Title: You and Me and All Other People
Author: Shadow Padawan
Fandom: War and Peace
Parings: Dolokhov/Anatole, Dolokhov/Nikolai, Anatole/Pierre, Pierre/Andrei (mostly implied)
Rating: PG-13/R (borderline)
Warning: Slash, non-graphic sex
Word Count: 16,985 (according to AO3)
Summary: It takes Theodore Dolokhov years to figure out what he really wants. (Or: the development and growth of Dolokhov and Anatole's relationship as they deal with other life problems, love other people and battle their way through miscommunications and other things life throws out there.)
The September day is far too warm and bright for Anatole's mood. He stands watching as his things are loaded into the back of the carriage and strapped in. Helene stands a few feet away with their parents, watching the footmen as they struggle with one of the trunks. Anatole fidgets and watches the road instead. He's glancing at his new pocket watch from time to time, trying to not be nervous. Theodore always keeps his word, after all. But it is ten past eleven and he was supposed to be there ten minutes ago.
"Anatole, was it really necessary for you to pack all your clothes?" Helene teases, a slight smirk curving the corners of her mouth upwards.
"I did not pack all my—" He is in the middle of protesting when the sound of hooves on the road makes him spin around and put one hand over his eyes to block out the sun. "Theodore!"
The young man riding up to the Kuragins' house is in his late teens. He is handsome and tall with curly brown hair that frames his sharply defined features, and magnetic, bright blue eyes. He's dressed sharply and neatly but the tailcoat is out of style and the boots are old. He waves to Anatole with one hand, reigning in the horse with the other. "Sorry I'm late!" Theodore calls, not looking one bit miffed. "Got held up. Good to see you're not off yet."
He hands his horse to one of the footmen and walks to Anatole, clapping the younger boy's shoulder amicably. Anatole beams. "Prince Kuragin, Princess." Theodore bows to the parents, then seems to forget them completely. Anatole soon notices that his friend is watching Helene closely. Theodore likes the way her strawberry-blonde hair curls over her ears and forehead in soft wisps; her fashionable French hat is tiny on the top of her head, presenting a delectable sight. Really, Helene looks very much like her brother.
Anatole watches for a moment, before asking, a bit petulantly, "Will you write, Theodore?"
The older boy looks over and regards him coolly. "Sure. Although, I'm certain you'll have more to say in your letters than I."
Anatole looks up at him with searching grey eyes. His features are still those of a child – soft and angelic, brightly innocent. "I'll write if you do." His eyelashes flutter and his cheeks color with a soft, embarrassed pink. He prays to God his parents aren't listening. Helene is watching him with her eyebrows slightly raised in delicate arches. Theodore just laughs and ruffles his hair. Anatole isn't even thirteen but the patronizing superiority in that gesture bothers him. He doesn't want Theodore to think of him as he would of a child, though he is not quite sure why that is. Or perhaps he does know but doesn't understand it – the tender, melting feeling that makes his heart swell every time they are within twenty feet of each other.
"Anatole, they're ready for you," his father calls, glancing over to where the two boys are standing together. Anatole nods thoughtfully, then turns to Theodore and smiles brightly. "I think I'll like Paris. You should come and visit me some time."
Theodore scoffs. "I've got better ideas for my money."
Anatole's smile fades but he shrugs innocently. He knows Theodore doesn't mean it offensively, just that the Dolokhovs don't have much to spare. "Well, farewell then."
"Farewell. Do good on your studies."
Anatole makes a face. "My father tells me that all the time. Must you be just as annoying?"
Theodore laughs and gives the boy a slight push forward. "Yes. It's for your own good."
Anatole says his goodbyes to his family and clambers into the carriage. "Goodbye!" he calls, waving enthusiastically as he sticks his head out of the window, searching for Theodore's eyes as he does so. But Theodore merely gives him a slight wave and turns his attention to Helene. He is sixteen, after all, and doesn't stop to consider that Anatole's childish hero worship night have developed a new layer of meaning over the past summer.
Theodore stays to talk to Helene for another half an hour after Anatole drives away. She will become a very beautiful woman, he thinks, and wonders at his lack of feeling at the thought. He admires her beauty, her inexperienced but fiery attempts to reach for the sky, for power, but some part of him regards her more as a friend than a woman. He has a hard time admiring women but he admires her; perhaps the catch lies in that. He has already realized he has longings of another sort but sees them more as indulgences. Nothing serious could possibly come of affairs such as those, so he doesn't assign them much meaning.
As the sky begins to darken, heavy clouds floating overhead to obscure the sun, leaving only scattered patches of faded, cerulean blue, Helene goes inside, making the excuse that she does not want to get caught by the rain. Theodore rides home, his thoughts preoccupied with trivialities until he sees the unfamiliar carriage parked outside the house. The footman is dressed like a dandy and the rich design of the carriage suggests that the owner is some influential figure. Theodore frowns and, handing his horse to a servant boy, heads inside, hat in hand.
His mother's voice comes floating through the hall to him from the drawing room. She is speaking quickly and quietly, a baritone male voice answers her irritably. His sister is stood at the closed double doors, one ear pressed against the wood, listening with a pinched expression. "Galina, what is going on?" he asks, hanging up his coat and hat.
She purses her lips further and says in a half-whisper, "Creditors again."
