A/N: Alas! I did not expect this chapter to balloon into more than 16K so I decided to split it into two. Instead of everything being eight, it's now eight and nine separately. The next chapter might even be longer than this one! Uh oh. The current chapter you're reading is 8K words, which is apparently now the norm for this book (is that a blessing or a curse, Cuppie has no idea). 

Small heads up; there is a line or two of dialogue in Italian in this chapter, and though it is not necessary to understand what the man is saying (because Leroy himself doesn't), I will include translations by placing in-line comments. Yippee!

Almost all the dialogue in the chapter was rewritten, and most of the scene adapted to SeeSaw's more nuanced dynamic. There's a funny little surprise at the end. I hope you enjoy it. 

And to all the Beans who commented on the previous chapter having a tough time, I'm sending hugs and ice cream. December is here. Time for snowstorms and warm lights; frozen lakes, and winter nights.

___________________________

[Leroy]

It wasn't the kind of bar I was expecting.

Traditional pubs in the UK had a signature look; the dark wood paneling, warm lights, leather seats, and old creaky floorboards. This one was a bar, pub, and gelateria all at once, except half the size of an average store—combined into a single establishment they called Bar De Simone.

I double-checked the location he sent me. According to Maps, I was standing right in front of it. The street was quiet for the most part, slightly out of the way from the producer's party down by the docks, but not too far from the hotel.

There was something cheap about the handle under my grip as I was opening the door and the interior was dimly lit, smelling vaguely of oil and tobacco. The front half of the place had a decent ice cream display, all flavors packed in metal tubs like traditional gelaterias did, and in the back, an old-fashioned bar counter that had a single, raw lightbulb dangling over it. Not exactly the kind of place tourists would pop by for a nice glass of wine and live music.

He was the only one sitting at the counter.

And from what I'd observed all day, the only one without company on an evening in Portofino. A small city known for its luxury and romance. The rest of the tables weren't exactly filled; just locals chatting in the corner over some gelato and a glass of white.

For some, crisis management instincts would kick in at a time like this, trying to figure out why he'd left the dinner party early and decided not to head back to his room but instead, spend it here.

I knew that wasn't the case.

Nothing in his text indicated a sense of urgency or timeliness. He didn't care if I was going to arrive in five minutes or an hour—he would've waited still. Seated on a bar stool with his legs crossed, a glass of red between his fingertips, and a gaze that looked as though he was watching the falling of snow. Somehow, the flicker of a flame crossed his features.

Like he'd lit a candle to keep him company while I was away and had been watching the wax melt.

Everything about it felt like a dream. The kind I'd have after a long shift of blood and fires. It would start in the shower, continue as I dry off and hit the bed with his jacket, and then, I would see him.

In the dream, I'd test the waters. Run my fingers along its surface and watch the ripples fade before making the next move. In the dream, he was everything.

Here, he was even more.

I crossed the room and waited for him to notice, unwilling to disrupt the bubble around him and for the first time since landing here, drank the view up close—taking my time without the fear of prying eyes. Suddenly, I was at the doorstep of his rented apartment in London, holding my breath as I neared.

His top button. It was undone.

The faintest shade of red brushed his nape even at a distance, hair swept to the side and the elastic band keeping it together just barely holding on. Our eyes met and instantly, I knew he hadn't invited me here to pick him up. I couldn't tell what exactly was going through his mind at that moment, but I knew he had no intention of leaving; at least not anytime soon, so I sat carefully, leaving a seat between us. As though physical distance was going to help with the current state of things. The ambiguity and blurred lines.

It didn't.

One moment, we were staring at each other from across the aisle on a plane, and the next, he was giving objective critiques as though we were strangers—interactions reduced to tiny waving from across the room fifty feet away and looks of fire and ice, exchanged.

Just two days of this shit and already, withdrawal symptoms.

With the entire production timeline ahead of us, I wasn't sure if Cinder could keep this up without dropping the act and eliminating himself on purpose for Leroy to take his place instead. Question is: where should he draw the line in private?

This would set the tone.

In front of him, on the narrow bar counter between the ice cream display and the jukebox, was a classic dessert bowl. Glassware. And resting in the center, untouched—a single scoop of gelato.

"Vanilla?" I looked up from the bowl and made my guess.

Met his gaze that sounded like chimes in the breeze; chain on his glasses brushing the top of his collar and disappearing behind his back. They swayed a little as he turned. Like they were extensions of him and running a finger along it was enough to induce a shiver.

"Bold of you to assume I'd ever consider that an option at any ice cream parlour." The stem of the wine glass between his fingertips held the entire night. "Guess again."

I watched as he raised the glass to his lips and sipped. Soundless. A part of him opened up as he did, revealing a slender neck smooth and untouched. To think the undoing of a button could make all the difference in the world.

