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ethereousdelirious · 4 years

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Yes I did finally snap and write C.rime and P.unishment sickfic because life is short and nothing is sacred

Characters: R.askolnikov, R.azumikhin

Pairings: N/A

Warnings/Notes: Takes place before the events of the book. Originally written for the Whumptober prompt "migraine"

If there are any formatting errors, I'll have to delete the post and re-post it on desktop later 🥲

"Rodya!" Razumikhin pounded on the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. "Rodion Romanovich, you scoundrel, open the door!" He paused a moment and, when the door failed to open and his classmate failed to appear, continued beating the door like it had done him a personal wrong. "I'm not going away until you open this door. Tell me you're not going to quit! I won't hear of it!"

Finally, Raskolnikov's voice came from the other side of the door. "I'm not going to quit, for heaven's sake. Will you stop trying to break my door down?"

"Not until you open up and offer me some sort of explanation," Razumikhin said. "I can say here all day and all night if I want to."

"I just told you I'm not going to quit. Now leave already."

"Why?" Though Raskolnikov couldn't see it, Razumikhin let his face break into a teasing grin. "Why, Rodya, do you have a girl in there?"

The door swung open so hard it nearly hit Razumikhin in the face. He caught it just in time. "There you are."

"Here I am. Alone." Raskolnikov glared at Razumikhin. He was pale, as most students were, from lack of sleep and overabundance of stress. "Now will you go?"

"Not just yet." Razumikhin leaned against Raskolnikov so he could see past the door frame. The room was dark even though it was barely afternoon; Raskolnikov had tacked a blanket up over the window. "What are you up to, Rodya?"

Instead of shoving him back and slamming the door in his face, which Razumikhin had been half-expecting, Raskolnikov fell back and sat down at his table, piled high with books and loose papers. "Investigate if you must, but please do it quietly," he said, and buried his face in his hands.

Razumikhin came in properly and shut the door, not missing the way Raskolnikov flinched at the creak of rusty hinges. "Has something happened?" he asked, kneeling by Raskolnikov's side.

Again, Raskolnikov's shoulders tensed even though Razumikhin had made a point of speaking softly. It wasn't fear, he realized, but pain. Razumikhin resisted the urge to smack his own forehead.

He placed his fingertips on Raskolnikov's back, feeling the muscles tense beneath his shirt. If it had been anyone else, Razumikhin would have put on a great show of teasing them for overindulging at a drinking den, but no tang of alcohol tainted the air in Raskolnikov's room, nor the lingering odor of cigarette smoke.

"What's the matter with you, then?" Razumikhin asked, mostly rhetorically. "Are you ill?"

"Which answer will make you be quiet?" Raskolnikov asked. "'Yes' or 'no'?"

"Sadly for you, brother, the answer is 'neither." Razumikhin walked his fingertips up Raskolnikov's back until they reached the nape of his neck. "If you're ill, then I'm going to stay and ensure you're well looked after. If you're not, I'm going to stay and make you tell me all about your night of carousing and merriment, though I admit such things are against your nature."

Raskolnikov pulled his hands away from his face so he could yawn. He was still pale and disinclined to keep his eyes open. "It's just a bad headache," he said, blinking as though the room was painfully bright even with the blanket over the window. "I used to get them when I was younger."

"Then I stay," Razumikhin said.

"I don't care what you do, so long as you're quiet about it," Raskolnikov said.

"There must be some treatment," Razumikhin said.

Raskolnikov waved a hand to indicate that he should either be quiet or go away. Razumikhin put his own hands up in surrender. Backing away lightly so as not to make the floorboards creak, he pointed toward the door and mouthed be right back.

Raskolnikov only sighed and lowered his head to the tabletop.

#ethereous writes

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supernatural-stuffs · 7 years

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Coffee Convos

A/N: I wrote this one-shot for @queen-of-deans-booty ‘s Trope Challenge. My prompt was #30-I see you at the coffee shop all the time, looking beautiful and minding your own business and I see you reading/writing/etc and now I can think of an excuse to talk to you. I may write a part two to this, depending on the feedback I get. Thanks for reading!

Warnings: descriptions of Jensen Ackle’s thighs, swearing

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Word Count: 3,145

Disclaimer: Jensen is single for the purposes of this fic. No hate intended towards Danneel or his family-this is purely fiction!!!

