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So in a huff of indignantly feverish words, Raskolnikov lies—restrained with little hope of escape—as a shivering animal is trapped in caring hands, foolishly perceiving threat under the embrace of comfort.

"..you impose yourself on me in some kind of jest, surely, surely you don't believe yourself heroic for this.. this fit of irrationality. You'll remove yourself before I show you out! Out, immediately!"

"I am a hero, Rodya, and you my fainting damsel. And I'd much rather you faint on me than on the cobbles, and you'd agree, if you still possess reason?"

"Reason suggests you do not physically restrain men of perfectly good health, and this is acutely unreasonable. You are unreasonable, and any amount of good sense left in you is disappeared, surely. I find you in this state, nothing but a mindless brute on top of me. Does it not bother you, to be so senseless?"

"Ach. You rant on." Razumikhin sighs, not very bothered at all.

"To dismiss a sound man's good argument as ranting--" Raskolnikov interjects, half-mad, squirming with the little force a sickly man such as him could offer.

"Eh? 'Sound?' Why, you swoon like a delicately diseased lady and look the part, too. I have half a mind to pin you forever, for that's the time it'll take 'til this stream of delusional postulations runs dry."

"..incredible. You think me delusional." It is muttered with such obvious disdain that it pulls a incredulous laugh from Razumikhin, the scowl of the deeply displeased man beneath him unseen or perhaps just ignored.

“You—“ Raskolnikov starts, cut off with an amused rebuttal.

“Debate me until your face is redder than it is now. I dare you, fool, try to to outlast me, and I will stay to listen.”

"I—" He sputters with such indignation that he is beset with fuming silence, gathering himself before continuing. "I.." Raskolnikov speaks with a carefully measured tone that falls apart until he is practically spitting. "..I am not red, nor am I asking you to stay--In fact-- in fact, Dmitri, you are inviting yourself, like some kind of mannerless, heavyset pig!"

Razumikhin just smiles at this, his aforementioned heaviness refusing to budge. "You are ever so witty, friend. Keep talking, see where it gets you, just know it won't get me away, for I refuse to allow you to stumble yourself into another fainting spell. If my actions become only a pig, as you so insightfully put it, then so be it-- let me roll around in filth and shovel slop as a proper pig should." He chuckles again at the thought, his joyousness unbefit to the situation. It was if he was enjoying this, this smothering of unwanted warmth-- a notion that only makes Raskolnikov's righteous anger boil until it's practically vibrating out of him. "Yes, yes," Razumikhin continues, satisfied with his wretched misdoings. "I shall be the best pig." The sheer absurdity of this childish, petty retort once again leaves Raskolnikov speechless. He stutters through several half-finished thoughts before abandoning the concept of speaking entirely-- for words are taxing to a fevered mind, and it is much easier for a man in such a state to close his eyes, intending to formulate a response in scholarly, dignified silence. But there is no counter to an argument that doesn't exist, and indeed Razumikhin had not put forth an argument of any sort-- no, he had simply stayed exactly where he was, and it was clear no amount of intellectual posturing or protests would budge the stubborn bastard.

But coming to this conclusion had tired Raskolnikov greatly, so that the weight on top of him was becoming heavier and heavier pressing upon his mind. As a branch dips subtly under the weight of gathering snow, it is that slow, gentle give of that strains his taxed head, forcing twitching, tense sleep upon him.

Unconsciousness is a curious thing that plays with time as a child does with dirtied thread, making it so Raskolnikov waked convinced that he had not been asleep for long at all, thoughts crammed lazily together in a head that seemed to be stuffed with swollen, discolored cotton, bulging with infection.

He is suffocated by a heat greater than a simple fever, obnoxious snoring rattling through the threadbare couch as it tiredly weathers the sound. His tongue throbs fattened and distended, unable to speak at all.

He had never imagined Razumikhin a loud sleeper, or a clingy one–yet he is wrapped around him in loosened embrace, heavy limbs securely tied.

Raskolnikov raises a hand, abjectly fascinated as it blurs and stutters, indistinct in its wavering. Razumikhin is asleep, and his handsome features pulse with Raskolnikov's rattled breathing, skin waxen and indenting when prodded at-- and prod he does, with an emotion similar to curiosity he presses two fingers against Razumikhin's melting cheek, coaxing flesh from bone and bone from itself, coaxing his skull—with a gentle tap—to cave in, deflating like a fleshy lesion with none of the rigidity skulls are to possess. Razumikhin's eyes fly open in surprise, registered too slow, finding Raskolnikov's face and freezing there as his eye, too, is taken by the inevitable collapse. He makes soft, confused noises, quiet gasps and whimpers as if he has not quite registered his undoing.

Raskolnikov observes his friend's death with a sort of wide-eyed blankness, acting with no urgency as Razumikhin was certainly dead, and at his hand, so easily, too. He has done it because he can. There is nothing to be changed now.

