[Leroy]

"We're looking at the next ten hours in ICU... and depending on her condition within this period, psychological and physical assessments for post-coma treatment. Unfortunately, the heart attack caused a cardiogenic shock, then worsened into a cardiac arrest... we're in the middle of assessing any heart damage, but for now, her monitor is beeping."

The hospital was in the middle of a small town. It had been the only one I could afford. Monthly fees were basically ninety-percent of whatever it was my part-time job could cover. The emergency doctor on duty who'd come out to greet us, I'd recognized as the weekend doctor I would see making his rounds when I dropped by for Annie. In the end, I couldn't think of anything to say.

She'd pull through. She has to. I was left alone; she knows that. Permanent breathing and nutrient support had brought the numbers up to seven hundred a week but that was already hundreds less than half the price of the one closer to school and not once did I miss an opportunity to tell her 'wake the fuck up I want fried chicken.' She had to open her eyes eventually. She wasn't going to leave me behind.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" The doctor was familiar and it made the whole process a lot more bearable. The real stranger was the one standing beside me. He asked if he could speak in private with the doctor, who turned my way.

"Yes but I think the patient's son has the right to hear everything. He's the one who has been picking up the patient's bill for the past year and visiting every week."

This had made the other parent pause—likely speechless—before going on to ask about the chances of Annie recovering completely and her being able to live as a normal person post-coma, during and after therapy.

The doctor explained. "Our nurses identified her as minimally conscious before the heart attack, which means that she wasn't in a vegetative state when she woke. Could speak, and move her fingers and eyelids. Whether or not she is capable of complete recovery would depend on the presence or absence of brain damage, and if positive, the extent of it. With the heart attack, like I said earlier, we're still in the middle of assessing the damage.

"If it's a concrete answer you want, it's... unlikely. Full recovery is unlikely. Judging from the immediate shock her body was in seconds after waking up, I'd say that her condition is generally unstable. As soon as things are looking on the brighter side, we will be doing the necessary assessments but... yes we're looking at months or even years of physiotherapy, occupational therapy and psychological assessment. The period of rehabilitation ranges from five months to the rest of the patient's lives."

"When's it gonna start?"

The doctor looked uneasy when I asked. He and the head nurse were the only ones aware of my problem with the bills. So they knew I wasn't going to be able to afford it. His smile was sorry.

"Leroy. I can't confirm if her condition will or will not destabilize. Her heart is weak and we're giving her all the support we can, but should her condition worsen, and further medical assistance be required... I might even have to advise transferring her to a bigger, better-equipped hospital." And we were to square one.

I thanked him as he left, starting to think about the numbers and summing without a calculator was honestly kind of hard so I mostly did them rounded up to as many zeroes as possible, avoiding headaches at seven in the morning. The worst part was trying to subtract that out of our savings before realizing that that the digits in the savings was overall two numbers less than the one on the imaginary bill and going into the negatives was just not helping.

I dropped my bag on the bench and started doing it proper. With a calculator and the back of a receipt I found in the front pocket of my jeans. The stranger turned to me. I stayed busy.

"Don't you have school, Leroy?"

There wasn't a need to look at him. He wasn't a calculator, or the receipt that could at least provide some use to whatever problem I was facing at present; a concrete solution to solving a problem he wouldn't even acknowledge.

"You can go back now. I'll call you when she wakes." Not forgetting the tax. Multiply after that. One-off cost for emergency. Then ICU for at least a week... what's the tax on that? "It's the interschool now, isn't it?"

I usually sleep great after jerking off. And I did, for two hours before the phone call. Every minute after that was just silent in's and out's, trying not to wake him breathing soundly under the covers, which somehow resulted in a very bad neck and eyes that just pretty much couldn't be bothered with taking things in visually. I closed them; leaning against the back of the bench.

"You can't go into a tournament half-hearted, son. Nothing should bring you down. Us chefs, we stand the—"

"There's no us." I told him. Eyes closed. "I'm not competing." Lips dry. Hungry.

I heard him sigh like this was five years ago and he was about to give another lecture on the spirit of a chef; that all I was doing now was wasting his time being a rebel. "Leroy. I know you think you're not in the best state of mind to be thinking about the interschool, but this is important. You have centerstage. All eyes are on you and that's only going to snowball into something better than you can ever imagine. I'm not letting you throw this opportunity out of the window. Again. Like you did last year."

The kettle was on the stove.

Someone had put it there; cranked up the heat and left it on high. Ah, fuck.

He said something about this all coming together at the wrong time. That I'd given up the final round of last year's W-interschool for Annie over some stroke of hers. That now was the time for me to regain the acknowledgement I had from all tigers of the industry. Something like that... it was hard to get. Like always. He was hard to get.

