Day 2 – Evening

"Perhaps… perhaps I've been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps I haven't been aggressive enough…"

Gaston rested his chiseled chin on his enormous fist, which in turn was supported by his elbow propped up on his knee. LeFou slowly but surely waddled towards him with more steins of beer. They went untouched on the table beside him. The Canterbury Tales also lay abandoned; he wasn't sure why he bought it, considering the fact that reading was never his strongest skill. Or a skill that he possessed at all, in any scope.

"No luck, eh, Gaston?" the stout man asked as he leaned against the arm of the chair. He fell when the hunter absentmindedly picked up his seat and turned it to face the fire. The men laughed.

"Well, Belle is a classy broad."

"An odd broad."

"An oddball."

"You gotta woo her!"

"Wow her!"

"Make her swoon!"

"Bring her flowers!"

"Chocolat!"

More helpful suggestions came from all sectors of the room, but they went unheard and unheeded by Gaston, who was too lost in thought to be bothered. Here he was, already two whole days into the weeklong bet, and he had made little to no progress in achieving his ultimate goal.

Imbeciles. They don't understand how to properly vie for a woman like Belle. You have to woo her, and wow her, make her swoon. You have to bring her…

And then a spark of genius, as if it were an idea all his own, popped to the forefront of his brain. Gears finally started clicking into place.

He would have to be straightforward with Belle. It was so obvious: a beautiful girl such as she would not have the time nor capacity to understand silly games. She needed attention, and gifts, and poetry.

Well, maybe not poetry, but Gaston had a new, more direct, plan of action. And this time it was going to work.

–

Day 3 – Morning (Five Days Remain)

"What do you think, LeFou? A dozen roses?"

"Ahhh, roses represent passion and romantic love," the florist, a middle-aged woman in the shape of a creampuff, swooned as she walked over to the pair. Gaston didn't like her tone. It was an insinuating tone, which meant that she was judging him, which meant that she was condescending, which meant that she believed she was better than him.

No one was better than Gaston!

"Who are these for?"

Gaston cleared his throat and declared proudly and without fear of judgment: "Belle, the most beautiful girl in town."

"Belle? Maurice's daughter?" the old woman laughed. "Wouldn't you be better off buying her a dozen books?"

Gaston grumbled under his breath. He had no patience for old people. Truly, he believed that anyone past the age of forty had long since outlived their usefulness. Maybe the Vikings had the right idea in disposing of the elderly by throwing them from cliffs, so as not to be a burden on society.

"What about these, then?" He spoke to LeFou, but the florist intervened once more.

"Poppies? They symbolize death, my dear."

Gaston fought the urge to roll his eyes. "If they're pretty, does it really matter what they mean?"

The woman handed him a bundle of tiny white and blue flowers arranged in round bunches, their stems tied off with twine. "Try these: hydrangeas for perseverance, and magnolias for dignity."

"These aren't for me, you know," he bit out.

The old woman thrust the bouquet into Gaston's arms anyway and took his money from him. He stared down at the bundle awkwardly, twitching his nose at the abundant odors wafting up into his face. He had to sneeze. He wondered if Belle would like them. Brows furrowed, he looked to LeFou, to the florist, and back again. She merely shrugged.

"I'd give you some stephanotis for good luck, but I'm fresh out, dear."

–

Passion and romantic love? What a crock of horse shit.

Did Gaston love Belle? He contemplated the idea, but couldn't be sure. He hardly knew her on a personal level. She was, however, the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen, and from the moment he first saw her, he had to have her. Wasn't that love?

His parents had been in love, hadn't they? He couldn't remember. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he truly had no idea what love even looked or felt like.

Gaston stumbled over a pothole in the cobblestone pavement as he and LeFou trudged along their usual route, but he regained his composure and hoped no one had seen him. His thoughts immediately returned to his rumination.

What was love, anyway? Gaston loved hunting. Gaston loved a challenge. Wooing Belle was a challenge. Belle was a challenge. Did that mean Gaston loved Belle?

Again, he couldn't be sure.

