Chapter Text
It was dark out when Razumikhin arrived at his dorm, but all the lights inside remained on. His roommate Raskolnikov was asleep, sprawled awkwardly across the arm of the couch with a book grasped limply in his hand. He was wearing his grungy college sweatshirt, the one he refused to replace even though it was worn out and stained with ink at the cuffs. Razumikhin gently took the book from Rodya's fingers and smiled. He knew that had Rodya been awake, he would have pulled back his hand and refused any help, and stubbornly insisted on doing everything himself. But his long-running sleep deprivation had evidently caught up with him, so Razumikhin pulled his roommate onto the couch and draped a blanket over him. Razumikhin paused then, and looked at Rodya's face, which was unusually peaceful with sleep. He could almost hear Rodya's teasing voice in his head, "Staring at people while they sleep, Raz? Don't be a creep." He noted fondly that Rodya's hair was a mess, dark waves tousled about and and strewn across the couch pillow beneath his head. The corner of his mouth twitched, in response to his dream, perhaps, and Razumikhin suddenly wanted more than anything to kiss him there, and on his forehead, and where his collarbones protruded just slightly more than was healthy, and desperately, desperately he wanted to kiss his chapped, bitten lips. But the sudden wave of intense longing was gone as soon as it had struck, and Razumikhin turned to leave.
"Raz?" Rodya sat up blearily.
"Go back to sleep," said Razumikhin, gently pushing his friend back down. His chest suddenly ached, deep in the center where he knew that for all the spells of want and affection that strayed just too far from platonic, he could not do anything Rodya did not want. He would not take that risk of doing anything to upset his friend, to go too far or to ruin their friendship. He packed away his thoughts and squashed them away into a corner of his mind. He left the room, clicking off the light as he went, and did not look back.