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Raskolnikov often found himself incredibly and almost indescribably tired of being around people. There was absolutely nothing he hated more than having to talk to people, especially when a certain mood had captured his senses, in which he found himself most disgusted with the prospect of even hearing someone else’s voice. In these moments, he became something of a despicable man (more so than he already considered himself to be), bitingly cruel and acid-spitting; even in these times, however, Rodion Romanovich found himself near-constantly accompanied by Razumikhin, his old college friend, who clung to Raskolnikov like moss to a tree. Razumikhin himself was often the subject of Rodion Romanovich’s excessive musings. Razumikhin was a strange, overly optimistic, if not incredibly handsome and well-liked man; although Rodya was often taken by these moods where even the subject of socializing seemed so utterly detestable, he could not bear turning Razumikhin away, at least not with the harsher words he used for everyone else. He would have made such an awful criminal, Razumikhin…he was so absolutely human, so empathetic, and so taken by his feelings. Though these traits disgusted Rodya when anyone else displayed them, he almost found it…charming, perhaps, was the best term, when Dmitri Prokofich was taken to his fits of kindness and love.
What a despicable man Rodion Romavich was, corrupting the kind, loving, human Razumikhin…what a despicable man. How impossible that such a man as Dmitri Prokofich should love him, Raskolnikov…! Such love was undeserved, perhaps even rejected by his very existence! How evil he was, what a villain he embodied, that such pure people as Razumikhin and Sonya Semyonovna had somehow been convinced he was worth loving…! In his box-room, he found himself most disgusted and positively downtrodden, lying on his couch, cradling his fevered head with his rough palm, as though he were plagued by a headache, when, in actuality, he was simply exhausted of everyone and everything. One of these moods had taken him, where he found himself almost sickly with the thought of seeing even one other person. Every person who resided in this town, this God-forsaken town, this awful town, they were louses! What good did it do the world to let them live? What sin was he torturing himself over? He had not done anything worth bemoaning; only thought of it! What did it matter that he had thought of it for months, this detestable deed? A thousand evil deeds can be overwritten by just one very good deed, after all! This line of thought suddenly came to a stop, and Raskolnikov almost collapsed in on himself, ashen and more feverish than before. What good did that justification do for him? He still thought it! It was all him, and him alone, and for no good reason did he think of doing it other than that he could! Oh, what a villain he was!
The heavy and unmistakable sound of footsteps drew nearer his apartment, and Raskolnikov unfurled himself to meet his “unexpected” visitor, who, in reality, was most expected by Rodya himself. A loud and firm knock sounded through the small apartment, and not a second later, Razumikhin entered with all the hustle he usually did. Although only moments before, Razumikhin’s face had an impressively tired and stern expression, unusual of his often-bright temperament, but within seconds of entering Raskolnikov’s apartment, his face lit up with a smile that felt like coming home to a lover on a rainy day. This thought startled Rodya with its intensity and its implications, and he found himself having to look away, ashamed of himself and of his very own mind.
“Rodya, brother,” Razumikhin calls. There is no use except that it is respectful, because Raskolnikov is only a few feet away, reclined as he was on his couch, and could obviously see that Razumikhin was in his apartment; in truth, he could see anyone in his apartment with its size. Razumikhin rounded the table and couch, crouching a little to peer down at Raskolnikov’s sweat-ridden face and feverish eyes, betraying his sickly demeanor without even a word involved. “You’re sick! I should have known. Rodya, you foolish man, what is it that you do to get yourself this way?” His closest companion exclaimed. That was just how Razumikhin was—so full of empathy, and desire to care for others, even if that ‘other’ was unworthy. God, what a villain, to take advantage of such kindness, of the purest human that such a society could sculpt! “Now what’s gotten into you, brother? You’re working yourself up over there with all your overthinking—perhaps that’s the root of your problem. You and your monomaniacal tendencies, Rodya…” Of course, Dmitri Prokofich, whose keen observations were an important something to note when regarding his character, had hit the nail on the head concerning the issue Raskolnikov was plagued by; only a man who could combine academia and faith could be so precise as Razumikhin always seemed to be. In Raskolnikov’s continued musings, he failed to notice Razumikhin’s rushing about, like a mosquito who had been offered the easiest target of open flesh, so intense was the student’s caring instincts.
