Chapter Text
The town of Saint Petersburg was certainly beginning to awaken after the harsh winter months. With days noticeably longer and livelier, filling the people with a kind of new hope. Now, however, with city lamps lit and the chatter of the cramped streets gone long ago, only the light of the lone candle and conversation filled the room. At the table of the small apartment sat two men, celebrating their reunion with a bottle of alcohol.
– Mitya? …Mitya! – Raskolnikov demanded, snapping his fingers a few times, inches from his friend's face – Are you even listening, idiot?
– Umm... what? I seem to have gotten distracted, I'm sorry, Rodya. – Razumikhin was sharply pulled out of his thoughts by his friend's question. In truth he must have zoned out completely and now couldn't recall what the other had been speaking of at all. For a while now he found it hard to focus on his words, as whatever he was saying paled in comparison to the way the dim candlelight sculpted his sunken features, turned his dark eyes into pieces of glowing amber. Yes, there was something hypnotizing in watching the sharp lights and shadows play over his handsome face, something Razumikhin couldn't explain nor resist no matter how hard he tried to put his awe into words.
– Say it, Dimitri, am I that boring? – teased Raskolnikov, a playful grin on his face – be honest, I won't hold a grudge!
– What? No! It's just that...
– That what? What could be more important than your guest, Dimitri Prokofich? – he laughed, pouring more liquor into his glass, his piercing eyes turned into softness like a summer sunset yet still retaining a perceptive flicker. – Has the drink already gotten into that pretty head of yours?
– Stop it! Spare me your mockery! Please, enlighten me! What were you saying, again?
– Very well Dimitri Prokofievich, very well. – he swallowed the contents of his glass and used his sleeve to wipe his mouth – So, if you think about it, the majority of the people you ever meet in life are barely people at all. For is a young girl dressed up and forced to wander the streets anything more than the unfortunate result of her and her parents' poverty? If she was, then wouldn’t her life belong to her, be shaped by her. But everyone lives trapped in the same cage. Everyone is just shaped by the oscillating forces of pain and pleasure, luxury, and poverty, companionship and loneliness et cetera et cetera. Like a dog trained by hitting and feeding or a wild animal living by instinct – by what will be most likely to guarantee its survival in the forest.Very few choices are actually their own, hence very few people are actually their own beings and not merely extensions of this surrounding depravement. And just like that we navigate the narrow streets with choices formed by the shapeless mass of others. Even every word, every thought and every feeling is created and sculpted by foreign prejudice, Dimitri, even the purest love is to be filtered by the influence of this rotten society. And to that I say if one is to stop being a mere puppet on the string and become a man of his own freedom then one must rebel. But what is rebellion, Dimitri, in a world that will seize it, put it out like an unsubordinate fire. Surely it is no use – only tangling yourself in the net of obligations and punishments even more in a world already decided, like a fly thrashing in a spider's web. – Raskolnikov droned on, his speech becoming more and more slurred as he kept going.
Razumikhin looked passionately at his friend, careful not to miss a word of Raskolnikov's heated speech. He watched his whole physiognomy light up as it always did when he was preaching his thoughts. His posture upright and voice keeping a clear, intellectual tone even despite the underlying drunkenness. Lips stretched into a smile, beautiful and soft looking, oh the woman that would get to kiss them could count herself one of the luckiest in the world. Indeed, his friend was undoubtedly a man of great appeal.
With a tall, thin stature, thick, ashy hair that cascaded down to his shoulders. His face framed in soft colors and sculpted with prominent features, bringing to mind the unmistakable intelligence of great minds before him. Eyes that had always carried an underlying perceptiveness to them, dark and mysterious, piercing their surroundings for the truth hidden from the simple–minded, yet warming up at even the slightest touch of stray light. For Razumikhin, truly, those were the eyes to get lost in, remain wandering the endless black abyss for eternity and even if it had consumed him whole, he would pay little attention to it.
Surely he had been very popular among women in whatever province he came from. For a long time now, he was also causing Razumikhin's dreaming part to act out of usual order, making him crave his scarcely given company like the very air in his lungs.
–Are you so sure of this? Is there really nothing you can do, you think?
– Nothing easy, at least. To act unashamedly is nothing in a sea of prejudice, where even the most innocent of intentions will be subjected to open judgement.
– Something impactful, then. Something to set yourself apart once and for all.
– Oh, but how great of an act would that have to be? Something so powerful, even depraved in its nature is only reserved for the extraordinary. Only them – the leaders and lawmakers get to live with such independence. Say, what would it take to commit something of the sort?
