by Rick R. Reed
Beau felt as though he was in another world. And, in a way, he was.
Once back at the house, Beau removed the down jacket Beast had given him, hanging it on a hook in the great, walnut-paneled foyer. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me a little bit more about you? Like where these clothes came from? They’re certainly not yours.”
Beast sighed. They were silent for a very long time and Beau began to wonder if he had crossed a line, if Beast would retreat into back into the silence with which he had originally given him.
When the prolonged quiet grew awkward, Beau felt he had indeed made a mistake in pressing Beast for more. He turned toward the curving staircase and started to ascend, head and heart heavy, such a reversal after the freedom and closeness he had felt on their walk through the mountain woodland.
“Wait,” Beast called after him. “Come back,” he said softly, as Beau turned on the landing.
Beast disappeared into the room off the foyer and Beau followed. The room was what, in a gothic romance novel, would be called a drawing room, filled with antique furniture, high beams, a fieldstone fireplace, all lit warmly by sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows, a pair of each on all four walls.
Beast stood by the fireplace. Beau, nervous, sat down on the edge of a red velvet settee, waiting.
Beast reached up with both hands and began to tug on the base of the mask, pulling it over his head. Beau stared in wonder, breath suspended.
When at last the mask came off, it was Beau’s turn to be at a loss for words. All he could do was suck in a gasp and turn away.
When he turned back to Beast, Beau’s eyes glistened with tears.
“I’m so sorry,” was all Beau could manage to say, barely able to find enough breath to put behind the words.
Beast had moved toward the window, staring outside at the sunlight, the craggy peaks of the mountains, the snow and pines. His shoulders heaved. “Just go away,” he said so softly Beau was not sure he heard right.
Beast repeated, “Just go away.”
And Beau did.
CHAPTER 5
Beau sat alone in his room for many hours. At first, he listened for Beast’s footfalls outside his door, but the house seemed even more silent than usual, as though Beau were entombed in it, totally alone.
He had pulled a chair up to a window, opening the plantation shutters, and quietly watched the day descend into darkness. At one point, the mountains became brilliant, almost glowing tangerine, painted by the dying sun opposite their peaks.
It was hard to absorb what he had seen, what Beast had revealed. Beau ached to ask him what his real name was. The moniker, Beast, had seemed mysterious and playful—a reference to the man’s size.
Now, with what Beau had witnessed, Beast seemed jarringly cruel, all the more poignant because it seemed Beast himself had come up with the name.
Beau almost wished he could go back to remembering the big, hearty body and its broad shoulders, topped with a wolf’s head, but he couldn’t.
Beast had revealed a face monstrous, horrific —yet the horror was undermined by the kindness in his pale green eyes, by the terror he knew his revelation must have inspired.
What had happened to him? Beau knew he must have been burned. Beast’s face bore the twisted skin, the thick, leathery scarring of a burn victim, deep red in color, the kind of trauma he wouldn’t blame anyone for wanting to hide behind a mask.
Had he been trapped in a burning building? Had someone done this to him?
Beau wanted to understand, not to satisfy curiosity, but to see if he could help this gentle man who had become, in a way, his savior.
As the twilight at last descended and Beast had not arrived with a tray, Beau decided he needed to go to him. For one thing, he wanted to demonstrate that he was not repulsed by Beast’s true face. He wanted Beast to understand he could see beyond the surface—in fact that’s what he always did as an artist, when he captured people’s likenesses in their portraits. He wanted them— when they looked at what he had created—to see something beyond just the physical. Beast needed to know Beau could see— and appreciate—his kindness, his gentle demeanor.
For another, he wanted Beast to feel free to unburden himself to Beau. Maybe if he knew Beast’s story, he would recall his own.
Even now, it seemed as though the memory, locked away by shock and trauma, his own fragile mind protecting him, was beginning to arise and come to life in snatches that were only foreboding images.
There was a dark alley, its bricks slick with rain.
There was a nauseous panicky feeling in his gut, bordering on terror, when he recalled the alley. There was the feel of someone following and gaining on him.
