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If one made a list of problems in Razumikhin’s life, somehow it would always go back to Rodya being his friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the guy — which he did perhaps a bit too much; Dmitri couldn’t think of a plane of existence where the two of them hadn’t crossed and become at least acquaintances. The amount of appreciation he directed to Raskolnikov couldn’t possibly cease just because of a dimensional switch. He was sure that wherever, whenever Rodya happened, so would Dima — and this way he was forever doomed with the prospect of following the man around like an overeager puppy.

But metaphysics was not his area — it was Rodion’s — and neither the point Razumikhin was looking for.

People called their friendship ’weird’; yes, they had the guts to look Dima dead in the eyes with a sorry smile and call it weird. A stupid term, Rodya told him once, while he rambled about whatever Foucault's book he had been reading recently, and Razumikhin agreed. They weren’t weird — the grumpy hermit intellectual who ends up in a relationship with the extroverted jock everyone loves, or whatever. They were unbalanced. Both of them were, not as a duo but as individuals: Razumikhin was unbalanced for giving Rodya sovereign over his body, heart and soul, and Rodya for… well, being Rodya.

Which could be either a curse or a blessing — Dmitri was sure the only reason his friend hadn’t confronted him yet on his feelings was that said friend was Rodya.

He didn’t understand how the hell it happened. One day he was strolling down the streets, bumped into an undergrad from a completely different faculty, and then bang, he was lying awake at night thinking about mysterious dark brown eyes. He spent all of his high school years sleeping throughout history lessons, but when Rodion explained how Nietzsche’s books influenced eugenics in Nazi Germany he didn’t even blink. Raskolnikov opened his mouth and he felt as if the Universe was being peeled right in front of him. He was torn between listening attentively and wanting to shut him up using very unorthodox methods.

Rodya wasn’t objectively beautiful — he was skinny, lanky even, dressed like a mix of hipster and beggar, and had this perpetual frown that sometimes merged into an I’m-about-to-pass-out expression. Although the affection happened at first sight, the attraction took a while to rise. But when it did, Dima’s pathetic admiration-slash-crush turned into a full-on abyss of, what, feelings and such. Reprehensible.

Rodya would kill him if he found out.

Razumikhin couldn’t help it. He’d run all the way across the campus to have lunch in the cafeteria next to the Philosophy and Social Sciences faculty, just so he could sit next to Rodya for mere forty minutes. He’d cancel plans because Rodya was not in the mood to meet people, and would sit next to him in the library for hours even if he wasn’t that much of reader himself. He started studying quantum physics because once Rodya told him it was more interesting than numbers and calculus, and he could now name four presocratic philosophers (which was more than he ever thought he could do). He’d do and give up anything, if it would make his friend slightly happier.

And that included, apparently, storming out of a party Dmitri had been really excited to attend.

You see, perhaps he shouldn’t have brought Raskolnikov to an event organized by engineering students that was full of, well, engineering students. Rodya never failed to bring up how much he despised ‘number freaks’ and variations, how ignorant they were when it came to anything besides doing maths. He’d said that to Razumikhin’s face many times before and, even if Dima knew he was referring to others and not himself, it had always struck a nerve. Dmitri thought he could make him change his mind, or at least be a bit more open-minded, if he introduced him to his friends. A party had seemed like a very good excuse to do so — Razumikhin had insisted over and over again, and when Rodya finally relented… Let’s just say he smiled throughout the rest of the day.

Now, however, the only thing he felt was guilt. With some sprinkles of annoyance — at his friends, for saying those ridiculous things to Rodya, and at Rodya for taking everything so personally. But mostly at himself: he should have known better than to bring an antisocial to a social environment.

The fact Rodya accepted, though, still reverberated through his whole being — he’d wouldn’t go for himself, but he was willing to swallow his pride and fears to stand next to Razumikhin for a couple of highly stressful hours.

“Rodya, wait!”

