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Anatole swept into Dolokhov’s study, green coattails fluttering behind him. He grinned confidently, as though nothing was wrong. As though he had not managed to ruin his reputation, as though the elopement hadn’t failed, as though he was not fleeing to Petersburg. He stood assertively, a carpet bag clutched in one hand--the same one he had packed in preparation for the elopement. He was calm, unaffected; the only thing out of place his rumpled collar and wind-tousled hair. Dolokhov couldn’t help scowling at him in confusion and opened his mouth to speak, but Anatole cut him off.
“Will you come with me?”
“What?” Dolokhov blinked, startled.
“To Petersburg. Will you come with me?”
Dolokhov was stunned, almost angry--did Anatole have no idea of the trouble he’d caused? He was treating banishment like it was some kind of vacation.
“Dolokhov. Come with me.” Anatole was looking at him with that self assured, soft smile of his, his eyes as startlingly blue as ever. If Dolokhov was a little bit smarter, a little bit stronger, he would have said no. He should have said no. But Anatole’s mouth had quirked up the slightest bit, and Dolokhov knew that he had lost this battle before it had even started.
“I’ll pack my things,” he said, sighing almost imperceptibly. Anatole gave a sharp “ah!” of surprise, and grabbed Dolokhov’s shoulder.
“Mon cher…” he began, before cutting himself off, shaking his head. “We leave first thing tomorrow.” His smile brightened before he turned around, leaving as suddenly as he had entered. Dolokhov sighed again, exhausted, and collapsed against the wall. Anatole Kuragin was going to be the death of him.
The troika ride there was as uneventful as an escape could be. The driver went at a slow, steady pace, meaning that by nightfall they had not reached St. Petersburg. They stopped for the night at a small inn. They only bothered to pay for two rooms--one for Anatole and Dolokhov, and one for the driver. Dolokhov had wanted to protest, but he was so tired, and Anatole had rested his hand on his shoulder, and he couldn’t focus long enough to say anything about it. So one room for the two of them it was, with only one bed. Anatole, as per his usual, was completely unfazed by the situation. As soon as the door was closed, Anatole had discarded his coat and had begun undoing the buttons on his vest. Dolokhov pulled one of the pillows off of the bed and collapsed with it onto the floor. In any other scenario, he would have had no issue telling Anatole to sleep on the floor. But he was following the man to St. Petersburg simply because he asked, so Dolokhov did not particularly trust his assertiveness in this case. Anatole frowned at him while he pulled his shirt over his head.
“What the devil are you doing?”
Dolokhov looked at him incredulously. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you're going to give yourself frostbite by sleeping on the floor in the middle of winter.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Dolokhov sighed, exasperated.
“I expect you to stop being ridiculous. The bed isn’t that small, Dolokhov, surely we can both fit.” Dolokhov wasn’t sure if his face went bright red or stark white as he stuttered, flustered.
“Anatole--” he protested.
“I won’t hear of it. Come on.” Anatole flopped down on the bed and extended a hand to Dolokhov. Defeated, Dolokhov accepted the hand and Anatole pulled him up to lay beside him on the bed. Anatole grinned before ruffling Dolokhov’s hair, rolling over, and immediately falling asleep. Dolokhov shook his head in utter disbelief and with a sigh, blew out the candle and followed suit.
Dolokhov woke the next morning feeling incredibly warm, a weight across his stomach. Dolokhov, always a slow riser, took several minutes to figure out who was responsible for this. Though they had fallen asleep facing away from each other, as far away as they could get on the small bed, during the night Anatole had flipped over, cuddling up to Dolokhov and slinging an arm over his midsection. Dolokhov had to bite back a frustrated groan at the unexpected contact. As pleasant as it was, he had to remember his place--as Anatole’s best friend, and nothing more. Though, judging from Anatole’s long history of lovers, each one eventually discarded for a new flame, maybe that was for the best. With a quiet sigh, Dolokhov slid out from under Anatole’s arm and got dressed in the pale light of the early morning.
The rest of the journey to St. Petersburg was mundane, and they arrived before noon to the house. It was small, much more so than Anatole’s family home in Moscow, but comfortable, more than enough for the two of them. On their first night there, they did nothing, falling asleep early after unpacking.
