Page 167 of Beau and the Beast

The low mattress felt like a flimsy lifeboat in a vast, unfriendly sea. But at least he was not alone.

Beau cried into Wolfram’s fur until his head ached and his body felt boneless. He cried until there was nothing left inside of himself but a numb dullness. And then, together, they slept again.

* * *

When Beau had gatheredhimself later that morning and they’d both gotten ready for the day, Wolfram poured them both a cup of tea and forced himself to the topic that he’d been thinking about since the moment Beau finished his manuscript.

“You must go home today.”

Beau looked up at him as if he’d been slapped, his eyes still pink-rimmed from crying. It was good that he’d gotten that out of his system, Wolfram thought. There would be no tearful goodbyes today. He’d cried himself out the same way children sometimes did.

“I don’t want to be away from you,” Beau said, looking down as he admitted it.

“Nor I you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been a prisoner here for more than a month now. It’s not healthy for you to be here,” Wolfram said.

“You’ll let me come back,” Beau said, sounding uncertain.

“Of course you can come back. But you need to see your brother. You need to put your feet on the ground and feel the sun on your face.”

Beau frowned into his tea. “Will you let me stay until dinner?”

“The longer you stay, the harder it’s going to be for me to tell you to leave.”

“Just through dinner,” Beau pressed. “I’ll leave right afterward, spend the night at my apartment, and then I can be back here tomorrow in time for breakfast.”

“You leaving isn’t some sort of formality,” Wolfram protested. “I’m sure you’ve got affairs to attend to—getting your apartment in order, banking and paying bills. You need more than one night.”

“Wolf, all of that shit canwait.”

The unspoken end of the sentence hung in the air between them:until after you’re dead.

When Wolfram had been a child, death was an abstract concept to him—something that would never touch him or his loved ones. It was something that happened in movies or to evil people.

When he had grown into an adult, even after he lost his mother, death remained abstract. He could live as long as he wanted, barring some sort of disaster—and disasters didn’t happen to billionaires. He’d always be able to afford the very best in healthcare. Wolfram would die when he was old, he told himself.

After the curse, things changed. Death was no longer something that happened to other people—it was a real point in his future, a date and a time, and it offered something he craved. Relief. Freedom. Rest.

It was odd, then, how Beau had changed all of that in one month. Or, he thought, perhaps not so odd considering Beau offered him the things that he’d wanted from death: relief, freedom, and rest.

And now, after ten years, Wolfram did not want to die. It was a cruel twist—a fitting end to a cursed life.

Wolfram shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Do what you want, then,” Wolfram said. “But you must go home today.”

Beau reached across the table to lay his hand over Wolfram’s.

“Don’t say it like that,” Beau said gently.

“Like what?”

“Don’t call that apartment my home,” Beau insisted. “Whereyouare—that’s my home.”

Wolfram smiled. “Then you must go today, and come home quickly.”

* * *

When Noahand Lincoln fought for the first time, it was over when they should begin their plan.

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