Sun beats through the treetops, lighting up the leaves so they glow a lime green and saturating the earth and the garden's flowerbeds with light. The day is bright and warm, the cool breeze that sweeps through the grass refreshing in the light of the sun. Theodore walks quietly beside Anatole, listening to the younger boy talk rapturously about all sorts of trivial matters. He enjoys watching the sway in Anatole's hips and the way the light catches in his hair.

"Pierre wrote the other day," Anatole says after a paused, picking a bright poppy and twirling it between his fingers. The bright orange flower catches the light and glows to match Anatole's radiant expression. Theodore watches with a bemused smile, wondering at how beautiful some things can be, even among the general bleakness of the world.

"The two of you are close?" he asks, managing to keep the jealous edge out of his tone.

"Yes," Anatole says without thinking about it. "He was my best friend in Paris." He looks up at Theodore and watches his face carefully, as though waiting for a reaction. "Why?"

"Just thought I'd ask. You talk about him a lot." He plucks the flower out of Anatole's hand and examines it against the light before tossing it aside. The poppy lands on the path behind them, lying alone and hapless on the dirt, a bright, orange spot against the brown.

Anatole frowns, looking from the flower up to his friend. "What are you getting at?"

"Is that why you stopped writing – Pierre?" Theodore begins to walk again, his stride firm and paced in the military fashion.

Anatole sweeps soft strands of hair from his eyes and shakes his head. "No… and I never stopped writing. I simply wrote less."

"A lot less." Theodore turns briefly to smirk at him. He is tired of running around like this, innuendo after innuendo, always guessing and never knowing if it was only his perverted imagination or if there is something behind the way he catches Anatole looking at him sometimes.

Anatole flushes bright pink and ducks him head. "Perhaps I just grew up," he says quietly, not meeting Theodore's eyes. He can still remember how much it had hurt to see Theodore with Denisov that one summer night. "You know," he says slowly, stopping in the shade of a thick grove of trees, "I was in Moscow about a year before I was to return from France."

Theodore looks up sharply, eyes suddenly vigilant. The news surprises him. "Why didn't you say anything in your letters? Or come to see me?"

"I was going to." Anatole plucks a leaf off of the nearest tree and fidgets with it. 'I wanted to surprise you so I didn't write. Then I came and I saw you…with Denisov…" His voice drops and he looks up at Theodore with pleading eyes that ask for permission to continue.

"Denisov? So what?" Theodore tries to remember what could he have possibly had with Denisov about two years ago. The memories come back in strange, drunken snapshots of parties, drinks, sex… It had been a wild, whirlwind romance that had ended as quickly and abruptly as it had started. It had all been for entertainment, from nothing to do.

"The way you were looking at each other…I just knew…I just knew that you wouldn't want to see me at that moment." Anatole reaches out and takes Theodore's hand in his with a forward gentleness that speaks for itself, shouts out everything that has been boiling and building up inside of him. Feelings that he had meant to leave behind that night when he had first kissed Pierre and sworn to forget. Feelings that had returned the moment he saw Theodore standing in the middle of his father's drawing room. Anatole blushes a deeper red and lets go of Theodore, taking a step back. "Please, don't say anything…"

Theodore watches the boy for another moment, his eyes lingering first on his shoulders, then moving up to his lips. He pushes Anatole deep into the grove where they would be blocked from view and kisses him for the first time. There is nothing tender in that kiss – it is bruising and desperate, full of longing and pent up desire.

When they withdraw, Anatole gasps for breath. He is smiling. Theodore smirks, before pinning Anatole against one of the trees and kissing him again, his hands holding the boy's shoulders against the trunk. Anatole moans into the kiss, one hand going to wrap around Theodore's waist, the other twining in his soft, brown hair. The expensive, soft silk on the cuffs of Anatole's frockcoat brushes against Theodore's cheek and he feels shivers running through him at that touch.

When Theodore withdraws for air and opens his eyes, his vision is full of Anatole's face, beautiful and elegant, bathed in rich, gold sunlight – innocently radiant. "Now will you forget Pierre?" he asks in heavily accented French, his tone something between a growl and a purr.

Anatole nods mutely and leans forward to recapture Theodore's hot mouth with his.


Snow falls in large, moist snowflakes, carpeting the ground in a blanket of white. The bare tree branches spear the grey sky and hang low, weighed down by snow drifts that create sparkling, white foliage on the branches of trees and bushes.

Anatole uses one hand to fix his hat and the other to scoop up a handful of wet snow. He rolls it up into a ball and throws the snowball as hard as he can at Theodore who ducks and retaliates with his own. Anatole steps to the side, only to take the second snowball Theodore throws to the face. He laughs and scoops up more snow, ducking behind a tree trunk to avoid getting hit again.

They had been driving through this part of the woods on their way back into town when Anatole had gotten the urge to make a snow angel on one of the large drifts. He stopped the sled and flopped into the deep snow. Theodore had proceeded to scoop up snow and pummel him with snowballs. When Anatole had retaliated, an entire snowball fight ensued.

