Archive of Our Own ^beta

“What happens to an artist when he loses his purpose?”

Anton blinks, peering up over thick-rimmed glasses. Julian doesn’t look at him, blue eyes following the river’s soft waves lapping against the brick. Beside him, his Travis Scott meal sits forgotten, the bacon and cheese limp against wilted lettuce.

His lover sighs, running calloused fingers through his slowly receding hairline. He still wears his uniform- a black apron stained with a day’s work. His free hand creeps forward, fingers intertwining with Anton’s own.

“It’s pitiful,” Jules whispers, his voice barely audible. He sounds frustrated, pained. “Anyone can cook, sure. But there’s a difference between cooking to survive, and surviving to cook. And then there’s them. The people that treat cooking like it’s a luxury- an exhibit. They’ve ruined the art.”

His shoulders slump, and he leans against the still silent Anton. Uncertain, Anton sets down his own filet-o-fish, wrapping an arm around Jules’ shoulders. His eyes travel upwards, skimming the sign for a five star dining ‘experience’ that sits just across the river. Plates as big as his head fill the tables, but the morsels within are barely visible.

“It’s pitiful.” Jules repeats, voice cracking. His face sours as across the way, a group of diners laughs. One of them has spilled red wine across his lapel, the red blossoming and spreading like a bloodied rose.

“Not everyone can become a great artist,” Anton says quietly. Finally, his lover raises his head- tearstained eyes meeting Anton’s own. Anton gently pulls away, wiping a stray tear from Jules’ weathered face. “But- a great artist can come from anywhere. These people may think they can cook- but they’re just as drowned in their own delusions as any other common idiot.”

His fiance laughs weakly. “Was it not you who called my food junk when you initially came to review my restaurant?”

“Perhaps. But the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than we often consider it to be. You challenged my preconceptions of good cuisine. I have long thought differently.”

The chef leans forward- lips barely brushing against Anton’s own.

“And what is it-” he begins- his breath warm and heavy. “What do you consider good?”

Anton smiles, cupping Julian’s face as he shuts his eyes and closes the gap between them.

“I think you know.”

___________________________________________________________________

Anton stares in numb disbelief down at the newspaper, hand curled around the handle of his coffee tightly enough that the ceramic creaks. He is silent, but the headline is so loud.

Hawthorne Restaurant Cult Massacre!

Julian’s long, aged face stares up at him through the paper. His eyes are empty, expression starving. In his hands, he holds a brazen gold award- declaring Hawthorne the best of the best. One of the highest achievements for the most deserving of chefs.

He’d kidnapped people- perhaps not good people-but people nonetheless. Set the island ablaze. By the time the lone survivor had returned with aid- they’d all been dead. The staff. The diners. Jules. The paper went further- a famous actor, company executives, food critics- lost to the blaze. All invited to dine and die.

Anton’s gaze flickers down to the bowl of mail sitting on his coffee table- the unopened invitation to Hawthorne stark against the bills and magazines. He sets the newspaper down, pressing a hand to his eyes.

“You may have lost yourself,” Anton whispers emotionlessly, “but there was no reason you had to bring others down with you.”

He shouldn’t be this upset- he hasn’t seen Jules- Julian- in twenty years. They’ve long since become strangers. At the end of it all- Anton could barely recognize his former fiance anymore.

He tries to distract himself, to throw himself into his life- his work. But nothing tastes good any longer. It’s stale, salty, bitter, sour, overcooked, undercooked. He finds himself starving, constantly craving something he doesn’t quite comprehend.

__________________________________________________________________

“It’s late-” Anton whispers, a small smile gracing his face. Jules doesn’t look up, hunched over his latest creation. “Come to bed.”

“I can’t.” Jules says tightly, hands gripping the counter. “I have a deadline- I need a new menu by Friday. Something that will impress them all. Something that will wow the world. It has to be perfect. It can’t be junk.”

“What’s wrong with junk?” Anton asks bemusedly, leaning against the fridge. Jules’ head shoots up, expression furious.

“Perhaps nothing is wrong with it to you,” he says coldly, smacking his palm to the granite. “You just eat the food. You’re not the one who has to prepare- to create. You have it easy.”

“Excuse me?” Jules has never raised his voice- always somber and quiet. “I just- Have I done something wrong?”

“Anyone can cook- what rubbish.” Jules is lost in his own world, pacing across the floor. “Why say it when he consistently shoots down every recipe I’ve tried introducing to the menu? Gusteau is an old, selfish idiot.”

“He cooks from the heart,” Anton says, taking a deep breath. “You cook to impress.”

Anton just narrowly dodges the glass, wincing as broken shards rain onto the floor.

“Take it back.” Jules demands. “You take that back, Anton. I don’t need any food critique crap right now. I don’t need this from you. Are you with me, or them?”

Anton scoffs. “I’m not picking sides, Julian. You’re being ridiculous- what happened to cooking from the heart? Cooking with love?”

“I love cooking.” Julian snaps, hands curling into fists. “I live for cooking.”

“Do you?” The food critic only just notices he’s grabbed his keys, an empty pit in his stomach. “It certainly doesn’t seem that way, anymore. You’ve changed- you’re not the same man I once loved.”

Julian’s face falls, and he desperately goes to move around the counter, face pale as Anton quietly removes his engagement ring. “That’s ridiculous. Anton-”

“Goodbye, Jules. I hope that you’ll get your perfect menu.”
______________________________________________________________________________

“You did it, then.”

The grave is desecrated, flowers stomped on, marble stained with dirt and garbage. Broken beer bottles and wrappers litter the ground. Even in death, Julian Slowik is surrounded by tasteless, unenjoyable food.

“Your perfect menu. It’s all anyone will talk about, anymore. Your masterpiece.”

Anton takes a sip of his grimace shake, and pauses. Then dumps the rest on Jules’ grave.

“You wanted this, didn’t you? No one returned food, not around you. Well, I don’t like this. It’s not enjoyable. Nothing is, anymore. Everything is tasteless, bland. You’ve taken the joy out of eating. You knew I felt the same though- it’s why you invited me to die, isn’t it?”

Jules’ headstone doesn’t speak. The wind picks up- garbage catching against the stone.

“I’m going to Gusteau’s, tomorrow. They’ve gotten very popular- they’ve their own little rising star now. I wonder what you’d think of him. If you’d think he was an artist. I don’t intend to give him a glowing review, at any rate.”

He stops, lips pursed in a thin, white line. Slowly, he pulls the engagement band from the small chain on his neck, turning it in his fingers. It’s cold, ice cold.

“Anyone can cook. But you weren’t anyone, Julian. You were everything. And now, now you’ve ruined everything. Life is no longer delicious.”

Anton adjusts his glasses, crumpling the empty plastic cup in his hand. The purple milkshake spills down Jules’ grave, violet and weepy.

“Goodbye, Julian.” Anton Ego whispers, kneeling to set down his engagement ring atop the headstone. The little gold band looks stark, lonely on dull gray.

“I sincerely hope that one day, we shall enjoy a meal together again.”