#much!!

Cliffside Pullover

“i missed you, too”

can we just talk about that hug?? THE INTIMACY!! THE WAY THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER!! also the fact that jane sent lisbon letters and she kept them all in a little box and SMILED WHEN SHE READ THEM??? and that abbott called lisbon jane’s girlfriend and HE DIDN’T DENY IT??? there is so much to process and i love it

A/N: Not a reader insert, but I had the idea! Also, Danatole is all I need in life.

Warnings: Blood, death, crying, Helene

He knew that the day would come eventually. Dolokhov got in far too many duels for his own good, and it was only a matter of time until he lost.

Until his pistol was turned just slightly to the side, that slight turn throwing off his shot, the bullet whistling and speeding towards his opponent, about to bury itself into his chest- and then it missed, mere centimeters from his opponent’s head. And then Dolokhov would bury his face in his hands because it was over- that shot was his only chance.

When Dolokhov went away without a word, or with only a note left behind explaining his absence, Anatole couldn’t help but think these things. He missed Dolokhov terribly, of course, but the worry squeezing his heart and shattering it into tiny pieces overcame any feelings of loneliness. The tiny pain of loss stabbing his heart sometimes forced Anatole to tears. He would lie there, crying, arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to replace the sturdy grip of Dolokhov.

And then the weight would be removed from his body as Dolokhov pulled Anatole’s shaking body against his. Fedya would easily lift the sobbing mess left of his boyfriend and carry him to bed, letting him fall asleep in his arms.

When Anatole woke up with the other side of the bed cold, he knew instantly how the day would go.

He forced himself out of bed, shedding the tangle of blankets he had wrapped himself in. Anatole looked at the bed and, although he felt silly doing it, took one of Dolokhov’s pillows into his hand, holding it close to his face, closing his eyes, and inhaling the familiar, musky scent. Instantly relief flooded over him- Dolokhov wouldn’t leave him. Dolokhov, who would go out of his way to care for Anatole, who supported him through all of Kuragin’s idiotic moments, would never leave the man alone.

He finally left the bedroom, finding it empty and bare without Dolokhov’s warm presence. Anatole made his way out into the house, his feet silently padding on the rug. He finally stepped out onto the wood, shuddering at the cold tiles. He bit his lip, pausing at the doorway to Dolokhov’s study. It still smelled like him, Anatole mused with a silent pang of sadness. He had to dig his fingers into his palms, the sharp nails ripping the skin the tiniest bit, to stop himself from going inside. Halfway down the corridor, he turned back and entered, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of the familiar sight. Papers strewn everywhere, books messily displayed on shelves. A bottle of cologne sat proudly on the desk, making Anatole smile- Dolokhov had always been a big fan of showing off his signature scent. Drawings littered the floor, crude sketches of the home and of their friends, but the main subject seemed to be Anatole. The man in question picked one of them up, smiling when he saw the little hearts drawn around Kuragin’s head.

“Anatole.”

The sharp voice made him turn, his heart swelling with hope, his eyes brightening, his pale face gaining some color- and plummeted when he saw his sister. “Sweet sister.”

Helene smiled, a thin, fake smile that he knew so well. “Dear brother. I must speak to you.”

Anatole faltered. The Helene he knew wasn’t like this, she wouldn’t talk in such a tone. “At once.” They walked in uncomfortable silence to the living area, taking a seat on the sofa. Helene sat down close to her brother, resting a hand on his knee, laying her head on his shoulders. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

“Dolokhov- did he tell you where he was going?”

Anatole looked down. “Of course not, he never does.”

Helene nodded stiffly. “Of course.” She frowned. “Something- something seems off…”

“What do you mean?” he replied slowly, suddenly cold.”

Helene shifted. “Brother, do you- do you not feel it?”

And he did. The fierceness of the bitter winter air nipping at any exposed skin, the wind howling outside in a flurry of blinding white snow. Helene was wrapped up in a cocoon of fluffy blankets, her dress long and thick, trying her best to block out the coldness. Anatole realized, with a start, that in his worry, he hadn’t even felt the cold. He suddenly felt freezing, alone and afraid. He felt tears run down his cheeks.

“Anatole-”

He burst into sobs. “Fedya-”

Helene softened and gathered him into her arms. “Anatole, dear brother, please- Fedya will be alright. He may be injured, but we shall patch him up, yes? And he’ll be fine and back in bed by tonight.”

Sobs wracked his body violently. “Helene- Helene-”

“I know, I know,” Helene soothed, rubbing his back. “Ssh…”

…

He wasn’t back.

The longest Dolokhov had been gone was only a morning, but now it was late at night, midnight at the very least, and he wasn’t back.

Anatole shuddered thinking of what could possibly be happening, though he was frozen. The tears had stopped, his cheeks sticky and wet and his face flushed. Helene had fallen asleep long ago, her head in his lap, sleeping soundly. He didn’t blame her for falling asleep, but Anatole, rather selfishly, he did admit, found that the loneliness was worse without her witty remarks and bright smirk.

He chewed his lip, his mouth already red and stinging. His thoughts were elsewhere, only on Dolokhov- his Dolokhov. His beautiful, kind, smart, funny Dolokhov. And he could be gone, Anatole couldn’t help but think. He could never see that incredible man again.

“I can see where your thoughts are going,” Helene piped up, suddenly awake. “Don’t think like that.”

“What if he-”

The doorbell rang out. Anatole’s head whipped towards the door, his shoulders stiff. He was frozen in place, unsure whether he could answer it or not. Helene quickly helped him up, putting her arm around his shoulders and carrying his weight to the door. She stepped back, sure that if Dolokhov were there, this moment would be theirs and theirs alone.

Anatole let an easy smile come to his face. Dolokhov was there- surely Dolokhov would be there. He would open the door, and they would hug and kiss and spend the night in each other’s arms. Letting out a laugh of pure joy, Anatole opened the door- and there was Dolokhov!

But this wasn’t Anatole’s Dolokhov. This Dolokhov was pale, covered in blood, a gaping hole in his chest. This Dolokhov wasn’t laughing or jumping or playing with his pistol.

This Dolokhov was still, lying on the doorstep lifelessly.

This Dolokhov wasn’t breathing.

This Dolokhov was dead.

Letting out a scream that would haunt Helene for the rest of her life, Anatole fell to his knees.

if you could breathe music, which artist would you choose to inhale and which would you choose to exhale?