Chapter Text
Months passed. Spring in Petersburg always came slowly, and softly, too. First the snow would melt beneath the cautious midday sun, then birds would sing in the mornings, the trees would sprout new leaves, flowers bloomed. And the days would go on, with no goal in mind, nothing to look forward too; the sun stayed awake long into the night, for lack of dreaming. The spring breezes would cease, the air stiff with summer heat.
Razumikhin loved the summer. Even enduring the humidity and sweat that never seemed to fully evaporate, he loved it. The weather must have inspired him, granted him a new perspective on everything. He had insisted that they all help in his business endeavors, no matter how far-fetched they were. Their work was tireless, stretching afternoons into evenings, evenings into nights spent pouring over the material. And he had sold some of it; not all, mind you, he would say, but a fair amount. Passion, he said, was the oil needed to turn the cogs of one’s mind, and Razumikhin had it.
One evening, Sonya was sitting at the table, trying to loosen the cramping in her hand. It was late June at the time, and the four of them had worked the entire day, finally seeing some progress made on the papers and money coming in. She wanted other work, but struggled to find a job, though in her persistent nature would not concede to the difficulty a woman such as herself found in these matters. Heaving a sigh, she looked longingly out the window. The world outside was gray and dreary; it might rain, but what did that matter? Anything would be preferable to staying inside.
The streets were near empty, Sonya observed, stepping out the door. She hadn’t had much time to herself the past few months, cramped in their one apartment, worrying about money and Raskolnikov and what to eat for dinner that night. It wasn’t so bad, she tried to reassure herself; she should stop being ungrateful. And yet, as Dunya reunited with her brother, as Razumikhin toiled away into near obscurity, she had felt herself drift ever further from all of them. But life was fine.
The air by the river was cooler than the stuffiness of the city’s interior, which led her along its pathway into a sparser, more secluded area. Flowers were blossoming along the hedges of certain wealthier residences, vines snaked their way up the houses, and what beautiful houses they were! Almost like the sort you’d see in the English countryside, or so Sonya had heard. Maybe one day I’ll convince them to move there, she mused. A slightly warmer climate would be good for the soul.
“And what do I want?” she muttered aloud, attracting the attention of a gentleman taking a stroll through the neighborhood; he raised his eyebrows at her. “Perhaps what I truly desire is to return to that shack in Siberia?”
It was not intended to be serious, but she still considered the possibility. Those times were much simpler, she thought. More painful, certainly, but simpler. When all that lay ahead of them was a fixed date at which all the suffering would be over, and they would begin to live again. And now she hardly spoke to the man she had so earnestly followed to the ends of the earth. She wondered vaguely what he thought of all this, whether or not he ever had the same latent desires as she did. To return to an earlier a time, a time almost as hazy as this, a time when the city was still disgusting and they still could breath in its intoxicating fumes with loathing. Before her father and step-mother had died, when she still had family left instead of two people she barely knew and one she could never block from her dreams.
Familiarizing herself with the city was never a particularly helpful method of distracting Sonya from these thoughts. More than anything, it reminded her of an all too painful past, lying parallel to the life she way living now. A strange chill ran through her body— she decided it was time to return home, no matter what awaited her there. The stiff, stifling air was tainted with a feeling of foreboding. Dark gray clouds covered the skies, trapping the heat of the evening within the suffocating city buildings. She glanced upward, half-expecting the heavens to open up and start pouring. Still, Sonya discovered, the walk had helped, and as the first drops of rain fell, she returned to the apartment to find Dunya and Raskolnikov talking in the dim candlelight.
“Sonya! Where have you been? We were becoming worried,” said Dunya, noticing her entry.
“I suppose, Duneckha, I…” Sonya stopped to sit down with them and pushed the messy blonde hair out of her face, “I needed to escape it all for a few moments; you know, the work is tiring.”
She leaned forward, crossing her arms, illuminating her face in the orange glow of the flame.
“I cannot help but feel this certain sensation… as if something awful might happen. Dread, perhaps. It’s funny, now that things are finally taking a turn for the better.”
Raskolnikov raised his eyes to her (he so rarely did that recently), with a look of regretful understanding.
“Well, that and this weather,” she added offhandedly. The patter of rain on the roof drowned out much of the sound, running down the shingles and dripping to the streets below.
