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Six hours doesn’t seem so long when daydreaming. To the special few, time appears to float by in a phantasmagorical cloud. Perhaps they don’t notice the absurd spell of rain or the pain of a heavy briefcase, being so deeply submerged in apathy.
Rodion Raskolnikov, amongst those special few, has been contemplating a great number of things on his absentminded walk over the bridge; many necessary, yet equally as many to make his throat seize up in panic — the height and depth of the Neva for example. With no desire to turn back, he finds himself hours away from his apartment without a single kopeck and the threat of a setting sun.
Gulls circle and caw overhead as Raskolnikov scrutinises the flat expanse of the water. He knows the rippling tranquillity of the surface conceals its fatal undercurrents beneath, swirling out to the Baltic Sea.
Black and murky and alluring.
An invisible string of foresight, however, tugs him back to reason. Hounded by recent memories of the pallid woman who flung herself over the edge of the Voznesensky, he enrages himself back to stubborn conviction.
It had started raining about an hour ago, after the sallow sky of morning had foreshadowed its downpour through a veil of blackened clouds. The rain pelts down upon the outer-city; a feverish hum of noise that splutters against metal and stone. Raskolnikov’s heightened sensitivity condemns the bouts and flourishes of occasional winds, viciously chill for one moment and repulsively humid the next. Apart from a few brave souls scattering across the cobbles and clinging to their bowler-hats, or the odd carriage sloshing by, the block was pretty empty.
Dmitry Prokovich, meanwhile, finds himself cramped into one of those odd carriages; muddy-coloured and worn to the frame. He had been briefly out of St. Petersburg’s centre (around a three hour walk or a half an hour cab-ride with no traffic), and, after realising no other strangers in the carriage wanted to spark up a conversation with him, ended up silently flattened into the corner by a mass of woollen coats and crinoline.
Both his bag and his borrowed umbrella lay nestled between his thighs. He clutches them tightly so that they don’t fly out of the carriage when the rider hits a pothole.
As his journey judders on, Razumikhin takes a moment to study the deep yellow and rose-coloured sky, a striking backdrop against the rainfall as if the heavens themselves have opened up. Every so often he attempts to stretch out his cramps but is parried by a woman’s puffed sleeve and a knee that keeps bumping against his own with every dip in the road. Razumikhin raises his shoulders in deflation. Still peering up at the sky, Razumikhin’s eyes reflect back its glow, lids drooping and full of wonder under his rounded, delicate spectacles.
Restlessness for more curiosity cuts this time short, however.
Dmitry’s lip pulls up at the corner as he forces his attention away from this marvel of nature to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes: people-watching. The carriage rattles past an indoor marketplace and Razumikhin manages to fabricate stories for each individual sheltering under the portico. A detached, corpulent, middle-aged man with side-whiskers, dressed to the nines, well he’s a lawyer of course. He dresses smart, he seems affluent enough, lonely enough, carries himself well - got to be a lawyer. That working-class lady with the dark green hat and a lengthy stride? Razumikhin was acquainted with a woman who looked just like her. She was a governess. Same stout nose, braided hair and everything. Maybe this lady is a governess too. And as the carriage jutters past her towards a bridge, the angle shifts enough so that he can catch a glimpse of her face. She looks ragged, doleful, and Razumikhin’s heart sours a little. He sympathises with the stranger’s gaunt expression.
And so Razumikhin, being the honest man he is, suffers both the painful longing and joyous contemplation of humanity itself.
Yet, as the carriage clatters towards the apex of the cobbled bridge, the trancelike nature of his ride dissipates in an instant. Mitya casts aside his steamed-up distance glasses and tucks them away. There, lost and shrouded in the deluge, his wandering eyes recognise the unmistakable gait of his waif-like friend.
Hauling his neck outside the carriage, Razumikhin calls to the driver, which causes the other passengers to jump, then seizes his flimsy belongings from in-between his legs and springs from the carriage before the horses could come to a complete stop. Jogging across the slippery stones, Razumikhin swings his satchel over his shoulder and unlatches his umbrella.
Poor, typical Rodya! The only soul out in torrential rain with neither an umbrella nor a hat!
It must be entirely unsurprising to know that Raskolnikov is still adrift to the world. The dichotomy of oppressive summer heat and spoiled weather has started to get to him, and the lightheadedness he so often feels pinches the nerves behind his eyes incessantly. He pauses a while to calm his legs and weakened hands, finding it hard to focus on anything else but his stiff breathing and desire to heave. Water drips down steadily from the tip of his strong nose as he places a hand on the metal barrier.
He strains a look across the river to an onion-domed church. The onslaught of rain manages to make the usually bright and gilded colours of the parapets seem dull and hazy. Raskolnikov stares, blankly, at the architecture for a long time.
Until the rain above him stops.
‘You’re not ill again are you, brother?’ Razumikhin’s face slips from one of concern to irritability.
He balances the umbrella, steadfast, over his enigmatic friend.
‘I told Nastasyushka to let me know if you were delirious again,’ Razumikhin shifts his weight as if trying to shake a mouse out of his sleeve, then remarks with bitter clarity: ‘obviously there were more pressing matters.’
Raskolnikov shrinks at the new fact that he is not alone. His shoulders rise beneath his ears like hackles and he turns, heavily, on the cobbles. He flits his thousand-yard stare towards Razumikhin, then just as quickly focuses back to nothing; jaw clenching and unclenching, debating whether or not to speak.
Razumikhin squints into the rain after sacrificing his own umbrella. The raindrops batter atop the waxed canvas. His slightly oversized newsboy cap, already drenched, does little to help. As a stream of water stops seeping down Raskolnikov’s neck, into his shirt collar and pooling at the small of his back, Dmitry’s own breaks its bank, causing him to shiver violently.
Raskolnikov swallows as crow’s feet sculpt around Razumikhin’s eyes. ‘I’m not ill. Nastasya’s not,’ his voice strains over the rain, scratchy and sore with disuse, ‘deceiving you.’
