A/N: Slightly shorter chapter with 4.6K words, mostly SeeSaw fluff and e m o t i o n s (all in one chapter, yes). I did rewrite half of this despite the similarities in the old version, because I saw something different in their dialogue potential. Most dialogue in this chapter is completely new. 

Enjoy!

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[Leroy]

"Leo, standing... only prevents... from getting the..."

I could hear his voice through the wood, having paced the hallway for ten minutes before pressing the bell. I had in one arm, my helmet; and in the other, a takeout bag with boxes of food. My boy sat by my heel, tail swishing from side to side the moment he realized who we were here for. When the front door clicked open, my eyes did a double take.

He was wearing my jacket.

Hair done up in half—sides gathered together while the rest of it fell past his shoulders. I hadn't noticed on set, but up close, it'd grown at least two inches from the last time we met in private.

I wasn't expecting to see him wearing it. The thing about bomber jackets was that they weren't like sweaters you'd wear indoors, or bathrobes you'd put on after a shower before bed. Underneath the jacket was his favorite silk pajama set and the look on his face said it all; he'd been working from home the entire day.

"... Leroy?"

My attention turned to the kitten in his arms.

I said nothing for a good minute, trying to take in and process the picture-perfect view before my eyes, saving it somewhere in the back of my head before holding out the takeout bag.

Getting here was a journey. I'd changed courses twice after leaving Dr. Knight's, biking down to Elephant and Castle from Greenwich. Then realizing it was eleven in the morning and that he'd probably be at the office, working. So I'd taken the Tower Bridge exit instead and arrived at Andre's bistro ten minutes late. All day, it'd been flames.

Siegfried had stopped by; stood at the window while I called out orders and ran service like any other day. Nothing new. Until a French critic who'd heard about Andre's saga decided to ask for 'something special' off the menu. The maître d' had come into the kitchen in full-blown panic after taking his order and suggested the sous chef and I come up with something Andre hadn't made in a long time.

Well, shit.

We'd browsed his recipe cards that were a collection of rigid, conservative dishes with zero spark or personality. Everything relied on luxury ingredients and already, there were five dishes with caviar on the current menu... which was not what the critic wanted to have.

So I fired a baked parmesan and pistachio crusted chicken. With some beurre blanc on the side.

The ingredients were simple; stuff we had in the pantry and a favorite of the bistro kitchen's. Every cook on the line fancied chicken for staff meals. So when the maître d' returned with two, five, and then seven more orders of what the critic had, I told the crew we'd have it in the middle of today's split shift. Then, made extra to take home.

Thought maybe I could use an excuse.

Main one: extras from the restaurant. Backup: retrieve my jacket; the one I'd left behind. That had been the plan.

It took the entire afternoon to decide that now was the time. I'd seesaw-ed on the decision for hours before realizing that seesawing alone meant there was really only one outcome: the side with my weight on it. So I picked my boy up from the fire station and keyed in his address. Minutes later despite London traffic, here we were.

Back-to-back production days starting tomorrow meant much lower chances of having a private conversation without mics and cameras tracking our every move. Clearing the air before all that was probably the wiser decision, but then again, I was an idiot with no ability whatsoever to string words into a proper sentence. This was different from the one-off moments in the elevator or the gents. I was standing outside the very apartment I hadn't dropped by since that very day, with so many things to say; questions to ask; and yet, when it came down to the exact moment our eyes met, everything went straight out the window.

Head empty.

No thoughts.

"Leroy?" He said again, blinking at the paper bag I was holding out and struggling to receive it with the kitten in his arms that started mewling at my dog. Chicken's tail was going batshit crazy. "Thank you. Is this...? I smell parmesan. And something roasted—a nutty sort of... ah pistachios. Of course. You... came all this way to deliver lunch?"

I stared. "It's dinner. From the bistro."

He blinked again. "Oh. W... what time is it? I mean it can't be that late, I just had a cucumber sandwich... heavens. It's half-past nine! I didn't realize." He checked the clock above the shoe cabinet and the kitten in his arms began to squirm.

My boy barked once. I looked him in the eye and gave the hand signal for 'quiet' before moving to block the new addition from his view.

"Leo. No, wait... I can't put you down right now—"

Leo? I studied the ball of fur. It paid me no attention, slipping out of his owner's (?) arms and jumping onto the edge of the cabinet to sneak off; nearly knocking over an empty vase and a trinket bowl containing loose change.

"Oh good lord. Sorry, just. Give me a minute..."

