truly infuriating how difficult it is to dislike you.” He lifted the damp cloth to wipe away more blood, which meant the wound was still freshly bleeding (not a good sign), and Gaston bit down on his tongue to suppress a grunt of pain. “You’ve managed to turn your objectionable behavior into a tool to help others. You must know you’re doing it,” he added, and Gaston didn’t like the fondness evident in those words. He couldn’t have Adam believing he was a saint. He would only let him down eventually, and then where would that leave them? 

“Don’t think too highly of me,” he grumbled. “I once bedded a steward who was supposed to be in the tent over performing an amputation. The man waiting on us definitely didn’t think I was helpful.” 

“Is the medical solution for everything in war to cut limbs off?” Adam asked in an exasperated kind of horror.

“Better to cut off a bad limb than lose the whole damn tree.” Gaston hissed in pain as Adam applied pressure to the head wound. 

“I’m sure the steward appreciated the distraction,” Adam continued more softly. “A moment of pleasure when you witness so much pain day in and day out must’ve been a rare and welcome thing.” 

Which was true, even truer than Adam likely realized. The steward had confessed that he’d seen enough mutilated bodies that he no longer reacted in horror, and if he could look into the eyes of atrocity without flinching, what did that make him? 

“A survivor. One who needs to be reminded of why this hell is worth surviving.” 

“Is anything worth surviving this?” 

Gaston remembered the flat look in the other man’s eyes. He’d recognized it immediately. It was a feeling he’d felt himself many, many times. “I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know that there are very few men who deserve to exist only in pain, and you are certainly not one of them.” 

Most of his encounters were gratifying in some way, but that one had been particularly rewarding. Was sex the solution to life’s greatest injustices? No. But did glimpsing something brighter in that man’s hollow expression, even for a moment, mean something? Yes. In a place so stained with pain and grief, it had meant everything.

Gaston had promised the man afterward that they would do it again if they survived the night. It was another joke. Another piss poor attempt to cheer them both up. Little did he know that no one would survive that night. No one except for him. How many nights after had Gaston lay awake in his bed wondering why God had spared his life when there were others like that man who were undoubtedly more worthy? 

But it hadn’t been God. Not his father’s God, anyway. It’d been a faerie goddess’s magic, magic that lived mostly dormant in his veins, magic he’d forgotten about because a faerie queen believed her life was more valuable than his, more valuable than Adam and all of the people here.

Unlike the steward and Gaston himself, Adam had no memory of a life without suffering. For ten years he’d believed that his fate and the fate of his friends was his fault. He’d told him before that the only reason he’d continued living was because he believed he owed it to the others to break the curse. 

There are very few men who deserve to exist only in pain.

Gaston had never relished killing. Even the men who slaughtered his comrades on a battlefield were only operating under orders. He could hardly fault them for surviving in a game of “kill or be killed.” But this Moral faerie queen had lived five-hundred years. Her gods were quite literally calling her to the grave, and instead of obeying their orders, she stole ten years of a man’s life who had only lived twenty-seven. Then she stole his memory of the rest as well. 

Gaston had never relished killing. Until now. 

“How long do I need to apply pressure?” Adam asked, bringing Gaston out of his dazed and half-delirious thoughts.

“Bit longer,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Can you tell if it’s still bleeding freely?” 

“It is.” 

Gaston swore under his breath. He really hadn’t thought he’d hit his head that hard. The bindings on those books were leather! 

“What does that mean?” Adam asked more worriedly.

“It means pressure likely isn’t going to be enough. How good are you at sewing?” 

“Sewing? As in. . .” Adam’s words trailed off as apparent realization struck him. “Oh God. I don’t think I could even thread a needle.” 

Gaston noted the edge of panic in the man’s voice. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Go find Belle. She’s sewn up my pockets before. This can’t be too much different.” 

Adam made a sound that was half-laugh and half-cry. “You’re using humor so I stay calm.” 

“I would prefer to stay calm as well,” Gaston replied honestly. Then, after a short pause, “Adam, I can’t die, remember?” 

Gaston had survived before. He would survive this as well. Apparently he had little choice in the matter, a fact that might be comforting except he didn’t actually know how the magic worked. Maybe he would die, but the faerie goddess of mortality would send his sorry soul back to earth to be reborn. Or maybe he would only experience the pain of death without the deliverance of it.

