Sweet Temptations - 3. Chapter 3 - Keith

Keith’s bench is across from Hunk’s when they make tiffin. It’s a short timescale challenge, considering how many layers they are having to bake, heat, chill, and set, and Keith is very focused on kneading icing sugar into his marshmallow mixture. He can no longer touch anything without getting sticky white fingerprints everywhere, and Romelle keeps winking at him from across the tent.

In front of him, Hunk has poured a voluminous mass of golden bubbly sugar onto a sheet of greaseproof paper to cool, and returned to beating his chocolate and egg yolk mixture. Kolivan inclines his head at Keith, silently checking to see if he needs assistance from his powdered sugar mess, before moving over to Hunk’s bench. After a careful prod to ensure that the sugar is no longer the approximate temperature of the interior of a black hole, he smiles at the camera, looking characteristically hungry.

“Either that’s honeycomb, or something melted.”

Hunk rolls his eyes, takes the handle of a wooden spoon, and breaks the aerated chunk of golden sugar apart. He takes a bit and tastes it with a soft frown before smiling.

“Oh, that’s not bad actually.”

Kolivan nabs another little bit from the edge of the tray and eats it. The expression with which he regards the camera is one of indescribable pleasure. He groans.

“Viewer, I married him.”

Hunk blushes darkly, and Keith ends up with a white handprint over his mouth to stop himself from laughing and ruining the shot.

*

“This is very good tiffin, Keith.”

“Thanks. You want another piece?”

“I’d say yes, but-”

“-But you have to eat ten of the ‘whatever is it’ we are making later in the technical?” Keith supplies, watching Shiro’s expression fall.

“Yes. Precisely that. I swear I haven’t eaten an actual meal all season so far.”

“Shiro!” Keith knows it’s none of his business what his secret crush eats, because Shiro is a fully grown adult and can eat whatever he wants. And it’s not like there’s anyone to judge Keith for eating tinned peaches with a fork whilst standing over the sink. At least it’s a fruit.

“It’s hell on the workouts,” Shiro admits softly. His self-deprecating little shrug still shows off the swell of his shoulders and arms, and Keith tries very hard not to stare.

“I think you’re good.”

“Yeah?” Shiro rubs the back of his neck, then glances up to meet Keith’s eyes. Keith can feel his heart-rate climb as the other man flexes his bicep deliberately. Keith gulps, the muscle must be the width of his head. “You should join me sometime.”

“No way I’ll be able to match you for weights.”

“So, we’ll match reps then.” Shiro offers easily, and Keith feels his heart skip. This he recognises. This is flirting – not that he’s ever really tried it much before – and despite the teasing he already knows Romelle is going to put him through later, it’s totally worth it, because Keith isn’t imagining the way Shiro is looking at him.

And then he leans forward, his hand lands in the tray of icing sugar he was using to rest his marshmallow squares in, in-between cutting so that they wouldn’t stick on the bench, and the whole thing upends all over himself.

Keith is fully aware that the universe hates him, because having sticky hands was one thing, but now he is covered from head to toe with sugar, blinking through his caked lashes. Shiro’s eyebrows tilt into a frown which is either adoring or pitying.

“I’m a disaster.”

“You’re a really good baker, Keith.”

“At this moment, that hardly seems relevant.” Keith tries to huff icing sugar from his bangs, and ends up coughing into his fist as powdered sugar invades his lungs. “At least I didn’t get any on you.”

And then Shiro does something unbelievable. He steps forward, right up to Keith’s bench, and swipes two fingers across his jaw, right next to his lips. Keith forgets how to breathe as he watches Shiro dab the white sugar onto the chest of his navy henley.

“I don’t mind you getting sugar on me.”

*

“Oh my god.” Romelle’s over excited hiss is the only warning for Keith not to yelp as she yanks him off the gravel path and into the bushes. Keith ducks under a rhododendron and scowls. “Did I just hallucinate or did I just see Takashi Shirogane flirting with you, and wiping sugar off your lips?”

