Sweet Temptations - 5. Chapter 5 - Keith

The three finalists don’t get to go home right away, and after waving Lotor off Keith finds himself being directed back to the main tent to complete his ‘excited to be in the final’ to-camera piece, which he does whilst leaning against the canvas covered column which holds up the marquee. He is excited, for sure, but it hasn’t sunk in yet, and all Keith really wants to do is have a long shower and curl up for twelve solid hours of sleep. Or perhaps drag Shiro back to his hotel room and fuck his brains out.

He flushes at the thought, and then again when the camera tech coughs loudly, reminding him that he really should be saying something, rather than staring with open desire across the marquee at Shiro. But it’s not like he’s the only one at fault, because Shiro smirks whenever Keith catches his eye, and the way he reaches up to rub at the back of his hair – flexing his bicep – cannot be accidental.

“Have you got your list?” One of the production assistants asks, stopping by his work bench.

Keith snaps back to reality, which is disappointing considering what is playing through his imagination.

“Sorry? What list?”

“The people we need to contact and interview for your backstory piece? We have to complete the filming before the final starts next weekend.”

“Oh.” Keith deflates. He’s been dreading this question, but even this morning he didn’t actually believe that he’d reach the final. “No. I mean, there is no list.”

“Well, chop chop and get one written. Email addresses and phone numbers please Keith.”

Aware that by now, people are looking at him, Keith shuffles his feet and sticks both hands into his jacket pockets before answering.

“I don’t have anyone for you to film. Sorry.”

He winces as Sanda’s voice cuts across the tent, making him duck behind his bangs.

“Is there no one you can think of? Your parents?”

“No.”

“Friends then?” Sanda approaches his bench, and Keith slips quickly round to the other side. He needs to keep space and physical objects between them, lest he lose his temper. “A grandparent?” Keith remains silent. “There must be someone,” she demands.

Keith tracks his gaze across the room avoiding her. Romelle makes a soothing gesture, moving quickly to his side. He grabs for her hand blindly.

“Do you literally know no people?” Sanda challenges.

The acid in her voice is cut through by Shiro’s dark tone when he steps forward.

“Sanda. Leave it.”

Keith doesn’t actually hear the words Sanda spits back at her fellow judge, because his brain is playing the track of himself saying ‘I don’t have anyone’ over and over again like a terrible scratched record. Romelle squeezes his fingers, and Keith focuses on that, trying to measure his breaths, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as Sanda snips at Shiro, and he tries to placate her without resorting to physical force.

“Keith?” It’s Kolivan who pulls him out of his head, smiling gently but without pity. “Who have you been feeding all your practice bakes to Keith?”

It is finally a question Keith knows what to do with.

“Well, I try one, to test how well it went, and then the rest I take to a charity. There is a place locally to me that provides respite care to people with terminal illnesses, and their families.”

“You give it all away?” Coran clarifies, his voice full of surprised warmth.

“Yes?”

Shiro blinks at him, clearly surprised that Keith’s never mentioned this in all their interactions.

“Is that why you never bake anything with nuts, Keith?”

That Shiro has noticed makes him flush softly, and his grip on Romelle’s fingers becomes less fierce and desperate. She shakes the hand in her grasp, beaming with excitement.

“Well, yeah.” Keith shrugs, self-deprecating. “What’s the point if it doesn’t benefit as many people as possible?”

There is a welcome beat of silence, and then – like a cheese grater to the soul – Sanda picks up the original thread of the conversation. She is a dog with bone that just won’t quit.

“So, there’s not one person we can talk to about your history or your-”

“Fucking hell, Sanda!” Everyone freezes. Shiro doesn’t swear, and his tone is never that darkly angry. “Just drop it. Leave the guy alone.”

“He should-”

“The producers will work something out. That’s their job. You are not here to cross examine Keith!”

For a long moment, Sanda looks like she’s going to say something back, but then she simply takes a deep breath, sneers at Shiro, and stalks off.

“It’s been and long a stressful day,” Coran announces, seemingly apropos to nothing. “I suggest everyone goes home and gets some decent rest before they begin practising for the final. Only five days to go kids!”