He rouses already gasping, and Razumikhin is whole, alive, rumbling with breath and blood. Raskolnikov's hand lays upon his cheek, the detached placidity that comes with dreaming slipping away to leave him shaken. And he is struck by the dizzying need to press his palm flat, to move and curl a hand into Razumikhin’s hair, to feel his skull unbroken as his breathing steadies. This wakes Razumikhin, who starts to tease immediately– as he is not one to waste precious time.

“Ach! Rodya, what is your sickly self doing now, hm?” He said, and removed Raskolnikov’s hand from his hair with a good-natured smile. “You look terribly rattled, friend, have you finally lost it?”

Raskolnikov replaces his grip immediately, and with burning eyes wide and scouring— searching for a mirage already faded, dreading a fate that was not true— he looks, for all the world, to be half-insane. His hand moves sluggishly from Razumikhin’s hair to his cheek again and then across his lips and eyebags and jawline. All solid, with a comforting yield.

“Rodya?”

Razumikhin speaks with confusion though he does not remove Raskolnikov’s hand again, throat jumping when it presses against his lips again.

“..ah, so you have gone insane…what is this?“

“It is nothing.” Raskolnikov mutters then, blinking the madness away and withdrawing his hand, wiping it clean of touch. “My fever has subsided, Mitya, thanks to your care, no doubt, and I plan to rest. In solitude, as well.” He amends quickly. “Subsided? No, you are sick!” Razumikhin cries, suddenly indignant at the idea of being sent away so soon. “Why, I never believed one quite so intelligent as you would be so eager to perish– for you ask me to allow you to run off and drop dead, no, I will not allow it, not at all!”

He jumps to his feet with hysterical energy. “I’ve asked nothing of the sort.” Raskolnikov explains patiently, and if he appeared irate, it was certainly not his fault— for the texture of a softened skull has not faded, even in waking, and it bothered him so, to look upon Razumikhin’s face in the moment. “I only intend to sleep—surely even I can handle that?”

“Lies. If you truly intend to sleep, let me stay to watch over you, so I do not have to find your remains when you wander off—for you will certainly wander off, later if not now— all because I did not stay!”

“You catastrophize it when I rest and catastrophize it just the same if I start to stand… is there nothing I can do without your watch? Do you think me mad, or pathetic!? I will accept neither judgement. Leave me be.”

With this, Raskolnikov turns and pulls his quilt over himself, resolutely ignoring Razumikhin’s many cries until he is rewarded with an incensed huff and a ‘you confound me’ and then he is alone.

Only then does he tremble.

Raskolnikov waked to tea over-steeped and porridge that is too thick to stomach, left by Nastaysa to eat upon his waking. It had been left out for as long as he had been unconscious. He finds that on this morning, the impartiality of sleep does not seem to have retreated, not as he slips on a coat and stumbles out with an empty head and no particular goal but to wander and to think.

And as it seems, his intense and logical thinking has led to the bank of the Little Neva, to Razumikhin's room on the fifth floor of a particularly ratty house. The door is open. Raskolnikov enters with feigned certainty.

Despite his irate departure late last night, Razumikhin is cheery and bright as Raskolnikov is ushered onto a couch–and it is his nature, to forgive, of course, so it was predicted. Razumikhin sits beside him, smiling simply.

"Ach, the madman returns." He chuckles. "And not a moment too late, for I was about to miss those insane eyes, those delightfully sunken cheeks. What was I to do without your poking and prodding of my hair, hm? To what do I owe this pleasure, madman?”

Raskolnikov smiles thinly. "I would much prefer Rodion, if you would."

"Ah! Of course, of course, Rodya. Anything for you. I hear madmen require special treatment, treatment I am eager to provide for a dear friend.” Razumikhin’s arm slings around his shoulder. “So again I ask– why have you come?"

"I have come.." He is not quite sure why he came, and so Raskolnikov finishes in a stately, steely tone, as to make up for his lack of objective. "I came."

"Haven't we all?" Razumikhin adds. “And what is that to mean?” Raskolnikov asks, maintaining his austerity.

“It means what it is to mean and it is that which it means, Rodya.” Razumikhin responds in an amicable parody.