“It wasn’t my lips,” Keith protests, and then realises this was the exact wrong thing to say. He just gave her more ammunition.

“Keith! Fucking hell! Quick!” And just as suddenly as he was hauled into the shrubbery, Keith finds himself being pushed out again. “Go back and get him! Quickly, before he gets away!”

“Fuck- get off... Melly!” Keith twists from his friend’s grip and dances back a few paces as Romelle emerges from the flowers and their glossy foliage. “I’m not going to go back and make even more of a fool out of myself.”

“Why not?” Romelle looks completely stunned. “Did you not realise he was flirting back? Or that he looks at you like you’re one of Hunk’s pastries? The man wants to devour you Keith.”

Keith promptly sticks his fingers in his ears and screws his eyes shut, because that is a mental image he just does not need right now. He’s having a hard-enough time trying to keep his heart and his over excited libido in check as it is, without adding the thought of Shiro eating him to the menu.

“No way Romelle,” he says eventually, once the girl has crossed her arms, flipped her hair, and pouted for a full straight minute. “Give it another week or so and he’s gonna figure out there’s nothing to want but a passable smile, and then I’ll be out of the competition anyway, and it won’t matter any more.”

“Keith…”

To his relief, Romelle doesn’t press him further, but they start on the gravel path lined with espaliered lime trees, heading for the mini marquee which is set out with all the creature comforts the competitors could need in between challenges. The technical is up next and Keith is not starting with powdered sugar in his hair. He is at least thankful the camera techs had already finished filming when he and Shiro started talking, so the awful moment cannot be broadcast on national television.

It’s weird to think he’s only known Romelle and others for three weeks. They all get along really well – with the exception of Lance and Griffin who both seem to have some weird half bro-dude-flirty, half unspoken rivals thing going on – and the sense of camaraderie in the tent is palpable. Already Keith misses Kinkade’s ready smile and propensity to always have chocolate on hand to soothe whoever needed a fix. In a on-camera interview, Ulaz said they were like a family, and Keith had clenched his fist and resisted the urge to let his emotions show. He’s had a lot of practice at that – his whole life near enough – but it feels weirdly true. The others are like weird cousins and uncles he never knew about, and as Romelle bumps his shoulder upon entering the tent, Keith is aware of how glad he is to have been adopted as an on-screen sibling by her.

“You are good enough, you know,” she says as Keith stands in the mixed-use wash room, trying to wipe most of the sugar from his hair without making himself look like a drowned rat. “You could win this thing.”

Keith snorts.

“I called it in week one, Hunk’s winning it.”

“Awww, thanks buddy.” Hunk calls from the main room. The dividers in the marquee are hardly what one might call soundproof. Someone – probably Lance – makes an indignant squawk, and Keith is fairly certain he hears Pidge smack him in the arm. Just like siblings.

“You’re still really good Keith. You deserve to be here.” Romelle hands him a folding travel hairbrush from one of her many hidden pockets, and Keith drags his bangs back from his face before giving up entirely and focusing on the mess of his shirt. Taking it off and trying to shake the sugar off seems the best option. “Shiro certainly seems to think so.”

“Melly….”

“I have eyes, Keith. He was this close to kissing that sugar off your lips, I swear.”

“Who’s getting kissed?” Lotor’s silver hair and keen expression rounds the corner. His left eye is no longer twitching due to lack of caffeine, which is a relief, all things considered.

“No one. No one is getting kissed.”

Lotor frowns.

“Please don’t tell me you’re still having issues accepting your crush?”

Keith makes a noise like a dying animal. What has happened to his life? He’s never had anyone even remotely interested in him before – he shows up to work, he works hard, he gets paid, the end – but now there’s this whole group of people who care. And not just care to gossip or swap stories, but they all seem genuinely invested whether he’s happy or not. And he cares if they’re happy. It’s… weird. He’s not used to giving a crap about anyone else’s feelings.

