fic: Sub Rosa Part III
Sub Rosa
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Art Post
Inside the castle, the Beast was back in high spirits.
“This stuffy old hall is full of stuffy old portraits of stuffy old people,” he proclaimed, waving his hand majestically.
They were in one of the halls of paintings Beauty had seen the day before, though not the one with the lone young man. Row after row of stern faces looked scornfully down at them, and Beauty couldn’t help a small smile at the Beast’s casual dismissal.
“Who are they?” Beauty asked.
“Oh, they used to live here,” the Beast rumbled, coming to a halt in front of one of them.
“This man looks like the youth I kept seeing yesterday. They look remarkably alike, actually. Though this, um, this guy looks quite a bit older,” Beauty told him, peering at the painting. There was no inscription, no title, no artist’s name.
“Uh, you probably saw his son,” the Beast murmured thoughtfully. “He wasn’t a big part of the family. Shunned, I guess you could say.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well. You know. This guy wanted his son to marry some chick, but the son was like, No way, suck my, uh,” the Beast looked sideways at Beauty. “He said, No thank you. And then the dad was all, Listen, you’d better do it you little prick, and the son was like, Oh yeah? And the dad was like, Yeah. And the son was like, And what if I say no? And Dad was like, You’re a little piece of shit, a worthless, fucking unnatural piece of shit.”
The Beast, who’d been quite animated up until this point, slumped suddenly.
“And then what happened?” Beauty asked, curious.
When the Beast finally continued, it was in a dull monotone: a history lesson. “The son refused. And so the father locked him away, in a greenhouse of all places, for years and years. He was without human contact, without family, without friends.
“Until one day, the father died, and the mother let her son out of his prison, but it was too late. The intervening years had changed the spoiled boy, turned him into a horrible beast of a man. He was cruel, and unforgiving, and driven by rage and thoughts of revenge, and his mother soon died from the shame. His three sisters wept, and all three succumbed to their grief.
“The horrible young man didn’t care, driven only by his bitterness and rage. He ruled his servants and his people with an iron fist, and fucked his way, cruelly and brutally, through half the population.”
There was a deep silence as the Beast thought. He began to pace, face twisted in disgust, as Beauty leaned on the wall beside the father’s portrait and watched. “This next part is mostly speculation on my part, so you’ll have to excuse me. The young man’s people gathered together and decided they would rather live free from his tyranny, and so they scraped together enough money - not an easy task, as the taxes were ridiculously high - to buy the help of a witch. The witch met the young man as he rode on a hunting trip through the woods, and offered him a deal.
“The young man could either repent, and let his people live happy, prosperous lives, or else he would suffer the consequences. The stupid ass turned her down, and was never heard from again.”
“I suppose there’s a lesson to be learned from that,” Beauty said eventually.
The Beast burst out laughing at that, a great roaring growl that chuffed with his breath. Beauty smiled awkwardly and the Beast bent double, wiping at his eyes. “Oh man,” he said finally, straightening. “You could say that. Definitely. Now c’mon, I wanna show you something other than this damn hall of crusty old men.”
Beauty smiled and followed, nodding and looking thoughtful as the Beast pointed out interesting suits of armour or whatever, but his mind was busy with the Beast’s story.
:::
“See this banister?” the Beast asked later, pointing at a giant, three-storey-high, spiral staircase. It was the largest Beauty had ever seen, easily wide enough to fit a dozen people side-by-side, and it was hard to miss.
“Okay, so, when I was hu-” the Beast cut himself off, and continued, “when I was a lot younger, I’d slide down that thing twenty times a day. Good exercise, y’know, running up all those stairs.”
“I used to slide down the banister at my old house,” Beauty told him, wondering what it was that the Beast had been going to say. “Until I got too big, anyway.”
“I bet you’re not too big for this one,” the Beast said, eagerly. “We’ll totally fling ourselves down it, but some other time, okay? Cuz the cabinets always get pissed at me when I do things I shouldn’t, especially when I’m wearing white.” He somehow managed to look remarkably sheepish, ears flattened to his head.
“Um,” Beauty said, for the ‘gazillionth’ time that day. He wasn’t used to being constantly stuck silent, and resolved to get used to this strange way of talking as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t do to be constantly shown up in conversations with beasts that looked like they shouldn’t be talking in the first place. “I don’t suppose you’ve a library?”
“A library?” the Beast cocked his head. “Sure we’ve got a library! You like reading?”
“Yeah,” Beauty mumbled, trying it out.
The Beast beamed at him, which put his teeth on full display. “Cool. I’ll show you.”
They set off, the Beast’s claws clicking on the floors. “I’m making an effort,” he said, pointing at them. Beauty smiled, and realized quite suddenly that for a gigantic, horrible, terrifying creature, the Beast wasn’t actually so bad. A little weird, yes, but he supposed living in a castle with only angry cabinets and silent roses for company would do that to you.
:::
The library was enough by itself to ensure that Beauty would be, if not happy in this place, at least content.
It was gigantic, easily one hundred times the size of the library in the city, with books crammed tight on every shelf. It was two storeys high, with ornate staircases leading to the second floor. Little rolling ladders were placed throughout, making the higher shelves more accessible. The fireplace had roared into flame as soon as they’d walked in, along with a multitude of wall-set torches, so that the room was lit with an cheerful light. Large armchairs and overstuffed couches were arranged in groups in front of the fire, and Beauty decided he would be spending a lot of time in this room.
The Beast, Beauty noticed, had found a shadow and was staying there, watching him with his darkly unreadable eyes.
“It’s wonderful,” Beauty said lowly, feeling as if he ought to say something.
“I guess,” the Beast muttered. “I’m not much of a reader.”
“Why not?” Beauty asked, ready to leap to the defence of reading as a valuable pastime if his host slandered it in the least.
Instead, the Beast held up his hands and wiggled his fingers, claws clicking together. “It’s incredibly frustrating to try and turn the pages. Plus, I’m maybe kind of nearsighted, and reading hurts my eyeballs. Maybe.”
“Oh,” Beauty said, taken aback. “You know how to read, then?”
