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He’d done it. The room was swaying, the crowd roaring, and his reaction time was considerably impaired, but he had done it. He felt normal, like a real person, with real concerns, and only a few of those, such as having a good time. He no longer cared to find the meaning of life, or wondered over his purpose, or worried what people thought of him. He had done it. Pierre felt free.
“Another round?” Anatole inquired slyly from beside him. The smaller man wasn’t quite as drunk for some reason, but he leered unsteadily nonetheless in a way Pierre would have found off-putting if he didn’t feel so unusually normal--relaxed, maybe. Carefree. Unlike himself in the best way.
“Yes, of course!” he roared, setting down an empty glass. “Another round!”
“Get us another round, my good man,” relayed Anatole to the barkeep. “It’s on my friend here, the big one.” He clapped Pierre on the shoulder, smirking coyly, and Pierre grinned in delight for no obvious reason, just because he felt like it. Everything was marvelous.
“How are you feeling?” Anatole asked, leaning back against the bar to wait for their drinks. “You seem rather...how shall I say...smashed.”
“That may be true, but it doesn’t matter!” Pierre watched their drinks approach with a mindless sort of pleasure. “I feel the best I’ve felt all day! Ask me anything, Anatole, I doubt I’ll be able to answer, but I’m having a grand time.”
“Oh?” Anatole peered at him curiously, then, shrugging, picked up his drink and took a sip of it. “All right, mon cher , if you insist. What do you think of those women over there? Assez jolie, eh?”
Pierre swiveled unsteadily to look in the direction Anatole was pointing. A trio of finely dressed women were drinking champagne with their dinner and laughing. They were indeed quite pretty, but Pierre had no interest in that fact, and he told Anatole as much.
Anatole laughed. “No interest? Perhaps, my friend, you are not drunk enough after all.”
Pierre laughed too, though he didn’t understand why. “Maybe you should go talk to them, then,” he heard himself say. His awareness felt fuzzy.
Anatole loomed into view and his vision focused again. “Splendid idea!” the handsome man said, straightening his coat sleeves. “I think I’ll do just that.” He grabbed Pierre by the shoulder for a moment, looking at him in a way that would have been concerned if it had been anyone else, and said, “Don’t go wandering off now. Stay right here or I imagine you’ll get lost.”
Pierre felt himself start to tip over slightly at the weight from Anatole’s hand before he blinked and straightened himself. “I’ll stay here. Walking sounds...bad, anyways. And here has everything I need!” He picked up his glass again, which was half empty, and smiled at Anatole, feeling strangely confused.
Anatole clapped him on the shoulder again. “All right, Pierre, wish me luck.” And he swaggered off towards the group of women.
“Good luck,” said Pierre belatedly, watching him go.
Pierre continued to sit at the bar, lost in thought. At some point, he had a feeling he had called for more drinks, but he wasn’t sure if they’d ever arrived. It probably didn’t matter. What did he care? He felt pleasantly sleepy, like he was sinking into warm water. He tried to remember what he’d been so upset about earlier and found that he couldn’t. He thought it might have been something about trees or space or the rain or the wind or God. He didn’t care anymore. He felt inches from dreamless sleep.
“Whoa!” A familiar voice spoke just feet away from him, but he couldn’t see who it was. His face stung dully like he’d been slapped. “Pierre, can you hear me? You need to go home.”
“Don’t like it home,” he groaned, clumsily trying to feel his face. He still couldn’t see.
“You’ve made that quite clear, but I’m afraid you have no choice.”
A pair of hands grabbed him round the shoulders and attempted to pull him to his feet. Pierre staggered heavily as he stood up from the barstool.
“Whoa!” the voice said again, hands trying to keep him from falling with little success. “Sit back down, sit back down. You’re too big for me to carry you. If you fall you’ll crush us both. Hang on a moment, and stay awake, mon chere. ”
Footsteps trailed away from Pierre as he struggled to stay awake, but soon the voice returned and a hand tapped him on the shoulder again. When Pierre didn’t respond, the owner of the voice slapped him again, and said, “Come on, Pierre, wake up. Drink this, it’ll be good for you.”
His eyes flickered open enough to register a glass of water being thrust towards his lips, and he managed to open his mouth enough to drink some of it. The rest of it spilled down his shirt, which was revitalizing in its own way. Pierre blinked again and saw Anatole’s face swim into view.
“There you go, now come on. I told you you were too big for me to carry. Stand up, Pierre.”
Pierre did, and almost immediately collapsed back into his seat. He awkwardly grabbed hold of the bar in some semblance of standing. He thought he heard something crash and the sound made him wince.
“I already took the liberty of paying for you,” said Anatole. “All you have to do is get home. Come along, Pierre.”
Anatole took him by the arm and began to lead him towards the exit, letting Pierre keep hold of the bar and later the wall for support. As they neared the door, Pierre mumbled, “Sorry.”
Anatole tightened his grip, but said nothing. Once they made it outside, and a gust of wind hit Pierre like the third slap to the face of the night, Anatole said, “Ah, well. I’m sure you’ll pay me back.”
Pierre slumped against the outside wall of the club. Eventually, his sleigh pulled up, and Anatole pushed him inside before having a brief conversation with the driver and leaving. Mostly confident he would make it home now, and mostly unable to care, Pierre fell unconscious.
XXX
When he woke up, it was nearly pitch-black and he had no idea what time it was. He was in his bedroom, thankfully, but all the curtains were drawn and there was no fire in the grate. He doubted anyone would have been in to check on him, and he didn’t think he deserved it anyway. The room was exactly the same as he’d left it before heading to the club--books and bottles strewn about the room, not dirty, but disorganized.
