Title: Beast and Beauty
Rating: T/M
Warnings: Slash, prisoners, eventually sex
Notes: Yes, roughly based off of Beauty and the Beast, only...not... Roses are involved, pretty people locked up in places because they want something...etc...

One soft blossom fell easily to the ground, taken on a soft breeze that made the gardener's hair fall into his face, even as he knelt and picked up the head of the rose. Blood red.

One flawless rose, with no thorns, no leaves even. Just the blossom, the petals held together by a small power. The gardener crushed the petals of the rose, making them fall apart into a small basket that was carried behind him.

Fingers lingered calmly on the smooth petals, and they dropped onto the ground beneath his feet.

Now, he lifted a full rose by the stem, pricking his fingers and causing a crimson bead of blood to rise to the surface. A glint of a silver bracelet as a long, draping sleeve fell and he sucked the blood from his fingertip. "She bites," he murmured and breathed in the scent. "So stubborn, my lovely." Warily, he held the rose between two fingers, still managing to be graceful despite.

"Am I truly a prisoner?" he asked himself and looked at the basket, floating behind him without any visible support. "No, I imagine not." White gates gleamed open from the corner of his eye. Of course he wasn't a prisoner; they always said he could leave when he wanted to. They, of course, could only be seen at twilight, the hours of deception and illusion.

Trust didn't come easy and still yet, escape brought with it a terrible price...

Vanity, he cursed it now. Vanity that had brought him to a place that he'd heard once upon a time could keep the young and beautiful so. The price was never mentioned. Not by the wraith-like boy in the stables, not by the laughing hag in town, not even by the invisible servants that came and went as he was unable to do. Should he pass through those gleaming white gates with silver patterns, his true age would catch up with him. Not that he knew how long he'd been in his silver prison. Out there, he knew, it could have been a thousand years, or it could have been one minute. He'd heard from the Master of the house before that sometimes, it was both. He would leave once, and a minute had passed, then when he had to leave again, it had been a century.

"Will this do?" he asked the wraith that followed him and a slim, graceful hand gestured to the basket. The silent swish of the wind made him smile, "Then let's take this inside and see what we can do with it, darling."

The soft murmurs of what could have been the servants silenced as he entered through the small entrance from the garden to his quarters. The small collections of things that were his settled back and the shuffle of feet slid across the ground. They had left him alone...perhaps, that was the worst thing about his position. Always alone...

The basket was on the floor and he dragged his fingers through the petals he'd dropped in there. Roses mostly, but some other flowers had been chosen.

Instead of the peace he'd found in the garden, beheading the beautiful flowers, he found only anger. It filled his body and came out as one delicate foot flew out and kicked the basket, spilling all that he'd gathered so tirelessly. His face contorted until it was no longer the beautiful one that he was used to reflecting in the mirror and he picked up the basket, launching it across the room until it connected with a gold-gilded frame, making the mirror inside crack slowly. His tantrum continued until his room looked as though he'd been attacked and he sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by falling petals and white feathers from his bedding and pillows, all of which had been torn and ripped and shredded.

He huffed in the middle of the room and slowly, the anger, the psychosis in his eyes faded and he calmly removed a petal from his hair and rose from the floor. The crimson robes swished after him and he found his way into another one of the many rooms. The large bed welcomed his body as it fell and he stared at the dark blue canopy.

Vanity, vanity, vanity...the words echoed in his ears as they had a habit of doing. "I hate you!" he screamed, not sure if it was him or another he targeted the words at. "Hate you," he murmured again and wrapped his arms around himself.

Dusk sent soft fingers of dread up his spine, and he rose from the bed. Hair was tangled, robes hopelessly mangled. A sigh and he pulled the red robe off and chose a soft green one that blended with his eyes and made the dark red hair that tumbled down his back in waves, stark. A brush tamed his hair, and he tilted his head in the mirror.

Unbroken, this one...might not last long. The silver molding showed the signs of abuse he left on it in previous times.

Oh, he was beautiful, grand, and oh so vain. "Narcissus," he murmured to the mirror and smiled ironically. It was time to go and he turned his head before rising.

His steps were even and graceful, like a carefully choreographed dance. Eyes set on a plain face glanced up at him, and then went back to the dark oak table. A scowl.

"Do you know how to be nice?" the man at the table asked and finally looked up.

"I'm vain, but not vicious," he said absently and he sat, just as carefully choreographed at the other side of the table. "Finally decided to stay longer than dinner?"

"Not this time," cool eyes glared at him. "We'll be having an addition to our...happy little family."

"Oh?" he turned one word into a million questions.

"Yes, and it's too late to protest, my dear," the master of the house watched the pretty one.

"I would never dream of protesting that which you've decided," he gave a smile that was known to be false from the first twitches of his lips, until it faded down again.

"You're a liar." A flat tone. "You protest quietly, break more mirrors. Torment the servants."

He flipped his hair in graceful rebellion, "I would do that anyway. I guess, in my deep, beautiful heart, I really am vicious."

"I don't care," he hissed, "You're going to be nice to him."

"I'd never be anything less than a perfectly gracious host," he murmured softly. "Have I ever offended one of your visitors?"

No, never. He had to give him that, always gracious, taking in the compliments as though they were each special to him. Though, they were probably nothing to him. After all, he probably told himself better, more earnest compliments every morning when he woke up and every evening when he went to bed.

"He'll be living here, for a long while," the master of the house told him, "And you're not going to make him do anything stupid." That made pretty Narcissus look positively offended, not that he wasn't guilty of being able to do so.

The silent, ghost like servants made their ways into the room, bearing luxurious food and setting it on the table. That sobered them into eating their meal in silence.