#watching the fireworks and all that. there's a forgotten bottle of champagne somewhere in the car

[mjulmjul]

happy new year!

[amydancepants-peralta]

chapter three: head over feet

(the latest instalment of we’re the fortunate ones - my entry into the 2020 Vision Challenge) ♥️🎆

Jake takes a long draft from the bottle of beer in his hand, resting his weight against the pillar in the middle of the room as he watches Amy talk to other attendees of the party in a corner.  

They’d all been roped into attending a New Years Eve party at this random loft in uptown NY, hosted by somebody that Gina called an acquaintance but didn’t seem to have a name (or a face, for that matter).  It was all very upscale, the widespread apartment floor decked out in hipster-luxe decorations and soft popular music streaming from the speakers installed into various points of the ceiling.  The well-stocked kitchen lay claim to copious buckets of alcohol - a virtual buffet of drinks lay waiting for consumption - and the Nine-Nine has spent the majority of their evening rubbing noses with a veritable ‘who’s who’ of New York.  He’s covered head to toe in a suit that - let’s be honest - makes him look way more suave than he is.  And maybe Jake is completely biased (because he definitely is), but he’s certain that Amy is by far the best dressed in the room.  Heck, best dressed in the CITY. 

Her dress is black, covered in this mystical shimmery material that seems to catch the light whenever she moves her body, and like a moth to a flame Jake is completely drawn to it.  There’s a smokiness to her eyes (and he doesn’t even know if that’s the correct term but wow those brown eyes of hers are drawing him in when they’re surrounded like that) and her lips are covered in a hot red lipstick, the kind that doesn’t seem to end up on his lips when she kisses him - a theory that he’s been oh so happy to test over and over.  Her hair is soft and wavy and perfect, just as perfect as she is, and Jake genuinely still cannot believe that Amy Santiago is his girlfriend.

It had taken him less than six days of being with her to figure out that what they had was different from all his past relationships.  To realise that until that kiss in the evidence lock-up, he had spent his whole life waiting for the rest of it to begin.  Everything before that afternoon was Pre-Amy; where things were okay but often disappointing, and his days were best spent alone.  

Now, his life was entirely with Amy:  where mornings began with sleepy cuddles and regardless of whatever the day would bring, there was always going to be her at the end of it.  A crazy intelligent, incredibly sexy woman with a heart of gold; whom’s opinion meant far more to him than anybody else’s.  

And a life Post-Amy?  Not gonna happen.  Jake would rather quit the force than consider it.  He’d had a gun pointed at his head a week ago, and her face had been the only thing to flash through his mind.  There have been very few times in Jake’s life where he’s been grateful for Boyle’s ability to appear unannounced, but that evening at Goodwin’s was absolutely at the top of the list.  Thanks to Charles, Jake had been able to wake up Christmas morning with the most beautiful woman in New York laying next to him, and that was honestly better than a thousand bottles of Heart Attack Soda.

She catches his eye from her position across the room, blushing slightly underneath his gaze before turning her attention back to the two other guests she had been talking to.  Jake stands a little taller and waits, knowing that her curiosity will grow too great, and after a beat her gorgeous eyes flicker back towards him and he smiles in victory, nodding his head towards the outside balcony in a wordless invitation.  Tonight has been great, but the countdown to midnight is creeping closer, and there isn’t anybody else in the world he wants to share his first moments of the new year with.  

Amy turns her head back towards the woman to her left, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before nodding vigorously, still giving the illusion of the others having her full attention because Santiago’s are nothing if not gracious guests at any party.  But it’s the only signal Jake needs to rest his now empty bottle of beer on a nearby table and head towards the balcony, shifting a nearby potted plant in front of the doorway as a hopeful deterrent to others.  

It only takes her a few minutes to join him, and Jake can smell her perfume before he can see her, the warm smell of spiced vanilla pulling his attention away from the glittering city lights below.

“Pot plant blockage, nice move detective.”  Amy’s smile is coy, reaching out to smooth the tie he had begrudgingly put on earlier in the evening.  

Jake captures her hand as it moves to leave, pulling her palm up towards his lips and leaving a soft kiss against her skin.  “Do you think it’ll work?”

Her fingers curl around his, tugging him a little closer as she shrugs.  “It might.”  Taking a sip from her champagne glass, she winks.  “That, and just before I left I mentioned how good the fireworks were going to look from that balcony on the other side.”  Tipping the glass further back, she drains it all before continuing.  “There’s a whole crowd heading that way as we speak.”

Jake nods in approval, taking the empty glass from Amy’s hand and sitting it on top of the heavy brick balustrade.  “Genius.  My girlfriend’s a genius.”

“Damn right she is.”

“And gorgeous.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Uh, YEAH.”  Jake raises his eyebrows incredulously, lowering them with his voice as he wraps both hands around Amy’s waist.  “And kinda amazing.  Also?  Brilliantly nerdy, and sexy. as. hell.”

Amy looks up at him with the softest smile on his face, a look similar to earlier today when she snoozed her alarm (something she’s begun doing with increased regularity, not that he will ever bring that to her attention), cuddled into Jake’s side and rested in the nook between his neck and his shoulders.  It’s a place that has become her nook - a place that feels empty when she’s not there - and she gave him the same smile as now when the alarm blared ten minutes later, and Jake was forced to finally open his eyes.  

There are a thousand things he could say right now, about how much Amy has changed his life for the better, but then her hands wander down his chest, diving underneath his jacket and wrapping around his midsection, and Jake finds himself completely lost for anything to say except the one thing that completely terrifies him. 

He loves her.  There’s no question about it.  He’s probably been in love with her for longer than he can remember, but his heart had caught up with his head somewhere around October and for the longest time there have been three little words bubbling up to the top of his throat, threatening release every time Amy looks at him the way she does.  It was different, this feeling - an all-consuming, undeniable force that has changed everything for the better, serving to remind him that whatever notion he had thought love to be before he’d started dating Amy had been completely wrong.  

Emotions have never been comfortable for him; love has always seemed like a mysterious force before now, and he hates the defeated look that flashes across her face whenever she gets serious with her feelings and his doofus brain responds with a noice or a smort.  Amy deserves better than smort and - in further proof that she is, in fact, incredible - being with her has made Jake begin to believe that perhaps he can be honest with her about how he feels, and not fear the response.  To tell her he loves her without masking it with a joke, or adding it into a ramble that steers her away from the importance of what he’s truly saying.  

Amy head rests against his chest and sighs contentedly, squeezing Jake softly.  “Tonight has been fun, but this right here has been the best part by far.”  He nods, throat heavy with unspoken words;  letting his hands roam over the back of her dress and dipping to the small of her back before pulling her closer.  The rest of the world can have all their sparklers and streamers; no amount of revelry could ever compare to this.  This moment was all he could have hoped for, and he’s endlessly grateful to be able to say that it’s finally his.

In the distance Jake can hear the rest of the crowd counting down the final seconds, and as the world fades into the background with the muted sound of “eight, seven, six” he looks down to Amy, resting one finger underneath her chin and tipping her face to his.  Her eyes are sparkling, catching the light from the party still happening inside, and he doesn’t know how she’s done it but it’s just further proof that she is magic and before another thought can be made, her hands are on his jawline, pulling Jake down until his lips meet hers for the kind of kiss he’s been waiting his whole life for.  

The crowd cheers, the renewal of another year long forgotten as their tongues tangle sweetly, arms locked around each other.  Resolutions of catching bandits and jumping from rooftops fall by the wayside as Amy’s fingers run through Jake’s hair, and the only promise he makes for the new year is make sure Amy knows how I really feel about her.

It’s a blinding bright flash of light that separates them, both blinking in confusion as they seperate and turn their heads towards the doorway it has come from.  Boyle is standing there, because of course he is, his grin wider than the Hudson as he lifts a polaroid camera in glee, snatching the photograph from the front and blowing gently onto the developing film.  

“Happy New Year, lovebirds!”

“Ugh, Boyle!  How did you even know we were out here?!”  Jake responds.  He’s not ready to let go of Amy just yet, instead choosing to tighten his grip around her waist.  She shuffles a little closer in kind, resting her weight against him and presenting a united front as they stare down their friend.

“I sensed there was a precious moment happening somewhere around here, Jakey, and let me tell you - I was not wrong.  I am SO high on your relationship it’s ridiculous.  I cannot wait to frame this photo and put it on my desk, where I can stare at always!”  

“Jake!” Amy whispers, soft enough that only Jake can hear, and he flattens one hand her back.

“I’m sure it’s a great shot buddy, how bout you come over here and show it to us?”  Jake calls out to Boyle, throwing him his best ‘come over here and join us, we’re not angry at ALL that you ruined our private moment’ face.  It must have been convincing enough, and Charles scurries towards them, gripping the polaroid tightly in his dominant hand.  