"Look... I'll settle the money."

I heard him sit. Again, he sighed and I could feel the knob on the gas stove turning. The fire, rising—bottom of the kettle glowing a hot metal red. It was very much like him, wanting to put the gas on low but ironically unfamiliar with the direction he should be turning the knob in so that he ended up with flames on high. Humiliation was the kind of feeling that boiled.

"All the therapy, all the rehab. I'll pay for it, okay? If she needs to be sent to a better hospital, I'll find one."

So I turned to him. For the first time in three years. Looked him straight in the eye. "That's what you're supposed to do. It's what you haven't been doing."

He seemed to have some sort of excuse. "Leroy... your mother and I have been unofficially divorced for—"

"Yeah," I snorted. Laughing. "Afraid signing some papers will make you look bad on TV?"

There it was again. That look. That tone. In his eyes, I was the same medal; same token; same trophy child that he needed to have in his pocket, on his shelf. Just a little polishing, from time to time. Otherwise, kept on private display behind a glass. Shown to once visitors came round.

"Leroy, please."

Gotta admit, though. I could understand how he managed to sway thousands of people in front of cameras and screens. Sometimes, he sounded desperate enough; even for me.

"I don't want to think talking to you is like talking to Annie all over again."

The kettle on the stove. It was whistling.

"Yeah?" I felt it needling in. The sound, the heat, the steam all up in my ears, at the front and back of my head. In my eyes. "Right. Because I definitely had a choice to be your kid, huh."

I fought the knob. Turn it off. It was hard to get close; the water inside, bubbling, boiling over, spilling out and foaming at the mouth, shrill, sharp, shriek. Whistling, whistling, whistling while I waited, waited for it to still, for someone to turn it off, to be dropped into the cold, a freeze; to be submerged in the silence of a frozen lake. Eyes closed.

Medical carts. Monitors. Beeping. Wheels. Footsteps. Doors. Opening and closing.

"I love you." The pungent, nauseating smell of something falsely clean. As though disinfectant was enough. "And I'm tired of... of the misunderstandings we have. It shouldn't have to be like this."

Giving up isn't as hard as people make it out to be sometimes. There's no great struggle against the current; no swimming, no staying afloat; no battle against a storm—not even a boat. Some storms... some storms just aren't worth the swim.

"You love my talent." I told him before I left. "Without that, I'm nothing. To you. To a lot of people. I'm nothing outside the kitchen."

"So, no. It's not me you love."

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

[Vanilla]

I had been waiting for him at the train station with a perfectly pressed set of uniform for the past fifteen minutes out in the snow. Admittedly, I'd arrived a tad too early even after receiving the text he'd sent some time ago about arriving in approximately an hour's time. If you're wondering how I could have possibly gotten my hands on a full set of reds, this was Leroy's, from yesterday. Having sent that straight into the washer before hanging it up to dry and then carefully ironing out every crease just this morning, I was pleased with my sudden inclination to household chores I never really enjoyed. Oddly enough, doing it for someone else had changed its nature almost entirely.

"Hey."

I heard his voice over my shoulder despite the pair of eyes I'd fixed on the fare gates by the station's exit. How he'd magically appeared there without my noticing him felt like part of the magic trick. "Good heavens. I thought you were... never mind. Here's your uniform. And I brought you some freshly brewed tea in a thermos. The snow doesn't look like it's going to let up anytime soon."

Leroy hadn't so much as taken a glance at the thermos—he had, for some reason, fixed his eyes on mine without warning—before reaching straight for it and in the midst of doing so, casually leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. It was in the middle of this sequenced interaction that I noticed how dark his eyes were. Much more than usual.

"I'll be out in three," he said, taking the pressed clothes and heading to the men's room.

Three minutes later, we were on our way up the hill to the school's main gate, seconds away from the supposed start of the bonus round briefing. Leroy hadn't raised a word about his mother or anything regarding his visit to the hospital, for the matter. Our journey, approximately ten minutes long, had been characterized by the gentle hush of falling snow and our hands, held, stuffed in the pocket of Leroy's down parka.

Needless to say, I was unwilling to pry. Finding my way around personal boundaries in a romantic relationship was not something I was decently familiar with and the last thing I wanted to be doing was subconsciously pressuring Leroy to say things he preferred to keep to himself. That said, aren't couples supposed to be sharing the most private of emotions—unafraid of judgement, ridicule, or insecurity?

I couldn't be sure.

