A/N: It's another 8K word chapter (definitely a trend now hahah!) with tons of illegal flirting and Leroy's signature meme POV which sometimes amuses me so much that I simply can't fathom how his author is somehow able to come up with his words in the first place. 

Also to those who expressed enjoyment of the previous chapter, I'm honored. HAHAHAH it has been some time since I wrote smut for SeeSaw and I was worried that I'd lost the essence of their dynamic. I like the more realistic approach that is also coincidentally more emotional, albeit these two were already very emotionally tethered in the first place. 

Well... we all know that there's more of that in the future. Teehee. 

________________________

[Vanilla]

There is something one must understand about seducing a partner—things don't necessarily always go as planned. In fact, I'd say they never do; or at least I haven't quite personally experienced an instance of planned seduction, no, though I quite like to think myself capable of it. After all, what else should be required of the seducer apart from well-simulated conversations, some thorough reading, and light research supported by real-life observations and demonstrations?

As it turns out; everything.

It appears I am terrible at seduction. Only a fool would fall for silly little tricks of mine (granted, if there were any in the first place directed not at said fool) powered by the passion of wine and the past, contingent upon circumstances like scented soaps and bubble baths. The latter, my primary reason for a restful night in a bed that wasn't my own.

I peered at him through the gap in the covers, huddled close for warmth throughout the entire night.

He had a habit of sleeping on his stomach; face down, buried in the pillow with his back completely bare—arms either splayed out on both sides or tucked underneath the cushions as though blood flow was completely irrelevant to survival. At present, they extended toward myself. One under the crook of my neck and the other, wrapped around like a weighted blanket.

When did we last sleep in the same bed? How odd it was, to miss a feeling one's never quite noticed. There was something about his company that felt like an added layer of comfort over my shoulders. A feeling that was safe despite its wholly vulnerable nature; nothing to hide behind but the embrace of something raw and remarkably intimate.

Alas. It is no news that I find Leroy unbearably attractive even in his sleep.

Last night had been nothing short of a disaster spiraling out of control the moment I shared my location in the heat of a moment, craving the sound of company amidst an evening of silence. The consequences of it all? Soreness. In my thighs.

And not a single ounce of regret.

Oh Vanilla. Surely, you see how hopelessly smitten you are by this idiot before you? I said to myself as I stared at his sleeping face, comedically smushed into his pillow but still, somehow, impossibly handsome. A-and and and not to mention, the tattoos! After trying so hard all evening not to ogle at them in the shower, here I was giving in like a toddler to candy. At the very least, eyes closed and fast asleep, he'd never know.

Ample time, then, to do as I pleased.

Shifting under the covers for a closer look, I traced an index along the flames and waves covering his upper arm, shy of his shoulder that provided the support I required the night before. Poor eyesight and a mountain of distractions in the form of this man had always made the task of admiring them rather impossible. Up close, the ink looked almost gentle; nothing like the fiery intimidation it projected from afar.

"... Didn't know you liked them that much."

The devil himself stirred, fingers weaving through my hair without warning and playing with the locks splayed out. His eyes remained closed.

"Curiosity doesn't always equate to attraction," I offered in return, in the mood for stubborn mornings.

"But it can." He said with one eye open and a smile in his voice. Hidden by pillows; rough from sleep. Already, I could hear Chicken padding across the floor at the sound of conversation, perhaps with his feline friend close behind.

"I suppose I'm in no place to deny after what happened last night." I somewhat slithered out of his grasp, rustling under the covers to reach for my phone on the bedside table. "Goodness, i-it's nearly seven. Thank heavens I took interest in your tattoos or we'd still be sound asleep under these comfy covers. I'll go..."

I paused midsentence, noting the look in his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

In two seconds, he'd hooked an arm around my waist and reeled me back into bed by his side, leaning down to rest his forehead against the back of my neck.

"You smell like my cum," said he with all the audacity in the universe; not a single ounce of remorse. Unashamed. Unabashed. Practically begging to be banished into outer space for an eon of reflection because such a phrase should never—not in a million years—be uttered aloud, let alone exist between the lines of a silly novel on Wattpad.

"Excuse you!"

"Might wanna take a shower before heading down."

"Wh—but! Last night, I... are you certain this is..." I raised the back of my hand to my nose in panic.

"Yeah." The perpetrator sat up leisurely, slumped against the headboard with eyes fixed on mine. "But if you're into that..."

"Leroy!" "I mean you never know..." "How is that—I mean, even after the shower we had last night? I don't... well I suppose it could be the case considering a bath practically filled with... um. You know." "I know." "Well then, why does it have your scent instead of mine?" "It's not a competition, dumbass." "No no, I have to get to the bottom of this. It doesn't make any sense." "... It's seven in the morning and the love of my life seeks the truth of my load." "Truth does not care for—did. Did you... w-well the... lifetime of a load does not... love mornings at seven... oh be quiet I'm trying to think." "I got all day."