“They nearly kissed over the tiffin,” Romelle supplies.

“We did not! I upended a tray of icing sugar over him, he probably thinks I’m a disaster – a clumsy disaster!”

“Oh, Keith.” Lotor manages to sound sincere rather than pitying when he speaks. “I mean, you are kind of a disaster, but I think he’s sort of into that.”

Keith groans.

“You could always turn up for the next challenge like that.” Nadia chips in. She’s obviously found something to stand on, and is peering over the top of the dividing wall looking over the mirror and Keith’s head. “There’s nothing in the contract which says you have to wear a shirt, and if you show up with those abs…”

“Keith has abs?”

“Several.”

“I’m just cleaning my shirt! All of you, out.”

It’s Ulaz who takes Keith shirt and examines it critically. The icing sugar is mostly faded, but there is a distinctive smear of half set marshmallow which is not going to come out without washing. Which means Keith is going to be wearing a wet shirt to the next round. Hopefully his apron will cover it.

“Lance, lend the boy a shirt, would you?”

“Oh heck no. I don’t do colours!”

Keith is unsurprised that Lance shows up to each day of the competition with outfit choices, but he’s dammed if he’s going to wear any of them. Lance’s fashion senses appears to run toward the bright and garish.

“Red is colour, Keith.” Romelle points out.

“Shh.”

“Ah ha! This one!” Lance round the corner with a plain button-down cotton shirt in his hand, the fabric a deep wine-red. “I don’t even know why I brought it with me, does nothing for my complexion- oh… you weren’t kidding about the abs.”

“Seriously?” And now Griffin is here, and there are far more people seeing Keith shirtless than he would like, and none of them are the person he wants to maybe see him shirtless.

“You said that out loud.” Hunk supplies, ever helpful.

Keith buries his head in his hands and wishes the earth would swallow him whole.

*

Upon re-entry to the tent for the technical challenge, Keith discovers that shirts with full sleeves and cuffs were not designed to bake in, and only a sharp look from Romelle stops him from ripping the sleeve has he rolls it up. It’s an extremely short challenge, only forty-five minutes to create two-dozen perfectly shaped brandy snaps filled with Chantilly cream, but the camera techs still find the time to nudge the bakers about their interactions between the challenges.

Keith near burns his fingers holding his hot brandy snaps around the oiled wooden spoon handles, and listens to Lotor waxing lyrical about his new favourite person in the world.

“He’s so skilled.” Lotor gushes, sounding proud just to be standing in the same tent as Ulaz. “Experience and time are one thing, but there’s so much stuff he just knows, and he’s pushed himself so much to keep up to date with new techniques. He really can do it all. And he’s the greatest inspiration. If my life turns out even half as good as his, I’ll be lucky.”

“You do know he’s married, right Lotor?” Keith interjects, half way through dolloping yet more of the mixture onto his hot baking sheet. It’s not worth doing more than four brandy snaps at once because they set too fast and can’t be curled.

“And have you met his husband?” Lotor sighs dreamily. “Thace is so cool, not nearly as intimidating as I thought he would be considering he’s a blacksmith. The way they look at each other is- well, everyone should be looked at like that at least once.”

“My ears are burning,” Ulaz says from across the tent, counting and sorting his lacy brandy snaps without pause.

“I think Lotor is angling for you to adopt him,” Coran informs him with a soft smile.

“Oh good. Well, he knows he’s always got a place with us if he wants it. Someone has to help him get into patisserie school after all.”

At his bench, Lotor drops a tray of half-finished brandy snaps in shock, and Keith thinks it’s nice not to be the centre of attention for once.

*

The following day brings with it the biscuit week showstopper – a gingerbread construction which must be at least thirty centimetres in height and be decorated with both chocolate and sugar work – and also brings torrential rain. They stand in the tent, several of the competitors shivering as the weather lashes down against the plastic and canvas, the sudden crack of thunder is near enough that it drowns out Coran’s introduction to the day. He’ll have to do the take again.

