[AN: This was originally part of a failed effort to tell the film from Gaston's perspective. This prequel portion stood well on its own, and obviously, everything for Gaston would go downhill from here. It's nice to let him end on a high note, since his stories tend to get pretty dark.]

[I write Gaston on the asexual spectrum; probably a cupiosexual — meaning he is capable of enjoying and desiring sex, but doesn't experience sexual attraction. Consequently he has a devil of a time finding anyone he'd want to have it with.]

[The too-perfect Gaston backstory I created with And I Fell appears once more, and some effort is made to keep it all in line with the account given in LeFou the Madman.]

[The Drinking Song fromThe Student Prince is in the public domain. Fun fact: It was this very tune that inspired Ashman and Menken's song Gaston. The aria that appears as This Image is the Best I've Seen is my own translation of Tamino's aria from The Magic Flute.]

PART ONE

Two drinks from finishing a pint of la bière anglaise, the towering mass of flesh and bone known as Gaston loomed large. He was a mountain of a man, stretching seven feet into the realm of the ridiculous. The local watering hole bore his name on the deed, but the business of keeping the taps flowing and the chairs occupied wasn't his concern. No, he was a landlord of many a property, and tending to the whims of drunkards wasn't a task worthy of his precious time. Especially when the patrons seemed to have taken a liking to hanging off the damned chandeliers like demented bats, if you'd let them. He observed them: one group playing pinfinger, one man pouring a beer into a bowl for his pet dog, and the lone female patron being carried out unconscious by a man that Gaston knew (thankfully) was her lawfully wedded husband.

Gaston took his second to last sip of beer. He sat cozy enough in his favorite spot: a chair of his own design, made up from from a hodgepodge of dead animal pieces. He'd known how to do taxidermy before he'd known how to shave, or had needed to. His artistic flair, borne from these macabre talents, adorned every inch of the tavern's decor; it was moreover to be found in plenty of other properties he owned about the town. Such ownership had been his family's livelihood for generations back, since a time when all of the village was simply one great-great-great grandfather's farm. Gaston personally owned the lone street and all the buildings on it (apart from the bookshop, which his parents had lost in a fateful lawsuit). This whole tavern was effectively one of his trophies.

The small size of the town meant that Gaston wasn't rich by any French nobleman's standard, but nonetheless he was likely to be the wealthiest man any of the villagers would ever meet. His simple tastes, and the fact that he had been accustomed to relative poverty until he'd received his inheritance at age twenty-one, didn't leave him with much to spend all that money on besides his hunting equipment. He really wasn't a greedy person, nor was he interested in making more than he already had. He lived well enough, and was content with that.

This day had been hard work indeed. He had spent the bulk of it repairing a hole in a tenant's ceiling. Even those Herculean muscles of his felt the sting of strain, protesting against the wear of exertion. His daffodil-yellow shirt, long-sleeved and now stained with the muck and mortar that had rained upon him, bore witness to his labor. The work was, moreover, mind-drainingly boring. The most interesting part had been when he'd glanced out the window to see some girl being sexually harassed in the street. It was the inventor's kid — he couldn't remember what her name was, and didn't much care.

In this rural village, it was very usual that, for both his own entertainment and that of his peers, he would liven up the tavern with a song or a spooky story — typical bar room behavior in a village that was centuries away from having a jukebox or television. People had to make their own entertainment, and Gaston was an entertaining one for sure. He had honed his storytelling skills on childhood hunting trips with his cousins, telling tales around the campfire, always looking to outdo his companions. His vocal cords were no strangers to action either, a talent that he sculpted with as much care as a master sculptor hones marble. This art of self-taught symphony had its roots in the echoes of a troupe of wanderers he encountered at the yearly Boef Gras revelry; a gang whose arias soared to the upper decibels, their notes piercing through to the farthest reaches of the crowd. Gaston, like a sponge absorbing rain, soaked in their thunderous melodies from the back rows and wanted a piece of that action. The audacious dream? To blast his soundwaves with the same gusto. This childhood ambition maddened his saintly mother, who endured years of his juvenile crooning in a bid to emulate that gusto. But time did its thing, as it always does, and his voice matured into something more full and potent.