Chicken could not resist his instincts for a second longer, thinking this was some kind of herding game and wanted in so before I knew it, he'd bolted past my legs and made it into the apartment's hallway. This all triggered a mad rush for the kids.

"Leo!" "Chicken, stay." "Leo, what are you doing? No, no stop it." Around the dining they went and then it was the couch and until the kitten was backed into a corner and lashed out by mewling and swatting a paw at its herder's snout. My boy was the same old. He sat and waited, wagging his tail and staring up at me with his tongue out like he'd done his job of herding the little thing until the latter's owner picked him up.

I sighed, giving the recall command and pretending to reach for his leash in my duffel. Instantly, he was at my heel.

"Sorry. Herding instincts. He can't control it."

"That's alright. Border collies have it programmed into their genes after all. Chicken didn't mean any harm, and you couldn't possibly have known about..." He paused then, turning to the kitten in his arms, as though right then and there, the thought of introducing us crossed his mind. "This is Leo, by the way. I took him in the evening after Winter Wonderland with your friends. It's... been quite the experience. Leo, this is Leroy."

"Cool name." I said to the black furball. It turned away from me and buried its head in his owner's arms. That little shit. "Newborn?"

"Thank you," he cleared his throat, gaze turning to Chicken and shuffling over to give him a head rub with his free hand. "He's barely three months old. An absolute menace, though. Mark my words... and, thank you. Again. For dinner. I'm sorry this wasn't... exactly... the best of ways to introduce them to each other."

I snorted, turning to the border collie at my heel swishing his tail across the floor while waiting for instructions. "You heard that, boy?"

"I-I meant to say that perhaps, another time, we... could..." His voice faded off, gaze faltering as soon as they met mine. "So... you came all the way here to drop off extra portions of parmesan chicken?"

"..." Breathing stopped. Completely, for a moment. "... I wanted to talk. About that night."

"Oh." He wavered. Like snow at a gust of wind. "Well, I. Wasn't really... expecting that."

"I know." I backed off. Putting pressure on him was the last thing on my mind. "Only if you're ready." Going slow was the only option.

He fell silent, tugging the jacket draped over his shoulders tighter around himself and right away, the idea of ever retrieving it vanished without a trace. The way he was acting felt like he hadn't even noticed he was wearing it; like this getup was just part of his daily routine. I stared for a second too long.

"If what you're asking is if I'm still upset about the extremely complicated relationship between you, the kitchen, your father, your condition, and, well, me, then. Yes. I am." He said quietly. "Secretly, I was hoping you'd do terribly at the preliminaries. But unfortunately, I was made certain of my naivety. You were nothing short of phenomenal—just like you were seven years ago. I simply don't wish for events of the past to repeat itself, which, as we made clear right here in this room several weeks ago, has already happened. Thanks to... well. Thanks to me. My being here. With you."

"You are the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"... Oh be quiet. Don't you start, doing what you, you always do that... that works all the time and ugh! Like I'm an event. A... a phenomenon!"

"—Besides fried chicken."

"Like, like the Copernican Revolution. A paradigm shift. The Vanilla Incident! Oh and of course I lose to fried chicken."

"Given a choice, I'd want you to happen again." I breathed. "And again."

"I-I-I cannot accept that. Leroy, you don't need me, or this, or any of—"

"I want you. In my life. That, I know."

"And if it happens again? You, hurting yourself, and and and others around you, all because of me. What then? Choosing misery over the peaceful life you had, i-it's... it doesn't make any sense."

"... It wasn't peaceful." The words in my head slowed to a stop. "I fought fires—even now, I still do. And the problems that were there... still here today. You're right, nothing's changed. And I'm still getting a lay of the land, still doing the groundwork, still figuring shit out, but it doesn't mean I want you out of my life."

The room wasn't entirely silent; just the swishing of Chicken's tail and the occasional mewl coming from the couch. If this was a dream; if it was something separate from the reality we had between us now, I'd think it was endgame.

"I was hoping you'd wait." I told him. "Till I'm... there."

We were quiet. I waited for the ripples in his eyes to fade, watching, biding my time; he stared back.

"I—" Missed you. "Think about you." I couldn't look away. Like some part of me had become gravitized and this was the revolution he was talking about. "Every day."

He searched my gaze. "You can't just..." His voice failed all of a sudden. He looked like he was about to say something, but then thought against it and shied away, eyes darting—raising, closing, going back down again. "Me too."

