He stands on the balcony, his back to the rose. He's thinking. It's night time, there's a cool breeze and a clear, starry sky. He looks down at his paw, resting on the balustrade. The claws glint in the moonlight.
He hates his shape, that's a given. It's on his mind all the time. It crushes thoughts of almost anything else and, when he does think of other things, he looks at them as though through a dark film which makes them dull and grey. He has forgotten what brightness looks like. But now, just for now, he looks at the paw for what it is – not what it was, or should be. He turns it over, looks at the front and back, flexes his fingers.
It doesn't look... wrong. It is, it is wrong, and he has lost count of the promises he has made to these silent stars, the things he would do to be himself again. But considered alone, and he knows about alone, it is not hideous. It is not human, but it is not wrong. Just... different.
He misses people. Not any person in particular, not really. Now and then, a face will surface in the misty pool of his memory and he will associate warm feelings with it, but he knows well enough that no warmth would ever have passed between them. He misses the shape of them, the way they moved around him. He can't remember what human skin feels like, but he'd like to. Soft, he thinks. Soft and warm.
He gaze moves beyond the paw and the balustrade and he looks down. A long way down. There is darkness down there. A very deep darkness. That darkness has frightened him and comforted him, these last few years, as almost the last of his time has slipped away. Sometimes – more and more often – he feels at one with it. It is empty.
He remembers being full, satisfied. He remembers seeing every desire fulfilled, or knowing the reason why. He remembers small pleasures, silly things. He misses those. Smiling, he remembers smiling. He gives it a try. It feels strange and uncomfortable but good, somehow. He'd like to smile more.
He lifts his eyes to the moon. Poor, grey, awkward moon. It dresses itself in ill-fitting light, aiming for the cheerful warmth of the sun but able to manage only a pale silver glow. But it isn't ugly, the moon. And though it can't give life or warmth like the sun, he has an idea that some people might think it is beautiful.
He thinks about the girl. Bright, beautiful Belle. She is a shining star, a distant sun. He longs to reflect just a little of her light.
Can he do it? Can he be human, just enough, for her?
Maybe not. Maybe a Beast is destined only for failure.
He looks down at himself again. The moonlight tinges his fur.
But maybe... maybe it doesn't have to be that way.