Razumikhin pulls a face. To say that Dmitry was… disturbed …to witness his friend in such a feverishly unpredictable and wasteful state these past weeks would be a terrific understatement. And to find him now, staring blankly beside the river and miles out of town, does well to remind him of the repercussions of leaving him in such a condition. With the weakness of his friend’s heart, the sultry storm would surely trigger another unforgiving episode — if he wasn’t going through one already. Though, in-line with Raskolnikov’s previous outbursts, Razumikhin knew he would need a place to keep him safe from his own harm, where he could be attended and properly monitored; a place that wasn’t his own excuse of an apartment. Unfortunately, wherever the rub is, Razumikhin knew that Raskolnikov would never agree to that.
Then it is settled, he decides. He must convince this unwavering individual to do the impossible.
The individual in question looks ghastly. A warped beauty: rigid, feeble, and withdrawn. The scattering of light freckles that usually dust the bags under his eyes are all but gone, masked in darkness. Razumikhin understands Raskolnikov well enough by now to know that he likely has not eaten today, or, hell, taken care of himself in any capacity since university. A twisting emotion creeps its way into his heart, similarly to when he saw the face of the “governess”.
Forgetting his boundaries, Razumikhin slips under the umbrella with him.
‘Here,’ Dmitry reaches forward, ‘your bag is getting drenched.’ If the rain wasn’t relentless enough, now it starts to torrent. The bag is scuffed and heavy in his palm. A weight that feels incongruous being carried around by such a thin character. ‘And here, here, take this, brother,’ Razumikhin all but shoves the umbrella into Raskolnikov’s unwilling hand. ‘Oh dear, you’re freezing to death! No, no, no, this won’t do’.
The rain slashing through the Neva washes away Dmitry’s anxious mutterings into a barely audible sludge of noise.
Raskolnikov lets himself be manhandled with absent indifference. Whether he understands why or not, he has grown familiar with the man’s habits, often indulging him for childish reasons. Though, right now, as Razumikhin shifts tentatively to take his frozen hand, Rodion’s forehead decides to smite his biology and ignites like the flames of Tartarus. A horrified Raskolnikov genuinely considers praying to the devil to whisk him away.
So Rodya pulls back and Dmitry looks at him in that same pitying manner he cannot stand. Now slightly distanced, Raskolnikov watches his friend’s uncovered tufts of curly hair bob up and down as they’re pelted by the rain. Raskolnikov screws his eyelids shut in iron-clad vexation; it truly is exhausting, having a mind that never shuts up, that never stops analysing or planning or intellectualising or lying.
Razumikhin, however, accepts the rejection with an undeserving ease. He moves out from underneath the closeness to observe the blackened clouds, blinks twice into the abyss, and then he is back.
‘No sign of improvement,’ Raskolnikov stares at Razumikhin’s obvious thinking-face — his eyes darting here and there, brow furrowed, mouth curled in on itself. It almost makes him laugh. The philosopher , as Raskolnikov has internally dubbed him, raises his voice again. ‘Do you have important plans tonight?’ he gestures towards Raskolnikov’s briefcase and then at the darkening sky. Ever the straightforward gentleman.
Raskolnikov, unlike Razumikhin however, does not give away how intensely he thinks.
‘No.’
*
The boarding-house Raskolnikov is dragged to reeks of vodka and musty-old carpet. Razumikhin removes his cap as they step through the door and flicks his wet hair about like a dog. A sordid gentleman hanging around by reception books them in for a cheaper price than what was usual, which, looking back, was probably a bad sign.
For poorer-class folks like themselves and the even more poverty-stricken, oftentimes they would end up in a common lodging-house. Criminals, immigrants, vagrants, labourers, prostitutes; all sleeping with one eye open on a transitory bed paid for by the hour in a room with five to nine rowdy drunkards. And, if they were lucky, one shared, cramped outhouse ripe with squalor.
Though, with a stroke of disconcerting fortune, there aren’t many lodgers here tonight, the worker explains, due to fear of a cholera outbreak, rising unemployment, economic greed, and other details Raskolnikov does not concern himself with.
He must admit, however, Razumikhin chose well. The boarding-house is fancier than Raskolnikov had expected, they even have a communal washroom. And so, with a flick of his cigarette, the hostel clerk manages to swing them a room of their own.
Their room itself is a leftover. A crowded box with one silly window, a bowed ceiling, and two narrow beds. Now a deep navy, the sky does its utmost to make the space look accommodating and amicable by painting it as dark as possible. Yet, arguably, it is still more pleasant than either of their own hovels, both in decor and comfort. Neither seem to acknowledge this.
‘Be sure to make yourself comfortable. I believe the washroom is only next door if you need it. You can borrow my soap’, Razumikhin paces across the groaning wooden boards. He throws his cap onto one of the beds due to muscle memory and checks his pocket, preoccupied with figuring out a plan. ‘And if you manage to fall asleep before I do, wake me up for Christ’s sake! I will get us a cab.’
Raskolnikov tails behind him into the room, silently and nonchalantly observing. One utilitarian candle flickers in the corner, dripping wax onto the protective metal dish below. Its dancing flames project shadows, magnified, onto the walls, revealing the dusty fireplace that idles in the corner. A remnant of another time.
Raskolnikov eyes the delicate bed closest to the window, illuminated by the full-moon. His mind reiterates: a bed, not a couch.
An inviting spread of thick floral linens drapes overtop, plush with a small pillow - as enticing for the drowsy as a siren-song is to an unlucky traveller. Raskolnikov hums in blunt agreement as he starts to peel off his coat. It hits the boards with a wet thud, though he eventually stumbles to find a place to hang it to poorly dry along with his shoes and socks.
Clambering into a bundle of sheets with drenched clothes is as disgusting and uncomfortable as it sounds — even in summer. The hollow bed feels like it could snap at a feather’s touch.
