Chapter 9: Hunted

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The hill was covered in a blanket of white before they'd barely begun to descend it. It was as though the seasons had changed from a balmy and unbearable summer to a cruel winter within just a matter of minutes.

Gaston was not surprised.

If the forest was teaching him anything, it was that he shouldn't be so disturbed by such things as magical season changes, healing waters or even Beasts that talked as if they weren't really Beasts at all.

It wasn't even the physical strain that concerned him anymore. He could handle a few cuts and bruises, no worries. Even an empty stomach at a push, and the cold wind barely registered against his skin. No, there were some far more pressing distractions to deal with right now.

The Beast walked a little way ahead. He moved on all four of his paws, but it didn't detract from his immense size. If anything it just enhanced it, reminding Gaston of how powerful he truly had the potential to be.

There was an almost majestic air to his movements. Something graceful, even. Gaston could admit that.

"Tell me, how many fleas do you get in that coat of yours?" he asked conversationally, instead.

"Shut up, hunter."

Gaston ignored him. "It must be very annoying."

"I'm flea-free, actually. And you're far more annoying."

"So you are properly domesticated, then?"

"Yes. I expect you'll soon be too, give or take ten years?" Beast wondered.

Gaston could feel his smirk turning into a proper smile.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been properly refuted about anything, because very simply, everyone usually agreed with him.

When he thought about the welcoming character of his town, and all the people who'd be so happy to see him again, he couldn't really think of anyone who might believe otherwise.

Except Belle, of course.

Oddly, she seemed to be the closest comparison to the Beast Gaston could imagine right now. She hadn't put up with plenty of what he said, albeit she had dealt with it in a far kinder manner, he was starting to realise.

But the Beast didn't seem to care whatever he told Gaston, and even if Gaston had expected that, he hadn't expected he might come to tolerate it.

It was...different. Just to hear a voice that wasn't like an echo chamber of mindless agreement.

It was most likely the heated climate of the hilltop they were climbing down, coupled with his own weariness, causing his brain to fog with such wild thoughts; but he thought that maybe in another life, they could've even have been friends.

Maybe.

"Are you saying you're not yet domesticated, hunter?"

"Beast, your attempts at humour are pathetic, at best."

"Did I say I was joking?"

Gaston scraped up a handful of snow, flicking it carelessly at the Beast's huge mane of fur. The snow exploded into powdery bits, and he turned round with an indignant glare.

"What?" Gaston held his hands up, feigning innocence. "Just target practice."

He watched, in some horror, as the Beast began gathering up a particularly large clump of snow in his great paws, and lifted it up to throw.

Gaston backed up too late, and was hit squarely in the chest with the king-sized snowball. He landed on his rear, and spluttered through snow flakes.

"You are dead."

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