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carmineroe · 2 years

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we were blind - pierre bezukhov

You meet him and he does not leave you. or. pierre and you meet at a party and you fall in love unconditionally.

word count: 4.6 k

ao3 link: <3

warnings: mild sexual content, falling in love, alcohol, and courting

You ran your hands down the wrinkles in your gown. You didn’t want to go to a ball, you didn’t want to go anywhere with your family, but what choice did you have. You looked out the window of the carriage at the grandeur of the Count’s home. Count Bezukhov, an illegitimate son who inherited a fortune, you huffed as the carriage came to a stop. You found your mother’s warm hands on your cheeks.

“Don’t fuss too much, my dear, you know why we are here,” she said, eyes soft as she looked you over for imperfections that only she could see, only she could love. They, your parents, seemed determined to marry you off as soon as possible, their only child just a prize to be pawned away.

“Yes, mother, may we go inside now?” You asked and she simply smiled while knocking against the carriage door. You were helped out and somehow the practical castle looked prettier without the dirty window in the way. You marveled silently at the softly glowing lights and suddenly as if pulled you walked in with your parents behind you. The hall is buzzing with voices and you find yourself reaching for champagne much to the dismay of the two still behind you.

“Go on,” your father whispers in your ear with a chuckle. You lose them quickly, swept into people, faces familiar and completely unknown pull you along. It seems everyone is here, you note Natasha Rostov, your friend when you were a child, and Anatole Kuragin, a man who you had heard was only trouble. You give a small wave to Natasha only for her not to notice, you let out another sigh, you think it to be becoming a bad habit, displeasure with the things around you.

The crowd parts in the middle and you watch as two people walk between the celebrating crowd, they were announced but you can’t even hear over the voices of those around you. You strain to see only for the crowd to once again part further. You fall back into a man, pushed by those in front of you.

“I’m so sorry,” you silently thank god your glass miraculously remained in your hand and intact, none of the alcholic beverage drying on your skin.

“No need, it’s a pleasure to catch someone so beautiful.” his voice is smooth, a blush coming over your cheeks as you right yourself and avoid his gaze.

“Thank you again,” you look at the brunet, searching for a name.

“Andrei” he smiles down at you.

“Y/n Sokolov.” he nods and you find yourself fleeing from the interaction. You down the small glass of champagne and grab at a glass of wine, the servant smiling. The halls were long and lowly lit, you walked until the voices behind you became almost quiet and all you could hear was the clicking of your heels on the tile. The metal of the door handle was cool against your skin as you wandered out onto a balcony, fresh and cool night air filling your lungs. Autumn was approaching quickly and you never found yourself missing summer once the trees' leaves turned warm. You turned as the same door you had just came through opened again.

“Oh, I didn’t think anyone would-“ he was charming as he sputtered. You noted his scruff of hair and the round glasses that were perched on his nose.

“And you were right to have assumed that,” you laughed, taking a drink of the red wine from the ornate gold glass. “Sorry, I just wanted fresh air and a break from the party.” you slightly bowed your head and took a step towards leaving.

“No, no, you must not leave if just for me,” he said and you gave him a small smile, stepping back to where you were and leaning against the railing.

“I guess I could stay if you would keep me company,” you say and watch as he carefully closes the glass door and walks out to stand beside you, only then do you notice his similar glass of wine. “I never liked the large crowds,”

“Well, I really do hope I’m not intruding then.” You watched carefully as he drank from his glass, head tilted back. He wore white and warm grey, he looked out of his depth and almost uncomfortable in the stiff clothes.

“You aren’t, I promise you that, but I must ask, what is your name?” He stilled for a second as if he thought he had offended you, or maybe he was surprised you just hadn’t known.

“Pierre, Pierre Bezukhov,” He said and looked at you for a moment, gauging your reaction. You must have looked silly then as you drank his wine from his balcony at his party and you didn’t even know what he looked like.

“I’m embarrassed to not have known,” you said.

“Don’t be, we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before.” He smiled, face coming together just slightly, he drank from his glass again. You admired the way he closed his eyes as he finished off the wine.

“My name is Y/n Sokolov” he perked up, turning toward you and studying your face as if memorizing the slope of your nose.