"To me you're already extraordinary" thought Razumikhin lifting the glass to his lips to avoid having to answer the question, getting lost in his own reflections instead. It is true that he thought highly of Rodya. Ever since they first met he has never failed to impress him. It was apparent that Raskolnikov was not very sociable to begin with and on top of that any people he’d meet would be soon driven away by his behavior – getting the impression of pride and pretentiousness. But to Razumikhin Rodya has always been a man destined for greatness. Always set apart by his individuality, unable to find an equal to share his experience with, more sensitive to the cruelty of the world always attempting to crush him under all its weight like one does a fly.
He has always considered himself simple minded and so he has never imagined he could understand his friend fully, never keep him too close, like a wild cat that he would never truly domesticate. But whenever they sat down and he explained to him the concepts he himself has never put much attention to, Razumikhin felt like Rodya was specifically there for him, to help him uncover all those subtexts and hidden meanings. Raskolnikov would guide him away from the narrowness of the city streets and to the stars and for that Razumikhin would remain at his side, no matter how much the other would try to push him away, it was a vow he has kept in his heart for months already
– Then bear the pain! If that indeed is the only way to free yourself, then so be it! Is it not worth being true to yourself at all cost?
– And alienate yourself from everyone? This world is built on prejudice and fear, Mitya. Tell me, if I were to go against all values to ever be placed on the both of us, would you not stray from me?
– Never – there was no hesitation in Razumikhin's tone – I'll walk with you always, loyalty is not a thing taken and given lightly.
– But what about love, hm? Would you love someone so heinous he's merely a monster?
– You'd do the same for me. Love should be hideous, you said it yourself, if it should be free, then it would be fit to count every profanation into that as well. Don't you think?
– Indeed I do… – he looked somewhere into the far distance – Well, looks like we’ll have to stick even closer together now.
– It’s fine by me on all accounts, even if it would be just us against the world.
– They might lock us up somewhere, once we become just two babbling madmen.
– I wouldn’t be so sure of that, actually. With all those young scientists and their novel ideas you can never know. I was recently shown this one article by an acquaintance, you might want to see it, just wait.
With that Razumikhin rose from his seat, setting out to find the issue of the newspaper containing the publication. Despite the tiny size of his apartment it was cluttered all the way up to the ceiling so finding a piece of paper buried in the stacks of text was no easy task. During the whole ordeal of flipping the contents of his room over he allowed his mind to wander over the postponed conversation. He felt an oppressive force around him, like being plunged into the icy water, unable to breathe, unable to find a light on his way down the psychological spiral "And would you, my dear Rodia, remain at my side, if I'm already heinous enough?" Perhaps it would not hurt to end up as one of the bodies fished out of Neva, after all. Even favorable to the stress this existence is proving to be.
The soft fuzzy sensation rose within him again. Not unlike the warmth of a summer evening that brought back the nostalgia of childhood simplicity, and that he has always felt when faced with Raskolnikov. Except, this time he felt it with cloying sweetness that enveloped his heart and left it to rot. A light emerged and passed like a ray of sunrise over the long night. One where he thought he might never see the sun again. The shame turned into shy ecstasy, blooming through his despair like the first flowers blooming right through the still present snow. If Raskolnikov had been honest, if he really had so much space in his heart to fit that hideousness in his life, then Razumikhin would not hesitate to stay.
Should he do it? Turn around and confess everything, every thought that has ever crossed his mind and hope for his feelings to be reciprocated? Would that ease the pain in his chest or would Raskolnikov leave and never come back? He was already hard to keep in one place to begin with. The silence suddenly grew loud, almost deafening. If he was true to his word, he should at least accept Razumikhin’s feelings, but if that had been even too much for him to understand? What if he agreed just because he was drunk or perhaps Razumikhin lost his clear judgement because of the alcohol and was now dreaming up things which had no place between them?
No, how can he call himself Raskolnikov’s friend if he thinks he’d hate him had he known his internal struggles? He agreed with him, after all, that love should be allowed to exist even in the face of prejudice.
Why then can’t he believe those words? Is he truly so much beyond saving, or is he losing trust in his dearest friend in all that mad rambling?
He was again pulled out of his thoughts when he finally stumbled upon the issue of the newspaper he was looking for. With his mind again occupied by the late conversation the echo of his rampant thoughts seemed to fade as he made his way to the table. The anxiety in his chest eased and with a clearer mind he decided on a course of action. He would gather his courage at the right time, when they’re both more sober and spill his heart open. For now he would just make his way to the table and act normally, but he stopped right in his tracks as soon as he turned around.