Chapter Text
He fell.
Lefou listens to Belle’s soft murmurs blankly, everything after those two words turning into a mess of muddy sounds that made him feel like he was underwater. While everyone is celebrating and meeting their families all over again, Lefou stands to the corner as Belle and newly transformed back Prince Adam explain Gaston’s fate. The glances they keep sending each other are so full of genuine love that it almost makes him sick.
He fell.
Lefou blinks, his reaction blank and unresponsive. He can see Belle’s eyebrows furrow in concern, he can see her lips form worried words towards him. The high tones of her voice lilt up in the end, it’s a question. But he can’t hear it. He can’t understand it. His mind is still turning in place, repeating the same statement about the uncertain demise of his companion.
He fell?
Everyone is so loud. Jovial laughing, crying, and shouting as the villagers find pieces of their heart that they didn't know they had lost in the first place. It’s crowded, even though LeFou is standing alone with only two others across from him. Their stares bore into him harshly. It’s suffocating.
“Oh. I see.” He responds dumbly, body turning on its autopilot and saying the first foolish thing that manages to tumble out of his lips.
His lackluster response and the monotonous daze in his voice must not have been the right way to respond as the pair only look more concerned after he answers. But LeFou doesn't wait for more questions, giving them an attempted but empty nod and then shuffling past them. Dangerous emotions churn below the surface, even as his almost unfeeling shell of a body walks away with no more than an unseeing glance forward.
Belle calls out for him again, but his steps are growing quicker and longer in strides away from them. Away from the deafening laughter and alarmed but relieved shouts. Away from the loud glances and questioning concern. Away from it all. Pretty soon he’s running, sprinting down the long grand halls and over to the west wing area where Gaston had been. His heart is in his chest, breaths ragged and harsh, and his footsteps clacking loudly across the floors and echoing along the tall pillars. LeFou smashes his body into the door to outside, staggering out into the shaded courtyard with wheezing exhales and trembling steps.
The inner walls are tall, much too tall. They loom ominously, almost as if this part of the castle hadn't been touched by the golden warmth of the sun as the curse was lifted. It feels like judgment. The weight of his morally disturbing decisions he allowed for the sake of Gaston's preservation now feel like an anchor binding him to the earth. The quiet stark difference from the rest of the lively loud castle sends goosebumps up LeFou’s arms and a shiver wracks his body. He can hear every step of his feet too loudly, and the winded breaths wheezing in his chest still have not ceased as he stumbles further in.
He chances a glance upwards and truly sees how damning the fall would be from such a height. A whimper tumbles out of his mouth helplessly at the very thought of it and LeFou snaps his head back down, searching for any sign of his other half.
The large chunks of the broken bridge stare at him from a distance and LeFou can only pray there is no body underneath them. That this was all some dream and that Gaston too, was spared just as everyone else was. Magic flowed through the castle just moments ago, how then could something so real and horrid happen at the same time? Did magic discriminate?
A glint of metal reflects the light in the corner of his eye.
“No…no no no no no- “he chants to himself, snapping his head around to stare it in the face and taking off into a desperate sprint over towards it.
The pistol could belong to none other than Gaston. LeFou was more than familiar with the brilliantly-polished gun, having polished it for his friend many times in the past. He’d seen it on hunting trips, in combat, and even in the quiet of his home as Gaston polished it idly as Lefou cooked up a meal for them with their latest hunt.
It was fallen a small distance away from the boulders, laying innocently in the grass to beckon him closer. It wanted him to face the reality that he couldn't possibly even fathom, not even in his worst of nightmares. Shakily, he bends down cradling the weapon with gentle trembling hands, the familiar feel of its shape giving him a momentary comfort. It doesn't last and is quickly replaced by impending dread. Gaston wouldn't drop his weapons, ever. His rapier and pistol were the best-maintained weapons in the village, they were a source of pride and comfort to him. His taller friend relished the feel of their familiar holster, the fine engravings in the metal. They took him back to a time when he had everyone's fate in the palm of his hands as he commanded the front line and played the role of hero perfectly. Perhaps childishly, Lefou clutches the weapon to his chest as he straightens up.
Weapons had never brought him a sense of comfort, but for Gaston's treasured weapon, he could make an exception.
For Gaston, he always made an exception...
Brown eyes eventually cannot stay averted from the giant mess of rubble and collapsed bridge parts that have fallen in the middle of the courtyard. There is no corpse-like hand sticking out from under the rocks, nor the sounds of a wheezing pained man underneath them. There isn't a giant puddle of blood leaking out in a gruesome fatality of what happened. In fact, there isn't an indicator at all that Gaston could possibly be under there.
That's what he tries to blindly assure himself as he moves over to the large crumbled structures.
