A Poor Fool
Helene dragged her nails over his arms while he spoke to her . She listened to his cadence more than the words themselves; she tried conversing with him before, and found that now she needed to avoid the frustration of trying to do so in order to prevent herself from smashing the new drink in her hand on the ground. Her thoughts were dry musings and absent-minded. Helene learned very quickly through the few conversations Vasily had set up for him that the man was a rambler. There were chuckled words from her father that he was simply nervous, though now he had yet to get any better. Pierre was talking more at her than to her. Helene didn't complain-not that she would ever complain about anything with exception of once in the private company of few carefully selected individuals. Helene simply stared up at him, fingers ghosting over his skin, giving an occasional nod. If he asked a question, she'd calmly ask him to repeat it. If it was thoughtful, which with Pierre it probably was, she'd either hum in consideration, or offer a restatement of his question into a vague answer.
On his long winded tirades, Helene mostly tuned the sound of his voice out completely, paying attention to the fluctuation of his voice and pauses to indicate when to pretend she was listening. She'd been taught since she could talk that eye contact was everything. She didn't break it. Not in conversation unless it was with Anatole. Unless it was that buffoon, because she could rarely take him seriously. To be fair, she could not listen to Pierre without a visceral reaction; maybe, in a different lifetime and different circumstances, she could find him to be decent company. However, it was hard to find pleasure in those you were forced over to.
Instead, amber eyes ran over his face, finding every imperfection in seconds. Kuragins could smell weakness almost as fast as they could see it. She could see that his glasses and shape of his face didn't match, and that the corner of his left lens was scraped. Surely, his family had enough money to make such repairs and get it done within the hour. Part of her wondered if it just never occurred to him to complain, or if his parents were as strict and harsh about accidents as hers were. Broken or not, it didn't give excuse for how dull they looked on his face. Maybe she just didn't like his face in general. She wondered if his beard were feel weird on her face when she was pushed to kiss him. If he'd at least trim it a little if she asked nicely. She may not have had the choice of who she'd be on the arm of, but hopefully she'd at least have a say in that.
His clothes were nice, sure, accented in shimmer and flecks of gold, but gold was not in right now. It wasn't the season for it, nor was it the style. It flaunted his wealth-more than likely piped with some form of authentic gold, knowing the Bezukhovs reputation-though Helene and Anatole were flaunting theirs in a way that was much more fashionable. Marya, too; eyes sweeped over the huge masses to try and find her for only a milisecond. She didn't see red and turned her eyes back on him with disdain. He was talking about something to do with a raffle, but frankly, how could the topic be interesting to her when she was the one who helped plan it?
"Helene?" Pierre gingerly tapped her arm, and she couldn't help bristling under his touch. Still she disguised it with a hand on her hip and a smirk, squeezing his bicep: where she would have preferred at least some muscle to be, but that was beside the point. What did it matter anyway with a name such as his.
"Sorry, say that again?"
"I asked what you like to be called," He explained slowly as if she were a child; her grip tightened the slightest bit. Another sip of her drink. A soft laugh that Pierre seemed to reciprocate with a smile. He hadn't meant it as an insult; it was no one's fault but her own that he thought she may have been a bit of ditsy woman. She blamed it on herself, because it was the only way she was going to get through this. "Your father said Elena, but I've been hearing Helene, and I don't want to offend you or anything," Sensing the incoming avalanche of words, her response ended up quick, and a little sharper than she would have liked. The alcohol wasn't making for a good filter.
"Helene. Elena is a familial thing," A family thing wasn't what she probably would have called it, but it counted, right? Her and Anatole claimed over bottles of vodka behind the town library he only did it because it sounded good. More European. More warm. Something like one of those. There were a lot of words and memories behind that place: ones that would stay between them and never leave. And, well, if they did, Helene had a lot of rings available that would make his cheek red for weeks.
"Ah,"
"I like the way you say Helene," Helene pulled him closer to her with a sharp tug, leaning her lips to his ear. "You have a nice voice," She purred.
He didn't. It actually had a slur to it right now, which explained how flimsy his hands were as one of them found her waist. She hated the lack of confidence to it, or the way he spoke like every sentence was a question until he was full-steam ahead. Then he was nearly screaming, turning heads and earning sympathetic stares in Helene's direction. She couldn't help wondering how his parents didn't teach him how to speak. She considered the possibility they tried only briefly. One look at him and she decided to conclude, for her sanity and fading optimism, they hadn't made an effort with him. If they did, and he was still like this, she had no hope.
