A/N: So this is a 9.2k word chapter I don't even know how I took so long to write (well, more than a month I'd say) and I have no excuses for taking so long except that I have very unfortunately been obsessed with these two characters from the game Genshin Impact by the name of Alhaitham and Kaveh -sigh-

So yes... I ended up writing a fanfic of these two on AO3. Distractions, distractions. HAHAHAHA. I'm sorry for the wait! And thank you for your patience, as usual. Some of you are just UNIMAGINABLY patient and I suppose it's because, well, I'd already served that massive amount of c a k e in the previous chapter hahaha. I'm still very proud of it because I did put in a lot of energy and work into a chapter that had, of course, been waiting for its debut for years. And I daresay meeting the expectations of you Beans is an extremely difficult task, let alone exceeding them. I can only hope you enjoyed the previous chapter of loving. Hehe. 

Enjoy.

_______________________ 

There is no magic in waiting.

Time escapes none; all life must necessarily include it. That does not mean that one should revolve their lives around the concept of time or have it dictate every aspect of their existence; the awareness of its passing can at times be enough of an acknowledgement.

And though there may exist certain fictional phenomena like immortal creatures, they too, cannot deny the passing of time independent of the mind. It is despite one's physical and mental circumstance that time passes, and thus the definition of wait.

Waiting implies the passing of time. If one does not experience the passing of time, one is not waiting.

To the fictional time-manipulators and hopefuls who preach the prospect of speeding up, slowing down, and travelling through time in the snap of a finger to overcome the trouble and expense of waiting, they are missing the point.

The nature of time changes according to the circumstance of the waiting mind. A mind that waits can be anxious; and for them, time passes slow. It can be excited and enthused; time skips forward at every moment of the wait in which they sometimes forget. It can grieve; and for those, time becomes hollow.

But above all, a mind that waits knows no magic. One could always wait alone. But two? Time on a seesaw is shared between a pair, and while one is always waiting for the other to rise or fall, the mere act of sharing a wait—the presence of company despite time—changes the nature of it. Of waiting together.

So there really is no magic in waiting.

Only patience. And love.

____________________

[Vanilla]

Someone was at the door.

The knocking was what did it; pulling me out of heavy sleep and dwelling briefly on the odd intimacy of the sound that resembled last night's fervor—rhythmic against the wooden headboard. Alas, to start the day with such a thought was alarming and did well for booting up a mind drunk from a night's worth of heated flames.

I shifted under the covers, perfectly warm and cozy despite the apparent lack of clothes.

A morning to remember indeed; complete with a sight one could certainly get used to.

His hair wasn't always flaming. Only the rays of the morning sun at an angle, upon hitting the lion's mane, could produce a view so quietly loud. One that resembled the first of fall; spice in the air and the crunch of leaves under the weight of feet, and of course, the sound.

Eyes closed, Leroy was smoke. He was warm wisps in the air that reached within and settled there. It was awe, looking at him fast asleep in the wee hours of the morning, and I found myself thinking so: more of this, please. And so, eyes closed, I leaned into the crook of his neck and felt my mind sizzle in the pleasure of his warmth... til the knocking on the door returned and I was at once, sitting up in panic.

"Goodness," I managed without physically collapsing back onto the bed. Good god. Good god.

My fortunate partner with his painless back was sitting up in a heartbeat, eyes wide and much more awake than I'd been seconds ago. At once, his gaze searched for the source of my pain, ablaze and concerned. "Vanilla?"

Not a single muscle below my waist could respond to the will of my mind and thus, defeated, I made the instant decision to return to my original position of comfort and laid down on my back.

"Leroy," I said calmly, unable to describe the dull ache of my hips and whatever else shooting up my lower back at every sudden movement of my lower half. "There is someone at the door."

"..." The natural state of my partner's mind at seven in the morning was visibly disappointing. I could see in his head, nothing but visual remnants of our grand tryst the night before which, whilst flattering, did nothing for the current state of emergency. "I'll get it."

"You can't!" I protested in my state of immobility, glaring at the general shape of Leroy Cox without my glasses on. "You're not supposed to be here in my room, let alone get the door at, I don't know, seven in the morning." "... how do you even think in the morning?" "Oh the divine mysteries that come with being a genius like thinking in the morning, doesn't happen anywhere else in our existing world I assure you." "So what does the incapacitated genius , suggest?" "The incapacitated genius suggests you... y-you..."

Thus, the intellectual proposal.

Here I was, answering the door prim and proper, dressed and buttoned up and hair, perfectly combed oh and to top it all off, glasses. It was an entire look, really. Such perfection in the wee hours of the morning did not come easy in a matter of seconds. Admittedly, the glasses were necessary not just for purposes of vision-bestowing but also did well to um, to hide traces of tears I'd shed the night before.

Still, whoever was behind the half—no, quarter—opened front door would not be able to see the true pitiful state I was in. No pants. Of course. And carried bridal style by a professional idiot who'd tossed me his dress shirt from the night before and my glasses that had somehow ended up on the couch where Leo and Chicken were cuddled up fast asleep. The splendid aftermath of hot sex.

I did not just say that.

"Banilla!" Pao's signature energy radiated through the gap in the door and upon meeting his gaze flooded with concern, channeled my way an unimaginable sense of guilt. "Are you okay? I was worried about you so I come to check. You skipped last night and barely ate any food from the table is it because you're sick? Do you need medicine? I have white flower oil—take it."

