A/N: Dammit I think I went a little overboard with the flirting and description so I ended up writing only one scene of the challenge and hitting 3k words despite so. Here, we witness Cuppie's sheer addiction to banter; the clash of fire and ice, red and blue. Curseeeeesssss.

Happy belated birthday to Leroy. I've decided that I willlll do the AU, but it will not be next week because I technically am not done with what was planned for chapter 46 so I will be finishing that first before writing the AU hehe. 

See you next week!

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[Leroy]

He looked different up there. Under the spotlight. Looking over the rest of the room with his arms crossed and a smile on his face; the kind that he reserved for the cameras and the kind I'd grown up watching on TV before I eventually stopped watching altogether. Seeing it now didn't make much of a difference from seeing it back then. Just a little less far, and a little less resentful than I remembered.

I'd lost the feeling somewhere along the way; dropped after shaving off thoughts that weighed—thoughts about others—to focus first on thoughts about myself. It surprised me how easy I was finding this, keeping my shit in check and learning to wait for a full story before letting the bad emotions do the thinking first.

Du Bellay had done a double take herself, nearly missing her station in front of mine with her attention solely on the judging panel up front. They stood behind a station that had appeared out of thin air, quite likely set up just before we'd re-entered the gallery room for a clever surprise. Assuming Siegfried's only job was to demonstrate a specific recipe and then deliver the challenge of recreating it.

Still, that sort of thing wasn't going to explain the absence of a little snow.

He wasn't even in the room. You'd feel it, if he was; it's usually a little colder. Quieter. Like when you're watching white flakes fall outside the window on a winter night.

All that we had in here was a buzz. The kind you'd hear in the kitchen form the appliances and the lights. It's hot sometimes. And the sound can be unbearable for those who were preferred the silence of a library. On my countertop was a wooden crate. I tried lifting it a little but couldn't tell what was in there. In fact, the box felt so light that I caught myself thinking: could be empty.

Somewhere behind me, I was hearing a bunch of complaints about crates—only they were the complete opposite of mine and actually felt like they contained something. I figured it was half people being uptight and half them actually feeling tired out by the morning shoot and wait times before the challenge. They'd removed the only clock in the room but it felt pretty much like the end of the day.

"Good evening, chefs!" Pao opened at an energy that rivaled his usual and while I wasn't the kind to understand or appreciate personalities in entertainment, I respected the guy for keeping up. "Ay, why is there so much talking? What's so exciting about having Chef Siegfried Cox as today's special guest, uh? Chef Saito, you look happy. Tell me why."

"He's a master of fine-dining in the industry... I've watched his shows since I was a teenager and dined in one of his restaurants, but only once. It's very difficult to get a reservation. He has inspired chefs across the world—an icon."

Scripted; and delivered just short of having the paper in front of him. And of course, they'd given the line to an Asian chef. He sounded nervous enough though, which gave the impression of genuine, jittery excitement to match his words.

Up front, Siegfried placed a hand over his heart with a slight bow of his head. "That is very kind of you, Chef Saito. Come by again, and do not bother making a reservation. I will seat you myself."

He'd cleverly reeled in the reaction he knew he'd receive. That sort of treatment was worth envious words and faces. Perfect for cutaways.

"Today's challenge is incredibly simple: we want you to present a classic Italian dish in sixty minutes. It can be sweet or savory, the choice is up to you. The catch is... you may have noticed the individual crates on your countertops. Your dish must be limited to the ingredients in your own box—only, each box contains something different. Should you wish to include a little something additional, you must make a trade with ingredients from another chef."

It looked simple enough to me. Bartering was a skill that involved negotiation and personality. Interaction among contestants would've increased entertainment value and judging from the murmurs sweeping the room, everyone else thought the same.

"Your dish will be tasted by Pao and myself. Alongside today's guest judge, Chef Cox," Amelia followed up with, sealing the deal.

I felt things slow to a stop, catching myself losing a little. I brushed it off but someone else seemed to notice.

"A little upset, are we?" I heard him say in the limelight, addressing the room in general but resting his gaze on me. Man, you'd think the guy had favorites in the room. Funny how I never felt like one.

Either way, I said nothing. Knowing what he was getting at wouldn't make a difference because at the end of the day, I'd put those feelings away. Not anymore, at least. Maybe I was starting to like it. Doing the thing.

"Okay my friend, we stop here with the teasing," Pao laughed, holding Siegfried back with a hand on his shoulder. "Let's tell them the truth because I can't wait to start the clock. Banilla! Come on in." On cue, the three up front turned away from the room with their hands together. Eyes followed theirs.

And then, he came through the double doors with all eyes on him, dressed in his usual but with a chef's apron to top it all off and so, it clicked. The additional station right up front; the poor replacement, because that's all Siegfried was at this point. He'd caught everyone off guard and swept them off their feet just as he'd done in the past. It was a familiar sight. Almost nostalgic.

