A/N: I hope everyone's safe where they are ;-; it's not exactly a lockdown here and neither do we have a stay-at-home sort of notice but we're being a lot more careful now. I really hope to speed up my updates just so that perhaps you guys staying at home won't feel so lonely ;-; I know most of my readers are from the States so I am pretty concerned and worried for you all. 

As always, tough times are here. Hope this chapter can somehow relieve some of it :'D

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[Vanilla]

I find myself fond of being described as 'observant' or 'attentive', words I've never once heard in my lifetime of 'odd' and 'know-it-all'. I'd say paying attention to my surroundings and, well, generally being aware of whatever was going on around me had become a critical characteristic, what with the need to assess problematic situations and, in seconds, deduce the several probable solutions.

At present, I'd realized just how walking around with someone who tended to have all my attention could make this critical characteristic of myself entirely obsolete. It was hard being hopelessly smitten by an unwavering candle. One never really knew when to look away. Or how, for the matter.

"Is something going on behind us?" I said to this very being, glancing over my shoulder and following the general direction of whatever it was everyone seemed to be interested in all of a sudden. I spotted a lone mother pushing her baby cart around the fountain but nothing else seemed to warrant the attention of that many people. I turned back. "Oh."

Leroy had snorted, then shifted his weight so that he was now between me and the crowd of spectators.

"Nothing. Let's go."

I felt his hand on my back but a glimpse over his shoulder confirmed that the entire crowd gathered in the middle of the plaza—before the stage and all the way up to where we were—had continued to stare openly. Violet Birchwood and her partner had taken centre-stage beside the announcer and they, too, appeared to be looking our way.

"Um. Miss Birchwood," the announcer's voice sounded nervous, even over the PA system. "I don't think that's... I mean, I'm afraid inviting guest students into the contest isn't really, uh, allowed...? It's purely registration-only." Almost at once, I pitied the awkward student, probably a member of the logistics club who hadn't the slightest clue how to deal with difficult situations.

Thankfully, Leroy and I had caught on pretty quickly; Birchwood had invited the two of us to compete against her in the tag team competition, just by calling out our names as we passed. Needless to say, this was rather absurd. We'd exchanged a look, which practically conveyed the extent of our shared amusement. Or so I hoped it did.

"Yes, but they're late." Everyone could hear Birchwood pointing out on stage. I tugged on Leroy's sleeve and made a small gesture to leave, exercising maximum discreet. Adding to my pool of numerous enemies was not going to do well for the rest of my high school days and mind you, I've got three and a half years to spend. "Leroy and whoever that is can sub in."

We'd started in the direction of the third street food lane, away from the plaza fountain and everyone else when Birchwood had so unfortunately made the poor decision of not memorizing my name, which, of course, had to be the one thing Leroy was not going to stand for.

"You're kidding," he stopped, hand on my wrist. "She doesn't know your name?"

"She's clearly in the mood for laughs, Leroy. You cannot possibly be provoked by such a... no, you're not—no no no don't go! She knows my name! We've had a meaningful conversation back then at the SOY and she was in tears! We're friends!" Taking me on a u-turn, he ignored the hundred blinking eyes and silly whispers, heading straight down the side of the crowd and up to where the stage was.

I was a fool for thinking he'd be somehow persuaded by my words and that love had the power of changing destinies and, what, re-writing the stars. Good god, he was a flame.

Somewhere at the bottom of the stairs that led to the stage, a member of the organizing team had thanked us under her breath, afraid that she'd lose her credibility as soon as Birchwood decided to throw a tantrum and run to her father for help.

I turned to Leroy, who, very naturally, looked like he was up to no good. "I can't believe it. We're simply giving her exactly what she wants." I could confirm this by glancing around, pitying the organizers who appeared helpless in the face of the headmaster's daughter, anxiously gazing up at Leroy and myself. "She's not royalty, no one's obligated to meet her demands. Please let's walk away now before it's too late."

At the top of the stairs, we were quietly handed a clipboard each with registration forms attached to them. My companion had, without question, started filling it up. Head lowered, he'd chanced a sideway glance my way and the most disarming expression one could ever possibly imagine. "Teach her a lesson then."

