withthe-beastinside:
After Belle left, it suddenly seemed as though she had never been there at all. His servants were still cursed. He was still cursed. The castle’s occupants and the outside world still did not make contact, each on entirely separate planes of existence.
He reverted back to holing up in the West Wing by himself, seeing no one beside the occasional visit from Lumiere, Cogsworth or Mrs Potts. Or, surprisingly, Chip, who had been coming to see him every few days. Apparently, turning his back on the boy whenever he came in wasn’t enough of a deterrent, as Chip seemed perfectly happy to chatter away for an hour or so while receiving no response or even any sign at all that the master was listening.
That, at least, was a sign that something had changed. Chip had never really been brave enough to visit him on his own before. Maybe, probably, he’d seemed more human, less monster while she was here.
If he was going days without sleep, he wouldn’t even know it. Time passed unnoticeably while he paced, while he sat, while he paced again. The other day, he’d had a fright, as he suddenly became aware of a cold, low, persistent, familiar growl, before he realised why it was familiar, because it was coming from him, because he’d lived with himself making that sound for years, and he realised that he must have stopped making it while Belle was here, but now it was back. He was still cursed. His servants were still cursed.
Day number — since Belle had left, and Adam didn’t move a single muscle as he heard the sound of the door opening, the identity of his visitor unknown to him as he stared at the wall.
There was dust on the banisters. Mrs. Potts touched a finger tentatively to the old wood, then drew her hand back as if it were fire, not a staircase. There had been dust on the stairs for years; the castle was cursed just as the people were inside it, and things fell apart faster than she could put them together. Besides, Master liked the dust, she could tell. And the ripped tapestries, the broken glass. Well, maybe liked was too strong a word. He lived with it, that’s what she did.Â
When Belle was here, everyone snapped right into shape. Lumiere put on shows with Cogsworth halfheartedly protesting. Everyone listened to Mrs. Potts when she told them to clean. Within weeks of her arrival, the place was looking like a proper castle. Within months, everything felt back to normal, except for the times when she accidentally caught her reflection on the floor, in a window. She saw a teapot, absurd as it was, and it was like some awful joke gone wrong but she always startled when she saw herself. She knew everyone else saw themselves as objects too, though everyone kept that part about themselves quiet. Except for Cogsworth; she knew he was a handsome, stately old clock. She could just tell that about him.Â
The light left with Belle, and the gentle humming in the morning while she made the beds, and the smiles in the evening when sometimes she let Chip stay up just because. Belle took every sweet moment inside the castle with her, and the dust came back overnight, like it grew up out of the floorboards and spread like a disease.Â
Mrs. Potts wrung her hands together as she pushed on the heavy door. She had seen Master’s dark moods a hundred times over, heard him roar, cleaned up pieces of broken furniture. It was a routine now, so then why was she so afraid?
“Master,” she began, taking one step, then two. She realized she should have brought tea and cursed herself for it. “Master, I have something I need to tell you.”