Jake waits until Charles is close enough to feel comfortable before snatching the photo from his fingers, shifting his body (and by proxy, Amy’s) towards the light of the apartment as he examines it carefully.  

Admittedly, it’s a great shot - the two of them so wrapped up in each other that it’s hard to tell where Jake’s suit ends and Amy’s dress begins, save for the subtle sparkle of her outfit.  Her head is tipped up where his is tipped down - the towering heels that Amy had chosen for the evening making the distance between them seem just that little bit smaller - and they are completely and totally lost in their kiss.  It’s as plain as day that the two people in this photograph are in love, and Jake can’t help but smile as he takes it all in.  “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Boyle.  It’s a great photo.”

Charles nods eagerly, eyes widening into a mixture of confusion and horror as Jake flicks his wrist, tucking the polaroid into the inner pocket of his jacket lining, tapping the outside protectively as he goes.  “Wait, no!  That was going to - ” he huffs in frustration.  “If you guys want me to stop staring at you in the precinct, then you need to give me an alternative, Jake!”

“How about a selfie?”  Amy pipes up, pulling slightly away from Jake and resting her hand above his jacket’s breast pocket.  “One of all three of us, to commemorate the evening.  I think that would look great on your desk, Charles.”

Genius, Jake mouths in Amy’s direction as Boyle squeals in glee, quickly jumping into position in front of the couple and holding the camera up high.  Their smiles are wide, the genuine happiness palpable through the film as they seperate, Jake linking his hand with Amy’s and letting Boyle lead them back into the party.  Their friends were inside after all, waiting to celebrate the new year with them, and they could definitely sneak out of the party later once Four Drink Amy made her return appearance.

Jake had no idea what the new year would bring, but he had the strongest instinct that whatever would happen, he and Amy would face it all together.

[lumosinlove]

On the third day of ficmas, Hazel gave to you…a New Year’s Eve party meet cute.

Sirius felt rather tired of the party in swing around him all of a sudden—even though it is his party. He straightened his button-down, the white collar falling open loosely at his collarbones, and took another sip of champagne. This one was made in Belgium. He’d given specific instructions to the waiting staff to bring out a different champagne per hour closer to midnight. He’d selected all of them himself, saving the best for last. It was ten forty-five now. He only had a few more moments with Belgium before it was off to Germany, and then, finally France. Because, of course. James and Lily made it a point to tell him at every one of his parties that he over did it, but what could he say? He’s on the list of twenty-five billionaires under twenty-five, and Sirius thought he’d earned a little extravagance. At least until he was thirty under thirty, and he had to—maybe—have a bit more poise.

Besides, he was always telling them, what else am I going to do with it all?

He looked briefly towards where they were laughing with Alice and Frank, then turned away towards the full-length window, watching fat flakes of snow fall down to coat the ground.

He gave to more charities than he could count, his brother would never have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to. The rest was left to him. He’d spend it on his friends whether they liked it or not.

“Sirius! There you are!”

Sirius closed his eyes against the falling snow. Why had he let his assistant maneuver him into inviting any work relations at all? He pressed a smile onto his face and turned.

“Barty! So glad you could come.” He accepted the clammy handshake, “How are the kids?” Please don’t show me pictures.

Barty was already reaching for his wallet, “Oh, marvelous, wonderful, look here—“

And so Sirius spent the next ten minutes looking at pictures that ranged from baby to early childhood to first day of school, and the next ten discussing the best possible way to rope the Chudley Cannons into accepting a deal with this sponsor rather than that one. It was not the place at all, but Sirius figured he’d rather do it now than have to see Barty again later in the week.

“Padfoot.”

Sirius stops from where he had been arguing for looking into the Godric Griffins instead, and blinks at a boy who he doesn’t—no, almost doesn’t recognize. He certainly doesn’t recognize his nickname coming from his lips—no matter how full they may be.

“I—yes?”

The boy strides a few steps closer, turning to smile at Barty, “Hi, sorry mate, got to steal this one away. I’d also, though, go with the Griffins. They’re having a much better season.”

Barty opens and closes his mouth a few times, and then closes his wallet and accepts a glass of German champagne from a waiter walking by. He takes a sip, hums, and follows the tray for more.

Sirius places his own glass down, as it’s not Belgium’s hour anymore, and holds his handout with the same business-like smile, “Your Lily’s friend, aren’t you? So sorry, I think I’ve forgotten—“

“It’s alright, we haven’t actually met.” The boy grins and takes two Germany glasses from a passing tray, “You don’t have to pretend you know me, so put that smile away. I just thought you looked rather miserable.”

Sirius takes the glass slowly, watching the boy’s own easy grin, his soft but pilling sweater, “That smile?”

“You didn’t have this party to talk business.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip, “No.”

The boy motions towards the window with his own glass, “But here you are sulking by the window until that guy comes up to chat about something that can definitely wait until Monday.”

Sirius lets out a huffy laugh, checking to make sure Barty is well out of hearing distance before taking a slightly larger sip, “I don’t want to see him on Monday.”

The boy hums in understanding and faces the window. He really should be getting that sweater dry-cleaned. Sirius watches his lips and his profile and suddenly has a strong urge to buy him a nicer one.

Sirius leans his shoulder against glass, cold seeping through his thin shirt, “What’s your name again? You never—“

“Oh.” The boy shakes his head, “Shit, sorry, it’s Remus.” He offers a smile, shaking his head like forgetful things like this happen all the time, “Hi.”

The corner of Sirius’ mouth lifts and he needs a second before he remembers to say, “Hi.”

“Do you like the champagne?” He adds. Could we go somewhere with a bottle of France to ourselves in a bit?

Remus nods, “Sure. Sort of like the cheese platter more, though. Not to burst your bubble or anything.”

Sirius laughs, shaking his head, “No, that’s fine. Did you see—“ He sighs, “Well, I arranged them to pair with the drinks but I’m fairly sure no one is going in order.” He glances over where he can just see someone—Peter, maybe—still nibbling on nine o’clock’s brie.

“You’re insane if you thought anyone would follow that rule, but,” When Sirius looks back at Remus as he pauses, he feels his ears heat because Remus is already looking at him, head dipped and lips soft, “but cute try.”

Sirius lets his temple rest against the window, “Yeah?”

They stay there, talking by the window until Sirius takes Remus’ German glass from his hands and replaces it with France.

“You have to like this one.” When Remus looks up at him, Sirius realizes how close they’ve gotten, how he can’t feel the chill of the window anymore.

“Is it your favorite?” Remus asks.

Sirius shrugs one shoulder, “It’s the most expensive.”

“But is it your favorite?”

Sirius blinks, “Oh. Well,” he lets out a small huffy laugh, “to be honest I don’t quite love this stuff.”

Remus tilts his head, “You’ve been serving it all night.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

Remus studies him for a moment, then presses his lips together and holds his untouched glass out with finality, “I want your favorite. Not money’s favorite, your favorite.”

Sirius, to his credit, is not easily taken off his guard these days. He’d been ambushed too many times in stuffy meeting rooms with stale croissants on the table for that. He’s steady on his feet, trusts only himself, and is rather proud of the fact.

But here, he stutters. His heart feels warm in his chest. “I—mine?“

Remus holds his glass out more forcefully until Sirius takes it, “What do you like best?”

Sirius sets the glasses down on a side table behind him, “You really want to know?”

Remus nods, “Yeah.” Sirius might imagine it but he thinks that maybe Remus looked at his lips there for a moment, “I do.”

Sirius glances around the crowded apartment. Everyone is having a good time, paired off and merry. The televisions have been turned on. There’s a half an hour until midnight.

“Come on.”

Remus said nothing, just wove after Sirius through the apartment. Sirius nodded to James on his way by, shook hands and clapped a few shoulders, and checked a few times to make sure Remus hadn’t lost him.

He rounded the corner and stopped so suddenly that Remus bumped into his back, his nose knocking between his shoulder blades. Sirius suppressed a grin and pushed hard on one of the wooden panels of the wall. It clicked open and Remus sucked in a little breath.

“After you.”

Remus looked at him, “This is a secret door.”

Sirius nodded, “It is.”

“You have a secret door.”

“I have a lot of secret things.”

Remus let out a disbelieving laugh, looked once more over his shoulder, but allowed himself to be ushered through, Sirius following close behind.

“What the fu…” Sirius almost bumps into Remus this time, “Sirius, how big is this place?”

“A bit.” He lights up the small iPad on the wall and turns the lights on—still dim. He raises the shades too so they can just see the snow falling, “Well, no one really sees this part. I like…I like to have some of it to myself, you know? Somewhere that people can’t just…find during nights like this.” He offers Remus a small smile, “I host a lot of parties.”