Dmitri trailed behind his friend, watching him stomp and run at the same time — which was impressive, how did Rodya manage to do both? The alcohol he had ingested was barely enough to keep the cold at bay, but Raskolnikov’s portion seemed more than enough to make him stagger a bit.


Ok, so Dima’s friends were idiots, and they were the only idiots in the story. He wanted to know what the hell kind of mental gymnastics Rodion had succeeded to make that got him angry at Razumikhin. Unless it was not only— he couldn’t discard the possibility that he had done something that distressed the man, after all, Rodya was… sensitive. And sometimes Dmitri’s actions or words could mean much more to the other than they did to himself.

When he finally got his hands on the man’s upper-arms, Rodion did stop — but kept trying to twist away from grip.

“Stop trying to pull away!,” snapped Dmitri, “I just want to talk!”

Keeping his eyes on the ground, Rodya relented. “Let me go.”

“You won’t run away if I do?”

The man shrugged. Razumikhin figured it would be the closest to a positive answer and let go. “What happened?”

Rodya blushed, out of anger or embarrassment or whatever else he was feeling at that moment. “You saw everything!”

“About the political argument, yes, but what else?”

Still refusing to meet Razumikhin’s gaze, Raskolnikov stuffed his hands inside of his coat’s pockets. “I didn’t like the party, so I left.”

Stormed out, thought Dmitri, but I suppose that’s just semantics.

“If it was just that, you wouldn’t have told me you were leaving.”

He never did. It always hurt a bit, it made him feel… unwanted. Not that he expected Rodya to depend on him to leave whenever he was uncomfortable, but a warning would be very welcome. For friendship’s sake, of course.

Whatever. Your friends are neanderthals.”

“Sure,” Razumikhin rolled his eyes, “where are you going then if you don’t like the party?”

He shrugged, “The dorms, probably. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

And Dmitri followed him — like he always did.

It was yet to exist a place more empty than Raskolnikov’s bedroom. He lived alone — Razumikhin had the vague impression Rodya would rather live on the streets than have a roommate — which was a revolutionary act of itself, since very few students were granted such privilege. But he seemed to abdicate of all benefits that came with having a room of his own. There were no decorations of any sorts, just four beige walls, and a small window; the bed was always undone and some stacks of books and notes were scattered around the floor. When Dmitri had asked him about bringing people over, Rodya had stared him as if he was an alien.

They hanged out sometimes in here, though. Dima would bring snacks and beers and they would sit and talk, talk, talk. It appeared to be their favorite thing to do — talk, talk, talk.

But today they were silent — there were no drinks or snacks, much less available topics. Dmitri kept throwing glances at Rodya throughout the whole way there, trying to figure out if the man was still irritated or just pensive. In turn, Raskolnikov seemed to not pay him attention at all. Even when their sides brushed as they walked, or when Dima’s glances lingered for too long. He invited Dmitri in, and it was probably more out of habit than wanting to spend more time with a friend. But today things felt different — the alcohol, perhaps? — and Razumikhin caught himself anticipating an implosion — Rodya’s silence would become too much and he would bleed inside, leaving Razumikhin to clean after his hemorrhage.

As soon as the door was closed, he felt the hot-and-cold air around them curl around his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Rodya’s head tilted to the side. “What for?”

“For taking you to a place you obviously didn’t want to go,” Dmitri clarified, “I was being selfish.”

“Don’t apologize for things you don’t need to, it kills all the purpose of an apology and makes you look like an idiot.”

Dmitri had an idea of what he looked like when he was listening to anything Rodya said — mesmerized, impressed, now adding the flush from the alcohol so he was probably looking like an idiot with or without the apology. And he felt like one, when the tension grew so tight it almost took his breath away. Raskolnikov stared at him from under his bangs, brown eyes shining like amber under the sunlight. It was that same sickly gleam he always carried around, as if instability was an inherent aspect of his soul and it reflected on his physical body. Beautiful, Razumikhin thought, just like he always did. Because it truly was.