“Nevermind that,” Rodion Romanovich manages to snap when a cool scrap of fabric, some type of rag that had been lying around his positively pathetic excuse for an apartment rather than a proper towelette, brushed against his forehead, as Razumikhin tried to reduce his dear friend’s fever. “What have you really come over for? That maid-girl, Nastasya, she hasn’t been in to see me, so you had no way of knowing whether I was sick or not. You came for some other reason. What is it? Tell me.” Raskolnikov demands. Razumikhin, in his typical fashion, was not in the least upset by Rodya’s shortness or harsh wording; he simply laughed. What a man, to not take any offense, to take abuse with a laugh like the sun coming out! “Nothing gets past you, eh, brother? You’re right! I didn’t come just to tend to you, but now that I know you are sick, how can I not?” He posits; the simplistic argument is undeniably attractive, purehearted and without exterior motives beyond the purest empathy mankind could express. “That still doesn’t answer my question,” Raskolnikov complains (as he was prone to do, whether the subject at hand was truly something worth his complaints, or not; it was simply the temperament the ex-student had). “So forward…it is truly a wonder that you do not make people cry on the regular, Rodya; I suppose we (by which I mean, society at large) are lucky that you hole yourself up in this box away from anybody you could hurt…ah, but I miss you when you do this, Rodya.” Razumikhin rambled; though he did not go off on tangents quite as often as his dear friend did, he still found himself caught up in diatrades from time to time, as any fallible man would.
“You’re positively ridiculous,” Rodya huffs. “I am an absolute pleasure to socialize with, Dmitri Prokofich.” (Rodion Romanovich was more than aware that he was, in reality, one of the least pleasurable presences people found themselves in company of, but also he hated to feel like he was being mocked.) “Ah, of course, Rodya,” Razumikhin concedes, instead of belaboring the point, as his friend was so oft to do, “How could I be mistaken? After all, I am here, in your company, am I not? It cannot be so miserable, if I am here with you.” Razumikhin says, somehow missing the way that Raskolnikov’s face turned a soft pink as the ex-student blushed. As it were, Raskolnikov was unused to compliments or even the slightest attention paid to him in a decidedly non-negative sense; although Raskolnikov was, indeed, quite handsome, his morose and prickly personality often found him on the other side of well-liked. “Ridiculous, I tell you,” the former-student decides on, still flushed and bashful. Razumikhin simply laughs.
“Regardless,” Razumikhin says, having stopped directly in front of Raskolnikov’s couch. “You are sick, and I do not mean to impose my wishes onto you. I only came to talk to you, that’s all—please do not fret. You have done nothing to disturb my plans, Rodya; I am exactly where I want to be.” Razumikhin leans down, and places the palm of his hand on Rodya’s head, checking his temperature. He jumps back slightly once his hand makes full contact with the other man’s skin. “See—you’re sick! You’re burning hot!” Razumikhin, of course, did not think about the double entendre hidden in his words, too concerned over his friend’s condition to even realize what he was saying; Raskolnikov, conversely, as a man whose mind tended towards Razumikhin in an already-inappropriate way, flushed a bright red, resembling sunburnt skin, or, perhaps, even a cherry, so fantastically bright it was. “Ah—see! Look at your skin! It’s turning red! Your fever must be worsening; let me—” Razumikhin starts, once again attempting to place a wettened rag onto his friend’s forehead, although the lukewarm water would do little good for Raskolnikov so long as the temperature in his closet-like apartment remained as miserably warm as it was.
Raskolnikov, resistant as he always was to being cared for, begins to get up. “Ah--friend, do not do that, please!” Razumikhin rushes to intercept Raskolnikov as the frailer man rises. “Mitya, I’m fine,” Rodya nearly begs, still trying to move past where Razumikhin was blocking the entrance to the apartment, as though attempting to escape into the impossibly oppressive heat of the St. Petersburg summer outside. “Really, I’m—” Rodya starts, before his eyes roll back, and he entirely collapses to the floor. Razumikhin rushes forward, barely managing to catch the other man before his head hit the edge of a small table that hardly fit into the apartment next to the couch. Rodya’s fainting spells were new, although now incredibly common, and seemingly provoked by the strangest of things; Dmitri Prokofich surprised himself with how quickly he had adapted to his dearest friend’s newest medical malady, almost always alert and prepared for when Rodion Romanovich’s eye whites would show and his head would lull. “Oh, Rodya,” he mutters, as softly as he can, cradling his friend’s head to his breast, taking in the fluttering of his eyes and the unsteady rise-and-fall of his chest. “Whatever am I going to do with you, Rodka?”
