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Autumn arrived in October, bringing with it even more tragedy: snow, rain, and longing. Families huddled together in their homes, overwhelmed by the suffocating cold of the nights and hungry from the poor harvests. In St. Petersburg, thousands of houses were being built, and the inhabitants spent their meager rubles on bread and firewood to survive in such brutal conditions. Many had relatives to turn to, dear friends who offered them companionship, or even lovers who promised the warmth that the fireplace could not provide. However, that fire was not within everyone's reach.
Far from his family, amidst poverty, and hidden away in a rented room, colder than ice, Raskolnikov slept. His sleep was restless, burdened by the events of the summer and dreading what winter would bring. The boy was nothing more than a former student, rejected for his ideals and tormented by guilt, but a sinful truth resided within him: he was an extraordinary man, and he was about to prove it.
A hysterical lie, born of his arrogance and illness. For him hunger and health were incompatible; one had to disappear. Unfortunately for him, hunger would never go away. A wretched man, forced to care for his sister and mother, feigning a sacrifice they ultimately had to make. The hopes they instilled in him weren't enough to motivate him. Were a career and a job, at the same time, as unsustainable as hunger and sanity? His dreams: Did he have desires beyond stabilizing his financial situation? Did he aspire to be a lawyer, or was that the only way out of his poverty?
He awoke from that nightmare, now accompanied not only by delirium and hunger, but also by fever. The painful images of a murder replayed again and again in his memory. The room, empty of everything except old, useless furniture, offered him no rest; it haunted him, instilling in him the feeling of being as wretched as its owner. His divan, uncomfortable and small, provided him with what little it could: a half-hearted rest. It was easier to list what he had than to name what he lacked. This misery was the perfect breeding ground for the worst theories. Raskolnikov devised one and was about to put it into practice, assuming himself superior to Napoleon. The belief did him little good; he was even weaker than the soldiers the emperor had murdered.
But he had postponed the task because an unexpected translation job had landed before him: a philosophy book from Germany that now had to be translated into Russian.
—Antiquated. When will these words ever run out? —he whispered, trying to apply the translation in his mind. He didn't practice it very often, so the text before him was beginning to lose its meaning.
He thought for a long time, believing he had even forgotten the pronunciation of numbers, realizing that his knowledge had been shattered. He couldn't abandon the task; he was too proud to do so. He'd rather invent the words than admit he didn't know. Or, perhaps, there was someone who could support him in his work and be humble enough to refrain from mocking him.
That man was the closest thing he had to a partner, a former university classmate. They connected on more than just school activities. Their relationship wasn't defined by love, but by camaraderie, affection, and care. However, his partner's lack of money and excessive workload prevented them from seeing each other for four months. Communication wasn't necessary; they knew each other was safe and alive. But the longing for warmth remained in Rodion's heart, causing painful spasms that made his chest heave.
—Should I see him? Could he be the reason behind all my delusion? —he wondered.
In his memories lingered the one who exasperated him to the point of stealing his breath: Razumikhin. The image of him set his heart ablaze, a sharp pain that both ached and reminded him of how much it meant to have him by his side.
His voice still echoed in his ears, his heart pumped blood that whispered his name, his lips cracked from the lack of his touch, and his skin had dried from the absence of his presence. He missed him, that much was certain; the evil that dwelled in his theory usually dissipated when than man forcibly entered his mind.
He remembered the rubles he had earned in advance from the translation in his pocket; that was the real reason he hadn't abandoned the job. He didn't need a law degree to know that if he ran off with the money, he would face legal ruin. Despite this, he reflected on his partner, on how far apart circumstances had forced them, and suddenly the cold seemed unbearable.
—Am I being ignorant now, overwhelmed by lust? —he asked himself again, returning to his seat to contemplate the thought. He soon realized, and this caused him to blush deeply, that his supposed love didn't stem from carnal desires or linguistic confusion. Not at all! It arose from the expectation of hearing his voice, even telling him that he loved him, even if it seemed greedy; it would be enough for him to hear him say his name.