“But I’m here.” Remus tilts his head again and Sirius clears his throat, making his way towards the small bar across the room that he keeps personally stocked. He lifts the counter gate up and slips behind it.

“Yeah. I don’t want to interrupt the kitchen right now, but you wanted a drink, so…” He places the three bottles he needs and a crystal mixer on the counter.

“I…Wait, Sirius, I don’t want you to feel like—I mean, I didn’t mean—“

“Remus. If I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.” He gives him a sure nod, “Really. Please, sit.”

Remus eyes the built-in leather bar stools for a moment before crossing to Sirius and sliding onto one. He fiddles with an ashtray, “Do you smoke?”

“No.” Sirius shrugs, “In case someone else does.”

Remus furrows his eyes at it for a minute, “But I thought…” His expression clears and he looks behind him, and the large bed set up by the window, the dark gray sheets and mountain of pillows. He quickly turns around, “Oh. Right, that’s…that’s thoughtful.”

Sirius really, really doesn’t want to talk about other people in his bed with this boy in front of him right now, “Don’t you want to know what you’re having?”

Remus looks up from where he’d still been looking at the ashtray and smiles, “Oh. Yeah.”

“Negroni.”

Remus scrunches his nose, “That sounds like a self defense move.”

Sirius lets out a loud laugh, “It’s not, but that’s funny. Do you want to grab me an orange from that bowl while I mix this?”

Remus follows his gaze to the fruit bowl behind the counter and nods. Instead of opening the gate he promptly ducks beneath it, “Here.”

Sirius has only just finished pouring when the sound of people counting down comes muffled from the other room. They both look towards the door.

“Huh.” Remus smiles softly and accepts the thin, wide-mouthed glass Sirius holds out to him, “Midnight already.”

“Yeah.” Sirius makes no move to pick up his own glass, and Remus just holds his.

The counters reach one and fireworks start almost immediately. The snow outside turns shades of red and green and purple, and it reflects off of Remus’ skin and hair, even from here.

Neither of them has said anything yet, but they’re looking at each other and listening to the celebration. Sirius suddenly really hopes Remus hasn’t seen this as some strange ploy to get him alone, especially with the talk about having people in here earlier, and his mind spins for a good ten seconds around how to ask for a kiss, or should he ask for a kiss, when Remus lets out a breath.

“I know we met two hours ago but—“ And Remus shakes his head for a moment, and his eyes definitely find Sirius’ mouth this time before his own lips do. His mouth is as hot as he makes Sirius’ chest feel and Sirius’ hand finds one side of Remus’ jaw. And then it’s over. Sirius’ fingers stay though.

“I—Happy, uh.”

“Yeah.” Sirius agrees.

“Yeah.” Remus doesn’t look quite focused. His cheek is sort of pressing into Sirius’ palm, and Sirius doesn’t really realize he’s leaned forward until Remus’ tongue is licking into his mouth, and somehow Remus is planted firmly on the counter, knocking their drinks askew.

“Fuck, I didn’t even try it.” Remus mumbles the words against Sirius’ mouth, fingers splayed and curling into his hair.

“Make you another.” Sirius just gasps out before they’re kissing again. It’s easier, now that Remus is Sirius’ height, but Sirius drags his mouth down to Remus’ neck anyhow, all the way to the worn collar of his sweater, “Later.”

Remus laughs, but it sort of comes out a moan, and Sirius looks up, “I don’t—I mean, is this okay? I honestly, I didn’t take you here for this, I don’t want you to think—”

Remus takes a breath—a few breaths—and smiles. Somehow that smile is Sirius’ favorite part of this entire scenario. His hands curl around Sirius’ ears, weaving the soft hair there through his fingers, and he leans down for a much softer kiss, “This is okay. But you do have…”

Sirius sighs, “A shit ton of guests.”

Remus nods solemnly, “A shit ton of guests.”

Sirius smiles against a sigh but nods, helping Remus down from the counter and around the spilled drinks on the floor.

Remus straightens Sirius’ collar for him before they sneak back into the party. It’s emptied out a little, maybe, but not much.

“Hey.” Sirius loops his fingers around Remus’ wrist to stop him from going too far into the main room, “Get brunch with me tomorrow. I know a place.”

Remus studies him for a moment before grinning, “No, I know a place. But, yes. I’ll pick you up at Twelve. Yeah?”

Sirius blinks, “I—Yeah.” He smiles back, “Good.”

“Happy New Year’s, Sirius.”

Sirius watches him move over to James and Lily, both of whom are looking a little flushed, and says softly, “You too.”

[glitterghost]

His vision is slightly hazy, maybe he’s had a little too much to drink. He isn’t sure who’s to blame for that. Maybe Jessie for the multiple bottles of champagne she brought, but more so Gordo. He brought the harder liquor, sneaking it in unnoticed under Elizabeth’s radar. But mostly Carter blames himself. Who else is there to blame really? It’s been a rough year and it’s nice to feel... less. Less pain, less loss, less alone. Not that he’s ever really alone though. He has family. He has pack. But looking around, he see’s everyone paired off in their own little bubbles. Mate to mate. Joe and Ox sitting at the dining table talking. Discussing. Always ready for the next step the pack needs to take. Always planning. Always on guard.

Carter finds Kelly sitting on the floor in front the coffee table. A board game spilled open. Money and pieces scattered around both his brother and Robbie, who by the look of frustration on his face, Carter is more than pleased not to be stuck in a game of who buys (and fights over) properties. Or how much bargaining it normally takes to get Kelly to give up certain avenues and tone down his competitive gaming streak. But Carter knows Robbie has a lot he can bargain with, if he’s smart. And he is smart. Who knows, he thinks maybe Kelly will be tempted to agree to one of Robbie's offers. At least that’s what the soft look on Kelly’s face is saying while he’s watching Robbie, a handful of money fanned out in his palms with his brows furrowed in more concentration than Carter thinks he himself has ever put into anything in his whole life. But it’s endearing to see their exchanges. Even if Carter won’t say it aloud. Sweet almost. However they end up, Carter knows it’ll be good. Knows as nerdy as Robbie might seem (and that would be about level 7 out of 10. Computer geek extraordinaire with possible L.A.R.P’ing somewhere in his childhood.) He can clearly see how much Robbie cares for Kelly and that’s all that will ever matter to him. If Kelly is protected and happy, then everything is good and well.

A light pressure on his arm tugs his focus away, it takes a minute before his semi wobbly vision readjusts itself to the form the beautiful face of his mother, Elizabeth. She is smiling at him, like she caught his secret moment of fondness moments ago. But she isn’t saying anything. But oh how her smile still beams brighter than the Sun, which can never match the comfort and warmth she carries. It'll always be second to her. And he remembers again, that he isn’t the only one paired off alone and lonely. She is too. Or, maybe she isn’t but he can feel the loss of her mate, his father, humming beneath her skin. She’s strong. She’s so very strong and Carter wishes that somehow he inherited just an ounce of that strength. She never hides her grief, she flows through it's river, which eventually empties out into a vast ocean of stronger emotions of love. For family, for pack, for him.

Elizabeth’s eyes flicker to the right almost too quickly for Carter to notice. But he does and he follows the line down to the floor closer to the hearth. A steady fire burning now for hours, and there, a foot or two next to the flames is the timber wolf. The most curious of all curious things to have happened during the year. His paws out, muzzle stretched across them. A vintage party hat is strapped around his furry face. The silver and golds shining from the flames flickering across it. There had been a year attached to the hat once but somehow lost and forgotten and torn away or fallen off.

“I really don’t think he liked you putting that on him.” Elizabeth’s laugh is like a soft ringing bell. The kind they say that rings when an angel gets it’s wings. Or something like that. He’d heard it in a movie once. A Christmas one he can remember watching with his mother and father. When they were all safe, warm, happy and whole. Kelly was young and Joe was just a baby, wrapped up in his mothers arms.  It’s a tiny memory. One of those where maybe it happened or maybe it didn’t but you never question it too hard.

His face feels warm, a flooding of heat from the alcohol he’s sure is painting all sorts of shades of pink across his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to snag the elastic in his fur. I just thought it would be fun. Maybe make him feel like he’s a part of the celebration.” Carter tells her, while remembering how it had happened.

“Now be still.” Carter had teased, gently gliding the silver and gold party hat over the timber wolfs fur, careful to avoid any snags. But of course he hadn’t been so lucky and the wolf's unsure gaze turned into a sharp yelp emanating from it's mouth. Carter had cringed too, feeling guilty for causing any pain. Instinct had been to press his fingers into the wolf’s fur and massage the area affected.    

The laugh lines at the corners of Elizabeth's eyes deepen as she watches him relive the moment in his mind. Those lines tracing a well laughed and loved life. Her smile softening away some of his embarrassment. 

