Work Text:
He couldn’t recall whether the rain dropped first or Raskolnikov fainted first, but only that he forgot about the inn as well as Zamyotov altogether in one instant, even the mean words of Raskolnikov seemed to dissolve. The downpour flooded this city, fogging its molety in damp grey, everyone immediately turning into a dog hiding from the whip. The street outlines blurred in vision, curving into an unknown direction. Is it summer or winter, is the inn still behind us? He held his unconscious friend and pondered, I just checked out but my uncle hasn’t arrived yet. Where should I take him…..
No time for this. He would get sicker in the rain. Razumikhin wrapped Raskolnikov in his coat and carried him to his temporary hotel, the latter naturally reaching around his neck, slightly grunting as messy hair tickled his cheek. It would be so nice if you were like this when sober, but it doesn’t matter, it’s nice enough as long as you recover and are beside me. Thinking so, he almost went astray. Raskolnikov's ribs pressed against his back through his shirt, and his hot breath sounded like a honeyed whisper to his ears, making him ignore the chill of rain on his skin.
Everything comes so violently in Russia. Finally, seeing the light dimming before the hotel front door and the sign stained with rain, Razumikhin couldn't help cursing. With the creaking sound, he walked up the stairs, opened the door, gently laid his best friend flat on the bed and took off the man's soaked jacket and boots. Raskolnikov rolled over in his drowsiness, grabbed his hand as he was about to fix his shirt, turning his face toward him - Razumikhin had always known Raskolnikov to be handsome, but now this face was palely haggard, with deeply sunken eyes and gloomy frowns, like he was fighting an invisible demon, like a child who had grown old too soon before he grew up. Rodka is just a youngster, who should have been as fresh and vigorous as the rest of Petersburg students. Razumikhin sat beside the bed and let his hand be clutched by Raskolnikov, almost to the point of pain. He gazed at his friend's face, absorbed in his thoughts. Do you remember the old days, when you and I used to get together? You were so competitive, the look on your face when we debated was so enchanting to me, but now you don't open yourself up to me anymore.....You need to come back to me, even if you won't tell me what you're suffering for.....I can't watch you like this.....
“Sorry, earlier I shouldn’t have talked to you like that…..” Raskolnikov's voice suddenly crept in, low, raspy and dry, jerking Razumikhin back to reality. He had not yet regained consciousness, still grasping Razumikhin's hand, his tone broken as if the moan of a drowning man. "I just…don't know what to do with you anymore ..... Can't you see that I don't deserve your favors in the slightest? I am not worthy of you as a person. You analyzed that with uncanny accuracy, but you are so short-sighted about me ..... Do you have to punish me so cruelly that you have to wait until the truth becomes revealed and there’s no way out before you can leave me? Do you think I'm afraid of losing you? No, I have nothing left to lose ..... I am sometimes so madly jealous of your innocence that I want to beat you up, tell you everything and jump into the Neva with you in my arms ..... as revenge for your unconscious punishment of me! You began to torment me long before that, Dmitri Prokofych, about which you know nothing ..... Why, that day, was I destined to initiate talking to you? Why are you destined to cling to me at this moment ....."
More ravings Razumikhin could no longer hear clearly, his mind was in turmoil. In this hotel room, for the first time he tried to connect the murder with Raskolnikov, but failed - Rodya is talking nonsense. He could never do such a cruel thing. Maybe Rodya has been arrogant, cold and unfeeling, but he has a noble heart. Even if one day I don't even believe in myself anymore, there is no doubt about that. As for the torment he mentioned, I have to ask for clarification, and it’s not up to him to hide it. Rodka, this time you have to tell me, once for all! Only then will your pain be rested, will the first signs of a new life emerge, and will I be able to confess to you about....
Looking out of the window at the rain, he felt his eyes sore with some repressed and intense emotion. St. Petersburg fell into a damp, uneasy silence, as if a quagmire was brewing, but at the moment he didn't care about anything. If someone broke this peculiar silence now to disturb him or Rodya, whoever it was, that person would be thrown out.
Raskolnikov was still asleep, but the flush was fading and his body temperature was dropping. Razumikhin took off his coat, lifted the covers and gently laid down next to him. Raskolnikov naturally came to rest in his arms and buried his face in the nape of his neck. Will you still say you don't need love? Razumikhin held back a laugh, his palm softly brushing his friend's half-wet curls, and suddenly did not want to laugh anymore. When he wakes up and finds out, he'll kill me.
Well, I still have it until he wakes up. He thought for a moment and held Raskolnikov closer, leaving a kiss on his cheek. The rain will eventually stop.
END.