“I know but. . .” Adam removed the cloth from the back of his head. “Magic. Of course! Your magic healed me yesterday. Maybe it can heal you if I ask it to.”

Gaston hadn’t realized just how much pain he’d been in until Adam was no longer applying pressure to his wound. He could feel more blood trickling down his scalp as he spoke. “My magic doesn’t care about me very much. It only cares about what you want.”

“And what I want right now is for this wound to heal.” Adam appeared far more confident about this plan than Gaston thought he should be. Adam helped him sit up and then stood directly in front of him, his solemn gray-blue eyes even graver than usual. 

“I’m pretty weak, chaton. I don’t know if it will respond to you.” He was exhausted from pain and blood loss. Surely his magic wouldn’t perform at full potential when he was half-dead. 

“Your magic will do what I want no matter how tired you are or how much your body might not want it to.” 

And before Gaston could argue that point, he felt an answering hum of agreement in his ears, a soft whine that grew louder the longer Adam studied him.

It was unbelievable. 

Adam reached out and took Gaston’s chin in one slender hand, holding it in place so that he couldn’t look away. “Are you going to do what I tell you?” 

And even though Gaston knew he was talking to his magic—not to him—he caught himself nodding anyway. Adam’s grip on his chin tightened and Gaston’s magic buzzed more persistently beneath his skin, even as he physically felt too weak to even stay sitting upright. 

“That’s better,” Adam said in solemn approval. There wasn’t a trace of coy playfulness or smug satisfaction behind that expression, and for some reason, that only made Gaston’s cheeks burn even hotter. 

Only a man who wielded authority as naturally as Adam could make him blush. Gaston could count on a single hand the number of those he’d met. He didn’t need to count how many of those he’d bedded—the number was the same. 

“I want you to heal him,” Adam ordered, and Gaston flinched when the back of his head began to burn. He squeezed his eyes shut against the searing pain and momentarily lost control of his breath. It came in short, labored pants. 

“Easy.” Adam let go of his chin to brush a cool hand along his cheek. “He’s been in enough pain tonight. I don’t want to see him in any more.”

Gaston nodded again, agreeing without question that whatever amount of pain Adam decided he should or shouldn’t feel was the exact right amount. The burning sensation dulled, as did the pain from the bruises and his swollen ankles. He sagged in relief and Adam moved to sit next to him on the cot so that he could lean against him. 

“That’s it,” Adam said from where Gaston’s head had dropped onto one of his shoulders. “Much better.” He carefully brushed away strands of hair that were sticking to Gaston’s slick cheeks and forehead. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke as Gaston fought to catch his breath. “Well,” he rasped at last, “this proves nothing will keep my magic from giving you what you want.”

“You don’t seem particularly unhappy about that,” Adam observed. “I was afraid you might resent me for it.” 

Gaston snorted. “Resent? Order my magic to make me crawl at your feet, chaton, and I promise I will be exactly where I want to be.” 

It was Adam’s turn to be flustered. Of course he was. How would he know what Gaston preferred? They’d never discussed it. And he didn’t dislike being the one making the demands. He’d had fun in the library room. He would just like it more if Adam’s cool commands were threatening him instead.

“You can’t be serious. What happened to the Gaston who promised revenge an hour ago?” Adam demanded, apparently following the same train of thought. “You hate being ordered around.”

“I do hate it.” Gaston’s eyes were drooping. “My father put me in the army because he thought it would fix my disobedience.” He grinned ironically. “Needless to say that didn’t work.”

“Exactly!” Adam hissed. Exasperated. “And you expect me to believe that you want me to use your magic over you now?”

“Desperately,” Gaston sighed in affirmative. He was losing his battle with exhaustion. The man’s words seemed to be drifting from farther and farther away. 

“That can’t be healthy.”

Gaston hummed. “About as healthy as a man in a cage desiring a hand around his throat and threats of further punishment in his ear.”

Adam didn’t try to deny it. Instead he sat in silence for a long moment. Finally he said, so softly that Gaston’s drifting attention almost missed it, “why does desire sit so close to resentment?”

“Resentment is a product of anger and fear, chaton, both of which are forms of arousal. Why shouldn’t they sit next to desire in the mind and body?”

“But there’s no pleasure in anger or fear.”

