Violin Concerto in A minor [Danatole fluff]

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[note: Glazunov was born much later than when war and peace/great comet took place but let's pretend the piece I'm referencing exists in Anatole's time lol. The piece is Violin Concerto in A minor, Op. 82, 1st movement]
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It almost sounds like lillies burning under the crisp autumn sun

Anatole Kuragin's fingers danced upon the fingerboard as he indulged in some Glazunov to spend his evening.

Yes, the Kuragin prince was certainly known for his flamboyant and carefree nature, so much so that one might have been surprised to find out his technique and violin playing were noteworthy. Be it the influence of his family or a genuine interest in music, Anatole's playing was far more than decent and, perhaps, the violin was the only thing he was ever beyond serious when it came to.
His pretty eyebrows came to a frown as he attempted a glissando that, for some reason, was not working out at the moment.

It was only September, but the weather was already getting dangerously cold in Moscow.

The man stopped playing and eyed the sheet music before him in annoyance. He gently placed his violin and bow I their case near him and made an attempt to warm his fingers by blowing on them.

"That's not going to help much now, is it?"

Dolokhov.

"Fedya, when did you arrive?"
The blond turned around to greet his friend, not surprised that he didn't hear him enter, being so focused on his playing.
Dolokhov gave him a smile as he took off his coat and placed it on the coat hanger next to the entrance of the room. There was an identical one downstairs, but for some reason, the man always preferred to hang his coat in Anatole's quarters.
The armyman walked closer, greeting the blond before him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"It hasn't been long but I have been here long enough to hear your playing. Are you practicing a new piece?"

Anatole nodded. Despite his harsh exterior, the man before him had always shown an interest and appreciation for his violin playing.

"I'm just stuck on this particular phrase- I've been trying for around half an hour and it's starting to irritate me."

Dolokhov chuckled.
"Maybe if you try once more you'll make it? Play for me, Tolya."

Anatole turned away, getting goosebumps at that nickname of his rolling off Fedor Dolokov's tongue. The man's voice was raspy and surprisingly higher than one might have guessed just by looking at his rough exterior.

The prince said nothing but only walked towards his case, picking up instrument and bow before shooting his friend a tiny smile.

He played.

He played even more seriously than usual, for this performance was for special ears.

When withered petals spiral into nothingness, at least our fingertips will still touch
Even if thunder takes the blooms before they've opened, I will still have you beside me

Dolokhov closed his eyes contently as he listened to Anatole's playing.
As if the fiddle was magic- or was it perhaps the player?- no matter what people thought of Anatole Kuragin as they first met him, they almost warmed up to him after hearing him play.

This time, he did not mess up.

As Anatole moved on to the more cheerful part of the piece, his body started to sway more relaxed with the music.

Dolokhov noticed the prince's eyelashes were longer than usual and glistened against the few rays of sun the September sky allowed shine upon Moscow. His blond hair resembled silk as it smoothly moved with the away of the man's body, making Dolokhov hungry to touch it and run his hands through it.

It had been long anyway.

Anatole's furrowed eyebrows looked cute as the prince focused into the heavier part that was coming up, his right hand in perfect form, handling the how gracefully. Who knew what he was thinking of at the moment?

Dolokhov felt his own shoulders move along the flow of the melody, the e string ringing in his ears as the bow bounced effortlessly on the strings. Indeed, Anatole Kuragin seemed more like an angel than ever as he focused on the violin.

Rubato.

Anatole let his mind roam free as his fingers pressed on the strings in a more gypsy-like progression before going back to what one would call typical European style. Despite lawfully following the sheet music, it felt more like the piece was his own rather another composer's.

He let out a slow breath as the music stopped, butting his bow down to his side in a gentle manner.

The man didn't need to look at his friend before him to feel his breath on his cheeks.

Dolokhov's beard was rough against his chin but his lips were softer than Anatole ever remembered.

"Good boy. I missed you."