Once settled, Raskolnikov lies awkwardly to run a hand up and down his back. Everything is sticky and claustrophobic and repulsive. Raskolnikov can even feel the tacky film across his teeth, displeased that he has no toothbrush, however used to it.
He rolls away from Razumikhin, facing the wall, and rustles the blankets up to his cheeks, listening to the rain tapping against the glass. Raskolnikov’s hands push down on his faintly growling stomach.
Razumikhin meanwhile glances around to find a spot to lean his and Raskolnikov’s briefcases against. After being in the rain for so long, it is probably a smart idea to air out whatever is inside. Fate seems to be one step ahead of him, however. As he hauls Raskolnikov’s briefcase upwards, the rusted clasps give way and a flood of manuscripts come fluttering out to land beside his feet.
‘Curse my damn luck!’ Razumikhin places the remaining contents of the briefcase on his own bed and crouches down. ‘Were these in any order?’
And then Raskolnikov - you have to forgive his tired nature - remembers the content of those papers.
It wasn’t like he technically planned to bring them along. With his every waking and sleeping thought occupied by the extraordinary deed , the concept of walking around with a different, subsidiary kind of incriminating portfolio simply hadn’t seemed so…important. Or at the very least, he hadn’t dwelt on it like that. Whilst paranoia engulfs his apartment and maddens his brain, perhaps his subconscious thought it safer to bring those particular papers with him. Especially in the midst of…uninvited interrogations.
Simply put, the documents were written in defence of - predominantly male - same-sex relationships in human society: condemning the outdated laws surrounding them, and sound reasons, he thought, for their abolishment. In fact, they were a series of essay drafts with no set goal in particular. It was hardly like he could openly publish or have Sonya proof-read such a thing anyway. Now that he was not in university, or had any real prospects in life, there were no rules to abide by when writing for himself. It was fleeting inspiration; something to keep his mind occupied, his soul somewhat tethered to constant ground. Though the topic in question had plagued his cruel mind for some time. He just didn’t expect anyone to read his favourable justifications outside of a courtroom setting or an alternative nightmarish situation. Which is what Mitya is doing right now: skimming the curled-up corners as he picks up each page, subconsciously dabbing the ink that smudged in the rain. In all honesty Razumikhin didn’t mean to pry, a few words simply stirred his curiosity.
Raskolnikov twitches as he measures the situation. There is no point in reasoning or reaching out. What’s done is done. Ālea iacta est and all that drivelling sentiment.
So now, as Rodya woodenly pivots on the bed, he can see plainly the consequences etched onto Mitya‘s face as he pretends not to be reading. But, oh, how bad of an actor his friend is! Raskolnikov props himself up on his elbow, soundless in the shadows, so as to startle not even a deer. The only din comes from the lodgers next door, muffled, speaking a language unknown to either man.
And so Raskolnikov simply watches amidst the gnawing thumping in his chest, acting as a countdown to something disastrous. His monomaniacal mind wanders to the hole in his apartment’s wall, or the stone in the courtyard that conceals that old louse’s jewellery.
After an agonising amount of time, Razumikhin inhales deeply and traces the papers in his hands. He shifts them into view of the candlelight. ‘Do you really feel this way?’ he asks earnestly.
Raskolnikov recoils. His mind is not right. ‘Yes, I–why would I have written it otherwise?’
‘I am just confirming to see if you still share the same beliefs now as you did when you wrote these manuscripts. Feelings can change, after all, and you are very much a different person than when we first met, from yesterday even. You change so often yet you are still somehow the same. Even your handwriting is—ah, but now I am musing. Don’t look at me like that brother, it saddens me to think that you perceive me as someone who could ever do you harm. I assure you, I-’
‘Put them down; it’s no good I tell you. You shouldn’t be holding them like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you are - stop it! Cover those, cover those!’
In spite of Raskolnikov’s protests, Razumikhin manages to keep a hold of one page - in good conscience, mind you - and counter Raskolnikov’s trembling ambush. ‘My dear Rodya, let go and listen to me, please! I am not some petty thief, I hold no ulterior motives, the emotions on my face are the emotions I feel - you’ve always told me how simple I am and it’s true. Do I look like someone who would hurt you - especially as ill as you are? Do you really think I would take offence to these views? Answer for heaven’s sake!’
Raskolnikov’s breaths are laboured and irregular. ‘Looks are blindingly deceiving,’ he sneers, ‘if you truly trust someone then I would call you a fool. A mindless fool is what you are! What can I do if you decide to take action? I am not capable of tailgating some fickle man through the night in this—,’ Raskolnikov gestures to himself up and down, ‘loathsome state. So go. Leave me alone to rot in stupor!’ His body jerks backwards and he quickly shirks the guilt of possibly tossing out Razumikhin from the room he paid for.
Razumikhin, branded by tranquil flames, blinks a little and gives it some thought. Remarkably, he isn’t shocked, nor does he flinch or even attempt to fight back which frustrates the already frustrated Raskolnikov. After a still moment, Razumikhin’s shoulders begin to soften and his mind orbits back to reality. He shuffles forward and speaks in such a warm timbre that it dislodges an entirely new feeling inside Raskolnikov. ‘Would you have gone to Sonya?’
‘Ah, he’s a detective now!’
‘It’s true, you haven’t thought about a second place to skulk off to like you usually do, so deep down, you know I would cause you no harm.’
‘I don’t wish for your delightful insights! Leave my mind at rest!’ Raskolnikov exaggerates this melodramatic flair. Provoking Razumikhin, whether indirectly or not, often goes one of two ways. This time, the other man either sees right through this impulsive strategy or is oblivious enough that its effects render futile.