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he shoves the pistol in his overcoat pocket. With shaky hands, he presses himself against the very top broken boulder and pushes with a desperate groan. His shoes grip for traction desperately as he grinds his shoulder into the structure with gritted teeth. Gravity eventually helps him and it topples heavily off the pile and onto the ground with an echoing thud, the momentum almost flinging him face first into the ground.
It’s so loud.
There’s nothing underneath it. Or at least that first slab of broken bridge in the rather large pile. He stares blankly at the multitude of stones still piled around the area. LeFou lets out a silent sob, dropping his head into his hands at the overwhelming and logical probability that Gaston is at the very bottom of the pile, a crushed and unidentifiable mess of bones and blood. It’s too much to even fathom. The mere thought proves has his entire body shaking trembling with terror and grief unlike anything he has every experienced before.
He’s tired. He’s overwhelmed. He’s alone.
He is so very alone.
LeFou only allows himself a couple more hitched breaths before dropping his hands and looking back to the pile of rubble. He has to find him. He has to see it for himself. Now frantic, he staggers into the pile, latching onto smaller rocks he can heave up himself with strain. His hands push and pull and lift for what seems like hours, but the time is so warped inside of his head. The only thing tumbling through it is Gaston's name as the hard stone cuts scrapes along his fingers harshly. His hands are scratched and rubbed raw already, shoulder aching and his ribs flaring in pain. In a single evening he had been almost crushed by a harpsichord, fought and brawled against his own people, and had been betrayed by the one person he cared most about. He throws his entire body at the next stone, barely able to wrap his arms around it and attempting to obtain leverage as he tightens his grip.
His fingers grip the stone, but it isn't just the coarse broken stone that meets him back. There is something else, it feels sticky and tacky. His entire body freezes, knowing the familiar feel of what is on his hand. His grip slackens around the stone and slowly, he steps back. Sluggishly, as if n a daze; he pulls back his hand, dark eyes flicking down. His palm turns up to meet him and it reveals the dark signature of drying blood on his pale skin.
He fell.
Then he’s screaming. It’s raw and loud and filled with an anguish that cannot be described but simply heard, staggering backwards a couple steps in horror. His knees hit the ground harshly as his mind chants to him that ‘He fell, he fell’ and he sobs and screams unashamed and unfiltered. He weeps Gaston’s name over and over again like a broken mantra burned into his heart and then screams in denial at the thought of that name now being nothing but a memory as tears trail down his reddened cheeks.
There’s a sudden frantic grip on his shoulders and they twist his body away from the rubble and into their bosom. They hush him softly, run their smaller but knowing hands along his back desperately and hold him tight as he sobs and shouts his refusal to Gaston’s death.
The grip never lessens, not even when LeFou’s voice gives out from exhaustion and abuse. Even then, the shorter man is still hoarsely murmuring “No’s” and “Gaston” the panic and disbelief so thick in his tone it is as if his body couldn't contain all of the emotion he held. The soothing hands bring his head to rest more in the crook of their neck. His words eventually die down to whispering slurred words, so winded from the emotional attack on his person as his body slumps in exhaustion.
“Are you back with me love?” the voice coos to him softly. It’s familiar.
He can’t look up, or really find the strength to do anything but simply remain. The one holding him doesn't seem to mind too much, and she titters sadly for him, putting a warm wise hand on his cheek to wipe away some of the tears still lingering on his round cheeks..
“When I saw you talking to the others I knew I needed to at least thank you properly for saving my life. I couldn't help but track you down, you helped give me my life back you did. But oh, oh my poor dear, what a terrible shock you've gone through…” she converses to him softly, empathetically. The words are grounding and warm, not loud like everyone else. Her hand finds its way to his hair, petting it softly as she keeps the other one firmly around his lower back for support even though they are both already kneeling on the ground.
Finally, the voice clicks. The teapot. The one who he fought alongside with for a good amount of time when his conscience finally caught up with him. The one who told him that he was too good for Gaston.
Such a statement couldn't be farther from the truth.
“Shhh it’s alright.” Mrs. Potts comforts softly as a fresh wave of tears began to fall from his face silently, his breath hitching all over again.. “Ohh my dear it’ll be alright. You’ll see.” She whispers, rocking him softly back and forth as she would a child. "You'll see..."
There are other voices. It’s loud again. Too much talking and emotion that swirl around into an ugly whirlwind of an overwhelming magnitude. It’s nauseating.
“Monsieur, please let us help you. How can we ease the burden of your grief?” someone asks, a stranger. He has a thick accent, but the tone is warm and concerned.
There are so many things he can say to such questions. But what LeFou discovers in that moment, is that none of the answers would bring Gaston back. Nothing he could say now would ever mend whatever has just broken inside of him today.
And so he says nothing at all.