"But we paid all the debts!"
"Hush they'll hear you!" She makes a shushing movement at him. "Yes, but you know how we've been living by loan lately. Mamma says it is a vicious cycle."
Theodore stands looking at her, expression pensive and eyes half closed as he thinks the words over, turning them from one side to the other in his head. "How much does he want?"
"A couple thousand."
"A couple thousand!" Something in Theodore's eyes flares and he can feel himself falling into scarlet oblivion. Galina rushes toward him and grabs his arm. In the small, dim hallway her face is obscured by dancing shadows and he can not make out her large, pleading eyes. She is saying something but he can't hear her. "He doesn't need those couple thousand! Have you seen how his man servant is dressed? Couple thousand! What could they possibly do for a man like him? …Mother. How is she handling this?"
Galina shrugs, still clinging to his arm. "She's upset but there is nothing she can do. If he wants the money now, then he wants it now."
Theodore wrenches his arm away from her hold and turns on his heal, running for the door. Galina calls after him and takes several steps forward but the skirt of her dress catches and she is forced to steady herself against the wall as not to fall. By the time she has righted herself her brother has gone. She walks slowly to the window, twisting the ribbons of her faded bonnet wit one hand and presses the other against the cool glass, trying to make out Theodore's figure beyond the gate despite the torrent of raindrops. She presses her forehead to the glass and closes her eyes, biting down on her lips at the sound of distant thunder. "Don't do anything foolish," she whispers to the empty silence.
Rain pours down in heavy sheets of water. The streets become makeshift rivers, drowning in the downpour. They are mostly deserted aside from a few stragglers running under umbrellas in haste to make it inside and avoid the nastiness of the weather. Theodore's boots make thick splashing sounds as he sloshes through the streets, running blindly in no particular direction. The cold rain stings his face and arms, seeps through his clothes making the fabric stick to his skin and itch. He is still running, running from the humiliation of his mother having to beg for payment extensions and the humiliation of being in dept to someone and owing someone something. He runs from the pain of knowing how fashionable Anatole's sister's dresses are and how plain and old Galina's are in comparison. He runs from the pain of knowing that Anatole will study in Paris while he had been thrown into the hands of careless tutors because there was no money to hire better ones.
When Theodore comes to Pavlovsky's place, he stops his dash through the rain toward answers that he doesn't know where and when to find. He looks up at the invitingly glowing windows, imagining the feast and Champaign fountains that await inside. Here, the drinks come free and so do the boys. At a pub, the alcohol is never free or even cheap, not to mention the girls.
Theodore pushes the door open and makes to enter when he runs headlong into another tall, male figure a couple or so years older than him. Theodore recognizes the man almost instantly: Andrei Bolkonski, the son of the man who had killed his father in a duel. As well as an obnoxious, rich snob and a self-righteous idiot, as far as Theodore is concerned. "What are you doing here, Bolkonski?" Theodore asks, the corners of his mouth curling upwards into some hybrid of a sneer and a smirk. "Come looking for pleasure?"
Andrei flushes with either embarrassment or anger. Either way, Theodore knows he has found a chord to thrum if the time comes. "None of your business, Dolokhov," Bolkonski snaps, growling the words through his teeth.
The rain continues to fall around them as they glower at each other, Theodore savoring the feeling of animosity he bears for this man. "Of course it's not," he says back in a fake, sugary tone, that suggest a very different thought process. Bolkonski only sneers and walks away but Theodore watches him go, wondering if he was here by accident or if the proud Andrei Bolkonski actually had a connection to the affairs that occurred at Pavlovsky's nightly. Not that it would ever change the fact that they can't stand each other.
Theodore is soaked by the time he makes his way through the hall and dinning room into the back where the night's card game has already begun. Servant boys silently slip in and out of the room with bottles and glasses. Everyone is far too drunk to notice him, so he sidles to the back of the room and watches carefully the new dealer handling a crisp deck of cards.
Theodore does not recognize the young dealer and his interest is peaked. He watches the way the young man handles the cards, sliding them from one hand to the other as he shuffles them with an extraordinary speed. There is something almost professional in the way he watches the other players and deals the cards, his hands and movements untraceable. Theodore watches with a sense of rising excitement. He can tell a sharper when he sees one. He watches the first round and the second, noticing that the man wins every time. Theodore takes a glass from one of the passing servants and sips at the stinging, bubbling liquid, his mind already forming a plan. The cards flash before his eyes and the sound of rusting bills and clinging coins fills his ears. His heart swells and his hopes rise. There is a way out, there is a way out.
"I saw you playing."
"Oh? I'm Kozlov, by the way."
Theodore smirks and sits by the dealer on the low sofa, handing him one of the glasses of wine he is holding, sipping at the other himself. "You deal well." Theodore gives him a meaningful look.
Kozlov raises his eyebrows slightly, then looks around a bit wearily. No one is paying them any attention. The gypsies have arrived and begun their trademark chorus of smooth female voices blending in un-polished harmony. "Thank you."
Theodore smirks and throws one leg over the other easily. "Where did you learn?"
"Oh, one place or another." Kozlov is watching him wearily but with some interest. His dark eyes are sharp and Theodore feels slightly uncomfortable under their scrutiny but he doesn't let himself show it.