"Pao..." I was moved. I was also very much in pain. Grave mistakes were made; such as, underestimating the stamina of a certain criminal idiot. "That is so very kind of you. I apologize for my absence. I'm feeling, u-unfortunately, much worse than before. It's the um, the... the back. Yes. Age is a peculiar thing."

"Age?" My fellow counterpart did not buy into my poorly-crafted excuse. "Banilla you are a baby! The old man here is me, not you. If you have problems with your back now, it means you are not taking good care of it."

"Yes. Yes indeed, you are correct. I must have made the mistake of partaking in some strenuous activity!" I cast a side-eye in the direction of my personal human crutch-chair-thing. He mused quietly with the hint of a smirk on his lips but held me closer regardless. Careful. "Thank you for checking in, Pao. I'm very sorry to have caused you any worry. All I need is a little more rest, really. I'll see you downstairs at the arranged hour we're setting off for the airport."

He sighed, forcing the tiny bottle of while flower oil into the heart of my palm regardless. I had my other hand glued to Leroy's shoulder for support (not that he'd drop me out of nowhere, just, emotional support) and was silently appreciative of Pao's insistence.

"Okay Banilla... I know you work very hard but remember to take care of yourself too. Health is important."

Flooded by guilt, I managed a single nod and could not help averting my gaze. "I'll... be sure to do that. Thank you, Pao."

Our visitor parted with a wave and I proceeded to close the door behind me with a quiet click. The next thing I did was of course, to turn to my partner with narrowed eyes and both arms now wrapped around his neck while he transported me back to bed. I pointed to the bathroom instead. He obliged.

"Did you hear that, Mr. Cox? Pao says I've been working very hard."

"I know," he had the gall to muse. "It was all you were doing last night."

"You—! Th. That's just." "Can't deny it." "Oh of course not. In fact, the dull ache in my lower back is a constant reminder. Thanks to my hard work, my thighs now barely function. I trust my hips aren't any better and come to think of it, my throat feels sore and my voice slightly hoarse. The sink top, please. Thank you. And um, what about yourself?"

"I feel good," he set me down on the marble surface but picked me up again as soon as I winced. "You're the one suffering from my success." His eyes flickered in the wind. "Sorry."

"Oh be quiet. And don't you apologize for the um, endow—assets you've been, um, endowed... blessed... with. Thing. You know what I'm trying to say. Also, you can put me down now." "You can stand?" "With some support, I can. Brushing my teeth isn't an hour-long task you know."

Leroy put me down and reached for my toothbrush as soon as he did. "Does it hurt anywhere else?"

His lowered gaze spoke the words he'd left unsaid and I promptly blushed like a fool.

"... it's sore, yes. But fortunately for a certain idiot, I am well aware of the effort he put into holding back last night, so. I'd say he's been considerably thoughtful." "Considerably thoughtful. Swear I heard someone telling the idiot he'd burn the place down if he didn't have cock in the next minute." "Y—that's because the idiot was about to refuse and put things off for the fifth time—" "Arson. Right in front of a firefighter." "—when both parties were already knee-deep in the investment—" "Also begged to have it inside." "—and clearly willing to continue despite the roadblocks in place—"

"What I'm trying to say is that you've always been as illegal as I was and this proves it," he finished after brushing his teeth and rinsing, leaning down a little to plant a kiss on my forehead. "Partners in crime."

I stood stock still, one hand on his forearm and the other still holding onto my toothbrush. The world was pink and it had taken me a morning's worth of eventful back-and-forth to realize the current state I was in.

Leroy and I were alarmingly smitten by one another. Terrifying so. We were practically living the dream of ignorant protagonists in a cheesy romance novel refusing to acknowledge the consequences of their actions or the world around them!

Goodness, what a disaster. No, I simply will not stand for this. I shall not be reduced to a character of such poor, simple nature.

"You are chef. Show, you are participate. I am judge. This is unprofessional." I managed, looking him straight in the eye with the toothbrush in my mouth filled with mint foam.

"Coffee?" He laughed, glancing over his shoulder. It was toned and incredibly sculpted and was in dire need of an arrest warrant. Leo padded into the bathroom, meowed up at my partner, and made his way past his legs towards me. It was prime domesticity. Absolutely appalling.

"Mr. Cox, this is a cooking show."

"Mr. White, we just had the best sex of the century."

He had the audacity to run a wash towel under warm water before pressing it gently on the sore hole he'd hilted for the entire night. It did the undeniable effect of easing pain at once. He must've seen the tension in my shoulders melt away and felt my muscles relax under the warmth because he stayed that way for the next couple of seconds and I did too.

"I gotta pack and walk Chicken before the meet. You?" "Well... there's a short video conference I have to attend in a bit. We're speaking with our fixers in Japan. And fortunately for me, there'll be no walking involved in that meeting." "I'm sure you can handle some physical activity." "Oh be quiet. I'll see you at noon when we're catching the boat back to Jakarta for our flight." "Need any help with your bags?" "Well... not at the moment, but I appreciate the offer and will let you know if I end up having to rely on someone else for physical activity."

I limped out of the bathroom while he cleaned up after me, holding onto the door frame and walls for support before stopping at the pantry to fix us a cup of coffee each. Apparently, all rooms came equipped with a classy french press and pre-ground Indonesian coffee beans. And placed conveniently on the countertop beside the station were little packages of cream and sugar.

I paused. Then added it to my partner's mug.

He joined me shortly after, resting his chin on my shoulder and arms going around my waist from the back. Holding on.

I held out his cup of coffee. His eyes lingered on the surface of the beverage, seemingly enamored by the reflection staring back at him. He received it with a nod of thanks, and together we watched the steam rise from our mugs in the Balinese sunlight that filtered through open windows. Sipping occasionally.