Instead of the god-forsaken, freezing tundra of a flatland that Anton plaza was, the briefing for today's bonus round was held, instead, in the institute's main lecture theatre where sufficient space and heating resources came hand in hand apart from the presence of presentation equipment. Guest judge Chef Yamazaki was unfortunately no longer part of the assembly.

Production Kitchen: Stamina

Type: Bonus round

Style: Individual, plate to plate

Participants: 4 x 3 = 12

Scoring: Plate count after five hours / Last one standing

"It's a five-hour shift," I'd said first to Si Yin, who'd narrowed in on the 'individual' aspect almost at once and proceeded to clasp her hands together in glee; and then turned to Leroy a row away, seated beside Chen. The latter was already standing—counting heads, assessing his options as soon as the details were projected onto the screen.

"What are the chances you, me and your man get a spot in the four?" Si Yin was in her world on fantasies, floating above the clouds. I reminded her about this being a purely skill-based round, since working in a production kitchen meant recipes to recreate and rules to follow. Being fast and consistent was essential. "Well... yeah I guess but... yeah. Hey, have you seen Birchwood around? We're missing so many people. She wasn't looking too good yesterday too even though she had that cool princess hairstyle going on yesterday."

"Three, four and five are taking a day off before round three tomorrow and some of us don't have the skills to frontline a production kitchen, so..." Chen pre-empted to less than fifteen of us. "Unless anyone has any objections, we're going with common sense and sending one and two, and then I need Julia Kingsley? Number eleven. Yeah, you were great with switching up the pace yesterday even with the minor mess-ups down the line. And... I'm giving the fourth spot to Xu Si Yin."

Heads turned at speeds and angles I didn't quite imagine the human neck was capable of doing; snapping in the direction Chen was looking at and staring down the seeming first-year student he was talking about. Someone was insensitive enough to voice that characteristic, to which Si Yin actually nodded like she agreed and would've liked an explanation but judging from the way her feet wouldn't stop tapping each other in anticipation, I knew she wanted the part.

"Yeah well, Cox was a first-timer when he joined us in the last interschool too," number one laid out without a moment's hesitation. "Doesn't matter what year you're in. As long as you're good enough to win us that trophy, you're up. I'd pick anyone able to churn out a good cilantro lime slaw and panko-crusted fish at the speed she did yesterday."

It was at this that the smile on Si Yin's face turned radiant with glee and she sort of stood up, as though trying to relieve some of that sizzling energy in her, before sitting down when participants from other schools started staring.

"I'm assigning each of you the four dishes they have. We're all given the same options across the schools, so bear in mind you have two other people next door making the same dish," Chen spoke directly to the three others he'd picked but with everyone sitting around, his instructions weren't exactly out of earshot.

"Cox, this is a no brainer. You're doing the lobster ravioli. Technical nightmare, so we're leaving that to you. Xu you're on the wok-fried vermicelli and I'm not giving that to you just because you're Chinese. Be precise. Timing is key. Kingsley you're on the pan-seared scallops. Should be easy for someone your caliber... and that leaves me with the gnocchi."

Five hours, I couldn't help but think—knowing how, in truth, this was no out-of-the-ordinary bubbling hell others would have made it out to be. In fact, it was nearly a typical shift in every other bustling restaurant. Five hours without rest was an everyday occurrence for professionals and should be of no issue to those aiming for the top of the industry after graduation.

Chef Marseille was the emcee for the day. Oddly enough, Chef Allan and the rest of the judges were seated quietly on stage, barely exchanging a word among themselves despite the buzzing excitement going around in the room. Apparently, the rest of us were allowed in the restaurant as immediate guests!

"Everyone is allowed a choice of two items from the menu of four. You won't be told which school the plates are taken from, which means even if you ordered a lobster ravioli in hopes of giving a falsely high rating for your schoolmate, you might end up giving those five stars to someone from another school. Once you're done with your meal, we have other invited guests on visit, so we'll be assigning each and everyone of you to service for different tables."

Waitering service? Thank goodness this wasn't part of a competitive round. Restaurant practice was a second semester course and I had unfortunately minimal background in any form of waitering.

Before the participants were separated into chefs and guests, we were escorted to the school's famous, established, open-to-public fine dining experience: The Golden Eagle. Needless to say, this was the only restaurant on campus that could refuse guests based on their attire and their method of payment. Only gold credits were accepted. Otherwise, credit cards were usually required since cash was apparently not an option.

I myself had never witnessed the interior of the classic French pavilion, royally colored in pale vanilla and drawing room blue, accented by golds. The open-air kitchen and dining space was separated by glass, allowing guests to catch a glimpse of the head chef and whoever it was they might wish to thank for their meal.