The entire back-and-forth had unfolded in a splendid manner of efficiency; myself slipping into a new bathrobe and Leroy joining me in front of the vanity with a towel around his waist. Toothbrushes, shavers, and one (thorough) shower later, I sent him out the door to retrieve his laundered clothing and fetch mine from the floor above, right outside my room where the intern had left them. Meanwhile, I fed the children and snuck vitamins into their diet. By the time Chicken's owner returned from his mission with my garment bag, the topic of our conversation had somehow gone from 'the truth of his load' (seminal fluid) to its 'distinctive taste and smell' followed by his respective findings and discoveries (problematic) before finally arriving at our first proper subject matter of the morning: the circumstances surrounding the current state of his taste buds.

"Two," he revealed, after I asked how many sessions he'd had with the therapist he mentioned in passing thus far. "Next one's in a couple of days."

This was my first time broaching the topic since our little chat over at my apartment. Out of respect for his space and privacy, I had been careful not to cross the line we'd drawn. Inner thoughts shared and feelings laid out in the open over a glass of wine, now, with added perspective and clarity about where we stood in each others' lives, I felt a new sensitivity toward his condition—birthed from the stability and security of 'us'.

One that wasn't simply afraid to approach, but more so contented by his welcome.

"I admire your spirit," I told him, sinking into the loveseat and smiling behind my cup of tea. "What you are doing is very commendable. I'd treat you to another serving of gelato if I could."

"Only if it's vanilla." He said in the mirror, pulling a station shirt over his head and smirking sideways. "And next time, I'm getting the bill."

"Mm, taking turns?"

"Spending my weekly stipend bribing my favorite judge, yeah."

"Oh be quiet," I laughed, gathering my hair into a low ponytail and fixing flyaways. "And a weekly stipend! Yes, I did hear about that during the initial phases of the production. Something about a salary depending on one's performance. I hope you're being compensated well for your time...?"

"Pretty decent, actually. Food's catered; room and travel's all covered and paid for, so." He shrugged, scratching Chicken behind the ears. "Either I put it aside or spend it on my boy."

Knowing that Leroy and his fellow cast members were getting paid on time for their participation was a relief. Part of the issue going into big productions like these was the complete lack of transparency; bolstered by an alarming number of non-disclosure acts and restrictions I was never a fan of.

"Perhaps a little something nice for yourself once in a while?"

"... Like?"

"Oh I don't know. A shirt, for starters."

"Don't lie. You know I look better without one."

"Nonsense!"

"Someone couldn't keep his eyes off—"

I cut him off instantly, kalmly proposing he head down to the docks first where the individual interviews were to be filmed since, well, clearly, he was all dressed and ready to leave. His response? To suggest a game of rock, paper, scissors. The ultimate decision-maker.

The idea was to avoid having anyone else on the same floor witness the two of us leaving Leroy's room together. One of us would enjoy the peace and quiet of ten additional minutes with our pet while the other would leave for work first. At the very least, this would spare us lengthy explanations and potential mess-ups; and to be doubly cautious of nosy parties, I even provided us a proper script for the sake of corroboration.

Alas, I lost.

My personal idiot had the brilliant idea of throwing 'rock' thrice, abandoning all unspoken etiquette of games like these and thereby cheating his way into a win. I say 'cheating' because really, by the end of three rounds, he had me in shambles—unable to comprehend the sheer shrewdness of his plays and complete lack of common sense. He'd laughed and said something about learning this from his crew members back at the firehouse while I scrambled to get dressed.

"Good luck, today." I said at the door, slipping my shoes on.

His laugh was charming and elusive all at once. "Don't go easy on me."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Just a reminder."

"Then, I shall make things hard for you, Chef Cinder." I smiled up at him. "Extremely hard."

"Always tempting me with a good time."

I made it to set with twenty minutes to spare, greeting the camera crew and several members of the production team before joining Chef Pao in handing out sandwiches and bottles of water.

"Banilla!" He looked pleasantly surprised to see me but the energy soon simmered into an equivalent of worry. "You okay? I knock on your door last night because, you know, you left early saying something about a headache but you didn't respond. Did you use the white flower oil I gave you?"

"Yes I did," I came up with something quick and simple on the spot. "I'm so sorry—I must've been in the shower when you came by. I blame the drinks from last night... how was the cocktail party?"

"Good good," he nodded, grabbing more bottles of water. "It was fun and everyone had a good time but Banilla, don't change the subject," he stopped all of a sudden to face me straight on. "I know a lie when I hear one. I have children you know? And all children, one day, will learn how to lie.

"But you are not a liar. So when you lie, I know maybe you have good reason for lying and that is okay. I can accept it," he clapped my shoulder twice, looking away. "You ordered a cocktail last night and didn't even finish it. Amelia told me. I know it has nothing to do with the drinks. So if there is anything you want to tell me, I will do my best to help."

It was a pleasant feeling; an instance of home far away from it.

"Thank you chef," I felt my shoulders relax and soften. "That is very kind of you."

"Ay. How many times I tell you? Just call me Pao."

"I... yes. Of course. Thank you, Pao."

Together, we went around the set with sandwiches and water while the assistants and camera crew worked on finishing touches to the interview frame. Waiting in line to be mic'ed up were the twelve cast members with digital copies of yesterday's recap in their hands for a jolt of memory. After all, these cutaway confessionals were meant to look and feel like they were recorded in the moment.

I sat on a bench at the end of the line, some purposeful distance away from a certain idiot.

