A/N: My apologies for putting this off for so long ;v; to make up for it, I made this 6.7k words long. I'd finally taken the all-mighty fall of COVID and was bedridden for a week. I lost my sense of taste and smell in the middle of it all and got to experience first-hand how terrible it is to consume food without quite enjoying the pleasure of it. 

Admittedly, half of what I wrote without experiencing all this made perfect sense: I was able to tell when something was actually good despite not being able to taste it in its entirety. Yet, it wasn't quite the knowledge that I found something I so loved incredibly bland and tasteless that destroyed me—it was the disappointment I felt towards the person who made it. 

I could very much lie and rely on my past experience of said dish and say it tasted amazing when in truth, I tasted nothing at all. I ended up with: "If I could taste this, I'm sure I would have said it was amazing." Which I wasn't sure was any better, really. 

The strangest thing about this period of having lost my sense of taste is that through it all, the cause of it was an odd, stinging smell lingering in my nose. I wake up to the smell of something burning. I sleep to the room in flames. I drink to the stench of smoke; eat to the sting of gas. 

Truly an eye-opening experience.

________________________

[Leroy]

Conditions for a hug: you're Vanilla White and your partner is Leroy Cox.

It just is. That said, I wasn't expecting anything to happen immediately after the shoot since the lead wrangler in charge decided to dismiss the cast a tad earlier than the rest of the production team and I'd seen the way his eyes remained downcast through it all, spent from a day's worth of fuckery. I had my suspicions. They were on Carter.

Guest judges thrown into the panel last-minute were thanked, briefed, and dismissed minutes after the cast while the rest of the spotlight remained on the movie star with a bottle of champagne. The favored party was clear. I'd hung back with Saito and Garland instead of heading back to the hotel with the rest of the cast. They were waiting around for a word with the Japanese chefs and assumed I had the same thing in mind. Not wrong; half-right.

I caught up with Yamazaki headed for one of the crew vehicles parked by the street.

"Hey." I didn't actually know what to say. "Thanks for showing."

"Leroy," he sighed, smiling tired. "Great work today. I very much enjoyed your cooking. Well, everyone did. We all had good things to say about your dishes, especially the calamari. One of my favorites this evening."

"You can drop all that," I held up a hand. "Fishing for compliments isn't my thing... sorry you had to deal with the short notice. They gave you a heads-up this morning, at least?"

"Haha, so you're here for the tea," Yamazaki laughed, shaking his head. "Ahn says that all the time. 'Tea-sipping,' she calls it. Anyway... I'm sure Vanilla will have a lot to say about this. No, none of the local guest judges were given more than an hour's notice before the start of the shoot. My agency had given me a call to say they'd shifted my entire evening's plans of book-signing to the week after just so I could show up for the shoot, framing it as a perfect opportunity and high-priority request. They knew I was acquainted with Vanilla said if I turned them down, it would've made him look bad. Of course, I knew Vanilla was no child; he would never blame me for refusing the invite, but still. I felt obliged.

"Either way, not a word was said about the whole story behind needing additional judges on the panel. He was mic-ed up the moment we met, and... you get it. This is TV. You know the clauses. The production team has the legal right to cut, rearrange, adapt, revise, alter any sort of material. Deliberate misrepresentation is... well, the norm.

"Anyone in the right mind could read the room and figure out something had happened between Vanilla and Carter. He was sidelined most of the evening. I'm sure Chef Pao and Amelia did their best to manage the situation given the circumstance but Carter was a star. He knew what he was doing and... you can hear the rest of it from Vanilla himself."

The short of it was: no good news. Yamazaki summarized what I needed to hear in a heartbeat and had me caught up to speed; no fuss, no frills. His agent called over from the window of their ride. They were running late.

"Thanks," I nodded. We shook on it. "I owe you one. Drop a couple of tips on getting good at English and I'll owe you another." I recalled the times we met years back—at the school festival in front of the Spanish stall, a guest judge on the Winter-school season's second or third round.

"Haha! Impossible. You have a personal tutor for that." He smiled over his shoulder, waving. Yamazaki never struck me as the kind of guy who teased. If anything, he'd be the one on the receiving end.