It lit the flame and made it stir; warm and still, waiting for winter.

I fought a smile but knew it was pointless—realizing this was all pretty much fun by this point and maybe letting lose once in a while wasn't that big of a deal. After all, this was Vanilla Julian White: owner of GLACE, chief editor of global cuisine reviews, internationally-renowned critic, master of English, disapprover of loose ties, destroyer of kitchens, and ruler of just one idiot.

"Good evening everyone. I apologize for the wait," he said after clearing his throat, taking his place behind the front-most station and adjusting the fit of his apron. My eyes went to his waist. "Today, I shall partake in the honor of cooking alongside you all for the next sixty minutes. Why? Because it was in the script. A poorly-made decision but never you mind, I am well aware of the many people tuning in to this program, awaiting the moment I make a fool of myself but I'm afraid some disappointment... is due."

The way he'd put things almost guaranteed the cheers that came after; others apart from Layla Tenner and myself had taken to his personality. I wasn't surprised. It was hard not to love him.

"Well said Banilla," Pao rubbed his hands together, eager to start the time. "You are a famous critic, but that doesn't mean you don't know how to cook." My kitchen would like to have a word with you. "I believe some chefs in the room will be surprised." And my toast. And eggs. Sometimes.

Behind, I caught a laugh that sounded like Layla. In front, a scoff. Likely Andre. Amelia and Pao waited for a good half-a-minute for the rest of the room to settle before continuing off where they stopped: having everyone remove the lids on their crates.

It wasn't news to me that the ingredients were random—or more likely hand-picked by the production team to cook up a struggle under the guise of luck—so I wasn't the eager chef looking under his lids for an idea the second that was allowed. Instead, my gaze remained up front, fixed on his counter and waiting for the reveal.

I chalked it up to curiosity. Part of the fun I was experiencing in the moment. As though he'd just struck a match and was hovering it over the candle inside. Culinary school with him had been nothing but that, and remembering how it felt was enough to get me cracking.

The taste of a challenge.

"—have seven minutes to go around the room trading ingredients and negotiating your worth. The clock starts as soon as..."

I could make out a couple of things in his barter box from across the room. Some vegetable. Another vegetable. Green stuff. A bottle of something. He picked it up and scanned the back.

Glancing down at my own crate, I was expecting a whole load of nothing. Assuming this was all planned. There was the possibility of them pushing for an interaction with some other chef, and in one way or another get Andre pinning for the same ingredient. I removed the lid.

Arborio rice. Garlic. Basil. Mushrooms. Cherry tomatoes; on the vine. Onions. Red wine; sauvignon. Lemons. Sage. I looked under the counter and took in a standard condiment pantry that also included eggs, butter, milk and flour. I was right—no proteins.

Some other stations had bottles in their crate that looked identical. Du Bellay's counter was full of protein. A whole sea bass. One chicken breast. Some other red meat. Further down, Andre was dealing with a full-sized lobster.

"I see some of you have found a special bottle in your crates," Amelia brought the attention back to her. "That means you were on the winning team for yesterday's challenge at the olive farm." Right. Correctly identifying the different oil types.

"Those with the bottles have exclusive access to the entire range of olive oils present in yesterday's challenge. Including the premium extra virgin made from Ligurian Taggiasca olives. Depending on what you choose to cook, I'd say you'd have a higher chance of taking the toque blanche from Chef Tenner.

"A brief reminder that one of you will, unfortunately, be ending your journey here in Florence before we head to the summer islands of Indonesia, so I suggest you choose your menu very carefully. Best of luck, and your time to barter starts now."

*

Around the room, people were turning to the stations closest to them offering the shit they wanted to get rid of while attempting to strike a decent deal fast. I had a vague idea of what I could do with the ingredients in my box; working with what I had instead of actively searching for more and having to factor in a trade with someone else was the wiser move. They were expecting an interaction I was refusing to give, and if any member of the production team knew me well enough, they would've foreseen my preference for a challenge.

Either way, no one would've been in their right mind to trade protein for anything in my box. I could go for some hand-rolled pasta from scratch using eggs and flour but there was the Arborio rice in my box too. If there was just one thing I needed, I'd say...

There.

Hands clasped together; fingers interlaced and fidgety only if you looked close enough; gazing out toward the rest of the gallery room and people-watching as he usually did, alone and quiet. Sometimes, feeling a little left out. While it was obvious that more than half the contestants were impressed by his culinary knowledge and teacher-like personality, the latter also made him fairly unapproachable when it came down to stuff like this. No one had yet dared a conversation, let alone a trade with the avalanche up front, and that alone had me crossing the room in a heartbeat.