Still, each moment and touch was automatic. This was not the first time, and not the last. A routine brought to her for years. She was meant to be perfection. Any fault was a crack she couldn't afford. If a piece of the statue fell, the rest came crumbling down. One poorly timed truth, one touch too soon or too late could mean the end of her. The end of the empire. She treaded to whatever comfort level the object of her affection accepted, and pulled back the same way.
Fortunately, he was a fool.
One Helene was doing a great job avoiding until there were interferences.
One she would continue to avoid as soon as the time seemed right. She'd play by her father's rules; what was she if she didn't? What was she worth if not the price of a few torn dresses and some very profitable business contracts? She never had enough time of her own to come up with an answer. She didn't have enough time with her head absent from her parents' words. Oh, to be Anatole.
"Do you want a drink?" Now he was speaking her language. Helene nodded, slowly pulling away from him, hand sliding down into his. "I see some of my friends at the bar," The brunette nodded distractedly, moving towards the drinks. She didn't hear a word of what the man said. All she knew was alcohol was a necessity. Her world was spinning slightly, and her mouth tingled, head fogged just enough she didn't have an obvious physical reaction to seeing the woman in red look over her shoulder at the sound of Pierre's greeting.
It took her a few moments of confused staring to fully wrap her head around the fact this woman was friends with the man her hand was currently intertwined with. That time had been spent introducing all the people she did not care about. She offered hi's and enthusiasm, but their names were lost seconds after they were spoken. She only heard one start of a sentence with crystalline clarity.
"This is Marya, and Marya, this is-"
"Helene." Icy blue eyes met hers with a slow declaration, slightly wide, saying the words of shock they were both thinking. Helene swallowed hard, slowly pulling her hand out of Pierre's and offering it to the woman directly in front of her to shake. "We've met,"
Pierre seemed delighted. "Oh great! Sit," He pulled out the chair next to his friend for Helene to sit at. If only he knew.
A small part of Helene, barely even a particle floating through the air, felt sympathy for the fool of a man seated beside her. How oblivious he had to be to not know the long list of people Helene had touched in this exact same way. Smiled at the exact same way. The other part of her felt nothing with exception to pure disdain for him; there was no fun in this. No chase, no winning, just a little cleavage and a lot of acting stupid. It was a shame: less than an hour and she already liked his friend better.
Still, Helene introduced herself again more out of customs than necessity as she allowed her eyes to dance over each face looking at her. They all knew who she was; she was the daughter of the businessman hosting the entire thing after all. However, as her long winded and well-rehearsed introduction came to an end it was the redheaded woman that she looked to. Helene's mouth was still but her eyes suggested everything, doing a lot of talking, and a lot of imploring Marya to offer something similar. Helene may have known most at least on a first name basis, but beyond that felt barely relevant. She only knew those she was thrown at, and obviously no women were on that list. Aline would occasionally point someone out to her in a dress that was of substantial importance, whether they were hosting or simply the most wealthy in the room-someone it was vital she say greetings to-but beyond that Helene knew very few. Her focus was limited to whatever world her parents had drawn for her in that time, and stepping outside of it had only began happening the month prior, because they were beginning to try and get Anatole’s manners at least on par. He would fail, inevitably, but Helene took the freedom while she had it. It came in the form of this woman she wished to know better, whose eyes had grown more and more judgmental the longer Helene sat beside her. Helene had gotten a first name-Marya-but Helene couldn't get enough. A name was not going to satisfy her, and part of the brunette wondered if she herself was the only one who realized it.
"Why have I never met you before, Marya...?"
"Dmitrievna," The redhead clarified, sensing the upturn of her voice's intention. An essence of self-satisfaction bubbled within at the momentary shock expressed across Helene's face. For the first time she'd seen, the woman seemed to be thrown off her feet for a moment. The brunette blinked twice, humming the sound of yet another waltz Marya had yet to hear. "Did you not know that already, Miss Kuragin?"
This one was so, so much more fun than Pierre. "Thousands of contacts. Names get jumbled," She touched a hand to the bracelet on Marya's wrist-one that was quickly pulled away from her. Helene laughed a little to herself at the thought; this woman hadn't put a fight up towards being a whole lot closer. "I would have remembered you if we'd met. So tell me, Dmitrievna's daughter, what brings you here?"