Theodore watches Anatole carefully as the boy hides behind the tree, then rushes at him, taking two snowballs in the chest but not stopping. Anatole squeals and darks out from behind it, running back toward the sled. His feet sink deep into the snow and he stumbles and falls face first into the snow. Theodore lands on top of him a few moments later and tolls the boy over.

They tumble down a small hill, rolling over each other and laughing. Theodore lands on top of Anatole and pulls the boy's hat over his eyes. Anatole laughs and flais hopelessly at him. "Teddy, Teddy, stop! Alright, alright, you win!" he laughs, finally managing to push Theodore off him. They lie side by side in the snow, looking up at the murky sky until Anatole turns his head and finds Theodore's lips with his in a gentle, loving kiss.

Theodore pulls back and runs his hand over Anatole's cheeks, wiping away the wet snowflakes that have covered his face. He smiles softly, breathing in Anatole's scent, the expensive cologne, before kissing him again to taste the remains of equally expensive wine and champagne. He loves this closeness to Anatole, the richness of the boy's world. He loves the feel of possessing something as delicate and precious as the young Prince. Anatole is a beautiful part of a beautiful world of wealth and power and carefree indulgences and if Theodore possesses him, he is one step closer to a dream because something of that world is his.

"Every time you come to Petersburg," Anatole remarks between kisses, "you're always staying around makeshift. Don't you get tired of it?"

Theodore shrugs uncertainly at him, which comes out awkward in their lying down position. "I don't have much of a choice."

Anatole looks into his eyes and seems lost in his thoughts for a moment. "Why don't you come live with me. As in permanently."

Theodore raises his eyebrows at the boy. "I could do that." He is not at all surprised at the offer, for he had been waiting for Anatole to make it for a few weeks now at least.

Anatole beams and sits up, brushing snow off his coat. "Wonderful. Well, let's go. It is getting cold lying in the snow." He pulls Theodore up and practically skips to the sled, eyes bright with anticipation of this new stage in their relationship.


Anatole struggles to not look guilty when he meets Pierre at the post station. It has been three years since they said farewell in Paris and Anatole has not gone to visit once. He isn't sure if he and Pierre even have a relationship anymore. Pierre's letters had been filled with tenderness, even if his phrasing was awkward and shy at times and Anatole felt guilty every time he read one. He would glance surreptitiously up at Theodore across the breakfast table and fold up the letter. If Theodore asked who it was from, Anatole would reply, "no one" or "my sister."

"I don't know if you have a place to stay," Anatole says, speaking rapidly in an attempt to make conversation. "I would put you up but…" He is not sure how to make the fact that he is living with Theodore not sound suspicious to Pierre.

"It's not a problem. I have a place where I can stay," Pierre tells him as they get into the carriage. Anatole gives a quiet sigh of relief behind his back.

"You should introduce me to your lot here," Pierre says as the carriage starts. "Did you have plans for tonight? I could drop off my things and you can take me wherever. I wouldn't mind a good party at the moment."

Anatole isn't sure if it is a good idea to introduce Pierre to Theodore but he knows it is inevitable, so he nods and smiles easily. "Sure. I know a place we can go."


"Pierre, this is Theodore Dolokhov, a childhood friend of mine. Theodore, Pierre Bezukhov, the one I have told you about." Anatole looks uncertainly between the two men, his smile fixed and slightly unnatural.

"It is, ah, nice to meet you," Pierre says. He looks earnest and Anatole winces inwardly.

Theodore measures Pierre up with a calculating look. He doesn't like the boy instantly. Pierre is uncouth and unconvincing. He seems unsure of his words and his reasons; he stutters and stumbles as though always looking for something else to say than what he is saying or rushing to pour out everything he is thinking. By the cut of his tailcoat it is easy to see that he is not rich and everyone knows he is illegitimate. Theodore feels no respect for Pierre and this makes him resent Anatole's attachment to him even more. "Pleasure. I've heard so much about you," he says finally, his eyes predatorily sharp, expression unreadable, and a razor sharp, almost mocking quality to his voice.

Pierre suddenly feels uncomfortable and his smile wavers, becomes nearly shy. He looks between Anatole and Theodore uncertainly. He means well but being socially inapt he cannot quite understand the undercurrents he feels radiating from Dolokhov's tone. Dolokhov is intimidating – handsome, with intense, intelligent eyes and a cool, sharp demeanor. He makes Pierre feel inferior with just a glance and the boy shuffles closer to Anatole on instinct.

"Wine?" Anatole asks abruptly, hoping that bringing alcohol into the picture would distract the two men from their staring match.

Theodore breaks eye contact with Pierre to glance at Anatole, then at the rest of the company who are crowded around a card table. "No. I have a game of cards to play and I want to be sober while I do it," he says distractedly and walks off. Anatole watches him with a sinking feeling. They won't be making love tonight.


"Stop associating with Kuragin and his lot."

Pierre looks up from the book that he has been pretending to read and meets Andrei's steady, heavy gaze. He shuts the book and sets it down gingerly in his lap, regarding his old friend with a thoughtful, somewhat pitiful expression. "Why should I not want to get drunk with the only people who care about me? Everyone else sees a joke in me. At least Anatole takes me seriously."