Romelle keeps close to his side as they exit the tent. It’s getting late in the afternoon, and Keith prefers not to drive for three hours in the dark if he can help it. But he also doesn’t trust himself to get immediately on his bike.

“Well… that could have gone better.”

“Are you kidding?” For a big guy, Hunk sure knows how to sneak up without being heard. Keith near enough jumps clean out of his skin. “We’re finalists!”

“God… we actually are.” Romelle blinks in surprise. “How did that happen?”

Keith finds himself caught up in Hunk’s expansive hug, and for the first time, he finds he doesn’t mind so much.

“You two are excellent bakers and I’m the judge’s pet?” Keith retorts. His bad joke earns him a shake from Hunk and an eye roll from Romelle. He grins to himself.

“What do you think the technical will be?” Hunk sounds way too excited for someone who just spent four hours baking and the same amount of time being judged and interviewed.

Romelle and Keith cuff him lightly in unison.

“Can’t you think about anything else for two seconds?”

“Hey, I have the luxury of a long train ride home.” Hunk looks deeply self-satisfied. “I’m gonna practice my Danish pastry designs for next week.”

“On the train?” Keith asks in puzzlement.

Hunk grins.

“Playdoh has to be good for something! I borrowed it off my little sister.

“I am going to put off all thoughts of pastry until at least tomorrow,” Romelle declares with feeling. “And you Keith?”

“He’s gonna make heart eyes over Shiro, obviously.”

“Hey!”

Hunk arches an eyebrow.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t thinking about having him on the back of your bike right now.”

Keith can’t, and Hunk crows good-naturedly.

“Try not to spend too much time daydreaming about the silver fox, Keith!” Hunk claps them both on the back, and Keith feels like all the air was forced from his lungs. And yet Hunk can create tiny, fragile delicacies, and make it look easy. He is a conundrum. “See you in five days guys!”

*

Five days, seven batches of Danish pastries, and two full run throughs – neither of which were completed in the time – of his final showstopper later, Keith is heading back into the tent. It’s been both the longest and shortest five days of his entire life, because as usual, he’s not seen or heard from Shiro since last leaving the marquee. Whatever happens over the next two days, Keith knows that something is going to change between them.

Now, he stands at his bench – the one at the back, which is where he prefers to be – and listens as Coran talks them through the first challenge. He knows he should be making appropriate facial reactions for the cameras, but they’ve already memorized all the details of this signature bake and he’s always been crap at acting anyway. Instead he allows his eyes to slide across to Shiro.

Once again, Shiro’s entire person seems to have been specially crafted to extract maximum levels of thirst, specifically from Keith. A dove grey shirt with the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows, showing off the strong muscles of his forearm and the intricate, highly buffed plates of his prosthetic, the fabric tucked into black jeans which accentuate how fucking tiny Shiro’s waist is in relation to his broad shoulders. His silver hair looks effortlessly styled and perfectly cool, and the smile he shoots Keith has him gripping the wooden surface of his work bench with white knuckles. He will not groan aloud on national television.

“You have two and a half hours for your Danish pastries!” Coran declares. “Ready?”

“Get set.” Kolivan grins.

“BAKE!” they announce together.

Keith wastes another ten seconds staring stupidly at Shiro beaming at him, before his brain catches up with his hands and he wraps his self-control around his libido, and stuffs them both back into his pants before he makes a complete fool of himself.

Time to bake.

*

Keith would be lying if he said that he didn’t want to win. Of course, he wants to win. But competitive or not, his life flashes before his eyes as he reads the instructions given to them for their final technical challenge.

Bake a Victoria sponge filled with raspberry jam and iced with vanilla buttercream.

That’s it. He turns the paper over – again – just to check, and then whimpers at the same time as Romelle curses loudly, causing all the camera techs to groan as the shot goes out the window.

And it wouldn’t be so bad, except they have all been given the same tin to use, but they have a choice of other ingredients. Three different sizes of eggs, two different types of flour, three raising agents, three different sugars. There is butter, margarine, and a baking spread Keith really isn’t sure of at all. He feels his vision go fuzzy at the edges. It’s almost a relief Shiro isn’t here to see him panic sweat over a cake.