“I did leave you a note yesterday,” the Beast said, a little testily.
Beauty blushed. “I’d forgotten.”
“Hm,” the Beast was noncommittal.
Beauty thought fast, trying for something to say as apology. “I could read to you, if you want,” he offered eventually. “Out loud.”
The Beast stared at him from the shadows, eyes narrowed. “All right,” he answered slowly. “Right now?”
“Well,” Beauty started, and was interrupted by his stomach growling angrily. The Beast’s ears flicked forward and he grinned.
“How ’bout dinner instead?” the Beast said jovially.
“That sounds lovely,” Beauty replied, and meant every word.
:::
“Good evening, Beauty,” the Beast said, giving an ironic bow, ears twitching in amusement.
“Good evening, Beast,” Beauty replied, bowing back flamboyantly.
“Why don’t you sit back, relax, let me pull up a chair,” the Beast grinned as they both sat down, “as the Dining Room proudly presents your dinner.” He swept a hand majestically to encompass the table.
Mouth watering, Beauty ate. They dined together every night from then on. Though that wasn’t really true, Beauty amended. He ate, and his host would mostly watch, a hungry glint in his eye. The Beast generally looked hungry, Beauty had noticed, whether they met in the halls or the gardens or the dining room. It seemed like he was constantly yearning for something, though what that could be Beauty had no idea.
He’d invited the Beast on more than one occasion to join him in eating, pointing out dishes that were especially delicious, trying to tempt him out of his self-imposed fasting. But the Beast almost always declined, looking flattered. “You might be able to forget what I am, Beauty,” he’d say, ignoring Beauty’s contemptuous frowns, “but watching me eat would definitely remind you.”
Beauty was sure that the constant menu of rich food should have made him as fat as a Christmas goose, and yet his body was almost as lean as it had ever been. He’d filled out, certainly, but his own critical eye, lacking a mirror, could find no hint of a wobble or roll. He attributed it to the amount of walking he was forced to do, strolling around the castle or its grounds, trying - and for the most part, failing - to keep pace with the Beast.
Beauty split his days between the castle grounds and the library. He would wander the gardens in the morning, stretching his legs and taking in the fresh air. Those rare days that it snowed, Beauty would spend as much time as he could outside, marvelling in how much he had changed that the feel of cold snow on his face could make him so happy.
He was particularly fond of the rose gardens and had often stumbled across the Beast wandering about - prowling really, inspecting the leaves, soil, and resident bug population. It quickly became habit for the pair to meet in the morning and roam the gardens at each others’ sides.
The first time the Beast had missed their morning walks, Beauty had been distressed and lonely enough to berate him for a full hour at dinner. The Beast had burst out laughing, the sound easing the unnamed, slippery knot in Beauty’s belly, and promised solemnly over a bowl of peas that he would never again miss their mornings.
:::
“Pass me that ribbon, will you?”
“Here.”
“You look lovely, Beast.”
“I look like a Yorkie, you ass.”
“Ah now, don’t frown. You’ll pull the braids in your beard out. And then it wouldn’t match the French braiding in your mane.”
“I hate you. And don’t bat your eyelashes at me. I know the true evil that lurks behind your ridiculously beautiful exterior.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, play with my hair some more, will you? Otherwise I’ll eat you, feet first.”
:::
For the first time since Beauty had come to live at the castle, the weather had been less than perfect. It was spring, and when he’d been with his family spring meant planting and storms. But here, the weather had been light and cloudless and cool, until today.
The day had been grey and cloudy, winds kicking up and plucking at his long coat as he’d walked across the grounds. The Beast had made himself scarce, and so Beauty had spent most of the day outside, relishing the change, the potential for a storm. He had been standing on the vast stretch of the back lawn, face tipped up to the swirling grey of the clouds, when a vague movement caught in the corner of his eye.
Beauty turned and saw the Beast. He was up on one on the towers, clinging to the stone face, high enough to be small. As Beauty watched, the Beast flung himself from the tower to the slanted roof of the main building, scrabbling a bit before regaining his balance.
Beauty stuttered a laugh, more surprised than anything, and set off towards the castle at a run.
As he ran, the Beast galloped across the roof, stopped dead and turned, tail twitching crazily. He was barrelling back the way he came when Beauty darted inside the castle. He pelted across the hall, took the stairs three at a time, stopped to pant, and took off again.
Beauty burst out onto the roof, sweaty and laughing still, in time to see the Beast tear past.
“Beast!” he wheezed, put his hands on his knees, and tried to breath. The Beast, meanwhile, turned wide-eyed to stare and tripped over a shingle. He sprawled headfirst along the roof, smacking bodily into a gargoyle.
“Sonuva bitch,” he hollered, and flipped onto his back. “Where the hell did you come from? Holy shit.”
Beauty wiped tears from his eyes and staggered over to the heap of Beast on wobbly legs. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked, sinking down beside him.
“The weather makes me jumpy,” the Beast said, carefully testing his limbs. “I can’t be broody all the time, you know. Beasts quite enjoy stormy weather.”
“Apparently,” Beauty replied.
“Did you see me jump though? I mean, holy cow. I nailed it.”
“I saw you, all right. You leapt off the tower.” Which, now that Beauty was up here, looked scarily far.
“I saw you, too,” the Beast rumbled, smoothing his mane. “You were looking very emo out there.”
“I- What? Emo? I guess,” Beauty said, looking him over. “Your knees are all bloody, and your nose is skinned,” he pointed out, hovering his finger over the mangled mess of the Beast’s knees.
The Beast jerked away and stood, wincing. “Dude, don’t touch it. It’s fine. I’m tough.”
“Right,” Beauty rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Well, if you’re done with your leaping and bounding, I’ll take a look at your war wounds and patch them up.”
“One more jump, okay? Then you can play nursemaid.”
“Well, be careful,” Beauty said.
The Beast shot him a toothy smirk and took off, racing on all fours along the roof, long legs stretching out and eating up the ground. At the very edge, he launched himself and Beauty couldn’t help wincing as he hung suspended for one breathless moment between safety and a horrible plunge to his death. And then he was clinging to the tower, claws spread wide and digging into the stone. He stayed there for a moment, Beauty watching carefully, and then flung himself back.
