A/N: The usual 5k chapter is here!! Phew, I managed to finish this before my battery ran out. I left my charger in the office and uwAaaa I was worried I wouldn't be able to finish on time. But! Here it is. 

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[Vanilla]

Standing idly in front of a train station, cold, alone, and drowning in the muffler picked out by my godaunt wasn't the most romantic thing to be doing on a Saturday morning and yet, my poor heart had to be racing at awful speeds for such wee hours all because it knew I would be spending the rest of the day with a certain someone.

This person I refer to does not have the luxury of a flexible schedule in which would have made our lives significantly easier by easing the time spent apart. Apparently, being in the same school as your significant other did not necessarily mean frequent meetings or lunches. The last time we'd spent some private time together was on Tuesday at his residence lodge after a brief discussion regarding the cross-year reports. Si Yin and the others weren't exactly the most focused group of people when it came to reading papers and documents, but we'd somehow established a fair tie between Chen's team and ours. The only thing left for us to deliberate on were the remaining two reports, and because everyone else seemed increasingly disinterested in the mystery I'd been so invested in, I had decided to call it a night. Leroy had walked me to the bus stop after that, promising to sate my curiosity by obtaining the reports before arranging a time and place for us to meet on Saturday morning.

That was four days ago. Now, standing idly outside the train station in an old fashioned, navy blue duffel coat, was me wondering if I was guilty of overdressing—a crime often committed by the overenthusiastic, try-hard social novice on a first date.

The bouquet of pink carnations I'd gathered and styled the night before were starting to look a little out of place next to the four hard-boiled eggs I'd prepared mere minutes before leaving the house, transferring them into a Ziplock bag for easy consumption. Admittedly and most unfortunately, I was never the prime example of a healthy human being—unexpectedly so—and therefore often found myself skipping the meal undeserving of its title of importance, whatever it is nutritionists dub it as. Breakfast was simply impractical, strictly speaking. It required the additional effort of time, effort and energy, which could so obviously be spent on things like solving the 'challenge yourself' problem sums on the last page of each mathematical textbook or reading a book about romantic relationships and how one should be treating their partner. The second option only became applicable to myself as of recent.

Either way, the reason I'd decided to whip up a couple of hard-boiled eggs was primarily due to my reading of the abovementioned. It took me less than a second to deduce a certain idiot's disinclination to waking up early to do something that required additional effort. Not to mention, his lodgemates had been oddly surprised by his making of breakfast back then, which further proved my point.

And with several premises to support the conclusion I thought absolutely concrete, the eggs were due; two for Leroy and two for myself—to be had on the train to see his mother.

"Hey."

He'd appeared as though on cue, hands in the pockets of his down parka that featured a hood lined with faux fur. "I like your..." an index finger loosely followed his gaze, lowered to my clothes, "everything."

Strangely flustered, I forcefully handed him the eggs. "I don't know what you're talking about. Here. I timed them perfectly so they should be just about the right consistency in the center."

"What's with the flowers?" He accepted the eggs without quite paying them the appropriate attention I'd hoped he would. After all, they were meant to distract. "Think you got the roles wrong."

"You're mistaken. They aren't for you," I told him, clearing my throat as he led the way, past the entrance and into the station. "Pink carnations represent a mother's love. And although I may not necessarily have the best understanding of whatever that may be, your mother was... well, I suppose she was the closest example I had the privilege of witnessing. Biologically, I mean. She's your real mother."

Leroy's finger was on my forehead before I could physically react to his apparently swift movements. Upset, I'd waved the flowers in his face to block his view but this gave him the opportunity to slip the bouquet out of my grasp. "I'll hold them for you."

"Oh," my initial reaction had been to blink. "Well. Alright."

Clearly, I hadn't been expecting the sudden shift in his tone of voice. Disarmed, both by the oddly thoughtful gesture and how awfully suave he looked dressed in casual clothing, I was rendered speechless for a good minute or two, waiting for him to continue. A tentative glance his way confirmed my suspicions of him having no intention of doing so. The certified idiot wasn't even looking in the direction we were headed in.