Andrei scoffs, pacing across the room to the window, then back to the bookshelf. "Does he, Pierre? The way he carries on with Dolokhov in front of you? Is that how seriously he takes you?"

Pierre looks down, uncertain whether to be offended or not. He knows Anatole and Theodore are involved but after three years apart he could have hardly expected someone as glamorous as Anatole to stay completely faithful. Over the past few months, Pierre has also discovered that he really is no competition for Dolokhov. Theodore is smarter, better looking, and much more daring and confident than Pierre could ever dream of being. Pierre can hardly blame Anatole for falling in love with such a man. And if Pierre is to be perfectly honest, Anatole isn't his first choice either.

"Drop him. All of them," Andrei insists.

Pierre stares blankly at the candle burning on the writing table, his hands playing absentmindedly with the corners of the pages of the book in his lap. The dancing candle flame throws shadows across the room. Shadows that flicker and move and shift… "You're not being fair, Andrei," he says softly, unable to meet his friend's eyes. "You married, refused to acknowledge me…and now when I finally find someone you tell me to leave him. It's selfish."

Andrei looks back and walks to him, eyes narrowed slightly. "I would tell you to leave anyone whom I did not think worthy of you, Pierre. Besides, these perversions are not honorable and I strongly suggest that you do not indulge in them. Think what sort of life you are leading."

"Do you suggest I get married?"

Andrei makes a frustrated gesture. "No, of course not. You have so much potential; do not tie yourself down until you have reached and achieved all you can. But leading this life, allowing these depravities to control you will hinder you as much, if not more, than any marriage."

Pierre looks down, feeling guilty and upset. He has always admired Andrei's opinion a great deal. "They all seem happy…"

"Pierre, name me a single honorable man who indulges in all this depravity – the drinking, the hooliganisms, the actresses, the sodomy? Anatole and Dolokhov – their only goal in life is self indulgence. I fought Dolokhov in a duel, you know."

Pierre looks up, breaking his stupefied staring match with the dancing candle. "Oh? When?"

"Several years ago. Before you went to Paris but I never told you. I barely knew you then and you were just a child. He was sharping and I called him out on it. He challenged me, then acted dishonorably, aiming to humiliate me. That's all they want – these sort of men. To indulge themselves."

Pierre ponders this for a moment, his mind going back to Anatole and his sweet smile and beautiful eyes, his acceptance and loving touches. He thinks of Dolokhov and his cold but intelligent and mesmerizing manner. He thinks of how careless Anatole is in showing his affection for his new lover in front of him and how much it hurts to know that he has been demoted to "friend" from something more because he is not quite as daring and dashing and captivating. Pierre has always believed that Andrei understands people better than he does and thinks that if Andrei says someone is scum then he is right. "You know he – Anatole – invited me tonight," Pierre says slowly, looking up into Andrei's face. "I won't go."

Andrei smiles approvingly and nods, asking for his word, and Pierre feels he has made the right choice.


"Tie him tighter!" someone calls from the back of the group, bouncing up and down to see over the shoulders of his fellows. Anatole and Pierre hold the bear cub tightly by the leash and neck while Makarov, Hvostikov and Dolokhov tie the struggling policeman onto the animal's back. The rest of the drunken group – about four of five young men – stands in a half circle around them, cheering and shouting out pointless suggestions.

"That will teach them to ruin our fun!" Theodore shouts, finally managing to secure the knot and dramatically letting go of the rope. The group cheers and Pierre finds himself cheering as well because he is drunk and because the episode really is funny. He never liked policemen anyways. They all think too much of themselves. He feels slightly guilty for coming to Anatole's party when he had told Andrei he wouldn't but Anatole had quickly gotten him too drunk to worry about it. Besides, he thought it would only be fair to give Anatole one more chance, just so he could be certain that he isn't making a mistake.

"Off into the river with him!" Dolokhov commands, waving his arms. To roars of laughter, Anatole lets go of the bear cub and Makarov gives him an enthusiastic push toward the water. The bear, finding itself in the waters of the Neva, begins to swim rapidly along the current, the policeman tied to its back, shouting and cursing, promising to report "the entire lot" of them to the precinct.

Anatole throws his arms around Theodore's neck and Dolokhov twirls him around twice. "Brilliant idea!" Anatole shouts. Theodore leans in and whispers something into his ear. Anatole laughs and throws his head back, his cheeks turning an abashed shade of pink.

Pierre, who, unlike the others, is watching them, suddenly feels himself sober. He can't breath and the blush on Anatole's cheeks makes him nauseas. Andrei's words fill his head, repeating over and over. Pierre takes several steps back, looking around at the satisfied faces of his companions and suddenly thinks that he does not belong here. He looks back at Anatole and the possessive way Dolokhov has his arm around the boy's waist. Pierre's vision darkens and he backs away from the group, several steps at a time. When he is about five meters away, he turns and breaks into a run, vowing to break with the entire lot. Andrei is right, he is always right, Pierre thinks miserably as he runs through the night, away from the love he had faught to keep to no avail.