"Do you think…you could teach me?"
Kozlov laughs and leans back against the sofa pillows. He watches the gypsies as they writhe and bend in their wild dance. The music is load but they can still speak quietly and hear one another. "Perhaps. Depends on your talents...and willingness to share."
"What are we talking?" Theodore asks, a sharp, bargaining edge slipping into his voice.
"Fifty percent of your first twenty winnings."
Theodore sips at the wine, watching the gypsies, bright blue eyes slightly unfocused as he thinks. "First fifteen winnings. But I'll give you sixty percent instead."
Kozlov smirks and raises his glass in a cheers gesture. "I like the way you think, boy." He drinks then gives Theodore his card. "My place tomorrow at seven."
Theodore looks at the card, then tucks it away into a pocket with a slight nod. He stands and sets his glass aside. "Pleasure meeting you." He turns to go with a confident smirk drifting onto his face. He will finally be doing something.
"What's your name, kid?"
Theodore looks over his shoulder, the smirk growing. "Dolokhov."
Anatole writes a letter a day. It helps him deal with the initial waves of homesickness. He can write as many as four letters in one day, but there will always be one for Theodore. He takes the time to describe in obnoxious detail all aspects of his new life – Paris, his tutors, his new acquaintance and friends. He complains that the Latin teacher is too harsh and old-fashioned, but he doesn't mind his dance teacher. His relatives are kind but not at all warm and he longs for home. His circle of friends grows every day and Anatole takes care to fill his letters with various anecdotes of their antics and misbehaviors. He writes of the girls he meets in an attempt to seem adult but ends up sounding pretentious to the point that Theodore reads these parts of Anatole's letters out-loud to some of his friends as entertainment. It is not a nice thing to do but he can't help but amuse himself at the boy's expense. Secretly, he finds the frankness adorable.
The first letter from Theodore comes almost a month after Anatole first writes. Anatole opens it with such delight that he manages to surprise even himself. Theodore writes smoothly, in a familiar bold and firm hand that makes Anatole feel safe just looking at it. There are no moralistic lectures like from his parents, none of Helene's flowery, society-wrought banalities, none of his age-mates' immaturities or his brother's unfathomable coldness. Theodore writes little of himself except for the very basic or very entertaining. His letters are always regretfully short and far between, but Anatole awaits each one with baited breath, hanging on every word.
Paris life soon sweeps him away from thoughts of home and Anatole begins to write less frequently, sometimes only a single letter in three days. Theodore's letters come once a month without variance, regardless of how many Anatole writes so the younger boy feels free to indulge in the new world around him. His French improves magnificently and it reflects in his writing as Russian words and phrases begin to quickly give way to their French counterparts.
Anatole is far from unhappy, but something nags and lingers at the fringes of his mind, pulling at his attention in the middle of the day when he's attempting to study or in the middle of the night when he can't sleep. Something is missing and he can't quite understand what it is. The only thing he has noticed is that when a new letter from Theodore comes, that feeling is momentarily gone.
Theodore is surprised at how quickly he manages to master the tricks Kozlov shows him. After a smattering of initial loses, he begins to improve quickly, his movements becoming more sure and his ability to control every emotion and every expression more extensive. He pays off his debts to Kozlov and those from the initial losses quickly.
"Just be careful with such a thing. You don't want legal troubles," Kozlov says, taking the money Theodore would present to him after every one of his first fifteen wins.
"I'm not stupid. I'll be careful," Theodore always replies, slightly offended that he was thought so careless. He has always had the habit of thinking everything through, of being careful and reasonable.
When the two say farewell half a year after Theodore starts his "education" under Kozlov, Theodore feels a fresh wave of freedom and excitement rush through him. Kozlov is leaving for the Caucuses – God only knows what he's forgotten there; his excuse is family but Theodore doesn't believe him – and it is unlikely that they will see each other anytime in the near future. "Excited to be on your own now?" Kozlov asks, climbing into the carriage that will take him to the next post station.
"Excited to not have you looking over my shoulder every moment? Who wouldn't be?" Theodore teases. "I have a night planned tonight at the Gentlemen's Club. I'm planning to win big." Kozlov nods approvingly.
"You should write!" Kozlov calls as the coach gives a start and begins to roll over the gravel, wheels making a crunching sound on the sand.
Theodore nods in response but knows he won't. Neither of them will. That is for the better.
The smell of whisky is strong and intoxicating. The night is in full swing and most of the men are quite drunk. Dinner has passed and the cards and political discussions have begun. The cigar smoke is not yet pervasive but already heavy in the air, mixing with the traces of alcohol to render a purely male atmosphere.
Theodore breathes in deep, savoring the familiar feeling of adrenaline rushing through his body and washing out all doubts to make room for an icy calm which he will need for the night ahead. He twirls a pack of cards in one hand, the familiar rounded corners and smooth edges of the pack comforting in their stability and uniformity. He picks up a drink and joins a small group of acquaintances, careful to chose a circle of those who are younger and richer and therefore, probably, more gullible. Not to mention drunk. He talks little but listens with apparent interest. Someone offers a game of cards and Theodore shows them his deck, offering to deal.