"Please keep your eyes on the road."

We passed the gantry by tapping our cards on the readers by the electric gates and still, he kept his gaze locked on mine.

"You are. The road."

"You're not making any sense," I told him quite frankly, deciding to check the platform number just in case Leroy wasn't paying any attention to this either. "If this is your idea of some romantic metaphor, I'm afraid a fail grade is due. My seven-year-old godbrother writes better poems."

He had to turn the tables and shift the blame away from himself. "It's your turtleneck," he claimed, reaching over to run a finger along the inside of my collar. "It's fucking distracting."

I shied away from his touch, readjusting the cream-coloured vest I'd worn over the old, unfortunately stretched, white turtleneck Aunt Julie had gotten me nearly two years back. "W-well, apologies for... for attempting to dress decently on our first date. If it is one, that is. Is it? I can never be sure."

"Think we skipped the date part and went straight to meeting the in-laws, so," Leroy was back at it with his teasing nonsense. "Might as well be married."

Embarrassed, I once again referred him back to the eggs. "Eat them before they freeze. And speaking of freezing, aren't you feeling absolutely preserved in just that top?"

"No," he laughed shortly, following my gaze to the wine red, possibly long or three-quarter-sleeved shirt he was wearing, made of thin stretchy material often worn on hot summer days. "I'm not saying you've got bad taste, by the way. The turtleneck's sexy."

"I! W-well..." Shy was the kind of embarrassing word I'd never thought of using, let alone uttering it aloud. "So um, I'm assuming you like it?"

"Yeah." Leroy himself appeared fairly entertained by an odd conversational topic quite out of our usual comfort zone. "And the vest."

This one had me displaying an involuntary passion. It had been an expensive gift from my godfather's friend, Aunt Rachel, who'd developed a furious love for made-to-order goods. She got me into the craft of fabric and clothes-making, which soon translated into my appreciation of good craftsmanship. This vest, I had been saving for months to wear on a special occasion.

"Muted chestnut," I told him the exact shade, peering down at my vest and feeling oddly warm. "A nice creamy colour. Neutrals are supposedly in trend nowadays, especially among adults."

"So you're an adult?" He teased as we came to a stop at carriage two, door four of platform three and got on the train that was due for departure only fifteen minutes later.

"That's not what I meant," was how I ended up protesting. "I was merely... well, I'd hoped to at least be of decent calibre, dressing wise, walking alongside someone like yourself. So I read up on it over the past couple of days in my free time. Everything seems to suit you perfectly well and it is a disaster for the amateur that I am. All I've ever known were suspenders and dress shirts. It's really no wonder I get laughed at in the hallways back in the private high school I'd attended."

We picked a cozy spot in the middle and had the luxury of arguing over the window seat. And by this, I mean Leroy telling me to take it and vice versa. Decisions were made only after Leroy voiced threats in my ear to kiss me in public, which altogether sounded severely illegal so I sat myself down on the window seat and he took the one next to me.

"Suspenders are cute too," said the criminal whilst shrugging off his coat and stuffing it in the compartment below his seat. I followed his lead. "On you at least."

"I can never tell if you're being serious."

He laughed, resting his usual rucksack on his lap and unzipping the top, pulling out a classic wooden lunch box. "Eggs and this for breakfast."

Expectations exceeded, I told him the eggs were entirely because I'd assumed he wouldn't have had the energy to wake up early and make breakfast for himself. Peering down at the burst of appetising colours in his lunchbox, I did not feel very accomplished.

"My eggs pale in comparison. You should have told me if you were going to put in that much effort."

He'd had each sandwich-looking thing half-wrapped in baking paper for easy handling, handing me a portion of it. "Not everyone knows how to make a good egg."

"It's only a matter of timing it properly. Other factors have less impact on the outcome," I observed the sandwich-looking food item and identified a couple of primary ingredients. "Seaweed in place of bread. Spam. Lettuce. Oh but yours has cucumber instead. And is that...? Japanese-style omelette."