Helene's voice had a certain timbre to it. One that was easy and pleasant. How rehearsed she knew it was made Marya cringe. Helene's relatives spoke the exact same way; it didn't fit Helene like it fit them. It was a melodious tune to hear her speak and question, but Marya couldn't help a faint uneasiness each time she heard it. The pacing was natural at this point, evidently, but still there was something fake within it as well. Marya couldn't help feeling like she was under attack by smiles and carefully placed words, but what she was trying to conquer was a question left unanswered. With Pierre it was also clear, though it did not make sense for the brunette to turn her attention so blatantly.
"You two have probably never met before today," Pierre interjected with an easy smile; Helene doubted he noticed the lipstick stains based on how enthusiastically he continued to talk. "Marya recently moved from Moscow, isn't that right? You said your parents were devastated to see you go,"
Helene gave a small, wise smile. Something about that was a victory to the brunette girl, who seemed to perk up ever-so-slightly. Not enough for it to be noticeable to anyone except those watching her intently. "Oh, you're Russian?"
"I am..." Marya trailed off uncertainly. All that she had heard about this Helene Kuragin was true; she was a dangerous woman, and toying with her felt like she was playing with a shark.
But hey, she'd always dreamed in Russia of swimming in the ocean.
"A lot of my relatives live in St. Petersburg. Lovely people, though they don't like the tourists much," She mused, tapping a manicured nail on her chin, trailing it down to her neck. A warning sign. Marya hadn't looked in the mirror. Helene raised her brow in a sharp, quick motion before turning her head to Pierre and wrapping her arms around one of his, pulling it into her. "Have you ever been to Russia? How did you two meet?"
Pierre told the story in many words like Helene knew he would. It gave her time to think.
She thought over the sound of his words, trying to figure out how she wanted this to play out. It was her game-had been for years, after all. Pierre was an idiot for all he was worth, and she highly doubted a woman had ever touched him more than this, money aside. There was only confidence in her mind surrounding the fate of this one-sided relationship. Minimal appearances of his name cycled through her mind as she sat between beside a woman far more alluring.
She heard the intonation of his voice- heard when he finally took a breath- and turned to look at him over the shoulder, batting her lashes. "Oh, Pierre, we should go to Russia one day. In the winter it is so beautiful," She stressed, scrunching her nose and offering a playful smile as she maid her hand on his leg. She wouldn't admit the amusement it brought her to watch him squirm and jump. It also gave her the pleasure of watching Marya’s reaction. The redhead held her breath, eyes moving to try and catch Helene's gaze. A stare she deftly avoided, using her other hand to grab the glass she desperately needed right now.
"So your parents are still abroad?" Helene's question came out harmless, except nothing involving her ever was. Placing the base of her glass between her pointer and middle finger, she slid it towards the opposite side of the counter without averting her eyes from the woman in question. The bartender had been employed by her family for ages; he knew her drinks by now without prompting.
"Yes," Marya could tell there was something in Helene's voice that made the question significant. Pierre didn't pick it up, however, and neither did she. Not right away at least.
Pierre looked delighted. Poor Pierre felt nothing other than relief to see the two hitting it off. Helene once again feared that she almost felt pity. Almost.
"Hm," Helene hummed a couple notes, harmonizing with the piano's soft rhythm that filled the meeting hall. Her nail trailed along the edge of the black accented marble, all the way over to where Marya’s drink had been before pale fingers lifted it, before she spoke. "So you live alone?"
Marya’s lips froze over the glass, their eyes locking.
Marya froze.
"Yes,"
"Interesting,"
"Why Interesting?"
Helene glanced down at the drink pushed in front of her with a nonchalant shrug, "Just is,"
Marya casted a look pointedly to Pierre who sat just over Helene's shoulder. Her best friend's aloofness was both a great plus and a curse in this moment as a guilt-filled dagger prodded at her side. A faint reminder of where exactly her thoughts were headed. He listened to their conversation with delight, simply pleased with the blossoming friendship. Pierre didn't have an ounce of social intelligence in him; while it didn't matter when it came to Helene, how much potential she held to play made Marya’s stomach lurch. Worse was the way Helene rolled her eyes. She mouthed the word 'boring' just before turning her head.
Helene could smell whiskey on his breath and smiled sweetly. Why he had that of all the cocktail selections available to him she did not know. As if he could be any more displeasing to be around in comparison to the others. "Theodore makes excellent mixed drinks. You ought to try one," She urged him instead. Anything to get that god awful smell away.
