Island
They use to call it "The Island." It was a lump of grassy land in the middle of the lake they use to go to during their summer holidays, just several kilometers outside of Paris. Half a day's drive would land them outside the bustling capital and into peaceful countryside where they would take rooms at the local inn and fill their days with sunshine-filled leisure. They would get a rowboat and Anatole's valet would row them out to The Island where they would make picnic and sunbathe until the shadows lengthened. In those days, neither missed Petersburg very much.
Survival
When Anatole came over that day, Pierre's books were scattered all over the floor and the young Prince made a face at the evidence of intense intellectual processes. "Goodness, what have you been studying?"
"Philosophy." Pierre said, 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 smirked, holding up a bottle of finb]e red whine. "And I have just what it needs right here."
Lost
Once a friendship is lost it's hard to regain. Something so precious and delicate is hard to rebuild, to reconstruct because the pain caused by the shards of broken trust is too acute to be forgotten and forgiven. Sometimes, it is easier to forget and pretend like what had been was only a dream saturated in smiles and sunlight, in fine whine and useless talk. The truth is Petersburg, the reality is his loyalty and rekindled childhood bond with Theodore. Paris and Pierre were nothing but a delusion of adolescence, a torn and tarnished memory. Or so Anatole tells himself.
Other
Pierre had always felt like the social "other." An illegitimate son for one – and therefore mostly disregarded by his mother who also died when he was young – mostly penniless for another. He did not belong with intellectuals for, especially in his youth, he was bored by all the theory and lack of action, yet he never had the nerve of the bachelor lot who spent their night drinking and making love. Anatole had made him feel like he belonged but Andrei convinced him to "leave that life" and Pierre found himself without the one source of belonging he'd ever had.
Flashback
They see each other at one social function or another rather often. Not surprising since they revolve in the same closed-off society. Sometimes they pretend to not see each other. Other times, they will stare each other down from opposite sides of the room, Pierre beside Andrei and Anatole faithfully at Theodore's side. In these moments the ballroom or crowded drawing room will fade away and between them will pass a flash of brilliant summer sunlight and the taste of Champaign will be replaced by the phantom trace of expensive, Paris wine. But it's only a single flash. Nothing more.