Before we were seated, I'd held back and sifted through the crowds for Si Yin before pulling her aside for an urgent request.

"You have to win," I told her. She did a double take, nearly stumbling. "Do not, for anyone's sake, give anything that isn't your best because I'm highly certain that your best is enough to rival that of everyone else in the kitchen."

"Okayokayokayokay," she raised both hands in surrender. "Where's this coming from? Am I supposed to be worried? I mean, not that you and your man might be in a fight or something, because I'm pretty sure you think my best can't possibly win his best but uh... yeah can you explain because I'm not really getting all this. I'm hungry by the way. Do you think I might end up eating the stuff I make?"

"This is all I have on me," I handed her an energy bar from my pocket. Raspberry yoghurt flavoured. "So, um. Leroy's not in the best condition. Something private happened this morning and he's clearly not in the mood or the state to compete, and after some logical deducing, I figured that I'm currently not the solution to his immediate issues. Leroy doesn't care about winning. Not now, he doesn't. I can't explain how I know this, and how terrible it is to have a conclusion without proper premises, but there are times when it comes to him, that I... that I just seem to know. Without reason. Alright, I am derailing. My point is: everyone is expecting Leroy to carry us to victory but I need you to take that load off his shoulders. If you can, by some of your magic, relieve just that bit of his burden, I would be very, very grateful. Although, well, admittedly. I'm quite already indebted to you for being my friend."

Si Yin had paused with her mouth open, about to take her very first bite of energy-bar-goodness when she stopped and lowered her hand, processing all this within five seconds.

"I'm not sure if you realize this but you tend to confess your feelings for your man without knowing and it's?? Cute?? And I feel?? Lonely?? Just kidding. I'm happy for you oh and uh yeah of course! Yes to the winning. I mean, I didn't eat my meds today. Again. But I mean, yeah," she somewhat squealed in glee. "I'm super excited. I wanna win too. I love you."

Perfectly stunned into oblivion by her candid, innocent expression of platonic affection, I'd nearly felt my heart pause and entertain the urgent question marks flying around in my head before resuming activity.

"I-I. Well... I." Summoning every bit of worldly courage and channeling all that into my mental dictionary, I willed myself to return her words of affection. "Good god. Yes, I love you too."

*

By some fortunate miracle, I had been assigned a random table and a random seat number within that table that so happened to be in the presence of five other L'assiette students and Raul Dalto, who had been fawning over the scented napkins for the past five minutes. To my left was a gold-plated centerpiece of the restaurant's second floor dining area—an eagle with her wings spread wide, ready for take-off, labeled 'Victoria' and overlooking the open-air kitchen down below.

Our table had called for service nearly five minutes ago and already, papers were flying around left right centre, down the line and ready for the chefs to start preparing. Raul and I had ended up ordering the exact same dishes (uncoordinated, purely by coincidence) without realizing that we could very well have combined our orders and been able to at least taste every dish once.

Alas, our stupidity had left us with two portions of lobster ravioli and two portions of wok-fried vermicelli.

"Because Leroy's on them, or...?" His lodgemate had teased under his breath as soon as our orders were taken and I took the opportunity to politely corrected him on his opinion.

"What I'm doing is opting for the most technically challenging dish to gauge the tournament's level of professionalism, since it is likely that most schools will be having their most skilled culinary students on the lobster ravioli. Knowing who we're going up against is as critical as knowing ourselves. The vermicelli is interesting—I'm wondering how something wok-fried makes it to fine dining without a fuss. I'd like to see how they are thinking of elevating that. That is my thought process," I explained before reverting the question back to him. As most books for conversation dummies recommended doing.

Raul laughed. Seemingly nervous. "They sound yummy."

"Ah," I nodded. "Indeed."

And then we were silent for quite some time, finding ourselves within earshot of L'assiette conversations despite not quite wanting to be a part of it. One of my student buddies, Juanita Castillo from CSS, had been selected to participate in the bonus round and, according to table gossip, was going up against Si Yin and a Vietnamese girl from L'assiette on the wok-fried vermicelli.

I wasn't one bit surprised, to say the least. Castillo's laksa noodle soup had been the absolute star of round one and it was a wonder how Leroy had managed to emerge as champion with his spoonfuls of ramen back then. To see her hard work and talent being acknowledged by others was indeed heartwarmingly pleasant.

Most importantly, her passion and love for Asian cuisine despite being of Hispanic descent had translated into incredibly delicious forms of traditional Asian recipes. She wasn't at all fazed by those discouraging her from the kind of food she liked to cook and eat on the basis of her not being Asian. It was chefs like her that made the industry recall the humble roots of food and its universal quality.