We parted ways. The small exchange moved him up my list of 'tolerable chefs'. There weren't many in the first place; and he was already higher up on the list by default but hats off to the man who's experienced his fair share of fame but kept his feet on the ground nevertheless.

I headed back on set to wait for sad snow only to catch a passing assistant saying something about an ugly end. The area was sparse—half the crew had packed up and left in the equipment trucks. Pao and Amelia were nowhere to be seen.

I backtracked, taking out my phone for a ring and scanning the area as I did. There was a tug on the hood of my parka. I turned.

"Do not speak unless I say so." He had a hand held up between us and the other to his lips, then proceeded to rest that hand on my arm, tug that sleeve, and lead me away from the set. The whole exchange was not without confusion but I thought that line of his was hot as hell so I didn't question it.

A variation popped up in my head. Genius, but not now. I saved it for later.

"Fortunately, I was able to arrange for a private ride back to the hotel. The driver's waiting at the end of the street." His glasses were slightly askew. I fixed it for him. He looked up, blushed, and looked away.

The ride back was just as quiet as he promised. I recognized the chauffeur as the very same guy who got us to Yamazaki's dinner appointment and given us the ride back. There were no questions, no directions needed. We slid into the rear and sat in silence; watching the city go by in darkness.

I held his hand. He held mine.

We pulled up in the driveway to an empty foyer, making our way across the reception area and then to the lobby where we waited for the elevator. No stopping, no running into other cast and crew members—just us. It was surprising, but nice. A nice surprise.

Into the elevator and two floor buttons later, I was leaning against the railing by the operating panel with my index on the 'door close' when I was hit with snow that came crashing into my arms the second we were alone.

"Aaaaaaaaa." He let out, voice muffled by my shirt.

A hand weaving through his hair and another resting on the small of his back, I coaxed another whine of frustration past his lips. It was very effective. His arms tightened around my torso and he looked up, face red and glasses pressed into his skin. "You may speak."

I laughed low. "Tough day?"

He retreated back into my chest.

"Terrifying. Awful. Heinous. Ghastly. Absolutely abysmal." The walking dictionary was dishing out his best and only curses and while I rubbed his back. "I was certain hearing your voice would've had me bursting into tears; not that I mind being vulnerable in your presence, just—not in public, of course, and... it's simply convenient, having you as an outlet for emotions which, naturally, I am no expert in. For some odd reason, I was perfectly aware that any form of 'are you okay' from you would've had me in shambles. So aware I was, that I considered avoiding you completely..." He sniffled. "I'm sorry you have to witness this dreadful state I'm in."

I flicked his forehead. "Don't apologize. Carter's a dick. And I'm happy to be your... outlet... thing. Lucky for you, I'm an expert at V. J. White." I thought again. "Actually no. I'm not."

He laughed; eyes slightly wet. Not quite the burst of tears I was expecting, but as frozen lakes often were, he too, reserved the strongest of waves for the deepest of waters; closest to the heart. Carter was nothing.

"Thank you, Leroy. That man is a... a complete narcissist. You should've seen how he went about evaluating Du Bellay and Layla's dishes. He knew—provoked, even—the production team into roping additional guest judges in my presence for a grand show of the 'trouble' I'd caused, knowing it would undermine the credibility of those invited last-minute, viewed as lesser than to his supposed authority as the 'primary' guest judge. Wouldn't stop talking about it. Imagine the guilt and humiliation I was feeling, seeing Chef Yamazaki enter the set... well, all three chefs, really. Actual industry experts, top of the field a-and and and treated like..."

I could tell he didn't have it in him to go on so I grabbed his waist and lifted him off the ground for a little surprise, carrying him straight out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open and setting him down like we'd just crossed a river or something.

"Leroy!" "Thought you needed a pick-me-up." "... I can't believe you just said that like a fifty-three-year-old married man with four children." "Can't deny. I'm halfway there." "Oh please, you're nowhere near fifty-three! Don't start." "The other part." "Oh... oh. Really. Hm. Anyway, I must admit, a little pick-me-up at this hour is an offer I find myself not particularly against. Should we make a short trip to the store with Chicken and Leo?"

I paused down the hallway, turning to him and reaching into my back pocket for my keycard.