Also: Y/L/N’s = the name of the coffee shop

I hurried down the sidewalk, knowing I had only minutes left. My feet pounded on the pavement faster and faster until I was practically running, weaving through various pedestrians and passers-by. It was obvious to anyone that I was running late today. There wasn’t exactly a particular reason for said lateness, except maybe my penchant for hitting the snooze button one too many times. Thank God the building was only a 5 minute walk from my apartment in downtown Austin.

Finally I reached my destination. Peeking through the window of the small coffee shop, I sighed in relief. Not a customer in sight. Despite my belatedness, I had managed to beat the morning rush. I pushed through the glass doors, nearly crashing into a tall stack of boxes as I did so.

“Sorry Sarah! Didn’t see you there.”

A flustered face peeked out from behind the tower of cardboard.

“Oh, hey Y/N. I’ll grab you your usual as soon as I toss these.”

“I’ll grab the boxes,” I offered. “The morning rush will be coming in soon, and you should be at the counter.”

She nodded and handed me her load before hurrying to the counter, throwing on her apron. I saw her get to work on my latte as I left. Though there were other employees that could have made my drink, Sarah was my favorite. I’m not sure exactly how she did it, but somehow it always tasted better when she made my coffee.

Throwing the heap into the dumpster in the back, I returned quickly, the extra promise of caffeine hurrying my movements.

Sarah slid it across the counter to me, bartender style. I took a long drag, savoring the sweet caramel flavor.

“Mmm. God, this is good. Remind me to give you raise or something.”

Sarah quirked her eyebrow. “Is that you or the caffeine talking?”

“Probably the caffeine,” I admitted. “But I can’t be held accountable for anything I say under the influence of this beautiful, beautiful drink.”

I took another big gulp of it, and Sarah just rolled her eyes. She knew better than to contest my coffee addiction.

“You were late today,” she pointed out instead. “Almost got caught in the swarm.” She gestured her head towards the line that was already starting to form.

“Yeah well, I was up late last night.”

“Ooh,” she wiggled her eyebrows. “Out partying?”

I scoffed. “Right. Because I have such a corybantic social life.”

“Well you would if you stopped using words like corybantic.”

I scoffed. “Don’t you have work to do?” I looked pointedly at my other employees, frantically trying to fulfill orders as caffeine-starved people jockeyed for their orders.

She sighed and got back to work, mixing drinks while I took my coffee to my regular spot. Getting my laptop out, I started going over the notes my editor had sent me. I had been working my ass off for the past few weeks trying to get my book polished off and edited. Between that and running my little cafe, I had been burning the midnight oil much too late for my liking. I briefly pondered on Sarah’s comments on my social life. Though I knew she was joking, it wasn’t too far from the truth. Sure, I had friends, and it wasn’t as if I was some kind of social pariah, but my double career life did leave something to be desired in regards to the recreational department.

I shook off the thoughts and went back to revising. I could contemplate on the inner workings of my life some other time.

After about three hours, I decided that it was time I took a break. Though I had been there quite some time, it was nearing around nine o’ clock, and people were still bustling about trying to fulfill orders. I thought briefly about jumping in to help out, but then I remembered my last attempt at barista-ing (is that even a word?). Long story short, we were forced to buy three new coffee makers after I attempted a new style of brewing that I had seen on the Food Network. I have since sworn off both coffee making as well as watching Barefoot Contessa.

So I allowed my employees do what I paid them to do, and settled in with Crime and Punishment. It was about my eighth time re-reading it, but what can I say? We all have our guilty pleasures. An old woman being axe-murdered just happens to be one of mine.

I was just getting to Razumikhin’s visit when a voice pulled me out of my reading-induced stupor.

“Crime and Punishment, huh?”

I glared at the book, refusing to look up. I knew it was a customer. Everyone who worked at Y/L/N’s knew not to interrupt me while I was in the midst of reading. As pet peeves go, it was near the top of my list, right up there with loud chewing and people who don’t cover their mouths when they sneeze.

I responded without moving my head in the slightest, turning my page to signify that I was, in fact, reading, and not just staring blankly at a book hoping that a stranger would strike up conversation with me.

“Mmhm.”

“That seems pretty heavy for a coffee shop read, don’t you think?”

Man, this guy really doesn’t take a hint, does he? And who says coffee shop reading has to be light? I certainly had never heard of that social norm. And you know what else I had never heard of? People being overjoyed when a stranger interrupts their reading. So I turned my face up to look at him, ready to tell this guy off for being especially rude and discourteous.

