This is Chapter 2.

That, for once, is all I have to say.

Disclaimer A: Don't own Glee. Don't own Beauty and the Beast. Except for on DVD and VHS, respectively.

Disclaimer B: There is someone else out there writing Beauty and the Beast Klaine. Actually several someones, but one I know of in continuum that my beautiful cousinbuddybeta FARKLESPARKLEify mentioned when I brought up my idea to her. I have total respect, and do not plagiarize. Any similarities will be purely coincidental, and odd because while she is imposing BatB themes on the Gleeverse, I am placing the characters in 18th century France.

Okay, chapter one starts fairly fillerificaly. Ssshhh. No hate. And I don't speak French. Yet.

Here we go! xoxo my sillies!

~~H!

It was a day like any other. The sunlight sifted through the rustling leaves, illuminating the path to town and making the laughing stream appear as though glowing. The birds called, composing sonnets and symphonies to each other from their perches in the treetops of the thick French forest.

Kurt sang too, a wordless, nameless, tune of his own creation, seeming to mimic the chirps of the songbirds. His high, clear voice rang through the woods, echoing down into the valley below, where the town was coming to life. Shopkeepers and beggars, merchants and whores were all waking up to another day, a day just as any other.

Kurt Hummel was headed to town to pick up the usual supplies and food, as well as medicine for his ailing father, Burt. He also hoped to return the book he had borrowed from the town's kind, elderly bookseller, a frail man who rarely saw business from the town's citizens. Kurt was his only customer, but not a paying one. Burt, in his condition, was incapable of earning money and Kurt's job as the baker's assistant did not pay particularly well.

Monsieur Shuester, the bookseller, was kind enough to allow Kurt to borrow books. He refused to accept any payment Kurt tried to give him. As much as it annoyed Kurt to be seen as something to be pitied, it was far better treatment than he received from the rest of the town. And, it thrilled him to have someone understand his love of books.

His mother had died of a sudden illness when he was eight years old. An only child, Kurt had been forced since then to grow up motherless. He had been very close to her, and her death affected him deeply. But he was forced to grow up, to grieve and move on, as the loss of his mother had sent his father on a downward spiral. Since she died, he had become depressed and reclusive. The once-brilliant inventor had fallen from grace, from his position as one of the foremost scientific minds of Parisian society. Now he was an addled recluse, barely capable of functioning at all in everyday life,, much less formulating the innovative ideas that had established his status as a brilliant scientific mind. He relied on his young son for everything.

Kurt loved his father, but mourned the loss of his childhood almost more than the loss of his mother.

Books were his one escape from the dismal reality of his life, but they were a luxury. Kurt had been taught to read at an early age, but most people in the village were too poor to afford books, so they barely bothered to try. As a result, Kurt was ostracized. The townsfolk criticized his "high class ways," claiming he wandered around with his nose in a book just to spite the poor, uneducated citizens. They resented him.

Little did they know, his aloofness was only because they pushed him away.

The men in the village were primarily focused on machismo-soaked braggadocio, boasting of record kills or how many girls they had taken to bed. Their sons grew up wanting to be the same way, Kurt, shy and, to an extent, effeminate, wanted nothing to do with any of it. From an early age, he had denied interest in the things other boys were discovering. He hated to fight, preferring to solve conflicts with words instead of his untrained fists. When the other boys chased girls through the streets in childhood, he had chosen instead to befriend them, namely a quiet Negro girl named Mercedes.

The village boys, led by David Karofsky, bullied him relentlessly, calling him a mama's boy and shoving him, trying to provoke the anger he held inside.

His father didn't realize the problem, and told Kurt to be a man. His mother, however, saw what was happening, and would comfort her son, telling him he was perfect just the way he was. Her death devastated young Kurt, He had lost his protector.

As he grew older, instead of growing out of what everyone who knew him said would likely be a phase, he became even more shy and withdrawn. Instead of finding pity for him, his tormentors just took the opportunity to harass him more.

Eventually, however, most of the boys who had terrorized him had abandoned their childish ways. It had come to a point where they could no longer get to Kurt. He shrugged off the assaults. He'd become less of an attraction over time, but people still muttered about him and pointed when they thought he wasn't looking. He pretended it didn't hurt.

He came to dread going to the village.

As he approached the small town, he stopped singing; he didn't want to give anyone-namely, Karofsky-a reason to harass him. He was determined to have a good day. Burt was surprisingly lucid, and Kurt had woken to the clamor of him tinkering with some long-forgotten contraption. He seemed happy, for once, with what he was doing. Kurt was happy too.

Smoke was billowing from the chimneys of newly stoked fireplaces, and laundry was flapping in the early morning breeze.

As he crossed the narrow footbridge across the stream that surrounded the town, he could see that people were already bustling about, halfheartedly greeting each other with hollow "Bonjour"s as they went about their business.

The outskirts of town were dotted with small shacks, fields, and thin livestock. Women with coarse hands herded small children who whined and played, ignoring their exasperated mothers. Kurt waved and greeted each farmer and vagabond he passed with a warm "Ca va?" but never received an answer. The disinterested glares turned at him were all Kurt needed to tell what they thought of him.

