?

Log in

 
 
23 April 2007 @ 12:47 am
Friendship is love of the farthest.  
Cast: Mikhail Bakunin, Freddy Nietzsche
Rating: As the LJ cut would indicate, there is some language here and there.
Time: Some point this weekend.
Summary: Bakunin checks in on Freddy and discovers there are some quasi-amnesiac problems there, but that's maybe even the least of his friend's issues.

It's been a while since Mikhail has been out of his dorm room for anything other than class and his 'scheduled meetings' with Alfric. But today, Freddy's voicemail really rattled him. He should've gone to see his friend earlier, but he's been... out of it. Bakunin bites his lip and then takes a final drag of his cigarette, stomping his way up to Freddy's door and then knocking on it loudly. "OPEN UP, FUCKER."

"Jesus fuck, I don't have any money—" Nonetheless, the door swings open, propped thus by the foot of one exceptionally lean, exceptionally scruffy Freddy, smoking a cigarette. He squints, not even pretending to recognize Mikhail for a few moments, until he says unconvincingly, "Ohhhhh."

"Shuddup." Mikhail steps inside without waiting for an invitation and ruffling Freddy's hair as he rummages for another cigarette, one hand holding a six-pack. "You look like shit man. Not that that's anything new, but you know." Mikhail looks a little scruffed himself, but it's less his punk stylings and more him this time around. He's dressed normally, jeans and t-shirt and jacket. Nothing overly punk save for his usual attitude. "What's going on?"

The room has paper everywhere, which Freddy doesn't bother to move or organize or get out of Mikhail's way. Then there is all the damage he's done to the wall— nonsense written in ballpoint pen ink or just carved with a knife. It's not ubiquitous, not like a highly cinematic crazy person's walls. It's just— bizarre, illogical. "Bakunin," says Freddy cautiously, shifting weight back and forth on his feet rather rapidly. "Uh... have a beer?"

"I brought some. You invited me over in an e-mail a ways back. I was still in England." Mikhail has come to expect a lot of things from Freddy, and even more when you combine his issues with Eupheme and Icaria in general, but his best friend forgetting who he is? He's still dealing with that one, and it's taking a little bit of time. He plops down on Freddy's bed, ignoring papers and the like and giving the wall a once over, before opening a bottle of beer and offering the rest of the six-pack to Freddy. "You have one. Siddown."

For a good minute or so, the other completely ignores the offer. "If anyone's wondering about me," he says, assuming that Bakunin's a friend, "you should... you should tell them I'm not going to be here much longer."

Mikhail frowns heavily, glowering at his friend and tilting his head a little. "... I'm wondering about you, Freddy. Dude, what the fuck is going on? You're scaring the shit out of me." He raises a brow. "And I hit things that scare me. So."

Holding up papers at random, Freddy manages in fits and starts, "I'm not— I'm writing this, okay?— but I'm not writing it. I am. Not me, but me. And he's— that's— all being called out, up again." Finally he cracks open a beer and starts drinking it slowly, despite his quick, stunted speech. "I'm getting told things about everything that's... well, just about everything, and it's making so much sense, but I don't think I get to be a bodhisattva about it. Not this time around."

Mikhail blinks, taking a long draw of his own beer and eyeing his friend as he drags his cigarette. "You're going to have to work through this in a more... uh... slow pace. Start from the beginning, and use names, man. I can't deal with this he-she-they crap right now." But Bakunin looks genuinely worried; even if Freddy really doesn't remember him, this is one boy that at least possesses true concern.

"That's the thing. I don't know how I can explain it better," Freddy answers, fingers twitching a bit on the beer can with all the fidgeting jitters of a coke addict. Going on: "Is this Weimar? It's too modern. Let me tell you my name, though, since you ask. It's a real laugh riot. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. Yeah, not Frederick. Friedrich. Barrel of monkeys right fucking there. And now my own personal John the Baptist has come floating out of the wilderness to remind me I've fucked up completely, I'm a false start, need to do a redo, there's just one thing I can still set right."

"... I really hate this 'talkin' in riddles' crap, man. You know I do." Mikhail runs a hand through his hair and sighs, leaning back against the wall and staring at his friend. "All right, I'll bite. What is it you can 'set right'?"

Smirking, feeling some edge of familiarity creeping back into their conversation nonetheless, the other replies, "I'm supposed to figure that out still. Point is, I don't know how I know you, because you weren't with me the first time, clearly... I'm sorry to break it to you, but pretty soon you won't know me, either." This is said with surprising resignation and yet still a great amount of energy.

"... we met in the kitchen of MacArthur Hall. I was eating your birthday cake. We hit it off. Dude, what the fuck is going on?" Now Mikhail looks desperate; scared and small, despite his size. If there's a person he'll believe anything from in this world, it's Freddy Nietzsche, and so he asks: "Tell me what's going on. Stop being cryptic, man. Please."

Freddy all but slams his beer can down. "I can't not be cryptic because the motherfucking prophet of prophets has decided to invade my personal space with his eternally blaring Strauss shit and remind me how the fucking fucking Nazis took some goddamn revelatory things I wrote and killed six fucking million people, and so I've gotta rework it, rework it and stuff. But I can't do it here and now because Lou is in these parts and Lou is important somehow... I think she's maybe what I have to fix... fix things with... I don't know." Eyes brightening madly, they dart to look at something in the corner of the room, something large and very present and utterly invisible.