“Pretty awesome, huh?” he rumbled, trotting back.
“Pretty awesome,” Beauty agreed, and headed back inside, the triumphantly grinning Beast close on his heels.
:::
“All right, sit down,” Beauty said, gesturing at the rug in front of the fire. They were in the library, rain beating against the windows. The Beast threw himself down with a growl, tail lashing.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled.
“Oh, wow, don’t hide your true feelings,” Beauty said, picking up a bowl of warm water from where it was waiting on the mantle. There were bandages and a facecloth waiting with it, so he gathered them up as well. He could feel the weight of the Beast’s ever-hungry eyes on his back.
“I try not to,” the Beast said quietly.
Beauty hummed noncommittally and plunked his supplies down on the rug, dropped down beside them. The Beast was a massive dark presence beside him, gently poking at the raw skin on his nose.
“Don’t touch it,” Beauty said, slapping his hand away, “you’ll only irritate it.”
“I won’t,” the Beast sulked, pouting ridiculously. “You’re the irritating one.”
Beauty dipped the cloth in the basin and grabbed the Beast by his beard. “Now don’t struggle, or I’ll slip and accidentally take out one of your eyes,” he said, pulling the Beast closer. The Beast’s eyes were green and slightly crossed as he focused in on the washcloth. Beauty patted at the rubbed patch on his nose, and the Beast huffed out a low growl. “Easy now,” Beauty murmured. The Beast was warm under his hand, breath puffing across his face, teeth glinting in the firelight, and Beauty was struck with the fact that he had a beast by the beard, and giggled.
“Something funny about my pain?” the Beast asked, voice a low rumble.
“I thought you were tough,” Beauty said, pulling the cloth away. The Beast snorted as he cleaned it off and wrung it out. “Time for the knees,” he continued. “Pull up your pants.”
The Beast sighed and yanked them up, exposing the bloody tangles of his furry knees.
“Why do you wear pants anyway?” Beauty asked idly, trying to pull the fur away from the wound while the Beast winced and scowled.
“You’d prefer I walk around naked? Beauty, I had no idea,” the Beast said archly. “Ow, dammit, be careful.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Beauty told him. “And you’ve got fur, it’s not like anything would be showing.”
“That’s what you think,” the Beast said smugly, and howled when Beauty pressed particularly hard. “Christ, you sadist.”
“Almost done,” Beauty said, offering an angelic smile. He dropped the cloth back in the bowl and went to work winding the bandages around the knee.
“I can’t feel my foot,” the Beast grumbled, wiggling his toes.
“Hmm, I just realized I forgot to bandage your nose,” Beauty said. He grabbed the Beast’s beard and yanked him forward, wrapping his nose like a muzzle.
The Beast made a muffled sound and scowled, pulling the bandages off. “Very funny,” he groused, snapped his teeth in Beauty’s direction.
“Ooh, very scary,” Beauty said, grinning, and went in for the other knee.
The Beast made huffy noises, growled, showed his teeth, and threw his head back and howled while Beauty patched him up. Beauty just grinned and smacked him on the nose and rolled his eyes.
“All done,” Beauty said finally. “Good as new.”
“I somehow doubt that,” the Beast replied, eyeing his knees. “And you’re not done, you have to kiss it better.”
“Oh my god,” Beauty said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not kissing your knees.” Instead, he tackled the Beast in a bear hug, knocking over the bowl in the process. The Beast let out a soft woof as they toppled over, and squeezed him back. Beauty laughed, and burrowed his head in the soft fur of his mane, and felt the Beast relax under him.
“Beauty,” the Beast said, soft as a rose petal, and Beauty pulled back enough to see his face. His eyes were wide, freckled green and gold, as they took Beauty in, a smile playing over his sharp mouth.
“Beast,” Beauty answered, just as soft. The Beast’s grin widened, and his eyes darkened, and there came a clap of thunder loud enough to startle them apart. They stared at each other in the firelight until the Beast cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.
“Shall we go to dinner?” Beauty asked, quickly. He forced a smile.
“I guess we’d better,” the Beast said, and sighed.
:::
They were in the gardens one day, discussing the merits of pie versus cake, when the Beast turned abruptly. Beauty had stared up into his green, green eyes, a smile playing on his lips, sure he’d swayed him over to a deeper appreciation of Black Forest.
“Beauty,” the Beast said, suddenly serious. “There are rooms that you shouldn’t go in.” At Beauty’s sceptical expression, he continued, “The castle wouldn’t hurt you, and it’s doubtful that it will ever let you get near a room that would want to, but still. It’s best to be prepared, right?”
“What is in these rooms, then, that are so dangerous?” Beauty asked, curiosity piqued.
“They are all marked,” the Beast rumbled, looking away. To a patch of clover, he said, “You’ll know it when you see it. And I would ask that you don’t go in. They contain dangers that are beyond my control; things that would kill you if you let them.”
“I’ll be cautious,” Beauty told him, meaning nothing by it, and felt a pang at the Beast’s easy acceptance of his words, his quick, relieved smile.
They changed the subject, and the Beast watched closely, as always, while Beauty talked. They discussed many things, which is to say that Beauty discussed and the Beast made obscure references and bad jokes, but that night Beauty went to sleep with forbidden discoveries and perilous insights on his mind.
:::
It took him nearly a week to find one, a room that was marked. He’d had to be very firm with the castle, telling it off on more than one occasion, for steering him gently away from certain passages. And every morning it seemed that the layout had been scrambled, familiar rooms and landmarks rearranged so that he had to start fresh daily.
But now, Beauty was staring at a door that he felt sure was one that the Beast had warned him away from. The dark wood was marked with deep gouges, virtual channels dug in deep from raging claws. They ran nearly vertical with a slight diagonal angle to them, as if the Beast had drawn up to his full height and ripped the marks in almost to the floor. It certainly looked fearsome, but Beauty gave himself no time to reconsider, sure that the Beast was being alerted to his presence here even as he stood and deliberated.