Something in the air shifted. What did he call it again? A paradigm. It felt, to me, like tasting the world a second time and realizing it was nothing like how I recalled it to be.

"But that doesn't mean I don't worry about you either." His gaze hardened; lips trembling a little. "About this... the whole idea of you going back into the kitchen and playing with fire."

This was him. The one name on almost every paper in that folder; co-authoring, assisting, funding, collaborating with labs and other researchers—doing all that he could while we were apart, and not once, thought of asking for anything in return. Not even gratitude or appreciation. Just pure, unconditional love.

"Vanilla." I watched it snow in his eyes, closing the distance to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "I'm sorry. It's nerve-wracking, I know. I'm not a genius, I play with fire, and I get off on it, but I'm afraid you're gonna have to deal with this for the rest of your life 'cuz I'm not fucking off anytime soon before I'm done figuring myself out and until then..."

The sound of the chain attached to his glasses as he smiled was addictive. Like a chill in the air at night. Icicles in the breeze.

"I'll be waiting." He finished quietly.

It was only after a beat of silence that he followed my gaze and noticed what it was I'd been staring at for the past two minutes and my unspoken request for permission. He then proceeded to exceed my expectations (like he always does) by mirroring my gaze, lowering and resting briefly on my lips before going back up.

Reason walked right out the door. "Can I?"

"W-well," he flustered first, eyes going everywhere before suddenly lowering all the way to my heel. "Leo! Stop that. No scratching."

He bent over to pick the cat up and not gonna lie, I had no idea it was mistaking my leg for a scratch post. Or if it was jealous of all the attention I was getting from his owner.

"..." "So, um..."

We paused for a second before breaking into smiles. I stepped back.

"Sorry about Leo," he laughed softly, clearing his throat to hide something sad that crossed his features. "I'll... see you tomorrow, then? On set, for the first challenge. You've been... practicing?"

"You make it sound like I'm playing a solo on stage or something," I spoke my mind, then realized it might've come across weird. A little harsh, they way I'd said it.

He didn't seem to mind. "Perhaps practice was the wrong word. Reserved for amateurs, I suppose... cooking is practically second nature for people like yourself. But still. At the very least, a refreshing of your memory might help..."

At this, he excused himself and crossed the room, heading down the hallway and disappearing at the door to the bedroom. When he came back out, he had Leo on the floor, padding after him while he clutched at something familiar-looking.

A book.

Small. Handbound.

"The only copy in the world, so the writer himself once told me." The lock of hair I'd tucked behind his ear slid loose once more and again, had me lost for a second. "Here."

"You don't want it?" I asked and he gave me a look.

"What! No, you idiot. I want it back after you... fill in the remaining pages, of course." He averted his gaze. "It's mine. I'm just... lending it to you. It is 'on loan', and this is a private library. That is all."

I reached out for the book. A closer look revealed how well-kept it was despite all that it had been through—certain pages bearing the mark of a pool on a summer evening. Different times.

Flipping it open displayed my masterful chicken scrawl in all its glory. It wasn't that I actually forgot about them, just... never really bothered to remember. They were in there. Up in my head, somewhere. Just, hidden; and back then, what was the reason for writing it down in the first place? For taking those pictures, typing out a manuscript for the cookbook? For wanting it published in the first place? Why?

I could not remember.

"I mean," he interrupted the silence to say, hands behind his back that were probably clasped. Or playing with his fingers. "If you're coming back, you'll need this more than I do. This and much more, in fact—if you intend to impress the room. I hope it helps. With what you're trying to do."

He glanced down at the book he'd kept by his side for years. Some pages filled and some, empty.

I caved. "... How do you always know what I need?"

The snowstorm paused midair; expression blank at first and then, a hint of doubt crossing his features. "I don't think I do."

"You always know what to say," I pointed out. "What to do; how to help, support. Everything. Even while we were living separate lives."

Frozen eyes widened, cracking a little. Waves underneath. "... That's not... it's... because when we're together, somehow it... it always ends up..." His hand lifted and fell—gaze resting on the exact spot we came apart after an avalanche of words in the middle of forest fires. Nearly a month ago. "I had to do something."

It was the pout that got me. I breathed him in, smiling at the scent of tea and milk; chamomile and cream.

"Imagine cowriting a ton of research papers and setting up a company just to fund that shit, all at the age of, what, nineteen? Twenty?"