Gaston sighed. He was too tired to be having an existential discussion with Adam about sex. “Arousal isn’t the same as pleasure. If you thought my hand would actually choke you, you wouldn’t desire it. You experienced the arousal of fear and the pleasure of knowing you didn’t need to be afraid.”

“So desire sits with fear and anger, but pleasure sits with safety,” Adam said more slowly. “That. . .explains a lot, actually.”

It really was that simple. Amazing that there were men ten times more experienced than Adam was who still couldn’t figure it out. 

“Which means,” Adam added with more confidence, “you want me to command you with magic because you feel safe in knowing I won’t misuse it. That’s why it’s pleasurable.”

“Yes, fine, but talking about it like this is way less sexy,” Gaston muttered. 

“Less arousing,” Adam corrected rather smugly. “But still pleasurable. You can experience pleasure without arousal. The two aren’t even sitting next to each other.”

Gaston made a pained noise. Was he doomed to be outsmarted by his friends forever? 

“For now my only order is for you to rest,” Adam added, leaning back to help Gaston stretch out on the cot again. 

“Also not sexy,” he slurred drowsily.

“Rest,” Adam commanded, and he must’ve taken the tunic Gaston lent him off because he draped it awkwardly over his bare torso. Gaston couldn’t even pry his eyes open enough to catch another glimpse of him in confirmation. 

“I’m going to wake the others. I’ll check on you in a few hours,” Adam promised.

But Gaston was already asleep.

Chapter 38: Adam

“Belle, can I ask you a more personal question?” 

They were both sitting in the infirmary, Adam on the cot next to Gaston leaning awkwardly against one of his legs (his beast form didn’t stop encroaching on his mind just because the other man was unconscious), and Belle on one of the chairs she dug out of a closet in the corner. 

They’d just finished replacing the books in the secret library room when Adam signaled the need for a break. The woman had been reluctant to leave and expressed displeasure that he hadn’t shown her the room sooner. 

“There are valuable books in here,” Adam had attempted to explain, “but they aren’t going to tell us anything about faeries or curses. They’re records. Most of them are documents of who the king has paid and for what. Books with maps of trade routes that the crown might not want others to know. That kind of thing.” 

Only after Belle flipped through some of them herself had she grudgingly conceded. “I still think it would be worth a closer inspection.”

Now she was examining Gaston’s condition from her seat, noting the myriad of bruises along his chest and shoulders with grim concern. Adam had used his magic to heal him, but evidently even magic had limits. The bruises weren’t as dark and swollen as they’d been before, but they were still very much present, and the wound on his head had stopped bleeding but still left an unpleasant-looking scratch. It was better than the gaping gash Adam had been trying to treat before. He hadn’t seen that much blood in his remembered life, and Gaston still somehow managed to maintain a sense of humor. 

“We’re friends,” Belle replied. “You don’t have to ask to ask questions once you’re friends with someone.”

Adam nodded. “I know. It’s just. . . well, it’s about sexuality. Again.” 

Belle crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “I knew it!” Something happened before the beast attacked you last night.”

Adam shook his head. “No.” Then, “well, sort of, but I wanted to ask about you, actually.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes. Your relationship to sex is different, and I have a question about it if you don’t mind me asking.”

Belle uncrossed her arms and straightened in her chair. “Are you worried you’re like me? Because I really don’t think you are.”

Adam blinked in surprise. “No! I mean,” he sighed, realizing the vehemence of that answer might be offensive, “will you just let me ask you the question?”

The woman looked like she had more she wanted to say, but pressed her lips into a line and nodded once. 

“Before Gaston fell asleep,” he continued more quietly, “we were discussing desire, and I asked him why I want things from him that seem. . . um. . .” Concerning? Unhealthy? He looked beseechingly at Belle, but the woman didn’t seem to be following. 

“Things that seem what?” she prompted. 

“Sort of. . . violent?” Belle was clearly lost, and Adam decided to push past that part of the question. “Gaston explained how desire is another form of arousal, similar to anger and fear, and when I pointed out that anger and fear aren’t pleasurable, he told me pleasure doesn’t sit with desire. It sits with familiarity and safety. Like trust.” 

Belle’s brow rose. Surprised, perhaps even more surprised than he’d anticipated. “Gaston told you that?” 

