capeandcowllogs | let's all get up and dance to a song

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let's all get up and dance to a song

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

The hospital was large and more than just a little bit creepy; definitely a hospital, but he'd never been to a mental asylum before and had no idea what to expect beyond the front doors. The most recent experience he had to compare was from his production of Sweeney Todd -- and even Andy knew that play was not the portrait of realism. He took a moment at the front door to take off his roller skates, tucking them into his shoulder-bag.

Dressed in pastel colors (except for his red pants and black coat), he hummed quietly to himself as he signed himself in at the front desk. He wandered, from there, a bit awkwardly, feeling nervous and rubbing his hands on his sides a lot. Trying to smile professionally and not look like he was going to cry. This was his first telegram (or "Andygram", as that blonde had so cleverly coined) and the buyer was someone Andy was not looking to disappoint. This had to go well, or else.

He double-checked the patient information he was given, and walked down the hallway with more purpose. By the time he reached his destination, Andy was already feeling more confident, and smiled pleasantly at Katurian, flowers in hand.

"Delivery! Hope I'm not interrupting anything important," he said, not apologetic, "but what I have is pretty urgent. Rush delivery and everything, though sadly not quite in time for New Years. Come on, you gonna sign for it?"

Andy made a signature motion in the air with his hand.

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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?"

Andy watched Katurian writing in his book for a moment, eyebrows crinkling slightly; he'd seen people at Cornell writing in their books too, though he himself had never understood the purpose of it. Why ruin the thing? And who wants to take notes on their own time anyway? Whatever; that Kennedy had said this guy was insane.

He smiled when prompted, and swished his hand as if whatever invisible package he was delivering had been signed, and set the flowers down. "Of course. Andrew Bernard -- you can call me Bernard the Bard. I deliver musical telegrams." He pulled a card from his pocket and pushed it toward Katurian; on it was transcribed Bernard the Bard, the song title (Jig Saw Puzzle, by the Rolling Stones), and the sender. Listed for that last was simply 'BIG BROTHER'.

"It's from your brother. And I hope you like it, because I have a strict no returns policy."

Edited 2011-01-23 04:59 (UTC)

Katurian looked at the card. Looked at the book on his bed. Looked at the card.

Oh.

"My brother," he said flatly. He took the card in his hands. He was relieved he had seen it first; for all his eccentricities, Michal wouldn't sign anything 'BIG BROTHER,' and he doubted he even knew who the Rolling Stones were. Katurian barely did, their government being what it was. Which left one person, really, who would have sent it to him.

All the color drained out of his face.

"Do you have to sing it?" With his emotions dampened by the sedatives, he sounded more like a teenager resenting a round of 'happy birthday.' He didn't want to be rude to Andy. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy, albeit... perky.

"Yeah!" Andy said, eyebrows raising. "Of course I do. It isn't a singing telegram if I don't sing." The duh was implied, but not spoken. He didn't go on to clarify the sender, either -- he figured anonymity was generally important, even if Big Brother was probably some kind of inside joke.

He cleared his throat, oblivious or perhaps just ignoring Katurian's near-objection.

"There's a tramp sittin' on my doo—oorstep,
Tryin' to waste his tiiiime,
With his methylated sand—wich,
He's a walking clothesline--"

Andy's voice wasn't unpleasant -- good tonal range, aided by his hand, though he did tend to hold the high notes. Once, in the middle of the song, he took a ten second break to catch his breath. His face was flushed when he neared the finish, forehead sweaty: seven minutes was a long time.

"Well?" He asked, out of breath but smiling. "What'd you think?"

Katurian's expression shifted from obvious protest (he opened his mouth to stop him, but clamped it shut when he recognized it was probably useless) to a sort of perplexed concentration. If Eddie had sent him the song, then there was a message here, certainly, clouded in the near absurdity of the lyrics. But what? He tried to assign roles to the outcasts, the musicians, the man with the jigsaw puzzle. He couldn't parse it. With the man with the puzzle pieces, he could only think of Norman, his large hands building a picture of serenity of the rec room table.

Ironic, yes. But useless. He could do better.

"Um," he said, a bit delayed. "That was some energy. Wow."

He clapped, a one man audience. The sound fell on the empty walls, and he stopped, suddenly conscious of how wrong it sounded.

At Katurian's applause, Andy took a short bow, clearly pleased with his performance. "Thank you, good sir. I'm a little out of practice," he admitted, straightening his back. "But I've done plays; the secret to singing long songs is pacing yourself. Note for next time."

He glanced down the hallway for a moment, wondering if there was somewhere nearby he could grab a glass of water. He'd worry about it on his way out.

"Um, oh yeah--! Since you're my first delivery, is there anything else you'd like to hear before I go? I don't have anywhere to be in a hurry." Though, spending his day here wasn't a high priority. It was pretty depressing.

Katurian's brain caught on that word, play. Andy's voice had a familiar quality to it he couldn't quite identify until that moment, when the memories aligned in his mind. Right. He had spoken to him over the communicator. On reflection, it made sense; Eddie would be more likely to seek him out if he were an import.

They'd also be more likely to travel in similar circles.

Katurian tried to swallow the suspicion in his face, but it was still there, ghosting the edges of his mouth and eyes. Andy was a good man, he told himself. Innocent. But he never knew anymore.

"You're an import?"

