A/N: THE LONG AWAITED CHAPTER. Exactly what I've been dying to write for ages, ages, ages, oh my god you have no idea how long I've waited to write this hehe. It's at 5.3k words, so please take your time to read this and only do so when you're all cozied up and ready for the ride. This chapter also has two perspective switches so it's always good to take your time and read this at your own pace.

Also, if you're curious about how Leroy's dish looks and its components, please head over to Instagram where I'll be putting up a sketch of his dish (it's extremely rough, like a 5-minute thing ugh so please excuse me if it doesn't look like my usual standard of art LOL) and how I came up with it ^^ one of my most complex creations to date. 

Enjoy. And a very happy valentine's to everyone. 

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[Vanilla]

"You're making a grave mistake, Annie."

It was half-past-two in the afternoon when I first spoke to Leroy's mother, standing in the middle of the hallway with the intern's phone held up to my ear while the latter paced up and down, glancing over every now and then.

The girl had, prior to the trip, put in a request for family members of every contestant on behalf of the production team to write a letter addressed to their loved one participating in the challenge. They were also instructed to select a maximum of ten ingredients for their use in the cook. This was four weeks ago.

At present, a day before Bali's main challenge, I'd chanced upon the intern frantically searching for Siegfried Cox at the catered lunch table and extended a word of concern. It did not take very long for her to spill the beans.

Leroy's mother had very unexpectedly turned down the invitation to pick his ingredients and write an accompanying, heartfelt prose and the intern had therefore been tasked, last-minute, to either find a replacement or a way to persuade Annie. Naturally, she thought Siegfried was the way to go. After a moment's consideration, I asked to have a word with her instead.

Alas, I should have known.

"Finally, you called. I've been waiting for weeks little fawn," mused Annie over the phone as soon as she picked up and heard my nervous greeting. "I miss you. I hope you know that."

I could hear the faint beeping of a heart monitor on the other end of the line and all of a sudden felt like the worst person on earth to be calling about work of all things. She deserved nothing less than undisturbed moments of peace during her recovery. "Annie... I'm sorry I... well, I know it's a poor excuse but my schedule has been an absolute nightmare. I... called to ask how you were doing."

"Terrific. Wonderful, really, with Leroy out of the way and in your care. Rexi and I have been going at it like rabbits—is what I would have liked to say but I'm stuck in a damned care center for three days a week and it's been so boring. I'm glad you called. And you know what, I daresay I know what this is all about." She let that stew.

It did not come as a surprise; I was as familiar with the disarming nature of her words as much as I was with Leroy's. They cut right through the fog like a sparkler in the night, fiery and warm as ever.

And then, she said there was no better person to write the letter.

"You're making a grave mistake, Annie." I managed after a moment's disbelief, unable to process the meaning and significance behind her weighted ask.

"Oh Vanilla, I make mistakes all the time," she laughed, sounding quite like the sun. "The little lion's one of them, judging by the state of his vocabulary. But that's beside the point honey; you're no mistake. I would be proud, and happy, if you did the honors—not because I don't want to, by the way. I just like to think I know what he needs."

"A-and I'm not refuting that, Annie. I do think you do. And... I do love Leroy. Very much."

"Good. Because you know what that silly boy said to me while my back was busted and I was practically laying on my death bed? He said you two broke up! Can't stand that little lion sometimes... he really should get laid."

I blinked back the alarming sizzle in my eyes, recalling a tougher time. "Well um. He's not... there was... a period of ambiguity which isn't, exactly, anyone's fault at the time i-it was just um. Never mind. I'm very, terribly sorry about that."

"Don't apologize. And I see you didn't deny the part about him getting laid. I see. So you agree. Very good. But Vanilla dear, I don't want you to be missing the point—yes, receiving a letter from you would make Leroy's day, week, month, year, lifetime, whatever the heck he's got going on but above all, we both know he'd kill for a good, fucking challenge. Which you are."

I could not help but laugh. The feeling was young and old; fresh, alive in the moment but found only in the deepest depths of a memory from the past, like the flicker of a candle; thought to be long forgotten.

"I'll see to that, Annie. As it so happens... I am rather difficult to impress."