"Psst."

Behold—Layla starting a conversation with the sound of a secret. Quite frankly, I'd seen this coming a mile away.

"You weren't in your room early this morning. I dropped by to check on you and knocked twice but you never responded. Plus, your laundry bag was hung outside even though they had them sent up to our rooms in the evening. Don't tell me you spent the night at Royroy's?"

"Yes I did and I can barely walk or sit as a result. Is that what you'd like to hear, Chef Tenner?" I returned under my breath and she reached out to deliver a pinch on my arm.

"That sounds like nothing but the truth! Well, don't mind me. I was worried after you left last night without a word but knowing you spent it with company makes me feel a little better. After you... well, practically gave our team the winning idea of brioche con gelato and that bottle of olive oil, you know. Made me feel like that was an overkill."

"It's a competition, Layla." I assured her, now, more confident than ever. "Meant to weed out the weak and nurture the best. I'm sure the producers discussed the nature of these competitive advantages. I'll admit, some of them surprise me, and yes, they are extremely fond of editing the script on-the-go, but still. I trust they'd have grounds to be... well, fair."

She paused, thinking for a moment before breathing a sigh. "Alright, alright. I believe you. Oh poor Mr. White, all grown up now. I wonder what he thinks about the other chefs on the show! Perhaps a subjectively objective opinion? Anyway, you're walking weirdly. Just in case you didn't notice." Was all she said before exiting the conversation and turning to the sound assistant for a fix of her mic.

My mouth dropped.

It took me some time to reboot the chaos in my head and consciously lift a hand up to my face to close said mouth. Was I really?

I paused to give my body a mental scan, privately calculating all previous actions of the day and going through the number of people who'd seen me walk thus far. The only outliers were the knots on my lower back and the soreness of my thighs. And perhaps if I'd paid a little more attention, the surface of the skin on my inner thighs was oddly sensitive under the friction of my dress pants as I walked.

"Places!"

The set was a greenhouse by the docks, complete with a view of the Ligurian sea and colorful houses lined up down the street, all naturally lit. Perfect for interview shots of cast members expounding little secrets to the audience in private—otherwise known as the act of spilling tea.

The show's director however, had a surprisingly unique take on such interviews. Apart from the main subject of the confessional in the foreground of the camera frame, Stan proposed a co-subject—a partner—placed several feet behind the main subject in earshot of their responses to the questions asked. This would provide a secondary option for editors looking for a reaction to a possibly controversial or emotional remark made by the main subject.

Alas, all for the sake of added entertainment.

"It is true we need a little spice sometimes. Otherwise, very boring," said Pao with the straightest face he could manage, eventually dissolving into a fit of laughter when Chef Streisand feigned offence. "Come on Amelia. See, we don't do a lot of things. No drama, no shouting, no screaming in the kitchen; just nice people who like food and cook well. Banilla included."

"I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you Pao, but I have a history of... burning down a kitchen."

"Ah! There you have it. The opposite of boring." Chef Streisand gestured. "What was it? A deep fryer? An attempt at Flambé?"

Our confessionals captured a charming dynamic between us three, ranging from personal critiques of individual contestants and their technical abilities, to juicy opinions about their personalities and leadership styles. Fortunately, I kept things boring. Pao on the other hand, delivered the spice he promised.

"Who can say no to handsome chef with great technique?" He turned around to catch a glimpse of our expressions, seated not far away within frame of his three-quarter shot. "Mantecare all'onda is difficult even for local chefs. Cinder is a natural. And you see the muscles on his arm... ay ay ay."

"Well I heard he's a firefighter." Chef Streisand coughed while I attempted to maintain composure.

"Even better!"

The soothing presence of seasoned counterparts who were both humorous and thoughtful in nature made the process of filming these interviews awfully smooth. In short, I was spoiled. We breezed through questions in less than half-an-hour before the next pair of individuals, both Masters, were called up on set.

Chef Du Bellay and Chef Andre.

Earlier, I considered the possibility of them creating instinct conflict by placing Leroy and Andre together in the same frame but there was no proper rule about the pairs being fixed, and judging from my experience with entertainment over the past couple of days, I could see them 'saving' the best for later.

Chef Andre was up first, responding to general prompts about his learning experience at the farm and how he 'hadn't signed up for unimportant tasks like olive-picking.' Not forgetting his continued disbelief toward the whole 'blind taste test hoo-ha' and general distaste for critics like myself. In fact, he'd taken the opportunity to reinforce his supposed relevance by keeping my name in every five or so sentences of his.

All of this, I expected.

Then came the odd subject change with little warning; Chef Andre had decided to refer to Chef Du Bellay by her first name. More specifically, the name she no longer associated with. In a moment of complete buffoonery or perhaps outright malice, he'd criticized her lack of leadership in the team challenge, suggesting she thought herself 'perpetually safe' from elimination. Thanks to her title as Siegfried's sous chef.

"..."

Not many besides the camera crew and select others on set had stayed behind to watch every subsequent confessional. Pao had excused himself to take a private call and Chef Streisand was going through the revised script outside the greenhouse. The other Masters and Mavericks were waiting in line for their turn in the producer's tent.