Clutching his book tightly to his chest, he continued to walk until he reached the bustling market square. The village was alive here, vendors hawking their wares from every corner, frazzled mothers haggling for lower prices as they bounced pink babies on their hips. Kurt slid through the lively crowd largely unnoticed, bumping occasionally into a harried villager who would shoot him a look of disgust before turning away. His rushed apologies fell upon deaf ears.

Avoiding eye contact with the various townsfolk who he encountered, Kurt tore himself away from the raucous crowd and slipped into a narrow side-street. At the end of it was a dusty storefront, bearing a sign that read "Schuester's Librairie". As he approached the shop, Kurt passed the sordid establishment known as the Maison De Lunes, a lunatic asylum owned by the sinister Arthur D'Arque. Screams and shouts from the patients could be heard. Kurt shuddered as he walked by, repulsed. At least he reached the end of the alley, and approached the bookstore, with its dusty façade and dim windows. He pushed open the heavy door and blinked in the shop's dim lighting. He coughed a bit at the dust as he entered, peering around for the shop's proprietor.

"Monsieur Schuester?" He asked tentatively. The man was nowhere to be seen. As Kurt's eyes adjusted the light, all he could see were shelves upon shelves, stacks upon stacks of books. A globe teetered precariously on a stack of volumes, and dust danced in the illumination the pitted windows provided.

"Kurt? Mon jeune ami?" From the back room came a voice, wizened with age. The door creaked open to reveal an elderly man, leaning on a cane, arms laden with hardcover volumes. Kurt rushed to his aid, taking the stack and placing it on a nearby table. "Oh, thank you, my boy," said the man as he straightened the stack. "What brings you here?"

"I've come to return the book I borrowed," said Kurt as he held out the tome in question. Mr. Schuester took it, adjusting his glasses.

He chuckled. "Finished already?"

Kurt blushed. It had taken him less than a day to finish it. "Oh, I couldn't put it down!" he gushed. Monsieur Schuester smiled at his best—and only—customer. "Got anything new?"

The bookseller chuckled. "Not since yesterday!" For a moment, Kurt looked crestfallen. He had read nearly every book in the store: romances, adventures, political rhetoric. His favorites were the ones with smart, strong heroines who saved the day and found love. One in particular was his favorite.

"I'll borrow…" Kurt trailed off as he strode to the shelf, ran a slim hand along the spines of the dusty volumes. His fingers came to rest on the familiar tome, and he pried it from its place on the crowded shelf. "…This one."

He held up his selection for the bookseller to see. Monsieur Shuester blinked through his thick glasses, examining the cover's faded gilt. "But you've read it twice!"

Kurt grinned sheepishly. "Oh, but it's my favorite!" His voice rose as he began to explain. "Far off places, daring swordfights, magic spells… a prince in disguise!"

Monsieur Shuester said nothing of Kurt's enthusiasm, but gave a knowing smile. "Well, son, if you like it all that much, it's yours."

Kurt gasped. He couldn't possibly accept the book, after Monsieur Schuester had been so kind in letting him borrow books free of charge. "But sir-"

The elderly man placed a kand on Kurt's shoulder, looking him square in the eyes. "I insist."

Flabbergasted, Kurt stammered a reply. "Why-Why thank you! Thank you very much!" Clutching the generous gift to his chest, he continued to thank the bookseller profusely as he left the store.

Nose already buried in his book, Kurt ducked out into the alley, but did not get far. As he stepped out into the busy square, he collided with someone almost instantly. "Pardon," he muttered, not looking up from his book. He stepped to the left to avoid the person he'd hit, but was stopped by someone grabbing his arm. He stopped abruptly, looking up from his book.

He froze when he saw who had intercepted him.

"D-David! Bonjour!" He stared into the wide face of his regular tormentor, who leered down at him in contempt. His servant, Azimio, stood behind him, glowering. "Excusez-moi… I-I must be going…" He made a motion to duck out of Karofsky's grasp, but could not break the stronger man's grip. Azimio took hold of Kurt's other arm.

"What's this, Hummel?" Karofsky sneered, tugging Kurt's book from under his arm.

"Hey! Give that-"

"How can you stomach this?" Karofsky flipped through the novel, looking forcibly disinterested. "It has no pictures!" Kurt could feel his face flush bright red, as he struggled against the holds of his tormentors.

Karofsky dangled the novel in front of Kurt's face, which caused Kurt to strain harder, but he could not free himself. "What are you doing! Let me go!" he cried. "David!"

"What, want your precious book back?" The well-muscled, cold-hearted man taunted. He took hold of a page. Kurt closed his eyes as he heard the paper start to tear.

"Give it back," he begged. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"Say please," Intoned Karofsky, tearing the page further. Azimio tightened his grip on Kurt's arm.

"Please." He pleaded, "Please give it back." His voice was barely a whisper.

"Let him go, Azimio," Karofsky finally relented, but his voice was hard. Kurt fell forward as he was released. Karofsky threw the book, page still, amazingly, partially intact, to the cobblestones in front of Kurt. Kurt stayed on his knees as Karofsky and Azimio left him, laughing mirthfully. From his position on the ground, he could hear their heavy retreating footsteps.

Breathing hard, he got to his feet, and then looked around to make sure the thugs had gone. He picked up the book and examined it. Several of the pages were torn and crumpled, and the cover was dusted with grime from the cobblestones.

Kurt took the damaged book in both of his hands. A single tear splashed on the cover, leaving a small wet stain. With a sob, Kurt sank to the ground.

~oOo~