*

I watched as the look in his eyes began to shift as they traveled further down the anonymous letter, taking in the words I'd written by hand just the day before. The wait was long and arduous; it felt very much like an upward trek in the middle of a snowstorm in search for shelter and warmth, waiting for a sign that was a flicker of red and gold.

It sparked the moment he looked up.

Across the hall and straight down the end of the aisle where I stood to Pao's left; a gaze so heated and stirred, it was alive. The smile on his lips was electric and in the air was the scent of something ablaze—burning within.

It powered a joy that sizzled in my chest, one that simply could not be suppressed. The fair hundred feet between us felt like a single step; a moment shared by no one else but us and the sound of sparklers in the night; fire and ice.

The presenting of a single indecent finger was what snapped me out of the high, letting slip a laugh so helplessly charmed by the audacity that he was. I sighed, partially in despair, unable to comprehend the true extent of my feelings for the world's greatest criminal.

"You saw something funny, Banilla?" Pao asked under his breath, turning to me with a curious raise of his brow while the rest of the room enjoyed some privacy with words from their loved ones.

"Oh. Oh no. I mean, well," I collected myself by giving the glasses a common push. "Yes. Who knows? Those letters might be extremely heartfelt and moving but perhaps by some... twisted hand of fate, they find the worst possible ingredients in their mystery box, picked out by loved ones who know nothing about the kitchen. What an interesting turn of events, don't you think? Instead of a helping hand, they find themselves... faced with an electrifying challenge." I bubbled within.

It must have shown on my face because Pao and Amelia proceeded to laugh, perhaps attributing my spark to the thrilling joy of watching every chef test their limits. The cue to continue as scripted was then given to Pao and he clapped once for attention. Amelia stepped forth.

"So. Now that we all know what your nearest and dearest have chosen to go into your mystery boxes, let's talk rules.

"Blue team. Apart from the ingredients in your crate, you will have access to all staples in the pantry. I say this again: your star ingredient must be among those picked out by your loved ones. However... reds. Because you were part of the winning team in the previous challenge, you are entitled... to pick any ingredient in the pantry as your main."

An expected reaction ensued. There were contestants quietly rejoicing; having received a crate of ingredients that weren't particularly suitable for creating local dishes. The ability to pick anything from the pantry as their star ingredient opened up a sea of options to choose from.

Thank goodness a certain stubborn idiot did not belong to the winning team; or the rest of the room would have had to witness terrible decision-making in the form of insisting on sticking to the one ingredient he was presented with—the one ingredient that is, and perhaps had always been, the greatest challenge anyone could present him with.

"There is a catch," said Amelia, raising a finger and turning to me with a smile. I took her place on cue.

"We will be tasting your dishes... blind." I paused for effect, already giddy from all the tension and sheer fire in the air. "The three of us will soon leave this very room and remain elsewhere—out of sight—for the entirety of your cook. Instead of personally presenting your dishes to the judging panel, a server will be tasked to do so in your place once your time is up. In fact, we will not be watching a single moment of your cook today, let alone have any idea who's cooked what... until we see you back here and present you with the results.

"Simply put, none of us will be hearing the story behind your dish. Not how you came up with this recipe, your connection with the person who wrote your letter, how you'd started off a mess and picked up in the last couple of minutes on the clock—none of that, no. Your dish must speak for you. As it should."

When Amelia first pitched this to the production team two weeks ago before the trip, I was the first to express approval. It is true. Not every chef has the privilege of serving their guest in person. In fact, your everyday chef hides in the kitchen; faceless and without a story, apart from the dishes on the table.

"Yes? Chef Andre. You seem concerned," said Amelia to the front-most contestant, pointing out the apparent squint of his eyes and furrow of his brows.

"What if someone else happens to choose the same star ingredient? And you get two—or even three—people using the same thing? Since you're tasting our dishes blind, not knowing who's cooked what, it'd get confusing, no?"

I blinked. "Why, thank you for your concern, Chef Andre. How nice of you to spare a thought for us judges... but no. Not really confusing, not at all. Ultimately, everyone's dish should, and will be different regardless of the star ingredient. I could hand you and someone else a bag of flour but surely, the end result would differ ostensibly, no? After all, we will be announcing the winning dish, and not the winning ingredient."

