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It started with pacing and praying. Back and forth for hours, down the hallway, past the table, in front of the bathroom. He couldn’t stop moving. It felt like there were ants under his skin. Crawling and nestling into his flesh. It was the worst where Anatole had touched him. Brushed his fingers over his skin. Buried his nails into Dolokhov. Back and forth. Back and forth. Broken up only by periodic scrubbing of his skin in the bathroom.
The constant movement was the only thing keeping him sane right now. It tethered him to here and now, keeping him from being dragged into the past. Back into the bedroom. With Anatole. Back to pacing. No thinking about Anatole or the previous events of the night. But Dolokhov was never good with self control.
It had started with the club (if Dolokhov was being technical it started a cold night in Moscow a long time ago, but that was besides the point). The night was cold but the club was warm. The press of bodies together and the burning of the candles made it practically suffocating. The booze didn’t stop coming and soon the lights blurred into a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors. There were beautiful women (and men) and the booze kept coming. And Anatole was glowing in the yellow light. By the time they both stumbled home, having drunk as much as the club would let them, the tension between Dolokhov and Anatole was thick. Dolokhov couldn’t stop glancing at his friend. Anatole was just so handsome. They way his hair reflected the moonlight was exquisite. His face warmed in the cold, giving Anatole a blush that Dolokhov didn’t see very often. He wanted to see it more often.
And the next thing he knew, they were in the bedroom. Tearing at their clothes and throwing them off. Burning lips pressed together. Warm skin against skin, the need to touch each other overwhelmed Dolokhov’s thoughts until he could think of nothing else. Anatole was running his fingers over his chest, through his hair. It stole all the rational thoughts from Fedya’s head. His nails scraped against biceps and Dolokhov wanted to bottle that feeling. It sent shivers up his spine and gave him goosebumps. He loved it. They collapsed onto the bed, tongues fighting for dominance. It was blissful and beautiful. Anatole was beautiful.
And then it was over.
Dolokhov fled the crime scene. Because that’s what it was. A crime. They had committed one of the most awful and unlawful acts. They could be killed for this. They would be killed for this if anyone found out. But on some level, Dolokhov didn’t care about that. He didn’t care that what they had done was illegal or the Russian penalties for what they did. All that mattered to him was that someone did know about this. And they would punish him. He would burn in hell for the unholy acts he did with Anatole. G-d would punish him.
Fedya Dolokhov wasn’t always a religious man. Sure he went to Church every Sunday and participated in all the Holidays. He never really got it though. Christianity was nothing but a routine for him. But fighting a war changed that. The stench of bodies in the trenches, the scent of blood so thick in the air he could taste it, striking men down with his gun. Those things had turned Fedya Dolokhov into a religious man. He needed something to anchor him in those days. Christ was the only thing that kept him sane in those long winter months. There had to be something other than this. Something higher than this senseless violence. Because if there wasn’t, what was even the point?
So Dolokhov knew that G-d would punish him for what he had done tonight. He had read the books, spoke to the clergies. They all agreed. Something like this was unforgivable. Sodomy was unforgivable in the eyes of the Lord. He had soiled his immortal soul. And now he would pay the price. He was marked for a one way trip to eternal damnation. Thinking about it made his brow burst into sweat. He didn’t want this. He didn’t deserve this. He was a good man! Good men weren’t supposed to suffer! How could this happen?
Fedya’s praying picked up pace. He was gripping the rosary beads so hard his knuckles turned white. The wood was rough, and the feeling of the grain against his fingertips worked to keep him grounded. His knees ached and burned from so long kneeling, but he didn’t dare move. It was like he was nailed to the floor. This was the position he had taken up after the relentless pacing. Some foolish part of him thought that if he pleaded enough he might save himself from the hole he dug himself into. He was the statue of a desperate man.
This wasn’t even really his fault. Anatole did this to him. Anatole with his perfect hair and handsome face. He had seduced Dolokhov, gave him unnatural thoughts. If anyone should be ruined for this, it should be Anatole. Not Dolokhov. But this wasn’t new. Anatole was always causing messes and leaving Fedya to deal with the fall out. He didn’t have to deal with any of the aftermath of the failed Rostova elopement. Not like Dolokhov, who had to pay the family a visit after learning of Natasha’s illness. It was Dolokhov who listened to Marya scream about what she would like to do to the scoundrel who did this to her g-ddaughter, and Sonya’s sobs for her almost late cousin. Anatole didn’t have to go through that. He should have. Dolokhov should have let Anatole die when he had the chance. Let him swing from the gallows to pay for his crimes.
But Anatole was untouched. He was perfect and flawless. Things like tragedy didn’t dare lay a finger on Anatole Kuragin. He was a sunrise, blinding in his beauty and golden rays. He was Dolokhov’s salvation when the grips of war dug it’s claws into him and refused to let go. He was an angel, graceful and unmarked by the trials of human life. But Anatole wasn’t all good things. He was midnight, the dark and dirty things happening in the corners of the club. He was Dolohov's damnation, cursing him to an eternal life of struggle and pain. He was a demon, plaguing those close to him with dark urges and wicked intentions. He was a storm and people couldn’t help but get swept up.
Dolokhov stood up suddenly. He couldn’t be having thoughts like these while praying. It just felt wrong. He moved down the hallway to the bathroom. There was already some water there from earlier in the evening. He thrust his hands in it, small bumps raised across his exposed upper half. He scrubbed his face with the water, almost as if that would clean the thoughts from him. Dolokhov’s mind flashed quickly to the last time he stood here, frantically washing his arms to rid himself of Anatole’s touch only a short while ago. Fedya rubbed his wet hand against his bicep, remembering the feather like touch of Anatole’s finger tips. He cupped some water and scrubbed there. He felt the phantom press of lips into his shoulder, and dug his fingers in there too. It was almost like Anatole was in the room with him, recreating what had happened in the bedroom. But he wasn’t. Dolokhov would have heard him come in. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop him from manically washing every piece of his skin he imagined was touched. He was being haunted by his misdeeds and it was driving him mad.
He had to get a grip. If he kept going on like this he would ruin himself. He would end up like Pierre. Sad and drunk and all alone. Entombed in his study, searching, grasping, for the meaning of it all. The reason to keep going when it all didn’t seem worth it. When he didn’t seem worth it. Dolokhov would rather die than reach that point of no return.
So he got up. He dried himself off and put his shirt back on. Then his vest and his boots. The sun was rising through the small window across the hall. The sunrise was beautiful. The light glittered off the snow, and it seemed like the world was on glowing. Dolokhov put on his fur coat and started walking towards the front door. He needed to get out of this house, go and live life, before it all became too much and he collapsed under the weight of it.
The cold air assaulted his face. It nipped at his nose and ears, teasing them with a chill. Dolokhov took a deep breath. The cool air filled him with a renewed sense of meaning. Petersburg was so beautiful in the morning. And maybe, just maybe, within all that beauty, there was hope for a man damned.