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It’s not quite warm. January holds much sorrow for a man who has spent his December with more than the damp soil alone. Raskolnikov clings to the harsh steam of an Americano in his left hand. The espresso is contained in a ceramic Moomin mug with minutes of red, brown, and the white of a sunrise. It is a child’s cup, but it is one of all that he has left of Razumikhin.
There is the common room of the two’s shared apartment, there is the empty chair in which Razumikhin would have sat, and there is the cell phone in Raskolnikov’s free hand with the mobile game Fate Grand Order open. What has become of this man whose lover had gone on a four-week study abroad trip, and has made no contact since the fifth day of absence? What has become of this man whose lover was supposed to come home yesterday?
Raskolnikov, our darling near-university dropout even prior to Razumikhin’s leave, has sold his soul to gambling. Since the first week of not having heard from his sweetheart, he has not gone without 1. claiming his daily reward upon logging in; 2. continuously spending a week’s worth of money in the blink of an eye; or, 3. relentlessly staring at PNGs of his favorite characters– which can only be achieved with 2– for hours on end.
It is in these childish gacha games that Raskolnikov finds uncertainty. He is plowing through numbers in the name of probability. He is praying, with what luck he does have, that someone will come home. Gambling was not meant to be a coping strategy, much less an overarching parallel to his romantic relationships. Still, it all comes back to Razumikhin.
What is this uncertainty, then? Against the inescapable, irrefutable presence of his beloved in the four walls of this flat? There are pieces of him fossilized, but this love is only a ghost. Raskolnikov sees traces in tea stains settled on coffee table wood, dress shoes left behind but not unpolished, and year-old grocery lists claimed by the refrigerator door. This room is breathing, and these cracks in routine allow for air exchange.
Raskolnikov might be insatiable. He craves flesh. Integuments, membranes, nerves, and bone. A warm body and a beating heart. Breaths that have soul and voice. For obvious reasons, such demands cannot be met by an empty and still house, the flat colors and lines making up a character behind a screen, or even the rush in his own blood from summoning that same character on the tenth try.
Raskolnikov closes the Fate Grand Order app and his thumb hovers over iMessage. First, he counts the days. Next, he recalls his own words. Finally, he gives in. He reads over his texts with Razumikhin: strings of “Are you okay?” or “How is Germany?” or “Where are you?” make up the last twenty-five days worth of messages.
Asking questions that you know the answer to is a deed rooted in love. Razumikhin is all right, Germany is fun, and (at the time the message was sent) that man had not left Berlin. There is truth in these words, and though this truth might not be complete, they are the answers that Razumikhin would give. Raskolnikov knows all of this because he simply does. Razumikhin has been sliced open, taken apart, and studied comprehensively, and his lover is familiar with these courses of thinking and action. If Raskolnikov was mistaken about all of this, there must have been some external force that Razumikhin was driven to obey. Raskolnikov was confident in this inference, but time away from the test subject means that doubt can only accumulate.
It is winter, and Raskolnikov knows that he won’t be able to bear what’s left of the apartment’s heat. It is winter, and Raskolnikov wears his warmest pair of trousers and his thickest coat. It is winter, and Raskolnikov is not ready to return to an unsympathetic home once he leaves. It is winter, and the time to leave this haunted house is now, though this displacement might last for only a moment.
It is winter, and Raskolnikov chases the naked trees.
Teeth feel like metal. Wind peels the skin off faces and reveals a new layer of mass and meat. Instinctively, Raskolnikov’s hands shy away into the pockets of his coat. The new year dictates that the red tinsel and the glowing lights of Christmas are stripped from the towns, and Raskolnikov had not taken a good look at these decorations, or lack thereof, since December 24th. The town is pure snow and unclothed trees and brick buildings, and the absence of festivity makes the absence of his lover even colder.
It is not the absence of his lover that causes his anguish, but this incomplete absence. Raskolnikov regrets entering the city square, for even here, there are still traces of Razumikhin. Razumikhin follows Raskolnikov into their apartment and into their town without a body. Everything that is tangible leaves gaps for Raskolnikov to fill with old memories of Razumikhin.