Chef Andre was intelligent enough not to make a fool of himself any further, clearing his throat and backing down from my gaze.

"Mm, good, good." Pao seized the moment with an arresting smile, rubbing his hands together in glee. "Excite me! I mean, us. We are excited. And you too. If you are not, you must be! Be reminded: this is an elimination challenge. A dish that fails to impress us will put you in a bad position. And the chef who makes the winning dish... will wear the toque blanche."

His words were the cue for us to proceed off-screen. Amelia led the way, giving the rest of the room a word of assurance on her way out while Pao sent flying kisses and imaginary fist bumps. I hadn't quite thought of an improv exit line; something unscripted my fellow counterparts were, unlike myself, good at fishing out on the spot. In my brief moment of metaphysical thought and panic, the dictionary in my head conjured the most cryptic line of sarcasm I was panicked enough to come up with.

"Everyone, um... I dare you to do your worst."

_____________________

[Leroy]

How have we not fucked yet.

Someone tell me. Explain. Pretty sure everyone else in the room thought the same because no fucking way we haven't fucked—a heat like that; a spark so charged and powered deserved a place in the night sky for the biggest boom and fuck did he know me well, down to the very core.

I put the letter away for safekeeping before undoing the knot on the bundle of vanilla beans, staring at the exact bunch I'd given him the night before. Vanilla Tahitensis. An Indonesian original. A challenge.

I mapped out a sketch in my head that was hot and cold. Street food imagery. What I liked; just, elevated... and sweet.

Seven years was a long time to come to terms with the truth that I'd never been a fan of and even then, no one's about to sign a guarantee of the correlation between time and acceptance. Fifty years could pass and still, the heart could dwell. If anything, moving on was harder than moving back or regressing, carrying on one's back a whole other load that could at any time, crush and kill.

I like to think that I moved on from losing my sense of taste for all things sweet. But really, all I did was move with it. And perhaps for the longest time, I'd been dreaming—dreaming of this day.

The image in my mind was proof of that. That over the years, I'd had in my head a dessert that was the culmination of the time we'd spent apart and the time I'd stayed and dwelled on the past; the time I spent with the him in my head. I knew what I was going to make.

There was only one fear and it had to do with some honest tasting. I was in the pantry grabbing a couple of basics I needed when Du Bellay came up right beside me with a basket of her own, picking out some local fruits along the aisle.

"That's a young one," I stopped her, nodding at the green coconut she was about to add to her basket. "You're looking for coconut water?"

"Oh. No, I'm thinking of grating the flesh for some texture on my dish," she glanced at the older, matured coconut I had in my basket. "Should I be using something like the one you have?"

"The flesh is firmer. Holds it shape," was all I said.

"Thanks," she breathed, returning the one in her hand back to its crate. "What are you making?"

I paused. ... she's the station in front of mine. "Something new. Can I call on you? Later."

"Um, sure. What for?"

"Tasting."

She seemed genuinely surprised. "I'd like that. Thank you for considering me."

I didn't really know how to respond to something so humble so I blinked and said: "No you." And left. Because oddly enough, Du Bellay's presence sometimes felt like that of a teacher's— the good sort. The ones who'd stay after working hours just to help a kid with their homework or wait for their parents to pick them up at the gate.

I passed Andre on my way to the equipment section to grab a smoking gun before heading out to the garden for some fresh flowers. His basket was full of sweets. Chocolate. Vanilla beans. He was part of the winning team with the advantage of having the freedom to choose their star ingredient. Out of morbid curiosity (and sadistic habits of wanting to know why the fuck he'd chosen desserts again after failing multiple times), I thought of giving his ingredients a closer look to figure out what he'd picked as his star but the sizzling in my head said otherwise. I had no time to spare for anything other than the image in my head and the adrenaline in my hands.

For the first time in many years, I was feeling it. Something at the back of my mind. Something that had been resting, lying in wait; dying to flicker and spark once more.