I turned to him after some time of quiet company and private thoughts, gaze lowering to his cup and then back up to candles.

"How is it?"

Something in the air made the words feel like a secret. Shared only between us both; enjoyed, and very much appreciated in the silence of the other.

He smiled. "Bittersweet."

_________________

"I see you like trains, Nillie." Layla appeared by my shoulder as we were checking out of our rooms, shaking her head with a knowing smile. I stared at her in complete confusion. "Because you enjoy getting railed! I'm a genius."

She'd left me in a state of malfunction; opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish before quietly begging her to keep her voice down and the additional information to herself. And not to participate in any further use of illegal vocabulary. Or innuendos.

"And just how did you... you've spoken to Leroy, then?"

"Of course not. He disappeared after the shoot and barely showed up for the cocktail party so I figured he was busy doing something—or someone—ow! I'd be surprised if anyone got to say a word of congratulations except yourself. Anyway, it's the way you're walking, dear. In case you're dying to know."

"Well, the reason I'm walking at a leisurely pace is my back and nothing else. Age is a peculiar thing and no one is quite able to escape the effects of it!"

"You realize you're saying this to someone three years older than you."

"Yes," I pretended not to notice her raised brow and prying gaze, opting for an immediate subject change instead. "How are you feeling?"

Layla bought into it; or at least decided to let me off easy. "Not the best," she admitted, taking one deep breath and filling the seat next to mine. "After my poor performance yesterday. I don't experience lows very often... I mean the last time I did was back in school when they nearly had me quitting before graduation. That one was a mental low though. This one's pretty much physical thanks to fishing the other day, but I'm getting back into it. And you know what?

"Seeing you two back together for real now after all this time erases all the guilt that's been piling up over the years. No—don't speak yet, I know you have the most irrefutable argument for 'you have nothing to do with what happened seven years ago' but it's a personal thing, Nillie. I just feel relieved now. Selfish, I know. But Roy's always been the competitive little prodigy I needed as a rival and to see him give it all up was very painful. Don't you tell him this, but having him back at his best will only make me a better chef." She finished with a look in her eyes that felt like the wind. Her joy was rooted and undoubtedly genuine.

"He'd say the same thing, Layla. Thank you for keeping us in your hearts all this time... is what I'd like to say but might I interest you in a brief, but concise argument on how you truly had absolutely nothing to do with—" "Oh shut up you know I can't win an argument when you're the one I'm up against. No one can! Not even Royroy." "About this nickname you gave him a long time ago, it reminds me. This neighbour of his... well, if you read the papers or anything online, you would've known about someone engaging in a heated conversation with Leroy at Chef Andre's in the short time he'd headed the kitchen in the afternoons—" "That girl. With the fur coat." "Yes! Her name's Erlynn. She um, is a close friend of Leroy's and—" "She wants to suck his dick." "No! Y-yes. Maybe. I don't know. She doesn't like me very much so I imagine she, um, would." "On the scale of one to ten, how high would you rate the delicacy you had last night? Not that Erlynn would ever get there." "Last night...? What delicacy is this that you speak of? If this is about the cocktail party, I..." "The dick, Nillie. The dick." "Oh. Oh my goodness."

I'd blinked rapidly in a moment of shock, averting my gaze and unfortunately meeting the eyes of a certain criminal watching us from afar. The unfortunate effect of his unfortunate attractiveness had me in an unfortunate state of pink, looking away the instant my mind was filled with the unfortunate images of his loving the night before. I was aghast and needed a distraction from the distraction.

Aside, a lone cameraman stood by and because the camera was pointing in our general direction and I wasn't... and... hm. I don't quite think I've seen him around at all. I was about to head over and introduce myself in case I'd missed out a core member of the production team when Layla followed my gaze and blatantly motioned for Leroy to join us at our table.

My protests fell on deaf ears and the very next moment had me surrounded by two grown adults spewing innuendoes all over the supposed conversation we were having and enjoying every single second of it.

This continued throughout our entire boat trip, the bus ride, and up till the entrance of the airport. And to think I'd severely underestimated a pair of old schoolmates reliving the prime of high-school immaturity... ah yes, the fault was mine.

I was relieved to hear Amelia announce the duration of our flight to Japan—a little over seven hours—and that my request for extra cushions at my seat was well-received by the courteous airline. It shouldn't take a genius to understand my need for additional, um, back support. Granted, one of those donut cushions would've been a luxury to sit on but that a pillow of that nature was simply a magnet for unwanted attention and speculation.

My fellow counterparts and I were seated in business class alongside core members of the production team and therefore had the privilege of boarding before everyone else. I was given ample time to get comfy with my two extra cushions and the reclining seat, too, helped very much.

When the time for the rest of the passengers to board came around, a certain criminal wholly responsible for my current state of being slowed as he passed my seat in the aisle, taking in the cushion-lined, nest-like appearance of my private two-person booth (one seat for Leo, which I'd paid for in full, and the other for myself). The look in his eyes softened to something apologetic, which caught me off guard not only because I'd expected one of his signature illegals, singed by flames of amusement, but also because it was possibly the cutest thing I'd seen all year.

Besides my cat.

"Banilla! Are you okay? Why you have so many pillows? Is it this morning?" "Well um. My back's killing me, yes. It's the poor posture." "Poor posture? Vanilla, you practically sit and walk like a member of the royal family—there's no way you have poor posture. You should see how Pao sits in front of a computer." "Ay, Amelia. I'm improving okay. You go back to your seat." "Of course. But not before I send some extra cushions to your seat too—" "Ay no!"