He took the book and notebook in his hands, put them in his other pocket, and hurried out of the dilapidated home he inhabited. The road was long, giving him time to reflect, and in those thoughts, anxiety arose. What would he say to his lover? Did he still feel love for him? Had he not sought him out because he had found a woman who loved him enough to accompany him even in uncertainty? These doubts gnawed at him with paranoia. He imagined that woman; the supposed lover was the type of lady Razumikhin had expressed desiring on a drunken night, and that image filled him with a painful insecurity.
—How could I possibly win against such a beautiful woman? —he wondered, and now the man who had a brilliant answer for everything found himself speechless before the ideal woman —. I can't compete, but I can fight!
He scoffed at the thought until, during his walk, he found himself in front of a clothing store. A marvelous, immaculate hat caught his eye.
Materialism was something he vehemently criticized in any man who strolled the streets wearing expensive clothes simply out of pride and a desire to be envied. He considered himself different from them; he didn't look like a gentleman. The clothes that protected him from the snow were hand-me-downs from his partner. Despite this, the hat called to him like a need struggling to be satisfied. He approached the counter with the hat in his hand and paid half of his deposit.
It wasn't secondhand, he realized when they handed it to him wrapped in a package, but it lacked the prestige of a designer store. He dismissed the matter and left, eager to see his partner as soon as possible. What was in the bag wasn't for him; it was for Dmitri. Guilt over the waste gnawed at him as usual, but the selfish idea of triumphing over this supposed ideal woman made him chuckle maliciously.
—I can't let myself get dizzy again. My actions are nothing but my eagerness to declare myself benevolent. How tiresome! —he scolded himself, clutching the object in his hands. His legs forced themselves to move faster, perhaps out of self-reflection. He knew that if he thought about it any longer, he would end up throwing the package in the trash and hiding in his room for another two months, until he froze to death.
The damp wind bouncing off his cheeks warned him of imminent rain, and with the freezing weather, he didn't know if it would be drops or flakes. The endless walk had already stopped twenty minutes ago. He tormented himself standing in front of the building, sometimes taking steps to move away, sometimes to go in, but always returning to the same spot, indecisive. He wondered if the tenant he wanted to see was busy, absent, or upset. How could he not be? Both men had their pride; it was a natural characteristic of them, a competition to see who would let their guard down first. Habit had led Rodion to believe that Dmitrii, no matter how far he went, would follow him; now he wasn't so sure.
—This situation is hopeless, I'm hopeless! —Raskolnikov stammered, pressing his hand to his chest, over his heart —I don't need torture like this! To hell with him if he doesn't want to see me, I'll go in anyway!
He peered toward the gatehouse, where a man summarized for him, in grave and disinterested terms, that Dmitri Prokofich had refused to leave his room for two weeks straight, during which time he hadn't answered the door and hadn't received too much food. Raskolnikov, more than worried, was perplexed. How could this man, who seemed to glow even on moonless nights, isolate himself from the world? Even Rodion had mustered the courage to leave his quarters! This must be someone else. He climbed the stairs as soon as he was admitted to the building, his mind heavy with the thought of a starving Razumikhin. He couldn't lie to himself; his own being was dying of starvation.
—In that case —he began, letting his knuckles rest on the door after knocking for the third time — perhaps I should invite him to eat. Yes! Surely food is what he lacks. Should I invite him to drink? Ha, ha, ha! Come on! First he must deign to receive me.
The door that separated them remained firm, blocking his way. Raskolnikov felt his compassion dwindling more and more with each passing second that Dmitri didn't appear to open the door.
—Is it possible you're going to keep me here, behind the door, begging for a minute of your presence? —he exclaimed, trying to ensure his shout fell only on his partner's ears and not on the nearby tenants —Just so you know, I'm not laughing at all.
The room returned his silence, a silence that only exasperated him. He tried banging on the door harder, until an idea struck him. He ran his hand through his trouser pockets and found the key that matched the lock of this house. He had forgotten, in those months of endless dreams and delusions, that he had exchanged keys with Razumikhin. He let the package rest in the middle of his forearm and turned the knob, but it was no use, as something heavy was blocking the door.