“Andrei was talking of you just a moment ago, you must have made quite an impression,” he said and you felt the way your face became hot under the scrutiny of his green gaze.

“If that is what you want to call falling into him,” you replied and he chuckled lightly. You felt almost embarrassed to find out Andrei had spoken of you, your face now only warm as you met eyes with Pierre. “You have a lovely home,” he hummed, a low sound from his throat.

“And you are a lovely guest for me to have had the pleasure of meeting, y/n” he said the words so simply you wouldn’t have thought about it if you hadn’t been listening so intently. He sucked you in and you almost felt enchanted in his presence.

“Thank you Count Bezukhov,” you said.

“Please call me Pierre.” You two talked for hours and you were surprised to find he was great company. Your parents had described him as a wild animal, a fool, and you had heard the whispers of the upset caused by his inheritance of the title Count and you regretted how you had been so eager to listen as his name was drug through the mud. You learned he had more money than he knew what to do with, that he was intelligent, and that he was all the more charming the more you listened.

“And sometimes I’ve felt as though I’ve wasted my life away, that I am wasting my life away,” he said and you felt bad for him, a man with too many aspirations that at some point he just got lost in them. He was endlessly captivating.

“You still have so much time,” you said and he smiled at you, smiled like the sun. “Sometimes we must just live, but there is more to life than that, you must just have patience.” So you told him of your worries, your beliefs, and your dread over the war. The moonlight filled his green eyes and you felt warm, something you could push away as the alcohol settling in your blood.

“I think that you must be an angel, y/n.” he said the words quietly, a whispered truth of his own that made you want to fall into the sky twinkling with endless stars above you, and no amount of alcohol could explain away the warm feeling that overtook your chest.

“And I think you must be drunk, Pierre.” he laughed lightly but it had seemed that time had slipped past the pair of you and before long a knock came from the door.

“Master, it is nearly one.” a man says and you look at Pierre in surprise, one he seems to share at the lost time caused by your conversation.

“I must leave,” you mutter, moving to do just that, avoiding his eyes you quickly begin going down the long hall you had wandered down. You are stopped by a soft hand on your wrist and when you turn to look Pierre looks like a kicked puppy, large eyes pleading.

“I had to let you know I enjoyed our time together, however short, have a lovely night, Princess Sokolov” He brought your hand up to his lips, leaving a quick and chaste kiss on your silk glove. You think this was supposed to be a big moment and you think you wanted it to be. You felt your face redden as you looked at him. You left even faster once he gently released your hand from his own. You found your parents quickly, they stand with a man who seems to be older than you and you suddenly feel sick. Your heart beats in your throat as you smile up at him.

“Darling, this is Viktor Lebedev” he smiled, taking your hand and kissing it. It made your face once again burn in embarrassment but was now caused by the lingering feeling of Pierre's lips mirrored. Viktor was plain-looking, dark brown hair neatly kept short and taller than you even in your heels. He wasn’t Pierre and strangely that idea burned you.

“Pleasure to meet you, princess.” You gave him a polite smile and looked to your mother for something intangible. She smiled, tilting her head towards Viktor with persistence behind her eyes. You wondered if he was rich, you wondered if he liked you, you wondered if you had the ability to force yourself to care, and you wondered what your mother had said.

“Viktor Lebedev, have I heard your name before?” He shook his head slightly.

“No, Princess, but I wish I had met you sooner, Would you like to dine with me tomorrow evening?” You gave a small nod, fighting to hide the grimace that was begging to creep onto your face. “I look forward to it, but for now I bid you farewell.”

You found yourself in the carriage before you could think, watching the large home disappear behind you felt melancholy and you wished that in some world it had been Pierre your parents had fished out of the crowd.

Pierre felt much the same, though from a world away, he sat next to a burning candle. He thinks if he was an artist, if he were a writer, you would be his muse. He wishes he could make a painting of the way your soft face was caressed by the moonlight or a poem that could capture the cadence of your alluring words. He thinks of Helene, to who he had been a horrible husband, and he wonders if you even know. He was a married man thinking of a woman he had met for just a night, guilt pooled in his stomach but yet he couldn’t drown his thoughts of you from his head. He was a hypocrite, he was horrible, and above all, he wanted to see you again. Your soft hand in his own, pressed against his lips, and he selfishly hopes that you didn’t know of his wife.

