A/N: It is TRUE PUNISHMENT to have descriptive writing as one's primary style oh my god what a long chapter AND YET I wasn't done with where I planned to stop DAMMIT I WANTED MORE OF THAT SEXY SHIT god DAMMIT. I know I promised more fluff but my brain = descriptive and I can't hold back on words either so I ended up writing a long chapter. 

Either way, I guess that's good news because I can't wait to write next week's fluff that I've been building up (my own) anticipation for UGH I feel like I'm cockblocking myself? Is that even possible? A writer doing that??? Goodness, I am a failure. That said, this chapter is also very important for Leroy's emotional growth, so.

I hope you enjoy this one. (Though I seriously think the next chapter is the bomb DAMMIT I can't wait to write that one UGH)

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"Simple, and yet, flawlessly executed. I suppose I should thank your dog for the delightful dish?"

In his eyes were ripples on the surface of a lake. He'd enjoyed that bite and it was easy to tell he did. Some things about people, you'd think would change along the way with the passing of time. Things like the way they ate—gaze lingering on the plate after tasting—or the way they'd stall for time, thinking hard for something to say but only if the food was good enough to knock the words out of their mind.

No one has to know; the last time I prepped a crab was three years ago for Annie on her birthday. They cost a fuck ton in London, so those weren't usually on the menu. That, and we started doing take-outs instead because the kitchen was a stranger. Annie knew I'd given up by then.

"He'd like that." I said to match his mood for play. He surrendered fast—averting his gaze and hiding behind a practiced laugh.

"So. Well. Thank you. The both of you," he turned to Garland first, and then me. "As expected, you delivered a dish of excellent quality despite the time limit and have both put the culinary knowledge you gained over the course of the day to good use. Still... there must be a winner. A moment, please."

The three of them behind the tasting table turned their backs to Garland and I, a cue for us to return to our stations while they discussed. I looked around. No one was calling for a cut, so I assumed this was a free-and-easy, unscripted part of the shoot. There was one last serving of crab crostini on the plate I'd brought up for tasting.

I finished it.

Sadly, it wasn't enough. Something was up with my appetite these days; regular portions were beginning to feel kinda small and there was an urge, a craving for more. Part of it might've had to do with the travelling. Hadn't done that in years and maybe my energy levels were taking a hit without me noticing.

"You're done with that?"

Garland had her dish hovered over the bin, close to tipping it over and sending everything inside down the drain. She looked up, pausing whatever she was doing when I asked.

"Oh. Yes. Just clearing my bench so that they have less work to do."

I held out a hand for her plate. She stared.

"You... want to taste my dish?" Her eyes were blank for a second. "I mean, sure. If you're doing this to put on a show though, I don't need your pity. The judges didn't have good things to say about the cook on the fish."

"I'm hungry." There was nothing more or less to say. "A couple more minutes over the stove will fix the cook on the fish."

Garland paused to think, looking down at her plate and then handing it over with a shrug, along with her saucepan of olive oil. "Do what you like, I guess. If you're finishing it, then at least it's not going to waste."

I put her dish back on the heat before digging in. The judges were right about fifteen minutes not being nearly enough for flavors to fully infuse. Texture-wise, the fish was buttery and flaked apart pretty easy. It tasted good; I wasn't about to turn down a free, decent meal anyway so. No complaints there.

I was in the middle of my last bite when the panel turned to announce the winning dish. Pao laughed as soon as he looked at me so they called for another take after I put the plate away and cleared the rest of my bench.

"We cut to the chase, okay?" Pao said to me and Garland, rubbing his hands before finally angling them towards me. "Leroy. All three of us agreed on your crab crostini. Congratulations to you and the red team—all of you are exempted from the next challenge, safe from elimination."

Cheers sounded out from the balcony above but the way Pao had worded his statement got me thinking about a catch. Not participating in the main challenge would've meant missing out on the next thing. The one Layla had. It's a thing. The pin.

"That also means," Streisand raised a hand to stop the cheers before going on. "You lose your chance to be the next chef wearing the toque blanche. Currently worn by Chef Tenner." Yeah, that thing. That one.

"It is up to you. Whether or not the risk of elimination is worth an attempt at the toque blanche, you decide," he adjusted his glasses like a true, certified genius. The tips of his fingers, a slight push upwards, from the side. He'd never changed the way he did that. "Once again, congratulations to Chef Cox. Your decision to put yourself on the line has paid off. Had the time limit been just slightly different—twenty minutes instead of fifteen—however, things might have been drastically different. Chef Garland's dish had as much potential as yours. Crab was the most difficult protein out of the lot, and all three of us noticed your slowed pace. Make full use of the time you have from now until the main challenge."