This feeling is grief. He misses Razumikhin deeply.
Still, Raskolnikov does not let himself get paralyzed. The winter wind is so cold that the air feels still. There is nowhere else to go, and so, he does not leave the town square. He walks past the shops and the people. He traces names and lights with his eyes. He watches and observes and dissects. He thinks about distance (his apartment is two blocks away). He thinks about time (it’s January 31st). He thinks about how Razumikhin was supposed to come home last night. He thinks about turning this grief into anger over his lover’s tardiness. He thinks about the moon, whose arrival he expects (it should come around in an hour). He thinks about how the house will be cold when he returns. He thinks about loneliness. He thinks about the tea stains and the dress shoes and the grocery lists. He thinks about the Moomin mug that Razumikhin picked out. He thinks about blood and flesh. He thinks about language. He thinks about Berlin. He thinks about flights (he hopes that Razumikhin is safe). He thinks about stitches. He thinks about patchwork. He thinks about love. He thinks about hate. He thinks about the messages with no response and the calls that were not picked up. He thinks about kindness and carelessness. He thinks about ignorance. He thinks about breathing (he only now remembers to exhale). He thinks about the vibrations in the air called voices. He thinks about luck. He thinks about light. He thinks about warmth and the absence of it.
He does not think about himself.
Raskolnikov is friends with the moon. Its arrival carves for him a message in the sky: go home. With that, he does.
The walk home is mechanical. Flesh is numbed and the echoes of the heart are louder. Man has offered his psyche to cupid. This body is no longer his. Miraculously, these legs know their way to the apartment better than Raskolnikov. It is at the doorstep that he realizes there is warmth on the other side.
Razumikhin is home.
The door opens from the inside.
“Rodion?”
Raskolnikov’s already-numb flesh freezes over. It hurts to speak.
“You haven’t been seeing my messages. I know you haven’t.” Razumikhin says, before Raskolnikov can say the exact same thing.
His face hasn’t changed since Raskolnikov last saw him, but there is no reason for him to think it would. They pause.
“What messages?” Raskolnikov finally exclaims.
“My phone got stolen. I had to buy a new one. I kept texting your number, but you blocked anonymous messages.”
Raskolnikov feels like his heart is going to burst– and it does. Electricity runs through his spine and traverses every notch and ridge. He feels like a fool. A pathetic fool.
“I thought you were ignoring me– or that something had happened to you.”
“That’s what you get for only ever using iMessage. I would have texted you somewhere else, but you don’t even check your emails and I tried that too.”
Raskolnikov’s phone remained on the kitchen counter the entire time he was out. Rushing from the front door, he scrambled for his Mail app– and sure enough, there were all the messages from [email protected] in his inbox.
Rodion, I lost my phone. Please add my new number: XXX-XXX-XXXX.
Rodion, I am OK. The food is not so good, but the people are friendly.
Rodion, Germany has been fun. We went to the Cologne cathedral today. I don’t know if you’re ever going to see this.
Rodion, I’m just at my hotel room right now. Still in Berlin. What have you been doing?
Rodion, I bought you a copy of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. I remembered you were looking for this.
Rodion, the flight got delayed to tomorrow. I’ll be home on Monday evening.
A burden has been lifted from Raskolnikov’s shoulders, but a new one has quickly found a place. There is relief that Razumikhin was safe, that Razumikhin was home, that Razumikhin never left. Simultaneously there is guilt and shame and Raskolnikov throws endless curses dedicated to himself and himself alone. Raskolnikov can feel his heart climbing up his throat, ready to be spewed from his mouth, and his bones condensing so that if they shatter, the shards will be cut firm and clean.
Raskolnikov failed to think about himself. He often misses his own face in mirrors. His inferences aren’t as complete as he thinks they are. There is uncertainty and unconfidence and he knows that there is but he does not know where. Raskolnikov will blame his own name until he can see the complete truth by himself– but his lover will not let him suffer alone.
Razumikhin takes both of Raskolnikov’s hands. Razumikhin’s palms are calloused; the skin is hardened with love, and love alone. Even so, there is warmth in those hands, and they touch like hot coal. It is the last day of January, and this month is warm.