"... not gonna lie, you got me in the first half." "What do you mean by that? The pick-me-up? Was it the double negatives?" "It's ten-thirty in the evening, Vanilla. I thought you meant sex." "W-what! How? When I said 'at this hour', I meant supper, you idiot. The term 'pick-me-up', by definition, refers to a consumable. Like a snack, for instance. Or a beverage, even. Something you eat or drink that improves one's mood and restores mental energy." "So you're saying I'm not a snack." "... yes of course not Leroy, you're not edible." "Wrong. I'm the best fucking snack there is." "Siri, Google the term 'snack' and list examples in the form of images." "Searching for pics of me? Could have just asked." "Someone needs to wipe that smirk off your face. God, I can't look at you or I'm going to start laughing like a—no, stop! Leroy."

We headed into my room, shutting the door on the weight of the day and leaving it behind in each other's company. Chicken was already at the entrance, tongue out and tail waving by the auto-feeder. Chin rubs and behind-the-ear scratches were due.

Leo was having the time of his life in his owner's arms. We locked eyes and kicked off an unofficial stare-down.

"According to Google Maps, there's a twenty-four-seven grocery store down the street and a little park by the river ten minutes away. Would that do?" He held up the screen of his phone. I checked the reviews.

"They have ice cream, you think?"

He did up Chicken's leash while I slid on a carry-bag for cat. The kind that looked like a space capsule. "I'm sure grocery stores in Tokyo have a fair selection... and if none of them happen to catch your eye, there's a ton of convenience stores by the park too. I suppose you have a specific flavor in mind?"

I teased. "Just the usual."

"... vanilla?" He rolled his eyes, smiling all the same. "You know exactly how to disappoint me."

"Told you I'm an expert." I threw him a wink. He died. Figuratively.

We headed out the door and back to the lift lobby to wait for an elevator. He checked his phone; I checked mine. Nothing new. Reminders were sent out on the group chat about tomorrow's schedule. I glanced over at him.

"Thank goodness. No more meetings tonight." He breathed a sigh. "I was afraid they'd call for another one but I suppose they're all busy spending quality time with Chef Carter and his champagne."

"What's his deal?"

The kids padded into the elevator while he gave me a rundown of whatever happened this morning at the market. Carter calling him unprofessional and telling him to quit on a whim in front of the entire production team. Recalling all this made him so upset, he picked his cat up and cuddled him in his arms.

"So no one likes this guy. Is what I'm hearing," I laid out.

He sighed. "No Leroy, everyone does. Quite frankly, I couldn't care less about the compliments he pays to anyone he fancies or the façade he puts up in front of the camera. I know I'm not as likable as he is. But choosing to judge others based on his dislike for me is unacceptable... which was why I... seemed very reserved at your tasting earlier this evening. I couldn't have him reading my opinion of your food—or anyone else's, for the matter—after he picked Layla's team apart because I'd paid them one objective compliment. He was disagreeing for the sake of it; if I so much as expressed some form of approval toward your dish or or or stole his spotlight, he'd come up with an opposing opinion for entertainment value! So... I decided not to say very much about your food. I'm sorry if I came off cold."

He set his cat flat down on Chicken's back and turned to me for a hug. I told him not to apologize and pulled him in.

"People like that play low. It's their thing. Anyway, you're likeable as fuck so shut up." I gave him a look. "Also, I knew something was up the minute you came by."

"About that. I noticed you did, too—and the nerve of you to brush Carter aside, having me sit right down the middle! By god, he must've been embarrassed beyond belief. You know exactly how to spite him."

Spite? The cogs in my head came up blank so I rolled with the closest word I knew.

"Wasn't out to sprite the guy. That seat was yours. It was on him to pick a fight."

He laughed. "No one's picking anything, Leroy. Pity I didn't catch the look on his face... must've been quite the expression."

"Think they'll cut that out?" "I sure hope not... oh!"

The doors slid open to reveal Pao and Amelia in the lobby, mid-conversation just as we were. Their eyes went to the kids, and then back to us.

"Pao. Amelia," their counterpart sounded just as surprised as they were, holding the door open with his arm for a second before I nudged him out of the elevator and took his place instead. "Did the team call for another meeting? By god, did I miss it entirely?"