"Cut!" They called while he was in the middle of it, which kind of threw everyone off on set. "Sorry Mr. White. About that last part... could we stick to the script? Or maybe leave out the part about the time limit and sub in some compliments instead? And Cox hasn't said anything about showing up for the next challenge since he's exempted from it. Cameras 3B, 3C, I need close-ups on the balcony thank you."

The show's chief director (Stan, I think) passed me along his way back to where the producers sat and I reached out to him for a bit, saying that I didn't mind the criticism. He'd never said anything unconstructive or untrue. As a critic, he was the gold standard.

The only reason he'd slipped up at the end was because he knew me too well; that I'd end up cooking even if I was excused from the main challenge.

"Cox. Yes of course, I know exactly what you mean but that's... not what we're looking for. Mr. White paying you a couple of compliments is harmless, think about it. What we want is the reaction to those compliments. We need to get people involved. People like, you know, Andre." Stan explained like his was all part of the norm and procedure. Like it was science. "TV is about action and reaction. Your storyline fell flat as soon as you left Siegfried out of the private interview. People need—"

"Stan."

Speak of the devil. He positioned himself between the director and I, off to the side like a neutral party. "All good here?"

"Siegfried! Of course, of course. Just explaining some stuff to your—Mr. Cox over here and we'll get right back to it."

"About the second take? Actually, I thought the first was a pretty good one. I came to tell you that," he said with the same smile on his face. The one he'd show in front of cameras. "I thought 3C caught a nice shot of Andre with a smug look on his face too, while Mr. White was giving appropriate criticism to Mr. Cox. We could use that."

"Hm. You're not wrong. But the narrative? We might face inconsistencies. Andre's character isn't supposed to agree with the critic."

"Could be a potential arc, for all we know. The two of them pitted against each other for White's favor. What do you think?"

The director paused. I stared at Siegfried trying to figure out whatever the fuck was going on in his head until someone in the back called for time and that the light was changing rapidly. We were nearing sunset.

"You have the craziest ideas, chef." Stan laughed, caving with a sigh. "We'll do it your way. Though I gotta be honest, this isn't really surprising coming from a veteran in the field like yourself. Entertainment is in your bones." He turned away from the conversation and called for the crew to start clearing the set.

*

"You're saying... you want to get there by foot?" One of the assistants stared at me like I'd just said something about flying to the moon. "Here, back to the port? That's a twenty-minute drive. It'll take you at least forty minutes to get to the hotel."

I told her I was going for a run. She gawked harder.

"With your stuff?" She was looking at the duffel bag over my shoulder. I propped it higher.

"Yeah. It's just one bag."

"But, but... you literally just spent half the day harvesting olives in the grove," she pointed out in disbelief. "I don't think I've even seen you sit down for a minute. Everyone's exhausted. Are you sure this is a—"

"I need to... walk my dog," I said the first thing that came to mind; unsure about how else I should phrase needing some time alone to think for a bit. Going for a run would clear the smoke in my head and kill the restlessness in my hands and feet.

An entire day's shoot but only fifteen minutes spent doing actual cooking. Not exactly the kind of day I was used to.

"Okay, fine." She sighed. "Do whatever you like. I'll tell the producers you went for a walk. But you have to be there at the hotel by six-thirty. Sharp. We gotta get you guys checked in before the producer's dinner... you're lucky the crew's held back dismantling the set."

I gave a nod of thanks, turning to leave when I heard someone else call out for me from afar. Raul's voice.

"Dude, you're leaving? The bus isn't even here yet."

"I'm going for a run with Chicken."

"Fuck, I still can't believe you named your dog Chicken... okay never mind. Take this," he held out a dark green bottle that had nothing written, nothing printed on it. "The farm owners loved the shit out of you. This is the Ligurian extra virgin, freshly pressed just this morning, from the stuff you guys harvested. You're the only one they gave a whole big-ass bottle to, so. Treasure it."

I received the gift after pausing for a second. "They said that?"

"Yeah. Not the treasure part, I mean. Just the whole bit about liking the way you respected the ingredients and whatnot. It's important to Italians—I'm Italian, just in case you're a bad friend and forgot—how you use local raw ingredients and I think you made them feel proud about their stff. I mean they're already proud of it but proud-er now. I think that's English, right? I'm also a chef. Just in case you forgot."

"Thanks Chef Dalto," I showed my appreciation by flipping him off, glancing down at the unlabeled bottle and feeling a little strange. "Tell the farm owners I said thanks."

"I will. Vanilla was the one talking to them first by the way. They came up to him raving about you so I had to do my job and translate."

"... you're saying he could've been the one to hand me that bottle instead of you?"

"No, stupid. He had me give it to you."

"Why?"

