#jcligarcon

/ SCREAMS HI FRIEND

Jacques spun on his heel, choking on the rest of whatever was going to come out of his mouth: his timing had always been rotten, but this was a whole new level of discomfort. Between the bad timing, the question rehearsals, the easy way French rolled off Stanley’s tongue and fanned the spark in his cheeks to a healthy pink blush.... “Stanley! You’re, uh--” Nervous eyes glanced down at his own wrist, desperate to escape the teasing in Stanley’s face--how much of that had he heard?--only to see that-- “Oh. You’re, uh, kinda late. Huh. I...lost track of the time myself.” He smiled wide to smooth over his confession and dared to meet Stanley’s eyes, his own gaze sticking for an uncomfortable second on the leather jacket dangling in front of his crotch.

G-d, when had he become so predictable as to fall for the first really hot leather-wearing model to walk through his studio doors? He covered for the moment with a cough, pawing awkwardly at his t-shirt collar.

Gaston had been immortal, in his own way. 

Such is the case when the legacy eclipses the man, long before the latter has even resigned himself to the annals of history. Gaston had been alive and well–– very well–– when his status of legend worked itself into the very roots of the small village, a luminary basking in his own light, self-sustaining and eternal. He was still there. Weeks after everything began to shape itself into something vaguely akin to normal, Gaston refused to relinquish his hold over the province. 

LeFou remembers hearing the news. Gaston? Where is Gaston? He remembers the pause preceding the flatly delivered, “Dead.” Never was there a send-off so inappropriate, so abrupt–– like a period slamming down suddenly, fragmenting a metaphor into a handful of semantic nothings. It was too terse, too incomplete. He was better than that. 

He could’ve been better than that. 

He remembers opening his mouth, asking a question he’d not yet thought of, and feeling only the air escape him. A breathless little laugh, his mind scrambling to work together a reaction without completely tearing itself apart. Gaston was dead. Gaston was dead–– but he couldn’t be, the name itself seeming an inherent contradiction. He wasn’t dead, because he didn’t make mistakes. He wasn’t dead, because he was a hunter–– a war hero––he belonged on the other side of that narrative. He wasn’t dead, because he was Gaston. 

Reality took a few weeks to assert itself, LeFou floating in a semi-state of mourning and abject denial. He’d wake up some mornings, settling easily into the groove of routine, and begin the well-known journey towards the stables. Realization didn’t dawn until he had crossed the threshold, the sight of the horses firmly reminding him that there was only one rider between the pair of them. He was alone. No one waiting just around the bend with a sly grin and gentle command to saddle up. And no one would be ever again.

He couldn’t recall how long he’d stood there on that first misadventure, his cheeks absently growing wet, something inside of him breaking. 

He deliberated to sell the horse.

The terms negotiated were practically thievery, but LeFou would have paid for the deficit ten times over if it meant gaining that small fractal of solace. 

It was time to move on. 

It was just a damn shame the horse didn’t share the sentiment. 

“Steady,” he whispered, more a plea than a command. The beast huffed dismissively, its head rearing as though to turn its head up, rejecting its master by circumstance. The creature knew LeFou from countless excursions as Gaston’s steed, but familiarity didn’t necessarily breed authority. Perhaps it was because it knew LeFou that he was able to reject him so quickly, his deferential nature already firmly established and indelibly marked as unworthy.

“Heel?” LeFou ventured, fruitlessly reaffirming his grip on the reins. “Please?” 

Some of us are trying to read, and you’re letting your drama get.... *waves hands* all over the place.

put “top 5” anything in my ask and i will answer ok go || accepting!