“It’s pretty biblical out there,” Griffin comments from the space behind Keith.

“Nice to have some drama outside the tent for a change,” Pidge snips.

Lotor arches a delicate eyebrow.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you could be referring to.”

Keith swallows his laugh, but the movement attracts Lance’s attention regardless. He’s back in his own clothes today, having washed his shirt at the hotel overnight, but it’s chilly with the rain, so he has an extra layer on too.

“What the heck is that jacket Keith? Where’s the lower half?”

Keith shoots a glare across the aisle between them.

“I have sharp knife and really good throwing skills, you wanna say that again?”

Lance just smirks, arches an eyebrow and mouths ‘look behind you’ before turning back to face front for Coran’s second take. Dreading what he’s about to encounter, Keith turns on the spot to find Shiro standing a little way from the end of his bench, the pink flush and guilty expression when he meets Keith’s gaze proves that he has indeed been spending however long he’s been standing there staring at Keith ass. Keith feels all his blood rush to either end of his body, and suddenly all the instructions and plans for his gingerbread sculpture are conveniently absent from his brain.

Neither of his remaining braincells are interested in baking. He’s so screwed.

*

The tension is high in the tent as they work on their showstoppers. It’s week six, five of their compatriots have already been dismissed, and just to make things worse, at the beginning of this five-hour challenge, Sanda announced that this week not one but two bakers will be leaving the tent.

And Keith only came in fourth during the technical, which is not good enough to keep him out of danger even if his first round went well. It’s not his fault that his religieuse were rushed and uneven. Choux pastry is a bitch, and the eggs here are a different size than he usually uses. Without the exact measurements, all his estimates were off and he had to make his pastry twice.

But he can’t focus on previous failures right now, because he needs to make the most perfect meringue in the history of meringue, in order to create macarons which have perfect texture. His showstopper relies heavily on the ability of his macarons to deliver flavour punches, and he only has to make… two hundred or so. It’ll be easy.

Keith unhooks the bowl from the stand mixer to check the consistency of his fluffy white peaks, and Romelle lifts hers up, smiling brightly toward the camera.

“Traditionally you have to hold it upside down over your head to check the consistency.”

“And if it falls out?” asks Coran.

“You get egg on your face!” Romelle shoots Keith a wink as he glares at his meringue.

He adds another spoonful of sugar and whisks again. It needs to be perfect.

“Keith would never check his meringue over his head,” Griffin mutters from his bench on the other side of the aisle. He too has both blueberry and raspberry powders on his bench and Keith can’t help but feel slightly rankled about it. “He can’t risk ruining his mullet by getting sugar in his hair… again.”

Romelle starts to say something to Griffin, but Keith grins, and glances up from his bowl of perfectly aerated stiff meringue to where Shiro is perched on one of the many observation stools. For the past four weeks, whenever he hasn’t needed to be moving around the tent, Shiro has been seated near the end of whichever bench Keith is working at. His presence now is familiar enough to make Keith feel bold.

“Hold still.”

Keith is under no illusions that the cameras are following him as he approaches the judge and flips the large glass bowl of fluffy white meringue upside down over his head. As it should the meringue doesn’t move – a little snowy mountain landscape suspended in the air – and Shiro ducks a little as he looks up at it with a critical eye. Keith rocks backwards a little on his heels, keeping the bowl still with his elbows tucked tight into his sides, the camera all but forgotten as he realises how close he is standing to Shiro. The position has practically put him between the other man’s spread knees.

Shiro reaches up with his natural hand to scoop the stiff point of the meringue up with one finger, and Keith feels his pupils dilate as Shiro pops his finger in his mouth. Their eyes meet as he sucks it off.

Keith knows he’s blushing, but Shiro has turned a very pretty shade of pink too – the exact shade Keith wants for his raspberry lemonade frosting actually. Keith bites his lip, watching the shape of Shiro’s mouth as he releases the damp but clean digit.