—So you're determined to reject me! —he cursed, pushing with his shoulder and putting all his weight into the door. A final effort allowed him to force his way in, and he gave himself a moment to catch his breath and formulate insults.
There lay Dmitri Prokofich, sprawled on the floor, overcome by a restless exertion. Raskolnikov believed himself to possess immeasurable strength; if not, how had he managed to overcome the other man's resistance?
—What are you doing? You must get up this instant. My patience has run out at this insolence —he demanded, suppressing his urge to kick him in the shoulder. But Razumikhin made no move to rise; the body was motionless, and there was no apparent breathing. Raskolnikov hastened to his side. He forced him to turn, and that shattered expression almost brought him to tears.
He placed two fingers beneath his nose, and then beside his neck. He was fortunate; he was still breathing, and his heart was still beating, clinging to a wretched life. A couple of slaps and a few shakes snapped him out of it.
—Dima, what's wrong? —he called, forcing him to focus his attention on the person in front of him. Razumikhin thought that the one holding him now was a hallucination, a product of illness and guilt.
—Rodia? —the other murmured, sitting down on the floor. The image before him was beginning to clear, but when he recognized him and their eyes met, he looked away.
—Is there someone else with my face? Stop rambling! —he demanded, pulling the jacket closer to bring their faces nearer, as the sick man was beginning to question everything. —Answer my question, will you? I hear you haven't left your home, you're shutting yourself away and fasting, what's wrong with you?
—No, it's nothing like that! Look at the way you're speaking to me, it's more than an insult. Who let you in? —he reprimanded him, standing up and searching the house. —Did you take something while I was unconscious?
Raskolnikov couldn't comprehend what his ears had just heard; the mere insinuation provoked not anger, but violent suffering. He wanted to unleash the insults he had devised a few minutes earlier, but they wouldn't come; bewilderment had gnawed at his resentment.
—Not at all —he began, getting up from the floor and brushing the dirt from his clothes, his voice weak and broken. —. I came in with the key you gave me; I'm giving it back to you now.
—And you've come this afternoon to disturb my sleep with your presence, which only unsettles me?
—Razumikhin, what is this way of addressing me? If my very being bothers you, I will leave soon, but first I must know, what is the reason for these offenses? —he demanded, throwing the key to the floor with feigned indifference.
But the other man didn't answer, letting out a groan of exasperation and walking to the living room, where he shrank back on the sofa.
—Go to hell, you're insane, and I won't tolerate such behavior. As far as I'm concerned, starve yourself! —his complaints came out stressed, trying to express some of his frustration, even if he didn't feel what he was saying with the same intensity —. And here I was, sacrificing my morals for you. There's not doubt I'm more unhinged than you.
—Raskolnikov, do you insist on staying? —he murmured, covering his eyes with both hands, looking ashamed, hiding the words that tormented him —. I want nothing more from you. Forget my name, my presence, and my face; I'll do the same to you.
And Rodion Romanovich was left speechless. No insults could console his ravaged heart, no consolations could restore his faith in love. His mind hadn't worked as hard as it had in that moment; it betrayed him, bringing to mind the situations he'd shared with the man sitting on the couch. Many were kind, sweet, and romantic; others were hostile and melancholic, but he kept them all as a testament to his life. He knew that if he died, he would be content, for he had known happiness, desire, and justice with Dmitri. Now he wondered about the reasons behind the breakup. They weren't officially lovers, but friends don't make love, friends don't go hungry for the one they love, friends don't yearn for a fleeting glance, friends don't delve into each other's bodies and souls.
—What are you saying? Are you suggesting it's too easy to pretend I never existed? —he gasped, his voice trembling and his legs barely able to keep from shaking.
—Raskolnikov, you're a peculiar man, and clearly difficult to understand, but I'll confirm it now: I'll forget you as easily as I pretended to love you —Dmitri declared, trying to hold his gaze to show the seriousness with which he made his statement.