And I stopped dead in my movements. Because it just so happened that Mr. Book Interrupter was incredibly hot. Gorgeous, actually. Some might even call him beautiful. With those green eyes and that light scruff and that sharp jawline. Dear Lord.

Oh, and he was Jensen Ackles. You know, the famous guy? The one who’s on that really popular TV show with the monsters and ghosts and the like? The one that I may or may not have been obsessed with at that current moment in time?

So, naturally, I stared with my mouth hanging open like a fool for…I don’t know, ten seconds? Or maybe it was ten minutes. It felt like ten years, but I knew that was probably unlikely.

He chuckled a little awkwardly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. This was enough to snap me out of it. I shut my mouth quickly, hoping there was no drool littering my chin, and looked away, embarrassed.

“Sorry, I, um, didn’t mean to stare.”

He nodded, his cheeks a little pink, and I vaguely thought about what it would be like to run my fingers over his blushing cheek, to see if that scruff was as delicious feeling as it looked. Thankfully, my fingers didn’t obey this command. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered reading that he had moved to Austin. But I had never even imagined the possibility that he would be here, in my tiny coffee shop. Why was he here? There were plenty of other, more upscale cafes in Austin. Ones that were surely more worthy of his celebrity status.

My brain suddenly reminded me that he had said something before I so rudely chose to gawk. Ah, right! My book. Even all the glory of Jensen fucking Ackles wasn’t enough to take away from the fact that I was still a little miffed about that. So I decided to treat him as I would any other stranger who had chosen to interrupt my leisure time. I mean, he’s just a person, right? An incredibly handsome, talented, famous person, but a person nonetheless. And it’s not like I was obsessed with him. I was obsessed with the character he played. And that’s totally different.

At least, that’s what I told myself. It was a lie, of course, but it helped me muster up the courage to at least speak in his presence.

“Right, well, Dostoevsky’s writing actually isn’t that complex. Most of his works have overarching themes of nihilism and the natural psychological tendencies of mankind, so once you realize that it’s pretty much just plot analyzation.”

Oh God. I was going for slightly annoyed yet still cool and collected, but instead I did the thing. The rambling thing. Sarah called it my nerd brain purge. Apparently when I get nervous I tend to over inform. God, this interaction was getting more embarrassing by the second.

Jensen looked just as surprised as I did. Maybe he thought I was going to stare at him some more. He sat down in the armchair next to me, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans. His glorious, glorious thighs. I had dreamed of those bowlegs before, but TV and my imagination didn’t do them nearly enough justice. Aaand now I was fangirling again. Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare, I repeated like a mantra in my brain.

It was harder to keep my cool than I had previously expected.

“Well, uh, that certainly sounds complex to me. But I haven’t exactly read much Dostoevsky, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

I smiled slightly and nodded. Maybe that was the approach to take. If I just kept my mouth shut, nothing else stupid could come tumbling out.

He seemed at a loss for what to say next. I saw a light bead of perspiration forming on his upper lip, and he started fidgeting with a tiny thread that was poking out of the sleeve of his jacket. Was he nervous? All the signs seemed to point to that. But what possible reason would Jensen Ackles, TV star and celebrity extraordinaire, have to be nervous around me? In fact, why did he even come over here in the first place?

I decided to abandon my former rule about speaking, my curiosity getting the best of me.

“So, uh, did you need something? I’m sure you didn’t come over here just to discuss the many plot devices of Dostoevsky.”

I let out a little laugh, trying to relieve the tension that hung in the air between us.

Jensen laughed slightly, too, and blushed again. He seemed even more flustered now. I couldn’t understand why.

“Um I wanted to ask you-well actually I was wondering, uh, what your name is?”

I smiled slightly at his stuttering. I didn’t fully understand what was happening at the moment, but I did know that he was extremely adorable when he was ruffled.

“Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”

I thrust out my hand for him to shake.

He slid his hand into mine, and I swore I felt a spark of electricity travel up my arm when his rough, calloused hand enveloped mine.

“Jensen Ackles.”

“I know,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. My cheeks instantaneously burned red hot. Why, why did I have to say that?

He grinned. A contemplative look flashed across his face, then, and his brows furrowed as though he was attempting to solve a very difficult math problem.

“Wait, Y/L/N? As in…” he gestured to the area around us, indicating that he was asking about the coffee shop.

“One and the same.” I shook my head in affirmation, my cheeks still uncomfortably hot.