I slept for half the duration of the flight thanks to the pleasant service and in-flight meal. Discounting the nerves at take-off, Leo, too, slept throughout our time in the skies and woke only at the smell of cooked salmon.

An hour before our descent, Stan had several assistant producers heading down the aisle telling the cast and crew about separate dinner arrangements upon arrival in the evening. I'd known about this beforehand, and... well, made it a point to set aside some time for personal plans.

"I'm headed this way," Amelia pointed out as soon as we got our bags together and waited around for others to be done with immigration. "My niece moved to Tokyo for her studies a year ago and she's picking me up. Will you join Pao and the rest for dinner? Or..." her gaze rested on something in the distance. I got her cue.

"Oh. Yes, I um." There he was. Waiting in line with his dog. "Made plans. Enjoy the evening with your niece. I'll see you tomorrow, Amelia."

She laughed, taking her leave with a wave. I kept my head down afterward, revising the key Japanese phrases I'd learned years ago when I first visited whilst waiting for the rest of the group to arrive.

Eventually, I found out that excusing myself for having a poor back had been a clever move. One, it gave others no reason to question the odd limp in my steps and the elderly pace I was walking at; and two, it allowed for Leroy, the certified medic, to walk alongside myself at the back of the group, unseen by the rest of the contestants and producers alike. Ah, all according to plan.

"So um. About dinner," I began quietly, glancing up at him and then back to the direction we were headed. "Pao and the producers are hopping on the chartered bus that's waiting at the pickup but... I arranged a private ride elsewhere. A dinner. With friends. Well... I'd say they're acquaintances, but closer. Chip's students from years back, actually. One of them even used to teach courses at our culinary school. Does Chef Yamazaki ring a bell?"

Leroy paused to think. "Yes. No."

"He was at the school festival," I attempted to jolt his memory. Yamazaki was an international name. Surely, he would've heard of him. "Your class did Spanish street food."

"We did?"

"Yes! And the whole—I was at the stall right across yours and it practically got stripped the night before a-a-and we had to redo the entire thing, remember? No? Thank goodness for Siyin. Her dishes were a hit."

"I remember the stress you had to deal with and the random cookoff we got dragged into by Birchwood and the bald guy complaining about color-changing noodles." The idiot ticked off a decent list of events to my surprise. "Also our date because you had this article to write so I took photos of you. Still have them. Here—"

"ANYWAY," I cleared my throat aggressively as we waited for the elevator to arrive. "We're having dinner. And though they were initially expecting just one guest, myself, that is, they'd also extended the invitation to anyone else I'd like as, um, company. A plus-one. Thing."

"Company," he mused, holding the door open while I limped my way in with a hand on my lower back.

"Yes. Company."

"You'd like me as your company."

"Well who else am I inviting?" I rolled my eyes for effect and opted for a sprinkle of sarcasm. "Chef Andre?"

He had the gall to entertain that idea. "You need an extra shirt to go with that. Unless you prefer to be dripping wet." I gave him a look. He gave one in return. "These people know me?"

"By name, perhaps. In case you're unaware, Leroy, you have quite the international reputation amongst members of the industry. A skilled natural like yourself—celebrity-related or not—choosing an entirely different career and then proceeding to make a comeback on terrifying terms. But you know what, I quite like you being infamous. After all, that is the only reason I seem to make headlines these days. It makes the two of us unimaginably compatible." His eyes flickered. "Either way, I didn't quite tell the couple about inviting someone else yet. I wanted to ask for your opinion first."

"Mr. White. Always courteous."

"If only you knew a thing about manners." I huffed, knotting my muffler and somewhat missing the Balinese heat. "So? Will you join us?"

"Sure." His gaze rested on my fingers, reaching for them and bringing them up to his lips in a moment of unexpected intimacy. I nearly jumped, startled by his willingness to do so in public (well, in an enclosed elevator with no one else, but still) but nevertheless flattered and and and awfully charmed.

"Oh—yes, um. Alright. But first, we'll have to do something about that shirt..." It was my turn to return the gesture; reaching up to do Leroy's top-most button and watching him stiffen at the sound of a dress code.

"Fine dining?"

"Well... haute cuisine, so... yes. Chef Yamazaki is a renowned pastry chef and is, naturally, friends with the best in his field. This place we're dining at is a splendid kaiseki restaurant in Ginza and reservations are hard to come by. Always a three-month wait, or so I've heard. Minimum!"

We headed out of the elevator at ground floor and arrived just in time to see our ride pull up at the specific pick-up area.

My companion responded to my enthusiasm with a forehead flick—something that triggered a flood of memories in a single instance. "... better be worth the button."

I'd altogether paused to collect myself, unable to comprehend the lights in my head and the overwhelming fuzz growing in my chest. It was everything warm, all at once.

"Vanilla?" The unsuspecting idiot completely oblivious to the crime he was currently guilty of had his eyes on my chest, back, and waist. Then, back up to my eyes. "Need a hand?"

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you." I sighed, privately wishing for a magical opportunity to shrink the man and grab him by the shoulders for a good shake. Heavens the things he's done to me!

"And... on the conditions of, um, exceptional behavior," I cleared my throat after greeting the driver and confirming the details of our destination, turning to Leroy with a shifty gaze. "You may or may not request for a reversal of button states later in the evening depending on your performance at dinner. If so, I shall... be of service."

Leroy the idiot proceeded to pause for a grand total of three seconds, cogs turning in his head before finally deciphering those words and returning my gaze with an excitement that was riled and heated.