There were hooded figures that meant to cause him harm.
When Beau tried to recall their faces—or what they had actually done to him—his mind shut down. He knew, though, that in order to heal, he needed to remember what had happened, so he could reclaim his place in the world.
Did Beast remember what had happened to him? Was it what caused him to be living here in the mountains like some kind of hermit?
Beast. Beast. Beast. My heart aches for you. You and your ravaged face….
Beau stood and crossed to the doorway. Now it was his turn to offer aid and solace, to see if he could help with the healing and to show Beast he was no Beast at all, at least to Beau.
He walked down the hallway, listening for a clue as to where Beast might be. He descended the stairs, hoping that his footsteps, the creak of a floorboard here and there, might rouse Beast and make him come to Beau.
But the house stayed still, silent.
Beau entered the drawing room and saw at once the wolf mask, lying on the floor where the Beast had left it. It looked like nothing more than exactly what it was: a rubber shell, lifeless.
But where was Beast?
Touring the large room, Beau took note of all the books, the objets d’art, the antiques—and a stunningly clean fireplace, as though a fire had never been burned there.
Beau could understand why.
At the back of the drawing room was a door that led to a dark passage. Beau could see light at the end of the tunnel, so he followed it.
The passage led to a kitchen and it was there Beau discovered his beast.
Beast sat at a large, heavy table crafted from planks of what looked like aged oak. Straw-bottomed, ladder-back chairs were strewn around the table. The kitchen had exposed brick walls and big, restaurant sized appliances—a six-burner range, double ovens, a glass-fronted refrigerator.
Beast sat at the table, staring ahead. Before him, two plates of food rested. Upon each was a low bowl, filled with what looked like beef stew. Beau could make out the tender meat, carrots, pearl onions, and red potatoes. But no smell came to him; the bowls had gone cold.
Beast had not yet noticed him standing there, almost behind him, but enough for Beau to see his face in profile. He could see the numbness in his features, the sadness, and despair. It was amazing how all the horrible scarring had done nothing to muffle the emotions that face displayed.
Before he announced himself, before he moved to Beast to offer him some comfort and reassurance, he wanted to make sure he said the right thing. He didn’t want to sound full of pity, but compassion.
Beast looked over at him, suddenly and without warning. “This is a quiet house. You can’t sneak up on me.”
Beau smiled, forcing down the giddy feeling of fear Beast’s monstrous features elicited in spite of Beau’s desire to tamp them down. “I was getting hungry.” He gestured toward the bowls. “Is that for me?”
Beast smiled, revealing rows of perfect white teeth. “One of them anyway.” He stood up with the bowls. “But they’re cold. I’ll just zap them and we can eat.” Beast moved across the room to the counter, where a stainless steel microwave sat. He glanced back at Beau. “Unless of course you don’t want to eat with me. My face has a way of taking away an appetite, or so I hear.” He shook his head, la
ughing bitterly. “Sorry. Self-pity is almost as ugly as my face.” He put both bowls in the appliance and pressed some buttons and the microwave hummed to life. Staring at it and not Beau, Beast said, “But I won’t mind if you want to take yours up to your room.”
Beau sat down at the table, across from where Beast had been sitting. “No. I’ll eat here with you. I’m sick of the invalid routine. We can talk.”
Beast bustled about the kitchen. Beau could tell he was happy that Beau was taking the step of sitting across from him while eating. It was a tiny gesture, but one fraught with meaning, a meaning poor Beast may have been starving for.
Beast poured two glasses of red wine and set them on the table with a pair of linen napkins and cutlery. The microwave at last beeped and Beast set before Beau a steaming bowl of stew. The steam brought rich, savory notes to Beau’s nose: garlic and thyme, burgundy wine, the earthy aroma of mushrooms, which Beau now noticed several different varieties floating in the thick, luscious sauce.
The two men tucked into the stew and ate in companionable silence. Beau thought about how he had once read that a relationship was not measured so much by what one person had to say to another, but in how comfortable each person could be with quiet, with simply being together.