"Crema." "No." "Milk." "No, and that's nearly the same flavor." "Okay, parmigiano reggiano." "... Interesting guess but unfortunately, no." "Magnolia tree." "Wrong again." "Cedar." "Wh... no. Your final answer?"

I looked him in the eye like it was fall and we were on a seesaw kicking the leaves as we played. "Oak."

Finally, he turned to face me head on. Shoulders and all. "It is not a tree!"

The smile on his lips turned into something sweet on his tongue and thus, his words. Time stopped to watch him breathe. I joined. And everything else fell like snow at night; soft and quiet.

His gaze flickered away from mine to nod politely at one of the tables getting up to leave. The elderly man tipped his hat and the woman smiled. Nearly empty, the bar felt like a personal space more than anything. And to fill the silence, the owner put on a record.

"Thank you for coming."

Something about the place began to smell like snow the moment he turned. All I did was watch his legs, crossed, shift under low light. His eyes, half-lidded, reflected something dim but warm; gaze the shade of a winter evening above a lake that was still.

The air condensed into a single word: almost.

"You're alone," I stared across the bar seat between us. The obligatory line. "You left. Early."

"Indeed," he swirled the glass of red in his hand. The movement had me by the eyes—fixed on his fingers, lingering on their slender shape and smoothness under warm light.

The owner stopped by for my order, asking what I would have. He spoke English; possibly inferring from my proximity to the only guest seated at the bar counter that I'd come to be his companion for the night.

"A glass of bourbon for him, signore," said guest looked up from the wine glass between his fingertips. "On the rocks, please."

It was what I would have said. He had it in him to remember stuff like that; things I mentioned in passing, like the first dinner we had in a while, or over at his place for nights and days. I could do the same for him.

"The party was dry," he set his drink down on the counter and gazed out the window, voice reduced to a whisper now that the bar was near empty. "Chef Pao and Amelia made things bearable for an hour but no longer than that. So I decided to stop by somewhere for peace and quiet. To think. About... the day. Well, who would've thought—the noise of a certified idiot came to mind as soon as things started becoming a little too peaceful."

His words stirred something deep inside.

They were honest, which I should have known and expected from the time we spent together in my head. He wouldn't know, but I'd always thought of it that way. That I was spending time with him, always, even when we were apart. Not the best of habits, I know.

"Guess I'm your noise for the night," I said in return under my breath. His eyes rippled behind those glasses. "Shame it started off with slander of my favorite flavor."

"Please. You saw that coming a mile away. My opinion of vanilla will never change." "So will mine." "If only you'd see the wonders of every other flavor in the world..." "Didn't you invent one today?" "Well. Not exactly invent, per se. Olive oil gelato has been a thing for ages, albeit nothing as commercialized as the new 'viral' flavors you see on social media. Using a high quality oil would no doubt elevate the taste; its natural fat content just makes the dessert that much silkier."

"Why this then," I glanced down at the single scoop that was starting to glisten under the heat. "Wasn't enough dessert for you this afternoon?"

Our eyes leveled. I turned to receive the old-fashioned glass the owner slid across the counter with a nod, the crisp sound of ice breaking the pause as I took a swig. As much as I enjoyed listening to him go on and on in a whisper-tone about his lifelong worldview against my favorite ice cream flavor, I'd never turn down a serving of coy. Over the top of my glass, I caught him staring. Openly.

He shied away as soon as our eyes met, offering an alternative view: his right ear. Red.

"Would it... surprise you if I said having ice cream often led to unbearable cravings for the best one I've ever had?" He bit his lip, gaze lowered. "I think about it. Every now and then." Looked up and met mine for two seconds. "I'm sure you do too."

It felt like he'd knocked the wind out of my chest.

Just the avalanche doing what he did best. For a moment, I questioned it all; his words, the intentions behind them, the thing above putting me through maximum torture for reasons she called plot because right then and there, I thought of bending him over.

The best one he's ever had. That was what he called it. My vanilla—the one he'd written about and published in his blog seven years ago on the second floor of an ice cream parlour near our school—was the best he'd ever had.

Of course I'd thought about it. Multiple times over the years; what I would give to taste it again. To feel what I felt at the end of every week, savoring the taste on my tongue. That weekly fix that kept me going.

But now, I was afraid.

Afraid that after all these years, I'd long forgotten what it tasted like.

None of this, I put into words. It was impossible to.

"What did you think of today?" He felt like a wave lapping against the shore at sunset. Quiet and inviting. "I was watching you. From afar." Something lonely reflected in his eyes, masked by a smile. "You were a natural; taking over the role of head chef mid-service and going as far as to teach the rest of the chefs in your line proper technique. No one would've guessed, deep down you... never wanted to be a chef."

Looking down at the old-fashioned glass in my hand that held a smooth, rich, liquid the color of malt, something crossed the back of my tongue. It felt familiar. He followed my gaze.