“Oh, my sweet boy, I don’t think he cares too much about that. He probably just enjoyed your hands in his fur. Trust me, all thoughts forgotten about what happened the instant you touched him like that.” 

The heat that floods Carter’s face now he’s certain isn’t from the alcohol. When he turns to look at the wolf, he finds golden eyes raised to meet his. As if he’d never been asleep. As if he’d always been listening. Carter wouldn’t doubt that he hadn't been.

With the evening dwindling closer to midnight, Elizabeth turns the radio dial to the local stations yearly New Year’s Eve Countdown. The announcer's voice is husky and soothing and talking of challenging years and spouting hope and optimism for the year to come. And he wants to believe what the guy is saying. That maybe, just maybe things can get better.

A loud bang sounds from the distance. And with the year it’s been, Carter’s heart stutters. Taking a minute to realize that it’s just the sound of the towns New Years fireworks display and not that of a shotgun from enemy fire. The popping and sizzling sounds are phantom noises creeping through the trees but heightened to all their ears.

When the official countdown begins, everyone is leaning in closer to their mates and Carter stands counting down next to his mother, her arm draped over Jessie's shoulder and they're both grinning, eyes sparkling. Its infectious and he’s laughing and smiling too because the year is almost over, almost wiped clean with the wash of an incoming year. Burying all the hurt and the trauma that can never be forgotten but can be less. Because it’s been such a tough year for all of them and they know the next year won’t be perfect but they hope for it to be better. And that thought leaves him feeling light. Leaves him wanting to shed his skin of grief and leave it behind. And he’s so close. He has his family. He has pack and maybe even mate?

His chest blooms heavily with the thought and with only a minute to go, Carter turns towards the fire but timber isn’t there. A silvery gold battered mess of broken paper and cardboard litter the floor. His elation is toppled with a sense of panic and urgency. He didn’t notice when the wolf had left. Carters eyes catch Robbies, questioning. Robbie just shrugs like “…well Elizabeth said he didn’t like it.” but his face reflects sympathy for Carter before he turns his attention back to Kelly and resumes the countdown.

Mark, who Carter had only seen when he and Gordo first arrived passes by, a glassful of champagne in hand. He leans in calmly, closer to Carter’s ear.

Keeping his voice low and only loud enough for Carter to hear, he nearly whispers, “The fireworks spooked him. He took off a few minutes ago.” Mark squeezes some of the tension in Carter's shoulder before joining Gordo by the Christmas tree. He wants to ask someday how Mark always knows these things. Like he's psychic to what they all are feeling. There is so much mystery to Mark that Carter is sure only Gordo will ever able to unravel. However Mark could decipher and know the things he did, Carter was grateful to his uncle. For being a rock and a source of secondary strength when one didn't realize he needs it.

With everyone still counting, he follows timbers scent to the front door that stands ajar. Outside the air is cool and clean and Carter realizes for the first time how over heated he'd been. The goosebumps spring to life on his arms underneath the cotton of his shirt. The cold biting and sucking the heat from his skin.

He scans the tree line for the wolf, his scent still fresh and recent but not finding him. He thinks about what it must be like to be alone in an unknown place, stuck as a wolf and watching everyone else celebrate in their human form. How lonely it must be. A mirror to his own loneliness of being surrounded by friends, family, pack and yet still so alone.

There's only a millisecond of thought before Carter is pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it across the porch. Head spinning from the force of the action and the alcohol but it doesn't stop him. His hands fumble over his jeans before they too, are lost somewhere in the darkness. Carter shifts quickly before the timber wolf can catch wind of him. He can hear the countdown from the others inside. All their voices blending and mixing, counting down in unison, as pack. "10...9.. 8..." when he leaps off the porch, his howl resonating into the night. Putting all the sadness and hurt and longing the year has shoved down his throat and regurgitating it back into the world. Cleansing himself of it while also calling out to the only one that could possibly relate. The only one he wants to release of this..this.. ache to.

Carter scans the tree line again, his wolf eyes seeing more clearly than before. And there, a howl. His head turns and the timber wolf emerges from the dense forest. And Carter runs and runs, paws slapping into the ground. Nails sliding into the earth and launching him quicker, faster towards the other wolf. "5...4...3.." When he finally catches up to the timber wolf, he pounces on and into the him, nudging him roughly and snapping at him in an eagerly playful way before taking off towards the shadowed tree line he'd emerged from. The timber wolf just spares a second before yipping and howling and catching up with Carter and snapping his teeth back at him "...2....1..." and they bring in this new, unblemished year of endless opportunities and chances of friendships and fondness and maybe love through the forest, howling out their “awoooo's" together. Not alone. Never again alone. But as pack. As Mate. As halved wholes, figuring out how to fit together to mend one another's holes and to be made anew.

[lumiereswig]

Forgotten

What if the Enchantress came one day late? What if the staff weren’t nearby when the curse was cast? What if Adam found himself alone when turned into a Beast?  “The prince [was] forgotten by the world, for the enchantress had erased all memory of them from the minds of the people they loved….” Inspired by this savagely sad post of @batbobsession‘s. (Repost, and slightly rewritten from last time.)

Part I: Not A Care in the World

The ball was flawless. In the garden, the roses continued to reach to the sky, and the storm brushed away; the lights shut off in the palace, one by one, and the music faded to silence. The prince went to bed with one or two or three pretty women he wouldn’t care for by the next day. Up in his room, Lumiere popped open a bottle of champagne.

Plumette, lighting the candles by the bed, grinned at him over the flames. He laughed and raised his glass.

“Another sublime night, ça va, mon amour?” The door creaks and in come Mrs. Potts, Cogsworth, Chapeau, the visiting musicians. The word has quickly spread that Lumiere and Plumette are serving leftover croquembouche in their room; the staff find places to sit, glasses to drink from, hands to join and caress. Mrs. Potts, in a rocking chair, smiles and holds a sleeping Chip.

“How many parties has it been now?”

Cogsworth is counting on his fingers. “Thirty years’ worth at least…..no, forty. Lord, I can’t keep track of the time.”

“He’s turning just like his father—the prince’s father was like this, too,” Mrs. Potts explains to the musicians, who know nothing about the palace or its politics. They nod and move closer to each other on the bed. “We don’t know what he’d do without us. He’ll be fine, though; we try not to intervene. D’you only have wine up here, Lumiere? I could use a cup of tea.”

“If you cannot take a little sparkling wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” laughs Lumiere, and she swipes at his arms and makes him laugh. He eases into a seat between Cogsworth and Plumette and throws his arms around them.

“Think how long it has been!” he says. “Forty years for you, Cogsworth, but most of my life for mine. Why, I came here as a teenager—imagine me, only a little older than Chip! Fresh out of Paris and still reeking of the apothecary shop.” He grimaces, thinking of his father’s dusty store in a side-street of the city. He had fled, then, looking for the glamor his missed; in his room in Paris he had practiced dance steps, reveled in fashion, adopted the graceful movements of the court as rebellion against the bourgeois facts of an ordinary existence. He had come to this palace, and he had lit into life; dancing and feasting and glowing like gold made Lumiere’s heart sing.

“We met in this palace, do you remember, mon trésor?” Plumette is close in his arms; her scent—fresh and light, like candy and macarons—right beside him. “I was only fourteen, and I loved you right away.”

“I loved you before I met you,” murmurs Lumiere. “I could never forget.”

“Well, that’s quite enough of that,” says Cogsworth, perhaps a bit too loudly. The two lovers had forgotten how close he was to their embrace. “To bed, to bed! Tomorrow we have another morning—and so many mornings after that, to care for the prince and these grounds. We can save affection for another day.”

Lumiere sighs loudly, but the staff agree to part for the night. They hug and kiss and wave goodnight—Cogsworth studiously looking the other way as Plumette makes no indication of moving back to her own room—and the lights go out. The humans of the castle sleep.

Part II: Selfish and Unkind

The next day is their day off. It is their one day off in the year. Adam would frequently wish to deny them of it; it is too much for him to imagine coping alone for one day, though he never puts it in such vulnerable terms. Instead, he just has a foul temper about it.

“And you’ll be back tonight, seven sharp.”

“Oui, maître.”

“And the kitchens have been stocked? Or have you forgotten that, too, in your delight to run away?”

“Non, maître.”

“You know, this is an incredible liberty. Most princes wouldn’t let their staff go prancing off to—I don’t know, what do you do in the village, drink beer and talk about swine? Pfft. I would just stay, if I were you.”

“….non, maître.”

“Fine. Get out.”