Anatole notices that Pierre has left a few minutes afterwards. He looks around baffled, searching out the young man with his eyes. "Where did Pierre go?" he asks finally.

Theodore shrugs. "Does it matter? Let us get home. It is getting late and I want to keep my promise." He smirks, referring to what he had whispered in Anatole's ear earlier.

Anatole's smile grows into a sloppy grin. He leans back against Theodore's chest and tilts his head back slightly. "I like that idea."


"Did they do it?" Anatole comes running down the hall the moment Theodore walks through the door. He looks shaken up and upset, his hair mussed, mouth drawn tight with concern.

Theodore hangs up his coat and looks back at his lover with a bitter, ironic smile. "Yes."

"They demoted you?"

Theodore rolls his eyes and kicks off his boots. "Well?"

Anatole sucks in a breath and shakes his head. "I'm so sorry," he says softly, deflating slightly.

"Your father got you off I suppose." It isn't a question.

"Yes." Anatole looks sheepish. "I'm supposed to leave Petersburg for some time now. So are Pierre and Hvostikov. Makarov was never identified. Lisov—"

"I don't care," Theodore snaps tiredly. He walks past Anatole and into the sitting room, ringing for wine. He pours out a glass for himself and leaves the bottle on the coffee table before sinking into the couch and closing his eyes. "It's all nonsense. I'm leaving for the army tomorrow. I suppose it is a good thing we are on the brink of war. It will give me a chance to prove myself."

Anatole watches him from the doorway, eyes wide and just a little frightened. "Good? You could get killed. How can you be so calm?" He gestures haplessly and helplessly, one hand running through his hair in a frustrated, habitual gesture.

Theodore opens his eyes and regards Anatole over the edge of the glass. "What can I do? Throwing a hysterical fit like you won't help anything." He smirks slightly when Anatole's expression changes to a pout. "Come here."

Anatole goes, taking several uncertain, careful steps, then rushing forward to settle on his lover/s lap. He wraps both arms around Theodore's neck and presses their foreheads together. "I could ask my father," Anatole starts tentatively, "or Helene…"

Theodore shakes his head instantly, gulping down the remainder of the glass. "I don't need your money or your favors." His pride would never let him be so indebted to anyone.

Anatole sighs and kisses him gently. "Must you be so stubborn?"

"It's called self respect."

"It's called suicide!"

Theodore laughs and pulls Anatole flush against him, sliding one hand over the boy's hip and stopping just at his ass. "Shut up,"" he mutters against Anatole's lips, before picking the young Prince up into his arms and carrying him off toward the bedroom for one last night. Just in case.


"I must ask you a favor." Helene puts out her hand and draws him into her private chambers, locking the door behind her after dismissing the maid.

Theodore looks around, realizing he had never been anywhere near her private life before. Helene's rooms are bright and filled with sunlight. There are small trinkets everywhere and the embroideries are done in warm, feminine colors. Soft silks and velvets are pervasive; the air is filled with a light, perfumed fragrance. "Milady, I am at your service," he says dramatically, giving her an exaggerated bow.

Helene gives him a small smirk. "Stop that, I'm serious." She goes to the mirror to fix her hair, lacing her long, slender fingers through the elaborate curls of her hairstyle. "By the way, I see you've been returned to your rank. It is nice to see you as an officer again; you don't look half as handsome in a soldier's garb."

"No one looks good in a soldier's garb," Theodore quips.

"Anatole worried me, you know," she continues, methodically taking out the clips from her hair and letting the curls fall over her shoulders. "He said you were wounded."

"I wrote that it was nothing." Theodore rubs one hand absentmindedly over his forehead and temple where the flesh wound had been. It had not been serious but he found Anatole's concern somewhat touching. "Where is Anatole anyways?"

"In the army."

"The army?" Theodore raises his eyebrows at her in askance. He must admit to a light prick of concern.

"No where near the front, don't worry," Helene says quickly, glancing over her shoulder at him knowingly. "He left shortly after my wedding." She returns to undoing her elaborate bun, every movement and expression carefully casual.

"Yes, I heard about that. Would you like my congratulations or my condolences?"

She laughs lightly, the sound ringing around the room like a handful of silver bells. "You could at least congratulate me on my new fortune?"

"I think I'll pass up the opportunity, thank you."

She just laughs again in amusement. "You should be happy for me."

"Should I?"

She purses her lips and watches him in the mirror. "Just because you don't have a rich relative who could die and leave you a fortune…"

Theodore scoffs. "Pierre is a fool. He doesn't know what to do with the money in the first place."

"I agree. He is also a fool for hurting my brother."

Theodore tenses slightly, losing interest in the trinket he had been studying, and looks over at Helene whose expression is suddenly sober and serious. "What did he do to Anatole?"

"Oh he said all sorts of terrible things to him. Cut off their relations, called him a pervert and said plenty of nasty things about you. I think it had all been building up in him since the three of you were sent of Petersburg for the bear incident, but it only came out recently. Simply more proof of how indecisive Pierre is. He also said something about you being a scoundrel and dishonorable. Low, I think was the word he used." Helene's eyes are calculating as she watches him in the mirror. She knows Theodore will instantly think of money, even though Pierre had not meant money when he and Anatole had their tiff.

