i am not a hero (great comet; danatole)

i am not a hero

dolokhov runs to the tent, hoping beyond all hope that this is some horrifying dream and he'll wake up any second. the moment he sees anatole, though, he's knows immediately that this is horrifying real life. he couldn't make anatole look like that, even in his worst nightmare.

he's lying limp on the cot, eyes glazed over. he's shivering, teeth chattering at a volume dolokhov didn't know was possible. and his leg--oh, god, his leg is gone, and the blood that's slick on the thin sheets is obscene. dolokhov hovers for a moment, knowing that going any closer could send him straight into the midst of a panic attack. on the other hand, anatole's staring at him, mouth moving slightly as if he's trying to say something but can't quite get it out. dolokhov manages to go to his side, pointedly looking away from his leg (or, lack of one).

anatole's even worse up close. his skin has taken on a sickly yellow shade, and there's a sheen of sweat covering his face. his breathing is shallow. dolokhov knows from his military days that anatole is a dead man. he grabs his hand and holds it to his cheek.

"fuck," he whispers. anatole blinks. "fuck," he says again. "anatole, what the fuck?" anatole shifts his head ever so slightly.

"fedya, are you...are you angry with me?" anatole's voice is weak, so quiet that dolokhov barely hears it. dolokhov suddenly feels incredibly guilty. his shoulders shake with silent sobs as he moves to brush sweat-soaked hair away from anatole's face.

"tolya--no, of course not--i could never... i'm just angry that this is happening. that you got hurt," he trails off, watching anatole as his eyes focus on his face, then lose focus again, staring at the ceiling. he stays there for a few more minutes, silent tears dripping onto anatole's arm as he strokes his hand.

the doctor comes by in a little bit, barely breaking step as he informs dolokhov there was nothing they could have done, that the infection's set in and all they can do is make sure he's comfortable. part of dolokhov wants to jump up and duel the man right there, but deep down he knows that they really couldn't do anything. anatole coughs, tiny and barely there, and dolokhov squeezes his hand until anatole weakly makes to pull away.

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

"anatole, don't even joke about these things." dolokhov's voice sounds unnecessarily harsh, even to him. "you're going to be just fine," he says, softer. anatole shakes his head with great effort.

"no, i know i'm dying and i- and I need to say this." he stops for a moment, short of breath. "i love you, fedya. for so long. i'm in love with you." satisfied, he lets his head fall back onto the pillow, eyes still moving while the rest of his body is still. fedya's crying in earnest, now, heaving sobs wracking his body.

"i love- i love you too," he manages to choke out, face buried in anatole's arm. anatole doesn't respond.

dolokhov touches his hand. it's cold already.