Breath stuttering in his chest, heart thumping wildly, Beauty took a hold of the door - the very act of it disturbing, as it was the first door he’d opened since he’d left home - and shoved it open, wincing at the loudly protesting squeal of the hinges.
The room, as he stepped inside, remained dark. Like the rest of the castle, there was no noise, though there was an almost-feeling of life. Beauty’s breath caught, released in a huff, and he took a bare step further in. The door, no longer obstructed, swung shut with a muffled slam.
Beauty swung around, heart jumping into his throat. He settled into a crouch, hands shaking slightly in the deep gloom, and it was then that he heard the breathing. It was quiet, halting under the harsh speed of his own, coming from the other side of the room but drawing steadily closer.
Beauty pressed himself to the door, tugged futilely on the handle, banged on the thick wooden panels, shouted himself hoarse calling for the Beast. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, and in the meantime the breathing was getting louder, wetter, closer.
He swallowed convulsively, certain he could feel hot breath gusting over his throat. Quickly, he darted right, hit the wall and bounced off, one broad palm splayed over the wall as a guide. There was no sound from behind him, and Beauty stopped once he hit the corner. Slowly, the breathing changed, moved closer to the wall and started towards him again.
A dim light had been growing on the other side of the room, something Beauty hadn’t realized he’d been watching until it flared slightly, casting a sickly green film over the floor. Beauty stared at it, unsure if it was a godsend but fairly certain it wasn’t, when the decision was taken out of his hands.
Between one blink and the next, the light flared dully, brightening the room enough to nearly blind him after the darkness. Beauty threw an arm up over his eyes and so missed the light’s sudden swerve toward him. He did not miss the bolts of pains that swarmed over his body, liquid glass crawling through his veins as flashes of another’s life swam in front of his eyes.
A woman, coldly beautiful and glowing in the gloom, loomed up in front of him. “You, Dean, are completely unlovable,” she said, icy voice echoing weirdly. “Let your exterior match the disgusting state of your soul.” Agony ripped through him as her laugh faded into the darkness.
The bare reflection of the edge of a furred face, vaguely dark in a polished table, and then Beauty was bent double, retching around the unfamiliar curve of his teeth, hands clenched into claws on the carpet.
A scene of tranquility, a happy family frolicking through long grass while Beauty’s point of view crouched low, desperate not to be seen. He focused in on a young man, face split in a smile, and felt such a powerful wave of longing that it left him breathless.
Curled into a ball, surrounded only by darkness, hatred and self-loathing thick in the air, the feeling of a knife skating icy over his pulse, unable to follow through, sick and so alone.
His own face staring back at him, pathetically brave over a plate of pie, a pale smudge lit by fire. The hope that welled up, the relief that he couldn’t quite understand, the sheer terror of being faced with what he had been craving for years, dammit, years and years and years, what no decade in a damned greenhouse could cure him of-
“Sam.”
Beauty felt a massive hand grip his shoulder, pulling him up and out of the flashes, the pain, the room. He was gathered up, dry heaving, and with the sudden shock of the clean air from the hall he was gone, head lolling limply against a broad chest.
:::
Beauty woke up wrapped in his comforter, eyes bleary and sore. He’d been crying, he was pretty sure, and his head was pounding. Someone was combing his hair, smooth strokes soothing him.
“Faith?” he asked, voice raspy. Then his eyes focused, and he saw the Beast above him, face concerned. It was his hand in Beauty’s hair, claws gentle on his scalp. “Oh,” he said, “Beast.”
“Yes,” the Beast said, voice so quiet he felt it more than heard it. “How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts,” Beauty murmured. The Beast’s hand stilled. “Keep going,” Beauty urged, and sighed happily when he started back up. “What just happened?”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” the Beast told him. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“Yes, I’m okay,” Beauty said, settling deeper into the covers. “Sorry for scaring you.”
“I don’t know what I’d do,” the Beast said quietly, “if something happened to you.”
“Nothing’ll happen,” Beauty slurred, and fell asleep with the Beast’s fingers in his hair, his wild scent in his nose.
:::
The next day, they were in the library, exploring the mythology section and laughing over the antics of Tricksters.
“Oh, um,” the Beast said, suddenly switching gears. “I read something the other day. And I thought you’d like it.”
“Yeah?” Beauty prompted, looking up from Anthony Santos’ Myths of the Native Americans.
“The pearly treasures of the sea,” the Beast began, voice low and bourbon-smooth. “The lights that spatter heaven above, more precious than these wonders are, my heart-of-hearts filled with your love.”
“Wow,” Beauty said. “That was the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Right, that’s what I thought,” the Beast said, eyes firmly on the book in Beauty’s hand. He chomped his teeth a few times. “Oh look, Coyote versus Duck.”
:::
“So,” Beauty said over dinner about a week later, having finally summoned up the courage to ask. “What the hell was up with that room?”
The Beast paused from picking his teeth. “You mean the room that I expressly told you not to go in, but you went in anyway? And then nearly died? And I had to save you?”
“Um, yeah,” Beauty said, feeling guilty.
“Well,” the Beast said. He shifted around a bit, eyes going shifty. “The rooms, or, the room, I guess, it. Um. The room holds memories.”
“Memories,” Beauty said flatly. “I was attacked by a memory?”
“You got it, Pontiac,” the Beast rumbled, labouring so hard for nonchalance it was painful to watch. “It’s all the stuff I don’t want floating around in my head. I push it out, it ends up in the room. Sometimes I visit; otherwise it ends up in my head again, usually at a bad time.”
“Oh,” Beauty said, at a loss.
“Yeah,” the Beast said.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“What’d you see?” the Beast asked finally.
“Nothing,” Beauty answered quickly. He thought of the shame, the loneliness, the longing, and shook his head emphatically.
“Oh, cool,” the Beast said, and went back to picking his teeth.
Later, Beauty lay awake long into the night, thinking it over. He thought about icy queens, deeply silent rooms, and his own pale face. He thought about the staring, and the gardens, and the poem, and the story of the family that originally lived in the castle.
And he thought about Dean; he thought about the Beast.