Razumikhin was the one who did it — because there was no way Raskolnikov would be able to, even with all the random spurts of self-confidence. No, he took the step that closed the distance, he put his lips over Rodya’s, he put a hand on the other’s nape to try to find a better angle.

But it was Rodya who gripped his lapels and turned the kiss into a fight.

The sharp intake of breath came from Dmitri’s surprise, and the groan from the indescribable feel of Rodya’s tongue against his. They stumbled together — thank god, no books were stepped on — and Raskolnikov’s back hit the wall with a thud that reverberated through Dmitri’s ribcage. The angle was wrong again and Rodya was obviously not practiced enough and they were both stinking of alcohol and smoke and it was sublime. Razumikhin was still stuck on oh my god I’m kissing Rodya but nothing stopped him from gripping the other’s hips and shoving a thigh between his parted legs.

Despite ego and pride, Raskolnikov whimpered, the hold on Dmitri’s clothes shaking and being quickly substituted by arms tightening around Razumikhin’s shoulders. Rodya rolled his hips, and Razumikhin swallowed all his moans eagerly. Beautiful, he thought once again, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and Dmitri had a soft spot for pretty things.

Razumikhin interrupted the kiss to fumble with their belts, then the pants’ button, then the zippers, and he could feel Raskolnikov’s startled eyes glued to his face as he did. He almost stopped, but Rodya was reaching to get both his pants and underwear out of the way and that should be enough for consenting, shouldn’t it?

what the fuck is going on what the actual f

And that was it— the kiss became a mess while Rodya seemed frantic to tear Razumikhin’s shirt, fisting and pulling, sobbing between their lips as if he couldn’t breathe. Dmitri was burning, from head to toe and his spirit was probably in flames too, but who cared. It was so fast and twisted, completely unexpected and out of order. Which was exactly what made it right, at least in Razumikhin’s opinion.

Dmitri was too far gone now, and Rodya seemed to be a few steps ahead. Their hips rocked together, their cocks rubbing maddeningly and Razumikhin was drunk on the other’s gasped pleasurable sounds. Realizing his hands could leave the bony hips they rested on, Dmitri sneaked them under Raskolnikov’s shirt, sliding up his ribs — the man squirmed, but didn’t pull away — so he could thumb one of Rodya’s nipples, twist them between his fingers. Rodya moaned, arching up against the touch and tugged at Dmitri’s shirt until the man got the clue.

The seconds they spent apart felt like millenniums.

Without the barrier of cloth, Razumikhin pressed their chests together. Too far gone to care about proper kisses, he dipped to mouth at Raskolnikov’s exposed throat — pale like marble, untarnished, begging to be covered with possessive purple blotches. His hands slid down his friend’s lithe body to cup his ass, then grip to help their exasperated thrusting. Harder, faster, now, now, now—


Rodya trembled underneath him, scratching at his back desperately, and Razumikhin could feel the warm spurts against his belly. His breath hitched as he saw the man’s features contort beautifully, beautiful, beautiful, and it wasn’t long before he followed suit.

It was only when it was over, when their legs gave away beneath them, that Razumikhin felt the worry creep on him. He looked at Rodya, sitting by his side with his knees pulled against his chest — he was entirely in disarray, and Dmitri probably wasn’t much better. He wanted to pull him closer, but when he put his arms around the other’s bare waist he met stone-cold eyes.

“Don’t ask me to leave,” said Razumikhin. Begged.

“You can’t stay here.”

“Do you really hate me that much?”

Rodya’s cheeks, already pink from their previous activities, turned a few shades darker. “Don’t say that.”

“Let me stay,” he insisted, “let me stay, and we’ll talk things over tomorrow.”

There was a sigh and no more protests, then Rodya’s forehead bumped against Razumikhin’s shoulder.

“Okay, then.”