“Viktor,” you spoke his name as it was meant to be, a promise to your parents. Outside it was cold enough your mother had begun to clean the dust from the furs. You traced his face. He had a defined jaw and large bushy eyebrows. On anyone else, you think his features would be unattractive but on him, by god’s grace, they made sense. He had a boyish charm and a grin that showed he had been unhurt by the world that was so often unkind to those that inhabited it.

“Princess Sokolov, you look lovely.” You smiled at him, basking in the praise that you couldn’t be sure if he meant in all honesty.

“Call me y/n,” you said.

“y/n, I hope the food will be to your liking.” You nodded and followed behind him. You enjoyed the feeling of being that of a lost dog, a pathetic woman made to whine not bark. “I do hope the journey was not too taxing on you,”

“No, it was delightful, the country around here is beautiful.” It had been a bumpy road and you were astonished when you saw his home was about as big as Pierre’s. You tried desperately to stop the comparisons but they seemed to slip from your mind, lost reminders of something no longer happening but haunting you. He nodded nevertheless and when he pulled out your chair for you, you almost wished you could feign adoration at the gesture.

The dinner was full of useless conversation, things about a family you didn’t wish to marry into. It felt like slow torture, not the lively lilt with Pierre, Count Bezukhov. You had to get a grip on your feelings, press them into the deepest recesses of your chest and move on, but yet you perked up at the mention of his name.

“What a dreadful party last night had been, I was never a fan of Count Bezukhov, he used to rattle on about his adoration of Napoleon, you know?” he said and you idly nodded, you think he noticed the way you finally seemed peaked into the conversation.

“Have you spoken to Count Bezukhov?” you asked and he nodded.

“Yes, many times, though not recently. We were never close and I heard of his dealings with the Free Masons, though that alone is not the least of his concerns,” he said with almost a cruel laugh, and once again you felt inclined to listen, lean into the new knowledge that had never left Pierre’s own lips. You thought that maybe Viktor just thought you enjoyed gossip, not the man he spoke of. “He’s a fool that has only become rich due to a mistake, that’s the end of that.” you found him drowned out again by your own thoughts. Surely he must have done something, you pondered it over, but yet you couldn’t find the answer, not by yourself. You didn’t understand the low lying dislike so many held for the charming man you had met on a balcony. You left swiftly after dinner, Viktor trailing behind you saying

‘ You must stay the night ‘

‘ When will I see you again? ‘

‘ Leaving so soon, princess? ‘

You imagine staying, imagine his touch lingering on bare skin. It makes you feel dizzy, your body heavy with something you’d never felt in such great churning clarity so you bid him farewell and he frowns. He doesn’t look good with the pout, his boyish face becoming more that of a spoiled child, a tantrum brewing just below the surface of a man. You don’t plan another dinner, and you secretly hope you never see him again. Your father speaks of engagement in the following weeks and your mother speaks of possible suitors. Your hand is once again something to be won, your heart a bird trapped in the cage of familial commitments. You spare the men a kind smile and when they kiss your hand you close your eyes so tight it’s Pierre instead. Your home has become a revolving door of men wishing to marry into money, to win you over, to use you, to do exactly as their parents said.

“Y/n, are you well?” your mother asks you one night after a quiet dinner. “You trail around this house as if you are a ghost, you barely look at those asking for your marriage in the eye,” she says the words quietly as if they are something that should not be heard, a secret to be kept between you two.

“Mother,” you dread the way your chest almost feels tight as you resist the tears that threaten to fall down your cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“We can pause the engagements, if that is what you need, my dear.” She pulled you into her as silent sobs rolled through you. Everything felt confusing, different men’s faces painted in your mind, and you felt the saddest because every day left Pierre’s face more blurry. It had been two weeks of meeting suitors, of being stared at like a piece of meat, and he was leaving you. “I know just what will cheer you up, Count Bezukhov, he is holding another ball in three days.”

“please,” it bubbled out of you and she rubbed your back in a soothing motion.

“You may go alone, your father and I have a business to attend to, but you seemed so delighted after the last party he held.” you pulled away from her hug, and her blue eyes studied you.