__________________

[Vanilla]

Thus came the hour of reckoning; a moment of utmost silence in a private lounge meant for guests at the resort after a luxurious massage, now filled with cameras, lights and microphones to set the stage for tasting.

I'd waited anxiously, seated to avoid the tempting prospect of pacing in the room whilst waiting for the camera crew to finally give us the cue for places. And while my fellow counterparts mused over my seemingly jittery state of anticipation, Director Stan came through the doors with Siegfried and the other producers in tow, calling for places as soon as he did.

It was time to taste.

The first hour-and-a-half had the same server entering the room with a different dish under a cloche, providing a neutral introduction each time that consisted of the dish's name, star ingredient, and relevant individual components of the dish.

"The Catch." "Childhood." "Seafood Paradise." "Balinese Charcoal-Grilled Seabass with Mango and Lime Slaw." "Durian Surprise." "Tropical Waters." "The Garden." "Sweet Potato Perkedel." "Happiness."

Though tedious and taxing on the mind, blind tasting removed all unnecessary chit-chat and small talk between judges and chefs; allowing our senses to focus solely on the dish and its qualities. Shooting B-rolls of the dish upon service however, took up much more time than usual—perhaps without the eyes of the chefs themselves, the crew had decided to jump on the opportunity for longer takes.

'The Catch' was a blue crab curry full of flavor and spice; 'Seafood Paradise' was an array of seafood cooked pepes style; 'Childhood' was waffles and chicken done in a way inspired by the Indonesian dish ayam penyet; 'Durian Surprise' was a traditional Indonesian pancake stuffed with durian custard; and 'The Garden' paid homage to the edible herbs and flowers of Indonesia in the form of a mille feuille.

Simply put, every dish had been as good as the last. Indeed, removing all faces and respective association from every plate made it all exceedingly difficult to imagine the looks on their faces just two days ago—struggling into a wetsuit, collecting olives, wielding a speargun for the first time in their lives. With every bit of humanity removed, these chefs were incredible demigods in their very own ways.

"Chocolate Fried Bananas and Vanilla Ice Cream, inspired by goreng pisang," said the server upon removing the cloche of 'Happiness' and drizzling, atop the pristine scoop of vanilla ice cream, streaks of caramel.

"And the star ingredient?" Amelia prompted after a moment's wait, assuming the server had forgotten to convey as part of his introduction of the dish.

"It... it was not declared, ma'am. One moment, please." The server left the room while cameras circled in on the dish for close-ups. Stan appeared the slightest bit annoyed by the interruption of our flow.

When the server returned, he announced—to my personal horror and disappointment—that the main ingredient of the dish was indeed, vanilla.

"Uh... let us... not jump to conclusions before tasting, yah?" Pao humored a half-hearted laugh, dividing the dish into three portions as soon as we were given the green. We were each given one fried banana croquette and vanilla ice cream on top.

Yes, Pao was right. Imagining the taste of a dish before helping one's self is a grave mistake but one that has never proved me wrong in any manner. Strands of melted chocolate oozed out as soon as I cut into the dessert, which was very well within my expectations. The texture of the banana was decently soft and complemented the crisp qualities of its exterior, which was very well within my expectations, too. Overall, the dish was sufficient. Tasty, even, to the common palate... which was well within my expectations.

Either way, it certainly did not impress.

"It's... fair, I believe," said Amelia after a glass of water, giving our server the cue to clear our plates and prepare the next dish for service. "I'd give this a pass. Two-point-five, for the adaptation of a local delicacy and done quite well, actually." "Oo I think so too. I like the chocolate that was included. Nice touch, nice texture overall, and not too bad. Comfort food. I will give... three points."

"One, for me," was all I managed without a semblance of emotion. "The chef behind this did not honor the main ingredient. A good chef would not make the mistake of hiding the star of the dish behind strong flavors like chocolate and bananas. Vanilla is a delicate flavor. Simple, but... extremely... difficult to get right."

