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The faint scent of tea was the first thing that registered in Raskolnikov’s head as his heavy lids struggled to flutter open. Brief, bluish dim flashes of light streamed through his lashes at every attempt to wake up — his body felt sluggish with sleep, but oddly enough, the sensation was pleasant. The weight of his blanket came to his senses next; the plush feel of the pillow beneath his head…
…and the sound of shuffling?...In his kitchen?
Raskolnikov did his best propping himself up on his elbows. The blanket slid off from him ever so slightly, falling to somewhere along his upper back. That was when he became consequently aware that he had been purposely draped over with the duvet, and that he was fully dressed — it was incredibly warm where he lay. He yawned, then he noticed that the clothes he was wearing last night were neatly folded on The Chair next to his bed. In fact, all the clothes that had been haphazardly strewn all over it the past few days had all been folded and stacked tidily. Glancing at the spot near the door, there was also an unfamiliar pair of shoes. Raskolnikov’s brows were knitted. He couldn’t recall having more than four pairs of shoes.
Then it hits him. Under the haze of his…impassioned stupor last night, Raskolnikov had unceremoniously yanked Razumikhin inside his apartment — everything that had happened since the moment they began kissing by the doorway rushed back into his consciousness; every sensation, every echo of each sound they made solidified itself as an indelible memory in his brain that all he could do was bury his flushed, burning face in his pillow. Guilt, embarrassment, and even shame flooded his system. Raskolnikov whimpered uncomfortably upon gradual recollection of everything that had transpired. His actions yesterday evening made him no better than an irrational, animalistic —
“Rodya?”
Raskolnikov heard Razumikhin’s voice call out to him. Even that made his stomach flutter. Hesitatingly, he lifted his head from the pillow, though could not compel himself to look him in the eyes. From his periphery he could see him holding two mugs, steam wafting off of the tops. Razumikhin set both down on the bedside table and sat beside him, the back of his hand immediately pressed against his forehead.
“Are you alright?” Razumikhin frowned, concerned.
Raskolnikov slightly nudged his hand away, shaking his head. “I’m fine, just - just sleepy.” He slumped back into the pillow, this time lying on his stomach. The truth is, Raskolnikov was far too cognizant of the fact that they had sex last night to even go back to sleep — the sight of Razumikhin in front of him — hair all mussed up; in a thin shirt and boxers and having that look of concern in his face — was just too much for him to handle that he had to hide his face again in fear of giving away his reddening cheeks.
“You should drink something first,” the latter said, gently caressing his upper back. Reluctantly, Raskolnikov yielded and emerged from the duvet, shifting closer to the edge of the mattress so Razumikhin could hand him the mug without the danger of drenching his newly-changed sheets. The tea was surprisingly comforting — it wasn’t too hot or astringent. Raskolnikov didn’t even know he still had some tea left in his kitchen. How Razumikhin had managed to make sense of his disastrous cupboard organization was beyond him.
Razumikhin was still observing him even as Raskolnikov handed the mug back to him and slumped back into bed. The latter noticed that where he currently laid was the side that Razumikhin slept on last night — it smelled faintly of him and it almost sent Raskolnikov reeling again. They just stayed like that — with Razumikhin sitting by him in silence — for a while, as if recollecting the past events of last night. A kind of embarrassment was gnawing at Raskolnikov within every passing second as he thought back to how he behaved. Razumikhin was only going to return the damn screwdriver and then go back to his room, but he had to get ahead of himself; literally dragged him inside and let his irrationalities take over him —
Raskolnikov’s rumination was halted when he felt Razumikhin brush a few stray hairs away from his face, effectively replicating what he did last night. His gaze darted from the ceiling to Razumikhin, which had the same soft, adoring expression too. Raskolnikov could feel his face flaring up at the mere gesture, and his eyes refocused somewhere else; anywhere but on Razumikhin.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry for dragging you here last night.”
In his periphery, he saw Razumikhin shaking his head. “No, no — there’s no need for that, I -” he paused, then, much to Raskolnikov’s fascination, held back a sheepish smile. “I was sort of… well, I was kind of waiting for you… to do that.”
Now this piqued his interest even more. Raskolnikov gained a bit of confidence to face Razumikhin with a look of bewilderment. He raised an inquisitive brow at him. “What?”
Razumikhin took a few seconds to supply him with an answer, suddenly feeling bashful at having to admit his feelings for him. Knowing Raskolnikov, there was no way out of this question. He had to tell him the truth.