Pao gave Chicken a back rub as he passed. "Ay no Banilla, Amelia was waiting for someone and I was talking to the interpreter about the masterclass schedule. Rest time now. You have the notes for tomorrow?"

"The script? Yes. An intern handed them to me right as we were wrapping things up on set earlier. I... I'm sorry I left without a word."

We switched sides. I noticed the air was a lot cooler than before and checked the cat's carry-bag for extra layers of fabric. His owner picked him up off Chicken's back and slid him into the space capsule through the opening.

"There is nothing to apologize for, Vanilla. It's been a long day and if I were you, a second more of Carter's babbling would have made for an unsightly explosion. Please, get some rest. Where are you two going at this hour?"

"The store." I said, thumb over my shoulder.

"Oo, okay. We have another early morning tomorrow ay. Don't stay up too late you two."

I nodded. "Yes chef."

"Thank you Pao. And take care Amelia. I'll see you here tomorrow."

_______________

[Vanilla]

I spoke to my cat all morning. "Look Leo, it's Mount Fuji."

He blinked up at my lowered voice, refusing to take in the wonderous view of snow-capped Fuji right outside the window and instead, pawed at my nose. I forgave his lack of attention; after all, he'd suffered an entire morning's worth of his owner's rose-tinted fantasies about a certain idiot whilst packing my bags before the three-hour bus ride from central Tokyo to a famous teahouse in Hakone.

How unexpectedly understanding. A superb listener too, but, well, I've always known that. He simply doesn't come off that way with terribly limited vocabulary and a blasé attitude; often preferring word play and short sentences that on the surface, seem bored and uninterested when in truth, he knew just how to lift my spirits and share the weight even if none of it had anything to do with him. Impossible. I'm lovestruck, Leo. It's awful.

I caught my thoughts wandering to prospective happy vacations and private trips whilst going through the script for the third time, memorizing the historic details of Hakone Amazake-chaya, the four-hundred-year-old tea house with a view of Mount Fuji (specializing in traditional, handmade mochi and a drink by the name of Amazake) we were bound for.

I hate work, says the workaholic to himself. Shocking revelation.

Behold, I was perfectly out-of-character and in need of some dire self-reflection before the shoot. Leroy and Chicken were fast asleep at the back of the bus, enjoying the extra leg space and cushioned seats the spanned the entire width of the vehicle. This was no time to be thinking about childish desires... I had a list of 'random' pairs to commit to memory.

Split between Amelia and myself, we were to be announcing two pairs of contestants each—pre-determined by the production team but made to appear randomized to the audience and the chefs involved.

Garland and Saito.

Lots would be drawn, yes, but nowhere in the shotlist did producers indicate a close-up of the paper slips Amelia and I were to be 'reading off' of. As expected, this was reality TV at its best—all for the sake of entertainment and plotlines. Apart from the pre-determined duos, a sole contestant was to be paired with either one of the judges, thanks to the odd number of chefs. A game of rock-paper-scissors was the determining factor. Still, I could not help but harbor the faintest hope of not-so-romantic mochi-pounding with a certain idiot.

Pierson and Cox.

Well. There goes my terrifying, adolescent fantasies.

Andre and—

*

"Looks like my arms are saved," Amelia breathed a sigh of relief, laughing as she did and waving her triumphant 'scissors' over my sad, sorry 'paper'. I resorted to a slow shake of my head, smiling all the same and somewhat foreseeing the entire sequence of misfortune.

Moments after we'd arrived at the mountain-top teahouse that had been transformed into a set peppered with lights, cameras, and microphones, we were greeted by the traditional store's thirteenth-generation owner. After several re-enacted takes and heading further inside to the back of the teahouse where tea was brewed and mochi was made, the owner and his family proceeded to demonstrate the making of chikara mochi—glutinous rice that is steamed and pounded in a special wooden mortar.

This mochi is then prepared in the same three flavors the teahouse has been serving their customers for the past four hundred years; withstanding the test of time and eventually becoming a cornerstone of Hakone's rich history.

Cue the start of today's mochi-making masterclass; it was time to get our hands dirty. Before drawing lots and announcing the randomized, so-not-pre-determined pairs, Amelia and I engaged in a heated battle of rock-paper-scissors. Three rounds—of which I was quick to lose two in a go.