"O-oh be quiet. I didn't found GLACÉ just to... I... reviews were already a lucrative aspect of content creation and I had a substantial readerbase by the end of my fourth year in culinary school, so. It made perfect sense to start something. The research was merely... a personal endeavor I took special interest in. Plus, with connections to bring about proper contributions to scientific and gastronomic research, i-it would have been a disservice not to have done anything about the complete lack of information.

"After all, I..." his words were now reduced to a whisper. Barely audible. "Didn't know how else to help."

His gaze was lowered and his hair fell to frame his cheeks, fingers reaching up to sweep them aside.

"Thank you." I said.

Ocean eyes slowed to a stop and then, turned very still. The candles in mine made him smile. The rare ones. As though he harbored no doubt over those words and nothing should faze what we had. Just like he'd said that day.

My boy was getting restless from all that cortisol he was probably detecting and I knew he wouldn't last a second longer with that kitten wandering around the apartment, so I called it a day. He agreed, walking us to the front door and leaning against the frame.

There were bags under his eyes—from work, or from looking after that little shit that had all his attention, I couldn't tell. Mission somewhat complete and will to live somewhat restored (/joke), I looked over my shoulder and raised the book in my hand.

"Is there a deadline?"

The librarian rolled his eyes, smiling. "We accept extensions on a case-by-case basis. A rule pertaining to... certain idiots."

I laughed, glancing at the one finger on my left hand I never inked. One day.

=============

It was an ordinary day over at Leroy's, munching on lotus chips dipped in sour cream whilst racing on Peach Beach in their customized karts, picking up mystery boxes along the way for a random boost. Vanilla, having never quite gotten over leaning left and right regardless of the buttons he pressed on the controller, was doing surprisingly well at fourth place while Leroy, the expert, had maintained first place throughout the entire course. With one hand.

The weeks leading up to this level of quality gameplay had not been spent in vain. Thanks to Vanilla's uncle being caught up with work, the former had found himself spending at least two days a week over at Leroy's under Miss Julie's approval. Needless to say, Mrs. Cox did not hesitate to fry up more batches of thinly-sliced lotus root.

While the bespectacled bean was more than aware of his companion's intellect—judging from his ability to keep up with the former's unconscious rattling filled with jargon and odd concepts studied by scholars in their fifties—Vanilla could not quite identify where Leroy's understanding of all this had come from.

Unlike his room, the older boy did not own a single shelf of books or seem to read any in the first place. What with the distraction of console games which they played all-day-every-day, the fact that Leroy could differentiate between Barhi and Medjool dates and their origins after matching flavor profiles proved quite the feat to a bookworm who had little to no other sources of knowledge.

So when they'd crossed the finish line and the scoreboard had announced Leroy's twenty-second win of the month, Vanilla could not help but deem his companion a born genius. How his culinary knowledge had developed in such a vast and extensive manner remained, to this day—a secret.

He turned to Leroy. "I... I would like to request a change in game. We've been playing this for weeks," said the younger one, arms folded across his chest as he averted his gaze with a pout. "I would appreciate it if you picked something that doesn't feature such a steep learning curve."

Those were big words for a four-year-old and his companion could not help but snort. "You read 'Elements of Agricultural Chemistry' and talk about gravity like it's breathing but you can't play a game?" He laughed, straightening up before pulling out a stack of DVD boxes from a nearby drawer. "You pick."

Vanilla was nothing less than thrilled. Marveling at the game titles spread across the floor, he sifted through each and every one, wondering if this was Leroy's form of expressing an advanced level of friendship: allowing him to pick the game.

His companion waited patiently, sending lotus root chips peppered with cayenne into his mouth in twos as he did. It was not long before an all-too-obvious title found its way above the stack and into the eyes of the aspiring food critic.

"Cooking Mama," he read aloud, raising his gaze to blink at the other boy. "What's this?"

"I hate that game," was all Leroy had to say. "No one cooks like that."

This only served to further Vanilla's interest in the game's content. Curiosity piqued, he scanned through the description and gameplay images on the back of the game's DVD case, partly confused as to why Leroy had gotten himself a game he did not like. That, or whoever had purchased it for him was unlikely to have really understood his tastes.

"Oh. So... um, do you know how to cook?" The bespectacled boy had asked to fill the silence, squinting to decipher the screenshot he was staring it.

The pause he received in return was long and unexpected. After all, his question had been simple—all one could really say in return was either a yes or a no; simple and straightforward with no added twists or turns.