Startled and anxious, I asked what he meant by this. "She's only going to feel worse than she already is. And how do you know we're going to win? I don't wish to make any assumptions but I certainly have reason to believe that she isn't the nicest loser around either." Not to mention, I wasn't very keen on being a prime witness of her sour mood escalating into some murder of her partner. After all, I'd heard her every curse at the waterfall, directed at her cross-year team.

Leroy had other plans.

"Come on." It was that look again! O-outrageous! Needless to say, I was weak and severely disarmed.

"You cannot be serious!" I whisper-shouted, turning in my completed registration form with a hesitant sigh. "Yes, I am very fond of you, but there are... are limits to the compromises I can make and and and it's not very nice of you to, well, use my fondness for you against me. I'm supposed to be writing an article. A-and didn't you say this was a date?" We were lead to the second decked out station on the makeshift stage and given an apron each. "If so, then this is the worst date I've ever had."

"At least it's a memorable one," he had the gall to tease. "And what are you talking about? You've only ever been on dates with me. I'm your first. All our dates are bad." And wink! "So bad."

I was beyond bewildered—gobsmacked into outer space and mumbling to myself along the journey past the milky way, clearly defeated. "You are absolutely illegal."

"I'll make it up to you the next time," he laughed. "Promise."

By this point, I was adding up and multiplying my calculations of just how hopelessly smitten I was to overcome every rational bone in my body and give in to the fire that he was. Halfway through the announcement of a change in the line-up, I began to notice the presence of baking utensils: an electric mixer, whisks, rolling pins, spatulas... and then, glancing over at Birchwood's team on our right, noted that her partner was a culinary major.

"—the same. One main dish, and one dessert. Five minutes to ideate and make a list of ingredients you're requesting, and then it's an hour and a half to the judging. Oh and of course, tagging your partner in and out every ten minutes, we uh, can't forget that..."

"Leroy," I turned to him. "Leroy, this is a huge mistake. I have never made a pastry or dessert or, or anything like that in my whole entire life."

"Yeah but you've tasted many," he laid out, as though this piece of information should be the decisive factor. This warranted much correction.

"That's ridiculous. Culinary and baking skills are two entirely different things and you know that," I bit my lip, somehow wishing I'd spent more time in my godfather's bakery instead of reading planetary encyclopaedias in my room. "You need to be precise. There is no room for mistakes and we both know how we feel about things like this."

"That we're always gunning for the win?" He laughed and I couldn't resist the honeyed softness that he the flame turned everything into. "Yeah."

"I'm not going to deny. This is a lot of pressure," I said under my breath, all whilst giving the crowd before us a quick survey. It seemed a lot more substantial now that we were up here on the stage, faced with more than a hundred pairs of eyes. Birchwood and her partner had a considerable amount of the crowd to themselves, filled with her supporters raising banners and fancy decorated boards with her name assembled in coloured cut-outs of what looked like cakes and pastries. "And the strangest thing... I don't dislike it."

"All part of the fun," he'd turned to me with a wink and almost at once, I could hear gushing near the front of the stage. Apparently, being the school's number three also came with complimentary magnetic forces. The crowd had thickened.

"We're monsters. This isn't how human beings react to external stress and pressure."

At the far back of the fountain, more students and visitors were stopping to stare and as though misfortune was the one and only creator of the universe, I soon realized I had been returning the gaze of my classmate Ariq, who, on his break, had been strolling alone with a cob of grilled corn in his hands. We exchanged the oddest look. He then did a u-turn and headed off in the very direction he came from.

"—so if everyone could just scan this QR code, yep, uh right on up on the screen, it leads you straight to SurveyMonkey. Vote for the theme and the results of the poll... they're coming in and... oh. Oh, there's an overwhelming response for 'Nature' and I'm haha, honestly not surprised." The announcer sounded oddly nervous, as though he'd forced out a lie through his teeth.

Alarms ringing, I consulted my companion. "You think...? Could it be that—"

"She told her supporters to vote for a theme she already prepared for?" There was a smirk on his face and it wasn't going away. "Even better."

I was rolling my eyes before I knew it. "You really like a challenge."