"I liked today," I laid out simply, taking another swig from my glass. The taste of something once loved. "Learning outside the kitchen. Doing things. Applying them. Didn't feel like it was about being a chef... maybe that's why I liked it."

"... I see."

There was no thinking in the time he took to slide into the seat between us, filling the space that was empty and closing the distance that felt like a mile. The bar seats had little to spare in between them. Our shoulders brushed and it was like matchsticks against a box—a blaze of heat and then, the chill of snow at the sound of our glasses clinking.

Wine against bourbon.

"To more days just like today." He raised red to his lips, finishing the rest of his glass in a go. I watched. The feeling was like a spell; there was no looking away. I hadn't expected to see him drink so openly, so freely. Almost reckless.

The act shed layers of his composure that would've otherwise kept him in a pristine condition of reserve. A streak of color in a land that was white. I could not take my eyes off any part of him; everything was new. His lips curved along with the sideway glance that had his eyes—closer now—setting my nerves on fire in a single look.

"Are you not going to drink?"

Slowly, I reached for my own and respected his toast, finishing it in one go just as he did and setting the old-fashioned aside once I was done. He had shifted to rest his elbows on the counter, the side of his head leaning against the back of his hand that was loosely curled. All he did was look at the dessert he ordered. Dazed, but looking.

I returned his question. "Aren't you gonna eat?"

Wrong move. I hadn't thought twice about shifting his attention back to me but the moment his eyes were on mine, I felt every spark of danger blaze twice as hard from the mere brush of snow. The want in my head weighed heavy on my tongue. Everything about him was sensual.

"... Of course not, Leroy." He said my name for the first time in a while. Here, I was Cinder. "I ordered it for you."

Gently, he pushed the ice cream bowl over until it was right in front of me.

I reached out to run a finger along the chain of his glasses—top to bottom—and felt his breath on my skin. Warm.

The record was an old one. Something Annie would have put on when she and the other part-timers started cleaning the diner at closing. She had me on tables and chairs. Always. Told me to push them in nice and neat, and then bring the tablecloths to the back where they needed a wash.

The song was muted. Much like the dreams I have about him; the clinking of glasses, creaking of floorboards, billiards, clacking, the crushing of ice. It all sounded apart. Like they existed in some other place, some other dimension outside of me because all I could hear was the single sound of soft, fresh snow. Falling from the sky.

People say it sounds like nothing. That snowflakes don't make a sound. True. Winter doesn't make a sound, it takes it. It takes everything—absorbs every part of the world and condenses it into a moment. I did not need to look at his lips to know I was neck deep in the very moment created by him, but I did. They were tinted the shade of wine and sparked inside, a craving. An impulse.

I leaned in to taste it but the faint jingle of the lone bell dangling above the entrance wrecked it all. His lashes lowered in an emotion I could not read but wished was disappointment.

The customer hit the service bell twice, taking a puff of his cigarette before sweeping the rest of the establishment and resting his gaze in our general direction. From afar, he looked twice our age. I spared him little attention, but as soon as my eyes were back on snow, the latter had turned to catch a glimpse of the commotion.

On the surface, the owner and the guy who'd just walked in were in the middle of a neutral back and forth in Italian. Only, there was something off about the customer's tone of voice. Like someone had pissed him off unintentionally and he was complaining about it to the owner.

Then, he turned on us. "Che cazzo stai guardando?" No clue.

"Dai, tranquillo amico! Tranquillo."

I stood, stepping between him and my partner as soon as he started crossing the room. The bar owner struggled to hold him back, almost begging for him to leave. I felt eyes on us. Nothing about the situation called for this level of aggression. The two of us had been sitting at the counter minding our own business since he walked in. No confrontation; not even a single glance his way.

He stepped closer. A finger raised above his head, jabbing with a sneer. "Qui non si fanno queste coppiette in vetrina. Non vi vergognate un po'?"

"Leroy. Sir, we're not... i-it's fine. We'll leave."

I stood over the man, looking down at the bald spot on his head that was tilted.

Not a single cell burned—the fruit of the years I'd spent learning how to fight my fires; reminded by the waves and flames inked on my arm—lessons from the past. No more pans flying across the room. No more backdrafts. No more matchsticks struck and lit and dropped into a barrel of explosives.

"Oh, guarda... improvvisamente muti." He blocked our way; speech louder than before for a show. The moment he looked like he was about to take another step closer, I held him aside like he was a child throwing a tantrum.

He stumbled, caught off guard by the momentum and how easily I'd brushed him off. Even tried to resist by shoving back but proceeded to embarrass himself when my arm stayed put.

"It's alright, keep the change." I felt a hand on mine as we turned to leave, disengaging from the conflict in a heartbeat and hearing the buzz in my ears.