“So you’re the owner of this place?”

I nodded again, starting to feel like a bobblehead.

“That’s cool… that’s really cool.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to figure out where he was headed with all of this. He squirmed a little under my gaze.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked before I stopped myself.

He nodded, leaning a little closer to me as I spoke.

“Why are you talking to me? I mean, you’re a-you’re a celebrity. What made you want to make awkward small talk with me, of all people?”

There. It was out, now. The question that had been hanging in the air since he shad approached me. I may have sounded a little brusque while asking it, but at least I could know now, understand why Jensen had chosen to spend a beautiful Thursday morning in a cramped coffee shop, talking to a girl who had previously had her nose buried in a book.

“Well, um. This is going to sound super creepy.” He took a deep breath, and my eyebrows shot up in question, gesturing for him to continue.

“Well, I’ve kind of been…watching you.”

My eyebrows flew even higher.

“Watching me?” I squeaked.

“Not like that!” He said quickly. “I haven’t been stalking you or anything like that. It’s just… I’ve been coming in here every day for the past two months, and you’re here every day. Sitting in this same spot. And you always look super busy. Like, you’re always either writing furiously on that little notebook,” he motioned to my notepad beside me, which was, indeed, open and full of scribbled words. “or you’re typing on your laptop. And you have this incredible focus. I’ve never even seen you look up from your work. And you do this thing, where you scrunch up your eyebrows and chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking really hard. I guess…today was just the first day I’ve ever seen you look…still. Calm. I don’t know, this probably sounds dumb, but there’s just something about you that made me feel like I had to talk to you. That I had to see what you were working on so furiously every day. And that I had to tell you that-that you’re extremely beautiful.” He said the last part in a big rush of air, like it had been physically painful for him to hold the words inside his chest and they just had to come out all at once.

I stared at him in shock. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Jensen Ackles was here. In front of me. Telling me I was beautiful and that he had noticed me. He had noticed me. He had been coming here for two months? And I had never seen him? How could I have missed him? He was JENSEN ACKLES. Was it really possible that I had been so wrapped up in trying to get my book finished that I had been completely missing looking up and seeing him all these days?

I hadn’t spoken for a good fifteen seconds, just staring at him numbly, trying to process everything he had said.

“Please, say something,” he begged. He looked a little desperate.

I forced myself to snap out of it.

“I-” I laughed a little, still reeling. “I don’t really know what to say. Thank you, I guess.”

He beamed at me, flashing his bright whites. My stomach flip flopped. That had been the first time he had smiled, really smiled, since we had started this conversation, and it took my breath away. We sat there for a moment, him smiling broadly and me grinning like a fool back at him. I got lost in those piercing eyes and the tiny freckles smattered across the bridge of his nose and continuing on to his cheeks.

The moment was interrupted by a loud ringing. We both jumped, and Jensen snatched his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the caller ID and his eyes widened.

“Oh shit. What time is it?” he asked frantically.

I checked my own phone. “Umm…almost 10:15.”

He swore under his breath again and answered the call with a swipe of his finger.

“Jared! Look, dude, I’m so sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

He must have been talking to his costar, Jared Padalecki. I was struck again with how crazy and surreal this whole thing was. Not for the first time that day, I wondered if I was in some kind of a dream. Or maybe a drug-induced hallucination. But inwardly, I knew that my subconscious could never have been this creative. This was completely and totally one hundred percent real.

“Look, I’ll be there in five minutes, okay?…Yeah…Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

He ended the call with a jab of his finger, and turned back to me.

“You have to go,” I stated. I hoped my voice didn’t give away my disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said somberly. “I’m really sorry, but I completely forgot I made plans.”

“It’s okay,” I nodded. “I get it.”

He nodded, and started to get up, then seemed to think better of it and sat back down, facing me.

“Could we…could we do this again sometime? Not exactly this, obviously, I was thinking a different location, and a different day, and we would probably be wearing different clothes, and-”

I cut off his rambling, putting my hand on top of his. He looked down at our hands, and then back up at me.

“Yeah,” I smiled shyly. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

He bit his lip and grinned, gesturing to my phone. “Can I…?”

“Oh!” I typed in the password and handed it to him, allowing him to enter his phone number. He punched in some digits and handed it back. Our fingers brushed for a moment as I took it from him, and I felt that flip flop sensation in my stomach all over again. I smiled when I saw that he had saved his number under the name “Jay”.