☆
When Raskolnikov awakened, it had fallen dark outside, and the drunken loudness of the day-drinkers had quietened to the somber moodiness of the night-drinkers. It had become colder, if only slightly, in his apartment, and a familiar jacket was wrapped around his shoulders, and there was a rag on his forehead dripping warmed water down his cheek. The sound of talking became increasingly loud as Raskolnikov awoke more and more from his strangely dreamless sleep (only strange because of his often he had been plagued with disturbed dreams lately), and he wrinkled his nose in distaste at even the concept of being inundated with other people. After he had done this, the noise quieted, and shifting and shuffling and murmurs were heard instead, before, nervously, tentatively, as if fearful (or, indeed, concerned), a voice began: “Rodya, brother, are you awake, at last?” A sense of unimaginable gladness dawned on Raskolnikov at this moment—it was only Razumikhin, in his apartment. As much as interaction still sounded nightmarish or impossible, it was only Razumikhin. Razumikhin, who he needed not explain himself to. Razumikhin, who always understood Raskolnikov without words. Only Razumikhin. That was all.
“Yes, yes, I’m awake,” he answers, attempting (and failing, massively) to imbue his words with a sense of annoyance or frustration; instead, he sounded undeniably fond, as a husband does when his wife brings him dinner without even asking, although their food was scarce, and her energy even more so. “Oh, Rodya, I am most glad,” Razumikhin says, and Rodya ignores the way his heart nearly beats out of his chest, because Razumikhin does sound glad, as though he really were happy that Raskolnikov was feeling better. How ridiculous, to be relieved that a villain has not died! What an incredible man, Razumikhin! “Here, here,” Dmitri Prokofich says, standing and carefully bringing a bowl to him. “It is soup, from Nastasya, again. That poor woman has a sainted heart, to care so much, free of charge as that care is!” Raskolnikov accepts the offered bowl, holding it gently, as if it may burn or spill, although it is only half-full and cold. He stares at it, uncomprehending. “Rodya?” Razumikhin asks; the concern in his voice is palpable and strikes like a knife to his heart…or an axe to his head! Oh, God, Lord above! If Dmitri Prokofich knew, if he understood, if he was made aware of the villainy he found himself in the company of, would he hate Raskolnikov? Reject him? Spit on him? Or would he, in his absolute, inarguable kindness, would he accept Raskolnikov, despite his evil mind, his soul corrupted by the Devil? It tortured Rodya to no end!
“-ya? Rodya, can you hear me?” Raskolnikov manages to catch, as Razumikhin kneels down, to grab ahold of his friend’s face, scanning his expression for any sign of awareness or life. “Oh, thank the Lord,” the student signs in relief, noticing a slow blink of awareness as Raskolnikov made his way back to reality. “Brother, this illness is no joke! Why, when you fainted earlier, with the way your heart was jumping like a jack-rabbit, I thought you were on the edge!” It was unusual to see Dmitri Prokofich’s face so distorted with an emotion that was not joy or drunkenness; now, his handsome (maybe even pretty, if Raskolnikov was going to be frank; there was always a sort of effeminate beauty to Razumikhin, in spite of his broad, masculine stature) features were scrunched with concern and confusion and relief. “Why do you stare at me like this, brother?” Razumikhin asks, only continuing to lean in towards Raskolnikov, as if to observe him.