“You know I will always be here for you, no matter what happens to us,” Dunya was trying to comfort her.
“Oh, I’m well aware of that. But… I feel I don’t know you. Either of you. Even who I am myself.
She forced a laugh, deeply regretting this and ignoring Raskolnikov’s burning stare. The same awkwardness and timidity in the girl Sonya had once been, one with hollowed eyes and pale fingers, with a past full of tragedy and an uncertain future. Irritation took hold of her, at his blatantness, and apparent self-indulgence. He loved her, clearly, though not for any benefit. How was Dunya faring, facing the remains of her brother? She was looking at him in the way that children gawk at dead animals, with an almost morbid curiosity. Was this always how she was, had Sonya never noticed? Why did she have to love him?
“I don’t want your pity, Rodya,” she said softly.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Don’t I know from your face? You’ve always felt sorry for me, even more than yourself?” A touch of bitterness appeared in her voice, “And you have Razumikhin to keep you sane!”
“Sonya, quiet,” Dunya interjected, before Raskolnikov could respond. “None of this is anyone’s fault; we are only trying to survive, that is what we’ve been doing!
Her expression softened at this, and Dunya reached over the table to take her hand.
“Survival isn’t enough. I survived —he survived— for eight years, and where did that ever get us?” Sonya said through shaky breaths.
Dunya only gripped her hand firmer and said nothing. Raskolnikov wondered what Razumikhin was doing; still working, he must be. He decided to leave the pair to discuss, feeling he was only intruding. Besides, ever since that night with Razumikhin, he had barely spoken to anyone. Feeling empty and bitter, he went up to Sonya’s room (Raskolnikov always slept with her now, the couch wasn’t an ideal situation permanently). Though they rarely would converse, he would always take her hand while falling asleep, as if they could communicate only through this motion and not through speech, for they were both unable. It was too late to change things; they were both trying to convince themselves they did not love the other. Maybe Razumikhin loved him, but it seemed he had forgotten it.
Raskolnikov awoke in his usual melancholy, feeling Sonya’s absence. The blankets were worn and barely provided any warmth, but still he always threw them to the side in the heat. It felt like a summer morning many years ago, in some faint memory Raskolnikov doubted was even real. Downstairs, Razumikhin was sitting at the table, absorbed with some writing. From the conversation yesterday, he found he had to purse his lips to keep from saying something brash; Razumikhin didn’t even look up.
“This business isn’t the world, you know,” Dunya was saying, mirroring Raskolnikov’s own thoughts. “Sonya isn’t the only one who’s sick of it.”
“And how so? She told you this?” Razumikhin asked, trying to hide his spite.
“Implied it. You must be overworked as well, and for what? We should leave this for tomorrow, take today to recuperate and see the city after dinner. It isn’t healthy to stay inside all day.”
He grimaced in irritation, then sighed. “Yes, you’re right… perhaps I’m becoming too engrossed in this, maybe I simply don’t know what else to do.”
Raskolnikov sat across from them at the old table, and, sipping tea, looked to Razumikhin in expectation, mildly amused.
“Rodya, what do you think?”
“Hah, I wouldn’t mind that.”
"Well, isn’t this nice, Rodya!” Razumikhin was acting surprisingly enthusiastic as they walked down the city streets.
“If you consider beggars and drunkards nice,” Raskolnikov said, noticing how Petersburg’s inhabitants had not changed in the slightest since he'd been gone.
They had all eaten dinner together, and Razumikhin was in a cheery mood. Sonya took to walking ahead with Raskolnikov, leaving Razumikhin alone. The rain from the previous day had cleaned the air, adding to the humidity but providing a sense of serenity to the pedestrians.
“I don’t remember the last time we like talked like this,” Sonya said, gazing off down the river. “It’s strange, we all live together and I’ve no plans of moving anytime soon. Not that you or I would be able to, I suppose.”
He kept his eyes on the sidewalk. “Sonya, forgive me, I don’t know what to do with myself… do you not know either, is that it? I always took you to be the composed one.”
They were coming up on the river bank, away from the crowds, and paused.
“What, you expect me to know everything? I thought you knew better by now,” Sonya grinned.