No one called for cut, and as such, the cameras continued rolling. Chef Du Bellay was not given the opportunity to speak for herself until it was her turn to take centerstage up front. Andre was then instructed to take her place—several feet behind, on a bench.

"What are your thoughts on deadnaming?" One of the producers fired without a second to spare and needless to say, the air dropped with the weight of her words. "Are you comfortable with that?"

This being the first of many prompts further proved the issue at hand. Not far away, Chef Andre had his face angled sideways away from his interview partner, but it did not stop him from snickering.

There was the option to interrupt and tell whoever had posed the question off for failing to prioritize Chef Du Bellay's culinary experience, but that, too, would have been an act of taking control away from her. At present, she had the attention of the room and all the time to speak.

"Anthony is a nice name. And so is Antoinette. Both are beautiful names. All names are beautiful. But to be honest, I would be wasting my time paying any attention to the people I don't care about. I am here as a cook, not a celebrity. And there is good reason for my position as sous chef at Siegfried's for the years I've spent in his kitchen. Dine at my table. Eat my food, and you will see. Very simple." She said quietly, hands on her lap and legs crossed. "But maybe also learn to give others some basic respect. They actually teach you that in elementary school."

A tiny smile crossed her features when the prompter appeared impressed by her answer. Andre rolled his eyes.

Flawless. I could not help but think; relieved I hadn't stepped in and possibly denied a calm, mature response everyone else in the room needed to hear. Perhaps the complete opposite of her partner, Chef Du Bellay's tone was free of bias and subjectivity. She'd explained her point of view without the use of emotive words and delivered an apt, albeit general message across.

And most importantly, she'd done it on her own.

The question-prompting was then taken over by another producer, who thankfully kept the conversation focused on Chef Du Bellay's contributions to yesterday's team challenge. Her responses had near zero relevance to Chef Andre, thereby leaving him perpetually ignored. Practically décor on set.

"Chef," I approached her privately while we were on break, offering a bottle of water. She accepted it with a smile. "Do you have a minute?"

"Always, Vanilla. Conversations with you are meaningful and enjoyable... wish I could say the same for others," she laughed a little, shaking her head with a sigh. "I assume you're here to talk about... him."

"Well," I paused. Slightly awkward. "I'd be lying if I said otherwise."

"Honest as always," she took a sip of water, gazing out of the greenhouse far into the distance. "I can manage. Thank you for your concern."

"Actually, I was referring to... something along the lines of speaking with the production team for a content review. Not specifically about the comments made by Andre, but also possible sequences—including interview prompts, of course—and references they are intending to make in the final cut of the production. Perhaps even a note on general contestant behavior, while they're at it."

Since your fiancé has apparently not taken the liberty to do so.

"Oh Vanilla," Chef Du Bellay breathed deeply, shoulders relaxing. Her smile was tired and she sighed once more. "I've said this long before. I know exactly what I signed up for; including Andre and the cast. Leading questions, purposeful editing and all that... I expected it all. Though you're right about one thing. Being prepared doesn't mean I can magically eliminate all unhappiness and discomfort I experience throughout this process. Yes, I don't necessarily like or see a point to any of this, but if it makes Siegfried happy and I am occasionally given the opportunity to demonstrate my craft, then..."

I understood.

Either way, it was never a clever decision to meddle in the affairs of a couple. "I presume you're not inclined to voice this... discomfort, then?"

"Not at this level, no. I'd rather let the child make a fool of himself," she smiled simply, then turned her attention to the next pair of chefs scheduled for filming; Sparrow and Cinder. She nodded at them from across the room and my gaze followed. "Learned it from the best. Andre doesn't know what he's doing half the time. As long as you judges acknowledge my culinary skill... he doesn't faze me as much as you think."

There was a pause when we lapsed into an odd silence of watching the people on set ready themselves for the camera. She spoke after some time.

"Sorry I might have... crossed the line with that last part. That was silly of me. I hope you don't think I'm trying to win some sympathy points from you. I'd hate that."

"There is no need to apologize, Chef Du Bellay," I nodded curtly, but, in quiet understanding. "This conversation had nothing to do with sympathy or pity. Fortunately, I have learned not to fall prey to things like fire and emotion. Still learning, of course. But I daresay I have quite the disposition for it."

I took my leave soon after, afraid I'd let slip the catastrophic question of just how Siegfried had once won the love and affection of two beautiful souls in his lifetime. Either he was an extremely lucky man or the definition of a flame, bewitching to moths.

Funny how one could see the two as father and son; Leroy and he.

___________________

[Leroy]

They announced a three-hour delay the moment we got off the long bus ride from Portofino back to Florence, which meant the first production all-nighter would start at ten in the evening and wrap up anywhere between two and five in the morning. Most chefs were not a fan of the news. Barely three days into the start of our shooting schedule and already, they were looking spent from the lack of sleep and constant pressure. If spending years in the kitchens of their restaurants expediting orders and dealing with the heat weren't enough to prepare them for a production of this scale, nothing else was.

Except firefighting, maybe.

Luckily for me, I spent the bus ride recharging.