“Mitya,” Raskolnikov says, hardly recognizing how strange he has been acting, as he so rarely called Dmitri Prokofich by the nickname so many affectionary referred to him by, but had thus done so twice in the whole of the day. “Did you ever read my article? The one that, by random chance (however you define chance, that is), got published?” Razumikhin threw his hands up, as if in exasperation, and exclaimed, “You must be mad, to be talking about that damned article at a time like this! Yes, yes, Rodka, of course I read it! Of course I did! You published it—how could I not have?” (He would never admit it, but something about that was inexplicably romantic to Raskolnikov, the absolute surety with which Dmitri Prokofich claimed he would read anything Rodya wrote.) “And what did you think of it? You know I value your opinion dearly, Mitya, please, tell me.” Raskolnikov begs, which was even more unusual for him, as proud and uncaring of others as he was; at this point, Razumikhin was beginning to raise, ready to replace the rag on Raskolnikov’s head, concerned that his friend was once more burning from the inside out. “Please!” Rodya cries, reaching out to grab Razumikhin’s wrist, failing miserably and only managing to throw himself half onto the floor, arms braced against the wood while his legs were still on the couch, the rag falling off his forehead, revealing that he had, indeed, only grown more feverish.
“Rodya!” Razumikhin crashes to the floor, ignoring the throbbing pain it incites in his knees, carefully grabbing his friend by the torso and helping to lift him back onto the ratty excuse for a couch he rested on (how light was his sickly frame!); in this time, Raskolnikov had begun to shiver and shake, almost convulsing as though in a seizure, but his eyes appeared strangely clear, as if he truly didn’t have a fever and it was just a trick of the skin. “Fine, fine, I will tell you—please do not do that again! You worry me, brother, truly!” Razumikhin sighed; he would have done much to get out of this conversation, but if it would give his Rodka comfort, then Razumikhin would do it. Rodya settled, his strangely clear eyes fixated on Razumikhin and Razumikhin alone, his pupils blown wide and his hands still trembling. “To be honest, brother, (and I will be as honest as I can, because I believe you need that honestly, and because you have asked for it), I was disturbed by your article. I have never agreed with you on this matter, which you know very well, but the idea that killing was justified only by someone’s position in the world, and more so that it was being treated as a mundane and acceptable theory, well, it really did disturb me! I believe very little can justify murder (which you also know very well, from these debates we have had), and therefore your article, and your theory, went against my very ideals, in a sense.” Seeing that Raskolnikov, strangely, was not jumping to defend himself and did not appear to be getting mad, Razumikhin suddenly found himself devoid of words to say, so strange was this behavior from his dearest friend.
“What if I had killed someone?” Raskolnikov posits: his voice quivers much like the rest of his body, and Razumikhin felt frozen, as though someone had hit him over the head. “Rodya, why…” he asks, almost ready to begin crying. “I don’t…oh, I know it goes against everything I just said, and I know this makes me an awful hypocrite (though I will also be fearfully honest here, and say that hypocrisy is only natural to humans!), but I would defend you until I died, Rodka,” he says, although his whole body now began to shake much like Raskolnikov’s was. A wry, self-deprecating kind of smile began to spread over Raskolnikov’s face, familiar but always depressing to see, and the ex-student went on: “I have not, Mitya, do not worry. But I worry myself, because I keep wondering, ‘Am I capable of doing this? Could I kill someone?’ I keep thinking that I could be Napoleon (I can see the look of confusion on your face, but I have said this as plainly as I can), but I am not; I am a louse as much as anyone else is, or, maybe, I’m more of a louse, more than even that Alyona Ivanovna is.” Razumikhin stared at his friend in a mixture of confusion and wonder, only half-understanding what he was saying, which was not so uncommon when having one of these one-sided conversations with Raskolnikov.
“Alyona Ivanovna? The pawnbroker, the one with the strange sister? You had planned on killing her?” He pushes, because this is the most open that Raskolnikov is likely to be; at the same time, Razumikhin still felt undeniably guilty that he was taking advantage of such a vulnerable state to satisfy his own wicked curiosity. “Yes, planned; I thought, ‘Alyona Ivanovna is a plague upon the world, and is the worst louse a human could be, and killing her would make the world better off’ (which I still think, to a degree, and the fallacy of this logic is both clear and blurred to me, as many things have become these days), but I have found myself so often disgusted at myself and bedridden with delirium that I now think I must be some kind of a villain, Mitya.” His dearest friend declares, waving his arms about like some kind of a madman, eyes glinting bright like they always did when Rodya’s strange temperament took ahold of his faculties and his often-nonsensical (but nonetheless charming and witty) rants bubbled to the surface. “Well, but anyway; enough of that. All of this is to say, Dmitri Prokofich, that you have been in the company of the truest villain that a sewer like St. Petersburg can create; I have rotted in this damned room (I can see your face screw up in disgust, but rot is indeed the perfect term) and have, myself, become damned just the same.”