The second night in St. Petersburg found Dolokhov in his study, unable to focus on his reading. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but in the dim candlelight he couldn’t seem to grasp what the passage was saying. It didn’t help matters any that he kept getting distracted by thoughts of Anatole, of his smile, his eyes; memories of him with his uniform unbuttoned or his arm over Dolokhov’s stomach while he slept. Dolokhov shook his head sharply as if it would rid him of the distractions, but found himself no more able to finish his reading than before. Exasperated and exhausted, he closed the book and leaned abruptly against the back of his chair. He allowed his mind to wander, staring blankly at the ceiling, until the door to the study opened and Anatole swept in.
“Dolokhov!” His smile was bright. He looked ready to leave the house, wearing his green coat and holding a pair of gloves in his left hand. “Let’s go to the club!” He drew out the last word almost comically and looked expectantly at Dolokhov. Dolokhov’s eyes widened.
“Are you mad?” Anatole frowned.
“What?”
“Are you mad?” Dolokhov repeated, toneless. “Do you not remember the trouble your lifestyle got you into last time?” Anatole flushed.
“The club had nothing to do with that--”
“No, but it might as well have! You’ll go out, meet some married woman, fall in love with her, and tire with her in three days like always--.” Dolokhov could feel his own jealousy brewing, could feel it like something he held between his teeth as he yelled at Anatole. “Just once, could you take care of yourself so I don’t have to?” Silence fell over the room as Dolokhov stopped, staring accusingly at Anatole.
“Who said you had to?”
“What?”
“No one ever said you had to take care of me. So just stop.” Despite the argument, Anatole’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Dolokhov scoffed.
“Don't be ridiculous.”
“I'm not. There's no rule anywhere that says it's your job to take care of me. So why don’t you just stop?”
“I can't.” Dolokhov flushed, though whether it was from anger or embarrassment was anyone's guess.
“Why not?” Anatole pressed.
“I just can’t, Anatole.” Dolokhov looked away, hoping that Anatole would give up. But instead Anatole stepped closer, and, bracing his hand on the chair, leaned down into Dolokhov’s space until their noses brushed together.
“Dolokhov.” Anatole said, soft but insistent. Dolokhov didn't reply, feeling childish as he shut his eyes to shut Anatole out.
“Fedya,” Anatole whispered. Dolokhov’s eyes snapped open. His mind raced, trying to find the words that would get him out of this situation.
“I love you,” he blurted instead. Anatole stared at him, stunned, while Dolokhov felt like his heart had stopped. Panicking, he pushed Anatole away and stood up, heading for the door, but Anatole caught him by the wrist.
“Fedya--”
“Are you happy, now, Anatole?” Dolokhov spat. “I do it because I'm in love with you. I take care of you because I’m in love with you. I came with you all the way to Petersburg because I’m in love with you. And I’ll go back to Moscow for the same reason.”
“Fedya.” Anatole’s voice was soft, almost awed. He didn't release his hold on Dolokhov’s wrist.
“Let me go,” Dolokhov plead.
“You are a fool,” Anatole informed him. Dolokhov laughed bitterly.
“Believe me, I know.” He said. Anatole still seemed in awe as he placed a hand gently on Dolokhov’s neck. Then, without warning, Anatole kissed him. It only lasted a moment before Anatole pulled away.
“Oh,” Dolokhov murmured. Anatole smirked, just slightly, and Dolokhov immediately reached up to kiss him again. His hands came up to cup Anatole’s face, while Anatole tangled one hand in Dolokhov’s hair and rested the other on the small of his back. Dolokhov gasped and Anatole pressed closer, tugging gently at his hair. When they pulled back, both breathless, Anatole was laughing. Dolokhov leaned his head on Anatole’s chest, catching his breath. Without warning, Anatole pulled him down on the chair so Dolokhov was sitting on top of him, landing with a soft “oof.” Dolokhov shifted, leaning up to press soft, open mouthed kisses to Anatole’s jawline.
“Don't go to the club tonight,” he murmured. Anatole laughed brightly, and tilted his head back to give Dolokhov better access.
“Okay,” he acquiesced. Dolokhov leaned up and kissed him on the mouth again, slowly and carefully, and Anatole sighed.
“Okay,” Dolokhov echoed, smiling.