They sit at one of the tables in a circle and Theodore begins to shuffle, focused, expression impenetrable. He deals one round then another and another after that. His companions say he is lucky and he simply smiles, counting up the profits in his head. He can already see a new bonnet for Galina – yellow, the color is nice on her – and enough money to pay the month's debts to the bakery. Theodore picks up the deck again for the last round and begins to deal. "Make your bets, gentlemen," he says easily, briefly meeting the eyes of Sobolev, who is the youngest of the group and about Theodore's age.
"Don't make a single bet more, Dmitri. He's a scoundrel." Theodore looks up, the cards in his hand still in a half-stacked, hald-unfurled position. Andrei Bolkonski stands behind Sobolev, glaring at Theodore with a haughty, indignant expression. Theodore had not noticed him join their group; he had been too focused on the game.
Theodore meets his eyes and unfurls the cards. He glances at the hand briefly, then sets it face down on the table before looking back up at Bolkonski. "What are you implying?"
The room around them goes quiet. Conversations at other tables and corners are continuing but everyone in their approximate vicinity has felt the tension and turned to watch. Theodore feels a new rush of anger and dislike but he keeps his expression disinterested.
"You're a sharper!"
"That's an insult, sir. I advise you to be more careful with your words," Theodore snaps back, eyes defiant now.
"Don't pretend to have honor, Dolokhov," Bolkonski sneers. "Your family has never had a bit of grace to them – as dishonorable as you are penniless."
Theodore finds himself on his feet before he realizes that he has made the move to stand. His glass tips over and the wine spills across the table, trickling in streams of crimson to the edges and soaking abandoned hands of cards left lying face down. Theodore opens his mouth to speak but can't get a word past the flare of anger that is choking him. Finally, he manages to compose himself enough to utter in a single breath, "You might insult me but how dare you attack my family! I-why-I challenge you!"
The cool metal of the pistol feels almost comforting under his hands, hard and sure like nothing else in life. Nothing, except that he would not be insulted, that he would never let anyone offend his pride or question the honor of his family. Certainly not a rich, snobbish, daddy's boy like Bolkonski.
"Theodore, put the gun down and let's talk sensibly." His second – Vasili Onegin – stands leaning against the doorframe and shifting uncomfortably. "You don't have to do this."
Theodore doesn't look up from his examination of the dueling pistol. "Yes, I do." He is on the brink of seventeen and about to fight his first duel. He should be excited or scared, perhaps frantic even, but he hardly feels a thing. Bolkonski's words had sunk deep and they keep replaying themselves in his head.
Onegin sighs and walks to the window, looking out at the setting sun. "At least let's make plans to give apologies."
Theodore looks up sharply. "Are you a fool? Vasili, I'm not forcing you to be my second if you don't want to, damn it!"
Onegin holds both hands up in a surrendering gesture. "That's not what I said."
Theodore slams the pistol down onto the table and it makes an ominous metallic sound against the wood. "How can you suggest that I humiliate myself like that? After what he said, about me, about my family! The hell with me, but my mother and sister!"
"Yes, about them. Were you thinking about them when you challenged him? Or were you thinking only of yourself and your pride? Bolkonsi is a good shot and he's older! What if you're killed? How will they feel, who will be there to support them then?"
That had not been something Theodore had considered. Actually, the possibility of defeat had never crossed his mind. He opens his mouth to reply but finds he does not know what to say. Images fill his mind: his mother crying over his body, Galina in a black mourning dress, the landowner coming to demand payment for the house that they can't make without the money he should be bringing in… and for some inexplicable reason – Anatole, with tears in his eyes and an even number of forget-me-nots in his arms. Theodore flinches and blinks several times to clear his head. "I won't get killed." Onegin rolls his eyes and means to say something but Theodore cuts him off. "I don't have a choice, Vasili, don't you understand? Though perhaps you don't – no one is picking on your family for an inability to pay the bills. Forget it, I'll ask Denisov to be my second." He scoops up the dueling case and turns to the door.
Onegin crosses the room in three brisk strides and grabs Theodore's shoulder, tuning him around. "Don't be like that. I am your friend and your second. I have a duty to advise you to change your mind before any blood is spilled." He grabs the case firmly and pulls it out of Theodore's hold.
Dolokhov looks at him steadily for a moment, then gives a bitter laugh and shakes his head. "Well, you can stop now. You're only wasting your breath."
The early morning is bleak; the mist has just begun to lift and hangs at treetop-level instead of directly above the earth. Birds chirp and sing somewhere in the distance but otherwise the Sokolniky woods are quiet and dreamy. Onegin and Bolkonski's second measure twenty-six paces, stabling swords into the dirt at each barrier. The duelists stand on opposite sides, watching each other wearily.
Theodore is forcing himself to not fidget. He is itching to feel the gun in his hands so that he can start shooting and stop thinking. The formalities seem horribly superfluous to him. He and Bolkonski take their marks once the seconds are finished and wait for the pistols. Theodore takes his gun gingerly from Onegin and nods at his friend in reassurance. Vasili gives his shoulder a squeeze before stepping aside. Theodore cocks the pistol and waits for the count.
"On my count!" Bolkonski's second calls. "One, two…begin."
Theodore takes two steps forward, then stops and breathes in the cool, moist morning air. His vision in unnaturally sharp, the adrenaline running through his veins magnifying every detail of his surroundings, catching his opponent's every move.