The owner was nice; running after us to apologize on behalf of the rude customer and offering what looked like a bottle of his best cider. Frankly, not understanding a single word the man had said made it easy not to give a fuck. Too bad defense mechanisms were a thing. Add to that a sprinkle of PTSD flashbacks from my time in culinary school, I could hear the quiet whistle of a kettle on its stove—burning in my head.

They come up from time to time. Like pieces of scrap you'd find at the bottom of an old box. Confrontation popped it open, and guilt was what made me look. I'd think about every confrontation; how I'd messed up back then; how I'd set myself on the path of smoke, ash, and cinders.

The street was quieter than before with most stores along it now closed. Warm lights led the way as we walked, shoulder-to-shoulder, down the flagstone path.

"And I thought unwarranted aggression was a thing of the past! Reminds me of the time this chef decided to serve me an empty plate out of spite. Apparently, I wasn't worthy of his culinary greatness. Thank you for um, for the... the arm. I doubt that man saw it coming; an object of will—steadfast and unyielding. Extremely potent. Would the, um, arm, like to assist with the opening of this bottle? If it pleases."

I unscrewed the cap and handed it back to him. Picking up notes of citrus and herbs.

"Once again, you have my thanks. Mm. Sweet, with a tart finish. Medium-dry... almost crisp. Extremely refreshing. Must be apples from the north. Here, try it."

He held it out to me with two hands, a drunken stupor in his eyes and curiosity on his lips. Already, speaking in English I could hardly understand but guess what? I'm into that shit. Could listen to him yap all day, twenty-four-seven, three-six-five days a year, for the rest of my life.

"... Get on." I capped his drink and half-crouched in the middle of the sidewalk, jerking a thumb over my shoulder.

He paused. "Is this a... are you implying..."

"Yes." I reeled him in, slinking one arm over my shoulder and shifting closer to press his front against my back. "Hurry up, dumbass."

"W-well then. Don't... don't mind if I do, I suppose—"

Click.

The private moment was cut short by a sound. It put out the lingering flames and traces of dessert on my tongue enough to clear the clouds and stop me dead in my tracks. On instinct, I'd turned around to shield my dazed company, cradling his head and losing sight of the source for a fraction of a second. By the time I looked over my shoulder, the silhouette at the end of the street had vanished.

"Leroy?"

The only reason I could instantly identify the click of a shutter was because of the multiple cameras I owned. As far as they could sometimes be from their subject, I was familiar enough with the sound to single it out on an empty street in the middle of the night; its striking ability to cut through every other sound in the world.

I picked the scene apart and scanned the shophouses lining the rest of our way back, but the streetlights did not help, nor did the lack of other witnesses around us. Nothing stood out.

"Leroy." His fingers brushed my forearm and had my attention falter at the sight of his head resting on the side of my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I heard a camera," I breathed, sounding a tad bit distressed even to myself. The last thing I wanted was more trouble; more on our plate of problems that was already full. Like I'd said to him the other night, the one with wars should deal with them afar before returning home for a lifetime of peace. I couldn't be sure if this was someone with cards up their sleeve, out for him just to get to me. Public figures like him and Siegfried had much to lose, and in this day and age, people had an appetite for private news as much as they did for the food we served. "I think."

"Well... suppose it was, indeed, a camera. What harm would it pose?" The look in his eyes was new. Unafraid. Almost, teasing. As though this was a dare and he, the challenge. "A silly little Tweet? Short-form content for the bored and prudish? Blackmail?"

All thinking came to a halt as I stared down at him.

Was he hearing himself? Surely, someone like him would know the consequences of a judge and a contestant interacting so closely off-set. Someone with that much reason and logic wouldn't risk his entire reputation for—

"That all sounds to me perfectly unoriginal. Outdated, even. Clearly these people haven't even bothered Googling me. Had reputation been anything close to important in my list of priorities, those poorly-written articles about my lofty ideals and embarrassing clips of Andre and I in his restaurant would never have surfaced," he pointed at a bush with his bottle of cider in the middle of his rant. "Don't they understand? My reputation is already ruined. I stand to lose nothing from more negative publicity penned by unoriginal interns from clickbait media sites and Twitter accounts. At the very least, I am being true to myself! Unlike... unlike those petty little... those big-headed buffoons. I can't stand not being honest. No reputation is solely built upon words of truth—everyone's got to lie to keep up with it. As such, I have none! None at all. Forget what I said about my reputation being ruined, I had none in the first place.

"Should these no-good stalkers decide to send these mouthwatering images to some publication or demand a sum of money from the production team, I would gladly book myself a ticket back home and remove myself entirely. Who needs attention or respect o-or or or revere? I can't even read a script properly, let alone be a part of some big budget reality show. You on the other hand... a complete natural. How I envy the likes of you."

I watched the little angy snowstorm wave his bottle of cider dangerously so I slipped it out of his grasp and continued to muse. Privately.

"You don't mean that."