This however, sparked some unfortunate hope in Leroy's eyes which I'd caught the instant I turned, practically hearing the crack of his flames without so much as glancing in his general direction. Alas. He was to be disappointed.

I wasted no time in drawing the first empty lot. "Chef Pierson." And the next. "Paired with Chef Cox."

Leroy deflated in a second, gaze turning dull and shifting to his visibly pleased mochi-making partner before returning to me.

"Let's see... next up, Chef Garland and... Chef Saito," Amelia announced next, crumbling the slips of paper in her hands after pretending to read it. Little effort was made to put up a proper front, and this continued as we took turns reading out imaginary names on slips of paper until, well, we 'arrived' at the last unfortunate soul destined to be paired with my sorry self.

"Chef Andre." Amelia's gaze met mine with visible apology, both of us having known the exact outcome of losing the rock-paper-scissors battle since receiving the script.

There was an echo of 'oo's across the room. The underlying feud between Chef Andre and myself was common knowledge by this point.

"Just my luck," Andre would never miss an opportunity for screentime. This was his golden hour for snide remarks and the man was going to have a field day with his wooden mallet.

We were given a minute to shuffle into our pairs and pick one of the huge wooden mortars (known as usu) they'd set out in the open area. The thirteenth-generation teahouse master, Mr. Satoshi then gestured to Leroy and Pierson.

"He needs volunteers," said our interpreter to the pair who'd picked the usu farthest from the spotlight. "The process will be guided, step-by-step, one more time. Mr. Satoshi thinks you will make a good example."

Pierson agreed first. Leroy looked much less willing to be in the center of attention, but eventually followed suit.

The process sounded much simpler than it looked.

Steaming hot water had to be poured over the surface of the wooden mortar and the mallet used to pound the mochi to prevent it from sticking. One party would then be in charge of pounding the sticky mochi rice with the wooden mallet while the other kneaded, flipped, and turned the dough whilst adding hot water at given intervals. The pounding would introduce air to the mixture and make for the soft, chewy consistency that mochi was known for.

"Of course, quality will depend on how fast the master is. Mochi hardens as it cools, so you need to be quick."

A matter of speed, then. I picked up the mallet, noting its fair weight. Lifting it once was no issue, but I could see how raising it above one's head, bringing it down, and repeating that at a rapid pace over the span of ten minutes could be the cause of aching muscles and a poor back.

I watched the firefighter turn down a pair of gloves meant to protect his hands from the scalding water—the masters themselves went in with their bare hands—and reach for the wooden mallet drenched in hot water. Pierson assumed the role of flipping and turning the dough, guided closely by Mr. Satoshi who helped establish a rhythmic pace between pounding and kneading the dough. Co-ordination was key.

"The nerves in your hands must be practically ruined," Amelia dished out a tease directed at Leroy as the latter waited for his counterpart to slip on a pair of gloves. The idiot took one look at his hands and agreed.

"Controlling the mallet is important. Too much force will lead to breaking up the dough instead, so try not to rely on the weight of the kine."

I noted each given tip at the back of my head, watching the pair work with Mr. Satoshi's instructions. Both seemed incredibly at ease: the mallet looking like a toy in Leroy's hands and Pierson's rapid kneading and flipping—a familiar series of actions every baker and patisserie would've practiced on a daily basis.

"Looks pretty easy to me, I'd say," Andre muttered under his breath after observing the steps for less three seconds, cracking his knuckles with a yawn. I nearly laughed.

When it came down to lifting the mallets ourselves, I expertly dodged every opportunity for discord thrown my way by my mochi-making partner, quietly agreeing to the role he'd given me (flipping and turning the dough) and altogether ignoring every misstep he made.

"Fucking... thing... wouldn't..."

We were a minute and a half into pounding our mochi dough when the end of Andre's mallet smacked the side of the usu for the third time, sending a loud 'clack' into the air that got heads turning. He'd missed again.

"... take a deep breath, Chef Andre. We're just here to learn," I emphasized, glancing around to realize we weren't the only ones struggling. Leroy had made pounding mochi look like a walk in the park but alas! That was no proper demonstration... it was false advertising.

