feeling all my hunger

Oh, my angel, my mother-

The last thing that he sees before collapsing is Anatole's face.
Anatole looks as if he's been shot himself.
(Or: Fedya Dolokhov is fierce. Fierce, and scattered.)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

ii.

The last thing that he sees before he collapses is Anatole's face, the last thing that he hears before collapsing is Anatole's screams, the last thing that he feels before collapsing is Anatole's hands—

It takes him a while to realize that he has been shot. Something inside of him is twisting — oh, my angel, my mother — and he looks down at his body and there is blood. Pain. He doesn't notice his own pain until he sees the look on Anatole's face; a look that tells him Anatole is in pain, Anatole looks scared, Anatole is not scared, Dolokhov should be the scared one, Anatole doesn't—

Everything is—

Darkness. There's darkness, and Anatole—

Oh, my angel, my mother—

did you really think that Anatole would—

that Anatole could—

that Anatole is—

The last thing that he sees before collapsing is Anatole's face.

Anatole looks as if he's been shot himself.

My adored angel—

did you really think—

He doesn't like to be called Fedya.

It's a word that is rarely uttered, and for good reason. His full name is a small void; where there is Fedya, there is nothing. No one is home, in this house. Where there is Dolokhov, there is something complete - a completing cycle, a snake eating itself, a broken object being replaced. Something better.

Fedya is not better.

And then - and then Anatole comes along.

"Fedya," Anatole says, and his face turns sour, "I am sorry. I know you are uncomfortable with that, I—"

"It's fine," Dolokhov says, "only when it comes from you. With anyone else, I would correct them, but you - you are special. I can't figure out why."

Anatole's smile is like warmth.

Here's why Anatole is different: Anatole is the only one who has ever cared about Dolokhov's name.

iii.

Anatole visits him often as he recovers.

He says things like: I'm sorry.

He says things like: I could have stopped Pierre. I didn't, and that will forever haunt me.

Dolokhov says things like: it's okay, Anatole. You are here now. That's all that matters.

Dolokhov says things like: I do not blame you. You don't have to be sorry. You - all that you need to do is be here.

Dolokhov doesn't say anything like: I love you, and I could never be mad at you.

xiii.

"Do you ever read stories," Dolokhov asks as he takes a sip of wine.

"What kind of stories?" Anatole replies. He stares at Dolokhov with wide open, wondering eyes, and Dolokhov takes another sip of wine, he'll need it, Anatole is looking at him and Anatole is beautiful and—

The wine is bitter.

He pours himself another glass.

"Stories like—" Dolokhov stops, unsure. He's not sure why he asked. "Like the kind that you read to children to get them to sleep. Stories with happy endings."

"Sometimes," Anatole admits, "I like to think about happy endings."

"Do you think we'll ever get one?" Dolokhov asks.

The words sound too much like a plead. He says it like they're something other than friends. The words sound too much like a beg.

"I hope so."

The wine tastes like sorrow.

The wine tastes like wine, and Dolokhov's mouth... Dolokhov's mouth is filled with sorrow.

Dolokhov jerks awake.

Anatole is sitting on his bed.

In any other situation, he would be grateful. In any other situation, he would treat this as some sort of gift from God. God has made Dolokhov as he is, which nowadays seems more like a curse than a gift. God has made him.

This is torturous.

In this situation, there is pain. In this situation, Dolokhov has been shot, and he's still unable to comprehend the meaning of Anatole on his bed. Anatole, waiting for him to awaken. Anatole, saying:

"I brought you something to distract you."

He hands Dolokhov a single rose.

"Where did you get this?" he asks.

This kind of gesture only happens in Dolokhov's dreams.

"I..." Anatole's face looks distant. "Bought it."

"Why?"

"A rose has a beautiful and sweet smell. Every time that you hurt, the scent of the flower will distract you from the pain."

"Roses die," Dolokhov says.

"By the time it dies," Anatole says, "you will be recovered."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I want it to be true, so it will be true," Anatole says.

He leaves without another word.

Oh, my angel, my mother, my adored-

did you ever think that this would-

vi.

Every time that it hurts, he presses the rose to his face.

Anatole was right.

xxiv.

He realizes that he loves Anatole when it rains.