(next)
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Art Post
Inside the castle, the Beast was back in high spirits.
“This stuffy old hall is full of stuffy old portraits of stuffy old people,” he proclaimed, waving his hand majestically.
They were in one of the halls of paintings Beauty had seen the day before, though not the one with the lone young man. Row after row of stern faces looked scornfully down at them, and Beauty couldn’t help a small smile at the Beast’s casual dismissal.
“Who are they?” Beauty asked.
“Oh, they used to live here,” the Beast rumbled, coming to a halt in front of one of them.
“This man looks like the youth I kept seeing yesterday. They look remarkably alike, actually. Though this, um, this guy looks quite a bit older,” Beauty told him, peering at the painting. There was no inscription, no title, no artist’s name.
“Uh, you probably saw his son,” the Beast murmured thoughtfully. “He wasn’t a big part of the family. Shunned, I guess you could say.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well. You know. This guy wanted his son to marry some chick, but the son was like, No way, suck my, uh,” the Beast looked sideways at Beauty. “He said, No thank you. And then the dad was all, Listen, you’d better do it you little prick, and the son was like, Oh yeah? And the dad was like, Yeah. And the son was like, And what if I say no? And Dad was like, You’re a little piece of shit, a worthless, fucking unnatural piece of shit.”
The Beast, who’d been quite animated up until this point, slumped suddenly.
“And then what happened?” Beauty asked, curious.
When the Beast finally continued, it was in a dull monotone: a history lesson. “The son refused. And so the father locked him away, in a greenhouse of all places, for years and years. He was without human contact, without family, without friends.
“Until one day, the father died, and the mother let her son out of his prison, but it was too late. The intervening years had changed the spoiled boy, turned him into a horrible beast of a man. He was cruel, and unforgiving, and driven by rage and thoughts of revenge, and his mother soon died from the shame. His three sisters wept, and all three succumbed to their grief.
“The horrible young man didn’t care, driven only by his bitterness and rage. He ruled his servants and his people with an iron fist, and fucked his way, cruelly and brutally, through half the population.”
There was a deep silence as the Beast thought. He began to pace, face twisted in disgust, as Beauty leaned on the wall beside the father’s portrait and watched. “This next part is mostly speculation on my part, so you’ll have to excuse me. The young man’s people gathered together and decided they would rather live free from his tyranny, and so they scraped together enough money - not an easy task, as the taxes were ridiculously high - to buy the help of a witch. The witch met the young man as he rode on a hunting trip through the woods, and offered him a deal.
“The young man could either repent, and let his people live happy, prosperous lives, or else he would suffer the consequences. The stupid ass turned her down, and was never heard from again.”
“I suppose there’s a lesson to be learned from that,” Beauty said eventually.
The Beast burst out laughing at that, a great roaring growl that chuffed with his breath. Beauty smiled awkwardly and the Beast bent double, wiping at his eyes. “Oh man,” he said finally, straightening. “You could say that. Definitely. Now c’mon, I wanna show you something other than this damn hall of crusty old men.”
Beauty smiled and followed, nodding and looking thoughtful as the Beast pointed out interesting suits of armour or whatever, but his mind was busy with the Beast’s story.
:::
“See this banister?” the Beast asked later, pointing at a giant, three-storey-high, spiral staircase. It was the largest Beauty had ever seen, easily wide enough to fit a dozen people side-by-side, and it was hard to miss.
“Okay, so, when I was hu-” the Beast cut himself off, and continued, “when I was a lot younger, I’d slide down that thing twenty times a day. Good exercise, y’know, running up all those stairs.”
“I used to slide down the banister at my old house,” Beauty told him, wondering what it was that the Beast had been going to say. “Until I got too big, anyway.”
“I bet you’re not too big for this one,” the Beast said, eagerly. “We’ll totally fling ourselves down it, but some other time, okay? Cuz the cabinets always get pissed at me when I do things I shouldn’t, especially when I’m wearing white.” He somehow managed to look remarkably sheepish, ears flattened to his head.
“Um,” Beauty said, for the ‘gazillionth’ time that day. He wasn’t used to being constantly stuck silent, and resolved to get used to this strange way of talking as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t do to be constantly shown up in conversations with beasts that looked like they shouldn’t be talking in the first place. “I don’t suppose you’ve a library?”
“A library?” the Beast cocked his head. “Sure we’ve got a library! You like reading?”
“Yeah,” Beauty mumbled, trying it out.
The Beast beamed at him, which put his teeth on full display. “Cool. I’ll show you.”
They set off, the Beast’s claws clicking on the floors. “I’m making an effort,” he said, pointing at them. Beauty smiled, and realized quite suddenly that for a gigantic, horrible, terrifying creature, the Beast wasn’t actually so bad. A little weird, yes, but he supposed living in a castle with only angry cabinets and silent roses for company would do that to you.
:::
The library was enough by itself to ensure that Beauty would be, if not happy in this place, at least content.
It was gigantic, easily one hundred times the size of the library in the city, with books crammed tight on every shelf. It was two storeys high, with ornate staircases leading to the second floor. Little rolling ladders were placed throughout, making the higher shelves more accessible. The fireplace had roared into flame as soon as they’d walked in, along with a multitude of wall-set torches, so that the room was lit with an cheerful light. Large armchairs and overstuffed couches were arranged in groups in front of the fire, and Beauty decided he would be spending a lot of time in this room.
The Beast, Beauty noticed, had found a shadow and was staying there, watching him with his darkly unreadable eyes.
“It’s wonderful,” Beauty said lowly, feeling as if he ought to say something.
“I guess,” the Beast muttered. “I’m not much of a reader.”
“Why not?” Beauty asked, ready to leap to the defence of reading as a valuable pastime if his host slandered it in the least.
Instead, the Beast held up his hands and wiggled his fingers, claws clicking together. “It’s incredibly frustrating to try and turn the pages. Plus, I’m maybe kind of nearsighted, and reading hurts my eyeballs. Maybe.”
“Oh,” Beauty said, taken aback. “You know how to read, then?”