Leroy took his first, huge bite out of the sandwich. Layers of rice kept the filling separated from the seaweed. "They call it onigirazu."

My first instinct had been to pull out the handmade recipe book of his given to me on my birthday, noting the name and listing every ingredient. It was curious how something so deceptively simple could taste so tremendously good. Other notes included possible ingredients to add or substitute for a different flavour combination.

"Rocket?" He murmured, reading the writing over my shoulder. "And avocado. Yeah I forgot about making the omelette sweet, you're right."

We spent the next ten minutes or so having a quaint and surprisingly ordinary breakfast shared between two human beings, quite resembling the time he came over to make dinner in my kitchen. Private time spent with Leroy was unexpectedly comfortable despite the many qualms I'd had with one-to-one interaction in general, let alone with the very person who tended to send my mind into constant states of dysfunction. Heart palpitations were surprisingly easy to become fond of.

It was when the train began to depart from the station that Leroy told me it was about an hour's ride, and that he'd usually take a nap during this time. On the other hand, I'd been so sure of reading something about 'changed habits' during a so-called 'honeymoon period' in a relationship, dubbed by writers of guidebooks to romance as the most enjoyable two months of the entire bond.

"We're skipping that part since we've technically been married for eleven years," was all he said, folding his arms and slouching in his seat to lean his head against the side of my shoulder. Needless to say, I was left gaping and completely bewildered.

"Leroy, it is, by the definition of marriage across all cultures and dictionaries, impossible to marry someone completely unaware of said marriage's occurrence. No register was signed, no wedding banquet held, no aisle walked down. We are not married." I said this all whilst attempting to stay as perfectly still as I could manage, quietly hoping he found my shoulder comfortable enough to continue sleeping on.

"What if it's an idea?" His eyes were closed, saying this. "If it's just commitment, but people want to see it happening in real life, not in the mind?"

Those words were big and they struck like the crackle and spit of flames, so real that I could almost hear it inside and they sounded so much like the crunch of crisp, red leaves under one's feet that I felt so odd, making such a strange realization at a time like this. I foresaw myself thinking about this for the next hour or so, having never considered such an interpretation.

"What's the point of getting married if you're not committed?" He didn't sound very different from the usual, unamused tone he tended to speak in. "If it's an idea, then I've been married for some time."

Then, after some silence, he added. "You?"

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

The hospital was about a five-minute walk from the station we alighted at and Leroy needed no second thoughts about timing or direction; the frightening familiarity he possessed with a place faraway from both his first and second home was something I'd always regarded optional in the life of a human being to which I understood now as a fortunate circumstance I should be grateful for—that none of the people I love, I'd visited in a hospital just yet.

A nurse had greeted him by his name upon our arrival, past automatic glass doors sliding open to a pungent cloud of antiseptic and quiet whispers. The hustle and bustle one tended to associate hospitals with was absent from this one. No emergency cases being wheeled through the door left right center or surgeons rushing from one operating room to another—the atmosphere was oddly quaint. Like a small café on a weekday morning.

"Boy," an elderly man hooked up to an IV line and bringing it around raised his other hand as we passed, flashing a toothless smile at my companion. "What did you bring this time?"

"Quinoa ratatouille. I'll leave it in your room." It was the first time I'd seen Leroy give a proper smile to a stranger, so I assumed he was far familiar with the man than I was able to perceive at present. The patient, dressed in the characteristic blue gown, reached out to give his shoulder a pat.

"I remember that one... it was good alright, five stars," chuckled the man, airy and slightly breathless. "Say hi to your mom for me."

I watched them nod and wave, even as the man turned the corner and looked back, my companion had stopped to watch him go and in his eyes was the warmth of a candle I'd gotten so used to associating with a different kind of heat that the one I was witnessing at present seemed almost foreign.