‘Well, if you ever do want them, you may. You may take anything from me, Rodya. And as for Sonya, she is an agreeable young lady who I trust would do good for you. I would just be…worried…if someone else had looked upon these. See, there are many of us who care about you,‘ he pauses a while, then hums softly, ‘but perhaps those thoughts and apprehensions can be put on hold until much later. Actually, I am intrigued at how much thought you’ve given this,’ Razumikhin observes the manuscripts once more, ‘and how little convincing it takes me. Call me mindless if you must, but you remember our past arguments. If I’ve ever disagreed with your philosophy and thought you mistaken - if I even understood you that is - by the devil, I made it known! You’ve always been driven by your mind, it’s a wonderful piece of machinery ticking away in there, one that I grudgingly envy at times—’
‘Envy? Pah! Such nonsense you speak these days! The ideas you refer to, with no care whatsoever as to whether the babblers next door can hear, are no triumph of humanity. There is no genius or individuality embedded into those words at all. Laid bare, they account to nothing. And to think that—ugh, utter claptrap!’
‘You swine, stop covering your ears!’ Razumikhin prizes Raskolnikov’s hands away from his head. ‘If you would do so well as to listen to me properly instead of behaving like a nonsensical buffoon, you would be able to figure out that I am agreeing with you! From a brief glance, I can tell that our minds join as one on this matter. It is just like your theory in the newspaper. Haven’t I told you before how overly-anxious you are? I’m sure—well, you know as well as I do that Porfiry would be ob-’
Raskolnikov promptly waves off the Porfiry Petrovich narrative before they can descend down that rabbit-hole again. ‘No, no, no! You will have to continue reading,’ Raskolnikov breathes raggedly, ‘to get a more comprehensive view before you can wholeheartedly agree with the argument being made.’
‘If not an argument then common sense really, no? I mean, why not?’
Razumikhin drifts his hand over the page he still holds and lingers a glance. Both of them feel the atmosphere shift into one of a more serious, disjointed intimacy. Unease begins to fester inside Raskolnikov’s innards; an unfettered pressure that pulls his body taught and rigid. That feeling he was so used to, yet it still pains him every time. And it causes him to tic.
‘Rodya,’ Razumikhin pauses, he bites the edge of his lip, ‘will you forgive me if I am—can I be so daring?’
Raskolnikov’s voice breaks too in a hushed, yet gruff, tone. ‘When are you never?’
‘Does your view,’ Dmitry hesitates, desperately trying to embrace the right words, ‘apply in part to you too?’
Raskolnikov assumed that this was the most logical question to ask next, though it still fazes him to hear the words out loud. ‘People have always wondered if the creator can be entirely separated from their creations. It’s a common theory.’ He folds his arms in front of himself.
‘And here?’ Razumikhin’s observance of his friend’s expression does not break as he stays kneeling on the floor. Raskolnikov’s headache flares up, as does his racing pulse.
He does not have the facts, he can’t use this against me.
‘I‘ve never…’
Raskolnikov watches Razumikhin as he stands. He reaches forward, curiously and innocently. This time, as Razumikhin traces Raskolnikov’s knuckles like he did in the rain, Raskolnikov stiffens yet does not pull back. Assured of his boundaries, he unfolds one of Raskolnikov’s pruney fingers and leads it to his palm. ‘Feel, here, how my hands perspire whenever I talk to someone attractive. And not always with a sense of beauty or admiration, often - don’t snicker - often romantically too.’
Rodya scoffs. ‘Am I really that similar to my sister?’
A hazy blush, vivid enough to be seen even in the scattered darkness, starts to unfurl from Dmitry’s cheeks to the tip of his nose and Raskolnikov is in half a mind to tease him about it. All this for simply mentioning his sister. He enjoys the hilariously bashful display. ‘Ah, there is the trouble,’ Razumikhin physically brushes the question away, ‘since my hands have always been a mess like this around you, Rodya, before I even knew about dear Dunyechka.’
Rage boils inside Raskolnikov. He clenches his hand sharply around his own arm, the material of his shirt bunching in his fist. ‘Why now?’ he grits. ‘Why don’t you think? Why—? Do you want me to be scorned like an undeserving louse, to rot the insides of my already rotten body? What kind of trickery, what madness is this? Are you doing this because—you must… know… ?’ Raskolnikov can feel his excruciating heartbeat swell up in his throat, a tang of iron on his tongue.
‘Trickery and madness he says!’ Razumikhin unknowingly dodges Raskolnikov’s insinuations. ‘Louse or not, all beings deserve kindness. As much as you like to prove yourself to be heartless, I am sure you will agree on that deep down. You have a good nature underneath all this folly. For once think less, Rodya! I am too exhausted to repeat myself. I am honest, brother, you know this! What other circumstances have occurred where I could have shared with you this l—this affection that ails my being without…without culminating in ruination? Am I that ill-intentioned, am I so unjust?’ The questions trail off into introspection, more in line with the rhetorical.
Cold anger still swills around inside Raskolnikov’s mind. The air stabs at his nose like pinpricks with every inhalation.
‘Unjust?’ He slurs, on the brink of laughing. ‘A man like you could never be unjust, no, but you are nevertheless horrid, you know, a Typhon! Forcing yourself like a tempest back into my life - muddling with my sister’s life and my mother’s too - when I have told you explicitly I do not need your kindness. They do, but not I. And I—goddamn it, I am sick of talking in verse!’
Razumikhin huffs a smile in disbelief. Despite Raskolnikov’s vicious façade, a mirroring blush emerges to welt his face, rivalling Razumikhin’s own. ‘Then don’t,’ Razumikhin shrugs with amusement. He leans back invitingly and waits patiently for Raskolnikov to make the first move.
Raskolnikov’s lips break with a wet noise and curl into a grinning snarl, defensive yet resistless, unwilling to back down just yet. His eyes glint and flicker as he sways forward, about to speak with feigned dejection.
Yet, before the words can surge out of his mouth, Razumikhin jerks his gaze towards the window and, steadily, his face drops. Raskolnikov watches him startle as though he has seen a beast. Innate self-preservation causes Raskolnikov to follow suit, snapping his head in the direction of the window. However, before he can realise that there is nothing untoward but their abstract reflections in the nighttime glass, Razumikhin bends his neck and steals a short kiss from Raskolnikov’s cheek.