Adam nodded. “From that point, I concluded that desire can be sort of--I don’t know, boosted?--with fear or anger, but the pleasure doesn’t come from that arousal at all. It comes from the feeling of security that exists within it. I was curious if you agreed with him, and if you did, if it was the pleasure you didn’t experience or just the arousal part.” 

For a long moment, the woman didn’t answer. Her dark eyes bored holes through his and her lips pressed together into a line so thin they disappeared into her face. When she did finally speak, it wasn’t what he expected her to say. 

“Oh, when that man wakes up, I am going to gouge his eyes out!” She abruptly pushed herself to her feet and marched to the front of Gaston’s cot, squinting into his sleeping face like she was considering the best method for said gouging. 

“W-what’s wrong?” Adam stammered, bewildered and more than a little concerned. He’d never seen Belle so furious with the man before--and he wasn’t even awake! “Why are you upset?”

“Why am I upset?” She glared up at him while jabbing a finger down at Gaston, narrowly avoiding clipping the man’s nose. “Because this asshole has been parading around France convincing everyone that he’s a no-good, cheating, selfish, licentious villain whose only goal in life is to bed as many men as he can before he dies from alcohol poisoning!” 

Adam gaped at her. He still didn’t understand. Wasn’t it a good thing that Gaston wasn’t a villain? 

“I thought he just didn’t see how good he truly was,” Belle continued angrily, “that his trauma made him this tragically misunderstood hero. But no. He fucking knows. He’s known this whole time!” She leaned down to stare murderously into the man’s sleeping face. “I’m demanding an explanation the moment you wake up. You just better hope you can get the words out before I strangle you first!” 

“Belle,” Adam squeaked in protest. 

“Don’t ‘Belle’ me,” she snapped. “Gaston is ten times the man he says he is. He parades around playing the part of some debauched philanderer because he’s scared of accountability. He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s as good as he truly is or as intelligent as he truly is because then they might expect him to behave and he would no longer get away with his bullshit.” 

Adam finally understood what her reaction was truly about. “You didn’t know,” he said with a low whistle. He doubted there were very few things Gaston knew that Belle didn’t, and clearly the woman didn’t like it when he did.

She threw her arms in the air, which was evidence that she agreed. “It’s my sexuality! It’s my experience! He shouldn’t understand it--he’s never not wanted sex a day in his life. Granted, he never made me feel ashamed of it, but he never told me he knew. . .” She stopped, made a noise of frustration, and then stalked back to her chair.

“So it’s an accurate assessment,” Adam ventured with more amusement. “It’s the arousal you aren’t experiencing.” 

“Oh,” Belle sighed as she sat down. Deflated. “I experience it. Just not very often, and not without feeling deeply uncomfortable. And never for men.”

Adam thought of the seductive, skin-prickling arousal he felt in the library room. He could summon with vivid detail the way Gaston’s calloused fingers felt at his throat, the heat of his breath in his ear, the suggestive danger curling the edges of his words. It was possessive, predatory, and decidedly masculine. Adam had absolutely enjoyed it. He wanted to enjoy it again. Soon. 

“I don’t know what that’s like,” he admitted, “but I also don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. People can experience pleasure without arousal. We do it all the time. You don’t need desire to feel loved or even sexually gratified, if that’s something you ever want.” 

Belle hesitated for a moment before offering him a small, grateful smile. “You are an angel among men, Adam. Truly.” 

Embarrassed by the compliment, he looked away, his eyes lingering instead on Gaston’s bare chest that his draped tunic did a poor job of disguising. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

“God,” Belle sighed when the silence had stretched long enough, “that bastard must be incredible in bed.”

Adam made a noise of surprise and nearly fell off the side of the cot in his haste to not be caught staring—or even sitting—too close to Gaston. “What?” he demanded once he’d composed himself.

Belle rolled her eyes at his admittedly overdramatic reaction. “I mean,” she continued rather unhappily, “I always assumed he was. He wouldn’t have so many partners if he wasn’t.” She waved a dismissive hand. “But clearly he knows more than just what works and how to execute it. He knows why it works. He understands people in ways I don’t think I ever will, and not just because of abstinence.” 

Adam considered this point. He wasn’t sure if he agreed. A man who knew what worked in bed and a man who knew why it worked would make the same choices in the end, wouldn’t they? After all, sex was fairly straightforward from a mechanical perspective. Surely it couldn’t be that different from one person to another--as long as they knew enough about what went where and how. Then again, he’d only recently found the time to research it.