"One can tell." He winked. In my head, I was drafting an arrest warrant for Leroy Jeremy Cox.

Given an option, the theme 'Nature' wouldn't exactly be at the top of my list. Besides being vague and wholly idealistic or clichéd, every ingredient in the culinary world was somewhat parked under that umbrella. The logical conclusion would be to emphasise the dish through its plating and preparation technique.

Leroy had ideas. And by that, I meant simply laying out whatever it was he felt like having for lunch.

"Phad Thai." He said the moment we were given five minutes to discuss and a piece of paper to list the ingredients we needed. "I'm starving."

"And losing your mind," I pointed out. "How would looking at a plate of Phad Thai give the impression of nature?"

"Hunger is nature," he shrugged and I was not going to let him continue with the jokes so I gave him the look and he finally came up with a proper explanation. "It has the most vibrant colours for a main dish."

"Alright I see where you're coming from. Shrimp, lime, cilantro, chillies, peanuts, bean sprouts... it's just—the rice noodles. It's part of the appeal but the colour wouldn't stand a chance against the extravagance Birchwood is going for."

"Vermicelli instead of the flat ones." He seemed to agree, marking that down as our very first ingredient and then the rest of the dish. "They're easy to dye." He snapped his fingers, meeting my gaze. "Colour change. The drink we had earlier. Blue, yellow. Then purple after mixing."

"Galaxy Sunset?" I blinked. "Yes, well. They used blue pea flowers as a dye for the flower tea and a lemonade slushie at the bottom. You're thinking of dyeing the vermicelli blue and then changing it to purple with lime juice over the top? That's pandering. It doesn't sound like you."

"Isn't," he admitted, smirking a little. "But beating people at their game sounds fun."

Fairly stunned by his competitive spirit, I stopped him in the middle of his listing of ingredients, telling him to cross out the blue pea flowers. He gave me a look. "Yes but I don't pander, competition or not. Use black goji berries—they do the same thing. The least we can do is introduce a new ingredient that isn't an overrated darling of the internet."

This somehow warranted the display of his indecent finger amidst disarming smirks, which seemed to startle the announcer who soon came over to remind us of public press making their rounds.

"You know replacing that gesture with a kiss would cause way more trouble, right?" Leroy had the gall to suggest in front of the poor student, finishing up our list in casual scribbles. "It's self-censorship. The middle finger's 'I wanna make out with him but we're in public and he'd complain' so now you know."

"Leroy, you are frightening in long sentences," I was pink with insanity, unable to look at him or the announcer in the eye. "Please exercise some restraint."

"I'll just leave you two alone," the sophomore concluded with an awkward laugh before slipping away, reminding us of the remaining two minutes we had to discuss the menu and key ingredients.

I shot my companion a look before closing the case. It mostly meant 'I'll deal with you later.'

"Is there a way we could run with this colour-changing theme in the dessert too? Well it's nature and what's that without a display of flowers, I suppose... so the raindrop cake. Have you heard of it? Crystal clear jelly—"

"The Japanese dessert?"

"Yes, that. I've seen them do cherry blossoms in it. Almost like a snow globe. We could replace that with the black goji berries and injecting some acidity into the topmost layer would have it turn from blue to purple. I-it's really intricate and a technical nightmare though, so I wouldn't be surprised if you're against the idea."

He had a laugh tugging on the corners of his lips and I paused, wondering just what it was he'd found so amusing.

"Remember what I said about taking risks?"

I sighed, averting my gaze. "That I'm 'learning'?"

"Yeah," he returned to the list, adding agar powder and brown sugar to it. Something experimental I wanted to have in case we had the time was soymilk. He added that too. "Scratch all that. I was wrong. My guess... you actually like taking risks."

Clearing my throat in an attempt to appear half as embarrassed as I truly was, I began to see just how badly I had wished to disassociate myself from disorder and uncertainty—the primary pet peeves of a certain fictional vulture I'd so adored and admired for the longest time. Leroy on the other hand, had seen through my guise.

"Well. If, among the premises of your argument lies the personality of the human being I am hopelessly charmed by, then... I don't see why your conclusion isn't reasonably valid."