"Aight then you do it." Andre scoffed, holding out the mallet. I'd expected this.

What I did not expect however, was for the red-faced chef to take a seat on a wooden bench to our left with his arms folded, staring back at me with a pointed look. I was sensible enough not to be baited into an argument with this man.

"If you insist."

Granted, several other duos had paused for a breather and placed something like a damp, heated cheese cloth over the mochi in their wooden mortar so Andre wanting to do the same should not have been very surprising either. Over at the far end of the open area however, was Leroy and Pierson hard at work.

I, for one, did not wish to produce anything less than mochi of perfect texture. Having our dessert turn out tough and gummy was a waste of high-quality ingredients; undeniably disrespectful regardless of one's intentions and expertise.

As such, I resumed the entire process on my own—pounding, reaching for a splash of hot water on the mochi dough, folding it, turning twice, and then back to the wooden mallet for another turn. My arms began to weigh an additional pound with every passing second and I was starting to genuinely doubt Leroy's existence as a normal human being.

Still, I powered through. For chewy and delectable mochi, I rest not!

This had Andre scoffing again in no time, the shake of his head plainly visible. "You stress people out, you know that?"

I paused for a moment, unable to catch his drift. "... I imagine."

"Children burst into tears just looking you in the eye, I reckon. How many you've made cry till date?"

"Children? None." I responded as quaintly as I could, returning to my task at hand; continuing to lift and pound the wooden pallet against the middle of the mochi dough whilst splashing cups of hot water down the sides of the usu. "Adults?" I looked him in the eye. "Many."

Chef Andre shuddered. "Yeah you'd be proud of that, eh."

"Moreso flattered... really," I noted the distaste in his tone of voice, recalling our very first 'pleasant' encounter as though it was yesterday. Chilled water running down my face; dripping from my hair, clinging to my lashes. "To think others would hold me in such high regard! That the objective truth I, a mere stranger, lay out, could affect anyone else is... an unimaginable honor."

Andre was back to rolling his eyes. "A sociopath. That's what you are. Or a psychopath... maybe both."

"... I see you're fond of diagnosing others and slapping labels on heads."

"Yeah, whatever—you just love judging other people. Get off it, even. Ever thought of taking a leaf out of Pierson's book?"

I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. "Chef Pierson?"

"Who else?" He shrugged. "Guy like that doesn't have it in him to disagree with anyone. Annoying, sure. But tolerable."

Andre wasn't making very much sense to me by this point; I figured it was the lack of spiteful remarks he could come up with that led to random names being picked out of his pocket for added effect—perhaps hoping jealousy and childish indignance were moods I were emotionally capable of experiencing.

Come to think of it, Andre must have noticed something this far into the program. Apart from Layla Tenner, he was the only other cast member on set who'd actually seen Leroy and myself spending time together, acquainted, in some manner, outside of work. Siegfried and Du Bellay were no doubt exceptions to said category of people, moreso 'informed externally' than, say, 'in-the-know'.

Alas, the poor man was not going to get his show of dramatic passion. In fact, I was finding this all rather amusing—a situation involving the very same person, under very similar circumstances. Only, I wasn't entirely sure if the Maple Pierson kneading mochi dough and praising his mallet-wielding-partner was doing so because he actually fancied him (after all this time) or because he could not resist the draw of attention.

It was interesting, to say the least. With Pierson's intentions unknown, I wasn't going to be jumping to conclusions and rallying the troops against him. For now... mochi!

Satisfied with the texture I was able to achieve entirely on my own, I consulted Mr. Satoshi doing his rounds and was given the green to hand my mochi dough over to his son who helped process it for the next step. Flavoring.

Chikara mochi was traditionally served at the teahouse in three different flavors: isobe (soy sauce), uguisu (sweetened soy bean powder), and kurogoma (black sesame). I picked the last option, knowing my personal preference for savory-sweet desserts. Andre went with the soy bean powder.

While the camera crew busied themselves with stills of our hard work, Mr. Satoshi and his son handed out cups of home-brewed Amazake, a warm beverage with a misleading name that consisted of two characters: 'sweet' and 'sake'.