Beau knew they had a lot to talk about, but he didn’t want to press. He made certain to look over at Beast, to meet his eyes as they ate, demonstrating to the man how little difference his deformity made.
“This is delicious.”
“I like to cook. I like to feed people. But it’s been a long time, since—” Beast’s gaze looked faraway, at the night pressing against the glass of the big window over the sink.
Beau sipped his wine. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said, quietly. “But I hope you know you can.” He gave Beast a very pointed stare. “I’d like to know more about you.”
Beast nodded, a smile playing about his lips.
Beau was just about finished with stew and emboldened by his third glass of red, a very good French burgundy, when he said, “I don’t want to call you Beast. That’s not fair. Beasts are cruel, cunning, predators, vicious. You are none of those things. In fact, from my few days here, I can already see you are the exact opposite of all of them.” Beau smiled and he could see the intensity of Beast’s gaze. Was he surprised? He hoped he was grateful—and would see what Beau was getting ready to request as the first step onto a bridge, a bridge toward each other.
He hoped he would not seem patronizing.
But he had to ask. “So what is your name?” As he asked the question, he realized he had never told Beast what people called him. What, he wondered, did Beast call him in his own mind? Boy? “I guess before you tell me, I should have the courtesy to tell you who I am.” He paused and said, “Beau. It’s short for Beauregard. My mother was from the south, you understand.” He grinned.
Beast grinned back. He took a sip of wine. “My mother was from the north, Montreal by way of Nice. French through and through. You sure you want to know my name? Knowing may open a door, may make it harder for you to leave, as you soon will. It might be easier if you think you stayed with a beast in the mountains, who was nice enough to help you get better when you needed it.”
“I want to know who you are.”
“Jeanne-Marie.”
“That’s a lovely name. A lovely name for a lovely man.”
JeanneMarie cast his gaze down at his empty bowl. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because,” Jeanne-Marie looked up at him, then and Beau could see his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Because we both know Iam about as far from lovely as you can get.” He stood and began hurriedly gathering the bowls, cutlery, and glasses. He took them to the sink where he began rinsing them. Without looking at Beau, he said, “I know you’re grateful. You don’t have to overdo it.”
Beau sat, stunned. He wondered how the conversation had taken such a devastating turn in such a short time, with the utterance of only a few words. He meant what he had said.
He got up and crossed the room, stood behind Jeanne-Marie before doing something that would either rend them apart or bring them closer. But Beau had never been one to shy away from a challenge, so he moved forward, until the front of his body aligned with JeanneMarie’s back.
And then he wrapped his arms around him.
At first, Jeanne-Marie stiffened, his entire torso tightening with what Beau thought had to be tension. Where Beau’s hand rested on JeanneMarie’s chest, he could feel the hammering of the man’s heart.
Then, Jeanne-Marie, gently, tried to move away, to free himself fromBeau’s hug. He struggled a bit to free himself, but Beau refused to let go.
Beau gently kissed the scarred neck.
“Don’t do this,” Jeanne-Marie whispered. “Don’t do this to yourself. It’s disgusting.” His words came out choked, a whisper. Beau could feel the tremors—sobs—coursing through JeanneMarie.
Beau held on all the tighter, letting his head rest on JeanneMarie’s broad back. “Shhh….” Beau whispered, moving in close enough so that their two bodies became one. He gently rubbed his hands over Jeanne-Marie’s firm chest and flat stomach.
Jeanne-Marie switched off the water, letting a bowl clatter to the sink. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax in Beau’s embrace. “I dare not turn around,” he whispered.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want this moment to end.” Jeanne-Marie let out a long, quivering breath, like a sigh. “It’s been so long since anyone has touched me.”
Beau hugged him tighter. “You can turn around.”
“No. No.”
Beau understood. He let go of Jeanne-Marie for long enough to cross to the opposite wall, where the light switch was. He turned off the light and the room was plunged into darkness, lit dimly by a silvery opalescence from the moon, which had risen as they ate.