"Lobster ravioli for four?"

Impossible, was what I'd thought at first before raising my gaze to register the rushed waiter serving us the dishes we'd ordered off the top of his head. Whoever did these portions... no doubt, they were fast.

Either way, we were barely a tenth into the grueling five-hour clock, which meant that most of the kitchen were still in their best condition. Picking up my knife and fork, I went straight for the one in the middle and right off the bat, at, perhaps, the first chew, I could tell it wasn't his.

It wasn't bad, per se. Just... well. Not good enough. The consistency of the lobster cream, made out of the stock that would supposedly be what the ravioli was poached in, wasn't thick enough. The chef hadn't reduced it for long, resulting in a thin, less concentrated burst of flavour. The technique of making a perfect ravioli itself, though immaculate, had made for compromises in the dish's filling. No doubt, the ingredients, especially the lobster meat, were incredibly fresh and decently sized. Still, a mouthful felt almost less-than; lacking in wholeness from the imbalance created by a gap in the flavour wheel, losing out in texture without the thicker consistency and coating of the sauce on chunks of lobster meat.

"Do you mind if I swapped out one of yours for an equal number of mine?" I asked Raul, who seemed to be enjoying his plate and hadn't so much as said a word of complaint or praise.

"Oh, yeah. Sure!" He transferred a single pillow onto my plate. I did the same for him before diving straight into the one he sent over.

Halving it was enough to give me a completely different impression from the first and almost at once, I could hear myself curse the realm of idiots down below. Good god.

Fresh basil gently perfuming every ounce of rich, creamy lobster meat finished on a tangy bed of fresh tomato chutney cutting through the heaviness and then completed by something extra. A mild, delicate sweetness of honey in the sauce reduction. It was very much like him to toy with any recipe and this was his mark.

Well. Wouldn't be long before someone catches him doing so and perhaps penalize him for breaking the rules of every conservative, traditional kitchen, so. The thick texture of the honey he used had been a tad too rich for working with lobster. I would've pulled him aside to advise on something thinner, or, perhaps, including it in the chutney instead of individual drops into the sauce.

Right above the grand modern clock on the biggest wall of the kitchen guests were able to see into were twelve mini digital displays of plate counters. One each for every chef. At present, Leroy was in the lead. Castillo and Si Yin were two and three portions behind respectively and then a draw between Chen and three other participants from other schools.

I had to constantly remind myself that he was a pastry chef, competing against others who were most likely trained in a real production kitchen unlike himself. Fortunate enough to have landed myself a first class seat with a bird's eye view of the kitchen, I was able to make out the speed and focus at which Si Yin was going, caught up in the passionate flame and heat of the kitchen she at present considered hers. Though I wasn't sure whether the plate of vermicelli I'd been served was made by her, general sentiments around the table were equally good. As long as she kept up the pace...

Clang.

Down below, someone had dropped a tray onto the kitchen floor and the sound, nearly thunderous in an enclosed space, had every head turning. I could not recognize the person standing over the aluminum tray but he seemed to have his hands held up, momentarily frozen by the sound and the fact that he'd ran into someone else. Leroy.

"Who the fuck runs in a kitchen?" Everyone up on the second floor heard him say. I wasn't too sure about the first since they had an insulating glass between the dining area and the kitchen, but heads had continued to turn in both curiosity and confusion.

Something else was on the floor that did not appear to belong to the tray or the person who had dropped it. Squinting was enough to make out a mound of pasta dough. Goodness! He was going to have to make it again.

A single glance at Leroy's face in this very instant could frighten any brave and courageous soul foolish enough to provoke a starving lion; and there was something else, something wrong about the way he'd turned back to his station to redo the pasta dough and ignore the frozen figure to his right. The kitchen resumed its pace as quickly as it was distracted and soon, guests returned their eyes to the table.

Nearly done with my meal, I decided to time him. It was only a matter of using the stopwatch on my phone and averaging out the time he needed to prepare the number of dishes he could do at once. I was familiar enough with his usual speed to put a number to his condition and alas, my conjecture had been proven true. I'd seen him churn out complex dishes at a much better rate than he was going at present, albeit continuing to average above most of the people he was competing against. Leroy was...

He was tired.

In fact, minutes later was the moment Castillo's plate counter overtook his to an eruption of cheers by CSS students and then it was Si Yin and then Chen and Leroy was... he was falling behind.

Good god.