“Thank you, Mother.” she gave you a curt nod, a fondness in her eyes for just a moment before she seemed to compose herself. You knew your mother loved you, loved you like you were a treasure, but she struggled to express it in words. I love you’s were rare and so far and few inbetween, but you think she said it every time her eyes seemed so affectionate that she must be drowning in it.

“I’ll give you a week,” she said and you knew she knew something that she wouldn’t articulate. You spent the days before the party enjoying your time away from being sold to suitors. You endlessly fussed over what you would wear and you saw the knowing look your mother gave you through the open door as a tailored pinned things carefully, the sharp objects stored in her mouth as she focused. You felt light as if you could float away. You had picked a sage green gown and you smiled at yourself in the mirror as you tried to push down your worry.

“Princess Sokolov, we must get going.” the maid said, you quickly got up to follow her. Butterflies beat away in your chest and the rattling of the carriage didn’t help to dissuade them. Your heartbeat became a thrumming in your throat, and an unrelenting beat that made the ride seem so impossibly long. When the carriage finally came to a stop it felt as though time had stopped with it. You were left with a perfect moment in space where Pierre was still exactly who he had been when you first met him, where you only held hope for the party, where nothing was ever meant to go wrong.

When you step out of the carriage the house seems to glitter like gold in front of you. You hugged your coat closer to you as you let out a shaky sigh in a cloud of water vapor frozen by the night. The stars above you shine in a hope that you never wanted to die, so you walk forward.

Pierre worries his bottom lip as he watches guests move like the unpredictable ocean. He wonders if you will come if his trap had worked and he will once again be graced by your complexion. Helene sits next to him, an oppressive weight sits in the air for as long as he sits next to her. A smile graces her own face, forced and almost disgustingly stretched. He likes to think she’s scanning the crowd as if they are her prey. What man will next be cursed by her temptations, pulled into her body like a moth to a flickering flame. He looks out into the crowd and thinks he must be just as bad as she.

“Have a wonderful night, darling,” he whispers the words to her, resentment dripping from his voice as he hurries into the crowd of people he does not know.

You find yourself a live wire as you flow through the crowd. You stop and watch as pairs dance to the tired solo of a violinist, you wonder if he regretted following his dream to play. No one spares you a glance, you are an invisible specter reliving the best hits of your life. You still to a hand on your shoulder, and when you turn your words die in your throat.

“Viktor,” his name is a sad exhale.

“Y/n, how have you been?” he says and you hate the way your name passes from his lips. He smiles as his hand never leaves your shoulder, pressed into bare skin, it is warm.

“I’ve been well, very busy with my parent’s plans to get me married,” he falters slightly but seems to guide you to the wall.

“Seems you are unhappy with that, if it’s any consolation I've missed your pretty face.” the compliment soaks into you, making you shiver. You find his hand now wrapped from your waist and his touch makes you feel like screaming. The room almost feels suffocating now, no longer a reprieve from what you were running from. “We must see each other again,” you pull from his grasp and he sighs deeply.

“And we will, Viktor, I will make sure of it.” you give him a forced smile but as soon as you no longer feel his eyes you shake off his touch with a quiet whimper. You find yourself sitting at a table in the corner of the large room. You study couples dancing, smiles painted on their faces as their bodies move in such a wonderful way. You still feel wrong, Viktor’s hand pulling you to him, his touch burned upon your skin.

“May I sit with you?” you half expect it to be Viktor, to look up and be met with his dark eyes once more but instead you let out a small gasp at Pierre.

“Yes, of course, Pierre! I was hoping I would see you.” you say and your excitement must be embarrassing.

“Princess Sokolov, how I’ve missed you,” he says it quietly, and you note his clothes seem nicer or maybe he just seems to be dressed to his comfort. He is wearing a brown coat and his cravat is tied in a neat bow. “You look so lovely tonight,” he leans towards you but never too close.

“Pierre,” his name is a prayer from your lips and you watch the way his eyes look down at your lips as you speak.

“I must ask who were you talking to?” his voice dipped lower and you almost felt embarrassed.