Wordless, we continued down the hallway and took a left into a second lift lobby, where we waited and then took the elevator up to the third floor, quieter than the last. We passed a couple of open-door rooms and were undisturbed until we arrived at the end of the hallway and turned to the last door. His mother's room was smaller than the others but a tad brighter—lit by the angle of the sun at half-past-nine, filtering into the room and warming the bed.

"I brought someone," he said very casually after knocking on the open door and crossing the room to the full-length windows, drawing the day curtains for the comfort of our eyes. "He brought you flowers."

I tottered in after him before standing idly by the bed, not quite knowing what to do. He was on the other side, where the chair was. "Hello Mrs. Cox. Apologies for the intrusion... I'm Vanilla Julian White. I um, I've grown up now. It's alright if you don't remember me."

Leroy laughed, curling a finger for the flowers in my arms. I handed them over and he stuck them in an empty vase by the bed. There were other things on the nightstand, apart from the vase, that made the room appear rather lived in. What appeared to be a jewellery box rested beside an old-looking flip phone, worn after years of use. His mother had a nasal cannula attached for respiratory support, and I wasn't too sure if being in a coma meant having breathing problems but it could have something to do with how she'd got into this state in the first place.

"She remembers." My companion said in her stead after clumsily putting the flowers together and pulling up an additional stool. "Sit."

"Not yet. I simply cannot see how you did those flowers any justice. Let me do it," I took over at the bedside table, producing a pair of snipping scissors I'd prepared beforehand and beginning to cut the stems of select few carnation stalks. In truth, I did not have the slightest idea how one should be speaking to a comatose patient, let alone Leroy's mother whom I had so awfully disappointed years ago.

There was no saying she'd forgiven me for the ambiguous part I'd played in the closing of her diner and more directly, the letting down of her only child. I wasn't going to assume that just because I was a child back then, she'd never harboured any bitter feelings towards myself.

"He's been doing that ever since we met again," he was laughing, resting his head on the mattress of his mother's bed. "I can't argue 'cuz he's being honest. And it's the truth anyway, so. Tuesday he fucked a bunch of my classmates over with some speech... it was—"

"Leroy!" I was aghast. "That, don't you... mind your language when you're speaking to your mother?"

"She knows." He had the same laugh in his eyes before turning back to her. "It was sexy. Another reason to love him."

Again, I was sent further into a spiral of insanity. "W-what an awful way of breaking it to Mrs. Cox. I'm so sorry, ma'am. We'd never meant to put it that way, o-or at least I never did. Delicacy is clearly not within Leroy's realm of abilities but, um. Yes, he is... rather fond of me."

It was at this final straw that my companion tugged on my arm for me to sit, and I did. And all he had to say was: "She knows."

"He also made eggs this morning. He thought I'd be coming with an empty stomach. He's not wrong, since that's what I do most of the time, right. I don't do breakfast. It's like he knows me too well... but also not well enough 'cuz I made some in the end. He doesn't know how much I think of him."

Leroy was saying all this, talking to his mother as if she was awake and checking the feeding tube and a folder he'd obtained from the front desk downstairs upon entering, scanning its contents as though this was something he'd done hundreds of times. And here I was, hearing it all—all these awfully intimate things he was telling her about myself and it all felt so frighteningly embarrassing. This also being the first time I was hearing him do all the taking and speaking more than five sentences without pausing.

To be the subject of such talk was blush-inducing, heat drowning, fire blazing. I was far out of my comfort zone.

"We celebrated his birthday Monday evening. You should have seen the look on his face. Also, he told me to return the pen I worked my ass off to get. Think it was twenty hours extra in total. Anyway, I was pissed so I wanted to take everything back but he wouldn't let go of the recipe book I made. So I said 'fuck you' and kissed him... they didn't cut your nails."

Leroy was clearly out to embarrass me in front of his mother and he was doing all this whilst tidying her hair and then checking her nails before noticing they weren't trimmed. Apparently, the nurses were supposed to do it.