And at once, I was feeling the weight of a thousand years upon my back, knowing I'd handed him the failing card right off the bat and sent him straight toward the chopping block, up for elimination the moment I'd written that letter and given him that one ingredient to work with. The signs were there—an overly sweet combination of flavors that although typically popular, did not sit well with a delicate, finer palate which is, really, o-of course, no surprise considering the possibility, no, the truth, that he indeed, had not been trained in dessert-making or perhaps even touched one in years and how could anyone be in the right mind to think he'd, well, he'd rise to the occasion? It was on me; it was my fault for placing him on a pedestal and could this be, the second time I'd done so? Was this me projecting my desires and illusory impression of who Leroy was, upon him and after all this time, has he not been the very person who'd perpetuated the idea he'd come to stand so strong by and perhaps now, after seven years, he had, indeed, lost touch—?

"Your final dish for the evening, ladies and gentlemen."

It was a cloche made out of glass. Something in the air shifted all of a sudden, a blossoming interest had every gaze fixed on the server as he set the dish down in the middle of the table and let the fog underneath the cloche swirl and enchant, concealing whatever that was underneath it.

He lifted the cloche and at once, a spicy warmth of cinnamon and fall filled the air, leaving behind subtle floral scents of chamomile and something else. The fog from what I had assumed was liquid nitrogen fell to the sides of the dish and onto the table—rolling across the wood in sweeps and revealing the prize.

"Company."

By god. Everyone had eyes on the masterpiece and absolutely nothing to say. Not a single word from my fellow counterparts, let alone myself.

"You have here an edible candle—made out of cinnamon-smoked Indonesian vanilla ice cream, cased in a white-chocolate lattice inspired by roti jala, complemented by a mix of blue pea flower and chamomile snow granita, along with desiccated coconut pebbles inspired by traditional Indonesian dessert onde-onde. And for your wick, you have a bourbon-soaked almond."

The server produced something from his pocket—a single matchstick and its box. And just when I thought he would light the candle for effect, he presented them, instead, to me.

"Compliments of the chef."

Once again, I was rendered absolutely speechless, completely disarmed.

Thank god. Thank goodness. Thank, fucking god.

"Ingenious, using an almond as a wick. Does it work?" "Y-yes. I believe almonds—nuts, in general—have a specific combination of relatively high fat and low water content that gives them their flammable quality." "Wow, Banilla. Quick, light it."

I struck the match and held the flame close to the substitute wick. Soon, the scent of bourbon rose from the candle, melding floral scents with a deeper, darker note that rooted the senses.

The magic of the flame was that it marked the beginning of a change to the appearance and texture of the dessert. As though chased, the rolling fog ran faster from the heat and began to reveal more of the candle's base where chamomile and blue pea snow rested. The shade of it was pale. So pale that without a closer look, one would have merely mistaken it for white.

"Such a precious, fleeting thing... simply impossible to break apart and eat!" Amelia sighed, eyes fixed on the mesmerizing flame despite the sudden presence of cameras that seemed, now, even more out of place.

"Let's wait a little," I suggested completely out of the blue, realizing I'd said those words merely from the stir of something in the air.

From a glance, it was clear how intricate thin and delicate the layer of tempered white chocolate lattice was. It acted as the shell of the candle, holding the ice cream inside of it together. And as soon as that very thought crossed my mind, the casing began to melt and crack—falling apart to reveal the smooth sheen of cinnamon-smoked vanilla ice cream and an unexpected surprise.

The candle had a core.

A dark, molten red that broke through the scene of winter white, it flowed, like the rest of its contents, like an avalanche in the alps.

I could hardly speak.

This was a crime; a-an act worthy an deserving of multiple charges and and and arrests and whoever made this was clearly out for lives—mine, particularly—and by god, did he exceed all expectations and succeed and impress oh dear god I need to kiss him oh how terrifying do I sound at present good god what is happening to me.

"Ay, I think I'm... what they say, blown away." Pao had his head in his hands.

"This is phenomenal," Amelia whispered. "The whole concept is so... elegant. So refined. It feels like something out of... it feels like years-worth of intricate thought! I can only hope it tastes as good as it looks." She portioned the dish and slid toward me, the part with the flame. Still going.

And in the silence, we ate.

____________________

It was time for the cake.

There were no questions; it had to be strawberry shortcake.

