let's all get up and dance to a song

[acahellyeah]

WHO: ANDY BERNARD and KATURIAN KATURIAN
WHERE: NOHoPE.
WHEN: Saturday, during visiting hours.
WARNINGS: Nothing, probably.
SUMMARY: Andy delivers Katurian a song.
FORMAT: Para?

Comments

[afeatherpillow]

Katurian had been reading 1984. Edward had given it to him with enough of a wink wink, nudge nudge that a part of him was terrified of opening it. He considered giving it to one of the orderlies to throw out with the trash. He considered tearing its pages out and flushing them, one by one, down his toilet. But he read it.

It was curiosity, maybe. Or a blind confidence that he could beat Edward's game. He took notes in it, underlining every passage he deemed relevant, every instance of the word book or write or existence. There was a message for him, certainly, sprinkled in the spaces between the letters, a message so strong he could feel it boxing his ears. When the nurses asked him what he was doing, scribbling like that, he told them it was a writer thing.

When Andy came in, he was doing just that.

He closed the book slowly, tucking the pen inside like a bookmark. He saw the flowers and gave a drained, somewhat bewildered laugh.

"Are you sure you're in the right place?"

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH

[afeatherpillow]

He couldn't help but laugh, a quiet exhale that came more from his mouth than the back of his throat.

"Not plays, no," he said, though he still remembered Ryan's words, you sound like you're from a play. As terrifying as it was (and as crazy as he assumed Ryan must have been), the idea of being fictional made him feel more like a god than a man. He never stopped thinking of it. "But I write short stories."

He got up from the bed and walked to the chair he had been using a makeshift bookshelf-- or rather book dump. Once he dug out his own book - a thick hardcover with an unassuming, unillustrated red cover - he frowned and moved the other books onto the bed. Andy might want to sit in an actual chair, after all.

"Here." He handed it to him. "This is my book." Oh, how wonderful those words were.

If Andy looked inside, he'd find stories that weren't damning in theory, but that were probably giving the psychiatrists a lot to talk about it. Murder. Maiming. Incest. There were at least two-hundred of them, maybe more.

[acahellyeah]

"Oh, cool!" Andy accepted the book with one hand, miming briefly that it weighed too much for him to hold. He pulled it back, again trying (really trying) to take it easy, even if he did like making people laugh. This guy was still insane (or so Andy had been told), and he didn't want to freak him out accidentally. That could get ugly -- Andy knew from experience, even if he'd been the one on the other end.

He stood and took the seat Katurian cleared for him, opening the book carefully. "You wrote all of this?" He asked with a hint of awe, glancing at Katurian for a moment. He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking back down to ready the first page.

"Wow," he said after a few minutes, eyebrows raised. "This is like, something I'd have had to read in college and then write a paper on."

It was intended as a compliment.

[afeatherpillow]

He took it as a compliment and grinned despite himself, sitting back down on the bed. For all the suffering in his life, for all the pain, Katurian always had his writing. It kept him afloat - soaring, even - and for someone to take in that part of him... well, it made him feel like he was sharing the best part of himself. In many ways, he was.

"I have more," he said. "Not with me, but I've written more before. Those are just all the ones I had memorized."

Further explanation was needed, maybe. Why he needed to write them from memory. Why it mattered. But he didn't want to get into that right now, and so he sat on his hands and leaned forward to peer at Andy, watching his expression. Lethargy aside, he was like a little kid showing off his refrigerator artwork.

[acahellyeah]

"What kind of stuff do you usually write about?" Andy asked, flipping another couple of pages. He hadn't read far enough to get a real impression of the genre, and to be fair -- he wasn't sure if he would understand it even if he did. English was one of the classes he'd done more poorly in, Art even less. But, he still enjoyed a good story when he was faced with one.

He closed the book, feeling a little under qualified.

[afeatherpillow]

Katurian usually tried to avoid answering this question. Admitting that he wrote gruesome (and only gruesome) stories made him feel frustratingly one note, but also hyper-conscious of where all those images were coming from. That bolted-up room in his parents house. The screams reverberating off the walls. The answers he gave were vague. 'Fairy tales.' 'Short stories.' 'Stuff.'

"They're a little downbeat," he said, sheepish. Only now did he realize how much worse they'd probably sound from a mental patient. "I mean dark. Like Sweeney Todd, but with, um." He scratched behind his ear, frowning a bit. "Without any singing. I think, anyway. It's been a long time since I've seen anything put on. Not since I was little."

[acahellyeah]

"That's cool. I mean, not everything's a musical." Andy shrugged one shoulder, his hand gesturing as if it were totally obvious. He continued on, casually, "I'd probably write dark stuff too if I was any good at writing stories. Seriously depressing stuff up here now and then. Sometimes I think about talking to someone about it, but eh-"

He paused, realizing he'd gone on a tangent, and changed the subject as best he could. "I'm much more of a critic anyway. And that's like -- mind blowing," he said for lack of another adjective, and set the book beside him. "But I just can't believe you haven't seen a play since you were a kid. That's not right."

[afeatherpillow]

Katurian was so ready to launch into that, the depressing thoughts, that it was visible in his eyes, in his shift forward on the bed. When Andy brought the conversation back on topic, he did his very best to hide his disappointment. He deflated. Just slightly.

"Things got a little crazy," he said, which was probably the understatement of the century. Katurian's childhood made some of his stories sound sane and reasonable. "I had to quit school and start working full time pretty early on. So, um, no plays."

[acahellyeah]

If Andy knew, he would be hard to convince to talk about it; finding an appropriate method to outlet those feelings was difficult, even more so after Anger Management. He ran his tongue along the inner of his cheek, pressing his fingers against his knees.

"Oh man, that sucks," he said, genuinely sympathetic. He set his jaw, speaking with determination. "Well, you are so lucky that you met me. Because I will make sure this happens."

[afeatherpillow]

He gave a small, startled laugh, for a moment not entirely sure whether Andy was being serious. It was a grand promise to make for someone the man barely knew, for someone wearing a pastel medical bracelet. It seemed so genuine, though. That determination. That drive. He cared-- about the art, at the very least. That was all that mattered to Katurian.

"Well," he said, managing a smile. "I'll have to hold you to that."

[acahellyeah]

"I promise. And a Bernard promise is worth so much more than a regular promise. At least, in my case it does. Maybe it's impossible, but I'll do it. Just try and stop me."

Of course, he had no idea how possible it would be, but trying always counted, didn't it? He'd all but moved the moon and stars for Angela when they were engaged, putting on a play by all rights should be simpler.

"So yeah. Totally hold me to it, dude. I got your back."