"And now you're calling me a liar," he smiled tastefully, head tilted sideways—half-lidded eyes smiling through those glasses before giving up all vision and closing entirely. He leaned forward, and into my chest. As though finally surrendering to comfort and forgoing all attempts at standing up straight. "Unguarded, yes. With a drink or two, I sometimes am, depending on company. But a liar?" He breathed. "... No."

The beat of his heart fluttered against some part of my front. He was warm to the tips of his ears. "Did something happen at the party?"

"Oh they wouldn't stop talking about you," he sighed, smelling of chamomile and red. Words that, one by one, unraveled a forgotten midsummer evening. "They loved you very much. The Masters, the Mavericks; the producers, assistants, camera crew, and every intern on set. Even that man and his grandson selling risotto off that corner along the piazza of mercato centrale."

I stopped. He saw that? Was that why...

Something shifted in my head; like puzzle pieces falling into place. We were standing under a streetlight listening to the sound of the Ligurian sea and I could feel his eyes on mine, angled upward ever so slightly in an attempt to meet them, but I wasn't looking.

I didn't dare.

One glance and I knew I'd be done. There wouldn't be much holding back.

"Everyone loves you... and now some unsavory stranger has decided to deny me an exquisite back ride by pointing a camera our way. Very rude. I can't possibly walk all the way back to the hotel in this state. I demand a reinstatement of my privileges."

"Piggyback privileges," I could not believe the words coming out of his mouth, frowning and smirking at the same time, taking my all to resist pulling out my phone to record this cuteness himself. Instead, I got down low for him to slide his arms up past my shoulders and hooked the back of his knees to support him below. Then, started down the pathway back to the hotel.

"Yes. Yes, that. Precisely. Your... your back is practically a... a hot water bottle. That it is." "The hot water bottle needs a massage from all that olive farming." "Nonsense. I saw how you and Chicken moved from tree to tree. You were in your element, and I daresay all the cameras knew exactly which part of you deserved a close-up." "... Is someone jealous?" "Oh of course not. And even if I were, jealousy isn't a crime, is it? Not as much as showing up on set in the same top every day. Just how many station shirts do you own?" "I sense resentment. You didn't even tell me what the flavor was." "Why should I? You decided not to taste it." "Hey. Not cool." "You should know exactly what sort of person I am. Possibly the most insufferable of all humankind." "Don't know about insufferable. But you are my favorite kind." "Oh be quiet for once."

The smile in his voice made it sound like he was talking in his sleep—in the middle of a pleasant dream and these words, ripe fruit from another world. I took in what I assumed was the end of the night, laughing under my breath and realizing the extent of my ignorance.

I was a fool for expecting this to be within my realm of possibilities. Some distance between us and boom, I'd be back on the seven-year-pause holding off on 'us' for the shit that needed taking care of, just like how I'd dealt with the idea of what everyone called 'self-improvement' during a time that felt, to me, dark and empty.

I didn't think it was going to be easy, pretending we were strangers on a show meeting for the first time, unacquainted with everything that we were, but I sure as hell wasn't expecting it to be this hard.

And with the snowflake on my back nuzzling into my shoulder, arms wrapped loosely across my shoulders and soft words leaving a soothing chill in the air, I could already tell—this was only going to get much, much tougher.

Before I knew it, he'd fallen fast asleep on my back in the quiet evening calm. I was lucky enough to avoid the bunch of sound guys hanging out in the reception area by taking the longer route around the building and land a private elevator ride up to his floor, but by the time I arrived at his doorstep and tried to put him down, the single, most important thought crossed my mind: where the hell did he put his keycard?

Wasn't in his back pocket. Nothing down his front. Chest pocket empty. And there was no way he'd have it tucked away in his underwear (unless?) so all I found was his phone and an expensive-looking cardholder, so.

I brought him back to mine.

Listen, I wasn't going to have a bunch of people at the front desk firing questions and taking notes. That's high risk for an undercover mission like this one.

Cat was mewling the moment I opened the door, zooming in circles around me while I made my way to the bed and set the sleepy figure on the covers. My boy read the room like a champ, leading his friend back to the cushions so that I could properly deal with the very inviting invitation on my bed without losing my shit.

Carefully, I lifted his head and freed the chain on his glasses before setting them on the bedside table, undoing the elastic in his hair and letting it fall—splayed out on the pillow like snow that smelled of tea leaves.

Out of respect and restraint, the only two other pieces of clothing I decided to remove were his shoes and blazer. Out of non-respect and non-restraint, I caught myself measuring the area below his waist with my fingers for a rough gauge. Thumb and middle finger stretched out. Smaller than I thought. Cause for concern? Maybe. Would I fit? With prep, I sure damn hope so.

The doorbell rang. Followed by a couple of knocks on the wood.

It was the intern girl. Turns out, two pieces of clothing was not all I was going to be removing this evening because she had in her hands a couple of garment bags (the long, black ones for keeping the fancy stuff straight) and several more hung up on a full-length cart. All of them, labeled.

