Chapter Text
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.