He turned to me then, as though he hadn't been saying all those infuriatingly terrible things about me and narrating that night with that limited vocabulary of his, asking if I had a nail cutter. I, a stunned species, could barely respond with a 'no'.

"I'll get one down the street," he said, grabbing his phone and wallet. "Stay and talk?"

This all, he'd made seem so effortless and simple. As though he'd been asking for the kind of favour that merely involved me getting him a glass of water; even back then, I'd never had to speak to the parent of any supposed friend of mine, let alone now, the mother of my, well, my significant other. Clearly, I had reason to be fazed.

Drowning my protests in a series of excuses provided by the rational mind, stating that, while being anxious was a natural reaction, Mrs. Cox was really just another human being. I could, after all, speak to her and tell her just about anything without the fear of instant regret, often found in the body language of others.

"So um. I brought you flowers, like Leroy said," was what I'd chosen to begin with, after a long moment of silence in her son's wake. "Pink carnations represent a mother's love and I like to think that you are—as in, not think, because, you are, as a matter of fact—the most honourable mothers I've come to know. Personally, I mean.

"You must be wondering how Leroy is at school. He is kind. And clever. And well-liked by practically every other student. He's popular even here in the hospital, did you know that? Well he is. Very charismatic. And charming. But also very bad at AB, accounting basics. I'm teaching him that now.

"Oh and I'd like to... correct Leroy's account of, well, Monday night. If I may. I'm sure you'd understand why I'd tell him to return the pen. It cost at least a hundred and fifty, you see. I don't think anyone would be in the right mind to spend that hefty sum on a mere fountain pen. The recipe book on the other hand, was bound by hand. He'd put them together with string and tape and the cover itself, recycled from an old, hardback diary likely from a thrift store! Clumsily made but the very reason I'd found it so endearing. Any sane human being would have understood it's importance, especially since someone like Leroy, well, I'm sure you know, would never try his hand at craft.

"A-and I'd also like to assure you that the kiss did not, um, occur... so abruptly as he'd described it. I'm determined to put it into words but it is till this very date that I cannot."

Words failed me, as though on cue, and I soon turned rather still and awkward, seated by her side and swallowing hard, listening to the beep of the heart monitor filling the silence.

"Illegal would be the word. What do you think?" I waited, finding this all very odd but at the same time, strangely comforting. Speaking to someone who wouldn't respond.

"He's wrong, by the way. I do know how much he thinks about me. O-or at least I think I do, I suppose. Can't allow one to get ahead of himself."

And it was at this point in the one-way conversation that the flip phone on the bedside table vibrated once, catching my attention. I'd turned to it on instinct but there was no further indication of a call of any sort, so I was about to turn back when, again, it vibrated.

The flip phone had a tiny digital screen on the front that would display the caller ID or the date and time of the day but flashed on it in black dots was an all-too-familiar name I would recognize just about anywhere.

ALFRED DEMPSEY

It didn't take me long to figure out who the owner of the phone was since, after all, I knew how Leroy's looked like and it certainly wasn't mine and judging by the model and its frugal nature, the natural conclusion was that it belonged to no one other than Mrs. Cox herself.

Frankly speaking, my curiosity was piqued. After all, Uncle Al had never said a thing about keeping in contact with Leroy's mother and, even if he did, he would therefore have known that she was... well, in the state that she was at present. There was simply no logical reason or line of rational thought that would lead to a sound conclusion.

After watching the display screen light up several times from the multiple texts sent by, apparently, my uncle, I picked up the phone and flipped it open.

It was not password protected. I hadn't encountered such a device even at a younger age and though it confused my digitally-acclimated mind, I found myself staring at a messaging inbox. The style was old and the conversations were difficult to view all at once so I ended up guiltily scanning the previews before accidentally, whilst trying to figure out how to scroll, pressing a button that allowed the user to view the conversation at a glance.

__________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

16/10

You were right about his friends wanting to celebrate his birthday. Julie and I were overly anxious... it is, after all, his first time abroad and living alone.