"Wanna know something?" "I'm afraid. Yes. What is it?" "I can't stop thinking about last night." "... good heavens, Leroy Cox you... are..." "Think I might be hooked." "Serves you right. Although frankly speaking, I'd be lying if I... denied the addictive nature of last night's events but do practice some form of restraint. Chef Yamazaki isn't alone—his family will be joining us for dinner." "Yamazaki has a kid?" "Yes! A girl. She was at the festival too." "A baby... think I remember that." "This may come as a surprise to you but babies grow up, Leroy. She's eight now." "Wow. Life."

*

The private ride made a temporary stop at the team's accommodation to drop off our bags at the concierge while the pet spa services welcomed Chicken and Leo for a luxurious evening. While many written and online applications provided English translations, most spoken interactions remained solely in Japanese. What surprised me thoroughly was Leroy's ability to seemingly understand every single sentence said to us. Granted, he wasn't able to respond in the like but he'd relay questions to me out of the blue such as 'she's asking if the cat has any allergies' and nod or shake his head while concierge listed the amenities in the hotel.

"I never knew you understood perfect Japanese," I voiced as soon as we rejoined at the lounge area after dressing appropriately for the evening. Unsurprisingly, it took his gaze a fair second or two to meet mine—lingering on the pair of suspenders I'd put on for the occasion. It was the pair he got me for Christmas.

"You speak fluent French and never told me either," he pointed out. Which was true because, well, a lot of other things could have happened in seven years, but but but Leroy in the process of picking up one of the most complex language in the world was just—

"How do they come off?" He asked soon after, eyes lowering back to my suspenders. As though putting on or removing a pair of suspenders had never been something he'd actually thought about or cared for (because all that was my own personal business) but was now apparently his too.

"I can't believe you."

We made it to Ginza in one piece despite my unsuccessful attempt to explain the workings of a simple leather strap (which really is what suspenders are, simplified) and were informed that Chef Yamazaki and his family were already seated in the private room he'd reserved for our first official meeting.

Needless to say, I was a bundle of nerves. Though meeting new people was certainly part of the job, this dinner was a matter of completely personal business and Chef Yamazaki was a person of importance to Chip and his family. Not a day would go by without him sending me images of Yamazaki's new creations and gushing over his ex-student's passion and talent. Uncle Al owned all of his cookbooks. Aunt Julie follows his wife on Twitter and Instagram. Simply put, the stakes were high.

"Hello. Good evening, Chef Ya—"

"You're so tall now!" "Yes honey, it's been seven years." "And your hair—it's exactly the same as as as the last time! At the wedding!" "Indeed, nothing else has changed. You look sweet as ever, Vanilla." "No no no Shin honey, don't you see his face? That nose bridge, those cheekbones! Vanilla, you look stunning. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"N—" "Yes."

"Leroy." I intended as a word of warning but the flame in his eyes stopped every other thought of reining in the enjoyment he took in a tease. Either way, he'd always been the better of us two reading the room; Chef Yamazaki's family was no business partner, no client, no competitor. And Leroy was here to keep the frost in check.

"I remember you," Chef Yamazaki motioned for his daughter to stand, taking her to greet us at the entrance. "You're behind that paella that made my wife set insanely high expectations for paella ever since then."

"And you're a legend," he said calmly in return—which was quite frankly alarming and shut me up me for a good second or two because I'd never, in my years of knowing Leroy Cox, heard such high and willing praise from a person with absolutely no respect for the celebrities of the culinary world. And the audacity of this criminal to seem completely unbothered by my invitation just moments earlier!

"This is my partner. Leroy," I introduced formally, glancing his way. Those were the flames of a fireplace on a cold winter morning, warm and snug. He seemed pleasantly surprised by the title I'd given him; it hadn't quite crossed either of our minds to discuss official introductions and the like but a simple observation was enough to draw conclusions of ease. "And the accuracy of your memory terrifies me. It is exactly as you said; Leroy's class ran the Spanish stall during the school festival. I recall you were in area for business and decided to drop by. Oh, and Leroy's also spent Thanksgiving with my family once years ago, so he knows my godfather. My uncle and aunt were present as well. Oh! But, um—we haven't... quite... told anyone else about us. Just yet. We'd like to do so in person."

Again, I looked his way for an instance of approval but instead of a casual nod, all I got was a hand on my waist and a load of embarrassment. By god. Had I not known any better, we would've been reduced to some awfully written couple in a boring novel about their romantic ventures. I refuse!

"Oh!" Chef Yamazaki and his wife exchanged a look. "Really? But... I suppose my memory isn't as good as you made it out to be. I, uh. I recall Leroy telling us ages ago. That the two of you were dating."

"Exactly," his wife chimed in, looking splendidly joyous in a floral dress and brilliant smile. "We had paella before spotting your stall across his and I don't remember the details or if we even introduced anyone at all but this I remember and it's Leroy saying: 'he's mine' so naturally, Shin and I concluded the two of you were openly dating and the whole world was well aware! Anyway, congratulations! And sorry I got excited back there, Vanilla. Shin and I have been reading your reviews since you first started that blog way back and I always had that image of you in those oversized glasses and bow tie at Chip's wedding. He said you were going to be in Tokyo for the show so we reached out. And Shin's always saying how 'phenomenal' your writing is and how professional of a food critic you are. Which says a lot. He was on the Deans list for every English exam back when we were at school together. We're—well, he's a big fan of yours."

I was pink.