She was still so beautiful, even after years of hardship. The evening light hit her face and strands of golden hair, giving a kind of vitality to her that he didn’t know she was capable of. Sonya hugged him, to his surprise (she hadn’t done that since Siberia), and he all but fell into her arms.
“Surrender then, if I know everything; quit hiding from me,” she murmured to herself. “I think I’m in love.”
Raskolnikov raised his head and turned to stare into her glimmering blue eyes, eyes like fire.
“Dunya, I mean—”
“I know.”
His expression was an unplaceable mix of emotions.
"She doesn't love him, I don't believe. Razumikhin..." she paused, "you should be talking to him, right now, even."
Sonya pulled away.
“I will never leave you, Sonya, do you remember that?”
She nodded, then turned and walked over to Dunya, leaving Raskolnikov gazing over the water. Dunya was looking over the edge, pensively, like she had never seen her.
“Are you frightened of your brother, Duneckha?”
Dunya started and seemed taken aback.
“I’m a sinner, am I not? For all the suffering I allowed him.” Sonya pressed her hands into the rough stone railing.
Dunya had to turn her head away to disguise her thin-lipped smile.
“Have we not let each other suffer? What have the past few months been, if not that?"
"No, it's not the same. Rodya, maybe, and Razumikhin, and certainly me, but not you. Even if you voice your disagreement."
"Perhaps. We're all sinners together, then.
She gently took Sonya’s forearm, pulling her closer, then paused, reconsidering. But Sonya leaned in towards her face, feeling her soft skin with her lips, then found Dunya’s. Softly, abruptly she kissed her; in a second she pulled away, strongly regretting it. Was this what she truly wanted? This girl’s lips on hers, a married woman, even, though she never mentioned it. Was she not loyal to Raskolnikov…?
The air was thick with humidity. Razumikhin was lost in thought, irritating the people trying to pass by him on the street. He opened his mouth to say something, then turned away, walking down the street into a more private, enclosed area as to escape them all. Raskolnikov followed.
“Sometimes I don’t know why I bother, Rodya.
Raskolnikov ran his hand along the nearest building’s brick wall, and lazily looked to him, though with that same, familiar fire in his eyes. Razumikhin was taking aback, almost frightened, then instantly regretted the sensation. What was there to fear in him? He must know they feared him, and why? What had he done?
“What else is there to do?”
“No, Rodya, it’s not anything,” his face went flushed. “Well, clearly Dunya does not appreciate my labor, and you as well, I presume.
“We would be in poverty without it! None of us would be able to find real work, you're the only one keeping us afloat.”
“I… well, I haven’t had the time to speak with Dunya. Or you, for that matter… maybe I was frightened of it. One doesn't have to choose between money and love, now I understand that. I'm barely worthy of the profits I have made because of it. You're a much better man that I am, Rodya."
“Oh, don’t give me this, Dimitri; it’s pathetic, below your station. Dunya, now that is who you should be apologizing for! What about her?”
“We…” Razumikhin looked uncomfortable. “The marriage was out of convenience, most of all. Neither of us had anyone else. And I suppose we all feel the same now. And Rodya, don’t pretend we’ve not had this conversation before.
He inhaled deeply, then placed a hand on Raskolnikov’s chest, prompting a light shiver. The touch seemed to invigorate Razumikhin especially, clearly he had wanted it for a long time. Suddenly, an overpowering urge came over Raskolnikov, who took the opportunity to lean up to kiss him, digging his fingers into Razumikhin’s long, coarse hair to stabilize his body. All Razumikhin could feel was how much he needed this, how he had longed for this man's smoldering lips on his, face so close to his own; his normally cold, pale skin radiated warmth.
Finally Raskolnikov pulled away, still closing his eyes, and cool wind blowing through his hair.
“It’s all gone now, Dimitri; now you've been ruined."
The world had stopped. The sun lingered above the hot, dirty city buildings, as if in another second they would catch fire. Raskolnikov beckoned the astonished Razumikhin back to the water, where they stood silently. Fear of the future and pain of the past had no bearing on the present moment; nothing mattered except the light reflecting off the water and the empty, somber sky. But no future was possible without strife, and love was never bought with suffering. All they could feel were each other, even as their breathing slowed in sleep and dreams still haunted them. Stars dotted the sky as they never did that night, the city granted rest until they woke up in the morning.