"Maybe. But I don't like cooking," said Leroy after a moment's worth of deliberation. At once, he observed a spark in his companion's eyes, accompanied by the instant straightening of his back.

"W-what? You should have said so earlier!" Vanilla shifted a little closer, leaning into the conversation with an eager heart and as though he hadn't heard the latter half of Leroy's statement. "What kind of dishes can you make?"

"Uh... just chicken vesuvio, beef stroganoff, rivel soup, shrimp-based paella and some mac and cheese...?" He listed slowly, thinking. He'd said the final dish as an attempt to throw him off, as though the simplicity of the dish was enough to offset the complexity of the ones before.

Vanilla was quite obviously in awe. "But! Who taught you all that? And—you know what's a stroganoff? I've never met anyone else who knows what they are!"

"My mom taught me mac and cheese," he stopped there on purpose, leaning back before deciding to just lie on the floor and gaze up at the ceiling.

His companion, a boy whose mind followed rules that were quite apart from the world they lived in, prompted him to continue. "And the rest? The... the vesuvio and stroganoff and paella and and and all that?"

"My dad," Leroy had said quite simply. Tight-lipped. "Did."

Perhaps it was the way that he'd said it, then, that made Vanilla come to his senses and detect the edged words lined razor-sharp. It made sense to avoid this topic altogether and that was exactly what he did.

"O-oh. I see. That's... um," he placed the game aside, folding his legs underneath his thighs. "You sound like a great chef already."

"Hm," Leroy didn't seem very convinced. "Not really."

The air of silence weighed upon their shoulders, going right up their noses in every breath they took. Unable to stand its heat, Vanilla hastily asked if he was up for another round of Mario Kart when, as sudden as the rising tide, Leroy spilled everything like the crash of a wave.

"He never comes home," he stared up at the ceiling. "Mom has to do everything while he gets all the fame on TV and lets it get to his head and comes home thinking he's better than mom and criticizes everything she makes. I hate him. I hate him to the core. I wish I never met him."

Stunned by his outburst, Vanilla had stared blankly in return—glasses slipping down his nose as he did. Naturally, he hadn't expected Leroy to tell him everything at once and now there was nothing that could be said that came to mind and he fell short.

"And, um. I-is that why you hate cooking?"

Leroy sighed. Nodding.

"Oh." Vanilla shifted closer than before, hugging his knees and the both of them fell into another bout of silence; at least until the bespectacled boy had more to say that he could not control.

"Um. Maybe I'm not the right person to say this, but... um..." He couldn't understand why his heart was beating like it was. Mad and insanely fast; odd and incessantly hard. "W-while it's true that Mr. Father might have changed after experiencing the culinary world at—what's that word—at it's peak, yes, um... while that's true, I don't think cooking is the thing that's causing this problem."

At once, Leroy had frowned; a natural reaction for a five-year-old. After all, he was being told by someone younger by a year that he was wrong.

"After all, Mrs. Mother is cooking downstairs right now isn't she? And back home, I'm sure Miss Julie is cooking dinner for Uncle Al and me. And in Mr. Chocolate Chip's home, he's probably making that for Mr. Handsome and Miss Red Coat and they don't seem like they're changing for the worse or anything, so!" Vanilla had picked apart the boy's conclusions and premises with such care and concern that it resembled that of a scientist doing the same. "So maybe cooking isn't really the problem."

In the middle of it all, Leroy's expression had changed to one of surprise. "Then what is? Expensive cooking? TV? Fame?"

"W-well, it can be but honestly, I'm not sure," admitted Vanilla nervously. "You see, a problem can have many sources, whether underlying or out in the open. Sometimes, we may never know what went wrong and then we can only guess. But um! Um, what I do know is that... that, well... that your cooking belongs to you."

His friend had sat up midway and was staring back at him with his eyes wide, amber eyes alit—almost like the flame of a candle in the absence of wind.

"You, too, can become a famous chef of, of expensive foods, or I don't know. A chef as talented and skilled like Mr. Father but with a heart as kind and passionate as Mrs. Mother's! Would that solve the problem?

"All you have to do is... not be the person Mr. Father was. But that should be easy, right? Because Leroy is... well, is Leroy."

There was a flickering of the candle inside, as though he'd opened the window to let something in and by doing so allowed the wind to slip by in a fleeting moment. Beyond the window was a pair of oceans; as odd as it was beginning to sound. Those eyes, he stared at. The color was of clear waters, lapping against the shore in peace but all hidden behind a pair of glasses.

The candle and the ocean.