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The cold air bit at Gaston’s nose and fingers. He shivered and pulled his fur coat tighter around himself.
They had built a fire and pitched a tent nearby. Lefou sat across from him, staring into the fire. He’d been silent for a long time following their fight. Gaston found the sudden absence of Lefou’s jabbering…jarring.
Well, if Lefou is going to give him the silent treatment, he could too. Gaston wet his lips and looked away.
The silence fell over them like a blanket, quietly deafening. Gaston looked back at Lefou, observing his scruffy dark chestnut brown hair. The fire reflected in his tired brown eyes.
Gaston felt something tight in his chest. Before he could stop it, he felt something raw and ragged and vulnerable and very much not paragonly crawling out of his throat.
“Lefou, I-” He started. Lefou perks up. Gaston swallows. “When I…when I was a kid, and I was running wild around town, I somehow fell into helping the old tavern owner out from time to time.”
“This-this one time, ol’ Monsieur Noel, he took me aside after I had finished helping him with preparing the day’s batch of beer. He said that I did good, and that I could inherit the tavern after him. That felt…that felt good.” Gaston murmured.
“I did good. I was good. And I guess…I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.” Gaston chuckles brokenly. “Like a starving dog.”
“And now…” He trails off. Gaston looks down at his hands. They were shaking.
He looks back up at Lefou, who was staring at him with some indiscernible emotion. After a long silence, he gets up and walks to the tent.
Lefou pauses at the entrance. “Goodnight, Gaston.” Lefou says, almost too quiet to make out.
“Goodnight, Lefou.” Gaston murmurs back.
His chest felt slightly lighter somehow.