Sensing the lack of a musical mood, Gaston rose from repose and unleashed his brilliant baritone:

Drink! Drink! Drink!
To arms that are white
And as warm as a rose in the sun!
Drink! Drink! Drink!
To hearts that will love
One only when I am the one!
Here's a hope that those soft arms will twine
Tenderly, trustingly, soon around mine!
May she give me a priceless boon:
Her love beneath the sweet May moon!
Drink! Drink! Let the toast start!
May young hearts never part!
Drink! Drink! Drink!
Let every true lover salute his sweetheart!
Let's drink!

It was a song like any other — a song learnt by rote. Gaston had no lover in mind as he put on his performance. He simply hit his notes and soaked up the glow of the gazes it brought towards him.

Still, even the applause of the tavern's patrons failed to mend his mood tonight. The audience might have been enthralled, but Gaston found himself ensnared amidst a congregation of human silhouettes that resembled overgrown spuds. Their very presence deepened his sense of estrangement. He finished the tune, and decided to call it an early night. With the song's conclusion, he took his final sip of beer.

Tromping across the tavern's wooden floorboards, his path to the door was interrupted by the crackling call of his old friend and brewmaster.

"Hey, Gaston," said Limey Bastard, his nickname earned by being the man who first brought beer to the small French town that had thitherto known only wine, liqueurs and moonshine. "There's an utterly hideous old lady at the back door. Wants to come inside. Says she won't buy anything, but she's offering a rose if we let her in."

Gaston, weary in both body and spirit, shrugged with a sigh, a move he soon regretted as the aching in his colossal muscles flared like sirens in the night. It was so much more mass in which to feel pain. "So? Let her in," he said, annoyed that he needed to care about this. "It's not like anyone else here is winning beauty pageants, but me." He caught his own reflection on a window pane and smiled at himself.

While Gaston was not one to truly think about why he behaved the way he did, his infamous fondness for seeing his own reflection was a bit more complicated than mere megalomania. For one, it helped him to see what others were seeing, which on a practical level could help him to make any needed corrections if something had unintentionally marred the image. Moreover, it did bring some twisted cheer, an unconscious reassurance in this realm where he seemed perennially at odds, always cast as the outsider. It was akin to a luminescent "You Are Here" marker on a map, anchoring him in a bewildering world. It offered solace, especially in moments of discord, even though this had an unintended side effect — namely, to stare at his reflection during inopportune times when, to others, it seemed he ought to be focusing on what was around him rather than how he looked amongst it.

In short: his vanity was a nervous tic.

"She's really hideous," continued Limey Bastard, concern in his tone. "You should come out to look at her — "

"Jeez! Limey Bastard, why would I want to look at her if she's hideous? I look at enough ugly people every day," snapped Gaston, gathering his cape from the wall peg. "Just let her in. Better she's in here where everyone's too drunk to see straight. They'll probably mistake her for the prettiest girl in town."

Limey Bastard shrugged and retreated to the back, to let the old woman inside. Gaston fastened his cape of admiral blue wool about his shoulders, and stepped out.

It was one of those twisted years, when Nature couldn't make up its mind – like a junkie teetering between sobriety and a smack hit. Warm days would tease, trees budding and leaves unfurling. Just when life seemed to be clawing back its rightful place, another frigid slap would descend, snuffing out those sprightly greens and leaving the world to shiver, gray and worn.

The little provincial town looked adorably quaint when the sunlight shined upon its half-dead plants. But, by night in a town that had no street lighting, verdant green or shit brown didn't matter.

Emerging into the cold night air, Gaston felt an ache in his arm. His right radius bone had been broken many years prior in something he liked to pretend was an accident, and it still pained him whenever the air became chilly or damp. He groaned aloud. Adding to his aggravation was the immediate whiff of feces all around him — horse, pig, cow, human. Even in winter, the density of the town's buildings (for this was before public sewage disposal) taken in combination with the popularity of work animals and the livestock of the surrounding farms, ensured that the quiet little town always smelled awful. It was one more reason that his favorite place to be was in the fresh, clean forest with its vegetative aroma.

To Gaston's dismay, the most concentrated aroma of feculence came from underfoot, and he had unwittingly plunged his boot right into the epicenter. It seemed that some wild mutt or disgusting drunkard had found the tavern's doorstep good enough for a shit.

Bastards. Was it too much to ask for a few fucking steps to the side? His pretty face betrayed disgust mingled with irritation, though this wasn't his first encounter with such squalor. He trudged to a nearby fountain and swished his boot through its waters. Damp coldness began to infiltrate his sock, but he figured, at least, he wasn't far from home and wouldn't need to bear it long.