I didn't know what to think. Or feel. In that instant, I felt the dread that he was feeling down below and the horrid, bitter taste of being left in the dust despite having been the first. This wasn't—it couldn't be—the first time he felt immense pressure to win on behalf of a team. He'd participated in events and tournaments a-and and live cooking in front of cameras and I was so sure he'd been through things far worse and so the only explanation, the only anomaly present, was that phone call and his visit to the hospital.

"It's all because of that dude running into him. Throwing him off his pace," Raul had kept his eyes on the kitchen the entire time, fingers bunched up in a heated gesture. "That's just low. He should just... what is that word. Repute... repalt... report him."

The conflict was between what he desired as a person and what others desired of him. It was in times like these—when his wellbeing should be prioritized over something as insignificant as a bonus round in some minimal interschool tournament—that he still could not afford to drop out or give anything less than his best because to those, to the others on his team, this was much, much more.

"Oh good god, I can't watch this," I told Raul, rising from my seat and leaving my napkin on the table, to the left of my place setting. "Stay here and keep an eye on Leroy. I'm running to the infirmary."

"W-woah, wait, the infirma...? Why? Dude, come on I'm just a—"

Minutes after I'd left The Golden Eagle was when Rosi sent me a text about participants being dismissed to allow the next batch of invited guests to dine. Supposedly, the rating of the dishes we had was to be done upon leaving the restaurant but I honestly couldn't be bothered. The instructors and facilitators had also called for student volunteers as table escorts two hours into the five and just to keep an eye on him, I had willingly offered my assistance.

There are times when I do not wish I was right about things. Leroy wasn't just falling behind—I'd catch him with his head hung, hands braced against the countertop as though trying to dispel a headache before snapping back to work. While he wasn't the only one increasingly fazed by pressure (even the others on simpler dishes were struggling to keep their heads on the task at hand three, four hours in), the fact that this was completely uncharacteristic of him began to show and soon, after a participant from L'assiette and CSS had dropped out, he'd stopped completely to lean against his station. Hand on his head.

A facilitator had come by to check on his condition and that was when I saw the look on his face. Needless to say, they called for medical assistance from the infirmary at once, which was really what I had run off to do before even volunteering as a table escort. Miss Samantha, the school nurse, had readied a wheel stretcher and several ice bags right outside the restaurant and even the facilitators themselves were surprised by how fast she had arrived.

Apparently, Leroy had insisted he was fine and was going to walk all the way back to the administration building where the infirmary was, but Chef Marseille shut him up with an ice bag to his face and he ended up being forced onto the wheel stretcher but stubbornly remained up in a seated position instead of lying down.

I wasn't proud to have abandoned my post as a table escort, mostly leaving without a word and still dressed in the waiter's uniform they'd handed out to volunteers earlier on. With absolutely no clue if and whether I was allowed in the infirmary in the first place, I'd hurried after the stretcher and, together with Miss Samantha and two other facilitators, wheeled a certain idiot to rest.

"Please lie down. I would prefer not to have you falling over with your head unprotected."

He'd taken longer than usual to register my words, ice bag lazily held over his forehead so that it really seemed to be cooling just his right eye. The other one scanned the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.

"... if I get a picture with you in that. Sure."

"Ma'am? Half this man's brain cells appear dysfunctional. I'm afraid he is dire need of some medication and rest."

We passed the entrance of the administration building while one of the facilitators held the door open. The infirmary was to the right and at once, they'd wheeled the stretcher and the malfunctioned idiot on it into the room. And the nerve of him to have the energy to send a flirtatious wink my way before disappearing past the doorway—!

"It's probably a combination of mental and physical exhaustion. Mostly mental. I'm having him rest in the infirmary for the next fifteen minutes before he goes anywhere. Oh yes, did he tell you the only thing he's had all day were two eggs at five in the morning?"

Oh good god to think I was right down till the very details of his eating habits! I'd blanched the colour of the floor, thinking at once of portable food options to serve him before his condition could worsen.

"I'll be back with some bananas. Or an energy bar. Ah, but I don't think he'd be able to stomach that. What about—"

"No, you're not allowed to see him yet and I have the stuff he needs to eat for sugar level regulation inside. Wait out here and I'll call you when he's ready to go," she instructed, pointing towards the bench positioned right outside the infirmary. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not the one who thought relying on two eggs for an entire day would be a good idea. He knows about the bonus round and didn't bother eating something before that? What was he doing all morning anyway?" Her question was rhetoric from the way she'd simply turned and walked off into the infirmary as the facilitators emerged, not quite waiting for my response.

Taking a seat with a sigh, I was about to let my mind bury itself in conjectures and guilt for not having noticed the extent of his exhaustion when the sound of familiar footsteps came from the doorway of the administrative building.