“I did leave you a note yesterday,” the Beast said, a little testily.
Beauty blushed. “I’d forgotten.”
“Hm,” the Beast was noncommittal.
Beauty thought fast, trying for something to say as apology. “I could read to you, if you want,” he offered eventually. “Out loud.”
The Beast stared at him from the shadows, eyes narrowed. “All right,” he answered slowly. “Right now?”
“Well,” Beauty started, and was interrupted by his stomach growling angrily. The Beast’s ears flicked forward and he grinned.
“How ’bout dinner instead?” the Beast said jovially.
“That sounds lovely,” Beauty replied, and meant every word.
:::
“Good evening, Beauty,” the Beast said, giving an ironic bow, ears twitching in amusement.
“Good evening, Beast,” Beauty replied, bowing back flamboyantly.
“Why don’t you sit back, relax, let me pull up a chair,” the Beast grinned as they both sat down, “as the Dining Room proudly presents your dinner.” He swept a hand majestically to encompass the table.
Mouth watering, Beauty ate. They dined together every night from then on. Though that wasn’t really true, Beauty amended. He ate, and his host would mostly watch, a hungry glint in his eye. The Beast generally looked hungry, Beauty had noticed, whether they met in the halls or the gardens or the dining room. It seemed like he was constantly yearning for something, though what that could be Beauty had no idea.
He’d invited the Beast on more than one occasion to join him in eating, pointing out dishes that were especially delicious, trying to tempt him out of his self-imposed fasting. But the Beast almost always declined, looking flattered. “You might be able to forget what I am, Beauty,” he’d say, ignoring Beauty’s contemptuous frowns, “but watching me eat would definitely remind you.”
Beauty was sure that the constant menu of rich food should have made him as fat as a Christmas goose, and yet his body was almost as lean as it had ever been. He’d filled out, certainly, but his own critical eye, lacking a mirror, could find no hint of a wobble or roll. He attributed it to the amount of walking he was forced to do, strolling around the castle or its grounds, trying - and for the most part, failing - to keep pace with the Beast.
Beauty split his days between the castle grounds and the library. He would wander the gardens in the morning, stretching his legs and taking in the fresh air. Those rare days that it snowed, Beauty would spend as much time as he could outside, marvelling in how much he had changed that the feel of cold snow on his face could make him so happy.
He was particularly fond of the rose gardens and had often stumbled across the Beast wandering about - prowling really, inspecting the leaves, soil, and resident bug population. It quickly became habit for the pair to meet in the morning and roam the gardens at each others’ sides.
The first time the Beast had missed their morning walks, Beauty had been distressed and lonely enough to berate him for a full hour at dinner. The Beast had burst out laughing, the sound easing the unnamed, slippery knot in Beauty’s belly, and promised solemnly over a bowl of peas that he would never again miss their mornings.
:::
“Pass me that ribbon, will you?”
“Here.”
“You look lovely, Beast.”
“I look like a Yorkie, you ass.”
“Ah now, don’t frown. You’ll pull the braids in your beard out. And then it wouldn’t match the French braiding in your mane.”
“I hate you. And don’t bat your eyelashes at me. I know the true evil that lurks behind your ridiculously beautiful exterior.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, play with my hair some more, will you? Otherwise I’ll eat you, feet first.”
:::
For the first time since Beauty had come to live at the castle, the weather had been less than perfect. It was spring, and when he’d been with his family spring meant planting and storms. But here, the weather had been light and cloudless and cool, until today.
The day had been grey and cloudy, winds kicking up and plucking at his long coat as he’d walked across the grounds. The Beast had made himself scarce, and so Beauty had spent most of the day outside, relishing the change, the potential for a storm. He had been standing on the vast stretch of the back lawn, face tipped up to the swirling grey of the clouds, when a vague movement caught in the corner of his eye.
Beauty turned and saw the Beast. He was up on one on the towers, clinging to the stone face, high enough to be small. As Beauty watched, the Beast flung himself from the tower to the slanted roof of the main building, scrabbling a bit before regaining his balance.
Beauty stuttered a laugh, more surprised than anything, and set off towards the castle at a run.
As he ran, the Beast galloped across the roof, stopped dead and turned, tail twitching crazily. He was barrelling back the way he came when Beauty darted inside the castle. He pelted across the hall, took the stairs three at a time, stopped to pant, and took off again.
Beauty burst out onto the roof, sweaty and laughing still, in time to see the Beast tear past.
“Beast!” he wheezed, put his hands on his knees, and tried to breath. The Beast, meanwhile, turned wide-eyed to stare and tripped over a shingle. He sprawled headfirst along the roof, smacking bodily into a gargoyle.
“Sonuva bitch,” he hollered, and flipped onto his back. “Where the hell did you come from? Holy shit.”
Beauty wiped tears from his eyes and staggered over to the heap of Beast on wobbly legs. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked, sinking down beside him.
“The weather makes me jumpy,” the Beast said, carefully testing his limbs. “I can’t be broody all the time, you know. Beasts quite enjoy stormy weather.”
“Apparently,” Beauty replied.
“Did you see me jump though? I mean, holy cow. I nailed it.”
“I saw you, all right. You leapt off the tower.” Which, now that Beauty was up here, looked scarily far.
“I saw you, too,” the Beast rumbled, smoothing his mane. “You were looking very emo out there.”
“I- What? Emo? I guess,” Beauty said, looking him over. “Your knees are all bloody, and your nose is skinned,” he pointed out, hovering his finger over the mangled mess of the Beast’s knees.
The Beast jerked away and stood, wincing. “Dude, don’t touch it. It’s fine. I’m tough.”
“Right,” Beauty rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Well, if you’re done with your leaping and bounding, I’ll take a look at your war wounds and patch them up.”
“One more jump, okay? Then you can play nursemaid.”
“Well, be careful,” Beauty said.
The Beast shot him a toothy smirk and took off, racing on all fours along the roof, long legs stretching out and eating up the ground. At the very edge, he launched himself and Beauty couldn’t help wincing as he hung suspended for one breathless moment between safety and a horrible plunge to his death. And then he was clinging to the tower, claws spread wide and digging into the stone. He stayed there for a moment, Beauty watching carefully, and then flung himself back.