And by that I mean snapping pictures of my boy balancing treats on his snout and sending them to his co-owner. To my surprise, he sent me one in return. Leo curled up on his lap. I sent him more. Eventually, our chat turned into a rapid back-and-forth of our pets being cute and soon, I was making a deal with his cat in my head; something about taking turns and playing fair. More details when it actually happens.

The cast members split up; some returning to their rooms for a nap while others, mostly Mavs, hung out in the lounge area with self-study notes and digital cookbooks.

"Guess we're going for a walk buddy." I said to Chicken after dropping my stuff in the room, heading out with his lead in one hand and an idea in the other.

"Is that olive oil?" Syrup asked, pausing to stare as I passed him on my way out the lobby.

I said nothing. Partly because confirming his question might've meant giving away key bits of information about the bottle of oil and its original source, but also because elaboration was never my thing.

The instinct came to me like the strike of a match. Crackling.

Before I knew it, I'd found my way back to the risotto place outside the Mercato Centrale with my dog leading the way across the piazza. Didn't matter if it was a weekday afternoon—the marketplace was packed with tourists and locals grabbing a bite. I expected the same wafting aroma of butter and saffron as I rounded the bend, savory and rich, but to my surprise came upon a half-closed store.

Chairs stacked. Tables off to the side. Kitchen closed.

A woman in a head scarf stood out on the sidewalk, sweeping quietly. She looked up as I slowed to a stop, saying something in Italian while I reached for my phone. Using a translator, I asked: "Is the chef in?"

She pointed and said something the translator picked up as 'the old man'.

"And his grandson, yeah." I raised the bottle of olive oil I brought along. In their culture, they dubbed it Liquid Gold. "Just wanted to thank him."

Gifting wasn't the sort of thing I ever did in the past. Or the present, really. Station twelve had always been the kind of crew to appreciate acts of service over anything else, and Annie never wanted anything more than quality time with me and Rexi. With her, it was always 'coming home for dinner.'

"Eh, il cuoco... purtroppo è in ospedale, sa—ieri ha avuto un ictus, pover'uomo, l'hanno portato via in ambulanza, tutto all'improvviso." The old man had a stroke?

I stared at the translated version of her words on my phone. Plans to tell him and his grandson about Portofino dissolving right then and there. My boy's tail was down. Tucked between his legs because border collies knew. Just like that.

"He's gone...?"

"No no no." The lady set her broom aside and pulled out her phone. Googled. Shoved a picture of a hospital in my face. I was about to ask if she knew the chef personally when the teen boy I met on the first night emerged from the kitchen.

"You come back!" He went up to Chicken, crouching to rub his sides and under his chin. "Sorry... today we close."

The look in his eyes reminded me of the time I'd see my mother in her ward every weekend. Five days in school and the rest of it, spent by her side with doctors and nurses.

"Is he okay?"

"Eh... not really." The grandson tried to lighten the mood with a laugh, reaching behind to scratch the back of his head. "Doctor says surgery. Can live, but... you know maybe no cook ever again."

Annie was right. Things could change in a heartbeat; anything could happen. One snap and all of it, gone in an instant.

"At least nonno taught someone in the world." He looked up at me with a smile, then down at my dog before passing the back of his hand over his eyes.

Firefighters aren't exactly strangers to emotion. We see it every second of the day, reflected on the faces of ordinary people; strangers; fathers; mothers; kids. The other guy having our back as we step into the heart of a house on fire.

You learn to let things be. Or try to, at least.

"... Here." I held out the bottle of liquid gold. "Tell him... the people at Portofino loved his risotto."

The boy straightened up slowly, frowning as he did; then, began to smile as he read the label on the bottle. "Eh! Portofino. I tell him." He laughed. "Grazie signore."

I started down the sidewalk in the direction of villa cora, leaving the marketplace behind and picking up the pace into a run.

Adrenaline sizzled in my fingers. Fueled by emotion.

Something was different about the heat—this time, it lingered. All morning, since the night before. Not that I was changed, per se (although I wouldn't be surprised if a couple of words by the world's greatest genius had that effect on me). More like I'd been staring at something for the longest time, trying to make out what it was in the darkness only to realize I could've lit a candle. Talking to him last night might've done it.

Lit the candle.

Hearing how I looked from his perspective; learning on the go and thriving in the unknown. A new kind of kitchen I was still trying to find.

And to those on the outside who'd left their mark, the least I could do was honor them. Chefs whose names people would never know. Annie was one of them; cooking up a storm in her diner at the end of the street, the smell of fried chicken and lotus chips in the air, regulars coming by for a fix on weekday afternoons. Full house on the weekends.

And just like the other nameless chefs, she'd go too.

One day, she would.

But something else would live on. In the recipes she taught me; the food I served; the things I craved. Different, but still, a substantial part of her in my kitchen. To the rest of the world, she'd live on a plate. And I think to that, she'd say fuck yeah. After all, she wasn't going to let the best fried chicken in the world just stop existing the moment she kicked the bucket. 'Cuz if anything, stuff like that deserved a...

"..." I stopped dead in my tracks.

My boy felt a tug on his lead and instantly turned his attention my way, abandoning the freshly-mown grass we were walking through on the route back.

Wait a sec. Who's gonna be making the best vanilla in the world when I'm gone?