He was looking down at his greens and then back up, adjusting his glasses to hide behind them just as he saw me approaching his station. A single glance at the look on his face and I knew that he knew; exactly what I was about to do. The possible criminal activity he was about to have me arrested for. I walked straight up to him with my box and somewhere behind, people were beginning to notice. They sounded surprised.

"So what's for dinner."

He didn't miss a beat. "You mean to ask what dish I intend to cook."

"Same thing."

I could tell he was fighting a smile. That, or a pout. Both would've been equally welcome. "Raviolo Al Uovo. I'm sure you know what that is. A simple, but brilliant classic. Technique wise, most chefs would agree that it is fairly complex, requiring much precision in timing. The egg yolk has to be nothing else but perfection... and I see you are about to laugh. Mind you, I've practiced. Much time put into trial and error a-and and research, done beforehand—"

"That's what you said last night too."

It took him a pause to connect the dots and when he did, the alarm on his face was a meal and the look in his eyes, begging me to behave—dessert. Everyone else in earshot and the sound crew tuning in would've assumed we had a casual conversation about recipes at the cocktail party.

Flustered snow refused to speak so I did the dealing; reaching into my box and pulling out the bundle of fresh sage for his eyes. If it was Raviolo Al Uovo he was making, this was key. Sage was in every traditional Italian recipe for that and to skip it was practically committing a crime. A sweet follower of rules wasn't going to do that.

He'd paused to stare at the ingredient before lowering his gaze to my box of ingredients. "...I assume you're asking for olive oil in return?"

"You don't even know what I'm making." "Yes, but clever guesses exist, Chef Cox. I'm sure you know that." "Let's hear it."

He folded his arms, leaning against the counter and looking quite like we were having a conversation in his apartment kitchen and this was the night. "Basil Pesto Risotto. There's the option of pasta but you barely have any ingredients to elevate it and why waste a bag of beautiful Arborio rice when you have it all to yourself? Imagine winning the toque with a vegetarian dish—a temptation you'd never resist, knowing your addiction to a challenge. To make the pesto, you'd need olive oil. The best sort, to be specific."

There was no helping the beat in my fingers at the look in his eyes, blue and electric. He'd guessed correctly; and he didn't need no telling that he was correct—he knew he was.

"I take it that you're craving risotto..." I teased anyway and he was back at being caught off guard.

"No, I—why would I be?" "I mean if you're craving that, could've just told me. I'd make it." "No! Don't be silly, I'm not the one tasting your dish." "Didn't say I was making just one portion." "Mr. Cox you have sixty minutes." "That's a lot of time." "Oh we'll see about that. You clearly lack all sense of urgency, I—time is ticking. Will you take the offer or not?"

"How bad do you want this." I raised the bundle of sage.

"You don't ask questions like that at a barter, Ler—Mr.—Chef." "I really want this." I pointed at the bottle. "Yes! I know. I voiced my prediction minutes ago, were you not listening?" "Just wanted to re-state." "Reinstate." "Yeah, that."

His response was to glance over at the judging panel, as though asking for permission. Amelia laughed. "Yes the oil is up for barter too, Vanilla."

"Oh," he sighed. As though he'd been hoping to hear the opposite to further fuel my cravings for a challenge and was thus disappointed. He held out the bottle and accepted the sage in my hands, eyes lighting up briefly behind his glasses. They betrayed the slim fraction of excitement stirring deep down and it made leaving his station twice as hard.

I somehow made it back to my station in less than a minute after swapping the bottle for the Ligurian Taggiasca extra virgin, fractions to spare but not quite expecting the company behind my counter. Dude who asked for Chicken's seat on the bus stood stock still waiting for my return, eyes fixed on the bottle of sauvignon red wine I'd left on the counter. He was holding a bottle of white, which I assumed came from his own crate of ingredients.

He launched into a deal as soon as our eyes met, what with seconds to spare till the start of our sixty minutes. "Hey, um do you happen to—" "Yeah, okay."

I cut to the chase, knowing what he came for and with things laid out on the bench, decisions weren't very hard to make. I didn't need the red. The deal was clear-cut. Pierson, I read the name on his apron, looked relieved for a sec, reaching out for my bottle of red when all of a sudden, another dude appeared at my shoulder offering some crab for protein. Saito—poor guy with the script from earlier. He wanted the red.

"... Pierson asked first, so." I turned him down with a slight nod.

Several reasons: I didn't need people starting a fight at my station; I liked picking the easy way out in social situations; I was already attached to the idea of winning with a vegetarian dish; Pierson did ask first. Wasn't a matter of favoritism or anything. Just... the easy way out.

"Thank you so, so much. I owe you one," Pierson looked pretty much over the moon. I was a tad too lazy to say that I didn't need any owing from strangers so I left it there, taking his bottle of white wine and getting down to business.