“Don’t tell him I said any of this,” Belle interrupted his spiraling thoughts sternly. “It will go straight to his head.” 

“I won’t,” Adam agreed distractedly. 

Then, “are you going to try him out for yourself?” Belle’s lips twisted into a smirk. 

“Try him out?” Adam repeated in disbelief. “He isn’t a horse!”

“I do believe riding a horse is a common euphemism,” Belle replied through a fit of laughter. 

Adam’s cheeks were definitely burning now, and he was grateful Belle couldn’t see it. “I think he’s going to try me out, and I have no memory of riding horses. I won’t know what to do.”

“A horse doesn’t know how to carry a rider in the beginning,” she pointed out. “It just gets strapped to a saddle and does what it’s trained to do.”

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Belle, this euphemism is making me uncomfortable now.” 

The woman laughed again. “Well, I would tell you to report back, except I don’t actually want to know.” She stood from the chair and stretched. “Now I’m getting hungry, and I heard Mrs. Potts say soup is on the menu for dinner.” 

Adam ate his meal with the others (he had to sip the soup instead of using a spoon in his beast form), but food and flatware entertainment wasn’t enough to distract him from the man still asleep in the infirmary. 

After dinner, he, Belle, and several of the larger members of the castle staff were able to wake Gaston for long enough to force him to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup before they half-dragged him up the steps to the west wing. No one questioned Adam when he instructed them to help the other man into his bed. Gaston himself had only been half-awake during the climb and fell immediately back into an exhausted slumber. 

Adam pulled the washbasin next to the bed so he could bathe while maintaining contact with one of Gaston’s arms. The relief of only needing to wash a head of hair, even hair that was as long and wild as his, instead of fur convinced Adam that any awkwardness he might feel bathing with Gaston present would be worth it. 

Freshly clean and feeling more human than he had in recent memory, he crawled into bed and curled up against the other man’s side. Gaston was warm and solid and there, which meant Adam could fall asleep without the threat of his beast form. He matched his breath to the cadence of Gaston’s, which was slow and heavy with sleep, and was out within minutes. 

He didn’t know how long he slept before he was jostled unexpectedly awake, only that the sky through his window was too dark to be anywhere near sunrise and his mind was slow to emerge from the depths of dreaming. He could just make out Gaston’s profile. He was sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. 

“Something wrong?” Adam asked, his voice still thick with sleep. 

“This itches like the devil,” Gaston grumbled. “How the hell did I get here?”

Adam cleared his throat to try to sound more awake. He didn’t think it helped much. “We woke you up. You don’t remember?” 

“Maybe. I don’t know, I was so goddamned tired.”

Adam nodded. “You slept all day. How do you feel now?”

Gaston didn’t answer immediately. Evidently the question required thought. “Better,” he said at last. Surprised. “A lot better.”

Adam leaned back against the pillows and sighed. “I’m glad.”

He waited for Gaston to lie down as well. Instead the man turned to study him from his sitting position. His eyes were inky in the near-darkness as they roved across his face and lingered a hair too long on his lips. “We’re in the west wing.”

“Yes.” Adam was still groggy with drowsiness and slow to anticipate the motive behind the question. 

“No sentient dressers or curtains or anything else,” Gaston pressed.

Adam shook his head. “I don’t let anyone else stay up here with me in case I lose control of my beast form and hurt—” The rest of his sentence was cut off by a yelp of surprise when Gaston grasped him by the shoulders with both hands and pushed him firmly onto his back, pinning him to the mattress. He shifted his weight above him and Adam was suddenly very, very awake.

“Here is how this is going to go,” Gaston hissed into his ear. “I know everything you want, and I will use it to make you feel even a fraction of the torment I’ve endured over the last three months. I don’t care how inexperienced you are. You are going to learn the hard way.”

Adam shivered—in anticipation or fear he didn’t think it mattered—and Gaston let him stay in that suspense for several agonizing moments before adding, much more softly, “anytime, chaton. Tell me to stop anytime.” Then he pressed his lips down along his neck, his motion there deliberately slow. 

Threaten me all you like,” Adam said, because Gaston was clearly expecting him to push back. “Your magic will make you give me what I want the moment I want it.” And if the man’s magic wasn’t already circling in the air between them, it was positively vibrating now. 