“Viktor, Viktor Lebedev, one of the men my parents wish for me to marry,” he seems taken aback if just for a moment and you wonder if he had been jealous. “I do not care for him if you must know,”

“I think I shouldn’t have even asked,” he said and looked away from you in shame.

“I would forgive you if you simply looked at me instead of the floor,” you said with a light laugh and he smiled his smile that you found yourself adoring.

“I do have a confession, I held this ball just for the chance that you might have come.” he says and you want to crash into him, burn, as his eyes meet yours with intensity.

“Pierre, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” you fear the timeline that would have occurred if your mother hadn’t spoken up about the occasion. “I suppose that means you fancy me?” you laugh with your words but quickly still at the serious expression that consumes him.

“Come with me, princess.” as soon as the words leave him it feels as though you are moving. Down the halls, you find yourself on a familiar balcony, secluded from the party that bored you so. Once again you find yourself leaning against the railing but now you hold no alcohol to unburden you of the logic of your feelings. You study him in silence, reaquainting yourself with his face basked in moonlight. The shiver as the cold bites at your bare skin

“Pierre, I’ve only dreamt of you, haunted by someone I feel as though I don’t even know.” your words are quiet, almost inaudible, but you watch as the count listens. “Pierre, please, are you worth this turmoil?”

“How can I answer a question like that, y/n?” he says without offense but his frustration bleeds into hsi words and his height makes you feel as though he is hovering over you. “You know nothing of me, princess, nothing of what I have done.”

“Then tell me,” you say.

“My wife,” and the word stings, more than the tears that threaten to well in your eyes, and more than Viktor’s burning touch on your side “such a tortuous woman, you must know, I have regretted speaking to you, for the fact of her. I have wronged you, it’s something terrible I have done.” and you know you are wrong to feel hope plant itself back into your chest.

“Oh, Pierre,” and you feel sympathy where you believe there should be none and you find your hands pressed against him, unpracticed and confused. His hand cups your cheek and you lean into the warm touch that contrasted the freezing air

“We mustn’t do this, but you are all I think of.” His hand wraps around your waist and he pulls you towards him, your body now flush against his own. He is soft, his touch tender as his fingers delicately trail down your neck in a careful motion of practical reverence. “I could worship you just like this,” and suddenly his lips are against yours, pressing but not taking from you. You kiss him back in a desperate way, hands gripping his clothes, balled as fists against him. You breathe, his own hot air fanning across your face.

“I think you would be worth anything,” you paused, looking into his darkened eyes “everything,” he kisses you again, now pushing you against the railing and you feel as though you might fall and it makes it all the more exciting.

“I should cast you away, promise to not call on you again” he leaves open mouth kisses on your neck, trailing down the open skin until he is hovering just above your collarbone. “But you are absolutely ravishing and you make me feel as though I am a lit match,” he nips at your collarbone before once again pressing his lips against you in a hungry kiss. The reality of your relationship feels suffocating, forbidden and ill-advised, but his hands make you feel as though you are melting.

“Do you think you could love me, as I am?” he asked.

“Yes,” it came out as a gasp as he pulled you with him once again, now to a spare bedroom that was already far grander than the one you called your own. His hands touched your body as though it was a prize, carved from marble, maybe made of gold. Each brush of his fingertips felt tender and with purpose. You let out a breathless sound and you find your back sinking into the cool sheets of the bed. He hovers over you, hands floating over your body and you wish there weren’t any clothes between you. He gently takes off the layers and it seems so pain painstakingly slow.

“You are beautiful, so beautiful darling,” he thinks he will never get tired of you and you think of falling into the abyss of the adoration in his eyes. Your hand comes up to cup his face and you pull him towards you again, placing a soft kiss against his lips as he finally finishes undressing you. You slowly unbutton his own clothing, taking refuge in the breathy silence between you two.

“Pierre,” and how he loves the sound of his name on your lips.

“Darling, are you sure about this.” he’s hovering again, scared to break you, scared to ruin what he deemed perfection.

“Yes, yes, please just touch me.”

#pierre x reader #pierre bezukhov #pierre bezukhov x reader #paul dano x reader #paul dano #war and peace 2016 #paul dano as pierre #pierre is all i want #pierre is beautiful #paul dano insert

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