Admittedly, he had to pause, frowning for a good second or two before figuring out the exact meaning of a sentence packed with double negatives. After which, the middle finger seemed to be due.

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

To be frank, I wasn't a fan of having conversations in the middle of mise en place, or any form of the whole culinary process. Admittedly, I'd never really been a fan of any form of multi-tasking at all—which Leroy would gladly agree with—and yet, this was the very component characteristic of a tag team contest.

Needless to say, I wasn't the best communicator around. Not in the kitchen. Not outside of it. Not anywhere. Not in this universe, I wasn't. Unsurprisingly, I'd stood rather idle by the side of the station while the clock was ticking down the first ten minutes into the cook-off, keeping an eye on the mental checklist my partner had in mind. After all, Leroy seemed perfectly fine on his own. No need for yelling out instructions or hand-clapping to the beat of 'hu-rry-up'—unless you were Miss Birchwood's partner and perhaps worked better under such conditions.

It was odd, knowing we were being watched by a crowd of curious people. Still, our silence seemed to have caused quite some concern amongst the organizers and alas, the poor announcer sent to check on our progress, had also been tasked to raise this.

"You guys seem really quiet. Some sort of telepathic thing going on?" He laughed in bouts, stiffer than before. Leroy didn't look up from mincing garlic and Thai red chilis, which meant that he'd left it up to me to come up with something intelligent.

"We don't like to talk." Intelligent. "Plus, he's doing exceptional without my help."

"Really?" The announcer seemed fairly amazed. "Um. Okay. Sure, but... maybe some kind of communication? Like, 'what are you going to do next' or 'don't forget the fish sauce' you know? Stuff like that."

"He's an expert," I blinked, rather frank. "He has the next ten steps in his head, maybe even up to fifteen. He's not going to forget something as important as fish sauce either."

At this, the poor student seemed to back down and honestly, I hadn't meant to frighten him. Goodness, Vanilla. You need to watch your words. He left our station after a timid 'sounds great' and a feeble wave. I could only watch him go—wrought with guilt.

"You know," said Leroy, amidst preparing the blue noodle dye, made from infusing black goji berries in water. I'd told him earlier on to ensure the soaking up of its unique taste by the vermicelli. "I wouldn't mind listening to you go off."

"But... but you don't like being told what to do," I'd observed, unfolding my arms.

"Not by other people, yeah," he had amusement in his eyes. A constant presence in our conversations. "Just you."

"Well it so happens I don't quite prefer ordering people around either. I like correcting people in my head, yes. Just, not—Kosher salt, not Himalayan—not aloud. Oh. Look, I'm doing it already."

"Do it all you want," Leroy had the gall to send a wink in my direction. In public. Not as though doing it in private would have made it any less illegal but still. "I'll have my fun when it's your turn."

Clearing my throat to conceal the slightest streak of intimidation I'd felt at his words, I reminded him to get started on the dessert since, well, we'd have to be accounting for its chilling time in the refrigerator.

"Be precise. It's a four-to-five ratio on that agar powder to sugar. Leroy—use the weighing scale."

"Because every chef loves to eyeball," he fired back with a playful spark in his eye and I was silently thanking the rolling pin, cupcake-gods above that we weren't walking around with lavalier mics at our collars. "And the milk jelly?"

"A two-to-five."

"So you just happen to have everything stored up there?" He tapped the side of his head and I rolled my eyes.

"Well. Agar is merely a polymer made up of subunits of the sugar galactose, so all one really has to do is work out the chemical equations in their head, bearing the chemical formulas of the pre and end product in mind. Balancing the equation gives you the ratio."

"Mm," ah, the indecent finger. Served with a side of disarming smirks. Indeed, a fatal combination.

And now even more so, thanks to my partner's prior elaborate explanation of what the display of his middle finger actually meant. But hold on... was this not a gesture he's particularly fond of using in front of Raul and Rosi and, well, most of his lodge mates? This was fairly concerning, considering the fact that it would have implied some form of frivolous character or i-infidelity.

"What does it mean, exactly? This... this gesture of yours," I referred to his indecent finger by raising my hand and simply pointing to the one in the middle. "Since its definition appears to differ from time to time and person to person."