He was still in his clothes from--he assumed--the night before. Pierre only had a split second to realize all this before he became aware of the fact he had a pounding headache, and then he stopped noticing all details about the room except the fact that he had blessedly left the curtains closed the previous day. On numerous occasions he had left them opened and suffered the entirely deserved consequences the next day.
Pierre groaned and buried his face in his hands. Not only did he feel terrible--it was a miracle he hadn’t thrown up yet, or if he had he didn’t remember it--but he quite possibly owed Anatole a debt of gratitude for getting him home, not to mention potentially saving him from dying of alcohol poisoning in the club. His memory felt fuzzy along with the rest of him, but he vaguely remembered being slapped a couple of times. Again, probably justified.
His eyes closed and hidden behind his large hands, Pierre attempted to piece together what had happened after he’d gotten into his sleigh. He supposed Anatole had given the driver instructions to get him into the house, although how the driver would have managed that Pierre had no idea. Perhaps the staff had helped him. At any rate, someone had gotten Pierre into the house and into his bed near the library, but no one had bothered to undress him. This was probably for the best, although he feared he had now ruined the waistcoat with his sweat.
He needed to figure out what time it was and change clothes, not that it was likely he had missed anything. Pierre sat up, realized he was still wearing his spectacles, and took them off with a sigh. Trying not to grind his teeth at the headache, he pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket and began cleaning them absentmindedly. Everything still smelled of alcohol.
Eventually he got up and checked what time it was, peering with one eye closed through the curtains to look. Based on the sun, it was getting to be late afternoon. Pierre rubbed his temples, grimacing, and closed the curtains again.
This was far from the first time Pierre had woken up late in the day and terribly hungover, but it was the first time he had had no recollection of his journey back to his house and bed. Typically, no matter how much he drank, he was able to get himself home, even if he likely made a fool of himself in front of the house staff along the way. In this case, it seemed he was going to have to reward the driver especially well in addition to the recompense he usually offered the staff for putting up with him returning to the house drunk.
He set about getting dressed in clothes that didn’t reek of wine, and managed as best he could to get the scent off of himself. Once he was somewhat presentable, although still very much vulnerable to light and muscular pain, he attempted to go into the dining room, where he was regrettably but necessarily met with some members of the house staff, who brought him something that passed for dinner.
He wound back up in the library adjoining his bedroom at around six o’clock in the evening, his hangover having faded to a dull throb. Pierre looked at the pile of open books he must have abandoned the previous day for the club and forgotten about. They were philosophical texts, mostly, with a few religious ones. Next to them was a half-empty bottle of wine, which Pierre inspected without thinking.
Still holding the bottle of wine, he looked around the room once more and sighed. There was nothing there of interest, nothing else for him to do. He sat down at the desk and began to read the words of some ancient poet or king.
XXX
Pierre was smiling for once. The curtains were open to allow the rare early spring sunlight through, and he had just pulled out a quill at his desk to begin writing a letter. He may have just seen the object of the letter in person mere moments ago, but this did not deter him from writing her. On the contrary, he felt more enthusiastic about this course of action than anything he had chosen for himself in some time.
Dear Natasha--
I write to assure you once again that your most recent visit brought me great joy, and thoughts of you continue to fill my mind in your absence. In truth, I find it hard to think of anything else. I--
Pierre stopped writing and looked out the window, tapping the end of his writing utensil against his face. Where was he going with this? He wanted to keep going in the same vein of his affection for her, but he didn’t wish to startle her with such declarations. He wanted to be honest in his writing, to speak from the heart and not use unnecessarily flowery turns of phrase, but currently his heart was leaning in favor of the romantic.
anything else. I am enchanted by you, my dear, but I doubt you wish to read a letter containing that topic and little else, so I will allow myself to digress.
I have been studying astronomy recently in light of the Comet that’s still hanging in our sky. It’s a surprisingly ancient area of study, and a good one. I have enjoyed what I’ve learned. How have you been spending your time? Have you been able to see any of the performances about Moscow since your last outing? I am certain the city has more to offer than what you’ve seen--perhaps some of the other musicians would be more to your liking. If you have any interest in going, I may be compelled to join you, if only because I wish to see you.
It would seem I am unable to refrain from talking about you, for I am constantly beset by thoughts of your smile, of your grace, of your laughter and happiness. I wish those things for you most ardently, so with that in mind, I would like to ask you to join me for an outdoor luncheon on the next clear day. Anything you like that I can procure will be there. You have only to ask.
I hope this is not too forward of me, but I find myself in much higher spirits in your company. Just the thought of you brings me a sense of joy, a feeling I had long thought myself to have forgotten. So please, if it’s not too much to ask, allow me at least the chance to repay you.
Yours affectionately,
Pierre Bezukhov
He added a postscript inquiring after Sonya and Marya, and finally sat back at his desk, looking out the window again. The ink would have to dry before he could send it, but he felt good. Not just about the letter, but generally speaking. He was having a good day, which was a feeling so unusual he had to stop and think about it. What had he done differently? Obviously he had seen Natasha, which he should think would improve anyone’s day, but even now that she’d returned home, he felt better. Maybe it was--
He cut off his line of thought, sensing impending and unnecessary disaster. He’d done this to himself before--tried to figure out why he felt happy and ruined it in the process. Pierre was always trying to figure out some logic to happiness, some pattern to life that would solve everything, and he’d always failed. But not today. Right now at least, he wasn’t going to overthink it. After all, he had a luncheon to plan.
Pierre stood up from his desk, tucked the now-dry letter into his pocket, and went to inquire about purchasing everything he would need to throw the best picnic Natasha Rostova had ever been to.