Disclaimer: ...owned by a Mouse.
AN: I respect everybody's opinion, but please, refrain from reviews saying that I ruined your childhood.
And - thanks to my wonderful inspiration, co-author and beta baby~mammoth.
Sweet, burning flavor of hot wax in his mouth. Like honey, but not quite: there was something a little bitter, some herbal notes to it, a little propolis, maybe. Besides, no honey could be filled with so much lust. He doubted whether the taste of wood and glass he was made with was as tempting, but knew that passion was there, too.
Six and a half years ago, it had been different. Six and a half years ago, he would have been kissing a man, not a candelabra.
He couldn't remember how was it different, though. At all: it just slipped away while he wasn't looking. One would think it was hard to forget what being a human had been like, just, well, because. Obviously, it wasn't.
One day he felt that a word "flesh" stopped ringing a bell. It remained as it was, a word; detached from the reality, not meaning anything in particular. Flesh. What it felt like? He had no idea.
It was absurd enough to be hilarious, yet Cogsworth wasn't laughing. In fact, the thought was so horrifying at that time that Cogsworth found no better way to cope with it than capitulate.
Later that day, Lumiere found him hiding under the armchair in one of guest rooms, trying to arrange what was left of his dignity into something that wouldn't shatter after a single step. They spent some time in tense silence. Cogsworth observed Lumiere anxiously, almost certain that candelabra fought in an inner battle, trying to decide what to do. With an unhealthy pang in his gears, Cogsworth realized that one of the most probable possibilities was a mocking comment, intended to distract him, which would only end up with ticking him off more.
Lumiere, however, decided something different; he hopped nearer, settled down and embraced Cogsworth, never saying a word.
It was so familiar, so soft, so caring, just as he remembered, and yet all he felt was what he never quite grew accustomed to: brass, warmed by candlelight.
This simple gesture brought along a rapid flow of emotions, something Cogsworth was definitely not prepared for. The sense of slowly, gradually losing something vital, tangled with the fear of tomorrow, whether it would break off their routine or prolong it, had been so sudden, so fierce that Cogsworth found himself weeping softly despite his effort to maintain a calm, if only seemingly, appearance. So much for keeping dignity.
In a fit of feeble anger, aimed mostly at himself, he turned away from Lumiere, trying to pull out of the embrace, but slender brass arms turned out to be unexpectedly strong and managed to hold him in one place. Either that , or his attempt was just as pitiful as he was, at present.
Candelabras, most certainly, are not the best knickknacks to cry into, but at that time, Cogsworth could not think of anything better than this fragile form to seek comfort from.
Lumiere's hand brushed along his back, tuning his winder a little, drowning his thoughts in a deep, quivering sound of his strained springs. He felt Lumiere's smile widen on his lips, catching sight of a few white-hot hissing sparks scattering on the floor.
What he felt wasn't human in any way, yet at the same time it felt like it was. Trying to sort out such confusing and complicated matter then was pointless.
And thought the time was passing by, there was still plenty for a miracle to happen.
Afterwards he'd remember what being human had been like. Then, with Lumiere pressed so tightly against him that brass almost scratched Cogsworth's glass, melted wax staining his varnished wood, he couldn't care less about being a household object.