My partner looked up from his mise en place, gaze flitting to the digital clock above our heads before resting on me. "It just means 'fuck you'."

"A-ah." Oh. "But earlier on, you—"

"For other people." He laughed under his breath. "For you, it's..." he left the sentence unfinished, returning to the chopping of cilantro and licking his lips. Leroy was very hard to read at times like these, partly because he'd supposedly given a detailed explanation of what it meant earlier on but at present couldn't even conclude.

Admittedly however, there were concerns far more immediate and alarming than the one I had in mind—primarily the fact that Leroy would be tagging me in in less than thirty seconds. We'd made the clever decision of having him go first, to get the mise en place (my major weakness, considering the unfortunate state of my technical knife skills) out of the way and then have me start on the actual seasoning and flavouring of the specific ingredients.

The ten-second countdown accompanied by the chorus of our audience made the signal to swap roles all the more nerve-wrecking, specifically leading up to that single instant. They'd announced the remaining time we had on the clock before hurling words of urgency at Birchwood and I, somewhat encouraging the competitive spirit.

Not to say I wasn't any less competitive than Birchwood was, but already I could hear her start yelling at her partner to, well, yell at her. Tell her what to do. I wasn't about to have Leroy do any of that; in fact, I hadn't quite bothered sparing him a glance. Logically, it'd only add another layer of nervous embarrassment to the whole thing, so. I assumed the most professional state of mental concentration.

First up on my list was to check the dyeing of the vermicelli. Tasting the natural blue dye, I told my partner it was a little blunt, and wasn't going to bring out the fruity flavours of black goji berries once tossed with the other ingredients.

"Drain it out? Make another bowl of dye."

"Mhm," I got out a mixing bowl from one of the cabinets. "I'll just make this one a little more concentrated than before. And then soak it again. We have time."

"While you're waiting for it to infuse, get the agar mixture going."

"Yes I was thinking of doing that."

"And while that's on the heat, taste the herb mix. Then butterfly the shrimp. Don't forget to remove the veins."

"You're enjoying this—ordering me around," I pointed out, controlling the extent of my bewilderment whilst separating goji berries in a mixing bowl of water. "I am well-aware of my incompetency. Multi-tasking was never my thing."

"Want to be flash-frying the shrimp instead?" He teased, further capitalizing on my poor technical capabilities to which I admitted he was clearly superior in. "I could start yelling if you want."

"No, no. There's quite enough yelling going on over at the other station."

"You know that's how people establish dominance in the kitchen, right?" My partner laughed, folding his arms and leaning against the counter as though we were back in my apartment and this was a private occasion. "Birchwood's looked over more than twice in the last two minutes."

Placing the vermicelli back into the dye that was now more concentrated, I produced a pot pan and began filling it with distilled water. "To think I'd expected your answer to be a little more refined. How exactly does yelling in the kitchen equate to an establishment of dominance? There must be some other way of doing so. Um, well. Not that I would ever wish to execute such a display of dominance. Also not that I wish to be dominated, for the matter."

I caught a glimpse of the expression on Leroy's face. He seemed genuinely confused. "How are we not married yet?"

*

The issue with colour-changing dishes soon came to light ten minutes before the judging: that the sauces and ingredients of the phad thai, when stir fried with the vermicelli in a traditional wok, had the colour of the noodles turning invariably grey due to the shade of the sauce and herb mix and the acidity of it. While we'd expected to pull off the showy display before the judges by topping the noodles with lime juice (and therefore changing the colour of it in front of them), this all seemed to be happening as soon as Leroy had the noodles stir fried in the wok.

"Three tries," he reassured right after things went wrong, having separated the vermicelli bundles into four and used one of it. I pieced together the possible reasons for our failed plans and devised several solutions.

"One, it turns into a noodle salad. Which means no stir-frying and therefore no tampering with the acidity of the ingredients and the sauce. Two, we have them get us a pH meter and, you're not going to like this, but we balance the pH of the sauce and herb mix before it goes into the wok of noodles instead of adding it one by one. We'd most probably be compromising on the taste but I trust you're sharp enough to make the best out of what we have."