“Remember bakers, you only have fifty minutes on this challenge,” Kolivan reminds them.

Shit.

“Best get a move on. You OK, Keith?”

“Wondering why I ever decided to do this, to be honest.” Keith breaks three eggs into the bowl of his scales. He can do this.

“And why did you?” Kolivan leaves him space not to answer, because he is busy, and Keith feels the lack of tension. It’s his only excuse for what comes next.

“For a chance to show off to the hottest guy ever to grace a kitchen? Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Silence. Keith finishes weighing out his butter and sugar, and blinks up at the camera. The person holding it is gaping at him.

“I’m done pretending. You all have eyes. He’s hot, so sue me.” Keith turns back to his stand mixer. “Let’s bake!”

*

After the judging of the technical, Keith hugs Hunk and Romelle goodbye before they head back to the hotel, but he lingers around the outside of the marquee as the producers tidy and set up for the following day. It doesn’t take long for the others to exit, and Keith knows that Kolivan and Coran pretend not to see him deliberately. It’s like a covert blessing, and Keith is grateful. He shoves his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to pace, but in the next breath a warm, heavy hand lands on his shoulder, thumb folding the edge of his collar and creeping across the back of his neck.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Keith says, without looking around.

“Yeah, that’d be nice Keith.” The way Shiro says his name makes his spine quiver.

They walk together, inches apart, out across the vast rolling lawns to a sparse grouping of ancient trees, and Keith sits, dangling his legs over the stone wall of the ha-ha. When Shiro settles next to him, Keith has the feeling their thighs are only not touching because Shiro is keeping them deliberately half an inch apart. Keith bites his lip, leans back on one hand, and gazes at the perfectly coiffed black sheep cropping the green grass. The sunlight streams through the trees, low and gold over the landscape. Keith loves the way their elongated shadows look together.

“Last challenge of the final tomorrow,” he says. It’s not what he wants to say.

“Yeah. You’re going to do great Keith.”

“Thank you.” Keith takes a deep breath. “Shiro, after the final- OW!” Keith rubs his head, glaring up into the branches above them. Rustling between the oak leaves, a fat squirrel blinks down at him before scurrying away. “Dammit.”

Shiro scoops up the dropped acorn – still green – and cradles it in the palm of his prosthetic hand.

“You know, you can make coffee out of acorns,” he says conversationally.

“Really? Do you think we should have made some for Lotor?” That earns him a snorted laugh, and Keith grins. “Seriously though, is it anything like coffee?”

“Apparently it sucks slightly less than just boiled water?” Shiro shrugs, then lobs the acorn out into the field. “Maybe it will grow a new tree – if the sheep don’t eat it that is.”

“Maybe…” Keith bites his lip and resists the urge to close the scant half-inch of space between their bodies by leaning into Shiro. “Do you like coffee, Shiro?”

“I prefer tea.” Shiro turns, the way he leans back echoing Keith’s own pose, and Keith tracks the way his throat moves when he swallows, following the bob of his adam’s apple before resting in the hollow of his clavicle. He wants to reach out and touch, or kiss, or drink up all of Shiro’s scent and textures and never ever let him go. “But I have this feeling that’s not what you were asking me?”

“Shiro…”

“Keith.”

There doesn’t seems to be any reason why either of them has spoken, except that Keith can’t think of any word better than the other man’s name; and there’s nothing he wants more in his mouth right now than some part of Shiro, even if it’s only this. Shiro’s lips turn up in a smile – not a camera smile – but something small and soft and just for Keith, and Keith feels himself blush. Shiro drags the tip of his pink tongue over the soft pillow of his lower lip, and Keith is certain his internal temperature rises by a measurable number of degrees.

“Shiro, I-”

“You’re so pretty Keith.”

Keith swears his vision goes blurry for a moment as all the blood in his body rushes south. His jeans feel tight.

“God, Shiro. You can’t just say things like that.”