Bolkonski begins to lift his gun as he is carrying it at his hip. Theodore takes another step before starting to drop and level his from its vertical position at his shoulder. He is counting in his head – how many steps are left, how many seconds has it been – trying to predict when Bolkonski will shoot.
The shot comes unexpectedly, the report echoing among the trees and scaring a flock of birds perched nearby. The bullet whistles past Theodore's ear, ripping his tailcoat and undershirt; the skin of his shoulder stings and Theodore knows it will be raw for some time. His head spins for a moment as he realizes how close he had just come to death. It is followed by an instant realization that he has a clear chance for a retaliation. "To the barrier," he says evenly, his voice echoing, attaining an assured, commanding edge. Bolkonski is forced to oblige.
Theodore watches his opponent carefully from his barrier. His eyes narrow as he concentrates, the pistol leveled at Bolkonski's forehead. His cool determination gives way to a sudden giddy realization, This is his perfect chance to humiliate Bolkonski and avoid any legal repercussions for himself. Theodore shifts, readjusting his hold on the pistol. He watches Bolkonski carefully, the gun aimed but not making any move to fire. His hand is sure and his eyes are sharp.
He stands there waiting until, finally, he can see Bolkonski's cool, impenetrable façade of indifference begin to crumble. He is scared too, like anyone, of death. His father and his money cannot help him now. Neither can his pretenses of pride and honor and family glory. Theodore watches with sadistic pleasure as Bolkonski pales visibly and his eyes begin to lose focus. "Shoot! What are you waiting for!" Bolkonski demands, the frayed edges of his tone giving away the fear and nervousness he is working hard at concealing.
Theodore smirks triumphantly. You're not even worth my shot, he thinks viciously. Then in a single, smooth gesture he flips the pistol vertically…and fires in the air.
…J'ai hâte de tous vous revoir, mais mon arrivée sera probablement retardé d'une semaine, peut-être un peu plus longtemps. Je songe à faire escale à Moscou où je rendrai visite à deux de mes anciens amis. Dis à papa de ne pas s'inquiéter. Il ne m'arrivera rien de grave. J'ai vraiment hâte de vous revoir!
Bisous,
Anatole1
Anatole sets down the quill and caps the ink bottle which threatens to spill over every time the carriage jerks or bounces on the uneven road. Roads are better in Europe, he has surmised. He looks over the letter to Helene, written out painstakingly in French, and fixes the odd spelling or grammatical mistake here and there before folding up the letter and placing it into an envelope. He seals and addresses it. At sixteen, his French is almost flawless – a fact that Anatole is very proud of. His letters home and to Theodore had been almost entirely in French as of late and his father has even expressed approval.
Anatole looks out over the country landscape as the carriage races toward Moscow, the mid-summer sun sinking slowly behind the horizon. His first visit home in the last four years and he still remembers the road as though he had been driving there just yesterday. His thoughts drift and a small, pleased smile curves his full lips. He is daydreaming again… about seeing Theodore. That is the reason for his detour to Moscoe before heading to Petersburg to stay with his family for the rest of the summer. Anatole knows he has changed a lot since Theodore last saw him. He is older – no longer a child – more confident and socially comfortable. He is dressed by the latest fashion, dances divinely, speaks perfect French, rides and fences with style and he has half of Paris' ladies in love with him.
Anatole also wonders if any of this will make a difference to Theodore.
Anatole fantasizes about how they will meet, what they will say and if Theodore has changed at all. Anatole figures he has. Theodore is an officer now in the Semenovsky Regiment and makes good profits at cards. He has also fought several duels and always won. Anatole feels his heart swell in that familiar feeling of tenderness that he has always felt when thinking of his older friend and winces inwardly at the understanding of what exactly that warm, ridiculously inappropriate feeling means. He hopes against hope that something will come of it. He is an optimist really, so he doesn't bother to waist much energy on worrying.
By the time Anatole reaches Moscow it is dark and the streets have been taken over by young hussars on their illicit nightly adventures, gypsy girls and other night-life explorers. Anatole walks through the familiar streets, headed toward Theodore's house, humming a romance tune, popular to frustration back in Paris. He has opted to walk to give himself a little more time to think. He is running through various options of what to say when he catches Theodore by surprise with his unannounced arrival, when familiar voices, shouting drunkenly from down the street near a pub, catch his attention.
Anatole steps back into the shadows to watch the carousal. Two officers and three young men in civilian dress tumble out of the pub, laughing and joking among themselves. Two of them, Anatole does not recognize. One is Onegin, Theodore's friend, and the other Anatole remembers vaguely as well, but not by name. His breath catches when he spots Theodore among them. He takes a tentative step forward, pulling himself together to not run and shout in excitement like a child, but stops and retreats back into the dark when he sees the way Theodore is holding on to the other young officer.
"To the actresses!" two of the men in civilian dress are shouting.
"Are you certain you're not joining us?" Onegin asks, looking skeptically at Theodore.
Theodore's smile is almost predatory and he glances between his friend and the officer he is holding onto. "No. Denisov and I have some business to take care of. Don't we Vasia?"
Denisov nods; he looks rather drunk.