"Hey. You have your clothes ready?"

I stared. "Uh... what?"

"Director Stan said to have today's clothes prepared, remember? I'm making my rounds collecting everyone's stuff on set to get them washed and ready for tomorrow's shoot. You have to be wearing the same thing for continuity. He said that like, two hours ago, come on. I'm Julianna."

Right.

I glanced down to recall what I was wearing. Just... stuff. Station shirt. Joggers. Nothing fancy. The same fit I'd worn all day except these were actually fresh. No one needed to know the exact number of station shirts I owned. I grabbed all my shit that needed laundering before stuffing it in one of those airtight clothing packs and handing it to her. She turned very red all of a sudden.

"Jesus—I, you can't just... ugh. Put them in the laundry bag with your name on it. Hurry up!" She turned away. I had to search for my own one among heaps of others, sifting through the pile before finally fishing out the one with 'Cinder' on it.

Something else crossed my mind. The judges.

Scanning the bunch of laundry bags in the cart, I couldn't see one with his name on it. The long garment bags in her arms though, were an exact total of three. Unfortunately, she wasn't going to get a response from his room since, well, the owner was fast asleep in mine.

"Just the chefs?" I asked.

"Yeah. I-I mean—no, judges, chefs, basically anyone who's, uh... anyone on set." Julianna replied with her back towards me.

I thought for a bit. "... One sec."

Then, closing the door and heading back into the bedroom, I stood in front of the king-sized currently occupied by my personal snowstorm like I was a man on a mission.

He slept on his side, curled up a little—breathing slow and silent into one of the pillows. Completely unguarded. Carefully, I sat on the edge of the bed and said his name, leaning over him to check for signs. No response.

"Vanilla," I tried again, brushing aside a lock of his hair and stroking a part of his cheek by accident. He stirred, eyelids moving a little before finally giving way to slow blinks. I backed up while he rose to a seated position.

"Leroy...?" He hummed, half-awake and rubbing his eyes in a blur. Hands down the cutest shit I'd seen in a long time.

"Hey. Need your clothes for a sec," I laid out. All truths. No lie.

"My clothes?" He glanced down with a pause. "What... what about them?"

"We have to wear the same shit tomorrow for conti... new... something," whatever that word was. "There's an intern at the door with laundry bags to collect our clothes."

"Oh. Oh yes, that's right—Julianna." He seemed to remember, nodding vaguely before squinting at my torso. "Those, aren't, clothes."

"Yeah I took them off."

His brain was still fuzzy and wine-filled enough to reach out and run his fingers down my abs. "They're... bread rolls."

I held back a laugh, grabbing his hand and guiding it back to his side so that I could somehow conceal the fact that I was turned the fuck on. "She's waiting outside. I need you to focus."

"Yes. Yes of course." His gaze lowered once more, reaching for the buttons of his dress shirt to no avail. I couldn't tell if it was his fingers giving out on him or if the alcohol somehow messed with his programming for instructions on how to undo a shirt button.

After failing three times to do anything to his shirt, he altogether gave up and reached down to take his pants off first instead but thanks to his godly eyesight and deft fingers, fiddled with the belt around his waist for seconds that were painful to watch.

Long story short, he was incapable of undressing himself.

"... Need any help?"

He paused, considering the offer. After blinking twice, he looked up. "I would very much appreciate that."

Again, man on a mission.

I started with his dress shirt.

Big mistake. The back of my fingers brushed the surface of his skin by accident, right in the middle of his chest where the second button was, and I felt him shiver. His split-second reaction deleted every thought in my head and left me hopelessly hard. No apologies, no shameful averting of my gaze just full-on, open fucking staring.

He flinched as I worked my way down, unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt and then, removing his belt. If I didn't know any better, I would have attributed it to heightened senses. Possibly overstimulation. Reason said it was simply the work of wine.

Still, it was impossible to turn away; to lie about not wanting to cave and have him whole.

He had his eyes closed after the third button, lips drawn in as though preventing the escape of something dangerous. The contact had red brushing his ears, half concealed by stray locks of hair while the rest of him felt like fresh snow, responding to every slightest bit of heat.

I did not stop to drink in the view. In fact, I returned to my doorstep in a blink with his clothes over my shoulder and the door open to just a crack. Julianna did not need a second heart attack from the state of my lower half.

"What took you so long? I was about to..." she stared at the clothes I handed over, squinting a little. "Wait. Aren't these...?"

"Yeah," I did my best to spin something on the spot, nodding at the garment bag labeled V. J. White. "He passed out at dinner and I happened to be around nearby. Someone said to take him back to the hotel so I did. He's resting now but I'll tell him you came by as soon as he's up."

