"The message," he said, without fail. He remembered Edward pacing in another room with white walls, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, only then his movements were smooth and perfectly paced. There were no hard angles. It had reminded him of a performance, the way he moved. Art. In that room, Edward had told Katurian how it wasn't fair, society defining art, how they should decide, and Katurian had wanted to drown himself in those words forever. They wrapped him in cynicism and optimism all at once. They were perfect.

Except Edward was violent. Edward was mad. Katurian knew he shouldn't be encouraging him, and yet he wanted it to be the message-- for his own reasons. Katurian had left his mark in stories, but that was not the only way he would leave his mark. Not the only form. (Even if it was the most important.) He had suffered too much for that.

He stood from the bed and took a cautious step towards Edward. He felt weaker on the bed, sitting while Edward paced and punched walls. He was not afraid of Edward hitting him.

"The only duty of being a storyteller," he echoed, words from long ago, "is to tell a story."