“I’ve really gotta get going,” he said apologetically.

I nodded, and Jensen turned and started towards the door, dodging over-caffeinated soccer moms and their grabby children as he did. Once he reached the counter, though, he stopped. He swiveled to face me once more.

“Hey Y/N?” he called out through the din of people chatting and orders being yelled.

“Yeah?” I responded hopefully.

“Call me, okay?”

There was a kind of vulnerability in his eyes. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. It was almost as if he needed to hear me say it, that he needed the reassurance that I would actually use the number he’d given me.

So I stared into those emerald eyes and hoped that I looked sincere. “Yeah, Jensen. I’ll call you.” I smiled reassuringly.

He nodded. He looked a little more confident, a little more sure of himself, then, as he winked at me and turned on his heel to stride out the door.

I sighed happily, collapsing against my chair. Now I knew what all those romance novels (which I totally, definitely don’t have a stash of underneath my bed) were talking about when the girl got all swoony. My mind was moving at warp speed, trying to catalog every detail, every flash of those dimples to think back on later. I could not wait to tell Sarah about this.

#Jordan’sTropeChallenge #Jordan’s1kChallenge #jensenxreader #spn #spn rpf

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foxantoine · 7 years

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MY VOICE SUCKS AND i was tagged by @razumikhins! thanks~

Accent Challenge

what’s your name and username?

where are you from?

what’s the time where you are?

pronounce the following words: meme, pepe, doge, sudoku, espresso, celtic, açaí, dr. suess

what’s your favorite pizza place? favorite pizza topping?

what’s your favorite dessert?

what’s your favorite food? what food do you hate?

what’s your favorite tv show? which tv show were you into, but then got out of?

what brand is your phone?

do you speak a second language?

how do you define a group of people when you’re talking to them? do you say ‘guys’ or ‘dudes’ or?

which harry potter house do you most identify with? if sorted by pottermore, do you agree with the one you got?

is there something you should be doing right now but are procrastinating?

now that you’ve talked about what you need to be doing, go do it!

i say ‘’whatever’’ a lot...and in some places i’ve lost all the tiny bits of english grammar i’ve ever had...whatever... hope my accent doesn’t sound like the typical russian one.... . ..

i tag @grayarothane, @rnyfh, @davidchaller, @fbexplorer, @quicksilverys, but don’t get it too serious, it’s not an obligation. have fun!

#TAGGED IN #the weirdest thing #personal #myvoice #audio

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vasyashumkov · 10 months

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Razumikhin voice I’m here for a hat that’s not ugly like this hat boy look at this hat what an eyesore it’s my best friends hat he’s my best friend in the world and he’s very sick it’s so sad he’s ill and without a hat. He needs a hat andpants and would you take a look at these boots my god. what do you mean this is a flower shop. do you have a hat

#dostoevskygirl pride #from my drafts

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irritablepoe · 10 months

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Your Help Heals All My Wounds (Chapter 1)

^^^^check out the link as well, it'll get you to the full ao3 fic :3

Fandom: Crime and Punishment

Ships: Raskolnikov/Razumikhin

Tags: Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending

Cw: Internalized Homophobia (not in this chapter tho)

Summary: Raskolnikov's penalty is coming to an end. Razumikhin suggests his plans for the future which involve Raskolnikov and a few more feelings than he had planned on. Meanwhile Dunya and Sonya are holding hands.

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Razumikhin was not surprised when he found out Raskolnikov was responsible for the murders. However he was devastated when he found out that Sonya had known the story the whole time. Now Razumikhin found himself in an endless circle of blame and guilt. He should have checked up on Raskolnikov when he isolated himself. He should have been more attentive, more engaging with him. Instead he had done what he always did: talking way too much. But on the other hand he was angry with Raskolnikov. Was he not trustworthy enough? Was he not a good enough friend? He had done everything; he had bought Rodya new clothes, a pillow, made sure he wouldn’t accidently throw himself down the stairs in his feverish delirium. He’d never left Dunya or his mother until she died.