That word again: "import." Andy wasn't sure what it meant, exactly -- in this context. The idea of new dimensions and that this was an entirely different world than his own hadn't quite sunk in yet, and still might not for a while. But he just nodded, since it seemed to be the term used for all the other people here.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. I've only been here about a week, still working on earning my wings, so to speak -- hah! It's not easy," he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves. "I think I'm the only one here without superpowers. I don't need them," he added, a quick downbeat with a quick recovery.

"I didn't know I had any powers right away either," he admitted, and then, realizing he had forgotten: "I'm an import, too."

A cautionary tale of an import, he thought, and then gave a quiet half-laugh at his own silent joke, pun, whatever it was. He wrapped his arms around his chest and took another good look at Andy. God. He had brought flowers. This nightmare was endless.

"But, um. I've spoken to you before, I think." Pause. "About theater."

Andy frowned for a moment, but then his eyebrows rose, face lighting up in recognition. He knew this man's voice had sounded familiar. It was a relief, too, knowing there were other fans of theatre here. A given, sure, but sometimes it was hard to meet people, especially in a huge city like New York. Andy didn't have his work or friends or his money -- right now, singing and acting were all he had.

"Right! You're the guy who wants to put on the play! Dude, mad props. I can see why you'd want to," he said, looking the hallway over. "I think it's a great idea. Don't let them tell you it's not -- screw them." He gestured with his thumb to no one in particular. He was thinking of the woman he'd argued with, whomever she was associated with.

"I got your back. Seriously, I was just in Sweeney Todd and it really takes your mind off all the drama." He paused for a moment, frowning and then clarifying: "Not drama like, acting. Regular bad drama."

"Wants...? No, I--" He dropped his eyes. "It was just an idea."

He had seen his conversation with Dr. Sorenson, all right. Potentially dangerous for the patients. Katurian remembered how Michal - who would've been committed if Katurian hadn't insisted on taking care of him himself - took his stories as bloody how-to manuals. Even the most innocent play had something that could spread into someone's head, here especially, and Katurian wasn't so sure he could live with that again. But--

He needed it. The idea had tumbled from his lips when he spoke to the doctor because he realized that without anything to look forward to, he was more than "bored." He was suffocating. He was waiting to die, and all the drugs in the world wouldn't change that.

Andy jutted one hip, putting his hand on the other. "This is just censorship. And Andy Bernard hates seeing people be silenced." For emphasis, he pointed with his other hand. He didn't have experience with oppression personally, but what he could do was promote other people's causes. It was a habit he fell into, because he knew it usually worked.

And a play was something he could get invested in, to take his mind off other things. Michael had done something like that once -- it usually worked pretty well. At least in Andy's opinion, it did.

"I mean, it's like when they said Lolita made someone shoot John Lennon. It makes no sense. You know? The play's the thing. Great idea, and I mean that."

Katurian's features visibly softened as he listened to Andy speak. Censorship. The play's the thing. Fiction is the thing. He was almost smiling, really, as he stepped back to sit on the edge of his bed, easing himself down into the soft, clean fabric.

And then his hand nudged against his copy of 1984, that worn, second-handed book jacket. He watched the eye on the cover and it watched him, scratching a hole in his body and pulling out its soul.

"That man who sent you to me," he started slowly, looking up. "Did he tell you to say that?"

Encouraged by Katurian's response, Andy sat down on the floor, in no real hurry anymore to leave. The red fabric of his pants and their reflection was particularly contrasted against the bright whiteness of the floor.

"Nope. I really believe it. No one complains when prisons put on plays and those guys are way worse than you," he answered, matter-of-factly. He didn't actually know much about prison plays aside from what he'd learned from the Producers, but it seemed like a fair assumption. They happened, didn't they?

"I think it's only fair."

There was an almost childlike naivety to his words, those guys are way worse than you, a naivety that kept Katurian from spiraling into his usual pit of guilt and self-doubt. He leaned forward on the bed, for now forgetting about the book. He was conscious of being wanted. His company appreciated.

He hoped he wasn't a spy for Eddie.

"Yeah? Um, I-- I didn't make it official, the suggestion, but I hope it gets through." It was all he was willing to do, for the moment. He was tired and dazed for a lot of the day, even before they increased his dosage in response to fighting Eddie. Exhaustion hung in his words and body. Still, he wasn't ready for him to leave. "Do you perform in many plays?"

Edited 2011-01-24 05:59 (UTC)

Andy took a moment before answering, fingers resting and occasionally drumming on his feet folded in front of him. He was trying not to over present himself like he did so often in the past -- first impressions were hard. He exhaled, and nodded, casual.

"Yeah, I mean, my town isn't a big theatre place. There's local shows that I audition for, usually get in." He waved his hand -- no big deal. "I did drama and a capella in college, went into business though. My 'rents hate New York and the fam has industry roots, so, you know?"

He shrugged. "But the local stuff's good too. Great people, who wants to work with stuck-up prima donnas, right?" His fingers drummed, and his eyes glanced at Katurian's book for a moment. "But next up on the Andy Bernard show, our special guest star, K. Katurian! What about you? Playwright or what?"

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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."

"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."

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."

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."

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."

"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."

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let's all get up and dance to a song

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gioafsaf that icon

it was from the new episode and i had to.

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/csi scream

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH

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