Leroy got one of the errand students to come over, telling him to fetch a pH meter as quickly as he could. "A noodle salad's not going to win. It's the easy way out." He said just as I predicted he would. "I'll get the raindrops while waiting for the monitor."

"No, hold on." I stopped him, feeling the adrenaline in my fingers. "It's two of us in the last five minutes. Let me handle the dessert, I just need you to check on the jelly. Then double the phad thai toppings because we might need all three tries."

He'd laughed, turning and checking on the agar in the refrigerator before chopping up more cilantro, and pounding peanuts and chillies with a pestle and mortar. "Thrilling isn't it?"

"I can't imagine being a culinary major and having to go through all this nearly every day of the week."

"Mostly three times a day. Sometimes four on weekends before practical exams. Which adds up to..." He frowned.

"Four times seven, Leroy," I nearly laughed out loud. "It's twenty-eight. A hundred and twelve in a month."

"..."

"I'll spare you. They're back with the pH meter." I directed his attention to the errand student hurrying back with the instrument and a bottle in his hands before placing them on the counter and zipping away. "Are you doing alright with the toppings?"

He shelled a couple more shrimp before readying a new mixing bowl and then grabbing the pH meter. He stared at it with three minutes left on the clock before partners could join. "How does this work?"

"Um, oh yes you just—first, turn it on," I forgot he's home schooled and has probably never been in a chemistry lab, let alone used a pH meter. "Yes. Then place the pen-like node into the buffer in the bottle and press 'calibrate'. Once it starts beeping, you can dip it in the sauce mix."

He left the electrode in the bottle to calibrate and immediately started mixing the sauces in the bowl. "What should I try first?"

"Half fish sauce half soy? Then a couple of drops of sesame oil before you throw the cilantro in."

He did as I said and once the meter started beeping, removed it from the buffer, wiped it down, and held it in the sauce and herb mix. "Six point two."

"More cilantro. And a little sugar and then add the spring onions and bean sprouts. Everything but the shrimp and the peanuts.

We were so occupied with balancing the mixture that we hadn't noticed just how much the crowd had grown in the final stretch, up until the signal for partners to join in for plating minutes. It must look rather strange from their perspective; us using the pH meter.

"Seven point two."

"Perfect, but you have five minutes to stir fry and plate this. In three tries." I placed the tray of jellied desserts out and removed a clean needle syringe from its packaging.

"What happens if I pull this off?" He said, turning up the heat and oiling the wok. "You've met Annie. Do I get to see your family?"

Besides having no time for flustered embarrassment, I was almost certain about another thing. "There's no 'if you pull this off', Leroy. Frankly speaking, three tries is an overkill. You'd be perfectly comfortable with one."

He rolled his eyes, laughing all the same. "Again, overestimating my abilities."

We didn't speak for the next three minutes—the final stretch before judging—only because everything unfolded in their natural state, smooth and without interruption. I'd injected the lemon juice into the pale blue raindrop agar and a purple-blue gradient began to form, resting atop a soymilk-cream jellied base and coated with a sheer syrup for an added shine.

The fragrance of our main dish had turned heads, apart from the flash sizzling of the phad thai in a wok, mostly thanks to the high heat and the direction of the wind. We'd plated two servings for each dish, even though only one was required and, strictly speaking, I hadn't had the chance to taste the dessert myself.

By the time we were both done with the plating to the fearful chorus of a ten-second countdown, Leroy and I had chanced a glimpse at each other's work. His reaction had been the slightest movement of the corners of his lips, gaze leaving the dessert plates to meet mine.

I'd offered an-under-the-table high five. Something I'd always dreamed of doing, having read numerous forms of exceptional teamwork and observed in every one of Xander's volleyball competitions Chip would bring me to see. He was the coach.

Admittedly, I'd never entertained the thought of being part of something like that. A team, or anything of that sort. Group work in elementary school was barely a challenge and having skipped my way through middle and high school at an early age, never really had the most familiar or friendly project team.

This was, simply speaking, my high  five debut. An alternative to seesaw-ing at the playground; the rustling of red leaves above and its crunch under the—

"Marry me," my partner whispered, refusing my open palm by showing an indecent finger in return.  

"All I wanted was a high five, Leroy. And you wouldn't even give me that."