Her calculations are correct as Theodore instantly straightens, anger bubbling to the surface. How dare Pierre – the bastard that he is – suddenly talk of honor and worth and sanctity simply because he was suddenly hit over the head with indecent amounts of gold. He has to admit to jealousy as well. His anger rises as he imagines Anatole attempting to mend his broken relationship with Pierre while he was away serving in the army, in constant and considerable danger, and realizes that Pierre – unlike himself – is now part of Anatole's elite circle and that Pierre can offer Anatole something that Theodore can not, both socially and economically. "He's a dirty fool that's what he is," Theodore growls, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Is this what this is all about? The favor? What would you have me do?"

"Anatole was upset at me for marrying him," Helene continues as though she had not heard the question. "He threw a fit the night before my wedding and left straight afterward. I think he kept hoping for a change of heart on my side. I tried to explain to him that marriage is not about love or personal affairs, at least not for practical people. It is about politics and money. For me it certainly is; I'm not in love with anyone, thank God." She turns to him, leaning against the small makeup table behind her, both hands clutching the edges. "But you know Anatole – emotional and hardly very bright."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to pretend to be in love me. To pretend to be my lover."

"Who do you take me for!" Theodore isn't sure whether to be mad or amused at her audacity.

"This is all so you can duel him."

"Can't I just find a way to challenge him, if you want to be rid of him so much? Why all this drama?"

"No, no. It must be done correctly!" Helene's lips purse in irritation. She paces across the room, running both hands through her hair. "If he and other people think it is an affair and he challenges you, you will be defending your honor and mine. Then after the duel, when we are rid of him and nothing happens between you and I, everyone will understand that he was only paranoid and jealous and both our names will be cleared. It will look so much better for society while achieving the same result."

"You are a cruel woman. I love the way you think." He is actually rather impressed.

She smiles sweetly at him. "Merci beaucoup, mon cher."

"But tell me," Theodore says slowly, leaning back against the wall, "why should I help you? What do I get out of this? You get all of his money and no husband to hold you down. But what is in it for me?"

"You don't do anything just because, do you, Dolokhov?"

"I'm not a fool."

She smiles in that same sweet manner at him, her eyes dancing. "This is why I like you," she comments. "I think you will help me because you want to get rid of Pierre just as much as I do."

"What makes you think that?"

"You are in love with my brother—"

"Hardly."

"—Or at the least you want to posses him. Pierre stands in your way. Anatole admires and adores you but goodness knows the boy can get attached. Pierre was his first in a lot of ways and he can't just forget that. You know that Pierre is your biggest competition for Anatole's attention and now that he is rich – even more so."

Theodore watches her, eyes narrowed. He doesn't enjoy hearing it, but Helene is a perceptive woman and she has known him for far too long. She has him figured out and he hates it, but knows she is right. "Alright. How do we do this?"


"You're a scoundrel, Dolokhov, and I challenge you!" Pierre shouts, staring him down with dark eyes that are narrowed and dimmed with frothing anger.

Theodore regards his opponent with a steady, patronizing gaze and smirks mockingly at Pierre over the brim of his glass. "I accept," he says quietly, noticing the way the Rostov boy sat next to him tenses up.

Pierre, still riled, pushes back his chair with a force that knocks it over, and runs for the stairs, anxious to leave the English Club behind and hide from the world in the peace of his own bedroom.

"You shouldn't have goaded him so, Theodore," Denisov reproaches, shaking his head.

Theodore tilts his head at him. "So you are refusing to be my second?"

"I'll be your second!" Nikolai puts in excitedly.

Theodore puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and nods, still keeping eye contact with Denisov.

"I'll be your witness," Denisov says wearily. He glances at Nikolai helplessly. "You shouldn't get involved, there's no need."

"Leave the boy be," Theodore urges with a smirk, giving Nikolai's shoulder a tight squeeze. The boy beams.

"I will go speak with Bezukhov's second." Nikolai jumps from his seat and goes off with a spring in his step that Theodore can't help but smile at condescendingly. He remembers himself at that age – he'd been similarly idealistic.

"What are you doing this for?" Denisov asks quietly, reproachfully. "There isn't anything between you and Helene. I know better than to believe that."

Theodore raises his eyebrows at him in askance. "He is the one who challenged me. I never said that there was anything between the Countess and I. In fact, you could even say that I'm defending her…hmm, honor."


"Aren't you frightened at all?" Nikolai asks as he and Theodore finally make their way out of the English Club late in the night after a night of music and drink.

Theodore stops and looks carefully at Nikolai. They had met in the army but are not very close. Nikolai is young and idealistic, dark haired and dark eyed, well off but far from flamboyant. Theodore finds him pleasant and even sweet. "I'll tell you the secret about dueling," he says slowly, lighting a smoke and offering Nikolai one. "If you are going to fight a duel and you make a will and write tender letters to your parents and your lover and are sure you will be killed – you will be killed. Simply go in with a firm determination to kill your man as quickly and efficiently as possible so you can be done with the whole affair. Then everything will work out."