"This is non-alcoholic drink made from fermented rice. Naturally sweet—no sugar," the interpreter explained. "Here, they like to add salt to the end of the cooking process to balance out the natural sugars of the rice."

I sipped at my beverage by the warmth of a Japanese hearth, appreciating the malt-like texture that reminded me of slow-cooked rice milk porridge. Amelia joined us on the veranda with a cup of her own, gazing out onto the garden with her eyes on something in the distance.

Curious, I followed the direction of her gaze. It was nothing incredibly intriguing, really; just Pierson going around with a tray of chikara mochi made by him and Leroy while the latter kept his distance, grilling little squares of white chewy desserts over charcoal as though they were marshmallows.

Just then, rather unexpectedly I'd say, the very subject appeared to sense my gaze on him and looked up with a disarming smile. In the matter of seconds this had happened, Pierson had seemed to notice the exchange and precipitated a series of... curious events.

He called his mochi-making partner to join him in handing out their desserts before heading straight towards Amelia, Andre and myself by the hearth.

"Please help yourselves to some," Chef Pierson held out an assortment of flavors—all three—laid out on a tray of black Japanese lacquer after a casual word of greeting. "We were having too much fun and got a little ahead of ourselves, haha... we made enough to feed the entire crew. We'd love to hear what you judges think of our mochi. Mr. Satoshi said he was amazed we were able to achieve this texture on our first go."

Amelia and I picked out a square each while cameras narrowed in on the instance of interaction, waiting for a review. Leroy had kept a distance of approximately ten feet throughout Pierson's little introduction, which altogether made for an amusing look until Chef Amelia decided to direct her notes on the tasting at him instead of Pierson.

"I'm going to have to agree with Mr. Satoshi on this one. That was some impressive pounding. And you were at it alone for some time, even after everyone else had given up! Not even your partner could quite keep up with the pace you were going at."

This was news to me. Granted, I'd stolen a glimpse of the pair every now and then whilst working at my own station with Andre and witnessed nothing of that sort but Amelia on the other hand, would have had a proper view of every pair hard at work. Either way, the producers appeared sufficiently satisfied with Amelia's comment and called for a short five-minute break.

The set was left to breathe and mingle.

Meanwhile, Leroy had not thought very much of the compliment paid and instead, had his eyes fixed on the smaller portions of mochi split between Andre and myself. "Do I get one of that?"

"If you'd like," I held out my kurogoma­-flavored portion. "I'd say we had issues with consistency but if you're lucky, you'd enjoy the soft, chewy part. Otherwise, good luck." I spared him any nonsense, having encountered an unbelievably tough portion of my own.

"Me too please!" Pierson chimed in, reaching for the portion I'd initially saved for Leroy.

"Here, have mine." Chef Amelia held up the square of mochi I'd served her earlier. "I was planning to save it for later but you seem... eager all of a sudden, so. You can have it."

"Oh... um. Thank you." He retracted awkwardly, leaving the portion on my tray alone for its intended receiver to enjoy. I waited for opinions.

Pierson was quick to compliment its sweet and savory balance but eventually left out details of the mochi's consistency (which was likely terrible, hence the lack of comments) with an overall average of three-point-five stars. Andre, upon hearing this, merely grumbled under his breath.

"How is it?" I prompted Mr. Expert-Pounder, who had his gaze fixed on the now-empty tray and cup of unfinished Amazake.

He looked me dead in the eye and said nothing. I blinked. "Leroy?"

"Salty." He said under his breath, so that I was the only one within earshot.

"... here," I handed him the half-cup of warm, sweetened beverage. "Try this."

Aside, Pierson and Andre were saying something but I'd shut everything else out and focused all my attention on the matter at hand.

Leroy downed the drink in one go. "..." He shook his head.

"Excuse us for a minute," I said to Amelia and the rest before pulling Leroy off set, detaching our mics and handing them over to the sound crew on duty. We stopped behind a row of bamboo trees. "Did something happen?"

"No," he sounded genuinely confused. "I did the dough, tasted a square of each flavor. That was it."

"In what order did you eat the flavors in?"

He thought hard. "Sesame. Soy sauce. Then the one coated in powder."

"And the sesame tasted...?"

"Sweet."