"Ah, the hell with you then!" Onegin shouts, not one bit put out. He and the other two men scramble into a cabbie and take off in the direction of the theater. Theodore watches them go before taking a step closer to Denisov. He says something against the other young man's ear and Anatole strains to hear the words but they are too quiet and he is too far away. He doesn't need to know what they are saying, however. To him it is obvious. Anatole is intuitive to everything that has to do with Theodore as people often are when it comes to someone they love. He sees it in the looks they share, in the body language, in the way Theodore's hand rests on Denisov's hip as they climb into a coach waiting across the street.
Anatole can feel something inside of him die. The gypsy music blaring from inside the pub pounds in his head, blending with the beat of carriage wheels on the pebbled street. Something in his chest constricts, snaps and dies. Perhaps those are his childish hopes and daydreams. He is no longer twelve and he should have known better than to carry them around for four years. They're lovers, they're lovers, they're lovers! The thought repeats itself incessantly and cruelly in his mind as he sprints back down the boulevard to find his coachman. "We're leaving, we're leaving now!" he orders in a childishly whinny voice, feeling himself to be a complete fool to have believed in something that was so unfounded.
"Now, sir?" The coachman looks baffled. Anatole had told him an entire week, after all.
"Yes, now! To Petersburg without delay! I can't stay here another minute!"
Anatole spends the summer in a morose and irritable mood that is so not like him that his family worries and even means to consult a doctor. He tells them it is all useless and in fact it is. He is well enough and finds enjoyment in his usual activities but something has been lost in that fateful drop-in to Moscow, some element of his childhood, of his innocent naïveté that he can never get back.
He returns to Paris subdued and lost, no longer sure of what he wants. He has never had his heart broken before and doesn't realize that that is exactly what the feeling that tears him apart is. He looks for pleasure with street girls and with ladies, but they never satisfy completely and his studies begin to lack to the great annoyance of his tutors. Anatole has never been very diligent but he manages to exceed all of his previous records as he struggles and mourns his childhood love. He has not stopped writing to Theodore, though he writes rarely and more out of habit than anything. Theodore's letters still come precisely once a month.
By the time the Christmas Ball rolls around, Anatole has made a promise to himself that he will not let his bitter mood ruin the holidays. He is dressed in his finest tailcoat and pantaloons, his hair styled and combed back as dictated by the latest fashion. He is young and good looking, the champagne and wine flows in sparkling fountains under the candlelight and the lovely young Parisian girls dance effortlessly to the waltzes and quadrilles. Anatole finds himself longing for a Mazurka.
"Anatole! Come over here. One of your compatriots is in town." Anatole looks up to see LeBeau, a young, brash cadet, waiving to him enthusiastically and gesturing to a young man of obvious Russian apparel who is standing beside him, looking flustered and embarrassed at being the center of attention.
Anatole strides over to them and grins at LeBeau cheerfully. "Well, make your introductions."
"Pierre, this is Anatole Kuragin; he's a friend of mine. Anatole, this is Pierre Bezukhov. He has come to study at the university. You're from Moscow, yes?"
Pierre nods, slowly. "Yes, ah, yes, my-my father is a Muscovite and I was, ah, I was born there. He—my father—was so kind as to pay for my education here."
"Did you arrive long ago?" Anatole asks, studying Pierre's face carefully. He is dressed neatly but rather plainly. He is full in figure but has lovely, kind, soft eyes and an endearing manner to blush whenever addressed directly even if he manages to press on with his answers.
"No, not long. Just the beginning of the week." Pierre looks up at Anatole and gives him a shy sort of smile. "Would you care to show me around some day?"
"Of course! What do you say to dinner tomorrow afternoon? We can start there." Anatole suddenly finds himself in a much better mood than he had been all autumn. LeBeau is grinning like he knows something. He gives Anatole's shoulder a squeeze before chasing some pretty blonde girl across the chamber to beg for the next dance.
Pierre's books are scattered all over the floor and Anatole almost trips over one of them. He makes a face at the evidence of intense intellectual processes. "Goodness, what have you been studying?" he calls to Pierre who is lost somewhere between the volumes and papers.
"Philosophy." Pierre says, putting aside one of the fat books and making his way to Anatole. "It's all about what a person needs to survive. The body, as we know, needs food and water… Perhaps shelter. But the soul, the survival of the soul requires something more… extraordinary."
Anatole smirks, holding up a bottle of fine red wine. "And I have just what it needs right here."
Pierre nods approvingly and hurries to stack his books and shove them aside, ringing for glasses and cheese as he goes. "I didn't expect you to call," he says hurriedly, obviously preoccupied with making the sitting room look more presentable. "I thought to spend the day studying."
"How horribly boring," Anatole puts in, flopping on the couch and looking at the evening light streaming into the window through the bottle. "You should know by now that I have a habit of dropping in unexpectedly. It's only been – what? – two months?"
Pierre laughs and nods good naturedly. "Yes, yes." Their friendship had managed to sprout and evolve at dizzying speeds. They found a compatibility in their natures that was extremely satisfying and they had become nearly inseparable.
The wine goes easily and so do their tongues. Anatole soon finds himself lying on the lush carpet by the fireplace with his head in Pierre's lap as the other boy plays carelessly with his soft, strawberry-blond hair. "Say, Anatole," Pierre starts thoughtfully. "You say you've never been serious about a girl. Why's that?"