"Ohhh. Right," she breathed a sigh. "Makes sense. Thanks for taking care of that; I'd be in trouble if I missed his clothes." She put his stuff up on a hanger and slid the garment bag over it before wheeling the cart down the hallway. "See ya."

Closing the door behind me was mission complete. The relief had me momentarily forgetting about the ongoing situation below my waist level. I grabbed a bathrobe from the closet for him before heading back into the bedroom but he'd already made good use of the covers, wrapping them around his bare skin with only his head and a part of his shoulders exposed. And if you don't already know, he's got nice shoulders. Very nice shoulders.

I wasn't sure if I found this cute and safe or dangerous and provocative. Or both.

Either way, he was distracted—preoccupied with his kitten who'd somehow managed to climb onto the bed and pad across the sheets. When he noticed me standing by the door with a bathrobe in hand, he looked away as though I was fire.

"I am... truly, very sorry about all the trouble I've caused. I suppose I should head back to my room," he started, sounding a tad more sober than he was minutes before. That said, he showed no real intent on leaving at all, as though my response would ultimately determine the outcome.

I took a moment to piece things together before realizing the main issue. "Where'd you put your keycard?"

"Oh, just..." he seemed confident about his memory before faltering and then altogether coming to a halt. Slowly, his eyes went wide. "The inner pocket of my—! Goodness. Is she...?"

"... Yeah." I went with the flow, not quite bothering to go back out into the hallway to check if the intern was still around. For obvious reasons. "You can stay here until she returns. I'll look out for messages on the chat."

"Alright. Thank you, again." He sounded upset.

I poured him a glass of water and handed it over. "How's your head?"

"Better now, I think." He accepted the drink with a nod of thanks, mumbling into the glass. "I hope I didn't sound like an absolute fool saying the things I said."

"Sure you did." I sat at the end of the bed, a safe distance away. "Kept going on about my bread rolls to the owner and even recited the alphabet."

"I did not." He blushed hard. "In fact, I... recall everything I said, both at the bar and out on the street, in perfect detail."

I blinked; surprised by his honesty. Admitting something like that, while sober, had an effect on my ego that was already beginning to inflate. "... Like what?"

He went quiet all of a sudden. "Well, that... that I was... oh you know what I said," he dropped it altogether, setting the glass of water on the bedside table and hugging his knees. Not exactly the kind of body language you'd expect from a posture-perfect, living embodiment of law and order.

"You're off the hook." I said over my shoulder, sorting the stuff I'd unpacked in a rush for the intern's laundry run. "For now."

"Why thank you, good sir."

I caught his gaze resting on the bottle of olive oil he'd asked Raul to hand me; supposedly a gift from the owners of the farm. With most of my clothes in the washing and more space in my duffel bag freed up, repacking was a breeze. I wrapped the bottle in a spare towel and stuffed it in.

"Do you... plan to use that?" He asked all of a sudden.

"Thought Annie might like it. Heard I was the only one they gave it to." I paused, taking in the look in his eyes and picking up traces of discomfort. "... Something wrong?"

"It's nothing. I mean, not really." Come to think of it, he was the one who impressed them back there. Sure, it looked like I knew what I was doing distinguishing their product from the rest and sure, they liked my dog, but. That was it. "Nothing important."

He chose not to elaborate. All these signs spelled conflict in my head and if the past couple of months taught me anything, it was the consequences of hiding shit from each other. Even if he wasn't open to spilling the entire story in a go, I'd settle for a decent half first.

I sat on the edge of the bed. "You can tell me."

"... So to put things simply," he started by pulling the covers around him tight. All bundled up. "I was... given two bottles. By the farmers. One of them, I'd offered to the blue team after suggesting the, you know, the gelato dessert. A-and so I thought I'd give you a hint to use it too, since, well, the advantages given to the blue team were clearly overwhelming, which was how I decided to give you the other bottle and, I don't know, bury my intentions under a load of fancy words. That is to say that, I, um... I lied." He finished quietly. Gaze lowered.

The last couple of words cleared the clouds in my head. Instantly, I understood why he was upset.

"I am truly, very sorry." He went on. "The guilt was unimaginable. Thankfully, you didn't get the hint but it doesn't negate the fact that I tried to assist you in some way or another, subjectively, even though we agreed to keep our work and personal lives separate. What's done has been done—not only did I fail to uphold my values as a critic, I also lied. To you."

I let him breathe, then cracked a smile and looked him in the eye. "Looks like I'm bad influence after all."

"No you aren't," he sighed. "Look at you reacting to this like we're talking about the weather. You're allowed to feel upset, you know. It's... how I reacted back then. Albeit over an extensively complex issue, but still. I admire your chivalry."

Something about the way he referred to us told me how much this meant to him.

"Can't say I'm happy you did that, but I'm not mad." I shifted close. "I get why you did it. And I trust you enough to know you're not gonna do it again. Besides... I know how much you suck at putting on an act."