“Pretty awesome, huh?” he rumbled, trotting back.
“Pretty awesome,” Beauty agreed, and headed back inside, the triumphantly grinning Beast close on his heels.
:::
“All right, sit down,” Beauty said, gesturing at the rug in front of the fire. They were in the library, rain beating against the windows. The Beast threw himself down with a growl, tail lashing.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled.
“Oh, wow, don’t hide your true feelings,” Beauty said, picking up a bowl of warm water from where it was waiting on the mantle. There were bandages and a facecloth waiting with it, so he gathered them up as well. He could feel the weight of the Beast’s ever-hungry eyes on his back.
“I try not to,” the Beast said quietly.
Beauty hummed noncommittally and plunked his supplies down on the rug, dropped down beside them. The Beast was a massive dark presence beside him, gently poking at the raw skin on his nose.
“Don’t touch it,” Beauty said, slapping his hand away, “you’ll only irritate it.”
“I won’t,” the Beast sulked, pouting ridiculously. “You’re the irritating one.”
Beauty dipped the cloth in the basin and grabbed the Beast by his beard. “Now don’t struggle, or I’ll slip and accidentally take out one of your eyes,” he said, pulling the Beast closer. The Beast’s eyes were green and slightly crossed as he focused in on the washcloth. Beauty patted at the rubbed patch on his nose, and the Beast huffed out a low growl. “Easy now,” Beauty murmured. The Beast was warm under his hand, breath puffing across his face, teeth glinting in the firelight, and Beauty was struck with the fact that he had a beast by the beard, and giggled.
“Something funny about my pain?” the Beast asked, voice a low rumble.
“I thought you were tough,” Beauty said, pulling the cloth away. The Beast snorted as he cleaned it off and wrung it out. “Time for the knees,” he continued. “Pull up your pants.”
The Beast sighed and yanked them up, exposing the bloody tangles of his furry knees.
“Why do you wear pants anyway?” Beauty asked idly, trying to pull the fur away from the wound while the Beast winced and scowled.
“You’d prefer I walk around naked? Beauty, I had no idea,” the Beast said archly. “Ow, dammit, be careful.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Beauty told him. “And you’ve got fur, it’s not like anything would be showing.”
“That’s what you think,” the Beast said smugly, and howled when Beauty pressed particularly hard. “Christ, you sadist.”
“Almost done,” Beauty said, offering an angelic smile. He dropped the cloth back in the bowl and went to work winding the bandages around the knee.
“I can’t feel my foot,” the Beast grumbled, wiggling his toes.
“Hmm, I just realized I forgot to bandage your nose,” Beauty said. He grabbed the Beast’s beard and yanked him forward, wrapping his nose like a muzzle.
The Beast made a muffled sound and scowled, pulling the bandages off. “Very funny,” he groused, snapped his teeth in Beauty’s direction.
“Ooh, very scary,” Beauty said, grinning, and went in for the other knee.
The Beast made huffy noises, growled, showed his teeth, and threw his head back and howled while Beauty patched him up. Beauty just grinned and smacked him on the nose and rolled his eyes.
“All done,” Beauty said finally. “Good as new.”
“I somehow doubt that,” the Beast replied, eyeing his knees. “And you’re not done, you have to kiss it better.”
“Oh my god,” Beauty said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not kissing your knees.” Instead, he tackled the Beast in a bear hug, knocking over the bowl in the process. The Beast let out a soft woof as they toppled over, and squeezed him back. Beauty laughed, and burrowed his head in the soft fur of his mane, and felt the Beast relax under him.
“Beauty,” the Beast said, soft as a rose petal, and Beauty pulled back enough to see his face. His eyes were wide, freckled green and gold, as they took Beauty in, a smile playing over his sharp mouth.
“Beast,” Beauty answered, just as soft. The Beast’s grin widened, and his eyes darkened, and there came a clap of thunder loud enough to startle them apart. They stared at each other in the firelight until the Beast cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.
“Shall we go to dinner?” Beauty asked, quickly. He forced a smile.
“I guess we’d better,” the Beast said, and sighed.
:::
They were in the gardens one day, discussing the merits of pie versus cake, when the Beast turned abruptly. Beauty had stared up into his green, green eyes, a smile playing on his lips, sure he’d swayed him over to a deeper appreciation of Black Forest.
“Beauty,” the Beast said, suddenly serious. “There are rooms that you shouldn’t go in.” At Beauty’s sceptical expression, he continued, “The castle wouldn’t hurt you, and it’s doubtful that it will ever let you get near a room that would want to, but still. It’s best to be prepared, right?”
“What is in these rooms, then, that are so dangerous?” Beauty asked, curiosity piqued.
“They are all marked,” the Beast rumbled, looking away. To a patch of clover, he said, “You’ll know it when you see it. And I would ask that you don’t go in. They contain dangers that are beyond my control; things that would kill you if you let them.”
“I’ll be cautious,” Beauty told him, meaning nothing by it, and felt a pang at the Beast’s easy acceptance of his words, his quick, relieved smile.
They changed the subject, and the Beast watched closely, as always, while Beauty talked. They discussed many things, which is to say that Beauty discussed and the Beast made obscure references and bad jokes, but that night Beauty went to sleep with forbidden discoveries and perilous insights on his mind.
:::
It took him nearly a week to find one, a room that was marked. He’d had to be very firm with the castle, telling it off on more than one occasion, for steering him gently away from certain passages. And every morning it seemed that the layout had been scrambled, familiar rooms and landmarks rearranged so that he had to start fresh daily.
But now, Beauty was staring at a door that he felt sure was one that the Beast had warned him away from. The dark wood was marked with deep gouges, virtual channels dug in deep from raging claws. They ran nearly vertical with a slight diagonal angle to them, as if the Beast had drawn up to his full height and ripped the marks in almost to the floor. It certainly looked fearsome, but Beauty gave himself no time to reconsider, sure that the Beast was being alerted to his presence here even as he stood and deliberated.