"Something about the gift 'losing its magic' or some English shit. Actually, maybe I wasn't even supposed to tell you he was involved in the first place."

I raised a hand, turning to call for my boy while I packed the bottle safely among some clothes in my bag. "Tell him he's the magic."

"Fuck, no. Tell him yourself! See you at the hotel."

I laughed, heading down the stairs and out onto the winding road that had signs pointing visitors to Portofino with my boy by my side.

Magic, huh.

I knew him well enough to figure out what he was getting at. A rough guess, at the very least. Not wild, just rough. It was just like him to re-direct attention and importance away from himself; partly because he knew me going into this had less to do with him. Encouraging that sort of thing in the back, indirectly showing that he understood and without letting me know, too, was all part of him. He had to be careful about it. Supposedly, this was us living different lives that right now, converged by circumstance. I say supposedly because the truth wasn't that simple.

Today was new.

New as in old, but forgotten. So not exactly new then. Back then, culinary school had all the opportunities for a chef-in-making to grow however they liked. They had the things you needed to branch out; to learn, to double, to root and remember. Those were the stuff I used to think nothing about because it seemed almost like the norm that I hated. Siegfried taking me on flights across the world learning about cuisines and techniques and schools I'd 'soon attend' or restaurants I'd soon 'take the lead'. School trips that were supposedly fun and new turned out dull and boring because fuck, I wanted nothing to do with the culinary world if it didn't somehow include him.

It did.

So that was nice. Made things bearable, at least. I wasn't always distancing myself from it because within that was snow I wished to tread and so there was reason to be around the kitchen and around the heat and pans and the fire, the flame but today—today was new.

Snow was there but he had taken a back seat in the heat. It could have been the effects of travelling or the re-experiencing of learning something new, observing the heart that went into something as simple as olive oil. Stuff like that felt, almost, electric.

It felt like something I'd only come to understand after spending years in the firehouse, going about the day doing things that would've never made us into the sort of gods people tended to worship on TV and the internet. Those were the Visible. Normal people, or the Invisible, dod what they did behind the scenes so that others could lead their lives.

If that's the case, then. Then I guess, maybe, the kitchen isn't that bad of a place I thought it was. Alone, a bowl of soup's not the kind of thing you'd think twice about, let alone worship and rave about like it was some celebrity thing. Chefs are usually anonymous. You don't always know their names, their stories, their lives. They just make the shit you eat.

And it happens every single day.

Somewhere in the world, there's always an unnamed person in the kitchen making the food you eat. You don't know how they look, how they speak; if they suck at spelling 'favorite' or if they've ever learned their multiplication tables or whatever the fuck 'binomial distributions' are. You don't know, and may never know. But they're always going to be there.

These things, I never once thought about. Going on a run with my boy, watching the sky turn pink, red, purple, I felt... kinda small, all of a sudden.

Annie was right. I had a lot to learn.

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

"Folks, great work today," Stan had everyone gathered at the reception area of the hotel they'd apparently booked out. The whole thing. "Those attending the producer's cocktail session, join us by the docks in an hour's time. The rest of you are free to roam Portofino for the evening. Get a taste of the local cuisine. Buy yourself some cool souvenirs. Take pictures. Make new friends at bars, whatever. Tomorrow's schedule has been finalized and sent by email so make sure you guys read that. Confessionals start at 8AM. Come dressed in the same outfit. Julianna from Wardrobe will make her rounds tonight in your rooms to collect your laundry. Understood?"

The hotel staff handed out keycards as he spoke, gesturing to the number printed on the card holder. Fourth floor. Room five.

I glanced his way on instinct and caught him looking at me. A pleasant surprise. He hid his gaze the moment he knew I'd noticed him staring and busied his hands with his little one pawing at the carrier. My boy didn't need any of that special treatment. Washing his paws before entering the hotel was a piece of cake and now, even the hotel staff had fallen head over heels for him. What a lad.

"Banilla, you're not coming with us?" I heard Pao say as soon as we were dismissed from the meet, free to head up to our rooms and lie in bed for the rest of the evening. At least judging from the look on my counterparts' faces. Mostly dead and exhausted from an afternoon of heavy lifting, bent backs, and squats.

"Oh! Oh, well. Um. Is the uh, dinner not supposedly optional? I was thinking of heading upstairs and spending some time with my cat while going through tomorrow's updated script."

"Script? Vanilla, it's the end of the day," Streisand laughed, a hand on his shoulder. Somewhere between the olive farm and the hotel, they'd become close. First-name basis. "We should unwind a little. Pao's stories are the best, I promise."

"Ay, but it's okay if you want some alone time. There's always one of these parties in every country we're going to so you will not miss out. But, as your senior, I encourage you to maybe show up for, you know, thirty minutes, or one hour, just, like, you know. Show your face. A quick one. Then when everyone is drunk, you leave! Always works."