“You don’t want me to tell you you’re pretty?” Shiro asks, feigning total innocence.

It might have worked, maybe, if Keith couldn’t see the way Shiro is looking at him, his grey gaze raking up and down Keith’s body as he grins. Keith takes the opportunity to look as well, and discovers that Shiro definitely tucks left, and that he is as broad and gifted between the thighs as he is everywhere else.

“Fuck.”

“Mmmm…” Shiro flexes, long legs stretching out for a moment, thighs spreading just a fraction but maintaining the unspoken no-body-contact policy between them. “Yes, please.”

Keith is sure he knows some words in the English language. He’s certain of that fact. He can speak and read and write and everything. Despite this, all that comes out of his mouth now is a strangled;

“Hnnnngh!” And then he swallows his own tongue.

Keith dares to glance over again, and Shiro preens, chest puffed out and straining against the three little buttons of his Henley. Keith has never wanted to jump anyone more in his entire life. Shiro is a jerk, and he knows exactly what he is doing. Keith takes a breath, and decides that the international star of modern baking can take it just as good as he gives it.

“The sunset is nice.” He fights to keep his voice level, nonchalant. “You look really good like that, Shiro.”

“Yeah?” Shiro obviously attempts to sound cocky, but the blush across his cheeks is telling, and Keith realises that he’s not the only one bad at taking praise.

“Yeah. Bet you’re going to look even better by moonlight.”

“Keith…”

“You’re a big guy.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Bet your bed is huge.”

Shiro’s eyes go dark with the dilation of his pupils.

“Keith…”

Keith smirks, holding Shiro’s gaze as he drags his tongue across the sharp edge of his teeth.

“I wonder how strong it is.”

“Ungh-!”

Keith exhales, long and slow, and rests his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, watching the sunset, giving Shiro time to recover. He knows that when they stand up, neither of their outfits are going to fully cover their arousal.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Shiro’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder once more. It’s the safe touch, the one which feels familiar, and though Keith wants to lean into him, he resists.

“You’ve got something special planned?” Shiro asks, eyes sparkling in the gold light of the sinking sun.

“Heck yeah. Get ready, Takashi. I’m gonna blow you away.”

*

The final three bakers have five hours to produce a picnic hamper each, filled to the brim with their choice of savoury and sweet bakes, including at least one kind of bread, pastry, and centrepiece cake. Four the first half hour, the three of them work like maniacs, and the hosts, judges, and camera techs leave them alone to work and weigh things out. By the time they make it around to Keith, he is mixing up the batter for his chilli and chocolate cake almost without having to look at it.

“Well Keith, this all looks lovely.” Coran makes an expansive gesture and the camera lens follows the array of ingredients on Keith’s bench. “And do I detect a theme here?”

“You do.” Keith grins, because the fastest possible glance at Shiro shows him that the other man is standing just a little too close to be considered polite in company, and the heat radiating from him produces a welcome, answering sensation in the pit of Keith’s stomach. He turns his attention back to Kolivan. “Before he died, my dad used to take me for these great long hikes out into the countryside. And these weren’t ‘stuff a protein bar and some trail mix in your pocket style hikes’, oh no. Dad used to bring a little camp stove and a pan, and we’d heat up rocks we found to fry our flatbreads on, and he’d make us build-your-own tacos. We’d sit on the ground overlooking whatever view we’d hiked to, and eat all the ingredients he’d brought – so that the pack was lighter on the walk home.”

“That’s a lovely memory, Keith.” Coran sounds genuinely a little teary. “So, fancy tacos for your dad, and what else will you be treating us to?”

“It’s a sunset picnic.” Keith scrapes his finely diced and de-seeded chilli into the bowl of his mixer before beginning to beat in the rest of the flour. On the stove, the cream for his ganache steams gently. “There’s the tacos and the cake, custard tarts, strawberry shortcake – because what is a good picnic without strawberries? - and goats cheese and rosemary buns with herby butter.”

“That’s two types of bread.” Kolivan points out, having sidled over to join them.

“Yes. And there’s a surprise inside the cake.”

“What kind of surprise?”