From behind, Gaston could hear a ruckus brewing in the tavern — cheerful hoots and halloos, like something fun transpired behind its stone walls. Contemplating whether to venture back inside and unravel the source of the clamor, Gaston pondered briefly. But, reckoning from the tone of it, likely it was just some drunk girl had taken her top off. He didn't care much for that. Not much thrill in glimpsing a bare-breasted bird when the attraction quotient hovers near zero.

As it happened, Gaston had never been attracted to any girl in all his life. Many people, who either had observed this fact or had heard it stated from the man directly, presumed that it meant he was homosexual; but Gaston had never been attracted to any man in all his life, either. He just didn't see anybody who stirred anything in him — apart from himself. It wasn't that he never contemplated the notion of desire; it simply had no audience beyond him. The fantasy of his sexuality wasn't brewed for public consumption. Meanwhile, even his hideously unattractive cousin, Robert called "LeFou," had had a girlfriend already. LeFou could easily find a girl at his level in the town. Gaston, though loathe to admit it, had never even merited a kiss — at least not from anyone he wanted kissing him.

The young man had always been easy on the eyes. Even in his youth, his beauty cast a spell over adults, eliciting awed whispers. The other kids took note as well, though they found it all rather unsettling. In the days before his relentless exercise regimen, before he molded his body into a hulking presence, young Gaston often found himself on the receiving end of beatings. He fought back with a fiery spirit that warned his peers that tangling with him carried its risks. Yet, childhood rarely heeds restraint. He soon learned to move quickly, quietly, like a shadow on the prowl, eluding the attention of the local bullies. He became an expert observer, always watchful, wary of any ambush by those jeering children who scoffed at the boy who preferred his own reflection.

But when it came to navigating the response his youthful allure evoked, adults were even more treacherous, particularly the men. The kind who were openly stirred by his beautiful appearance were more dangerous than the bullies. By age six, he was versed enough in the world's twisted ways to decipher their intentions. He had to protect himself from becoming prey. When he was small, it was easy enough to steer clear of them; however, as the men's ages came to mirror his own, distinguishing friend from foe became a murkier endeavor. But, necessity being mother of invention, he had developed a system that worked. These adaptive skills had become second nature, and proved useful in other situations — like hunting.

Notwithstanding the price he paid for his appearance, Gaston knew that his looks were an advantage to him, and he had cultivated them. When people were moved by his stunning figure, he received from them more regard, respect, and admiration than he seemed to be due under another circumstance. Gaston without his prettiness was… well, something of a social disaster. His closest friends and family, if they were quite sure he was out of earshot, didn't hesitate to use the term "retard." But through many hours of exercise and deliberate makeovers, Gaston had brought his own body up to his own standard of beauty. He had been able to imagine what he wanted to be, and found the way to make it real. It required work and sacrifice, but he'd accomplished the dream — and evidently it was appreciated by the townsfolk. They loved it, and loved to look at him.

Yet, for those minds enslaved by the notion that good looks were purely a passport to bed hopping with the opposite sex, Gaston's graft seemed an enigma when laid against his subsequent lack of interest in women, or really, in anyone. Indeed, he had never been in a romantic relationship, nor wanted one. It was the simple fact that it made him happy to look good. A unique elation stirred within him whenever his reflection danced back at him in the mirror, a whispered confirmation that he was a radiant note in a world perpetually smudged with grime and filth.

Gaston could make himself stand out in a crowd; but he was never going to fit in. And to be so unique of a piece meant there was never a matching mate to be found.

Arm aching, foot freezing, and muscles still sore, Gaston hurried to his own door with a genuine eagerness to get upstairs for a good night's rest.

His home's doorway had been awkwardly widened some years ago, after he had grown too large to fit through the original frame. As he entered his peculiarly yet impeccably decorated abode of taxidermies, trinkets, and beat up old furniture, he smiled contentedly.

In his own room, while undressing for bed, he heard frantic and distinctively short-legged footsteps coming up the stairs into the house. There wasn't a doubt in his mind — it was none other than his cousin, LeFou. A decade of cohabitation hadn't exactly gone unnoticed.

"Gaston!" cried LeFou from the livingroom, almost in a panic. "Gaston! You here?"