Meeting Chef Yamazaki and his family was one thing, but knowing that he read my work in private (and for such a long time) was a whole other honor entirely. For a renowned pastry chef and mentor at our alma mater I'd heard so much about to put out such praise was... w-was simply unbelievable. Wait. What was that talk about 'He's mine'?! Thunderstruck by the possibility that Leroy had long professed the status of our relationship far before our current timeline (and directly to people I've barely even met!!), I altogether paused.

"Anh, honey." Our host made a clear show of shared sentiments. He, too, had ears tinted red. "You've said so much and yet, not even your name."

"Oh right. I'm Nguyen Thi Anh, but just Anh is fine. And Vanilla, Chip tells me you're a fan of formalities but please, drop all that. We're on a first-name basis here and nothing else. No Chef Yamazaki or Mr. White."

"Mama," a shy, smaller version of Anh—dressed in the same floral fabric as her mother but bearing a faint resemblance to her father's younger days—tugged at her dress amidst introductions. "Can I go sit down now?"

"Hold on Lele. Introduce yourself first," Anh gestured to the both of us, hands on the sides of her daughter's shoulders to egg her on. "Go on."

The girl shuffled her feet; hands behind her back and looking up at us with a nervous chew on her lower lip. "Hi. My name is Kanna Leia Yamazaki. Mama calls me Lele because I only liked lemon meringue pie when I was young. The kind Papa makes." She turned to her father right after in a whisper. "Do I have to say it in Japanese too?"

"That's okay sweetheart. You did good," Shin took her hand and motioned to the traditional zashiki seating—a low, square table—atop tatami floors. In the middle of the room was a hearth, where the aroma of tea leaves wafted from, and at the very end of the room by the table, was a grand view of a Japanese garden in the middle of the bustling city. "Please, everyone. Have a seat. Vanilla, I hear you favor wine but how does nihonshu sound? It is what the west call sake. But in truth, that term simply refers to alcohol in general. Would you like to give it a go?"

"Of course, chef. Shin. I meant," I cleared my throat, settling onto the comfy seat pillow and watching Leroy beside me struggle with the kneeling. He glanced my way with a private finger of indecency. I pointed at the way my feet were placed. He mouthed 'impossible'. "I imagine it would go splendidly with the seasonal dishes we are about to enjoy."

"It is as you say! And what about Leroy?" He turned to my companion, who stopped struggling with his muscles at once. "Some for you?"

"We'll share a flask," Leroy decided without my opinion, giving me a look that said it all. Nonsense! I hold my liquor perfectly well. The only reason he'd witnessed me disarmed and hopelessly flirtatious on past accounts was... w-was simply because he'd been present in the first place! I'm never this way around others. In fact, I'd never allow it. Careful Vanilla, you're starting to sound like an idiot in love. Oh so be it. I've long given up.

"Of course. But you seem familiar with the way nihonshu is served," Shin commended my partner. "Is this not your first time in Japan? Any opinions on kaiseki dining before we start?"

Oh. I turned to him. Right, Shin and Anh have no idea about Siegfried. Which must have been a conscious decision on Leroy's part to leave this out of introductions. Made sense, really. He's never introduced himself as 'son of Siegfried Cox' either way. Although he did grow to bear some resemblance to him.

"First time. And... no, I got all my knowledge of the language and culture from watching stuff on Netflix back in the firehouse. The crew loves anime." W-what! My jaw dropped at the reveal. Behind his proficiency in Japanese... was anime all along.

___________________

[Leroy]

"Is your name really Vanilla?" Their kid asked in the middle of the first course. Sakizuke. A yuzu infused snow crab chawanmushi savory egg custard. She'd been served the exact same dish the rest of us were given and had the knowledge and sensibility to appreciate it on a level everyone else on the table did. Even I struggled. This was culinary mastery on a whole other level. "It's not a nickname?"

"No it's not, Miss Kanna," he said with a smile, laying his chopsticks aside on the gold-plated chopstick rest in the shape of a paper crane. "You are correct—that is my real, first name. Would you like to see my driver's license?"

"Can I?"

You could tell she liked him. No surprise. Everyone does.

"Of course." He reached for the card holder in the pocket of his blazer. The movement was snow. Calm. Almost elegant. I don't know how he did it; or if it was the room and its atmosphere; the alcohol and the food. He looked unreal.

I knew what kaiseki was before the visit. No two kaiseki restaurants had the same menu; it was every chef's interpretation of changing seasonal ingredients, sourced from local farmers close by. Every prefecture's produce and specialty ingredient were best understood in kaiseki. Siegfried had talked about it back in New York and sophomores had a core module in multinational cuisines that introduced the concept of kaiseki dining before I dropped out of culinary school. Storytelling in food form.

Which sounded cool and all. But fine dining was never my thing.

"The picture doesn't look like you." The kid said, gaze alternating between the driver's license and its owner. She got me curious. "Your hair looked like my friend Yuuki's."

Her parents leaned over for a glimpse of his headshot. Anh's eyes lit up. "You had long, straightened hair?"

"W-well. That was several years ago when I thought growing out my hair made me look like a certain fictional character I fancied. The effort was awfully time-consuming, so the most I put up with it was three years." He retrieved his driver's license and I held his wrist a bit for a look.

Woah. Pretty.

Must be a character from that book about birds he talked about all the time. Growing out his hair wasn't something I'd expected from him and he did look straight out of a book, but the overall combination gave him a look that felt almost unapproachable. Like he was out of this world.

And that was what watching him savor the seven courses felt like.