‘You brute!’ Raskolnikov crys, taken aback. The ghost of his friend’s unkempt stubble tingles against his skin.
Razumikhin guffaws. ‘For someone so intelligent you can be terribly stupid at times! Falling for a child’s trick—’
As one of Raskolnikov’s hands goes to cradle his own burning forehead, the other strikes out and thumps Razumikhin in the arm repeatedly. Razumikhin easily blocks any sort of real blow through learned experience and superior physical strength, though he can tell Raskolnikov is actually trying to overpower him. So much so that Razumikhin starts to doubt the severity of his friend’s condition, however subconsciously.
Though in truth, his thoughts fizzle out before they can truly appear in lieu of pure excitement. Roughhousing like this surely reminds him of his scrappy schoolboy years, but, now with Rodya, he feels euphoric. Just the fact that his friend hasn’t wholly rebuffed his strange affections stirs within him a feeling of sentimental giddiness. Raskolnikov was rarely, if ever, the one to indulge himself in pleasure for the sake of pleasure. And so, to witness Rodya so spirited like this makes Razumikhin feel…special.
Ending the flurry of attacks, Razumikhin snatches Raskolnikov’s bony wrists with ease and utilises his strength to bind them together against his damp ribs. The image causes Razumikhin to almost collapse on the spot.
‘Do you forgive me?’ Razumikhin asks. He presses up against the rapid rise and fall of Raskolnikov’s ribcage, snagging off a loose button in the process. It drops to the ground with a soft thunk.
‘It is I who should be pleading for your forgiveness.’ Like jewels lining the distant sky, moonbeams lacerate Raskolnikov’s face in an ethereal glow. He tilts his head to the side in a manner befitting an angel. ‘Again’, he commands with mild instability. ‘But for the love of God, do it properly.’
And Razumikhin, for he is an honourable man, obeys.
Their lips crush together in equidistant space, inexperienced and relying solely on improvisation. The realisation of the act comes a few moments after, a simmering pressure pooling deep within their bellies. With noses colliding and poking about uncomfortably, Razumikhin shuffles their stance to try and find a more adequate angle. His jaw aches yet any pain passes by unnoticed, mind alight from the foreignness of it all.
Raskolnikov was the first to part his glistening, thin lips, ever so slightly, for Razumikhin to take advantage of. His eyelids latch shut, hoping to mitigate a pulse of nausea.
Dmitry, obligingly gentle, feels his body overheat to the point where he can imagine it starting to steam his damp clothes. His shaking hands land to the sides of Raskolnikov‘s face, sliding slowly upwards over its contours towards his tousled hair. Raskolnikov lets slip an uncharacteristic little noise that ignites something deep within Razumikhin, already struggling to maintain a semblance of composure as it is.
Gaining confidence, the hands awkwardly extended at Raskolnikov’s sides begin to grasp at Razumikhin’s shirt, stretching and bunching the material.
Raskolnikov‘s failure to control himself with the weight of his friend‘s calloused hands pulling and scratching at his hair ends up with him clawing and pinching Dmitry without repentance. Razumikhin hisses into the kiss and bites him a little in retaliation. Raskolnikov’s head spasms backwards and to the side, a smile so small appearing on his face that, if not seen, would not be believed.
Encouraged by the man‘s reactions, Razumikhin backs him up until Raskolnikov’s calves make contact with the splintered bedframe. That same faint, whimpering sound trickles out of Raskolnikov’s mouth once again to split Dmitry’s heart in two.
‘Rodya,’ Razumikhin pulls back to breathe heavily. His words gush forth before his friend’s dishevelled appearance positively kills him: mussed hair, face scorching hot, and lips finally warm. ‘I’ve been thinking recently…about your article.’ He shakes his head. ‘The other one, I mean.’
Raskolnikov tenses. ‘And?’ He says with a deliberate tone. He braces his legs, shifting in a way that does not appear apprehensive.
‘I believe you are,’ Razumikhin stares down at him with stars in his eyes, ‘you are extraordinary.’
Razumikhin was right about what he said before: Raskolnikov is a downright fool for believing he could ever harm him. For the first time in a long time, Raskolnikov does not toy with him. His stare mutates into something feral, as if something unspoken has passed between them.
Rodion has learned enough from observing the “street girls” in his block to take control. With newfound courage, he flips their positions without a second thought and stretches up to bite Dmitry roughly on the neck, eliciting a stifled gasp.
Razumikhin loses himself completely in the petal-chapped lips hot against the rough of his growing beard. To have Rodya so close to him, so doting, is nothing short of the highest honour. Although Razumikhin spends his love freely without debt, it takes something almost impossible from Raskolnikov, something Razumikhin thought would have taken a lifetime to display so plainly and outwardly at least (for the inside is a whole other matter). Razumikhin’s legs weaken from the overflow of adrenaline and persistent squirming, mustering his last bout of strength not to cave in on the spot.
Their chorus of inexperienced kisses, molten breaths, and fabrics being splayed open and pushed apart compliment the drumming rain nicely. Raskolnikov lowers his shivering hand just shy of the sensitive spot between Razumikhin’s legs to brush against his inner thigh and Razumikhin convulses delightfully. Raskolnikov examines both Razumikhin’s subtle and not-so-subtle reactions with burning intensity. He notices that Mitya’s hair, still dewy from the rain, uncovers the slightest hint of pomade.
And just as Razumikhin’s knees finally give way and he tumbles onto the bed, about to drag Raskolnikov with him, a horrid crack reverberates around the narrow room like a starting pistol.
Rodya’s lanky form lingers over Razumikhin in shock.