Nikolai looks at him with wide, impressed eyes. "You're something else aren't you," he says with a slight hint of awe in his voice.

Theodore smirks and puts out the smoke, stepping off the Club porch. "Until tomorrow, mon cher."


As Theodore stands in the Sokolniky woods facing Pierre and waiting for their seconds to finish setting the barriers, he thinks of how easily his and Helene's plans han come to fruition. Jealous tongues had done most of the work for them. Living in Pierre's house and seeing the changes for the worst – toward the same conservative, self-righteous, snobbish attitudes as all rich fools have – in the boy, raised in Theodore an even greater dislike. He hated Anatole's attachment to Pierre, disliked Pierre himself and felt a cold contempt toward the boy's obvious hero worship of Andrei Bolkonski. It is almost ironic that his duel with Pierre will take place at the same location as his duel with Bolkonski all those years ago.

"Perhaps…you don't have to do this?" Nikolai asks hesitantly, looking uncertainly at him. Dolokhov can tell the boy is frightened for him. "I know Bezukhov isn't worth anything as a shot but accidents…"

"No. No apologies, none whatsoever," Theodore says firmly, taking the pistol Nikolai is holding out to him. He hears Denisov's count and begins to walk forward on three. Pierre is stumbling all over the place and Theodore waits for him to even out so he can have a clearer shot...

He hears the report before the pain sets in and his mind can process what has happened. Theodore stumbles to the barrier and falls to his knees at the sword. He hears Nikolai shouting his name and the crunching of the snow as the boy rushes to him. "It's not over yet," he growls, fighting the pain and the nausea. His head spins and he can't see clearly, not to mention steady his hand. "Please…to the…to the barrier!" he shouts at Pierre who obliges with stumbling steps and wide, horrified eyes

Theodore gulps down a mouthful of snow. The blood from his side soaks his shirt and the glove that he has put over it to try and quell the bleeding as much as possible. He aims and pulls the trigger with vicious force, cursing Pierre and his money and his influence on Anatole and his damn good luck… The shot misses. "Damn it."

He falls to the snow – it stings cold against his feverishly hot skin. He has the most absurd vision of Anatole making a snow angel and laughing as he is hit by one snowball and then another, first in the stomach, then in the face. That had been not so far from here, Theodore thinks dazedly as his head begins to swim. Nikolai is calling his name and there are other voices, words that he can not quite understand. He tries to make out the phrases but falls into darkness before anything conclusive comes to mind.


The fever and delirium are the worst part. Theodore gets used to the pain quickly and almost doesn't notice it after the first week unless it is suddenly worsened by a careless movement or the disturbance of changing bandages. He goes through waves of chills and heat that intermix and mingle. He worries about his mother and how upset it must make her to see him like this and asks Galina every time she comes in with soup, tea, or medicine whether Mother is alright. His sister is always gentle, her replies tempered and her hands cool on his feverish skin.

"Hush, don't talk," she says, smiling affectionately. "Mother will be best once you recover."

Theodore feels guilty before them but doesn't regret the duel. His dreams are unsettled and messy, unsure and sometimes so brilliantly colored that he wakes with a headache, Anatole is in many of them and Theodore wakes saying the boy's name over and over again, searching for him in the dimly lit room. He wants that smile and those beautiful grey eyes. He wants to run his hands through silky, fair hair and to be kissed gently and rapturously.

Once, he wakes up to those grey eyes and reaches out to pull the boy to him but finds his hand caught in a soft, lilac glove. Helene. She speaks softly, saying that all will be well and she doesn't blame him for anything. Their plans went awry but then, when things seem too perfect to be true they usually are. He asks about Anatole, forcing the words past chapped lips and she shakes her head. "He's with the army." Theodore fancies dictating to Nikolai a letter for Anatole but thinks it better to wait until he is well. Then thinks better of it, realizing that Helene would most likely write to Anatole anyway. But Anatole doesn't come and he doesn't even write. By the time Theodore is well enough to write himself, he feels far too offended by Anatole's silence to bother. He is upset and bitter, wondering if Anatole had thought to take Pierre's side in the affair. He feels abandoned, like Anatole had taken him for granted, had farced around with him while it was convenient only to disappear when he was needed. The fact that Helene might have never written to her brother for one female reason or another, never crosses him mind.

Nikolai, unlike Anatole, is always there. He almost never stays for the night except for the first few days, which Theodore does not remember, but he spends his days there. At first, Theodore is hardly aware of this. His thoughts are in drift and his delirium carries him to Anatole and he loses himself in those imaginations. When he recovers some sense, Nikolai becomes a constant companion and comfort. He is there to listen to his infuriated tirades at the world and to hold his hand when the pain gets bad, and to talk of nonsense for cheap entertainment. They grow strangely close and Theodore finds himself taking his first recovering steps leaning on Nikolai's arm.

"You're pushing yourself, I think," Nikolai says once, helping Theodore into an armchair on the porch at a small tea table and sitting opposite him as they are served the midday tea.

"Lying around is doing no good for me," Theodore insists, looking at Nikolai closely. "Besides, you're probably tired of hanging around a convalescent all the time."