"So it's the latter two. And it's highly unlikely that you're allergic to soy sauce since it's an ingredient you've been using very often in your cooking, so it's likely... well, unless this specific recipe used by the teahouse somehow triggered a re-surfacing of your taste blockers... but at the very least, I'm sure this is temporary and has nothing to do with a relapse. You said so yourself, the sesame mochi tasted sweet." I searched his gaze and he did so in return.

"... yeah. Not panicking," he said finally, cracking a sigh. Then a smile. "Mr. White, though. Panicked a whole lo—"

"Oh be quiet." I shushed him. "Of course I would! I'll get the head wrangler to fix you some mineral water. Meanwhile, Mr. Cox, you watch everything you eat."

"Yes sir." He took my hand, squeezed it a little, and let go.

We rejoined the group we were in the middle of interacting with earlier, re-assuring a seemingly anxious Pierson and puzzled Amelia. The latter nodded slowly as I explained the possibility of an allergy, turning to the pastry chef with a look.

"Interesting coincidence... Chef Pierson was just talking about the importance of knowing one's competition while you two were away. Looks like he got exactly what he wanted." Her tone was careful. Almost wary.

Maple Pierson laughed, appearing not to notice the nuance in Amelia's voice. "It's the spirit of manifesting! Right, Andre?"

_________________

Andre did not subscribe to Pierson's supposed spirit of manifestation.

Even if he did, the evening's series of events were bound to have him losing every bit of hope he would have had in said belief. The rest of the afternoon had been spent wrapping up the shoot and travelling to our final stop; the foot of Mount Fuji. By the time we arrived in one piece at our place of accommodation—a secluded traditional Japanese inn smack in the middle of forested areas, it was way past dinner-time and all the stores were closed.

While the production crew unloaded equipment and headed straight for tomorrow's set, cast members remained completely oblivious to the chaos they were going to be put through in a couple of hours.

I'd had Leroy under close watch since the incident at the teahouse, practically drip-feeding mineral water into his bloodstream and giving his tastebuds a quick check every hour or so on the bus ride but arriving at the inn put some distance between us.

The cast, along with Chef Du Bellay and Layla who'd arrived in a separate vehicle back from their private masterclass elsewhere, were told to retire to their cozy and traditional ryoukan rooms for the evening.

This came as a pleasant surprise to many. After all, the sauna room and outdoor hot springs were available for guest use till eleven in the evening and this meant spending a much-anticipated hour relaxing in the bathhouse before bed. Director Stan announced a supposed call time of nine in the morning the next day for the episode's final challenge and with that, the seed was planted.

"You coming?" Leroy hung back as soon as cast members were dismissed.

I could not look him in the eye. "I'm sorry... there's a meeting I have to be attending. Look after Leo for me will you?"

He'd agreed without a shred of suspicion, taking my little one's carry bag and heading down the hallway to his room.

"Stan must hate life," Pao sighed as he watched the ladies pick out yukatas and bamboo slippers for wearing around the inn. "He picked the best night for a red-eye. Why? He could be enjoying in the hot spring, but no. He schedule a night shoot. Ay..."

"Look at it this way Pao," Amelia cracked open her second can of instant black coffee. "You're not the one getting into bed thinking you have eight happy hours of restful sleep before a grueling day. Not sleeping in the first place beats that feeling. You'll thank me later."

"Ay I can't be the only one. Banilla, you like night shoots? Or maybe this your first."

"I've pulled all-nighters in the past," I admitted offhandedly, recalling my time as an intern and junior writer. "Not many as a student, really—I was a strong advocate of consistency and never left exam preparations to the night before. Everyone despised me, of course. Standard high school behavior; thank goodness I moved on to culinary school."

"He's rambling." Amelia noted.

"Yes I am. I don't like not sleeping, it makes me highly uncomfortable and on edge about everything around me but I suppose that is, after all, the intended purpose of this 'surprise' pressure test. Waking the cast at two in the morning and having them assemble without a moment's notice—hence bringing chaos into the equation and adding intensity to the otherwise wholesome trip thus far, ultimately creating plotlines for potential conflict and to top it all off... Chef Carter." I sighed, checking the time. "Effectiveness at its best."