‘Oh…Dmitry Prokovich,’ Raskolnikov tries to keep a straight face to save Razumikhin’s embarrassment, he really does. But the bubbling feeling rising in his throat overpowers him. He doubles over into a nasally giggle which makes Razumikhin cling to him - and his sanity - harder than ever before. He’s seen Rodya laugh before and overtly worshipped his beauty, but this is…bewitching, in such a humanly imperfect way. Raskolnikov’s nose scrunches upwards and his eyebrows draw together in a way that resembles Pulkheria Aleksandrovna.
Razumikhin remains frozen, sprawled across the now broken bed-frame. Even the neighbours have paused their conversation, whether through nosiness or genuine sleep.
It takes Razumikhin a while to come back around. Stagnant sweat wafts through the air like smelling salts — distinctive and oddly grounding. He remains supporting Rodya’s clammy hands in his own and savours the weight of his body, itching to clasp his presence and never let go.
Unfortunately for Razumikhin however, like all magnificent things, the feeling of transcending to a heavenly plain comes to an end. He reluctantly allows himself to yield to the situation beyond his control, anticipating an irate knock at any moment. ‘To the devil with this!’ Razumikhin growls and lets Raskolnikov pull him to his feet. A kick from reality is bound to leave a bruise.
Rodya’s eyes flicker towards the locked door and his hands fall back to his sides. More severely than Razumikhin, Raskolnikov’s face eclipses back to indifference. ‘Maybe you truly are cursed’, he says.
‘I’ll be damned if I let the Fates dictate my life!’ Razumikhin proclaims.
As Dmitry shuffles around and mutters to himself in a mild frenzy, familiar feelings of guilt and anger and torment start to fight their way back into Raskolnikov’s ceaseless mind.
‘Rodenka,’ Razumikhin, seeming to sense this, manoeuvres him to sit on the remaining, unbroken bed. ‘Stop. Stop thinking,’ he commands and, bravely, Mitya smiles warmly. ‘I’ll handle everything, okay?’ Raskolnikov nods.
For once, he listens to his friend. He really does try to ward off the blood-red and gold flashes. They hover in his vision like staticky, moving photographs even when his eyes are open. Nauseously, he lifts his fingers to dance upon his oily hair that Razumikhin gripped so tenderly moments before, near the crown of his head. The force of Razumikhin’s hands and nomadic lips linger in his stomach. And suddenly, Raskolnikov confines himself to the wasteland where he belongs, the place he prolongs to go, struck between laughable hope and a soul devoid of being: cold, alone, and abhorred. The warmth of the candlelight distorts into the frigid bleakness of snow and ice.
Oh Mitya, how little you know me!
*
After a rather heated and persuasive argument with the worker at the front-desk, both men find themselves relocated to - pretty much the same - room just down the corridor. Raskolnikov was relieved he didn’t have to intervene in some brawl like they were at the tavern again. It was even greater luck that they didn’t get thrown out. He hadn’t the strength for more confrontation.
‘Here, I apologise, my friend, how weary you must be,’ Razumikhin leads him into the tobacco-smelling room, drops off his re-packed bag and still-wet coat and shoes with his socks in, then locks the door from the inside with a click. Razumikhin makes the room his own, still reeling from the argument. The room is around the same size as the other, yet there are four unused beds this time instead of two, placed in such a way that to get to the bed in the corner you would have to crawl over the others. Its ceiling is likewise bowed and there is a tiny window onto the street below, barred and high enough to only let in light, not a view.
Thankfully, the brightness of the moon is enough to irradiate the candleless room in its entirety, almost like it was daytime. Razumikhin draws across the thin curtains in a crooked fashion whilst Raskolnikov, now slightly despondent, once again burrows under the sheets of his chosen bed.
Neither bring up what had occurred between them. Like vines on a trellis, their wilful ignorance covers up the horrors of what lies beneath — the truth — blinding themselves not to see.
‘Razumikhin,’ Raskolnikov asks with monotonous resolution, looking at his hands instead of at him. Razumikhin’s countenance immediately softens and he nods in clear acknowledgment. Raskolnikov admires how firmly unapologetic his friend is, when faced with the right reasons. ‘You are better than the rest of them. Why didn’t you just take me home?’
‘That’s home to you?’ Razumikhin asks, pattering around and organising their belongings.
Raskolnikov stays quiet.
‘My first instinct is to apologise for everything I’ve ever done to you. But why? What need is there for lies between us?’ Razumikhin blurts with no hint of malice, but pure, unfortunate, pleading.
The angle at which Raskolnikov is poised drowns him in shadow. Razumikhin struggles to pinpoint his expression. ‘Another time, perhaps.’ He forces a dry, brittle smile and watches Dmitry stand upright. ‘Are you not tired?’
Razumikhin cards a hand through his hair and leans contrapposto. ‘I could collapse right here on the spot.’ He chuckles with nervous fatigue.
Raskolnikov points vaguely in the direction of another bed, merely a reach away. ‘Your bed looks awfully cold,’ he says with indifference. Gravity flops his arm down until it dangles uncomfortably off the edge.
Razumikhin raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that not a good thing?’
‘I suppose not.’ Raskolnikov lifts his own covers with a blank expression, rubbing one eye. He waits as an offering. ‘But I’m here .’
Razumikhin stands taller. ‘Why, is this an invitation into your bed, Rodion Romanovich?’ Dmitry winces at his change of tone. He doesn’t want Raskolnikov to isolate himself, not again, not ever, and especially not now. Curse his witless mouth.
Raskolnikov stops rubbing his eye and frowns. ‘What, this tiny thing? How scandalous. You should crush me to death in the middle of the night!’
Razumikhin laughs in relief, an anchor-like weight lifting itself from his shoulders.
His friend poses with lighthearted conviction, propped up on his side with one slim leg slung over the other. Raskolnikov’s damp, slightly-oversized shirt, collar unbuttoned, clings to his chest. Razumikhin, quite rightfully, believes him to be the most beautiful person he has ever laid his eyes upon.