I heard him laugh a little. Over Streisand's shoulder, our eyes met. He raised a hand, waving a little, smiling. It was a tired one, which had me making the first move before I knew it.

"Need any help with Leo?"

I'd hung back after most of the contestants had left the reception area; only the judges and a couple of production assistants remained, apart from the crew occupied with sorting their equipment. The three of them turned my way.

"Ay! You see, pet owners unite. Yes Leroy, Banilla might need someone to look after his little cat while he joins us for the cocktail party. Just for a while. He will be back soon."

"I, um." He paused. "That... would be very nice. But only if it's alright with you. I have a nutritional chart that I use and usually I stick to a strict schedule of feeding him but he's been asleep for most of the afternoon and now it looks like he wants to play a-and I don't know if you have the time for that..."

"I do."

The three of them stared at my immediate decision. "That took less than a second, Mr. Cox." "Amelia, I told you. This boy is the man! Okay, problem solved. Cocktail saved. I'm going to go up for a quick shower and then join the party by the docks. Banilla, you?"

"Yes. I um, think I'll take a quick shower too." He turned to me, holding out the carrier in his arms before handing over his entire day-bag. "There's one last nursing bottle of milk replacer in the bag. Wipes, if you need them. A packet of kitten treats but only if he behaves, okay? A yarn toy, thing. It jingles. And then um, his favorite throw—you've seen that one." Yo what the fuck that was mine.

Okay not exactly mine but it was the knit throw I used over at his place back when we were... yeah. Leo. Dude. Not cool.

"Thank you," he finished, noticing that the bellboy had arrived to take their bags up to their rooms. "I'll... send you a text as soon as I'm done."

The distance between us was necessary. Pao and Streisand were right beside him. Yet, the look in his eyes felt... close. I could see more of the blues despite the lack of light. We weren't touching or anything but for some reason it just felt that way. Like he was closer than usual.

"Take your time." I told him, watching as they headed into the elevator and headed up. I took the next one, only because Chicken was technically the size of a person and now with one additional buddy in my arms, I needed all the space I could get.

As soon as I got us into the hotel room, order needed to be established. I didn't need the kids ruining everything on sight in less than twenty seconds. Chicken had to sit in a corner while I unlocked Leo's carrier and gave him all the time he needed to step out. A total of two seconds. What an unbothered chad. Even new environments couldn't faze him.

I used the wipes to clean him instead of drawing up a basin of water. Some cats made water their lifelong enemy and I wasn't sure if Leo was one of them or if he was only comfortable with his owner doing the deed.

My boy was allowed to roam after being rewarded a treat (I'm the definition of multitask) while I set up a comfy thing for our new guy on the loveseat by the window. Cushions, his favorite throw, the toy, and me. I was holding his nursing bottle. He spent some time feeding out of it. My other hand tossed treats at Chicken.

After Leo's feeding session was a bath with my boy. He'd always gone crazy for showers or things that had water in the air (garden sprinklers) so that, he enjoyed. Somewhere along the way, Leo went from being occupied with his yarn toy to staring at us by the doorway. Chicken was soaked. And then he did the shake-off and he was no longer soaked but the entire bathroom was. I did the obligatory blow-dry of his fur till he was warm and fuzzy and sent him out the bathroom to actually take a shower.

The entire thing took me nearly two hours. I was prepared to spend the rest of the evening playing with the kids and ordering room service but the moment I stepped out in a towel, I caught them fast asleep, together, on the loveseat. They shared the throw.

I wasn't all that surprised. My boy and I spent two weeks at his place. For all I knew, that could've been his favorite throw too.

That said, the entire scene warranted a photo. No way was I about to pass up another cute shot of them together after the one from this morning with Leo on Chicken's back. I snapped one with the perfect lighting and composition, stared at it for a minute, then decided to send it to the fellow pet owner.

His response was nearly instant. But it wasn't exactly in the form I'd expected it to be. No words, no pictures, no emojis.

He'd sent a live location.

My first instinct was a firefighter's; it had me bolting to the door thinking something was up and I was staring at the GPS at the front of the engine directing us to the site on call but the next thing I read was the name of the place and that fortunately slowed things down. I stood by the hallway, breathing hard.

It was a bar.

I was about to give him a ring when another text came in. This time, an image. A glass of wine. I used to think only fools would claim the superior quality of wine in the presence of company but alas, the caption said, it may very well be true.

It took me a minute to English the hell out of a text but the moment I did, bolting to the door ended up being the exact same consequence. In a single text, he'd somehow conveyed two things: one, he'd been drinking alone, and two, he wanted my company.

... fuck he's good.