The Artists and the Intellectuals, a gilmore girls fanfic

The Artists and the Intellectuals

Disclaimer The rights informally belong to God

Summary Woody Allen says the artist is the only human alive to live life truly and deeply. They live in passion. Passion is what the Intellectual desires. Jess. Rory. Logan. Lane. Dave.

Notes This is a warning. This one-shot serves no purpose other than those that are entirely selfish and artsy-fartsy. Lane's relationship with Zach, I'm sorry to tell you, has all but disappeared. Inspired by the disgustingly (incest) lovable (Jewish) Woody Allen.

"Count the stars Logan!"

"I can't do that!"

She lifts her blue eyes to the heavens in exasperation. "Yes you can!"

"Rory," he says with the shake of his head, "I can't count the stars. I'm sorry."

Her lower lip trembles with a tragic intensity, and he stares at her depressingly with little more than pity in his heart.

Zeus's golden juice spills out into the indigo tablecloth of sky as California lifts its sleepy, smoggy head. The ocean traces her foamy white fingers across sweet, yellow sand and the hum of cars is starting to begin.

Dave opens his door. A stunned whisper exists his charming lips, "Lane."

With a certain audacity, the Korean girl grins, "Dave."

The city has shadowy depth where Rocky roams and the history of (I, too am) America flourishes. Night welcomes streetlights, glowing and fulsome with artificial light, because the sun and stars are too good for a polluted velvet canvas of atmosphere. Saxophones moan out with Billie Holiday sounding girls with thick, luscious lips, and raven hair; fingers that caress a microphone like the jazz piano strokes sound.

"Rory," he grimaces as if it pains him. Truthfully it does.

"Jess." The name escapes like fog, and her eyes cloud up gray.

"I can't believe I'm here!"

He smiles warmly. "I can't believe you're here!"

"Do you want me here, because if you don't want me here I'll leave, but I don't want to leave… just to let you know. "

Dave looks at Lane carefully; his eyes boring into hers while his fingers softly pick out sweet notes from his acoustic. Staring at him worried – his silence is unnerving – she keeps nodding her head in agreement to the worst outcome she can think of. Finally he stops his strumming. "Of course I want you here," he murmurs, and he kisses her gently.

Maybe this is love.

Stars Hollow noontime is gay with music and festivities that are woven into the binding layers of the town. Picturesque and quaint stands the gazebo, a place of solitude and shade, where the sun does not shine so harshly and someone can sit and ponder (not think, ponder) in its tranquil boundaries.

"You need to be passionate about this," he tells her callously.

"I am passionate about this. All of this. Writing. Traveling."

Logan squats down in front of her sitting form. His hands hold her knees for balance. "You can do anything, Ace. Anything you want to do. You just have to follow it passionately."

She gazes over his blonde head wonderingly, her brain and body lethargic and languid in the heat, "What are you passionate about?"

"I love this song!" Lane shouts over to Dave at a local concert.

I love you.

He licks his lips over and over again. Chapstick, he thinks, I need chapstick. "Am I what?"

"Are you passionate, zealous, in love, obsessive about writing?" asks Rory pretending to be indifferent.

Jess touches the book he has in back pocket, hugged by denim, and looks her straight in the eye, "Words," is all he says.

Her heart melts, and she can no longer keep the warmth from flooding her vocal chords, "How much?"

Something crosses his chocolate eyes, and Rory knows she crossed the invisible line.

"I can't tell you," Jess mutters, "You wouldn't understand."

The slanted dark eyes he's never stopped caring about close in peace, and her little nose, lips, ears, all of her is his. California has lured her, and he's kept her. Music will hold them together.

Honey smooth liquid scorches his throat like a smoldering fire that ends up warming him to the marrow of his bone. The glass touches the cherry countertop and moisture slides down the rim, the sides, finally touching the wood like a mini cascading waterfall.

"I wish you wouldn't drink when I'm trying to talk to you about serious issues."

"I wish you would join me."

Rory turns her head away from him, and a lone drop slides down her peachy cheek like the liquor on the glass. "Do you still love me?"

"Of course."

"Do you still like me?"

Logan hesitates, his usually gorgeous eyes red with drunkenness, "Not when you're straitlaced like now."

Connecticut.

California.

Pennsylvania.

"Count the stars Jess!"

"I can't do that!"

She lifts her blue eyes to the heavens in exasperation. "Yes you can!"

"Rory," he says with the shake of his head, "I can't count the stars. I'm sorry."

Her lower lip trembles with a tragic intensity, and he stares at her depressingly with little more than pity in his heart.