Adam swallowed hard against a sudden flutter of apprehension. He wished he’d managed to sound sexier. Instead he’d said it like a man observing the weather; confident, certainly, but too matter-of-fact. There should be more coyness in his tone—he was certain of it. But Adam had never been coy in his life. He wasn’t sure he could even fake it without sounding painfully forced.

But that apprehension didn’t last long. Gaston clearly wasn’t disappointed. He made a pleased hum and shifted his position so that one of his knees was between both of Adam’s, hardening against his upper thigh. When Gaston kissed him again it was against his mouth, and his lips were so heavy with desire that Adam reached down to grasp the covers into a fist. 

Gaston’s hands had already undone the front of his tunic, his fingers tracing teasing patterns across his chest before lowering along his hip. Adam didn’t know when he’d started undressing him—too transfixed by the man’s mouth and the feeling of his body pressing insistently against his.

  “Touch me,” Adam sighed now, the edge of a plea to the words. 

“What if I don’t want to?” the other man teased, his fingers tracing the space between the waist of his trousers and his bellybutton. Taunting.

“I want you to,” Adam said, and this time he directed the command at the man’s magic as well. 

Gaston sucked in a breath. His jaw tightened as he battled to ignore the order. Watching him try to resist was making Adam’s body burn so hot he could feel sweat gathering at his temples. Gaston had been right, of course. Knowing that he wanted the same things Adam wanted made witnessing his failing resistance desperately arousing. 

“Now,” Adam pushed after this torment had gone on long enough. His tone was still too stiff; less like a lover and more like a military commander. When Gaston still didn’t respond, he wondered if he was misreading him after all. “Unless you don’t want to,” he added quickly. Suddenly guilty.

“Keep ordering me like this, mon cœur,” Gaston said through gritted teeth, “and I fear you’re going to make very short work of me.” 

Adam relaxed. Sighed. “I want you to touch me regardless of your attempts to resist.”

They were the magic words—quite literally. If Adam was less happily occupied, he might’ve considered their implication. The only way he could entirely override the man’s agency was if he wanted to override it. 

But he wasn’t thinking about the implication of anything beyond Gaston’s hand that was sliding beneath the band of his trousers. The man’s hands could make both art and war, and in that moment Adam didn’t know if he wanted to be held like a brush or a blade. 

Gaston made the decision for him. 

“Am I finishing you like this, then?” he asked softly as Adam’s breath grew shorter and shorter and he could no longer disguise his gasps of pleasure. “Because if I am, you’ll have to use my magic against me again. I wanted to make you wait at least one more night and I had other methods in mind for how to do it.”

“Do not stop,” Adam choked. The very idea caused a surge of panic to roll through him. He’d never been touched in his human form before, not even by himself (it wasn’t like he’d had the opportunity to masturbate with Gaston around). He wanted to know if it felt different than in his beast form. He had to know. He was concerned it might physically hurt him if he didn’t. 

But Gaston did stop, the bastard, and Adam locked a hand around his wrist—as if he could physically keep him there, as if he was any match for the other man’s strength. 

Gaston seemed to like it anyway. He sat up so that he was leaning against the wood of the bed and pulled Adam into his lap with his back against his chest, working his trousers further down his hips as he did so. “Go on, then,” he taunted. “Tell my magic what you want. Tell it that I can’t refuse.”

“I want to keep going,” Adam stammered. Begged, really. 

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be a lot more specific if you want to coerce me.” One of Gaston’s arms had locked around his torso, holding Adam in place against him, and he pressed his face into his hair near his ear. “Go on.”

“I want. . .” But Gaston’s hand was around him again and he faltered. “I need. . . Dammit, do I need to use your magic every time?” he snapped in real frustration. 

The other man laughed, and Adam could feel it against his back, warm and low and unfairly attractive. “Of course not.” He pressed a kiss to the side of Adam’s forehead before settling into the task willingly. 

Adam tried to stay in place in the beginning, but the closer Gaston brought him to the end, the more his hips bucked and his hands pushed uselessly against the arm that formed a vice against his chest. Gaston wasn’t at all deterred by his thrashing. He kept working him in his hand, murmuring promises that would’ve scandalized a much more experienced man than Adam. 