It's gotta live on somehow, somewhere. I thought fast. Either that, or I just can't fucking die.

Then, boom.

Instant solution: Teach him how to make it. Not just the ice cream—everything. Braised chicken. Lotus chips. Beef bourguignon. How not to burn down a kitchen while he's at it.

After all, he did declare it the best vanilla ice cream he'd ever had. Conscience clean, I couldn't simply let it cease to exist just like that, could I?

*

"Next date, we're doing cooking lessons." "Oh. What a pleasant surprise! I am very intrigued. You've never offered to teach me how to cook, so I've always thought it simply wasn't your cup of tea." "Someone else needs to know how to make the best vanilla in the world." "..." "... What." "Leroy." "... Yeah?" "You're not going to die." "... What do you—" "I will not allow it." "... So it's banned." "Yes, it is forbidden. It is against the law. Never shall you, under any circumstance, hand that recipe of yours to anyone else. Do you understand?" "... Yes, your highness." "Very good." "... Still want those cooking lessons?" "Actually, yes. You will witness my utter inability to recreate any of your recipes and thus realize the impossible nature of your plan. I shall personally see to that. When is... w-when are we... dating?"

Death, canceled.

Not even postponed, just, straight up not allowed.

The bunch of us were assembled right outside the ground floor of the hotel's function hall, waiting around for the sound guys to mic us up while the camera crew worked behind closed doors. I'd casually gone up to my favorite judge under the pretense of pet talk since Pao and Streisand were chatting with a couple of contestants over dinner rolls they handed out, noting his polite refusal of the bread basket. I told him the real ones were under my shirt. He'd frozen over for five seconds before treating me to the wrath of a snowflake.

"Don't." He warned, frost underneath his glasses, icicles in the air. "No distractions."

"He called me a distraction." I said to my buddy at my heel.

He paid me no attention, staring at the bunch of humans still up and fully dressed at eleven in the evening, waiting for our cue—the urge to herd 'em all coursing through his veins.

I could tell he had a couple of protests on the tip of his tongue but sadly, one of the producers came around with a headset over her ears, gesturing for the judges to follow her. I watched him go.

"They're being pretty secretive about this," someone said at my shoulder. I glanced sideways. Syrup again. "Must be really big, huh."

I couldn't tell if he was genuine. Small talk wasn't my forte, and the blue scarf around his arm meant immunity from elimination, unlike mine that was red. The rest of the winning team, too, stood around with relaxed looks on their faces. Tenner included.

"... It's the main challenge, so." I shrugged.

Sparrow came by with his sister. He tapped me on the arm and held up... six fingers. Mapped out rectangles in the air.

"Six stations?"

He nodded. Index and middle finger to his eyes. He'd seen the layout.

"They seriously having the blues sit and watch for the next two hours?" I snorted, checking the time on my watch. "Weird, but okay."

"Can I have blues on my left, reds on my right please." The producer returned with a snap of a finger and we shuffled into our respective lines. Sparrow tapped me again. GL, he signed. A little something he taught me just this morning while we were waiting to shoot the confessionals down at the docks. Good luck. I signed it back.

"Alright guys are we ready?" This guy came out of nowhere with a voice the size of a church bell and instantly, we were wide-fucking-awake. "Come onnn make some noise!"

My soul left my body.

The cringe was real; all of a sudden, I was back in high school hearing the fourth years fire us up before the W-interschool and hell, I knew this was a one-take kinda thing and they probably needed us pumped and all, but honestly. If not for Popo cheering louder than everyone else, I would've kept my mouth shut and mused in private. Everyone else on the red team were looking stressed as fuck.

"Places!"

An assistant at the door snapped her fingers for attention before raising her hand with three fingers up. Our countdown. The hallway fell into complete silence when she froze in place and listened for the cue on her headset.

The fingers changed to a 'two'.

Then, 'one'.

The double doors swung open on cue and it was a straight path down the center of the transformed kitchen space, half the size of the arena back in London but still, a substantial one. Well-equipped. They'd adjusted the lights and dimmed the ones on the sides for a clearer focus on six stations in the middle; down the aisle to a raised platform where the judges stood.

All three of them, and one more: the episode's guest judge.

I met his gaze and felt the chill in my hands, knowing he'd have his eyes on me just like how he did back then; back when he timed the dicing of my onions down to the very millisecond and back when he told me that oil splashes were something I'd eventually get used to. Siegfried was just that sort of person, with that sort of gaze.

Sometimes I'd catch myself wondering if I did too. Have that kind of gaze.

He looked different up there, under the spotlight. Looking over the rest of the room with his arms crossed and a smile on his face; the kind that he reserved for the cameras and the kind I'd grown up watching on TV before I eventually stopped watching altogether.

Seeing it now didn't make much of a difference from seeing it back then. Just a little less far, and a little less resentful than I remembered.

I'd lost the feeling somewhere along the way; dropped after shaving off thoughts that weighed—thoughts about others—to focus first on ones about myself.

Can't say I felt surprised, though.

Du Bellay had done a double take herself, nearly missing her station in front of mine with her attention solely on the judging panel up front.