It was rare that Razumikhin found himself without words, but Rodion Romanovich always managed to catch him unaware, startled with the surety and intensity with which the ex-student spoke; the frail, sickly, pale man in front of him, who could hardly stand and whose suffering was readily apparent, guilty with his own thoughts and betrayed by his body, was so truly and utterly convinced that he was somehow irredeemable beyond all doubt, and Razumikhin was lost. Somehow, however, he manages to strengthen himself and find the words: “Rodya, did you listen to a word I said?” Raskolnikov, who had been moping, eyes focused with singular intensity on his hands while Razumikhin attempted to find his voice, snapped up like a frog to a fly that had buzzed too close. “Rodya, Rodya,” Razumikhin prays, shuffling forward, still on his knees, completing the sacrilegious vision, taking Raskolnikov’s hands into his own, and bringing them to his lips, ignoring the shocking cold of the other man’s fingers. “You are a clever fellow, but you are a fool.” He says to his dearest friend, watching with both wry amusement and borderline-fascination as Rodya’s eyes widened with insult and shock. “I would stand with you through crime, through suffering, through even the most despicable that you have to offer, and you think I would abandon you over this? I should be insulted, Rodka.”
For a moment, they lingered in silence, Raskolnikov reclined on his hole-ridden couch, and Razumikhin kneeled before him, hands to his mouth; they were a vision of renaissance, a romantic painting belonging on the Sistine Chapel or in the Louvre. Despite his usual eloquence, all Raskolnikov could think to utter was a single and confused, “What?” His usually pale face was stricken once more with a blush that spread across his high cheekbones and up his ears; his mouth was agape like a fish under water; his hands, held as they were, trembled slightly—he looked like a schoolboy who had been confessed to, all told. (Really, he was, Razumikhin supposed.) “I mean what I say, even if you do not believe me,” Razumikhin admits, because it is nearly impossible to lie to Rodya. “I would stand by you. I will stand by you. I love you, Rodka; whether you are a killer, or have thought of it, or are the same old Rodya I miss so dearly. Is that not what love is?”
“You’re so—you’re ridiculous!” Raskolnikov cries, wrenching his hands out of Razumikhin’s gentle grasp and burying his reddened face into them. “How could you love me?” He cried from his self-imposed prison, and Razumikhin was sure that his typically-stoic friend was crying, though he would never admit to it. “I am a villain, Mitya! You should run as far as you can, and you should let me be, so that I may rot away!” One can only take so much self-deprecating talk before they go mad themselves, and Razumikhin leaned forward, pulling Rodya’s hands away as gently and as kindly as he could, exposing his friend’s face to the world. Even in sickness and despair, Rodya was unfairly handsome; he was pale, more so than a healthy person should be, but that sickly paleness somehow managed to highlight the features that left Razumikhin so often in awe. His cheekbones were high and feminine, his dark-blond hair curling perfectly, framing his face; his lips, so perfectly red, contrasted especially with his pale physique. “Rodya, if only you could see yourself the way I see you,” he whispers. “You are no villain. You are just lost, I think. You need to sleep—you’re still sick.”
He rises, and ignores his own pounding heart and the way Raskolnikov’s still-wide eyes track him as he moves, pushing on his friend’s shoulder until he lays down, and places a new damp rag on his forehead. He ignores the way his own eyes cannot help but drift towards Roya’s lips, and the way that Rodya’s blush has still not faded. He sits back down in the uncomfortable guest chair that Raskolnikov keeps (which was likely not a choice of Rodya’s, and was, likely, a courtesy of the maid Nastasya), and grabs the book which he had been reading out loud to distract himself.
But even in this cycle of ignoring and noticing and ripping his eyes away from his dearest friend, he cannot ignore Raskolnikov as the man raises his hand to his lips, looks at Razumikhin, and says, with the slightest whisper, “Thank you. I love you, too--I promise I do, Mitya. I don’t even…mind…talking to you.” Before the sickly man finally passes out once more.