He came back to him in the dark and when he reached JeanneMarie, who was still standing, turned away and clutching the counter, Beau reached up and ever so gently turned him so he was facing Beau.
Lightly, Beau reached up and touched JeanneMarie’s face in the darkness, letting his hand glide gently but surely across the topography of smooth scars. They were not repulsive or disgusting.
They were beautiful. Because they were Jeanne-Marie.
When Beau had first seen JeanneMarie’s face, he had to be honest with himself and admit he could never imagine he would do what he did next. But it was easy. He stood on tiptoe and planted a feathery, light kiss upon the other man’s lips.
“Don’t,” Jeanne-Marie said, his words coming out a strangled sob.
So Beau, knowing Jeanne-Marie meant the opposite of what he had said, kissed him again, more deeply this time. And JeanneMarie responded—passionately, as though he were a man dying of thirst in a desert. Their tongues fused, their lips latched on to the others’, their eyes shut tightly in pleasure. Their bodies were locked together as if there were some sort of desperation to fuse into one being.
Beau could feel Jeanne-Marie trembling in his arms, shaking so hard he had to hold on tight to keep him in place. The touch, the kiss, must have had a powerful effect on the man—something perhaps Jeanne-Marie imagined he would never have again.
Beau at last, deep in a kiss, opened his eyes. He had to look, had to see the man who was causing all sorts of feelings—arousal, fear, lust, and a growing affection—to arise within him.
What he saw was a horror, but at the same time, he could tolerate it. JeanneMarie’s mouth was warm; his lips and tongue felt the same as any other man’s. And the deep valleys and ridges of the scars upon his face, here in the dark, could be perceived by Beau’s artist eyes as a pattern. If he removed himself from what his logical mind told him to feel, which was dismay at the damage that had been wrought, he could see JeanneMarie’s face as interesting. And if he allowed the tiny stirrings of love he was beginning to feel for the man to come even more alive with the
ir kiss and passionate embrace, he could also see the unique oddness of his face as something beautiful, something to be treasured because it was a face unlike anyone else’s, save Jeanne-Marie’s.
At last, one of them had to pull away. And it was not Beau. All at once, Jeanne-Marie disengaged his lips, dropped his arms, and stepped back from Beau. He turned slightly, hiding his face. He spoke to the air in front of him. “This is wrong. You don’t want to do this. You couldn’t. I’m a monster.”
“Not to me.” Beau placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on JeanneMarie’s back. “You’re my good Samaritan; the one who stopped when no one else did. Maybe I could have died in that alley.” Beau buried his face in Jeanne-Marie’s broad back.
The memory of what had happened to him back in Seattle returned not in bits and pieces, but all at once. Keeping his arms tight around JeanneMarie, he saw it all in his mind’s eye—the drizzly day, the shortcut through the alley to get to the pho place, his attackers, in their thug clothes, edging near him in the dark. He remembered how he knew, with a sense living on the streets attuned to danger, that they meant him harm.
He recalled the taunts, the words hurled as a kind of cruel foreplay to the physical pain and abuse they would level—they had called him faggot, pussy boy. He remembered turning and seeing their faces, the hunger alive in their eyes to witness him hurting. He saw one of them bring out a sock, knotted at the top, and looking heavy. It must have been filled with pennies. One blow to his head, a wave of nausea and dizziness, and then there was no more to remember, because his mind delivered him from the blows and kicks that must have surely followed.
But more than his mind delivered him. Jeanne-Marie had come along at some point, maybe even scared his attackers away.
“You saved me.” Beau moved his face away from Jeanne- Marie’s back and repeated, “You saved me.” He kissed his neck again and forced him, with his hands on JeanneMarie’s shoulders, to turn around. Beau stared into his eyes with gratitude, with love, with compassion.
“I did what anyone would do.” Jeanne-Marie pulled Beau to him, positioning Beau’s head so it rested on his chest. Jeanne- Marie stroked his hair and spoke softly. Beau felt the rumble of the deep voice in his chest as much as he heard it.
