His first crush wasn't Gaston, as amazingly as it sounds. It happened before they even met.

Louis is a wonderful boy who lived next door as Lafay grew up, his maman friends with his and thus only natural for them to play together. They didn't have a lot in common, but as small kids like they were who needed to; they had fun and laughed anyway.

He was six when he started following around the older boy a bit too much and picking flowers for him, and eight when he noticed exactly what that meant. As innocent as any other child, however, Lafay made the mistake to think it true love and asked for Louis' hand through a song—a pretty advanced one for his age if he admitted now himself, looking back at the memory—with his heart open and large smile at face, pouring rhymes about the boy whose dark skin looked so beautiful under the moonlight.

The smile died a little after.

They don't speak again, not face-to-face, and he gains a new name. The Fool.

It hurts to admit it fits, but he adapted to the name. He ignored the cruel boys that made fun of him by laughing harder, by singing and dancing and smiling at them. LeFou wore his heart on his sleeves and never fought back until he met the boy that made him wish to do so and who gave him strength. That made him love the moniker. Gaston.

But this isn't about him, surprisingly, as very few things aren't in LeFou's life.

Not this time. Not anymore.

His first kiss happened when he was thirteen and feeling foolish again.

Gaston was away visiting the next city when he met him; Alexander as he was told his name was. A most beautiful blond boy who lived at the castle with the fussy woman that could only be his mother, so pretty he could be the prince himself.

They talked and talked until the mademoiselle with him informed them they could go further away to play as long as the boy stayed near enough to not get lost.

Alexander didn't tell him much about his family, going quiet whenever asked, but he did talk about things about the castle, about pretty poesy and clothes. LeFou talked about the village, about his life and family, and to his surprise the boy seemed amazed at it all.

They kissed, chaste and innocent, as Alexander flustered prettily at being called handsome and held his face in place, their lips touching just enough while all LeFou could think was how soft the other's mouth was. After they let go, the two now red, both boys giggled at their own state and shared secrets never told.

It was all broken when the woman in white called him back.

At his wildest fantasies for a long period of time after he liked to imagine that indeed he was the prince, visiting the village under a fake name and that one day he would snatch LeFou away to go with him like in the tales. It was a fact that nobody had seen the boy ever since his mother's death, he had reasoned with himself. Always locked up away from the people by his father like that, he could be anyone. Maybe if he was it would explain why he never said goodbye, why was only seen once and never again. That he did so because he had to.

Maybe he would come back for him and they'd be happy together.

Maybe LeFou just had been used.

Time passed by and no prince charming came back for him. No handsome boy either, except for Gaston who excitedly shared what he saw beyond the village.

LeFou gets used to it. Life goes on.

(Gaston's first kiss was with a random farm girl in front of the whole village. They received cheers and smiles; people congratulated Gaston for the catch and while some townswomen gave the girl the stink eye, none was too cruel, only a little past teasing and reprimand. It's the first time LeFou truly felt envious and jealous of Gaston all together, and it's not the last.)

It's a little after they're back home from war that he had his first time, still shaken to the boots with it all and glad they're both alive and whole. He met Monsieur Pierre in the market where the man would shamelessly flirt with LeFou and talk of tales about Paris, making LeFou laugh and blush under such attention.

He interested him, so open like that.

So LeFou offered him a place to stay during the night and a modest dinner for the traveler's belly to be filled with. The man was tall and lean, the few muscles he had clearly not made for battle. So different from the men he saw in battles, who fought both at his side and against him. So different from him. It was perfect, and it's no wonder LeFou couldn't resist him. He needed that.

He'll never be sure who initiated the kiss that night, nor if his lack of experience bothered the man, though if it did he certainly didn't show. Pierre was the perfect image of a gentleman the whole evening.

They laid together for hours, enjoying each other's touch and mouth, no thoughts about the future only intentions to keep the pleasure coming, to keep feeling alive. They explored and moaned and laughed with no words being necessary between the two of them.

The next morning Pierre left early, naturally, to never be seen again. It doesn't hurt as much this time.

They used each other.

After that, Gaston bothered him for days and weeks wanting to know details about the 'feisty lady' that left his best friend glowing so, but LeFou said nothing. He kept the confession where it belonged, unspoken under his tongue and away to never be heard. It's not the first time he's too much of a coward to say anything.

His first passion was Gaston, and different from their friendship that was so natural and calm, his feelings for the man were nothing less than stormful.

The desire to be with the man muddled by the want to be him, by the bitterness of the differences between the two and by Belle, the poor woman that caught Gaston's attention. Together they were unstoppable. They were Le Duo. But together LeFou also lost himself and his senses; everything was about Gaston, his life was the man.

Gaston, Gaston, Gaston.

Never LeFou.

His mind always busy with images of Gaston's even smile—so different of his own—and perfect body—a true warrior indeed, nothing like him—to even notice the changes the man was going through until it was almost too late. Until the man was too far gone to be saved, almost killing them all with him.

Until he had been abandoned by Gaston.

His best friend, the one always by his side. The one he lied for, that left him to die.

His partner and left hand. His rising and downfall. His captain, his monster. The boy that gave him strength and the man that took away his self-image. That fought by him at war but left him behind in battle. That took a bullet to the shoulder in his place but put LeFou in front of him to get hit by a coat hanger repeatedly instead. Gaston.

His hero.

His first love.

But not his true one. No, that was Stanley.

Sweet and brave Stanley that was there waiting for him outside the castle after the battle, in a pretty woman's dress, smiling as they locked eyes and trading information about it all with LeFou. Hugging and consoling him as they get the news about Gaston.

Stanley that showed up at his house everyday after that fateful night to make sure LeFou was not lost to the world in grief. That made him breakfast and brought him dinner. That listened to him and tried his hardest to cheer him up. That made his feelings known but never once pressured LeFou about it, instead giving him time to think it throughly and cry. Stanley who whispered sweet words whenever LeFou was having a nightmare to calm him down, that replied to war stories with information about dresses and different fabrics.

That took him for a dance and made his intentions with LeFou clear in front of the whole village, with no hesitation or fear. Who never once judged him, never once used or abandoned him.

The man that might not be his first anything, but that made all that came before him not matter anymore.

Stanley that loves him.

And it's now, looking at the man's sleeping face—with residues of make-up still there from last night, LeFou notices—that he admits that he would do anything for Stanley, for the man did for him. That this was real and permanent and true, and he would fight for it.

Because LeFou loves him too.