________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

16/10

What about the fountain pen? I hope you didn't actually get it for him. It would have cost a hefty sum and I would be terribly embarrassed if you were troubled on his behalf.

_______________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

16/10

And apologies for the late response. I've been intending to send a message of gratitude for making our Vanille feel at home.

________________

Nonsense, was what this all was. I couldn't understand how or why my uncle would be sending these texts minutes ago when Leroy's mother couldn't possibly have been typing out responses and having a conversation with him. I used the arrow keys to direct the conversation further upwards, viewing its history and altogether committing the greatest sin of my lifetime—invasion of privacy. Goodness, the urge to find out what was going on was clearly getting hold of my moral values.

_________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

28/09

Vanille never said a thing! Well, second place is absolutely wonderful. Thank you for such wonderful news.

______________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

20/09

Overnight camps out in the wild are the absolute worst. I remember my time in culinary school but nothing of that sort. I must call Vanille immediately.

_____________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

17/09

Yes, the 56. You've heard of it? Admittedly I was a little rash in signing him up for residence. Do you think the tastings have become a little harder over the years? I barely made it past number 30 when I was his age. Some beetroot of sorts.

__________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

10/09

I've just checked in on him. You see now why I wasn't all that keen on letting him go off on his own? Nearly losing his tongue on the first day... goodness gracious. I hope he didn't cause your son too much trouble.

_________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

30/08

We've just arrived at the airport and are heading to his accommodation. It's an apartment a station away from school. Perhaps you'd like to drop by.

_________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

Attached: picnicwithfamily2.jpg

16/04

They grow up so quickly.

__________________

From: A. DEMPSEY

To: You

12/05

It has been some time. Vanille has been making plans on attending culinary school. Would you happen to have any recommendations?

________________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

9/03

How is he?

_______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

29/08

So how is he?

_______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

10/10

Did you celebrate?

_______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

14/02

How is he?

_______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

Attached: Freshmen Registration.pdf

13/05

This is the school Leroy has been looking at.

______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

19/04

He looks the same.

______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

30/08

Sorry. Can't go. But I'll send Leroy soon.

______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

20/09

He lost to a banana. You should have seen his face.

______________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

28/09

Second place.

_____________

From: You

To: A. DEMPSEY

5/10

Don't worry. Everyone loves him.

_________________

"What an idiot."

How poorly everything seemed to fall into place, staring at these rectangular digits and alphabets coarsely put together by someone that clearly wasn't Annie herself and had no dignity whatsoever to even pretend that he wasn't the person he was—an idiot, after all.

There was no deliberation to laugh or cry and the mechanical beep of the monitor keeping pace through it all but I wanted so much to ask how she'd managed to raise someone so awfully impossible not to think about for the rest of my life like the still and unmoving candle he was, short of the fire I feared but possessing every bit of the warmth I so hoped to be able to touch.

"You would be laughing. Here, look... listen to this. This utter nonsense he's been—well I hope my uncle doesn't actually believe you text like that, Mrs. Cox. Unbelievable. He lost to a banana? Was that all he could—I'll send Leroy soon? What does that even mean? He cannot possibly think that... and just how many times has he been asking how I am when... when I so clearly wanted to... to know how he was, too?"

What an odd feeling it was, to be overwhelmed by a burning flame one thought to be small. I'd always wondered how Leroy had miraculously identified me by my name back in the infirmary since, admittedly, I was no longer the four-year-old child I was back then with glasses slipping off my nose and a bow tie on my neck.

To think he was the very definition of twisting fate and altering paths for them to converge at a single point that was now. Good god.

"'Do you think anyone would ever feel like they could spend the rest of their life with me' was a question I asked my godfather's husband once and all I remember is feeling awfully upset when I heard his answer. I still don't think anyone would. As in, no one deserves to be put next to me for more than two hours straight, let alone a lifetime. But... but I suppose I'm regressing. I think it's called being selfish. Do you think that's what love does to someone?

"Is this love?"

She began to cry.