“It’s not exactly unknown to you that I… like you,” he said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t tell me to quit pretending like I don’t, correct?”
Raskolnikov immediately knew that Razumikhin was referring to what he barked at him when he opened the door to him last night. His expression softened, and it hit him — he had always been keen enough to pick apart Razumikhin’s behavior around him, but what struck him dumbfounded was what he was going to say once he got the latter to admit to his truth.
A quiet hum was the only thing Raskolnikov could offer as a reply. Though Razumikhin appeared outwardly calm in this very moment, he was quite literally exploding inside.
“I… I won’t pressure you into anything you don’t want, of course,” he spluttered, evidently anxious of how Raskolnikov was taking his confession. “I totally understand if -”
To this, Raskolnikov responded by sitting up; he gently placed his hand on the nape of Razumikhin’s neck, and then leaned in to press a kiss on the corner of his lips. He pulled back a little, blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. When he realized what he just did, his eyes could barely meet Razumikhin’s.
“Stay,” Raskolnikov whispered, almost pleadingly. Razumikhin broke into a smile, and he kissed him back, this time on the lips, just as he did so many times last night. His hands were immediately on Raskolnikov again, but they were less hurried and desperate unlike before — that was probably the only time Raskolnikov felt like he was being held as if he was made of porcelain. The sound of their lips parting from the kiss rang in his ears still even as Razumikhin had already pulled away.
It was already noon when the two had their first meal — a frown immediately appeared on Razumikhin’s face when Raskolnikov made a passing quip about how he was never one to eat breakfast on most days, while he was carefully portioning the chicken soup that he had found in the latter’s pantry.
Raskolnikov was silent as he ate. He couldn't shake the feeling of how strangely nice it was to have someone to eat with - he had always eaten alone, and though the measly dining table in his kitchen always had two chairs, it was always occupied by print-outs and whatever junk he couldn’t yet throw. Today, however, his old printed revision notes weren’t here anymore. Razumikhin was right beside him.
Razumikhin felt Raskolnikov staring at him. The latter discreetly went back to his soup, but he did not let him off the hook this time.
“Have you always done modeling work? At that studio, I mean,” Razumikhin asked out of the blue. Raskolnikov was in the middle of halving a raisin bun when the question halted the movement of his hands. He blinked at him, then shook his head.
“I filled in for a friend,” he replied simply, shrugging.
“Who?” Razumikhin pressed on, genuinely surprised that he wasn’t the only one who Raskolnikov (barely) spoke to.
“Sonya Semyonovna,” Raskolnikov chewed on the piece of bread. He studied Razumikhin’s reaction before continuing. “Theology major. You probably don’t know her.”
Razumikhin shook his head. He didn’t even know he had a slight pout. “No, I don’t.”
Raskolnikov’s eyes linger on Razumikhin’s expression; he was slightly amused, but did not make it apparent.
“One of her siblings was sick - the youngest, I think. She had to miss work, so I offered to fill in her shift.” He spooned up some of the soup and washed the bread down with it.
Razumikhin watched Raskolnikov the entire time he spoke. Now it all made sense. There was no way someone so averse to the slightest exposure to human attention like Raskolnikov would agree to such a job, unless prompted by a reason compelling enough to convince him. The thought made Razumikhin smile a little — underneath that cold exterior was a warmer, more considerate side of Raskolnikov he wished to see more often.
“It’s a shit job. I wish she’d quit it,” Raskolnikov added, the tone of his voice returning to the usual sharp one that he had. “There were creeps asking for my number after — I don’t even want to imagine what that girl goes through when it’s actually her who goes up there.”
“Isn’t the studio supposed to protect their models from things - people who are like that?” Razumikhin frowned.
“They should, but I guess they’re just half-assing that part,” Raskolnikov shrugged as he finished the last of his soup. He sat back. His eyes flitted over to Razumikhin.
“What about you,” he raised a brow at him. “Why were you there?”
The question had Razumikhin stumped. He had an answer, yes, but he was aware that the next thing that was going to happen was Raskolnikov asking why he decided to go there. That was what he dreaded responding to.
Nevertheless, his honesty got the best of him.
“I wanted to see you,” Razumikhin replied, trying hard not to mind so much the way his stomach was doing somersaults in quick succession. He could feel his cheeks flaring up. Raskolnikov saw this too, and he could feel his own face mirroring the other’s reaction. All he could do was redirect his gaze to the now-empty bowl, fingers fiddling with the spoon lodged inside.