Indeed, it was the same every year with the lot. A habit. The usual. This time however, since eighteen was a special little number and Chip was not one to miss out on special occasions, he made sure to add a little extra. Just a little more strawberries—halved and fanned out in a simple, yet, elegant design. Rory zipped out of the kitchen with plates and forks.

"What about the candles?" said Miki when his daddy readied the cake on a tray and handed it to him. "You forgot about them."

"Oh! There's no need. Just this will do, Miki. Let's go!" They emerged from the kitchen with the cake and smiles were immediate. Vanilla sat at dining table, his chair in the middle and cake knife in hand.

There was no surprise. No turning off the lights or any extravaganza for the eighteen-year-old. The song was sung and the cake was cut, everyone happy with their portion except Uncle Al who'd chided Chip about the extra strawberries. The latter had laughed in a sheepish manner, dismissing critic disappointment about the 'strawberry to cream to sponge ratio' with swift sticking out of his tongue. Everyone laughed.

After the cake was a quiet winding down in the living room; warm cups of milk or hot chocolate with marshmallows, depending on the person. Leftover cake slices were packed and put into the freezer by the baker himself, with the help of his youngest.

"It's the same last year, daddy." Miki said quietly behind his cup of hot chocolate, just before the pair left the kitchen for a private conversation. "Why doesn't Vanille have candles on his cake?"

His father reached down to pat his head, a smile on his lips but something else in his eyes. "Well, Miki... I don't really know the answer to that either. But... around two years ago, Nillie started turning down the whole... candles on his cake thing. He said something along the lines of not needing candles for his wishes to come true but really, I... I think he just doesn't like the idea of putting them out."

As the evening came to a close and eyes began to do the same, Alfred, Julie and Vanilla retired home with containers worth of cake and baked potatoes. It was on the ride back that he checked his phone again. There was nothing new. But just to be sure, he'd navigated to their private chat just in case. The most recent message from him, he'd read last night already. At midnight sharp: 'Happy birthday dumbass.'

After which, they'd tried to arrange for a phone call but wherever he was did not do well with the time in London; added to that the fact firefighters had no real weekends and a shift was a shift... things were uncertain, down to the very last minute.

And so he waited up.

Took a nice long bath; said his thank you's and goodnights to his aunt and uncle in the room downstairs before retiring into his own. Blow-dried his hair. Journaled like he did on every other evening before finally producing a long-kept secret: a bottle of wine and a simple Bordeaux glass kept in pristine condition.

He popped it open with a wine opener from the kitchen that he'd been hiding in his room from two years back, pouring himself a glass of wine in the manner of a professional.

He sat at his desk, gazing out the window and into the night sky, observing the way the trees down below swayed in the chilly wind of the night, bending to the light of the moon. The drinking had started in his second year of culinary school after a private wine, gastronomy and management course Chef Lindy had snuck him into, often meant for aspiring sommeliers. This had been top-secret, and had it not for his extreme natural aptitude for making out top notes and piecing together unique dish pairings within a single lesson, he would not have been given the special treatment.

Appreciating a glass was an advantage for critics. Wine was more of a job than a form of personal entertainment. At present, it provided company. The shade of red; it reminded him of something warm in his hands.

He checked the time. Five to midnight.

The soapstone candle holder was due; shaped in the appearance of a sleeping owl, placed delicately in the center of the table. He added to that the birthday gift that had arrived at his doorstep just this morning, struck a match and transferred the flame.

Vanilla watched it flicker once. Twice. And then come to a stop—still as his eyes. He swirled the glass of wine between his fingertips, breathing in the scent that had begun to fill his room.

The candle was of dark rum; with top notes that contained a combination of bergamot and plum, middle notes of rum and vanilla, and a base of amber and milk. It was a dark, spicy aroma that was alluring as much as it was warm, toasting the tips of his fingers and toes as he closed his eyes.

Something about it reminded him of the autumn breeze; spicy notes crisp under his feet, the crunch of red leaves, the rough, earthen bark of a tree and the creak.

The creak of something.

The sound of something.

The sound.

For the rest of the evening,

he waited up without blowing the candle out.

It was what kept him company.

___________________________