Nikolai blushes and looks down, studying the small flowers on the tablecloth. "I don't mind," he says, blushing even more once the words are out. "I'd be with you regardless and never get tired."

Theodore's expression is something between a smirk and a smile. The boy is adorable and naïve but endlessly sweet. He had been there for him countless times and Theodore can still hear the whispered, comforting words and feel the soothing touches on his face. "Well, I wouldn't have expected it."

"I'm not Anatole."

Theodore looks up sharply, the spoon, with which he had been mixing sugar into his tea, stills mid swirl. "What?"

"Anatole. I'm not sure who he is but you said his name a lot when you were very ill. I guess he never came around." Nikolai finally forces himself to look up, eyes bright and cheeks flushed with embarrassment and excitement. "But I'm not like that."

Theodore pretends to have a flash of pain from his wound so that he doesn't have to explain away any emotions that might appear on his face as thoughts of Anatole crowd him mind. He is ashamed at his own weakness, of how much he had wanted Anatole to be there with him and to hold him. He had somehow managed to get attached to Anatole's gentleness and to his radiant, infectious happiness. Now he is paying the price, learning the hard way a lesson he should have learned long ago – in the end, people don't come through. "Let's not talk about that," he says finally, looking down at Nikolai who has come to kneel before him, looking up into his face with concern and tenderness.

Nikolai nods quickly. "Alright. What is it? Is the pain worse again?"

Theodore puts a hand against the boy's cheek and Nikolai turns his head to kiss his palm, lingering for a moment. When he pulls back, his eyes are downcast and his ears have turned red. Theodore laughs softly and smiles down at the boy with half-tenderness and half-condescendence.


"You've never done this before, have you?"

Nikolai shakes his head mutely. His linen undershirt is hanging open and his boots are off. He is perched on Theodore's bed looking vulnerable and nervous.

Theodore reaches over and puts out the candle on the windowsill before shrugging off his own shift and sliding Nikolai's down his shoulders until the boy shrugs it off. "You did lock the door, right?"

"Mmm-hhhmmm," Nikolai hums, kissing the side of Theodore's neck and running his hands over the older man's chest. His hands find the fresh scar on Theodore's side. The area is still tender but the wound has finally closed completely. He leans up and cups Theodore's face in his hands, kissing his lips. His eyes are radiant, full of complete happiness and adoration.

Theodore allows Nikolai to caress him for a few moments, lingering in the kisses and allowing himself to be loved. He finally pushes Nikolai onto his back and relieves both of them of their pants. Nikolai pants heavily, instantly erect, his movements feverish. Theodore takes the boy slowly, taking care to not hurt him but Nikolai still cries out at the initial discomfort, his scream muffled by a pillow. Theodore nuzzles his hair and kisses away his tears which Nikolai does his best to hide. He whispers useless endearments like "darling" and Nikolai replies in kind, his moans heavy and erotic against Theodore's ears.

When Theodore finally comes, he bites his lip hard, until it bleeds, as not to cry out Anatole's name.


They lie in each others arms, tangled and spent from the sex. Nikolai's head is on Theodore's shoulder and Dolokhov has taken to smoking, sending a light, white stream of smoke out the open window. "There are two kinds of people. Useful and useless. Most are useless. I hate all of them. But those I love, I love so that I would give my life for them," Theodore says, his arm tightening slightly against Nikolai's warm body. "I have an amazing mother and a loving sister and two or three close friends – you included – and the rest I would strangle if they got in my way."

Nikolai turns his head and kisses Theodore's shoulder blade once, then again. "I love you," he murmurs quietly. Theodore strokes the boy's hair but doesn't say a thing.


It's snowing for the first time in several days, just in time for Christmas Eve. The small Christmas tree in the Dolokhov sitting room is tastefully, though simply, decorated with balls, ribbons, garlands, and candles. Theodore stands at the fireplace, watching as Galina puts the star on top of the tree. She turns to him with a smile and puts out her hands. He walks to her and takes her hands. "Will you be home tonight?"

"Yes. I promised Nikolai to be at his place for dinner, but I will be home after that."

"He's a nice man – Nikolai. He seems to really care for you."

Theodore nods absentmindedly. "He does, I think."

"What's on your mind?" Galina can always sense his moods. She watches his face as he turns away and walks to the window, watching the falling snow, forehead pressed against the glass. Theodore takes out the folded letter that had come the other day from his breast pocket and looks at it mournfully. "Who is it from," Galina presses.

"Anatole."

She frowns slightly. "Anatole? What does he say? Why did he never write until now?"

"He says he didn't know about the duel. That he just found out after returning to Perersburg. Says he's on his way to Moscow and that he hopes I am well… I don't know if I should believe him or not."

Galina walks to his side and takes the letter. She unfolds it carefully and reads. "What does your heart say?" she asks, looking up at him after a moment.

Theodore scoffs. "What does my heart have to do with it?"

"Everything. You either believe him, believe that he loves you, or you don't. You should trust your heart more often, Teddy. You rely too much on your head. That is where the problem lies."

