I think we should run- Danatole

While I powder my nose, he will powder his guns

"Dad-" Anatole's voice faltered as he took a step toward his father.

Vasily Kuragin.

This distraught man, obsessed with his image, with his family's reputation and honor.

Yet here he was, his white hair tangled and tousled upon his wrinkly old head, an antique fur coat haphazardly strewn across his shoulders, a bottle of wine clutched in his firm grip.

Practically going through a midlife crisis.

"What do you want?" the old man grumbled. "You know I'm busy..." It was clear he was far under the influence.

This stupidly broken family.

A son who was never home, always "studying at a friend's house," never saying where he actually ran off to every night. Getting insufferably drunk, kissing him.

Kissing Fedya again and again.

He couldn't get enough of him.

He could still taste his lips.

A daughter who knew of the boy's escapades, staying close to her brother, living in fear of her father since the day she was born.

Longing for her mother's touch, but what she wished for was long gone.

She lingered at the club at night, kissing strangers.

Sometimes there was more than kissing.

She waited on the other side of the doorway.

A father who could barely be considered a father, never sober unless they had guests.

Screaming at the two of his children. Beating them until they were bruised, bloody, and weeping.

He was merciless.

There were bottles constantly scattered across his room.

He sat at his desk, shaking with anger.

"Dad, I'm- I know you're gonna be furious." Anatole dared not look his father in the eye. His hands were trembling with fear, still warm with Fedya's touch. He was terrified of what his father would do.

The dim moonlight cast shadows across the old man's narrowed eyes, his thin, scowling mouth.
His scrunched-up nose, his disapproving scowl.

"I've been staying at Fedya's place for quite a bit now, and I know I've kept this from you. I know you're going to be angry, and I beg for your forgiveness..." Anatole paused with a small breath.

"I love him... I've been dating him for a while. You can hate me if you want-"
He was cut off by Vasily. A vicious slap across the cheek with a wrinkled palm told him everything he needed to know.

"No son of mine will commit such a sin. Not a Kuragin. Get out of my house." The man's voice was low and gravelly.

After a moment of complete terrified silence, he threw an empty bottle across the room, aiming for his son. He screamed something unintelligible.

He took one second to thank whatever God was out there that the old man missed.

"Get out of my house, I said! You are no longer welcome here. Ever!" He began rising from his chair, his hands balling into fists.

You're going to get hurt if you don't run, and-

Anatole booked it.

Opening the door frantically, he grabbed his sister's hand and sprinted down the stairway. If all had been planned correctly, Dolokhov would be waiting outside the front door.

He would be there, with his understanding smile, his sweet voice, his guitar, the way he sang.

They'd be together, they'd be okay.

That was all he wanted in that moment. He burst out of the front doorway, fleeing down the front steps, Hélène following behind him, her high heels clicking across the floor.

He was there before them, waiting outside his pickup truck, guitar case strapped across his back.

A worried expression was plastered over his usually confident and compassionate one.

Anatole's vision grew foggy with the surplus of tears that formed in his eyes. Fedya ran up to him, engulfing his beloved in a tight and protective bear hug, kissing his boyfriend's pale cheek.

He said something.

Something sweet and kind, but Anatole's head was pounding too hard to tell. His heart was screaming in pain.

"I think we should run." Anatole's voice was shaky.

Dolokhov only nodded.