The release came, not with fire, but with the ease and bliss of a dip into cool waters. Adam had felt as if he’d been burning alive from the inside out, and his relief was so intense he could’ve cried. He may have cried for all he knew. If he had, Gaston must not have allowed the tears to fall. 

Perhaps it was the soft strength of the man’s arms around him, the soothing swell of his breath against his back, or the way his words had shifted from desirous to doting, but Adam eventually felt brave enough to offer a returning gesture. 

“It’s alright, mon cœur,” Gaston sighed once they’d finished cleaning up. “I want your first time to be about you, not me.”

Adam was tucked snugly under the man’s arm and his night of interrupted sleep was beginning to catch up with him. He fought it anyway. “That was about me. Now it’s your turn. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

Gaston snorted. “It’s very fair. Do you know how many more opportunities I’ve had to indulge myself while you’ve been trapped here? I would prefer to focus on getting you caught up.”

“This is part of me getting ‘caught up,’” Adam argued stubbornly. He wasn’t sure why Gaston was so against this. “Is it because I won’t be good at it?”

It seemed like the most likely explanation. Adam knew he wouldn’t be good at it. Not at first, anyway. But he could never learn if he didn’t try, and he wanted to get this stage out of the way as quickly as possible. He might not be knowledgeable about sex, but he’d always been a fast learner regardless of the subject.

“I told you,” Gaston sighed, “you can’t do anything I wouldn’t like. You could spit on me and I would use it to jerk off while you walked away.”

Well that seemed like a bit of an exaggeration. “I don’t want to spit on you.”

“Are you sure? What if I want you to?”

“Gaston,” he protested with a groan.

The man shifted position so he could better evaluate his face through the darkness. “Adam, I’m not going to ask you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. We have time. There’s no rush.”

“We don’t have time,” Adam argued, “and I wouldn’t offer if I was uncomfortable.”

“Is this really so important to you?” It was a genuine question, not one made in disapproval or bitterness.

“Is your pleasure important to me?” Adam restated the question pointedly. “Is touching you important to me? Is hearing my name on your lips when you finish important to me?” Gaston didn’t respond, and so Adam huffed. “I don’t know, it seemed pretty important to you a few minutes ago. Why would I want anything different?”

Gaston still didn’t answer. Instead he wordlessly took one of Adam’s hands and lifted it to his lips, pressing it there for a moment longer than necessary before gently guiding him down the front of his body. Adam let his fingers trail along the bare skin of his chest and abdomen, feeling the occasional transition between soft skin and scars. Adam pressed closer, vying for a better angle, and Gaston let go of his wrist to cup his face instead, threading his fingers back into his hair. 

“Shall I walk you through it?” he sighed, and Adam was satisfied to hear a hitch in the words the moment his fingers brushed him. 

He licked his lips. “Maybe next time. I want to try something first.” Gaston was so warm and still plenty stiff enough. Truly Adam didn’t know how the man would be able to sleep like this. He wondered if he’d planned to wait until he fell asleep before taking care of the matter on his own. The thought made him even more determined to continue. 

Gaston’s eyes fluttered closed. “You can try anything you want on me, chaton.” 

Adam took his time exploring, noting all the places where Gaston reacted positively, before finally speaking the command he’d planned to use since he first made his offer. “I want to see you finish.”

Gaston froze. He’d been tangling his hand in his hair with one hand and tracing his lips and chin with the thumb of the other. Now he opened his eyes. “Adam,” he whispered in disbelief and alarm. But the magic in the air was already responding, vibrating along Adam’s hand between the man’s legs. Gaston made a noise of surprise and his lips parted, color seeping into his cheeks even as he stayed entirely frozen in place. “My magic can’t. . .” His breath caught. “You can’t make me climax on command.” 

“You don’t think so?” Adam stroked his fingers up and Gaston flinched. He pressed his lips together, but not in time to tamp back a whimper of something caught between pain and pleasure. 

Oh, that sound was definitely important to him. It was even more important that he heard it again. 

“I want you to climax on command,” Adam repeated, borrowing the other man’s language just to prove a point. “And I want you to be unable to stop it.”

Another brush of his fingers, and Gaston’s magic delivered him exactly what he’d asked for.

Notes:

This story is not yet finished! I plan to update it as often as I can with a new chapter <3

If you enjoy retellings, I’ve also written a similar one that is completely finished for The Hunchback of Notre Dame you might like :)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/55019998/chapters/139482127