Theodore turns to her, meaning to snap an abrasive retort – something about only fools trusting their hearts – but on seeing her open, earnest face and loving eyes, relents and deflates. "I don't know. It is about time I went. I don't want to keep the Rostovs waiting."


By the time Theodore returns home from Nikolai's, it is dark and the only light on the porch comes from the dimly lit windows of the hallway. Theodore hands his horse to a servant boy, patting the mare on the neck lightly before heading through the gate. The snowstorm from earlier has lessened but large snowflakes still sparkle and silhouette occasionally against the window.

As he nears the porch, Theodore begins to make out the shape of someone sitting in the dark on the steps leading up, head down and all curled into a ball. He stops for a moment and peers into the darkness. The boy lifts his head and Theodore recognizes the face, even though he can barely make out the features. "Anatole."

"I told your mother and sister I'd wait outside," he says quietly. "You don't know how sorry I am for not being here when everything was happening."

"Why weren't you?" Theodore attempts to keep up his defenses, tone cold and distant. "If leave is now so hard to get, you could have at least written."

"I didn't know. On the periphery… news are scant. You never wrote, or your sister…" Anatole stands and takes a step toward him. Theodore wants to take a step back but forces himself to not move, to not let Anatole see how emotionally effected he'd been by the whole thing.

"Are you saying Helene didn't write you?"

"She never told me. She didn't want to worry me and she didn't want to have to explain. I'm so sorry that she got you involved in her schemes…If I had been here—"

"Well, you weren't," Theodore cuts off bitterly. "But someone else was."

"Who?"

"His name is Nikolai. I was just with him."

Anatole looks down, hanging his head. "Of course, I understand. I only… I drove here as fast as I could once I found out. I just wanted to see you, make sure you were alright. I know you don't forgive easily so I don't expect…" Anatole cuts off and rubs both hands over his face. He stumbles down the steps and shoulders past Theodore, making his way to the gate.

"I missed you."

Anatole stops dead, one hand on the gate. He stands with his back to Theodore, not daring to speak or move.

"A lot. That's why it hurts that you weren't here."

Anatole turns slowly and Theodore can just barely make out the tear stains on his cheeks. "I swear to you," Anatole starts, his voice hoarse and choked. "I swear to you that had I known I would have gone to you that very moment."

Theodore holds out a hand to him and Anatole practically runs to him, wrapping both arms around Theodore's neck and pressing his face into the older man's shoulder. Anatole is trembling and Theodore folds him up into an embrace, both arms securely wrapped around his waist. "I thought you had taken Pierre's side," Theodore says quietly against Anatole's ear.

Anatole shakes his head vigorously. "Never!" he gasps, pulling away just enough to look up into Theodore's beautiful, clear blue eyes. They are out of the light of the windows, drowned in a deep, long shadow but the snow gives off just enough light for them to make out each others faces when they are centimeters apart.

Theodore leans down and kisses Anatole's mouth. Both of their lips are cold and they hurry to catch the warmth of each others mouths. Theodore slides one hand under Anatole's hat and through his hair, nearly moaning at the familiar feeling of silky hair under his fingers. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, breathing in the familiar scent that is Anatole and only Anatole. When they pull back for air, Theodore looks into Anatole's crystal grey eyes, into the vulnerable face of the boy in his arms, and raises a hand to touch his cold cheek where the tears have frozen. Theodore kisses away the remaining tears, unfreezing them with the heat of his mouth, tasting salt. He hates to see Anatole upset, longing to see the boy's smile. Anatole's hands slide over his shoulders and up his neck, cupping his face. Anatole kisses Theodore's closed eyes and rubs their noses together gently, allowing a soft giggle to escape his slightly parted lips.

"Can I come back to you?" Anatole asks, childishly, uncertainly and Theodore suddenly has a flash of Anatole in his childhood. Anatole with the flu and Anatole after his first riding accident. He is really the same child, the same darling boy, just older and more enchanting. Not some cold, distant, unattainable Prince. Anatole needs to be held and reassured and loved. He is careless, sure, but that's because he is foolish. Theodore can deal with that, just to be able to always hold onto the boy and maybe next time Anatole won't be so far away and will hold him too.

"I wasn't aware you ever left," Theodore murmurs against his lips, a smirk growing steadily on his lips.

Anatole's face lights up and Theodore is drowned in that light. "I love you," Anatole whispers before they kiss.

"Swear to me that you will never leave.'

"I swear!" Anatole says instantly, looking earnest. "I swear. On my life. I—God, I would die without you. When I was told you almost died…just the thought made me ill. Teddy, mon cheri, I love you." Anatole presses his forehead to Theodore's as though trying to share his feelings and thoughts through that touch.

Theodore has a brief thought of Nikolai and how sweet the boy had been to him and how peaceful their summer and autumn together had been. But one more look into Anatole's open, radiant face is enough to convince him that Nikolai was a substitute, a place holder to take up time while he waited on the real thing. Theodore pulls Anatole closer into the protective circle of his arms as though to shield from everything in the world, vowing that now this boy would be his, forever, no matter what. "And I you."


Theodore Dolokhov does not trust easily and there are very few people he truly loves but those he does love he loves unconditionally.