—Well, hurry up and do it! Your tongue is well known for uttering nothing but lies! —he shouted. Suddenly, Raskolnikov's reason betrayed him, assuming something that was a lie —I know what's going on. You've got yourself a young girl to spend your nights with, sharing what you gave me, haven't you?
—I told you to leave! —Razumikhin exclaimed in response, a groan escaping him with sorrow; he was on the verge of tears.
—Go ahead, I'm about to leave, but not before telling you that what you've done to me is so unfair. How do you expect me to pretend I don't know you, when I surrendered my vulnerability to you in every way? —he sobbed, and the instant he realized his voice sounded like a broken heart, he cleared his throat. It did little good; what followed was weeping. —May you be happy with her! If she loves you more than I do, then I can't reproach you for anything.
He hated himself for showing so much pain, but the betrayal was so profound that he wondered how he hadn't fallen to his knees in tears before him. Convinced he had some dignity, he abandoned the package in his hands and threw it to the ground. It no longer represented love; now it was proof of a lost love. Razumikhin couldn't bear this perverse spectacle any longer. It pained him to see his partner like this, crumbling in misery, and to be the cause of it all. He forced his throat to speak and his hands to cling to him.
—Rodka, don't go any further! —he pleaded, but it was no use; his intentions had already devastated his lover.
—You come here to deceive me...! I spit on your lies! If you wish to hate me, go ahead, but don't expect me to reciprocate your actions, you ungrateful wretch! —he wept, covering his tears with the sleeve of his coat. Razumikhin tried to speak to him, but received only senseless exclamations.
"You were gone for so long," he kept repeating.
"I looked for you, but you weren't there," he scolded.
"You didn't answer my letters," he rebuked.
—Rodia, being as brilliant as you are, it surprises me that you can't understand that my distance is an attempt to spare you trouble —Dmitri sobbed, cupping his cheeks to force him to look at his face.
—You're talking nonsense, Razumikhin. You make excuses with passions you no longer feel, and you give me false hope with loves that vanished in the snow. What are you protecting me from? If it's due to your ingratitude, rest assured you've failed.
—No, Rodia, believe me when I say this. Disastrous events have occurred in my life. I'm no longer the man you love, and you don't deserve to be loved by the fragments of that past —he explained, but his expression betrayed the urgency he felt to demonstrate his love —. Those passions you describe haven't died. They live on in me as the only memory of the goodness that once dwelled within me.
Raskolnikov wanted to believe that their relationship could still be saved, that the mistakes Razumikhin had made were nothing compared to those he planned to make. He held his hands and squeezed those palms he knew so intimately. Winter felt like spring under his lover's breath. They had to kiss. Lacking words to understand each other, what better way than their bodies to recall their affections? Their lips caressed each other with familiarity; they weren't inexperienced because of the distance, for they continued to yearn for each other even from afar.
The love expressed in that flirtatious caress calmed them, stopped their tears, and sealed the anger that the lies and accusations had provoked. They gazed at each other with half-closed eyes, dizzy with an almost forgotten pleasure. Soon, Razumikhin let the tip of his nose travel across Raskolnikov's, their skin rubbing together in a soft, Eskimo-like kiss. They relived their love with those touches, for lust was a fact they could abandon for the moment; they didn't need it to know that their connection was profound.
—What did you do?
—You won't forgive me, Rodia.
—If I did the same, would you forgive me?
Razumikhin didn't answer. And that was enough to know he wouldn't.
—Rodia, I'm so sorry for what I said to you. I love you, truly, this love I have for you is the best part of me —he began, struggling to keep his voice steady —. However, you must leave, before the darkness consumes you in turn.
—Dima, without you by my side, there's no point in being an extraordinary man —he concluded. The warmth in Razumikhin's body was enough to provide the comfort he had struggled so hard to find. The other held him in his arms and let Rodion find solace in his company. He had to leave him eventually, but for one night, just this one, he would allow their love to see the sun again.
They had to share another kiss.