About the plating of every course, the view was a garden. Every element was intentional and carefully thought out, designed by the person behind it down to the very dishware that had been selected for that very purpose. A palm-sized bowl, red and black lacquer, gold cranes etched around the exterior, shallow, looked like it was made to contain the sliced ichigo shira-ae, a tofu-strawberry combination that surprised with a crack of black pepper, and nothing else. Every dish had its own home as though there was no other way the chef had meant for it to be and the creations themselves felt like the highest, surest expression of the chef's interpretation of the current season.

Just in case you're wondering where these words have been coming from and if I was no longer the world's greatest idiot, they weren't mine.

"Correct again, Vanilla." Yamazaki was impressed. "Today's Sakizuke. Hassun. Mukozuke. Nimono. Yakimono. Gohan. Agemono. These seven courses we experience today will never be repeated. Come back next week, and you will experience a different menu entirely. The attention to detail that goes into crafting every single bite, down to the very pair of chopsticks used, is why I think this is the perfect introduction to Japanese cuisine."

Cool.

I get it. A little. Some. Maybe.

There's magic in things that were fleeting. A restaurant that changed its menu every other week was unthinkable for many chefs in the world and to the untrained eye, the courses resembled the fine dining I so despised but a closer look made all the difference. The storytelling reeled one in. It was what got me too. In a single course, you'd see the stages of life; ikura, salmon fish roe, the squid that it feeds on, salmon sashimi on a bed of seawater ice that flavors it as it melts.

Above all, watching the snow enjoy a meal like this was like watching a siren sing. He was picture-perfect; the way he sat and held his pair of chopsticks, noticed and praised even by our server for the evening, looked like something out of a painting. There was an air about him; raising a palm-sized bowl to his lips, picking up slippery soumen noodles with ease, an open hand under the tip of his chopsticks when necessary. I stared. Openly.

Think everyone else in the room was trying hard not to do the same. Yamazaki made a passing remark about our chopstick-wielding mastery but glancing down at whatever the fuck I was doing with mine, I pretty much concluded he was just being polite, referring to us both instead of just my partner.

I was decent at it. Not amazing. Only because Siegfried had drilled the proper way of holding and using chopsticks into my mind at a young age.

"You look like the king in the manga Mama read last night," said the kid after the second-last course while we waited for dessert to be served, staring my way.

One look at her mother's face and I knew exactly what was going on. Yamazaki himself, seemed aware. Holding back his laughter was all that he could do because unsurprisingly, the one person at the table who hadn't caught on was also coincidentally the most intelligent person in the room.

"Is that so!" He adjusted the frames of his glasses. "What a coincidence. I wasn't aware you were an avid reader of fiction, Anh. I would've brought you one of my favorite reads."

"Oh! No no, no more gifts, Vanilla. Those beautiful treats and Balinese handicrafts you got us are more than enough! And, y-yeah, uh, I read. A bit. It's probably not the kind of fiction you'd be reading, though. I can't English. Most of the times."

I mused at the irony of the situation, exchanging a look with Yamazaki who seemed this close to losing it. "Honey. With all those 'books' you've been reading over the years, I'm sure your English, as well as your Japanese, has made dramatic leaps of improvement!"

"Shin oh my god shut up."

Funnily enough, good conversation became the highlight of the evening when Yamazaki decided to bring up instances of the past, little things he and Nguyen recalled about the early days of a budding genius; Yamazaki's days as an instructor in our school and stories about Marseille, Birchwood, and other past mentors and chefs at culinary school. Anh went on to spill the lives of the Honeycutt-Jaxons back when they were both teaching at Yamazaki and her high school.

It was nine in the evening when they decided it was time for their kid to head home for bed and also the point in which they extended a sudden invite over to their place for what they called a nijikai. An after party. For the party. Didn't know they actually had a term for it but wow. The culture certainly doesn't fuck around when it came to drinking.

My companion doesn't need to know, but I'd cleared more than half the flask of liquor we were served because he was already starting to slip up—hand resting on mine under the table by accident, shoulders brushing mine unconsciously. More drinks wasn't a good idea, but there was a fondness in his eyes that came with talking about the past, reminiscing with these lifelong strangers he'd known and heard about from his godfather.

We ended up tagging along because the ride was less than ten minutes and Anh said something about Yamazaki's custom-built kitchen with an izakaya-style bar counter and grill. It piqued my interest. The kid for some reason had really taken to the snow and asked for him to rate her self-decorated room out of ten. He couldn't refuse.

"I'll take care of them," Anh threw whispers our way over her shoulder while her kid cruised away with her new favorite person in tow, showing him up the stairs to her room before he could spare me a glance.

So simple math would get you this: Yamazaki and me. Left alone in the hallway.

I was about to keep things chill and relieve him of the social obligation to take me around his place for a tour but instead, he offered something else unexpected.

"Are you a fan of sweets?"

I could only laugh. That seven-course meal was something, but people do say there's always space for dessert. Yet, things were as little too complicated for a simple yes or no. The laugh was filler; a sound reserved for moments I cared enough to respond but did not, either way, have the words to put things across.

In a single sentence, I told him I tasted sweetness for the first time in years just yesterday. The terms were left deliberately vague and open for interpretation, and I could tell he sensed more to what I said but his choice not to pry was tactful. And something I appreciated.

He sat me down at the custom bar top and brought to the table a strawberry tart. The kind that was made for a single person's enjoyment and had a clear crystal sugar dome encasing pale-pink strawberries dusted with icing sugar. From afar, it looked something out of a Christmas gift box; a snow globe housing a winter dream. The tart shell wasn't made out of a usual butter biscuit recipe. He'd replaced it with what could have been pie crust—braided, cut, and rejoined to form a perfect circle.