It makes sense. At least in Mikhail's mind. Nazis. See, Nazis are something that Bakunin can understand. Strange as that may be. Politics; inter-social calamity. He's studied these things; he's kept in tune with it. It's starting to click and it shows in his eyes. "... fuck. Dude, it's not your fault. They... they just needed an excuse; you got screwed, but you can't... it's not your responsibility, you know?" Might as well play along; although at this point, even Bakunin isn't sure what he believes anymore when it comes to this.

"If I'd written it right. If there were a way to express everything neatly and concisely and clearly and not all open to reinterpretations that only something with the mental capacity of a fetus would make. God, I have to write for fetuses now." Finishing off his beer, Freddy shrugs. "Doesn't matter, anyway, though. That'll be next time. I just have to... get to the next time."

Mikhail frowns. "Freddy... everything is open to interpretation. You can't... you can't write absolute truth; absolutism is for..." He grimaces. "It's for nazis. You have to... you have to let people see what they need to see and hope they see what you put there; you can't... do you get that? If you write for fetuses, they'll forget by the time they can understand." He drags his cigarette sharply. "Choice, man. Can't force it."

Suddenly Freddy looks angry, and starts worrying his lower lip. "That's not it. That's just not it. I'll try to... articulate something, before this is over."

"Yeah, that's what I was asking you to do." Mikhail rubs the bridge of his nose and eyes his friend. "We blew up Dean Alfric's car man. You gotta remember that." Almost desperate. No, not almost.

A blank stare.

"Fuck. FUCK." The Russian sighs and hides his head under his hands for a moment before looking back up. "... just... go ahead. Articulate."

Sighing, Freddy shakes his head, and pulls out a pen from his desk drawer, dissecting it and then suddenly snapping the cartridge between his hands, letting the ink splatter on his palms; he begins rubbing them together, spreading the bluish black fluid all over until he slaps two indigo handprints on the wall, bam bam. "I mean, I'll shoot you an email or something, dude. When I said articulate before this is over, I mean before it's over over. Not this conversation."

Mikhail's face is somber. Accepting, but somber; and more than a bit insulted. "So... what? I'm supposed to just sit tight and wait for you to shoot me a note and then disappear? That's nice. You really must have forgotten me, 'cuz that's uh... that's not the way I operate, and you knew that." He takes a draw of his beer and then shakes his head a little, snorting. "Seems like you're so worried about not being able to say something just right, that you're scared of talking about it at all."

"Jesus fuck, do I have to spell it out for you? Was that how we used to operate?" spits Freddy back, with anger that appears to surprise him, even as he barrels on. "I am losing my mind. Everyone is, everyone's getting nauseated and going fucking insane in their own special ways, but actually talking about it when you aren't hearing voices or hallucinating and shit— that's a surefire way to not even get put in the insane asylum— it's a way to get classified an attention whore." It might not be clear what his point is, but he continues rambling. "Which is worse, really. To be marginalized without even the dignity of free meals and TV. Especially when there are attention whores out there fucking it up for the rest of us..." Now he pauses, seeming to recognize that he's not really explaining anything. "You know Zarathustra?"

The Russian's reaction is less shock and more indifference; at this point, Freddy getting mad at him isn't really one of his 'concerns'. "I'm surrounded by fucking pansies," Mikhail says after a moment. "Yeah, I've heard of it. What about it?"

Freddy replies, "Not it. Him. Or— no, 'it' could work. Some call him Zoroaster. Point is: he's the prophetic force that comes to different cultures, age after age. He keeps coming. He keeps... incarnating. And I wrote about him. Back then. Or now. God, I can't tell if it's then, or if it's now. Your name is ringing bells, but they're old bells. Bells from back before the October Revolution and all that shit."

"All right. So the prophetic force comes back, age after age; and you wrote about it... at some point in time." Freddy writing anything with any consistency gives Mikhail a headache, but he shrugs it off, eyeing his friend. "... so, what? Did he show up on you? You got Zarathustra stuffed in a corner somewhere?" He bites his lips at the last comment, the one about himself. It digs a little too much; and for some reason, make him uncomfortable.

Eyes dark, Freddy asks, "Essentially...?" A long pause.

Mikhail blinks, tilting his head. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it before asking, very non-chalant: "So did he have anything interesting to say?"

"Nothing that makes any sense to anyone except me. And if I did try to explain it—" Somehow, just reading Bakunin's gaze and tone, Freddy's picking up on some kind of discomfort there. "You wouldn't like it." Trying, trying very hard to speak with all the profundity he would muster with a close friend, he goes on, "Fuck, man, I'm so sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am." His eyes appear perfectly dry, but his voice cracks just for a second.

"Yeah, 'cuz what I need is to be coddled." Mikhail sighs and takes a drag of his cigarette, all but spitting the smoke out as he looks at Freddy. "So basically, what you're telling me is you're going so insane you can't even really put words to it." Great. Just great. "Can't leave you alone for a few weeks, you go totally mental on me, Jesus," the anarchist adds, putting his head in his hands. "So now what?"

Another pause, a very long one. "Come back later. Okay? Maybe I can sort this out, something." There isn't much certainty behind this statement, but Freddy sounds desperate.

Mikhail sighs and drops his half-smoked cigarette in his half-drunk beer with a shake of his head. "Yeah, sure. That sounded convincing, man." He's on his feet and looking at the door, then back at Freddy. "You even gonna be here when I come back, man?"

The question may be whether Freddy will be recognizable when he comes back. But that's just a thought that goes through Freddy's mind. What he says is, uncertainly, "Hopefully."

"At least you still suck at giving me straight answers," Mikhail says, setting the bottle with the cigarette inside on a table and stepping out of his friend's room, jaw set. "See you."