More than half the cast members reacted to his presence with squealing and major gasps for air I did not bother faking. Zero fucks given. If the production team had a certain genius putting on an apron and cooking alongside us though, well. That's a whole other story. In fact, I'd volunteer to cook right next to him. Insist, even; on the account of past instances in which said snowstorm had blown up kitchens (one kitchen) and triggered fire alarms (one fire alarm). Just doing my job as a firefighter on duty.

On my bench was a wooden crate. I tried lifting it a little but couldn't tell what was in there. In fact, the box felt so light that I caught myself thinking: could be empty. Somewhere behind me, I was hearing a bunch of complaints—only they were the complete opposite of mine and actually felt like they contained something.

"Good morning!"

Pao's energy fit the fabricated time on the wall clock perfectly. While I wasn't the kind to understand or appreciate personalities in entertainment, I respected the guy for keeping up.

"Ay my chefs. Welcome back to the kitchen! Suddenly, four judges—no panic. Just the guy with multiple James Beard awards, more Michelin stars than my fingers, and his handsome face on the cover of Forbes I think what, eight times?" He burst out laughing. "Siegfried Cox, everyone!"

Cheers erupted all the way to the ceiling, remnants of awe and surprise all caught on camera. The Mavs were psyched, hands over their heads in applause; Masters were honored, demonstrating quiet revere.

"Chef Saito, you look happy. Tell me why."

"He is a good friend of mine. A master of fine-dining... I have watched his shows and dined at many of his restaurants all over the world. His bistro in Tokyo won a bib gourmand three years ago and still, long queues outside of it, every day. I think he inspires chefs in every country with his charm and skill. But... I have one complaint. It is very difficult to get a reservation! Please, Siegfried. When?"

Scripted; and delivered just short of having the paper in front of him. And of course, they'd given the line to an Asian chef. His delivery was jittery and feverish enough to give the impression of genuine excitement to match his words.

Up front, Siegfried placed a hand over his heart with a slight bow of his head. "That is very kind of you, Chef Saito. Come by any time to my restaurant in London, and do not bother making a reservation. I will seat you myself."

That sort of treatment was worth a ton of envy. Perfect for cutaways. Entertainment professional through and through.

"You miss Italy, don't you Siegfried?" Chef Streisand prompted. "Having spent most of your life abroad. How does it feel to be home?"

"Nostalgic indeed. See, my grandmother lived all eighty-three years of her life in the City of Seven Hills—Roma. The smell of her kitchen in the morning... a breakfast ciambella, ricotta pancakes, and some frittatas... I miss it."

Someone zoom right in on my face and tell me I don't look like a meme 'cuz how the hell did I, all of a sudden, gain Italian roots from thin air? Annie never said this. I knew Siegfried's parents ran a small restaurant in our hometown and before that, a food cart, but his grandmother, Italian?

I call cap.

"And so today's challenge is all about the essence of Italian cuisine. We want you to present your interpretation of a classic Italian dish in under sixty minutes. It can be sweet or savory, the choice is up to you," he went on, turning to the row of blues on his left. "Blue team, you are safe from elimination. Red team... I see you're at your stations already."

"Sitting on your countertop is a randomized box of everyday ingredients used in Italian cooking." Sweet sounds of winter snow. Here I was hoping to see hour-long edits of 'Pure Vanilla Voice' on YouTube after the show aired. Bookmarked. Saved. On repeat. Twenty-four-seven. "Every box is different, and your dish must be limited to the ingredients on your counter."

Glancing down at my own crate, I was expecting a whole load of nothing. The easiest, fail-proof way to spark conflict and make things deliberately tough for Mavs like myself. I removed the lid.

Heavy cream. Garlic. Basil. Fennel. Hazelnuts. Olives. Onions. Red wine; sauvignon. And... coffee beans? I looked under the counter and took in a standard condiment pantry that also included eggs, butter, milk and flour.

No proteins.

Murmurs of confusion all around.

"And for your source of protein..." Streisand came up to the blue team standing in a line with a deck of cards fanned out. "Pick one."

"They're not even cooking tonight, chef." Andre cut her off with a snort and she turned promptly over her shoulder.

"You'll see very soon, Chef Andre."

Tenner was first. She drew: Cured Meats.

Popo drew Poultry. Raz drew Lamb. Saito, Rabbit. Amaranth, Seafood. And Syrup... Pistachios.

Seafood and Poultry were the clear winners. Easy to incorporate into any Italian dish for something rustic and elevated at the same time but pistachios as a main ingredient?

"Red team." Siegfried had those in blue come up to the front of the room with their respective ingredients cards. Lined them up. "You will now choose the one additional ingredient you'd like to cook with and along with it, an additional chef to assist you in this challenge."

"Buy one, get one free!" Pao chuckled. "They come together, the person and the ingredient. If you like the person but don't like the ingredient, oh no. If you like the ingredient, not the person, oh no. If you like both, good for you!"

"Wait, this is a duo challenge?" Sparrow's interpreter raised a hand to ask. "So. We have to choose our partner? If the dish wins, who gets the toque? Both chefs? Or just one?"

"Excellent questions." Winter nods were gentle. Polite. "Winning the team challenge does give all members of the blue team the coveted immunity from elimination, but barring them from the kitchen, unable to cook and therefore compete for a chance at the toque blanche, would be unfair. Thus, the duo challenge: work together to serve us the best Italian dish, and you both win the toque. Serve us the worst, and only the red member goes home. The chef in blue stays."