"A rendition of something Chip and I came up with almost fifteen years ago in his bakery. I made this for Anh and Lele to share but looks like its not going to happen tonight. You can have it." Yamazaki placed it in front of me. Dessert fork and all. "I hear it sells out everyday before ten in the morning. Never got to have it again since I left home for school and then headed back to Japan for my first job, but... Anh and I miss Chip and his bakes."

I cracked the sugar dome and dug in. No doubt, this man deserved the title of a legend. Nothing else could be said about the tart. It was perfect.

"Have you ever been?" He went on.

I looked up. "To Chip's bakery?"

"Yes." Yamazaki reached under the counter, pulling out two cans of beer and cracking them open. "His bakery." He slid one my way.

"No," I admitted, clinking my can against his that was held out. We paused for a couple of gulps. "Met him just once. Never got to see his bakery."

"Tasted any of his bakes?"

I recalled the pumpkin pie from back then. The one that looked just like the essence of fall but ended up bland and tasteless on my tongue. The one that had me leaving the worst impression on everyone else in the room—the people who mattered most to the one I loved. To the Leroy back then, he'd ruined everything in an instant. "Not really."

"Well you will one day," Yamazaki sounded sure. He turned, fetching a binchotan from one of the cabinets and lighting a flame. It looked similar to the stuff we'd practiced with back in culinary school; Japanese charcoal grills that were often used by chefs to char meat on sticks. Yakitori. Food right up my ally.

"There's something special about the stuff that Chip makes. He's never been to culinary school; never had any professional training and would reveal the secrets of his trade, recipes to any stranger on the street in a heartbeat but still..." Yamazaki laughed with a shake of his head. "Nothing beats that strawberry shortcake of his."

I didn't his words very surprising. They sounded like the kind of things a student would say about a teacher they really liked. I finished the tart, watching Yamazaki whip out a couple of bamboo sticks and skewer shishito peppers and pieces of chicken. He got out a bottle of seasoning that had a label on it I couldn't read.

"Why does it matter so much, you think?"

"What does?" He looked up after placing a couple of skewers on the charcoal grill. Four at a go. It seared to life.

I stared at the seasoning bottle, making out a string of letters in the English alphabet. Sansho pepper. "Who the chef is."

It was his turn to pause, genuinely surprised by my question out of the blue. And then he laughed.

"Leroy... haha, I see what you mean. Yes. I can't deny that people are always bound to be attached to the emotions and experiences that come with food, which is why grandmother's cooking and home cooking in general will always beat Michelin stars. But you're misunderstanding me. I don't mean to say that Chip's desserts and cakes are good because of the 'secret ingredient called love'. That's not it. Blindfolded and given ten samples of strawberry shortcakes, I'd still be able to tell his cakes apart! Not a lie; I've done this. Anh can vouch.

"Blindfolded, I'm sure Vanilla can tell your dishes apart from the common chef's, too." He teased, turning the skewers above the flame and a mouth-watering scent of grilled chicken and spice hit the air. I knew at once, or at least had come to realize, this was my thing. The chef right in front of me. A casual setting. Peppers and chicken on the grill. "He's always been a special one. I remember him at Chip's wedding in a bow tie and suspenders, digging into the food and describing it to teens like us ten years older than him and making out the exact ingredients used. Even telling us what sides went well together. Sat with his uncle, of course. Alfred's retired now but back then, everyone in the industry knew his name by heart. To think Vanilla ended up following in his footsteps... bittersweet. All chefs have their guard up against food critics and sometimes, an irrational hatred and resistance towards any other opinion that contradicts their own."

Yamazaki was pulling out all the stops. He knew this was no talk between strangers, and ensured that was the case. He had the air of a listener as much as he did of a speaker, filling the space with honest few words and views he'd come to have about the world.

And maybe it was the fact that I was the guest and he, the chef. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Or that our lives were somewhat connected and all this traveling and meeting new people had me realizing that more than anything, I thrived in food that was human.

I felt my walls thin and vanish.

"He's got the majority of liars to work against. The industry's full of people calling themselves critics, writing a bunch of lies or being paid to do so most of the time to get by, ruining the lives of those in the kitchen with a real passion." I recalled a burning past. Annie dealing with the people who'd forced her diner into closing—a table of critics. The incident that tore a young flame and snow apart.

"True," Yamazaki sighed. "It's tough being the only needle of truth in a stack of lies."

"Did Chip ever teach your class about this... pumpkin pie he makes?" I asked on a whim, on my fourth stick of chicken and bruised shishitos. But also feeling like I could go for more.

"Ah. Ready to see them for Thanksgiving already?" Yamazaki laughed. "If I recall correctly, Anh and I..."

_________________

The next day. Six in the evening. After a morning and afternoon of rain and cold. And Japanese lessons our fixers ended up giving us thanks to cancelled plans. I didn't voice a single complaint. After last night's food and drinks, I was glad to spend an extra hour or two in bed. With a certain ball of snow.

Pao, not dressed for the weather and on his third take: "For this team challenge—'tchoo—! We are in Shinjuku's Omoide Yokocho, Memory Lane. One of Tokyo's most famous streets lined with izakaya's and the best of bar food. Pairs will... tchoo... take over... an izakaya stall of their choice, learn the menu, and come up with three alleyway-inspired dishes for local regulars.

"But here is... the catch. No it's okay Banilla I can do this thank you," he paused midway to say, swiping at the tissue box held out to him. "You can cut that out. So here is the catch: the number of chefs, as you can see, is now an odd number. So one person... must cook alone."