Anatole shrugs uncertainly. "I don't know. I suppose…I suppose I'm not the marrying type." He closes his eyes and wonders at those words, chewing lightly at his lower lip. "Or maybe it's just not the time, I don't know. What of yourself?"
Pierre sighs and gives a slight tug at one of the fair strands of hair he's been twirling around his finger. "I don't know. I suppose I'd like to marry one day. Now, I've got an older friend back in Russia. He just got married and I don't see how that is so wonderful, though for him perhaps it is."
Anatole opens his eyes slowly, the alcohol in his blood making the edges of things seems softer, slightly blurry. "Oh?" he asks, interested. "You have a close friend who just got married? Are you jealous?"
Pierre seems to stiffen at those words at first but then deflates. "Yes," he admits weakly.
Anatole sits up, meeting the other boy's eyes, his own half closed, veiled by long, dark lashes. "I've got an older friend too and he…well he's not married but I think he broke my heart."
Pierre reaches out and touches his cheek gently. "Why would anyone do that?"
Anatole laughs lightly and leans back so that he is pressed flush against Pierre's chest. "I don't know. I think he still holds me for a child. I can't blame him. I haven't seen him in years." He looks back at Pierre, meeting his velvet, dark brown eyes with his own crystal grey ones. "I don't think it matters now though…"
"Do write. Do write a lot," Pierre practically begs, holding on to Anatole's wrist tightly.
"Of course I will," Anatole promises, pulling Pierre toward him. Lips find lips and the world turns and flips around for a few moments while they kiss their goodbye, hands roaming over thick fabric, tracing each others bodies in an attempt to memorize their shape and form.
"Must you go?" Pierre gasps when they finally withdraw.
Anatole nods silently. He rubs his nose against Pierre's and giggles childishly. "Maybe you can come for the summers to visit, or I can come down." His smile grows by the minute. "We'll go to our Island and sunbathe all day. In the meantime, drink lots of fine French wine for me, mon cheri."
"Alright," Pierre agrees, smiling dreamily. He lets go of Anatole's hand and walks with him out to the front gate where the carriage with all of Anatole's things is waiting. "Adieu!" Pierre calls weakly as the carriage begins to roll and pick up speed. Anatole waves and watches Pierre from the window for a few minutes before sitting back and closing his eyes. He had managed to stay composed for Pierre's sake but all he really wants to do is cry. The past few months had been the most blissful of his life. Pierre has become his first adult love. His first requited love.
Theodore re-reads the invitation to the Kuragins' soirée with an expression of half-uncertainty, half-displeasure. He is starting to regret telling Helene when he would be in Petersburg. Her loopy, fancy handwriting strokes through every Latin letter – the note is in French of course – with such dainty grace that Theodore can almost picture the way the quill had moved in her small hand. Below her signature is one more line written out in a hand that is similar but bolder and more rushed. This hand he could recognize anywhere. Not surprising after all those letters Anatole had written him.
I hope you come. Or have you not missed me?
Besides, only Anatole could be so flippantly, adorably pretentious. Theodore folds up the note and sticks it in his pocket, looking up at the cabbie driver who seems to be watching him with some interest. "To the Kuragins." He says simply, sitting back and closing his eyes when the carriage begins to move.
Theodore is not certain why he feels so uncomfortable about seeing Anatole. It had not been very difficult to write to him and Theodore had always had the leading role in their friendship. Of course this was before, when Anatole was still a child. Now, a young Prince, he outranks Theodore in title, money, education –everything. Theodore is perfectly uncertain of how to address himself to this new Anatole – someone he knew as a boy but who is now his social superior without the determinant age gap to give him leverage.
Theodore steps into the Kuragin drawing room with a sense of foreboding. A small band set is entertaining and waiters are floating among the guests with treys of drink of appetizers. He instantly notices Helene's figure gliding among the guests. She is gorgeous as always, with her hair up in a fountain, curls tumbling freely and curling around the base of her neck. She is wearing a flowing, light-blue gown and white gloves. Theodore knows the gown will give her large grey eyes a soft blue tint. He approaches her first and kisses her hand. "Evening, Princess."
She laughs lightly, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Theodore, stop. Formalities do not suit you." Her smile is bright and brilliant, just as Theodore remembers Anatole's. Although, Helene does have a predatory edge to her expression when she smiles which Anatole never did. Theodore wonders offhandedly if that is an age thing.
"Your brother?" he ventures cautiously.
"Which one?" She knows but wants to play with him.
"Anatole, of course," Theodore shoors back, slightly irritated.
"He arrived a few days ago," she supplies conversationally, lifting a champagne flute off the trey of a passing waiter and handing it to him. She looks at him knowingly. "I suppose it is too much to assume that you came here to see me?"
Theodore rolls his eyes at her. "Helene," he says heavily, giving her a meaningful look to say he is not in the mood for her flirtatious games. He almost wishes she wouldn't tease him so; he knows she will never marry him.
"Well, alright, alright. He's somewhere over there," Helene obliges, waving her hand in the general direction of a cluster of young men. Theodore looks over his shoulder and spots Anatole instantly. His silky, strawberry-blonde hair and the overly fashionable and fanciful embroidery of his tailcoat give him away easily. Theodore turns back to thank Helene but she has already slipped away into the crowd of guests.
