Dolokhov realizes that Anatole is like the sun. Bright, warm; but the sun can burn.

anatole likes to be bruised, likes the bruises fedya leaves on him, even if they're hidden. his favorites are on his wrists, from fedya holding him down.

"fedya, i-i'm dying, aren't i?" anatole licks his lips. they're so dry, and cracked, and so, so pale. dolokhov tenses up.

dolohov's restless. he supposes he's been restless his whole life. nothing can really change his nature; the way his piercing, blue eyes shift quickly, calculating and cold. anatole tries to break his shell, though he still hasn't managed. dolokhov intends for that to remain the case. he doesn't want someone like anatole, so shallow in his view of the world, to worm their way into his life.

"then why do you say you love me?" it only registers to dolokhov that he was the one who had said it when it's hanging in the air already, surrounded by silence. asking a question that he knows anatole doesn't have the answer to.

"oh no, no, no, this isn't it, i'm not a fucking bottom." anatole shakes his head and shies away from fedya's incoming lips. fedya snorts. "anatole, you're joking. you're like...the twinkest twink i've ever met."