“Hm.” He frowns, absentminded, sinking into the bone-thin couch. Why had he come? He had come for a reason, for every successful action requires a reason. And if there was no reason, it was not reasonable to stay, to linger. Yes, Raskolnikov agreed with a purposeful nod. There was no reason to linger, and therefore he was to leave. “Goodbye.” He stood, shrugging Razumikhin off, the other staring at him with incredulity that borders on humor. “Why, you are a mystery of a man.” Razumikhin mutters, standing up as well. “You, seeking me? It was too good to be true, fortune would never be so kind. So what are you off to do now, Rodya? Walking? Roaming? Perhaps even traipsing?” “Thinking.” Raskolnikov objects. “And can you not think in my company? It is rather overwhelming. Yes, yes– many find themselves distinctly unreasonable around a presence like mine.” “Indeed, your company seems to repel thought,” He said shortly, “A queer phenomenon that explains your simplicity.” “Ah, flattering, truly flattering. You are so lovely today, as you are every day, for you are a lovely person. The loveliest. So lovely, in fact, that I find myself in the mood for a thought too, to imitate your perfection. Come, Rodya, I will walk with you.” “You won’t.” Raskolnikov dismisses, disgusted at Razumikhin’s shameless bluff. “I will.” Razumikhin pulls on a coat. And so it is that Raskolnikov finds himself walking again without purpose, talking little and thinking even less. Razumikhin maintains good spirit alongside him, silent yet gratified with his own presence, the aggravating thing. His seething annoyance at the man had come quickly and subsided, leaving Raskolnikov in about the same, empty-headed state that he had started with. “You still follow me.” He observes. “Yes!” Razumikhin agrees with great enthusiasm, “I do, indeed, and I have been thinking all the while, and what wonderful thoughts I have had. Among these enlightenments was the notion that I shall continue to follow you.” “Undoubtedly.” Raskolnikov mutters with no spirit at all. They pause at a bridge, Raskolnikov leaning onto the damp stone ledge with little fear, staring at the churning waters below. Razumikhin joins him. He does not speak, and Raskolnikov is the one to finally do so. “..Is there a point to this? In your stalking me?” “Your awful, hurtful wording aside, no. There is no point, friend. No point at all, but my enjoyment and your obvious, desperate love for my company.” “And you don’t mind there being no point?” “No more than I mind being here.” “Hm.”

Raskolnikov is silenced for a moment as he considers Razumikhin’s simple words. There is something irritating in them, in their hopefulness. In the notion that a lack of purpose–ambition, meaning–could be substituted with… what? Enjoyment? Love? Good company? These thoughts are pushed around, slow and laborious until they are no longer slow, instead turning into a burning, aching anger.

"Say, Mitya–” Raskolnikov says suddenly. “If you'd humor such a foolish question– will you still follow me, even here? Now?"

"Where?" Razumikhin asks curiously. "Over the bridge? Why, yes, I would–and without a moment's pause, be assured, friend. Ha! What a foolish question after all."

At this, Raskolnikov smiles, a sort of creeping grin that spreads thick and cloying.

"Over the bridge indeed. I don't think you would."

"..huh? Do you believe yourself the only person capable of crossing a bridge? How arrogant! How amusing! You're quite hilarious, really." Razumikhin says this quickly, as one does when they are trying very hard to not understand

"Over." It is said with such purpose that even Razumikhin, with his forcible cheer, falters at the gleam in Raskolnikov's fevered eyes, the subtle, sickening thrill that shakes him. "If I were to cross over… would you follow me?"

"..Rodya?" Razumikhin grabs for his hand, turning it over as if the lines of Raskolnikov’s palm would reveal what was wrong with his smile. “Are you still feverish, friend? I’d thought you recovered, since you had gathered the heart to travel, but…”

"It is a simple question." Raskolnikov continues, disregarding his ramblings.

"Rodya." Razumikhin says, pleading.

Raskolnikov leans forward, head tilting in an unnatural sort of way, unused to the strange angle he is contorted at. He watches, owlish, as Razumikhin's joy shrinks under his scrutiny. His power. It has been quite a while since he has had power–true control, though it is ill-taken and sickly–and he has found it to be rather enjoyable. Razumikhin himself seems to be shrinking as well. Or Raskolnikov is growing, or perhaps the world has no logic and he is simply meant to enjoy the sight of such a tall man beneath him.

"If I were to jump–" He starts, softly, delicately, deliberately– forging ahead in a playful, awful cadence.

"I would follow!" Razumikhin cried suddenly, in such a state that he is near shouting. "..if only to fish you from the river, I doubt you would sink, given how horribly light you are– but I would follow, Rodya, and you truly are a sick man for posing such.. ghastly hypotheticals, and what is your point!?"

"There is none. I simply wanted to know."

Razumikhin stares, disbelieving, before he flies into ranting, eyes wild, tugging Raskolnikov’s hand to his chest. "Tell me, are you going to jump? You’ve been–have you planned it all? Am I to watch you bloat in the sun, am I to be your unwilling, petrified audience? Tell me, reassure me that you are not willing to jump!""..ah.” Raskolnikov sways at the burst of movement. “No. I have no plan. No scheme. No point." He muses, thoughtful, smile stretching dreamily. Razumikhin’s distress stretches as well. The sight is amusing, fear and anger spinning into a whir. The sight is fading. He is still swaying. "No point at all, I’m afraid.”

He is caught in a strong grip and a burst of frantic expletives as he collapses.

once again, i'm so sorry dostoevksy

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