"... You mean our partners... could sabotage our dish and still go scot-free?" Chef Esme Hyde laid out slowly, frowning hard.

"They could indeed," Streisand chuckled. "But let's hope sportsmanship is a thing and we aren't here to be children."

Props to the production team; a bunch of professional shit-stirrers and conflict breeders. The ratings on this episode had to be breaking records thanks to juicy shots of friction between the cast members. That, or we lock in and decide not to fuck around.

"One more thing you should consider before picking a partner, besides the protein in their hands. Masters: you identified more varieties of olive oil than the Mavericks on the learning trip. Congratulations. For every Master on the team, you will be given ten additional minutes to the clock. If Chef Jones on my right here decides to pick another fellow Master to join her team, the duo will receive twenty additional minutes in total. That is nearly thirty percent more than double-Maverick pairs—who will not be enjoying the luxury of bonus time."

Absolutely cracked.

In retrospect, I could see why a certain genius considered giving me a nudge or two off-camera. The production team had card after card up their sleeves to spice up any challenge, including added rules and advantages like these. Every competitive instance felt like an entirely different game, every single one of these amounting to snowballing advantages that eventually put some contestants way ahead, leaving others behind in the dust.

To the human beings in the room, this was entirely unfair.

But to the monsters in our heads—the ones skating across frozen lakes and running straight into forests of fire—this, was home.

"On the count of three, pick your poison."

I scanned the stuff on my bench. Then, the row of proteins up front.

"One."

Right off the bat, pistachios were out of the question. Plus, it came with a pastry chef who would likely propose serving a dessert.

"Two."

I was neutral about cured meats and seafood, so they weren't exactly my first pick of the lot, which meant the only options left were lamb, rabbit, and poultry.

"Three!"

All hell broke loose in a blink. I wasn't expecting any running, let alone pushing and shoving and straight up snatching cards right out the hand of someone else. Andre was the prime example of a caveman; bulldozing his way through and grabbing the Cured Meats card seconds after Sparrow arrived first. I caught a flash of disgust in the latter's eyes before he moved over to Lamb with Raz.

It took me half a second to go 'fuck that' and hang back while the others ran up to their protein-partner picks. Introversion kicked in real fast the moment I heard Andre and Hyde arguing over the double-Master advantage (twenty additional minutes) while Du Bellay kept her head low. She, too, had picked another Master. Jones went for Seafood with Amaranth, and Hyde with Popo's Poultry card.

So that happened.

"Ay ginoo..." Pao was laughing and shaking his head, hand over his mouth. "Poor Syrup! And Cinder, why you no fight?"

"It is what it is." I walked up to the last member of the blue team with a shrug, glancing down at the card in his hand. Pistachios.

Syrup was last pick for a reason. Specializing in pastries, baked goods, and desserts meant less expertise in savory fine dining; him being a Maverick meant no additional time either, so all that and his protein being a goddamn nut spelled disaster in all-caps.

"Don't worry. We got this." He moved closer, looking up with a smile.

The air dropped a couple degrees and I couldn't for the love of anything figure out why except the possibility of sabotage. After all, Syrup was safe from elimination. I, on the other hand, wasn't. Even if we were both Mavs, the show had prize money just for one—and clearly, my gut did not like this guy one bit.

"I can't do dessert."

"Why not?"

"... Just can't. Don't ask why."

"But it's a team effort."

"You're safe. I'm not." I laid out under my breath. "If we do something you're good at and I fuck up, I take the bullet."

"But I have an idea!" He was beaming now; real happy for some reason. Like he couldn't wait to get started. "Trust me, you'll love it." 

___________________

A/N: As I was rereading the main challenge for Italy, I saw that the barter challenge I first wrote did not achieve the intended effect of encouraging (forcing) Leroy to interact with the other contestants. My solution was to remove that completely. I made references to the other removed segment; featuring Vanilla as a guest chef. Mostly because I thought Siegfried as the guest judge was enough drama for one challenge; I'd reserve the rewrite for a later challenge. Something that would raise the stakes and put much more weight on having Vanilla as a guest chef! 

From there, I worked toward crafting a challenge that would include all the chefs (including those who'd won the team challenge) to compete for the toque. I got attached to the idea of the pair very quickly and then instantly thought of Leroy's fear of desserts. Ultimately, the build up to the Bali final challenge was a 0-100. Though the impact was there, it felt like I'd completely missed checkpoints Leroy should have made to get to that stage. 

Thus, birthed the many more scenes! There's definitely more from here on out, not only about Leroy's journey with food and the kitchen, but also little details about le SeeSaw. 

One more thing!

The original narrative follows: Italy > Indonesia (Bali) > Japan > China .... > Alma mater (Culinary School) > London (Finale) 

While the events of each arc have been drafted, I am still interested in exploring one more option for our Masters and Mavericks. Here are some options I have been considering. Feel free to vote (add elaboration in the comments like what sort of food/ingredients specifically you think I would be interested in writing about), and if the countries below are insufficient, please feel free to suggest your own!

Cuppie