“Good meringue,” he murmurs softly.

Keith turns his bowl back over and cradles it against his chest, turning it into a physical barrier to stop him from simply crashing into Shiro.

The camera pans across the tent, capturing the sight of Lance and Griffin standing shoulder to shoulder, both holding bowls and whisks which they have forgotten about because they are gaping so hard at the sight before them. Kolivan and Coran are watching too, but with far less shocked expressions. Kolivan arches an eyebrow.

“I’m sure Keith won him over with his impressive wrist action,” Coran says with unabashed glee.

Kolivan frowns.

“He used the machine?”

Coran makes sure the camera is focused on him completely before he crosses is arms over his chest with deliberatly smug flamboyance.

“I said what I said.”

*

Keith’s festival of macarons is a hit with the judges. Well, it’s a hit with Shiro, and Kolivan and Coran – who don’t count but take an extra two of each macaron flavour away with them during the judging. Keith spies them nibbling away like naughty children it between takes of other baker’s final pieces. Sanda begrudgingly admits that she likes all the flavours and the presentation and the theme, but she manages to give all of her praise out in harsh, clipped tones which make the words feel like barbs instead of compliments. Keith knows she teaches pastry at the Cordon Bleu school in London, but he cannot imagine being one of her students. He knows if he had to deal with her feedback on daily basis, he’d be reduced to snarling ball of feral anger. Most of the other bakers have cried off camera, and the sight of Lotor sobbing inelegantly whilst Ulaz rubbed his back soothingly is not one which Keith will forgive her for creating.

When it’s Lance’s turn to be judged, Keith can’t help but blink in shock at the wobble of Lance’s bake. Meringue should not wobble.

“This is a temporary setback,” Lance says pointedly as they wait for the results. The judges are conferring in their private tent whilst the rest of the bakers’ drink tea. “We’re still rivals.”

“I thought you and Griffin were rivals?” Romelle chirps.

“No. I’m Keith’s rival!” Lance insists.

“I thought Griffin was Keith’s rival?” Lotor interjects. He is staring longingly into his cup, like he might be able to will the substance within into transforming into finest Dominican hand roasted coffee.

“You ought to be much less concerned about rivalries, boys.” Ulaz’s rich, calm voice is like an auditory massage, and Keith can’t help but smile. “You all did very well today.”

“Thanks, Uncle Ulaz!”

“Yeah, thanks Uncle Ulaz!”

Ulaz beams, and ruffles Lotor’s hair before he takes his seat once more.

“So, who do we think they’ll pick as star baker this week?”

“Hunk,” Keith replies instantly.

“You always say that.” Hunk flushes with embarrassment. “But thanks.”

“Allura says good luck,” Lance interjects, grinning down at his phone with a distinctly moony expression.

“You guys are still talking?” Griffin asks, with just a hint of disbelief.

“Good for you.” Keith flips the collar of his jacket up as he leans back in his chair. “At least somebody is getting lucky.”

Once again, he regrets the words the moment they leave his lips, because he feels the attention in the room swivel towards him like the sails on a ship. Keith tries, unsuccessfully, to hide behind his hair.

“Says the man who was practically crawling into Shiro’s lap. With meringue.”

“I was not.”

“You should have licked it off his finger,” Romelle suggests.

Keith groans.

“Look you lot. Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen. He’s…”

“Older,” Lance supplies.

“Sophisticated?” Hunk offers.

“Dreamy…” Lotor sighs in a false-tenor tone.

“Completely into you,” Romelle dead-pans. “Keith you are being wilfully oblivious at this point. Just grab the man by his expansive shirt front and kiss him already!”

“Guys…” Keith aches somewhere between his heart and the pit of his stomach. He isn’t stupid, he knows Shiro is flirting with him, and that they’ve been watching each other for weeks now, but it’s not like it means anything. “Baking is not enough in common to build a relationship,” he mutters.