At the hint of Raskolnikov not moving from his enticing position, Razumikhin begins to remove his outerwear, though he hesitates before actually committing.
He sighs and flexes his brow. ‘I really don’t want a repeat of thirty minutes ago. I haven’t the money nor the sanity to explain the reasons behind paying for another room.’
Raskolnikov’s minute smile withdraws and Razumikhin watches him retract in on himself like a hermit. The darkness of his eyes cloud back into dullness.
‘A-ah, but to hell with overthinking!’ Razumikhin reacts quickly before he loses him again. His jacket hits the floor, followed by his patched waistcoat, overworn neck tie, suspenders, button-up, socks, and linen trousers, until he is left in only his drawers. ‘It’s not like you're all that heavy anyway. It was my own damn body weight that crushed that other old thing.’ And so he carefully clambers into bed beside his friend, dipping the flimsy mattress. Raskolnikov scoots back to accommodate his size on the single-bed that barely fits himself. His protruding shoulder-blades press flush against the whitewashed wall.
The old bed creaks and groans under each movement, piercing enough that Razumikhin’s fears of a familiar catastrophe grow less and less irrational.
The room already confines them into contortion yet now they face each other, close enough for their individual eyelashes and familiar, distinctive blemishes to appear intimidating. Raskolnikov’s short, sticky hair seems unusually long splayed out over the pillow, jutting out at such odd angles too that Razumikhin tries his best not to accidentally rest his elbow on. Their feet and ankles knock together underneath the tattered sheets as Razumikhin gets comfortable. The coldness of Raskolnikov’s lower body sends fits of shivers shooting up Razumikhin’s spine.
He asks Raskolnikov to lift up to flip the damp pillow, then figures the only problem left was to persuade Raskolnikov to remove his shirt. The trousers were fine, he surmises, he doesn’t want to overstep.
‘Rodya,’ he sighs deeply, and is met with a short hum. ‘You are not wearing that dripping thing to bed. Don’t mind me, here, look, I’ll shut my eyes.’
Raskolnikov snorts. ‘You all but jumped at the chance to undress me the other day with Nastasya still in the room,’ he prods Razumikhin, ‘But now, Romeo, have you turned shy?’
Dmitry’s face flushes red. ‘Now you know that’s because you were so feverish you could barely sit up straight!’
‘A clever chap like you can come up with a better excuse than that,’ Raskolnikov’s eyelids work hard to stay open. He offers his wrists to Razumikhin. ‘These clothes you bought me are a fad — they end up on the floor like all the rest.’
Dmitry smirks and begins to unbutton Raskolnikov’s sleeves, then moves to the ones on his chest. As Razumikhin trails off Raskolnikov’s shirt from his broad shoulders, a couple of blood-tinted burn scars unveil themselves on his left arm. Razumikhin ponders why he has never seen them before. ‘Did you get these from that Five Corners house-fire?’ he asks, brushing over the raised scar tissue gently with his thumb.
Raskolnikov answers drowsily, attempting to shake off the rest of his sleeves under the duvet. ‘Probably’.
Dmitry, seeing Rodya struggle, shuffles the shirt off properly and rests it over their belongings, only a reach away on the floor and guarded vigilantly by a cellar spider.
Once settled, the room grows silent in the darkness. The dilapidated building creaks and grates in the wind. It appears to Dmitry as if Raskolnikov has fallen asleep, his eyes closed, until a low growl emits from his stomach.
‘Oh, by God, how could I forget?’ Razumikhin chastises himself. Raskolnikov opens his eyes to see Dmitry rummage around his frayed bag, returning with the larger half of a potato piroshki. ‘Have this, I’ll find us something better tomorrow.’ If you don’t run out on me , the devilish part of his brain reminds him. ‘I’ve eaten enough today.’
Raskolnikov takes the battered pastry, sideways, and lets the crumbs fall into a cupped hand so as to not dirty the bed. He stares daggers at his friend, wanting to reiterate the point about his too-good nature from earlier, but is rudely interrupted by the pangs and rumbles of his gut. He grimaces at the sensation.
Albeit his stomach begging for food, Raskolnikov doesn’t want to eat for lack of appetite. It hurts to look at food so late, and a sickly feeling slithers its way down his throat until it’s hard to focus on anything else. Though he can’t decline an offer from Razumikhin, if the only reason is to not break his heart, and so Raskolnikov slowly chips away at the squished pastry with politeness. He croaks out a gentle thank you , but as soon as the half-eaten piroshki hits his tongue, he grows ravenous. Raskolnikov wearily props himself upright so as to not choke and demolishes the whole thing in a matter of seconds. Reappearing from his own world, he catches the half-lidded gaze of his friend and feels almost embarrassed for such a display.
Razumikhin courteously drops his gaze down to the flakes still left in Raskolnikov’s hand. Raskolnikov follows, wetting the tip of his finger and picking them up one by one. Eventually, he flops back down and grunts sleepily with the savoury taste still present in his mouth. Tonight, his usual stream of self-interested intellect is blockaded by the shadowed leaves that batter and rustle outside.
It is odd for Raskolnikov to be so fond of another person beside him to the point where it shakes him a little. Veering between a kind of distorted compassion for others and the overwhelming disgust he harbours for humanity is often an abstract feeling. So when Razumikhin compliments the space next to him in a way that does not terrify him, but rather enraptures him, Raskolnikov cannot escape that revolting feeling of vulnerability warring with his conscience.
‘Would you—,’ Raskolnikov’s voice is weak with sleep yet nevertheless calculated. He considers sharing an intrusive thought but rationally disregards even posing such a thing. It irks him entirely. ‘Mitya, if something happens that I cannot endure, will you go back? Will you stay with them?’ Regardless of Razumikhin’s answer, Raskolnikov has already formed his own. The ruin that lingers over this moment morphs into something Damoclean.