Breath stuttering in his chest, heart thumping wildly, Beauty took a hold of the door - the very act of it disturbing, as it was the first door he’d opened since he’d left home - and shoved it open, wincing at the loudly protesting squeal of the hinges.
The room, as he stepped inside, remained dark. Like the rest of the castle, there was no noise, though there was an almost-feeling of life. Beauty’s breath caught, released in a huff, and he took a bare step further in. The door, no longer obstructed, swung shut with a muffled slam.
Beauty swung around, heart jumping into his throat. He settled into a crouch, hands shaking slightly in the deep gloom, and it was then that he heard the breathing. It was quiet, halting under the harsh speed of his own, coming from the other side of the room but drawing steadily closer.
Beauty pressed himself to the door, tugged futilely on the handle, banged on the thick wooden panels, shouted himself hoarse calling for the Beast. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, and in the meantime the breathing was getting louder, wetter, closer.
He swallowed convulsively, certain he could feel hot breath gusting over his throat. Quickly, he darted right, hit the wall and bounced off, one broad palm splayed over the wall as a guide. There was no sound from behind him, and Beauty stopped once he hit the corner. Slowly, the breathing changed, moved closer to the wall and started towards him again.
A dim light had been growing on the other side of the room, something Beauty hadn’t realized he’d been watching until it flared slightly, casting a sickly green film over the floor. Beauty stared at it, unsure if it was a godsend but fairly certain it wasn’t, when the decision was taken out of his hands.
Between one blink and the next, the light flared dully, brightening the room enough to nearly blind him after the darkness. Beauty threw an arm up over his eyes and so missed the light’s sudden swerve toward him. He did not miss the bolts of pains that swarmed over his body, liquid glass crawling through his veins as flashes of another’s life swam in front of his eyes.
A woman, coldly beautiful and glowing in the gloom, loomed up in front of him. “You, Dean, are completely unlovable,” she said, icy voice echoing weirdly. “Let your exterior match the disgusting state of your soul.” Agony ripped through him as her laugh faded into the darkness.
The bare reflection of the edge of a furred face, vaguely dark in a polished table, and then Beauty was bent double, retching around the unfamiliar curve of his teeth, hands clenched into claws on the carpet.
A scene of tranquility, a happy family frolicking through long grass while Beauty’s point of view crouched low, desperate not to be seen. He focused in on a young man, face split in a smile, and felt such a powerful wave of longing that it left him breathless.
Curled into a ball, surrounded only by darkness, hatred and self-loathing thick in the air, the feeling of a knife skating icy over his pulse, unable to follow through, sick and so alone.
His own face staring back at him, pathetically brave over a plate of pie, a pale smudge lit by fire. The hope that welled up, the relief that he couldn’t quite understand, the sheer terror of being faced with what he had been craving for years, dammit, years and years and years, what no decade in a damned greenhouse could cure him of-
“Sam.”
Beauty felt a massive hand grip his shoulder, pulling him up and out of the flashes, the pain, the room. He was gathered up, dry heaving, and with the sudden shock of the clean air from the hall he was gone, head lolling limply against a broad chest.
:::
Beauty woke up wrapped in his comforter, eyes bleary and sore. He’d been crying, he was pretty sure, and his head was pounding. Someone was combing his hair, smooth strokes soothing him.
“Faith?” he asked, voice raspy. Then his eyes focused, and he saw the Beast above him, face concerned. It was his hand in Beauty’s hair, claws gentle on his scalp. “Oh,” he said, “Beast.”
“Yes,” the Beast said, voice so quiet he felt it more than heard it. “How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts,” Beauty murmured. The Beast’s hand stilled. “Keep going,” Beauty urged, and sighed happily when he started back up. “What just happened?”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” the Beast told him. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“Yes, I’m okay,” Beauty said, settling deeper into the covers. “Sorry for scaring you.”
“I don’t know what I’d do,” the Beast said quietly, “if something happened to you.”
“Nothing’ll happen,” Beauty slurred, and fell asleep with the Beast’s fingers in his hair, his wild scent in his nose.
:::
The next day, they were in the library, exploring the mythology section and laughing over the antics of Tricksters.
“Oh, um,” the Beast said, suddenly switching gears. “I read something the other day. And I thought you’d like it.”
“Yeah?” Beauty prompted, looking up from Anthony Santos’ Myths of the Native Americans.
“The pearly treasures of the sea,” the Beast began, voice low and bourbon-smooth. “The lights that spatter heaven above, more precious than these wonders are, my heart-of-hearts filled with your love.”
“Wow,” Beauty said. “That was the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Right, that’s what I thought,” the Beast said, eyes firmly on the book in Beauty’s hand. He chomped his teeth a few times. “Oh look, Coyote versus Duck.”
:::
“So,” Beauty said over dinner about a week later, having finally summoned up the courage to ask. “What the hell was up with that room?”
The Beast paused from picking his teeth. “You mean the room that I expressly told you not to go in, but you went in anyway? And then nearly died? And I had to save you?”
“Um, yeah,” Beauty said, feeling guilty.
“Well,” the Beast said. He shifted around a bit, eyes going shifty. “The rooms, or, the room, I guess, it. Um. The room holds memories.”
“Memories,” Beauty said flatly. “I was attacked by a memory?”
“You got it, Pontiac,” the Beast rumbled, labouring so hard for nonchalance it was painful to watch. “It’s all the stuff I don’t want floating around in my head. I push it out, it ends up in the room. Sometimes I visit; otherwise it ends up in my head again, usually at a bad time.”
“Oh,” Beauty said, at a loss.
“Yeah,” the Beast said.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“What’d you see?” the Beast asked finally.
“Nothing,” Beauty answered quickly. He thought of the shame, the loneliness, the longing, and shook his head emphatically.
“Oh, cool,” the Beast said, and went back to picking his teeth.
Later, Beauty lay awake long into the night, thinking it over. He thought about icy queens, deeply silent rooms, and his own pale face. He thought about the staring, and the gardens, and the poem, and the story of the family that originally lived in the castle.
And he thought about Dean; he thought about the Beast.
(next)