They are gone all too quickly. Adam stands in the lonely, empty halls. If he stands in the tower, he can see them weaving their way through the forest and down to the village, to spend their day in the company of each other, in Lumiere and Plumette’s case, or with loved ones, in the case of Mrs. Potts. No matter what, all the servants have each other. And Adam has nobody.

He adjusts his wig, tosses a curl. He doesn’t care. They’re all uncaring fools. He debates his options for the day: spending it in the library sounds the best, but  he could also search around the palace, try to find some mistake in its keeping to yell at them about when they got back….after all, at least when he yelled they looked at him.

Searching for the mistake it was, then. Adam trotted off, his heels slick against the polished floors, the sun shining bright.

Part III: All Those Precious Days

In the village, Lumiere kisses Plumette, his lips as warm on hers as the sun is right behind their heads. She is feather-light beside him; watching her dance to a tune of her own making, Lumiere is hot with twenty years of memories. Remember her smile when he set the table for the first time, and made the knives and forks flip like acrobats? Remember when he helped her with her hair, after it rained, and she was his best friend and so fair beside him, while he untied the knots and tried to coax out a curl? His life is beautiful with Plumette—and Plumette, smiling back at him, is more beautiful than his life.

Chip runs ahead of Mrs. Potts, calling for his papa. Jean Potts, emerging from his home, waves joyously at the staff now flooding the village. Really, Villeneuve is not big enough to support so huge a gathering—but it is only one day, after all, as the staff step out of the palace and spend a day in the sun. They stretch their limbs and visit the shops, and sit on the stoops and talk. Lumiere is dazzling in his yellow palace coat against the dingy brown of the steps. Plumette is the loveliest girl in the village. Cogsworth checks the clocktower’s time against his own. And at 6:45, by his watch, they prepare to go back to the palace.

In Adam’s tower, he hears the knock. Angry at having been left alone—angry at being abandoned—angry at everything, Adam slams open the door and sees an old crone.

6:55. Lumiere is running late, as usual. He was regaling Tom and Dick with a lavish description of the ball he is planning. Cogsworth groans at the delay.

The crone offers a rose. Payment for a night’s rest; there is an oncoming storm. Rain coming in.

“Fireworks! And flowers on every table! And dancers from Vienna—the glories of a courtly life, gentlemen, you must come join us—”

“Lumiere! The night grows old.”

The crone grows young.

6:59. “We were meant to be there minutes ago! The Prince is all alone in the palace, now, and it’s our fault. We must get back, or there will be hell to pay—”

The Enchantress sets her curse. The piper must be paid. There must be punishment—

7:00. The curse strikes; a fleeting darkness on the village, a lasting one on the palace. The palace, the palace…the palace…..

………..the palace?

What palace? The villagers do not remember. And the staff, caught among them, do not either. There is silence, and darkness, and sleep.

Part IV: Little Town

Belle wakes up to a jolt in the road, and the rough wool blanket on her face, and the smell of cheese and paint and horse and wind clinging to her skin. She rubs her eyes and tries to wipe away the sleep. They’re in the wagon, again, and Maurice is hunched up in the bench, encouraging Philippe to trot faster. The contents of Belle’s entire life are jammed in around her, a moving nest of drawings and gear-boxes and packets of cabbage-seed.

“That town didn’t work out, either?”

“Plague,” says Maurice, and his eyes shadow, and he watches the road more closely. Of course. How many times has Belle woken up this way, the town she thought they’d live in forever far behind, her father just in front, the wagon rattling beneath her as Maurice fled the city sickness from one town to another. Lilles, Reims, Amiens: each one tainted by plague, each one not safe enough for Maurice and his daughter. No home lasted long enough.

“And where does this road go?” Belle’s eyes adjust to the dawn—they are passing a forest, and coming through a field, now, and fields lead to country villages, and villages mean homes, at least for a while. Perhaps this one would be small enough and safe enough to hide them for a while.

“Villeneuve,” says Maurice. “I chose it by chance. I hope they have room for an inventor.”

“Two inventors,” says Belle, and Maurice smiles.

“Yes, two, always two.”

They get to the town just after market-time, and Maurice busies himself finding the local priest to inquire after empty houses. Belle, tucked in the wagon, looks out on a quiet village going through the endless routine of a Saturday market: the milliner batting a sheet out the window, the potter’s wife brushing off her stoop, the sound of an untuned violin drifting from the open tavern doors. People haggle and argue and, somewhere, something breaks.

And Belle’s eyes flicker through the crowd, a puzzle cutting across her heart.

“Why are there so many people?” Belle asks, when Maurice comes back with happy news of an empty house, recently abandoned, just at the edge of the village.

“Mm?”

“People. Why are there so many of them? I know it was just market-time, but there are enough people in these streets to account for a city—let alone this little town!”

“I expect the city is just off on winter holiday,” says Maurice, absent-mindedly, trying to work out the details of keys and locks. “So they’re all just living in this one for now. Come give me a hand with these boxes—thank you.”

Belle’s heart won’t stop wondering, even as she unpacks music-boxes and arranges her father’s paints by the window. She saw all the people in that market. And she sees them now—watching her and her father, peeking on the edges of the streets and peeping through windows. But no one comes to help. With the market done, the town is quiet, and a little gloomy in the afternoon light.

By mid day, Belle and her father are halfway done unpacking. Maurice sits on a box and wipes his forehead.

“Do you know what I forgot to pack?” he says. “Beef. And bread. And….well, anything edible, really. You wouldn’t have remembered, would you?”

“Papa, I was asleep. I couldn’t remember anything.”

“True, true.” Her father’s hands brush in front of his sad, blue eyes. “Might you go out and find some, Belle? There must be someone selling bread. And butter. And possibly jam?”

Belle is already at the door with her basket. “You rest your eyes, papa. I’ll be right back.”

Part V: Every Day Like the One Before

Now that she is out, Belle takes the chance to look around. She takes her time going through the streets. On her left, the clock tower chimes. On her right, houses line the streets like soldiers. A cluster of girls giggle across the market square. Somewhere, a tea kettle screams. Belle stops to form her opinion of her new hometown.

Villeneuve is ordinary, in the extreme. Dusty to a fault. Dull, and cross, and tired—and absolutely not the start of any great adventure, like she’s always wished for. Just an overcrowded little place stuck in some meadow-grass that everyone has forgotten about.

Nothing of note will ever happen in Villeneuve. As far as anyone can remember, nothing ever has.

And as she thinks that, a puff of smoke blows into her face and sends her thoughts flying.

“Pardon my intrusion, mademoiselle,” says a voice to her right. Belle looks, and sees nothing, and then looks down and sees a peasant sitting on the stoop of the potter’s house. He is smoking a pipe, and puffing the smoke, and his eyes are closed, and his limbs lie around him as if lifeless.

“You are Parisian,” she says. She caught it in his voice.

“Oui, mademoiselle,” he says. A tiny, delicate gesture from his long fingers; it is a surprisingly sophisticated movement for a man in a yellow peasant’s vest, with candle wax creased in the dirt between his fingernails. “Or at least, once I was. Now I live in Villeneuve.”

It is an oddly empty statement, thinks Belle, and his colorless tone doesn’t help. She can’t see his face, here in the shadows, and can’t tell quite if he’s joking.

“I was an apothecary’s son,” adds the man.

“And are you still an apothecary?”

“I am nothing now,” says the man, in a flash of vehemence so sharp it is like seeing a flame in the middle of the forest. He looks up to her—his face broad, and white; and it is an empty face, and beyond the fire in his words there is nothing there at all. It is as if someone washed out all his color, and left him only with his yellow vest. 

“I am Lumiere,” he says, and sadness rests inside his eyes.

Part VI: Full of Little People

He welcomes her to the stoop with the flick of a wrist and a tiny nod with the pipe, though he doesn’t seem to really care if she stays or goes. He is still curling smoke, and for one quick moment Belle wonders if it might be foolish to share a stoop with the village’s homeless philosopher. And yet…there’s a kind of warmth, there, buried beneath the village dirt and the lifeless limbs.

She sits. He offers her the pipe. She refuses. He smokes in silence.

They are silent for a long, long time.

“So what brings you to Villeneuve?” the man asks, at last, as he refills his pipe.

“My father,” she says. “We were fleeing plague. And I need to buy some bread, and maybe a little venison—we only had time to pack our books, so we don’t have anything to eat, yet.”

Beside her, Lumiere laughs. It sounds as if he hasn’t laughed for quite some time.

“I knew someone once who treasured books that way as well,” he says, and a smile drifts across his face, homeless. Something in him is sparking up at the story: dim, and faint, but laughing. “He once made me read the whole Odyssey—”

“You’ve read the Odyssey?!” Belle has never gotten the chance. It hasn’t been translated out of the Greek.