Theodore takes several long drinks of the champagne, cursing himself for his strange, sudden awkwardness and insecurity over God knows what. He begins to slowly make his way toward Anatole's group, deciding on how he should approach Anatole –- formally? as an old friend? – and finding himself slightly bothered by Helene's behavior and how she had quickly and tactfully removed herself after indicating Anatole to doesn't get the chance to decide because in the moment before he can, Anatole turns and makes his decision for him.
The only word Theodore can find to describe the boy is – beautiful. Anatole is tall and slim, with soft, graceful features that are neither too angular nor too cherubic and undefined. His eyes are the same wide, crystal grey that Theodore remembers and his smile lights up the room. When he tosses his head just slightly, his silky hair ripples and catches light, making Theodore ache to run his hands through it. Every movement Anatole makes is elegant and graceful, confident and aristocratic. His tailcoat is of a pure white velvet, embroidered with blue and red silk, perfectly fitted and tailored. His boots are polished new and of the latest style. He isn't wearing gloves and Theodore finds himself dreading a handshake…because he isn't wearing gloves either.
Anatole notices him and stops mid-laugh, his expression freezing and changing, going through a thousand emotions in a single second. The ending result is a radiant warm smile that Theodore both hates and appreciates. "Theodore! Mon cher ami! How many years, damn it!" Anatole pushes his glass into the hands of one of his companions and walks briskly to Theodore, shouldering past the people in his way.
Theodore puts on a smile, the corners of his mouth quirking just slightly to give his expression a more noncommittal tone. "Your Grace," he says smoothly, offering Anatole a slight bow. He refuses to be knocked off balance by this beautiful, young, rich boy who just slightly resembles the darling child he had once mentored.
Anatole stops in front of him, smile fading slightly. The voices around them blur and blend together as their eyes meet, the music a lolling noise somewhere far away. "Your Grace? Next you'll be calling me Prince Kuragin! What's with you?" Anatole watches Theodore in askance, becoming more miffed and upset every moment that Theodore stays quiet.
"Hello, Anatole," Theodore tries again, smirking slightly at the obvious discomfort that his cool greeting had caused. He wants Anatole to feel uncomfortable, to squirm and wonder because he feels uncertain himself and the less confident Anatole is the less uncomfortable he feels. His voice is quiet and comes out a little softer than he meant it to.
"Hello," Anatole repeats just as quietly. He looks put out and almost shy, suddenly. "Why do you look at me as though you do not know me?"
Theodore brings the glass of champagne he is holding to his lips and regards Anatole over the rim for a moment before tipping the glass and allowing the bubbling liquid to sting his lips before he swallows down another two drinks/ "You're much taller than you were when I last saw you," he finally says, finding his nerve once again, partially comforted by the warmth of the alcohol.
Anatole looks confused for a moment, then breaks out into a stunning, joyful smile. He had been waiting all day for this party, both hoping for and against Theodore's appearance. He had spent hours dressing and preparing, pacing around the room like a caged tomcat, nervous and miserable. Writing to Pierre had calmed him but only marginally; no sooner had he put down the quill that he was pacing once again. Coming face to face with Theodore when he had already come to accept that the older man was not going to show up had been everything from exhilarating to painful. Every feeling he had ever felt toward his friend came crashing down on him within the span of a minute and his head had spun. Seeing that Theodore is only being his usual, sarcastic self brings Anatole out of his nervousness and he can barely keep himself from jumping with delight. "Of course I am. I'm not twelve anymore, after all. What the hell were you expecting?" Anatole reaches out and pulls him into a tight embrace. He buries his face into Theodore's shoulder and breathes in that scent that is still familiar even after so many years apart.
Theodore hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around Anatole and allowing himself to relax. "I don't think I was expecting anything specific," he replies with a slight laugh. The boy is slim and almost fragile, fitting perfectly into his arms and Theodore feels a familiar wave of tender protectiveness wash over him. He pushes Anatole away, embarrassed at himself and acutely aware of the people around them and how different Anatole's social circle is from his own and that of his family, how much richer and higher in the court hierarchy. He feels his social inferiority to Anatole and it embarrasses him as much as it angers him. But Anatole's eyes are beautiful and gentle, and the hand he keeps on Theodore's arm even after they move away from each other is warm and reassuring. It is a painful paradox that he has no idea how to deal with.
"Come, I want you to meet some people. I was just telling them about the last ball in Paris that I attended. I never got a chance to write to you about it," Anatole chirps excitedly, pulling Theodore toward his cluster of friends. He is as oblivious to his friend's discomfort and ambivalence as he is to most things.
Theodore follows him, dazed and infuriated with the heat that rises up in his body every time Anatole smiles. If I am not careful, he thinks bitterly as Anatole begins to make introductions, I could easily fall in love with him. Having promised himself firmly that such a thing would never happen, Theodore spends the next year convinced that he only maintains his friendship with Anatole because he needs the young Prince's social standing to meet young, rich boys whom he can lure into his card games. Forget the fact that every time he is away in Moscow, the only thing he misses about Petersburg is Anatole.
1: : ...I can't wait to see all of you, but I will most likely be delayed for a week, maybe slightly longer. I think I will stop in Moscow and visit with a couple of old friends. Tell Papa to not worry. I will not get into any trouble. I can't wait to see you!
Love,
Anatole