His brain was running laps trying to wrap around the idea when LeFou loosed a snide remark about the baker in Gaston's direction. He nodded and mechanically replied with something witty and off-color, too lost in his thoughts of Belle and how he could win her to properly respond, when the blacksmith shouted from just inside an open shop door.

"'Ey, who're those blooms fer, Gaston? Prepping for a career change when ye 'ave to give up hunting? Gonna become a florist, then?" the man called after him, only to be met with silence from the hunter and a cacophony of snickers from the villagers nearby. "I'm looking fer a new apprentice, if ye might be interested!"

In due time, Gaston repeated to himself, maintaining his self-control. They'll all see. In due time.

–

The inventor's daughter arose at the crack of dawn and, within the hour, had gathered a bucket, water, and soap; she spared no time in getting down to the backbreaking business of keeping house. Washing the floors was at the top of her list.

Belle bunched her dress and apron about her thighs and knelt on the stone floor of their cottage's tiny kitchen, adjusting to the feel of cold, rough rock against her bare knees as she began to scrub the floor with a brush. Although it was only the second day of her father's absence, she planned on having the house spic-and-span by sundown.

Once she started cleaning, Belle let her mind wander; she began to think of the books she read, of books she'd like to read…

Of Gaston.

Belle sat bolt upright and gave the wooden brush the tiniest squeeze. He was invasive, even in her private thoughts. Oh, how he infuriated her! Although she was a very tolerant young woman, something about the bulky hunter caused her muscles to tense and her stomach to clench. His hairy arms, his stocky torso, his dazzling smile–they all meshed in an unusual mixture of a man, with an ego to boot.

Her eyes traveled slowly to her new and muddied book, which she had left open to the third chapter on the table to dry in the open air. How one could have such a disregard for another person's things… all Belle could do was sigh and shake her head.

Even so, why did Belle find the very sound of Gaston's name revolting? Was it truly because of the reasons she listed in her mind? Or was it something deeper?

Gaston.

Sure, the name had a nice ring to it–sturdy and reliable–although it hardly fit the man it labeled. The name was everything that the man wasn't.

He had each and every quality of a hero, and yet he lacked them all. He was as headstrong as Romeo, as arrogant as Oedipus, and about as chivalrous as King Arthur's evil twin. He was strong, attractive, and even generous when the mood struck him; he had been known to buy the men a few rounds after the hunt.

But that was the depth of his "heroism." He was no hero. He was simply a big child, stomping around and claiming his toys. Belle realized that she just so happened to be a new toy.

A resounding rap at the door stirred Belle from her reverie.

A visitor? But who could that be… ?

She and her father rarely received visitors, save for the occasional collector or two. Belle stood and smoothed out her dress and apron. Whoever was at the door knocked again, louder and more fervent this time.

Through her father's gadget, she could see Gaston, grinning and holding a bundle of–

"Flowers?" Belle gasped in surprise as the hunter forced the door open and waltzed in, uninvited. He thrust the bouquet into her arms and beamed.

"For you," he said. The shock on the inventor's daughter's face was evident.

"What a... pleasant surprise," Belle murmured awkwardly as she wondered what to do with them.

"Isn't it though? I'm just full of surprises."

"Why… thank you, I suppose." She turned away from him, only daring to make a face once Gaston couldn't see it.

Gaston followed Belle to the kitchen, where she set up a vase of water for the flowers. He admired her for a moment: the curves of her sides, her slightly tousled, auburn hair loosely tied with a blue ribbon, her pale legs bare beneath her skirt…

It was all too much, and he couldn't contain his giddy excitement any longer. The time to make his move had come.

He grabbed her from behind. She squeaked and spun around to face him. His hand traveled down the length of her back, coming to rest on her waistline-–dangerously close to her rear. He pulled her closer. Her heart skipped a beat at the contact as she shrugged him off.

"Forgive me, Gaston, but I have chores to finish."