‘Why this all of a sudden?’ Razumikhin asks but is met with a silent response: a plea Razumikhin takes. He does not fear or feel concern, however, filled to the brim with pipe-dreams as he is. ‘Your family is my own, brother, and the day I abandon your side is the day I stop living. Whatever they do—and whatever you do, I am there beside you all, for as long as you will allow me to be’.
Raskolnikov thinks better than to argue with him, so he keeps quiet and fades back to reflection. A promise so fluent he considers the notion of it being rehearsed.
Razumikhin’s shoulders form a wall between Raskolnikov and the dingy room. His dark hair curls around the cushion, and, laying on his side as he is, flows away from his face so that Raskolnikov has an unimpeded view of his unspoiled eyes and poorly-shaved beard. Razumikhin smiles without knowing which raises his blotchy cheeks.
Exhaustion and burden overcome Raskolnikov. Teardrops well in the corners of his eyes as he holds himself still and lifeless. The brine pools splatter onto the sheets without a sound, gliding down the contours of his cheeks and leaving shining rivers in their wake. He closes his eyes, attempting to hide his tears from Razumikhin, angry at himself for allowing such childish vulnerability. The stuttering irregularity of his breaths, however, just about gives him away.
‘Dear Heavens, what are you going through, huh?’ Razumikhin envelops his friend in a clumsy embrace. His hands cross around Raskolnikov’s rigid shoulders. ‘Don’t cry, Rodya, it’s okay,’ he suppresses his racing nerves, ‘everything will be okay. Everyone will be okay…’
Even if Raskolnikov wanted to, he could not pull away from his friend‘s bear-like grip. His temple is squished into Razumikhin’s dotted collarbone and he craves to lash out in agony. The shared heat of their bodies scalds him, made worse with Razumikhin’s exhales against his hair. Dmitry’s hands lay still as Raskolnikov finally breaks and sobs against his skin.
His mouth parts as if to scream, yet no sound comes out. A silent, shuddering war cry — red faced; in anger or hatred, he does not know.
Razumikhin on the other hand is simply a presence to be needed. Unmoving and giving himself fully; he relays no words of advice, no lighthearted quips to alleviate Raskolnikov’s sorrow, or feels any emotions himself. He knows this man better than anyone, through his own intuition nonetheless. And yet, in truth, Razumikhin does not know him at all. Not in the slightest. Though he wants to, so inherently it twists his guts and warps his mind into something anomalous.
But right now, what else can he do but stare up at the monastic cell-like window and absorb all of Raskolnikov’s maladies?
After some time like this, Raskolnikov gradually calms into emptiness. Dried tears leave his cheeks stained and sticky; his eyes violently stinging and bloodshot. His stuffy nose constrains him to breathe only through his mouth, yet Dmitry doesn’t appear to mind the grossness that comes with it. Raskolnikov’s dripping eyelashes press up against Razumikhin’s skin as, like a cat, he presses his head closer in an attempt to wipe away the blurred pain of his eyes.
Razumikhin’s bitten fingernails trace subdued patterns in the air, and then, as time paces on, the man in his arms grows heavier and motionless.
The sound of Razumikhin’s peaceful breaths and the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest tucked beside him lulls Raskolnikov asleep almost instantly. The rain has now settled into a piffling drizzle, and only the sound of scuffling leaves and the rare clopping of horseshoes on the cobbles remain muffled in the distance. Lingering observances by affluent pawnbrokers and starving dogs grace the moon which lays resting at the apex of the winking, abundant sky.
And, oh, the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?
Razumikhin does not fall asleep for a good couple of hours after Rodya despite his weary mind. Wrapped tightly around the freeing warmth of his friend, he dwells like a madman on their communication failings and the dampened manuscripts, on words said and left unspoken.
If something happens that I cannot endure, will you go back?
Razumikhin’s cheek oscillates between warmth and chill with Raskolnikov’s every breath. Watching the pale shadows from the trees flutter back and forth across Raskolnikov’s face draws him in with an impulse to kiss him again: an Odysseus roped brutally to the ship’s mast. Of course, he would never take advantage of his sleeping form, so he does away with those thoughts and fights the urge to wake him up entirely: to know that he is still alive and has a soul and feelings of his own. Alienated and discontented, Razumikhin feels somewhat like they left their night on a sour note.
Surely, he thinks, Raskolnikov would not feel repulsed by or deny his advances in the morning. He hadn’t done so tonight and he is not drunk. But maybe…with his delirium, and the alluring softness of the candlelight and proximity of before…well, maybe he needs to start thinking realistically.
But it’s difficult not to romanticise the only good in a life that is surrounded by wickedness and adversity, otherwise what is to stop his soul from succumbing to that same level of suffering, corruption, and torment around it? If he can’t find beauty in the little things that matter, nor acknowledge the horrid truth, then what’s so different between life and death? Razumikhin does not wish to live and feel like he is already dead. So let go of fear already, Razumikhin concedes, and love as an act of rebellion.
And as simply as that, Dmitry submerges himself in the present head-first like he’s tied an anvil around his neck. Whatever misery will come to greet him in the future has no purpose here: he will make a fool of misfortune by letting himself be happy!
Razumikhin grips Rodya’s featherlight figure in the sweetest possible vice and devotes himself to blissful catharsis. He lays on his side, mesmerised for the countless of times by his friend’s dissonant beauty, unaware that Raskolnikov has been secretly troubled for over a year because of his own. He observes Rodya‘s twitches and frowns as he drools onto the pillow with a sort of passion, watching him experience the tumultuous waves of his dreamscapes crescendo and then settle into a still, sunlit pond. Raskolnikov loosens his sleeping brow and the appearance of neurotic dreams transforms visibly into one of peace and composed snores. Mitya’s good head swims with ideas and philosophy until his own weighted eyelids cannot force themselves to stay open any longer. Step by step, as if spiralling down a dimly-lit staircase, Razumikhin drifts into oblivion.
And so, at long last, welcomed Sleep arrives to guide Razumikhin by the hand and put his frantic world on pause, at least for another day.