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Nights used to be the easiest. He could be alone in the darkness and quiet, no servants about as a reminder that he'd cursed them all. He'd sleep away as many hours as he could.
Now, nights are the hardest, because Beast spends every night thinking about Belle. Wanting to sleep so the time will go faster until he can see her again, unable to sleep because he keeps replaying every moment they'd spent together that day. Analyzing every look and touch she'd given him, trying to figure out what they meant, how she felt about him.
To distract and tire himself, he tries cleaning up the west wing. Gathering up all the broken furniture, righting everything that he had knocked over in one of his rages, rearranging the remaining chairs and tables and such that were salvageable. But with his immense strength, the work does little to tire him and only occupies two nights.
A new night stretches ahead of him now, alone again. He picks up a book and runs a paw over its embossed leather cover. Belle gave it to him after he gifted her the library earlier that day. He opens it gingerly and tries to read it, but he can't turn the pages with his massive, clumsy paws and tosses it aside with a huff.
⚜📖⚜
Belle gasped when she opened her eyes. “I can’t believe it! I’ve never seen so many books in my whole life!”
She peered upwards with wide eyes, trying to look at everything at once. He looked at nothing but her. Her face was glowing with delight, and that made him feel brilliantly happy as well. He had no idea it would feel so good to do this for her—he had never given anyone anything before.
“You like it?” he asked, though his grin made it clear that he already knew the answer.
“It’s wonderful!” She walked in a wide circle around him, still trying to take it all in. He turned too, matching her movements so that he could keep her in his sight continually.
“Then it’s yours.” She gasped again and finally looked away from the books and at him. His heart leaped in his chest.
“Thank you so much,” she said as she reached out her hands to him. He took them into his paws gently. They felt so tiny and delicate. Warmth spread out from where her hands touched him and coursed through his limbs. She stared into his eyes affectionately, and he never wanted to look away.
⚜📖⚜
She had been so happy then, and he had been, too. Now, it doesn't seem like enough. It had cost him nothing to do that for her. Everything in the castle belongs to him, but he had never done anything to earn it, to give it value to him that he could sacrifice by then giving it to another. His gaze lands on the pile of broken furniture as he paces. He hadn't cared about his library any more than this furniture that he destroyed.
The only thing that belongs to him that he cares about is the rose. His eyes slide over to it, softly glowing across the room, protected in its bell jar. He knows Belle would love it—she tried to touch it once. He remembers how captivated her face was as she reached out her hand to it.
But of course he can't give it to her.
⚜🌹⚜
She must have wondered how his human mother ended up with a monster like him as a son, but, thankfully, she didn’t ask.
"You have her eyes," Belle murmured as she stared up at the portrait. Beast didn't respond, just continued gazing at the portrait too, his paws clasped behind his back.
"What was her name?"
"Michèle."
"She was beautiful. Is it a faithful portrait?"
"Yes. I mean, I think so. She died when I was so young that my memories of her are hazy. This is the face I see in those memories, but I'm not sure if I'm actually remembering her or just this portrait."
Belle nodded. "My mother died when I was young too. It's hard for me to remember her face at all. I don't have a picture of her." She spoke quietly, still gazing up at the portrait of the Beast's mother, her eyes shining with tears held back.
"I'm sorry," Beast said gently. "What was her name?"
Belle's eyes darted sideways to him, then back.
"Rose."
⚜🌹⚜
The enchanted rose is his only possession that matters to him, the only thing that could be a sacrifice for him, but also the only thing he can’t give to her. He makes a sound of frustration, something between a sigh and a growl. Suddenly he wants to break something and snatches a broken table leg from the top of the garbage heap. But he grits his teeth and stops himself before he can snap it in half. He's tired of destroying things.
He wishes he could create something for once. His ears perk up. Something he could give to Belle! He looks down at his huge paws, the table leg still gripped in one, and his ears droop again. How can he create anything with these "hands"?
⚜🗡⚜
The young prince looked up from the tedious math equations his tutor was forcing him to complete. The man was sitting across the room, slightly hunched over something he was working in his hands. There was a faint scraping sound.
"What are you doing?" the prince demanded.
"Just whittling, your majesty, to pass the time," the tutor answered.
"What on earth is whittling?" He pronounced the word like it tasted foul.
"Carving wood into shapes with a knife, your majesty. Like this!" The tutor held up the small piece of wood in his hand excitedly. It was roughly shaped like a bird.
"That looks awful," the prince sneered. "What a colossal waste of time."
⚜🗡⚜
Beast slowly draws a claw down the table leg he holds. The wood yields easily, leaving a clean, pale gash. He flicks the sharp tip of his claw against it experimentally, bits of wood chipping off and falling into the fur of his arm.
Maybe these paws can create something.
He spends less than a half hour on his first attempt before snarling in frustration and hurling the misshapen wood block into the fireplace. He doesn't try again that night.
The next night goes slightly better. He spends about an hour on it, trying different ways of moving his claws, sliding, digging, flicking. The resulting wood carving is crude and ugly and looks nothing like what he had in mind. But at least making it helps the time go by faster. He sets it on a table and picks up a new bit of wood to continue.
The next day, Belle loops her arm through his as they walk down the hall, but immediately pulls it away. She peers down at the thick fur on his forearm.
“There’s something scratchy in your fur. It looks like slivers of wood?”
“Oh I—I’m sorry,” Beast mutters as he steps back from her and sheepishly brushes off his arms.
Belle smiles at him archly. “Were you out doing some gardening early this morning?”
“Something like that,” Beast mumbles, ducking his head and running a paw behind his neck like he often does when he’s nervous, and Belle doesn’t tease him any further.
By the end of a week, the table is covered with pieces of carved wood. Each one Beast makes is a bit better than the last, and each night feels less painfully long. He would still much rather spend all his time with Belle, but doing this is actually enjoyable too. He likes the rhythm of stripping away the layers, smoothing rough edges, seeing the wood slowly transform into something else in his paws, each scratch of his claw exposing more of its true shape hidden inside.
By the end of the second week, he’s finally done it. This one looks exactly how he wants it to look. He cradles it in his paw and smiles.
When he enters the breakfast room the next morning, Belle is already seated at the table, waiting for him. She smiles warmly at him, and the nervous thudding of his heart speeds up even more.
“Good morning, Beast.”
“Good morning, Belle.” He passes by his usual seat and walks to where she is sitting instead, keeping his arms behind his back. She peers up at him and raises a questioning eyebrow. His mouth feels dry and he swallows thickly.
“Belle, I made you a gift.” He pulls a small box from behind his back, tied with a deep pink velvet ribbon, courtesy of Cogsworth. He sets it on the table in front of her, and now both of her eyebrows are raised in surprise.
Her face takes on its familiar look of intense curiosity as she unties the bow and opens the box. Inside is a carving of a rose blossom. It’s made out of wood, but so exquisitely carved that the petals look soft. “Oh!” she says quietly. She lifts it out of the box and lays it in her small palm. It fits perfectly there.
She looks up at the Beast with wide eyes. “You made this?”
“Yes.” He flexes his claws involuntarily, then shifts his feet and runs a paw down the back of his head. “I know it’s rather plain—I can’t hold a paintbrush, so I couldn’t paint it—And I didn’t know what color—But I’m sure one of the servants could do it if—”
Belle lays a hand on his chest. “Beast.” She’s standing now, smiling up at him. “It’s beautiful.”
Beast glances down to where her hand rests on his chest and takes a deep steadying breath. He meets her eyes. “I thought it might remind you of your mother.”
A tear slides down Belle’s cheek, but she's still smiling. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You like it?”
“I love it. Just how it is.”