"Wow, you actually look ugly when you're sad," Birchwood observed with a snort, nodding in the direction of an exit to the gardens. "We need to talk."

I stood, slightly dazed. "Oh. Yes... well I do have fifteen minutes to spare."

"It's going to be short."

"Ah, I see," was all I could say in return, tailing her past glass doors and down to the benches surrounding a marble statue of the school's first headmaster. I stood around while she made herself comfortable, opening my mouth to speak but as though having sensed an oncoming storm, Birchwood held up a hand.

"No, don't talk yet. If you go first, I'd only sound stupid afterwards, so I'm going first.

"Anyway, you probably know this already but I'm not giving up my spot to anyone without good reason. You, being a critic without technical skills, is not good enough reason," she established with a grounded stare before lowering the hand she'd raised. "That's it. Okay, now you."

My initial reaction had been to blink. "Oh. Well. I think you've pretty much said it all!"

Her eyes narrowed at once. "I don't like it when you agree with me, it make me think something's wrong."

"Well, I'm not going to disagree with a perfectly sound argument, Miss Birchwood," I began. "Every valid argument or claim has equally sound premises, supported by logical reasoning. Premise one, I cannot julienne carrots. Premise two, I cannot dice an onion in less than thirty seconds. Premise three, I have zero foundation in plating techniques. Premise four, this is a tournament based on culinary skills. Premises one, two and three lead to a logical inference: I cannot cook. This is inference one. Inference one, in relation to premise four, leads to conclusion one: I will fair poorly in the tournament. What amazes me should be the fact that I've come this far without an ounce of assistance! It is quite the feat of a first-year critic, if I do say so myself. Oh. Would you like me to continue with premises five, six, seven, inferences two, three, four, and conclusion two?"

Her gaze was blank as I came to a momentary pause, the universal non-verbal sign of needing to rephrase my words.

"What I'm trying to say is, that, well. Winning is important. Both to me and yourself. That is undeniably, the truth. However, there is a difference between idealistic dreams and practical, rational reality and here lies the difference between you and me. Winning a culinary competition as a critic is idealistic. But for you, less so.

"You having a higher chance of winning also therefore means our school has a higher chance of winning the overall, thereby making us all very happy. Not to mention, as we head into rounds three and four, four being the final round, there will inevitably be more complex, professional culinary techniques to be executed and I'm fairly certain that having someone who is more familiar with these techniques on the team would provide greater overall use and support."

I finished with a slight bow of my head, quietly proud of myself for the perfect explanation of my thought process without scaring away a conversation partner who wasn't Leroy Cox. Si Yin herself had never heard me in my final form.

"Well?"

Birchwood was quiet. And... and frowning, which got me severely anxious. The moment she folded her arms was the moment I knew she didn't exactly agree and this was what set me on the path of sheer bewilderment.

"You cannot possibly disagree with my professionally-formed argument," even to myself, I sounded appalled. "I'd spent fifteen minutes in the shower this morning including the walk to school, crafting, bolstering it to perfection! It is flawless."

"Wow, you are such a nerd." The first thing she said was thankfully within my expectations. Then, she stood—as though to leave—before frowning more and resuming her seated position.

"Can't you... I mean, can't you for once be a little bit dreamy and, I don't know, shoot for the stars like every other main character does and not stick to whatever's boringly realistic? Like, that's why people are interesting, you know. They... they try and they fail and they realize that they're wrong because they thought they could do it or something but it makes them so much more human because we all dream about, I don't know, being famous and successful and shit."

"W-well." I stared in return, back to being bewildered and generally disarmed. By my calculations and relative inferences, Violet Birchwood was criticizing me for being correct all the time and to be honest, I wasn't quite sure what to think about that.

"I... I suppose I could, but..." Inching towards the bench she was seated on, I tested the waters before finally filling the space beside her. "I am boring. That is something I cannot deny."

And to that, we sat in silence. Her, tapping her fingers on the side of her elbow in her permanent state of impatience. Moments later, I decided to call for a truce.

"Miss Birchwood. If what you're disliking is the fact that I'm agreeing with you, then, should I perhaps disagree with you for the sake of ending this conver—"

"Stop with the 'Birchwood' thing!" She burst out all of a sudden, startling me, the bench, the bushes, the marble statue of our first headmaster. "It's, like, creepy. Why can't you just call me Violet or something?"

"Ah."

Stunned. I could practically hear the creak of an un-oiled joint as I turned my head away out of embarrassment. "Well noted. I shall call you Violet. From now on."

"Okay I'm leaving this conversation before it gets any worse than it already is. Bye nerd."

