Work Text:
She didn’t know what compelled her to take an internship at the Sonic Culinary Institute. She wasn’t a journalist; she wasn’t someone who devoted life to the culinary arts. But Isabel Noble was a writer, and she knew that contributing to the magazine would prove invaluable in her career.
Besides, it wasn’t like she couldn’t stomach it. Her father was a true crime novelist; Isabel was raised on blood and viscera. A few bizarre food-centric performances would hardly shake her.
But Jan Stevens? Jan Stevens could.
It was late at night, beyond midnight. Maybe three in the morning? Isabel didn’t know. She just knew that she couldn’t sleep. So instead, she sat outside and smoked a cigarette.
Normally, cigarettes were reserved for special occasions. It was a tradition that started with her dad: once a novel was finished, a single cigarette was lit and that was all. But the tensions in this place were starting to get to her. The current group was insufferable; too pretentious for their own good.
Maybe this was a mistake, coming here. She wasn’t a journalist; she didn’t write for magazines. She wasn’t good at interviewing people. Her strength wasn’t in the objective, but in the possibilities.
“You aren’t enjoying yourself.”
Isabel looked over to see Jan Stevens come forth from the shadows dressed in white; a ghostly figure that could ignite any imagination.
She didn’t expect Jan Stevens to join her on the grass where she sat, yet that was just what happened. Jan Stevens risked a perfectly beautiful white dress, sacrificing the tulle to grass stains. It was almost impressive.
“Just restless,” Isabel said after taking a drag from her cigarette.
“You haven’t joined the after parties.”
Oh. Those.
“I’m not really a partying type.”
“So what is your type?”
Isabel smirked at the question, stubbing out her cigarette. She pulled out another one and placed it in her mouth. She focused on the tip of the cigarette even though she couldn’t see it very well in the dark, and ignited it without a lighter. Magic.
“What a strange girl you are,” Jan Stevens murmured.
“Strange?”
“Flung out of space.”
Isabel snapped her gaze to Jan Stevens, who was barely visible in the faint glow of the cigarette. “Don’t ever say that,” she said firmly. “If you’re going to flirt, use your own words.”
“And you’re so certain that this is flirting?”
She was certain that this was something. Flirting? Foreplay? It was so hard to tell. Sonic Catering had a way of making everything feel liminal. Every definition morphed; meaning was lost. There was no meaning at the institute.
“I hate it here,” Isabel admitted. “Absolutely hate it. Nothing means anything here. It’s all avant-bullshit and I hate it.”
The sentiment made Jan Stevens smile, her teeth gleaming in the night. “And isn’t that what art is for? Evoking strong emotion?”
“Yes.” Which made Isabel hate it even more. This place pulled such a strong reaction from her, and that was the whole point. “I guess that makes you art as well?”
“How so?”
“Evoking strong emotion. Good or negative.”
Isabel could feel Jan Stevens studying her, trying to make meaning out of her outline. That was a mistake. Like words, people lost their meaning. Perhaps that was when their true definitions shined through.
“And how do you feel about me? Good or negative?”
Another deep drag from the cigarette, and then Isabel handed it off to Jan Stevens, who took it without hesitation.
“I adore you,” Isabel admitted as she stared off into the dark night. “And I really don’t want to. I should find you annoying. I should find you vapid and annoying and god you wear so much makeup that you remind me of my middle school emo phase.”
“But?”
Always the but. Isabel took the cigarette back when Jan Stevens handed it over. Their fingers brushed against each other and Isabel felt an electric shock. Damn this woman.
“But I’m really fucking gay, and you’re tall and hot.”
“Is that all?”
No, but it was all Isabel could articulate. For a writer, she was at a surprisingly loss for words. “I like you. I like you a lot. And I hate that I do.”
“So I evoke strong emotion. Do you suppose that makes me art?”
“Art at the edge of the abyss,” Isabel murmured. So tangible, yet impossible to hold onto. Go too far, and that would mean death of the mind. But to never venture to the edge would mean to never know. And Isabel couldn’t stand not knowing.
Isabel rested her head against Jan Stevens’ shoulder, the copious amounts of nicotine making her lightheaded. The cigarette was passed back and forth wordlessly for a few minutes, both of them relishing in the music of the night: crickets, the rustling of grass, the whispering of trees. It was a sweet melody.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Isabel murmured.
“You’re smoking and philosophizing.”
“No, I mean here. At this place. I’m not a journalist. I can’t stand interviews.”
“It isn’t about the interviews.” Jan Stevens considered the glowing end of the cigarette for a moment before handing it back and sliding her arm around Isabel’s waist. “It’s about the art. Everything here is about the art.”
“Orgies hardly seem artistic.”
“Eye of the beholder; surely you know that. To some, sex is depravity. To others, it’s just another medium and making someone come undone is a masterpiece.”
Bob Ross would probably disagree, but Isabel didn’t voice that point. Because in some twisted way, Jan Stevens was right. Art was creation. Creating orgasms was art. “Is that all, though? Is it just about art and never anything deeper?”
“Art is deep.”
“No, I know that. But I mean…” Isabel gestured vaguely, trying to summon the words out of thin air. “When you turn sex into art, there’s a disconnect. You become artist and art and sure, the artist has strong feelings and can connect deeply to the piece, but what about the art? The art doesn’t get to feel. The art gets to evoke emotion, but not have it.”
Jan Stevens shook her head, scoffing quietly. “My dear, you have never said anything so utterly inaccurate.” But this explanation that Isabel spewed did give insight. “No one has ever made you feel like art, have they?”
Isabel didn’t answer right away. How could she? It wasn’t like she didn’t know the answer; she did. But saying it out loud was… pathetic.
Eventually, there came a quiet, “…No.”
“And would you like to know what it feels like? Would you like to be a work of art?”
“That depends,” Isabel said slowly, gathering her courage. “Will you be my artist?”
And even in the darkness, she saw Jan Stevens smile.