#synthattack

he remembers when andrei went away to war- the first time. he remembers his own jealousy, remembers the sharp, aching wound of separation that already sits between them. evenings after dinner were quiet, in the bolkonsky household, and pierre had often found himself tucked in an armchair before the fireplace after a meal, speaking to the princess of faith or to andrei over one of his books.

it is quiet now, too, the both of them perched upon the plush sofa as still as if they were hewn from stone. pierre has his hands curled to fists and pressed to his knees, watching the firelight flicker over his knuckles and listening to andrei’s quiet breathing. he doesn’t know what to say- words have failed him, for all his passion- and his heart sits in his throat, stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. 

and then andrei sighs and shifts closer and, god, pierre can’t help but to let himself lean into him with a great, shuddering breath, cheek pillowed against andrei’s shoulder. he still feels like something is lodged in his chest- heavy and immovable- but lighter now than it was before.

or they could not give you that