oh the snow in the moonlight (great comet; danatole)

sun

Dolokhov had come to realize that Anatole was the sun. Bright and warm, and bringing happiness to all who were in its light. Everyone needed the sun to live, to be happy, but spend too much time around it and its heat could get too harsh, too painful. No matter how much you wanted to be around the sun, it would still sunburn you eventually.

And God, was Dolokhov burning up right now.

He watched Anatole spin gracefully across the ballroom with another woman in his arms, this time petite and dark haired, her beautiful eyes cast towards the ground in embarrassment as Anatole whispered into her ear. Most men would be jealous of Anatole, the most popular man in the room, because of the stunning women throwing themselves at him. But Dolokhov? Dolokhov was jealous of every woman who touched Anatole, because he thought Anatole was the most beautiful one of all.

Dolokhov could have stared at Anatole for hours and not be tired of him in the slightest, but he saw a figure approaching him in the corner of his eye. Helene joined him in looking at the dancing man before glancing at Dolokhov in mild concern.

"What's wrong?" Helene prodded when Dolokhov barely acknowledged her presence. Helene always knew when something was bothering him. It was both a blessing and a curse. Dolokhov let out a sigh that could rival a dying man.

"Beautiful men," groaned Dolokhov before he could stop himself. Whoops. Not a great small talk topic. To his surprise, Helene simply nodded in agreement.

"I think everybody's a little bit in love with my brother, however rash he is." Helene squinted at Dolokhov. "Besides, I knew you had a thing for him before you did. It's been pretty long, huh?" Helene had a disconcerting knack for reading people no matter how closed off they seemed to be. Granted, anyone with eyes could see the way Dolokhov was looking at Anatole.

"Helene, what do I do?" Dolokhov felt like sliding onto the floor, but he realized that would be inappropriate for such a formal setting. "He's not exactly looking to settle down, is he?" Helene looked at him sympathetically, but also shook her head, and patted his knee.

"Well, first off, let's stop drinking." Dolokhov did, in fact, have an empty wine glass hanging limply between his fingers. Helene expertly plucked it away and replaced it with her own hand. "And then we dance."

Dancing was up there in the list of things Dolokhov really didn't want to to at that point in time, right there next to watching Anatole drape himself all over beautiful people that weren't him all night. On second thought, maybe dancing was preferable. Dolokhov allowed himself to be pulled to the center of the room, a waltz beginning to play. Helene grabbed his hand and set it on her waist, then grabbed his other hand and began to move in time.

"Really, Fedya, you'd think you've never danced in your life," said Helene as they twirled past a couple staring at each other so lovingly it made Dolokhov want to be sick. "Put some feeling into it!" Dolokhov had never really been one for dancing. He'd always preferred to stay on the sidelines, enjoying the beautiful men and women while having no responsibility to 'fall in love' or whatever Anatole was always saying about his latest flings. Speak of the devil. Anatole was waltzing right past them. The newest girl was obviously not as shy as the last one, but still tentative in looking up to meet Anatole's piercing gaze.

Upon looking at the woman, Helene's expression changed from one of enjoyment to one of shock, and frankly, horror. The girl was quite beautiful, Dolokhov supposed, but he only had eyes for the one she was dancing with. He squeezed Helene's hand lightly.

"Fedya, why are we even dancing? This is stupid," muttered Helene. She suddenly looked very sad. Dolokhov took her gently by the hand and led her to the side of the room. As they sat down, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. He could feel how tense she was, and he felt guilty for not noticing it before. Helene was still looking at Anatole and the girl with a look Dolokhov could only describe as longing.