“Non, non, mademoiselle, it was read to me. Sorceresses turning people to pigs, and the lily-eaters forgetting their homes, and Penelope undoing the days until her husband returns—such nonsense.” The spark goes out abruptly, and he returns to his smoke and shadow. “I do not remember the rest of the story.”

How on earth did he get someone to read him the Odyssey, translating it fresh out of the Greek as he goes? In no apothecary’s street has Belle ever seen a sight such as that. The book is too rare to have come to Villeneuve. And yet….

“How did you come to Villeneuve?” she asks.

“I suppose I thought I’d find employment,” he says, and suddenly Belle is frightened.

Deeply, deeply frightened. Not of the man on the stoop—she has never seen anyone more harmless, to be quite honest; he is such an empty man, with such silent, lifeless limbs—but of the thing inside his eyes when he speaks of his past. It is Other—a thing not rooted in a Parisian background, or the empty face, or the subdued soul. It is a large streak of gray inside the man’s blue eyes, a gray empty and unnatural and as hollow as cold ice. Staring at his eyes, Belle finds herself clutching her arms with fear.

“Ah! Mon ami!” yells Lumiere, waving into the village, and the feeling passes. Yet his eyes remain so empty, even as he smiles at the man in the brown coat who just came out of the clock tower.

“Shh, shh, she doesn’t know I’m out,” says the man, and he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bottle of dandelion wine, already uncorked. He passes it to Lumiere in a swift gesture. It is obvious to Belle that this is a practiced ritual, the sharing of the secret wine. She makes room for the clocktower-keeper, and he sits on her other side.

“Mademoiselle, my venerable friend, Monsieur Cogsworth. You will find him delightful company, as well as an excellent source for half-bad wine.”

“Better than a source of all-bad whining, like some of us,” grumps the man. His nose is red, and his coat is plain and unadorned besides his golden pocketwatch. “You must pardon Lumiere, Miss—”

“Belle! I am Belle. You are English?”

“Mm, yes—suppose you still hear it—never gotten the grasp of the damned accent.”

“Oh là là, he acts as if the French accent is difficult,” says Lumiere, puffing smoke, and Belle laughs between the two of them. She is happy that at least there are two friendly souls in this village—grumpy ones, yes, ones with little to recommend them; a drunkard and a smoker, crouched on a village stoop—but friendly ones, at least, with something kind between them.

“And you keep the clocktower?”

“Tic toc,” says Cogsworth. He drinks the wine a bit too fast. “Used to have a career as a diplomat, don’t you know—but I suppose that...that I wanted to settle down, or some such thing.” He looks at Belle, vaguely, and a chill snakes down her spine. His eyes are gray-streaked too.

“Cogsworth,” screams someone, across the square, and he is up and moving faster than Belle would have believed. He mutters one word—“Clothilde,” as if that is explanation enough—and disappears back to his clocks.

Lumiere holds the wine bottle he left behind, weighing it carelessly with one hand, his movements listless. He has not taken one more sip before the shutters over the stoop bang open.

“Lumiere! What are you doing there?” calls a woman from the window. Beside Belle, Lumiere rolls his eyes and looks, shamefaced, up to the sound.

“Get off my stoop!” yells the woman. “D’you have wine down there, Lumiere?“

“If you cannot take a little cheap wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” calls Lumiere.

“Off with you, now—not on my stoop—begging your pardon, miss—town drunkards, the both of them. Welcome to Villeneueve,” and the woman slams the window.

“Who was that?” The woman’s face was sharp as a shard.

“Mrs. Potts, the crockery-man’s wife,” says Lumiere, and takes a large gulp of the wine. “I barely know her. Thank God.”

Part VII: In The Midst of All This Sorrow

While Lumiere drinks and smokes, Belle watches him and watches this village. There is something very strange, here—gaps in memory, gaps in the storyteller’s story. Lumiere spoke brilliantly, eloquently, about a Greek translation he could not remember—and yet his own life is unknown, an impossible one of an apothecary’s son, with no knowledge of the apothecary himself, coming to a distant village and then doing nothing for twenty years. And Cogsworth, too, a diplomat—

“Surely you do something here?” It’s rude, but she can’t help it.

“What could I do, mademoiselle? I have no skills for Villeneuve. I cannot herd sheep. I cannot shoot cows. I am useless.” His beautiful hands gesture again, pointlessly, to the swine and chickens and village dust surrounding them.

“You must have something that Villeneuve needs. Why, my father is an artist! And an inventor! If this village can have that, it can have…whatever you do.”

“I do nothing, mademoiselle,” he says, again, and his foot traces a dance step against the dirt, and then is quiet again. “Nothing on nothing, everyday, mademoiselle. Forevermore.”

“Then why do you stay here?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are following nothing across the square.

“Why do you stay, Lumiere?”

His hand on her arm is sudden and swift and shocks her. If she thought she saw a flicker before, it is nothing to the blaze that has shot up in his eyes now—almost dimming the gray, almost catching it out in a sudden sparkle.

“She is why, mademoiselle.”

He was not looking at nothing before. Turning, Belle sees what he was following: the entrance of a flock of ladies into the square, a giggling squadron of petticoats and primped hair. Three of the girls are dressed almost identically in pink, and they are pretty enough—but the fourth one, dressed all in white, covered in stray feathers from the gaggle of geese she tends, is beautiful. Even plucking feathers from her hair, and leaning against her goose-girl’s staff, she is the most beautiful woman Belle has ever seen.

“I have never dared to speak to her,” whispers Lumiere, and she is drawn back to his face. It was so empty, before, but now it is flickering fast—with hope, and love, and despair. “She would never love a hopeless idiot. But Plumette makes me so weak, I could never be strong….”

“You’ve never spoken?”

“Non! How could I dare? She is flawless.”

“Twenty years you’ve lived here, and you’ve never even spoken?!”

“C’est la vie,” says Lumiere, and the light goes out as he stares hopelessly after her. “She would never look at me. She probably loves the same one as the rest of them…”

There is a sound of hoof-beats approaching the square. “What one as the rest of them?”

Lumiere cannot sink into the steps any further. “If you want venison, mademoiselle, that is who to get it from.”

It feels like an explosion into the square. The minute the man in red rides in, there is a crow of praise from every window— “he returns!” “Ey, ey! Gaston! Bonjour!”—a sweep of giggling from the girls across the square. The iron-shod hooves slam against the cobblestones, and the quiet of Villeneuve falls apart. The conquering hero comes.

“Make a lane! Make a lane!” Somebody rides beside Gaston. There is no need to make a lane—there is nobody in the square—yet the fanfare goes on. The man in red throws a fresh-dead deer onto the cobblestones; the town applauds.

“He’s just a man. I don’t see what they’re on about,” says Belle.

Lumiere puffs his pipe. “Don’t tell the other girls you said that,” he says. “As a matter of fact, don’t tell me either. I don’t need his attention today—”

“Ah, the village idiot!” Gaston is already on them. His lackey is right behind him. “Drunk, again, old friend?”

“You are not my friend,” says Lumiere, but low. His eyes don’t meet Gaston’s. He has drawn further into the shadow.

“Oh, I am not your ‘mohnaaahmii’?” Gaston is mocking Lumiere’s Parisian accent; the whole square laughs beside him.

“It’s two words, not one,” Lumiere says, lower still. “If you cannot charm with rapier wit, do not hit me with your dull bullets.”

The blow is swift and immediate, and Belle draws back as Lumiere’s jaw hits against the wall. His hand is slow in reaching up to the wound. Even in pain, his eyes don’t quite focus. Like the wine, it is evident this is a practiced ritual.

“He was right about ‘mon ami,’” says the lackey, faintly. “We’ll work on the  grammar.”

“Who needs it?! It certainly hasn’t gotten this prancing fool anywhere,” says Gaston. “Dancing and manners! In Villeneuve! Coward. Storyteller. Lily liver.”

“Leave him alone,” says Belle. Storyteller. Lily liver. Like the lily-eaters in the Odyssey. Lumiere knows the Odyssey, Lumiere welcomed her to the stoop; Lumiere is the village idiot, and an empty soul, and a useless one, and still: “Even if he is nothing—and he isn’t—he’s my friend. Leave him alone. Whoever you are, he’s better than you!”

The square is instantly silent. Beside her, Lumiere murmurs “foolish, foolish” into his hands.

“You’re…new,” says Gaston.

“Leave him alone.” Belle is fearless.

“Of course, mademoiselle,” and Gaston is so instantly full of smiles it is like a coin flipped. “I look forward to seeing more of you.”

Belle just looks at him. He is the first man in Villeneuve without a streak of gray inside his eyes.

“Mark my words, though—this man has no one in this town.” Lumiere, dark in the shadows, cringes beside her as Gaston speaks. “Only a lonely dreamer. Nothing more than a village punching-bag, is he, LeFou? He only lives to serve!” He is mocking the accent again.