A yawn broke through his feigned seriousness. Standing up from his chair, Raskolnikov stacked the bowls and gathered the used cutlery, transporting them to the sink. Razumikhin almost jumped up from his chair as he followed him. They did the dishes in silence — Raskolnikov washed and Razumikhin dried and put them away, exactly where he had found them.
Right after that, Raskolnikov slipped back under the covers. Razumikhin was right behind him.
“You shouldn’t lie down right after a meal, Rodya,” Razumikhin gently chided, sitting back down on the same spot he did earlier. “Sit up first.”
Raskolnikov heeded him not and didn’t move a muscle, but he knew that Razumikhin knew he wasn’t asleep yet and could hear him loud and clear. After a couple of seconds, he felt himself being raised up from the mattress.
“Hey - !”
Raskolnikov couldn’t protest further as Razumikhin situated him in a way that he was laying on his torso. He was sitting up, and he draped the former on chest so he could slump down as much as he wanted. Raskolnikov was basically in his arms in this position they were in. Razumikhin had his arms around his upper body supporting him while he was on top. It was kind of awkward at first, seeing that he was basically straddling him, but with the exhaustion revisiting him again, Raskolnikov had no choice but to rest his chin on the other’s shoulder and get used to their current position. He was grumbling for the first few minutes, but soon enough he was already sinking into the crook of Razumikhin’s neck.
“Rodya?”
Raskolnikov was already half-asleep when he felt the thrum of his voice calling out to him again.
“What?” His lips brushed against Razumikhin’s skin as he responded. He felt him shift a little. The hands resting on his back dropped lower to his waist, encircling him more tightly. In response, Raskolnikov pressed himself closer to Razumikhin.
“Nothing,” Razumikhin was glad Raskolnikov couldn’t see the grin on his face right now. Unbeknownst to him, the latter had turned his head just in time to witness it himself.
“Weirdo.”
They stayed like that for a few minutes, before Raskolnikov murmured something about wanting to change positions. Gently, Razumikhin laid him down, pulling up the duvet for him before lying down beside him. Raskolnikov was doing his absolute best to not lock eyes with him, knowing his heart would not be able to handle anything else beyond how close they already were.
“You didn’t have to go there,” he said suddenly, his own voice sounding disembodied that he immediately started regretting his words. His eyes flickered at Razumikhin for only a brief moment before focusing back on a random spot of the bed. “To the studio, I mean.”
“But I already did,” Razumikhin breathed out a smile, inching closer to him. His fingers expertly tucked a tuft of his hair behind his ear. “And I don’t regret it at all.”
“But why?” A hint of irritation colored Raskolnikov’s speech. This was not directed at Razumikhin, no — it was towards himself. He still couldn’t wrap his head around why Razumikhin even liked him — he was brooding; quite difficult, and too caught up in his own head to even deserve affection from anyone (at least, that’s what he wishes to believe) — and yet here was Razumikhin; smiling lovingly at him as if none of that mattered to him.
“Because… I’m in love with you?” Razumikhin answered, following it up with that cheerful, boyish laugh he had that always managed to strike a string within Raskolnikov. Soon his hands were in his, and Razumikhin had brought his fingers up to his lips like he did the night before. Raskolnikov felt like he was melting all over again. He gazed deeply into his eyes, as if communicating with him sans words.
“Let me love you, Rodya,” he said, almost in a whisper. At this point, Razumikhin was already embracing Raskolnikov again in his arms. In response, he let out a half-hearted grumble. He hid his face in his neck once again, hands shyly clutching at the material of Razumikhin’s shirt.
“I’m terrible, you know,” Raskolnikov mumbled after a while.
“Mhm.”
The hum of Razumikhin’s voice was something Raskolnikov was starting to get used to. He continued.
“Proud. And…sulky.”
“I know.”
“I’ll only make you miserable.”
Raskolnikov had gotten the reaction he wanted when Razumikhin pulled away for a moment to look at him again. His expression was calm and sure.
“I love you, Rodya,” Razumikhin said, plain and simple. To Raskolnikov, however, that was enough to pierce right through his heart. All he could do was to embrace him back; his heart beating wildly in his chest — lips pressing small, shy kisses down the column of Razumikhin’s neck; a gesture which meant that from now on, he was going to do everything to fulfill his own promise to him.