Gaston was annoyed at the interruption. "What is it now?" he called back, rubbing his sore shoulder and regretting that he hadn't gone to bed already so he could pretend deafness to his cousin's whining.

Before Gaston's patience could simmer, a cacophony erupted — a symphony of hurried scuffling and the shattering of delicate objects, like LeFou was conducting chaos itself. In a heartbeat, the bedroom door swung open, LeFou stumbling through, a panting, disheveled spectacle. Clutched in his grip, a single offering — a grand, long-stemmed rose.

"Gaston, you missed what went on at the tavern!" cried LeFou.

Gaston stood shirtless in his bedroom, his almost laughably hairy torso on display, with a lone candle burning for light. "What was it? A riot? A murder? A poetry recital?"

"No! Gaston, it was crazy! There was this hideous old lady that showed up, then all of a sudden she turned into a beautiful blonde, all dressed in green!"

Gaston started laughing. "In green, huh? Let me guess — absinthe again?" The local moonshine, made from wormwood, was notorious for producing hallucinations of beauty, oftentimes with a greenish cast to the fantasies.

"No, Gaston! This was real!" insisted LeFou, stabbing forward with the red blossom in his hand. "There were flashing lights, she bloomed like a flower. We all saw it! She said she wanted to reward the person who let her in. Limey Bastard said you'd given the okay, so she told us to give you this rose. And then she started dancing for the rest of us!"

Gaston shook his head, smiling. "Any woman looks good to you. You fellows just slobbered over the same old crone who came in, once the booze hit you hard enough."

"I'm telling you, Gaston!" LeFou pushed the rose at Gaston eagerly.

Gaston grabbed LeFou by the wrist and dangled the little man so that the flower was held at his own eye level. He perused the blossom. "And what am I supposed to do with it?"

"Oh!" LeFou remembered there had been some kind of instruction. "She said you could use it to call her… if you… uh, what did she say?" He scratched his head with his free hand, inadvertently dislodging some dandruff and dirt.

"You're too drunk, LeFou," said Gaston with disgust. He claimed the flower and dropped LeFou to the floor with a hard thud.

A single flower. With instructions. Likely the old hag wanted him to skulk up to her bedroom window in the dead of night, where she'd fling it open and welcome him in with open legs, expecting this handsome bastard to give her a solid fucking, like he had nothing better to do with his time. Gaston could see straight through the biddy's ruse — she was just another dirty perv, trying to get a piece of him.

Gaston looked around his room for somewhere to dump this bloomy thing. He noticed the box of his perfumed body powder out on his dressing table. In spite of his manliness, he was partial to beautifying powders, perfumes and pomades. (Or rather, his manliness was necessitated because of this fondness, which others had tended to view as effeminate in his youth.) His dusting powder, he knew, was scented with flowers. He opened the pasteboard lid and dropped the rose inside, so it would impart a bit more of its fine perfume to the mixture he used each day to combat the vile smells of humanity all around him.

"What are you doing, Gaston?"

"I'm putting it into my dusting powder. It's about all a plant's good for. I don't need a decoration of flowers in here! Why, if I need something pretty to look at — well —" Gaston began to stare at himself in the mirror on the dressing table and said no more.

"You're going to end up like that Necrosis guy," said LeFou, shaking his head in dismay.

"Who?" Gaston asked, baffled.

"Necro… Narco… something like that. In the old story, remember it from the school readers? He was a beautiful hunter, and he stared at himself in a lake till he kissed the water and turned into a flower, and some girl was in love with him and he wouldn't pay attention to her, and she turned into a voice that goes around repeating things that people say."

Gaston stared incomprehendingly.

"That troupe of comedians that came through last Mardi Gras did a joke version of it," added LeFou.

"Oh yeah," said Gaston, recalling the show with a smile. "She kept repeating things that sounded like swear words."

"Right!"

"And then Arlequin was so surprised that he did a backflip while holding a glass of wine, and he didn't spill the wine. Ha ha!"

"Yeah! You remember it! But the real version was in the readers we had at school…"

Gaston grabbed LeFou by the throat and lifted him from his feet. "You shouldn't believe what you read in books, LeFou. That stuff will rot your brain. Now get to bed, you've got some absinthe to sleep off."

He then tossed LeFou out his bedroom door, into the hallway, like a wailing football.