Now that Rodya was in Siberia, he found himself unable to think of anything else other than him. One time he visited him. He had looked pale and sickly, like he always did, but his arms were more muscular than before. Razumikhin wondered how Rodya survived in this unforgiving environment. He couldn’t help thinking of Rodya as someone he had to protect. He was always so ill, fragile almost, but Razumikhin had also known there was a fire beneath the pale skin. This fire had ended in tragedy. The tragedy didn’t however extinguish the flames. He had seen the dark circles under Rodyas eyes. He couldn’t sleep so that meant he was thinking about something. His mind was wandering, working. Always working. Razumikhin wished he could do something to calm his mind. To make all the tragedies undone. He said so when he had met Rodya once again. He had looked a little better. New purpose seemed to glitter in his eyes. Razumikhin wondered what could have changed while he was away.

“I appreciate your effort, dear friend. But I myself am responsible. And I’m neither ashamed nor do I regret what I did.”, he had said.

Razumikhin remembered how startled he was. Rodya had never called him a dear friend, had he? Especially not without the usual ironic undertones. His voice was genuine, soft. Something warm had spread within Razumikhin. Even now, that he remembered the words.

“I wish I could bring you home.”, Razumikhin had answered.

“I would enjoy that.”, Raskolnikov had said with a small smile, “but I’m afraid you have to wait for me little longer.”

Rodya had taken his hand and given it a squeeze. Razumikhin still felt it in his bones, on his skin. “How is my sister?”, he had added.

“She mourns but she’s tough.”

He had looked to the ground. “Are you with her?” There was something in his words, more than Rodya would ever say. But Razumikhin had understood a long time ago that his friend was way too cryptic that he could possibly grasp everything he was saying or not saying.

“I visit your sister regularly.”, he had said at last.

Rodya had seemed pleased. “Good. Thank you.”

“I promised to not leave her alone.”

“You are a good man, Razumikhin.”

A tingle had made his way down Razumikhin’s spine. “I left you.”

Rodya had shook his head. “No, you didn’t. I disappeared. I wanted to visit you on multiple occasions but… I couldn’t. I should have though.”

“You did once. I realise now that you were feverish and the whole thing was already done, but you came to me.”

Raskolnikov had thought about that for a long time. “I did. I forgot.” He had been silent again. “You came to me.”

“Yes. I was worried about you, Rodya.”

There had been a bitter grimace on Rodya’s face. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“But I do. I said it before, but you wouldn’t listen. Many people care about you. If you want it or not, I will help you. And I will help you gladly. Do you understand me now? Do you understand me? You’re always asking me if I understand you but do you understand me then? I understand you better than you would ever imagine and, yes, I may be a fool! The most foolish fool to ever exist for not realising what you wanted to tell me all those nights ago, but I do know this: you think you have to do everything alone. That you’d be better off when everyone is leaving you alone. Well I don’t think so! If not for me, where would you be, hm? If not for you, where would I be?”

“Razumikhin, you don’t understand!”, Raskolnikov had shouted, “You should not care about me.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m a murderer. And you’re a good man.”

“And you’re telling me that you’re a bad man?”

“What else can I be? What else could I possibly be! I murdered two women and I don’t feel sorry. I simply cannot feel sorry! I had reason! Had a theory that would justify everything I’ve done. Of course I’ve proven myself wrong. I’m wrong and a louse, for sure! I was given the chance to end it all but I refused, still thinking I’m above shame, above guilt! So proud, oh, too proud! Where’s the goodness in that?”

“I see it in you. No matter what! I’ve seen what you’re capable of when you’re in your right mind. You’ve saved people you don’t even know. And I think the greatest man is also capable of causing the most pain. It’s a matter of choice. You just have to accept my help – or anyone’s help for devil’s sake! I don’t give a damn! But you are a good man and no one will ever convince me otherwise. Least of all you!”

“You’re a fool indeed then!”, Raskolnikov had snapped.

“I am, so what?”

“You’re blinded.”

“I see clearer than ever, Rodya.”

Raskolnikov looked at him with narrow eyes. “Do you, now?”

And Razumikhin realised that maybe he didn’t. “At least I want to, Rodya. Please tell me what’s on your mind; tell me how to help!”

Raskolnikov was quiet and Razumikhin had left with only a few words of goodbye. Now Razumikhin was laying in a cheap bed on the first floor of an even cheaper inn, unable to sleep, unable to think straight. What had been on Rodya’s mind? He would have given anything to know. Why couldn’t Rodya just talk? Why was he always so secretive? And why was he, Razumikhin, such a fool? Why couldn’t he just let it be? Raskolnikov once said that he didn’t care for Razumikhin’s help. Was Razumikhin helping him because he knew it was a lie? Was Rodya so defensive because he actually enjoyed his help, his company?

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