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

I was able to somehow transport Leroy back to Cayenne lodge without the help of a wheeled stretcher and no, it did not involve any form of bridal carrying, or so Leroy had attempted to trick me into doing, thinking I was some foolish lovestruck idiot of the 90s, charmed by the suave requests of a smooth criminal.

Tucking him into bed was the easy part. Asking if there was anything he wanted to have for dinner was the difficult one. Telling him that L'assiette had won the bonus round advantage was surprisingly neutral. He appeared mostly unfazed until his phone started vibrating and the caller ID was 'Chen'. I'd left them to speak to one another and made my way down to Cayenne's kitchen in search for spare ingredients in Leroy's labelled food box.

The idea of pan-seared salmon on a bed of mustard herb butter lentils sounded perfectly delicious whilst also doubling up as a good source of nutrition for his current condition. The prime issue was if I could execute it... or at the very least not undercook the salmon. I was bringing the lentils to a boil after making a quick phone call to the ice cream parlour for some changes to Leroy's shift schedule when a familiar shade of pink popped out from behind the front door.

"Maple," I'd greeted from the kitchen as he removed his shoes and changed into house slippers. "Good evening."

He waved, removing his Bluetooth earphones before toddling over. "Oh! Vanilla! That smells very nice. How have you been? Did you make it into the third round? I wasn't too sure if I saw your name on the list..."

I told him that I'd unfortunately been eliminated, skipping the part about having tied with Bir—Violet, since he was technically a supportive fan of hers and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt his feelings. I was, however, aware that he'd advanced to the third round in seventh position. Needless to say, that certainly meant he had a fair bit of talent. "Congratulations."

"Haha!" He dismissed my compliments with a wave of his hand. "We were just having fun! I'm not all that good.... by the way, what are you doing in Cayenne? Have you moved here?"

"Ah. Well..." I paused. Hesitant. Before recalling the conversation I had with Leroy in neighboring shower stalls, fooling around with a bar of soap. "Leroy is unwell and I am making him dinner. And then maybe some dessert. For a little pick-me-up."

Almost at once, Maple appeared immensely concerned.

"What! Oh no. Is he resting in his room? Should I go check on him? What... was it a fever?" He stood right by my shoulder in the kitchen. "Why don't you rest, I'll take over and make some nice pumpkin soup to cheer him up. And then some banana pudding for dessert."

I reassured Maple that I was quite alright with doing it on my own, and wouldn't like to bother him during his free time in the evening. "I have it covered. Thank you for offering."

"I really don't mind!" He insisted. "I'm good at taking care of others. But I wonder why Violet isn't here to look after him... I had an idea it would be like this. Leroy's always alone in his room and sometimes, I'd like to keep him company, you know?" He laughed, surprisingly suggestive. I had to pause. "But he's really loyal and doesn't budge at all... and look, she doesn't even come by to make sure he's okay. I mean, as his girlfriend, shouldn't she... I don't know, be comforting him in times like these?"

I had to turn away from my lentils. "So... um. Violet. You think her and Leroy...?"

Maple nodded, sighing. "She said it herself. Leroy was there too. He didn't deny it."

*

Being a rational human being was something I had always been extremely proud of, and it was in times like these that logical thought processes were perhaps even more important than the problems themselves. I'd lasted all evening without saying a thing about Violet or Maple to Leroy, mostly because I knew she must have had her reasons for saying whatever she did back then.

While I was, indeed, extremely concerned about his familial situation, I at the same time did not wish to pressure him any further than the cliff he was already standing upon. He'd turned in at eight in the evening and slept throughout, waking up at seven for the round three's briefing at another lecture theatre. Though the colour on his face had returned and he seemed well enough to give me a knee-buckling, rule-breaking, liquifying kiss, I insisted on following him to the meeting point in Roth hall, just in case he felt unwell on the way downhill.

We were five minutes late by the time we arrived at our destination, greeted by an anxious-looking Chen who thanked the gods we were both present.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, mildly confused. I'd told him just last night about my discussion with Violet.

"Birchwood," he said. "She's not turning up." 

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

A/: AAAAHHHH my beans!! I'm so excited for the next chapter on Sunday. I'm starting to tie things up and I'm so glad the journey to the end is coming near. I'm sizzling for what's to come and I hope you are as well ^^ 

Xander's birthday is coming rriiiiight up so next Wednesday, I'll be putting out some juicy content on Inkitt's 'Not Good for the Heart' to celebrate our demon king. Thank you all for your kind comments and congratulations in the previous chapter :') When I say I was moved to tears, I am not joking. 

-Tears of Cuppie