“He doesn’t serve you,” says Belle. “And he’s not alone.”

No one in the village backs her up. Across the square, the girls in pink frown. The one in white has let her eyes drop: in shyness, or shame, or second-hand embarrassment, Belle can’t tell.

Gaston rides off, the village cheering. (though a little less proudly than before.) Lumiere’s jaw is fine—a black bruise against the cleft chin, one of many she did not see before—and he waves her away.

“Please tell me he does not do that every day,” she says.

“I don’t remember,” says Lumiere, “but if he did it every day, I think I might be dead. It has only been a decade or two, eh? Go home, mademoiselle. Don’t come back for dreamers.”

The Other thing inside his eyes has deepened. There is almost no blue at all. The apothecary’s son, with nothing in his days besides shame and smoke, leans back up on his stoop. A cold wind blows through the square, black and blue, and Belle’s hands clench from the cold.

There is something wrong in Villeneuve. And how she longs to find it out.

Part VIII: Not Whole Without A Soul

It’s a week later, and Belle is off to see Lumiere again. He does, in fact, live somewhere besides other people’s stoops—a rundown shed, apparently, tucked behind the meadow, though she’s not gotten to visit it. He says, with a small, quiet joke, that it’s not fit for company until he can hang a chandelier.

She’s almost reached his usual stoop when the rain hits. She puts her apron over her head, but it’s no good; there are sheets of tattered rain across the village, and her hair is soaked in moments.

“Come in, girl, come in! Out of the cold, and the wet—oh, aren’t you a vision—of damp—”

Outlined by the light of an open door, she sees the potter’s wife. Mrs. Potts’ rough hands take Belle and pull her into the kitchen before she can think.

“Th-thank you. That was kind of you.” She is dripping all over the floor. Mrs. Potts sees her and slides a tea-tray beneath her feet, to catch the wet.

“Come on, dear, let’s sit you by the fire—we’ll get you a cup of tea—there, dear. By the chair.”

Belle curls gratefully onto the bench by the fire, and Mrs. Potts turns to her table to prepare the drinks. And something moves in the soot of the dark fire place, almost like it’s alive—

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have moved…I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“There, now, Chip, move on,” says Mrs. Potts, and the soot-covered thing turns into a little boy, cheeky and smiling. He waves at Belle before running away. His clothes smell of tea: chamomile, lavender, earl gray.

“My boy,” the woman explains, and hands Belle a cup. “His father’s out, now, but he’ll be back soon. We’ve lived here together in this house for twenty years.” She laughs at some joke that isn’t there. “He made these cups, and he sells the porcelain—you’ve seen him in the market?”

Belle nods. She likes Jean Potts well enough. He does not belittle the village’s drunks and nobodies, though he does seem frightened of them. He has never mocked her for visiting Lumiere and Cogsworth on their stoop in the sun.

“I don’t know why you choose to speak with those tramps,” says Mrs. Potts, as if she reads her thoughts as easy as tea-leaves. “You seem a nice enough young lady to be with the other girls, not with those two…..though Mr. Cogsworth is fine, in his way—but I’d stay away from that one, young lady.”

“Why?” Belle watches her as she prepares the tea. Mrs. Potts keeps bumping into the table; for all her twenty years inside this kitchen, she has to think twice before she moves. Her hands flick between jars of raisins and flour, and she sidesteps around nothing. It as if she expects a different kitchen, thinks Belle, a kitchen quite different from this small country stove—but twenty years sit there, solid as truth, on the table that has never moved.

“What’s he been telling you out there?” Crunch: Mrs. Potts reached for almonds, not sugar. She puts the tin back hurriedly, cringing, and grabs for the other jar. Her eyes watch her hands, as if checking her own habit.s

“That he came to Villeneuve many years ago, and hasn’t worked much since,” says Belle. “Small jobs, the occasional village fete—but he doesn’t know how to do anything too useful to the village. So he sits in the sun.” She doesn’t mention the beautiful goose-girl he waits for. She doesn’t mention that she can’t find out what he waits for, nor Cogsworth either, in this lonely village beside the empty woods.

Mrs. Potts nods, judgement for Lumiere clear on her face. Belle finds the blood rushing to her face.

“But he’s so much more than just—just a stoop-dweller! He comes from Paris. He tells stories! He is warm,” says Belle, and she stares defiantly into Mrs. Potts’ eyes.

Gasps, and draws back. Mrs. Potts’ eyes are two different shades of gray.

Mrs. Potts blinks, and the gray ripples, and the older woman sighs and smooths Belle’s hands.

“I know, dear. I am sure he might be. I’ve never spoken to him much, myself. But you have to understand—he doesn’t belong in this village. He doesn’t belong.”

She moves around to sit by Belle, but she runs into the table first.

“There are stories about him—stories he doesn’t like to tell. Oh, I know, I seem like an outsider here too, with my English accent and—” She laughs and waves hands around her frazzled hair, and loses the path of the sentence. “But young one, you’ve got to look out—we don’t know who his father is, we don’t know—”

“How long have you lived here?” Belle tries not to phrase it as a challenge. Mrs. Potts means well—she lets soaked artists’ daughters out of the rain, after all—but the sharp shards in her voice have no place with her soft hands, and her boy, and the tea now boiling over on a stove she’s forgotten the place of.

“Twenty years, dear, just here in this house.” Mrs. Potts sits back and smiles at her. “Do you know, I used to look kindly on those Parisian types myself, before I came to Villeneuve; I’d never met one, but I thought I might work for—there, now, you don’t care about that. I’m not a working woman, ear. I’m all cooped up,” and she laughs, again, in a faded voice, like there’s a joke she’s just forgotten.

The swirl of gray steeps in the woman’s eyes.

Part IX: Here’s a Thought, Perhaps

“I don’t understand.” Belle slams her books down on the kitchen table. Maurice looks up from a new trinket—a music box molded off the design of a ballroom; it sounds charming, though he hasn’t put in any dancers yet—and catches how tan she’s gotten from sitting on sunny stoops. They’ve lived here in Villeneuve for several weeks, now; he’s happy she’s settling in.

“More books from Pere Robert, I see,” he says mildly. Belle fidgets with Sleeping Beauty like its pages are a problem to be solved, opening and closing the story of the sleeping palace that stood for a hundred years.

“Yes, they’re lovely, but....Papa, this town makes no sense.”

“Very few things do.” He smiles and puts aside his music box. “What’s enchanting you now, my darling?”

“Papa, this is a little village, isn’t it?”

“That’s why I chose it. Does that trouble you, my dear?”

“No. I like the people, I’m making friends with some of them, I never thought I would....” She trails off. Most people in most towns think she’s odd; that’s why she turned to books, because they had people in them that didn’t laugh at her—well, that and the books had worlds she was longing to explore, far out of the realm of her little towns and cities and gossiping market squares. But here in Villeneuve, in this town just like any other, she’d somehow managed to find a few souls who didn’t mind her oddness—who loved her for it, in fact; who seemed to find in her something they found familiar, something that reminded them of someone they had all loved once. Why, just today, Cogsworth had been talking of this young man he knew, whose golden hair always got loose from his ribbon and fell all over his shoulder, just like hers did....but then he’d forgotten about it, and when she asked him about where she could find him in the village, he’d blinked and asked her if she meant Gaston.

Of course she didn’t mean Gaston. She meant Cogsworth’s young man with the golden hair, and Lumiere’s old friend who quoted Shakespeare in the bath, and the boy Mrs. Potts had watched before she had Chip, the boy who had wanted to wear blue every day for a year. Everyone had a story that came and went and that they never told again: even the silent milliner’s son, playing his violin in the tavern for a few coins, would play a tune about someone no one could name. But Belle could never find all these missing people, no matter where she looked.

“For a little village, there are spots missing,” she says. “And I’ve been talking to people left and right, and there are some things that just seem so odd. Did you know that Madame de Garderobe and Maestro Cadenza came here, a few years ago? World-famous musicians! What were they doing here? They said they got lost on the way to Edinburgh, but they were coming from London. How could they get so lost?”

“That is strange.”

“They played a concert for the villagers, apparently, but no one really remembers it, or they won’t talk about it. It’s as if they’re all hiding something, or realy afraid of something.”

“They might be afraid of that big red galoot, whatever his name is,” suggests Maurice. “You know the one, stepped on our cabbages the other day.”

“Ugh.” Belle hisses out a breath. “He treats them so badly—though they treat each other badly, too. Mrs. Potts doesn’t trust Lumiere, but will never tell me why. They could be friends, if they tried to know each other.”

“You think so well of the world,” says Maurice, softening as he looks at his daughter. “You would believe a rose could lose its thorns if you tried hard enough.”