"Oh, I am more of a traditionalist,"
"I bet you are," Helene turned to face him fully, offering a smile but no explanation to her words. "But Theo will amaze you. I promise," Marya’s eyes narrowed; she could feel the coolness of her gaze as it flit over her. She leaned forward on the bar, arching her back slightly to lift her head higher in search of the bartender. "He takes great care of me. What do you like? Fruity? Spicy?"
Pierre laughed nervously, "I'm not-"
"You have to try one of his cocktails,"
"I-"
"Will it make you feel better if I get Marya to try one as well?" The redhead jolted slightly. It was clear on her face she was too focused on...other things that Helene pretended she didn't notice more for Marya's dignity than her own.
Aline's gaze felt different than an admirer. It singed her skin wherever her latest criticisms had been, yet she knew without a moment's thought Aline's judgement was not about those things right now. Aline was judging, she always was. But this time Helene knew the reason. She knew she was fucking up right now. Still, the smile remained on her face. It was faint but polite. Inviting. Hoping Marya would give a contribution some time soon, because there was no polite way to tell Marya where to look. There was no smooth way to explain she could see out of the corner of her eye that Vasily and Aline had once again rejoined one another, observing Helene's work from afar. Perhaps they knew what she did, and perhaps they didn't, but Vasily gave a small, curt nod when Helene grabbed Pierre's hand, moving her chair was enough back that her and Pierre's arms were touching. Her weight leaning into him, eyes up on him with an innocent pout on her lips provoking Pierre's words.
"Will you?" He asked with skeptical, half-pleading eyes. Pierre didn't look to be as on board as Helene hoped, but Helene was unnervingly convincing. Even without saying a word, a lip between her teeth and wandering gaze was all it took for Marya to relent with a huff of agreement. To what, she had yet to find out, thought the curiosity was immediately killed as Helene leaned over to take Marya's glass and down it. She was done with the drink before Marya could even realize this was the second time, flagging the bartender down. Her parents' gazes fell away.
"Something spiced. Cocktail," Her words were brief; Helene trusted the man with her drinks more than she trusted even herself with her life. There was a reason his paycheck was so high, and it was not because the money was around (although it easily could have been a time ago).
Helene had not been there to see or hear what Marya ordered, but she knew it hit her hard enough after too many drinks to count. Still, she managed to keep her composure sound. Helene knew herself well when under the influence, and drank accordingly. As she got older, Helene managed to conclude for herself there was no dealing with Kuragin galas sober. There was no reason to, either. She was supposed to be loose and touchy, anyhow. Supposed to be making her family proud. The lone thought of it caused a grit of her teeth and she moved for her own glass this time. If Pierre was phased t didn't show, and that man was capable of hiding nothing. His opinion was what mattered for the next month, after all. She tried to ignore the slightly knitted brows and blue eyes that locked onto her with concern.
It turned out Pierre was quite a drinker; in the time Helene had avoided him up until Vasily's intervention, Theodore had picked up a pretty solid drinking profile for him. It was a result of "tonight's observation and many former" apparently. The bartender, ever the conversationalist as any person in their circle had to be, managed to rope Pierre into an entire dialogue. Maybe he saw Helene was suffering, and knew she would pay him well at the end of the night, or maybe it was the knowledge of who the Bezukhovs were in this world of the modern-day upper-upper class. Helene did not look into it; she did not care for whatever they were talking about, as long as he smelled better and Marya liked whatever Theodore had supplied.
"What's in this?" Marya raised the glass to investigate the metallic glint as she swirled it.
"Lustre, probably," Helene answered easily, far too comfortable with alcoholic ingredients for someone too young to legally drink. "What, you've never had-"
"A shining drink?"
Helene gave an airy sigh. "What a shame. Glad I could be the first," Marya's puzzled expression didn't warrant any reassurance in the brunette's eyes, rather a gentle touch on the top of her hand. "You look very far into things, dear," Her nail traced over Marya's knuckles, smirk curling onto her lips when she noticed the redhead shudder. To give Helene this much power was dangerous. Intoxicating. Or maybe that was how hard the shimmering red drink hit her.
Marya hated herself.
She hated herself for this. She hated herself for where her eyes moved over Pierre's prospective girlfriend. One who clearly was not interested in him. One who she would not tell of what happened between herself and Helene. Hated herself for the sin of lust and for falling so easily into the trap of a most intoxicating wonder. It was odd, Marya thought, that Helene had managed touch Pierre so absent-midedly while taking a cherry stem between her teeth. That she so easily flipped a smile on when Pierre turned to her, but Marya still had a soft shimmer of pink staining her throat. That the consciousness of immorality was not enough to save her.