A/N: I am entirely fascinated by the idea that Beast/Adam and Gaston are very similar, so here's a take on that. This can take place in any-verse, though I had the original animated film in mind. Will develop into Beast/Gaston (very slow burn). If you don't like that then perhaps don't read! :)

Oh and age-old tropes/terrible grammar ahoy. Beware!

(cover art by togekinoko. you can pm me for more of their beautiful art based on this fic!)

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"And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul"

~John Muir

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Forest Of Beasts

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"Belle. You came back..."

Between the rain, lashing down on their bodies, and the Beast's hulking form above him, Gaston twisted the knife, and allowed himself a few seconds of hateful satisfaction.

A few seconds were all he had, before the Beast's form descended, and then Gaston realised he was falling too.

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Fall From Grace

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There was an irritating warmth cast across his face, which he cursed at first. Then he realised that perhaps he wasn't dead. It wasn't so irritating anymore, but it was confusing.

Gaston opened his eyes, suspicious more than relieved about the revelation. He might still be dead, after all. He'd never been one to dwell on the abstract or else unknown (or much else for that matter), though he did wonder if he might be in hell, and perhaps unconsciously, the thought didn't entirely surprise him.

Above was a beautiful canopy of green; trees swaying in a gentle breeze, and streams of soft white light occasionally peeking through the leaves, reaching his face and bathing it in that not so irritating warmth.

He hauled himself upright, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It was a ragged, uneven gasp, almost like a sob, and Gaston immediately and fiercely chastised himself for it. He wiped a hand across his forehead, sweeping away locks of hair which were still wet with what had happened only moments before.

Was it moments? Gaston briefly cradled his head. It ached, but not with injury. More like a persistent and throbbing headache.

Testily he stretched out his legs. He wasn't so worried about any damage there anymore. The only pressing damage at the moment was that of his shattered pride and ego.

He grimaced; the image of Belle and her face was a permanent fixture in his mind's eye. He knew he wouldn't ever forget it, and perhaps that was the most telling clue that this might actually be hell.

At least, for a few seconds it was.

There was a grunt, like a deep exhalation, and Gaston jumped lightning-quick to his feet, because he recognised that sound far too easily now.

He turned slowly around, forcing himself to wear a braced expression.

The Beast stood a few feet away, yet his shadow still managed to reach and cover Gaston. His face was unreadable, a dim silhouette of danger which Gaston couldn't properly gage.

"...you," his voice quivered, but hopefully not enough to give away his nerves. "I-I killed you."

The Beast snorted, as though he might have told an awful joke. He turned slightly to the side, his eyes trained on the ground, as if he might be glaring at it. Then Gaston noticed he was staring at something half hidden in the grass. It shone faintly against the sunlight above them, and he realised it was the knife. His knife.

Instinct reached him before anything else, and he leaped forward to retrieve it. At the same moment a heavy force crushed into his side, and though he expected to meet the ground (and perhaps die again, oh what luck), he found himself being elevated off the ground, in a scenario all too familiar.

Only this time there was no use for fear.

Huge paws clung roughly to his shirt collar, threatening to rip it, and hot breath touched his face.

The Beast's sneer was perhaps as twisted as his own.

"Do I look dead to you?" the Beast's voice was slow and dangerous; a rumble of promised threats. His paw curled tighter on Gaston's shirt. "do I feel dead to you?"

Gaston kept his sneer in place (or else he hoped); "You're as ugly and monstrous as I remember, Beast."

The Beast growled, but that wasn't what startled Gaston.

As the Beast lifted him up a bit higher, one of the peaks of light shining through the trees spread across his terrible face. There was no mercy in his blue eyes anymore; nothing resigned or defeated within them that might have given Gaston the upper hand again.

That there was even an 'again' was a question in itself, but it didn't matter anymore. Gaston could feel the tension in his body falling away into his own horrified surrender. Perhaps this was his hell, to be subjected to the questionable mercy of the Beast over and over again.

Another sharp growl, and then Gaston felt himself hitting the ground with a force that made him groan. He glared up, but the Beast was already turning away from him, as if he didn't even matter.

Gaston gritted his teeth, and cast around, looking for the knife.

"Do you really think I'd let you attempt that twice?" the Beast sounded bitterly amused.

Gaston stared at the monster's back, surprised by the creature's canny. So, it learned things, and it remembered them too, as terrible as it was.

Gaston looked sullenly down, not enjoying such a realisation at all.

"Are we dead?" the Beast said, as if he was musing anything but the notion. "I hardly feel dead."

Gaston stood up slowly, keeping his eyes trained on him like it was dangerous prey.

"How am I to know," he muttered, more to himself.

His head still hurt with that disorientating headache, as if someone had truly scrambled his mind up. He wondered very briefly if the Beast felt the same way, but knew better than to question it. He wouldn't associate himself or even dream about finding any familiar ground with the creature.

He did notice that the apparent stab wound had completely disappeared from the Beast's back, however. It was disconcerting, but he wasn't about to poke at that curiosity either. Besides, it wasn't like the Beast couldn't know for himself.

"We're in a forest," the Beast said, after a moment.

Gaston sneered at him. "Brilliant work, Beast."

The Beast snarled, and the sound vibrated across the ground. Gaston flinched back automatically, at the same time reaching behind his back. Despairing, he realised he couldn't find his bow and arrow. They must have been lost in the fall.

"Do you have any better deductions?" the Beast asked, his voice testy.

"None at all."

It wasn't an admittance, but he did feel unusually wary, of everything, even without counting the Beast's presence.

This forest, wherever it was, did not have the same feel as any normal forest Gaston had ever ventured into, and he had been in many, on many hunts through the years.

There was something strange and...off about it. Like the edges were too soft and vague, and anything could creep into his vision at any moment, and somehow it wouldn't be a surprise. Old folk stories of reptilian beasts and fierce dragons, beautiful unicorns and so many other unseen myths, anything that crossed Gaston's path at this moment might not have surprised him. After all, wasn't he looking at a living myth at this very moment?

"What is it?" said the Beast.

Gaston realised he was staring at it. Not in awe (lord forbid), but with that same strange sense of unease he felt about the rest of the forest. Natural as it was to keep his guard up as a hunter, there was something within this realm he knew he'd never be able to hunt down and kill, not before it might kill him first.

"Nothing," he shook his head quickly, scoffing at the odd fleeting thoughts that invaded his mind. "But I intend to find out where I've been put."

It was paranoia and confusion, nothing more. He'd had a big fall, and his head had been jarred into some temporary disorientation, that was all.

He looked the Beast up and down once again, debating uselessly about if he could take it down in that moment. His hands balled into tight fists of unconscious tension, just with the thought of it.

"As do I," the Beast nodded, and the fierce edge to his voice cooled only slightly into something like cooperation.

It wasn't this that made Gaston hold off, and consider that he might kill the creature at some other time. He needed weapons and the element of surprise for that. But as he turned away, for the first time allowing his defences to drop in front of the Beast, he wondered why the Beast did not attack him first, within the castle, or even now, after the fall.

Instead, the Beast trailed slowly after him, like some sort of stalking predator.

Gaston pulled a face, trying to ignore the anxious pound in his chest. Somehow it seemed like the hunter had become the hunted.

It was a real fall from grace.

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