“Worked for all of us though, right?” Hunk says kindly.

“Yeah… but.” Keith takes a deep breath, stubbornness breaking through the misery which threatens to overwhelm him. “I’m not being anyone’s fling.”

There is a beat of silence, and then all attention turns to Lance as he pockets his phone, puffs out his skinny chest and says:

“Well there ain’t no risk of that, is there?”

“Huh?”

Lance waves a hand dismissively at Keith.

“It must be something about your personality that gets Shiro all mushy and heart-eyed. I mean, Lotor is much prettier than you.”

“Thank you?” Lotor frowns, looking sideways at Lance with a perplexed expression.

“What would you know about it? You’re straight.”

“Not the point. We’re talking about Keith.”

“Are we?” Keith glowers. Somehow none of this is making him feel any better.

“Anyway, like I said. He must like Keith’s personality. I mean, I make better sponge cakes than Keith, and we already agreed that Keith’s not the prettiest guy here-”

“I didn’t agree with anything,” Lotor interjects, keeping his position firmly neutral.

“-and Shiro doesn’t react to any of the rest of us like a lovesick school boy. He likes you Keith, case closed.”

Keith crosses his arms, shrugging off Romelle’s soothing hand.

“Being the quirky foster kid with no friends only gets you so far. It’s hardly the kind of personality trait anyone wants in a boyfriend.”

“Oh, Keith…” Romelle’s voice is soft and low, not like her usually bubbly self, and Keith realises what he just said.

To his surprise, Griffin claps his hands together loudly.

“I’m sure I hear a sheep outside.” The show is shot in mixed farm and parkland, attached to a fine country estate, so it’s not impossible. “Lance, come help me check. We don’t want it stealing all your spare shirts.”

Without another word, everyone except Romelle and Lotor take their leave, and Keith digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, hiding his face in his drawn-up knees.

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling. “At least I didn’t say it in front of Shiro.”

“Keith…” Lotor slides into the seat next but one to Keith, leaving a respectful gap between them, and Keith glances over his kneecap to see the other man lean back into a refined slouch, not looking directly at him. “I know you don’t talk about yourself and your past much, but even I already know you well enough to know that’s not all there is to you.”

Keith grits his teeth before deliberately unclenching his fist and his jaw, he can feel himself wanting to give into the well-worn habit of pushing away anyone who might try and care about him. Rejection hurts less if he’s the one to do it first, after all. But these people are his friends. They care. He chews his lip before speaking again.

“You really think Shiro might like me?”

“Sweetie, you covered yourself in icing sugar and he still looked at you like you’d personally hung the stars for his enjoyment.” Romelle twirls her hair around one finger as she speaks. “And look how far your background has brought you already. Week six, and you’re not leaving on this one, that’s for sure.”

“Melly…” Keith both loves and hates the way her praise makes him feel squirmy inside.

“Your past doesn’t define you Keith.” Lotor intones his words with far more gravitas than a conversation in a tent deserves. “You can choose what you want out of life. And clearly you want Shiro.”

“Well, yeah.”

Lotor shoots him a steady glance, and Keith suddenly can’t remember if the tall, pale haired young man has ever divulged anything about his past to the room at large.

“So, what the heck are you doing still talking to us. Go take what you want from life.”

Romelle nods in agreement, but before Keith can say anything, the production assistants are calling them all back in for the results.

*

Keith wins star baker. Shiro looks smug, Sanda looks murderous, and Kolivan either doesn’t understand humour or has the greatest poker face of all time as he dishes out compliments about Keith’s ‘stiff peaks’.

Lance is all giggles until it’s his name Coran says as the one who has to leave the tent, and he and Griffin commiserate with each other when James is picked to join him in banishment.

Keith can’t admit to having bonded particularly with either of his so-called rivals, but he gives them claps on the shoulder and tells them he’ll miss them nonetheless. He’s mostly surprised to find out that it’s true.