“It’s not that I believe in change. I believe in...in whatever this is.” Belle throws her hands in the air. “Helping people, fixing what’s broken. There’s something broken here, papa.”

“Mm.” Maurice looks back to his trinket—its melody tinkering out, slow and charming, across his wooden desk. “Do you know, dear, I find the gears of this little castle don’t work right when you have them all apart.”

Belle raises an eyebrow. “Papa?”

“This bit here, it will just sit useless unless I fasten it to another—and I need wire, here, and you know how I’m always losing my screws. Now, if I just rest all the pieces here on the table, like so many soundless, useless objects, we’d never hear that music-box chime, would we?”

“Is this...is this a lesson?” A smile cracks over Belle’s face, slow and steady. “You haven’t instructed me on making music boxes in years, papa.”

“Well, no, not since you got the hang of it...but it still makes me happy to see those gears turn in your head, my girl.”

She’s out the door before he’s finished speaking, eyes alight with a new idea, and she lets it slam behind her, a cold wind blowing through the house as she goes. Maurice’s sketches and drawings and parts tumble over the tabletop, and he turns back to his music-box, paintbrush in hand, ready to work.

Now, if he can just think what sorts of people belong in a ballroom.

Part X: And Almost Kind

“Lumiere! Lumiere.” Belle scatters to a stop, her hair already all undone from its braid. Her friend is leaning up against the clocktower, half in its shadow, his brown and yellow peasants’ garb too big for his lanky frame. He barely looks up to see her; his eyes are caught in the white feathers drifting across the square, and the girl trying to pull them from her curly hair.

“Lumiere, please focus. Look, I have an idea.”

“Mm?” One hand is trailing out a dance melody across the clocktower’s stone. Only the sound of the hunting horn—far away, now, but promising a violent return in short order from the local hero—rallies him out of his trance. “Mademoiselle. You were saying?”

“Can I come visit your shed?”

“Pardonez-moi?” Alarm knocks out the last vestiges of dreaming in his blue eyes. The grey streaks pulse to a rhythm of their own, frightened and jumpy in contrast to the waltz his fingers still trace. “Mademoiselle! You—you cannot, it is no home for....”

“I’ll bring food. And we’ll sing, all right? We’ll have a party. A dinner party!”

“A...dinner party?” He’s still hesitant, but Belle catches that spark of excitement before he can snuff it out.

“What is dinner without a little music?” She grins at him. “Come on, Lumiere, you must have thrown a party at least once in your life.”

“I.........” He’s somehow gone even whiter from the premise.

“And I know just who to invite. Hop along, tout-de-suite—” she slaughters the accent, but it gets him smiling, a little, under those sad blue eyes. “We’re going to be needing extra chairs.”

He bows to her, his yellow vest flapping around him, and just for a second Belle imagines that auburn hair and those elegant white hands somewhere far, far away from Villeneuve. And then he’s up, and off, and before he trips over a sheep he looks almost debonair.

“Right.” Belle straightens her apron, touches the copy of The Knights of The Round Table she’s slipped into her pocket for luck. She has quite a few people to talk to before sundown, and she wants to be brave.

Part XI: Prepare and Serve With Flair

“Is this it?” The shed in front of them is tiny, and mouldering, and right on the edge of the meadow. The only signs it’s lived in are the cracks of candelight seeping out the boarded-up windows and the rusty door.

“It’s shabby enough.” Cogsworth hoists the picnic basket higher. “I still say this is a bad idea.”

“Twenty years you’ve lived here, and you’ve never had dinner with your best friend?”

“And rightly, too,” says Mrs. Potts. “Belle, if I stay here an hour we’ll all be shocked. I don’t like the man, I’ve told you so.”

“Just try it, please? I spent all day cooking this. Or trying to, anyway,” Belle adds, staring down at the burnt contents of her basket with a grimace. Before the others can say anything else, she runs up to the door and knocks.

It falls over, rust winning over old metal.

“Mr. Chapeau, come along, this is dreadful,” says Mrs. Potts, nearly turning back to the village.

“No, no, wait! Lumiere? Lumiere, we’re here.” Belle steps through. Cautiously, the others follow.

Every surface of the tiny shed glows with candelight. In his eagerness to pull off an effect, Lumiere has decked every corner with wax and wicks and glowing golden light; candles drip down chair backs, off iron sconces, across the bare wood of the little table he’s laid. It’s ghastly, but warm, and Belle notices that every table setting—chipped and mismatched though the cups and plates are—is laid out exactly as a courtly table, multiple forks and all.

“We’ve brought food! If it’s edible, which is as yet in doubt. And you know Cogsworth, of course, and Mrs. Potts.”

“Welcome,” says Lumiere flatly. Mrs. Potts rolls her eyes and conspicuously wipes the spots off the silverware with her skirt.

“And this is Chapeau.” Belle shows in the silent violin player. “He’s friends with Pere Robert. Oh, and—”

Lumiere almost drops the wine Cogsworth brought. He’s staring just past Belle, where the dark, starry sky outlines the girl still standing in his doorway.

Lumiere chokes out a string of wordless syllables. His hands don’t quite know what to do. Plumette, for her part, looks like shyness brought to life. She tries a clumsy curtsy and nearly falls; Lumiere catches her, just in time, and they stare for far too long at their own hands on each other’s shoulders.

Belle pretends not to notice them as she lays out all she’s brought: a simple barley soup, a badly sunken cheese souffle, a cream tart that now just looks like gray stuff. Chapeau helps her serve, holding the plates like he’s done this a thousand times before—though he assures her he hasn’t; that his whole life is Villeneuve and his mother’s loud and lonely hatshop. 

Slowly, everyone sips their drinks (poor Lumiere—he’d set out two glasses for each place, as if they had white wine as well as red—poor village idiot, out of place as ever); slowly, they start to talk, breaking bread and sharing plates of butter. Their host is useless for most of the meal, staring blankly at Plumette as she stares back at him; they sit uncomfortably close, for strangers, and Belle sees how jumpy all the hands and feet at this table are: all longing to get out, to twitch away from this strange warmth and company. Lumiere’s hands are shaking near Plumete’s.

But food and wine and after-hours chatting has its charms, and slowly people unfurl like flowers after winter: Mrs. Potts going rosy-cheeked as she tells of Chip’s latest antics, Chapeau miming the schoolmaster’s upturned snout for a delighted Cogsworth, Belle sharing her latest book and finding people somehow interested. Conversation flows out, golden in the waning night, and midnight passes with no notice.

“What of you, Plumette? Where do you come from?” Belle leans over Cogsworth, and tries to act as though she doesn’t see Lumiere’s hands shaking as he timidly puts a roll on the goosegirl’s plate.

“Paris,” says Plumette, and Lumiere’s hands waver like a flame in a storm, “I traveled here, mademoiselle, when I was very young—years and years ago. And I stayed here, oh, I can’t imagine why....”

There’s a stroke of gray in the big brown eyes. Belle tries to hide her fear.

“And this is all I’m good at,” and Plumette sighs, and brushes another feather from her hair. “I once dreamed of great romance, of fairytales—but how could it be otherwise? I am a goosegirl in a village. No great love will ever come to me.” And she stares bitterly downward, not seeing the place setting arranged with so much love.

But then Cogsworth drops his watch in the wine, and Mrs. Potts is laughing so hard she almost cries, and Chapeau fiddles and Lumiere and Plumette clap along (although they refuse to dance).

They part cheerfully, just as the first rays of the sun start stepping gently over the valley. Lumiere, white as a sheet, plucks up his guttering courage and kisses Plumette’s hand; she blushes as vivid as a robin’s chest, and runs so fast back to her cottage she practically flies. (Lumiere, blushing too, nearly sets himself on fire as he reels into his bed.) Cogsworth stretches and yawns, remarking  on the time; Mrs. Potts helps to pack the baskets, and follows Belle out the door.

“You see?” says Belle, leading the way back to the sleeping village. “That wasn’t so bad, Mrs. Potts.”

“No, well....” Her face, so softened and happy just a moment ago, seizes up into harsh lines as if she’s been caught doing wrong. “And I wouldn’t turn down the sight of doing it again, and perhaps bringing Chip along too. You have a good heart, poppet.”

“But...?” They still stand in darkness, here where their paths part. Belle holds her basket close, her books still resting on top.

“We’ve been set in our ways for twenty years, luv. It would take a miracle, or twenty years back that we will never have, to make us into what you dream of. I’ll try for your sake, dear, really I will, but I would never hold that lot of them dear to my heart.”

She trudges back to the village, and Belle watches her go. She hugs her books and basket to her chest, planning and puzzling away at the village with no hope.

“Keep putting the pieces together,” she whispers to herself. “Keep putting the pieces together.”