He let slip a tiny smile. "Forgive me. A-and just to be clear, I've been managing fairly well since the preliminaries, but... something got the better of me. I suppose you could say I was influenced by everyone else's love and admiration for you. Everywhere you go, affection follows."

I leaned in for a flick of his forehead. "Could've just said you wanted my attention."

"Ah yes." His eyes softened into snow, specked with signature wit. "I sometimes find myself desperately vying for your attention. Does that satisfy you?"

"Very." I said, smirking. His words stretched the strings that were holding me back. Not that they weren't already taut to begin with. "And here I was the whole time, thinking your words were just wine."

"Hm! Well, you're wrong. They were the truth, Leroy." He sighed, lowering his guard. "I understand what I'm saying now sounds perfectly selfish in light of our situation, while we're, you know, holding off on... us. And I am sorry for that. Unfortunately, I've been alarmingly short-sighted and disastrously confident about keeping up the pretense; the truth is, having you right before me and yet feeling as though you're out of reach is, frankly, unbearable."

His eyes widened after a pause. "Wait, I... that's not what... that only makes matters worse. U-um... please forget that. What I'm trying to say is that I'll keep my distance and you can rest assured I will—"

I made short work of his words, swallowing them whole and tasting wine on his lips that were parted midsentence and in surprise.

Naturally, I caved. It did not take him very long to do the same. The covers wrapped around him slipped loose and he sank into my arms faster than I expected, matching the rhythm of my lips and tilting his head a little just like I'd taught him to. I felt him shiver at the contact—gasping a little when my hands came up to cradle his face and I went back in for more.

The kiss was a memory, remembered once told. I knew what I was doing; filling more than weeks of physical and emotional distance at the snap of a finger. That we were going from nothing to everything in mere seconds of longing.

The moment was intimate. The heat, incredible.

I heard his breath hitch as my hands dived underneath the covers, down the sides of his waist and straight to the band of his briefs. The material was soft, almost silk-like, and slid off his skin like butter. He flinched, catching my wrist and stifling a sound that was sweet. I expected him to pull back from the contact but instead, he leaned in.

"Can we...?" The tips of his fingers went from my wrist to the drawstring of my sweats. Barely touching.

Sweet fucking Jesus. This was chapter four of Wax all over again—snowstorms knocking the wind out of my chest and catching me completely off guard.

"... All the way?"

He nodded. Small and quick like he couldn't wait to get started. "Give me ten minutes in the bathroom."

I held him down. "No, it's... not about that."

"Oh." He said softly. "Protection?"

I breathed a sigh. "There's something I need you to know."

Instantly (and understandably) he was blinking rapidly like I was about to reveal some private, sensitive information. Not wrong. "You're positi—?"

"My loads are heavy."

He stopped blinking to stare. Then, chest still rising and falling to catch his breath from before, he said: "I'm sorry, what does that mean...?"

"I cum alot." I tried again. "In one go."

"... Oh." The next thing I knew, he flushed red. Face and ears, all the way down to his neck. "Well, I. I don't see how that would—"

"You don't understand." I had to break it to him with the straightest face I could manage 'cuz I genuinely wasn't fucking around. "The clean up without a condom is a pain. I don't know if going all the way's even possible without one. It's why I don't..." I trailed off, slightly relieved the moment I caught a tiny nod.

"Yes, I've always wondered why you simply wouldn't... well, you've never... not in front of me, you haven't." His gaze shied away for a moment before returning to meet mine. Voice like snowflakes on bare skin. "W-would it help if... we were in the shower?"

I stared, processing this long and hard until a smile found its way to my lips and then, on to his. The effect his invitations had on me needed to be studied. Researched. Written on like a thesis and submitted for a Master's degree; the one major meant for the only idiot.

"Problem solving on a whole new level."

"Quite the privilege, isn't it? Mr. Cox."

"Pleasure's mine." 

_________________

A/N: It's been long since I included an end note, but I most certainly had to!!!! I DON'T KNOW IF YOU LAUGHED WHILE READING LEROY LITERALLY TRYING TO SAY, IN THE MOST CIVIL MANNER: "I blow big loads" but Hyperspermia is an actual condition that can be quite embarrassing for certain individuals. 

Leroy's is caused by (spoiler alert) abstinence. I think it's mentioned in one of the later chapters of the first version of Wax, but I was disappointed that I didn't elaborate much on that or explain the consequences. So while I was rewriting their character sheets and developing on the many unexplored facets of SeeSaw, I thought of including more moments like these to create even more dimensions to their relationship. Also, it gave actual, proper reason to move things to the shower. 

I was halfway through the very steamy chapter for next week when one of those "intrusive thoughts" of mine struck me like thunder and before I knew it I was a cupcake on a mission. GAH! It's been more ten years and still, the signature 'white stuff' scenes get me all the time. Not sure if you got that reference. 

- Cuppie.