Belle moved for the door to see him out, lifting up her pail along the way, but was stopped by the hunter, who had other plans in mind. Knocking an armchair onto its side, he stood before her and blocked her path. Easily overpowering her, he hooked an arm through Belle's bent elbow, distracting her long enough for Gaston to remove the wash bucket from her hand.

"You're not backing out now, are you, Belle? Not after I bought you those flowers?"

"They're lovely, really, but I must get back to work."

Gaston gave her an insinuating look that made Belle shift uncomfortably in his hold. Slipping from him, she stepped back and away from the door, toward the table.

"Hardworking. I like that in a woman," he purred, licking his lips and flaunting his eyebrows.

Belle groaned. In a flash, he was at her side again. His arm snaked around her shoulders. "I can see it now!"

"See what?" Belle asked, dreading the answer. Gaston turned and pressed his abdomen to hers; she moved backward, only to find that she was backed against the table. Cornered.

"Picture this: a rustic hunting lodge. My latest kill roasting on the fire... " Gaston breathed in her ear, his voice hot and deep. The sound shot through Belle like a firecracker and she trembled; whether out of intimacy or disgust, she couldn't be sure at the moment. He interpreted the reaction for the former and continued.

Belle is like a cat…

"… and my little wife, massaging my feet. While the little ones play on the floor with the dogs."

Belle swallowed hard. Gaston's face was mere inches from hers now, his eyes glazed over with lust and the thrill of the chase. Belle leaned against the table's surface to distance herself from him as much as possible as he bore down on her. His boots were rooted on either side of her slippered feet. His hands were planted on either side of her head. She felt his pelvis brush her hips.

Their proximity was foreign and unwanted and exciting all at once.

… a cat in heat.

"I'd like to have six or seven."

"D-dogs?"

"No, Belle! Strapping boys, like me!"

"Imagine that."

"And do you know who that little wife will be?"

"Let me think–"

"You, Belle!"

On the last syllable, he seized her, scooping her up into his arms and pulling her away from the table in one movement, dipping her low for a kiss.

Belle's eyes widened at the sight of his puckered lips coming towards her. The muscles in her chest beat furiously against her ribs. Her brain throbbed and a thousand new sensations pumped through her body at once. She knew she had to act fast.

It took little to no thinking. It happened suddenly, but in slow motion. Her knee came up, swiftly, in defense; it landed between his legs, nailing him where he was soft. A sound like howl or a banshee's wail or an exacerbated whimper escaped his lips. Somehow, in reality, it was a frightening combination of all three.

His hands rushed to his manhood and his knees hit the floor. He stayed like that for a while, silent and hurting and Belle breathing hard as she stood frozen. What had she done to him? The introverted daughter of a scientist had never been one to be violent. Something about him brought out her most primal instincts.

At last, when it was over, his eyes narrowed to slits and he looked up at Belle with pure frustration plastered across his features.

"You know, Belle, there's not a girl in town who wouldn't love to be in your shoes," he hissed through clenched teeth. Belle was dumbfounded; all she could do was gape and feel the guilt begin to fill her heart.

What had he done wrong, really?

Besides break into my home and assault me?

Despite his blatant chauvinism, he had good intentions.

Didn't he?

He did bring her flowers.

He did ask her to marry him.

What was so bad about that?

Everything.

"Don't you get it, Gaston?" Belle finally spoke, shaken but undeterred. "The entire town thinks I'm crazy. They should lock you up, too, for pursuing me so determinedly."

A strangled laugh was his reply.

"If only you knew," Gaston chuckled dully under his breath. The faces of the condescending bar patrons burned between his eyes. Belle gave him a questioning look and he shook his head, straightening to leave.

"You're right… Belle… I'm sorry. I'll leave now, if you really want me to."

Belle opened her lips to speak, but no words came. When she looked down and away from him, Gaston dusted off his jacket and left without a sound, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.

Outside, LeFou began babbling as soon as Gaston reached the last step. The hunter, irritated and defeated, with his manhood throbbing painfully and his pride wounded beyond compare, snatched the smaller man up by his collar and ordered him to fetch his horse, for he was to hunt for the remainder of the day.