Chapter Text
The morning of this day was nearly identical to the one before, so much so that it was hardly worth describing.
Dmitri once again went through the motions of living and being a good husband. Today, he insisted Dunya rest all while trying not to hint as to how she, and indeed, he himself, had not slept for over forty hours now.
There was no more energy left between them to wait tensely in anticipation, or to jump at every sound. They were silent, like the day before—more from exhaustion than anxiety.
However, Mitya was especially worried about Dunya. She was pale and nearly sickly—she simply couldn’t catch a fever just when Rodya was coming back!
Mitya gathered the remainder of his energy to take care of her properly, brewing a mild stew and giving her water. She didn’t even refuse, to Mitya’s great concern. This meant only one thing, and that she didn’t even have that bit of energy.
For so many years, Dunya had been the strong one between them. Today, she wouldn’t have to be. Mitya would take good care of her.
He left the house and braved the sudden spell of cold to pick up some meat from the Haymarket to cook a fresh meal for Dunya; he fed himself on the cold meal from the day before, which the usually teasing Dunya didn’t even comment on.
He brought a bowl of hot stew to where Dunya was sitting on the couch. She was facing to the door. No knock, but it opened on its own, and Rodya was standing there and staring sullenly as always—
Hold on. Rodya? How did he get in? He was back? Already? Just like that? (In that moment, Mitya recalled that he had forgotten to lock the door when the mailman left.) A delayed frenzy flew over his face, his eyes darting around.
The first person he looked at was Dunya, but her eyes were already caught in Rodya’s gaze.
His eyes. His eyes were ever the same, yet so different. A dark brown. Not unattractive, but beaten down from years of anguish. They did not stay still, yet did not move with purpose, but rather flitted anxiously—he wore the guilty expression of a child, not the guilty expression of an adult, as if a young boy caught doing something bad. And in spite of everything, or, even, because of everything, Dunya could not help the surge in her heart that once again said “I love you I love you I love you.”
Her eyes. Her eyes were so different, yet still the same. Still a dark brown, still beautiful like her face and her heart, but broken down from years of exhaustion. They did not shine, but fell in their place sadly like a veteran who could no longer find the strength to fight on. She wore the expression of a ghost, the face of someone whose years had sanded them down. And Raskolnikov—Rodya—could not help the surge in his heart that said, for what felt like the first time—“I love you.”
Dunya did not know who broke away first. Perhaps it was the same time—both too afraid to face the other. Both with infinite things to say yet no voice to say them.
Rodya took off his cloak cautiously and hung it on the sparsely used coathanger (Dunya and Mitya usually threw their coats onto the couch or the armchair) and took a small step in.
Dunya stood frozen in place, her legs disobeying her brain’s command to move, to leave, to run into Rodya’s arms, to do anything.
As expected, Mitya said something loud and altogether contextually inappropriate. It did little to relieve the tension, but Dunya appreciated the effort.
At that moment, a blur flashed through the half-open door and threw its arms around Dunya tightly. She staggered back in surprise. Sonya! She hugged back, and the two women held each other for the longest time.
“Dunya!”
“Sonya.”
“You’ve changed so much!” “You haven’t changed one bit…”
And she said to Sonya all the things she would not—could not—say to Rodya.
“I missed you,” and “you were gone for so long” and…
“I love you, Sonya.”
“I love you too, Dunya.”
They pulled tighter in the embrace, and for a second, one fleeting second, all was well.