Keith smirks openly.

“If I tell you, then it’s not a surprise, is it?”

Coran nods sagely, but quirks his bushy moustache as he taps his chin.

“But why ‘sunsets’?”

Keith stops his myriad of tasks long enough to give Shiro a knowing look, and the judge blushes hard, his gaze sliding to the floor.

“Oh, no reason,” Keith says lightly. “Sunsets are just really nice. Everyone looks their best at sunset.”

*

Even before the judging, Keith knows he isn’t going to win. Everything is finished – and fully cooked thanks to whatever deity of baked goods resides in the tent – but the only thing which looks near professional is the main cake and the tacos. Romelle’s spring time hamper is a delight of colours and textures, and Keith feels like crying when Shiro presses a finger into the dough of her chocolate studded brioche and tells her sadly that it is raw.

But Hunk’s coconut supreme is a marvel. Keith knows just by looking, and then he, Romelle and Kolivan all nibble greedily and with increasingly loud noises of pleasure at Hunk’s leftovers, whilst the judges do their thing. With quiet, skilful determination, Hunk has married the traditional Samoan flavours of his childhood with British picnic classics and Keith wants to continue eating his mackerel and coconut not-sausage rolls until he bursts.

When it’s his turn to be judged, Keith braces himself for Sanda’s cutting remarks as he places his cake stand down upon the gingham alter.

“You promised us a surprise.” Shiro picks up the shiny cake knife. “Any last words?”

“Dare you.”

Shiro nostrils flare, his jaw tight, and Keith knows the man is keeping himself from replying with an even more flirtatious comeback. Instead, he angles the blade and slices the cake clean in half. Upon pulling it away, Keith breathes a sigh of relief that his surprise actually worked, and somewhere behind him, Romelle sighs in a swoony kind of manner.

“Oh, Keith…”

There is a bright red cherry sponge heart sitting proudly in the centre of the cake, the layers of chilli chocolate sponge and chocolate ganache cut and shaped to fit around it. Shiro looks dumbstruck, his cheeks and the tips of his ears as red as the cake, and Keith preens.

“Surprise.”

After the tasting, the three of them load up with their hampers, and – trailed by a production assistant who carries what they can’t – they head out of the tent and onto the main lawns to great the great British summer picnic which has been organised for the final. Each finalist has a table for their friends and family, and Romelle’s parents and small dog rise noisily and eagerly to greet her as she holds her spring fruits cake - decorated with edible flowers and candied violets – aloft.

Keith turns to his table, because all the food in his arms is heavy, expecting to see it empty. But it is not.

“KEITH!”

All the other previous bakers – who Keith knows are invited to the event anyway – have abandoned their plus ones, their children, and their pets, to assemble at his table, each with wide arms and ready smiles. Whilst he stands there, swaying with the shock, Romelle and Hunk – now freed of their picnic hampers – come up beside him to hold him up.

“Surprise,” Romelle whispers in his ear, kissing his cheek.

“Wha-”

“I think we make a pretty good stand-in family,” Lance is busy congratulating himself and everyone else and Keith finds that he doesn’t mind one bit. “Ulaz can be father-”

“No thank you!”

“-and pour the tea. Keith, feed us!”

And Keith can’t do anything other than comply, and laugh. As everyone digs into his tacos, praise is groaned around full mouths, and his cheeks ache from the width of his smile.

*

It’s a full hour later before Coran, Kolivan, Shiro and Sanda emerge from the marquee, having no doubt judged and deliberated and quite probably argued before deciding upon a result. Keith and the others have had to do their ‘how would I feel if I won’ pieces for the camera, and Keith has actually gotten to try all the things he made before spending most of his time shaking hands and being hugged as the other bakers introduce him to their families. Without exception, each one of them greets him like a long lost relative, finally returning home.

The other bakers line up behind them, a little crescent of support and adoration, and Keith doesn’t miss how close Lance and Allura stand, as Romelle, Hunk, and himself step forwards at Kolivan’s behest.

“Ten weeks, thirty gruelling challenges, more baked goods than even I could possibly eat-” This gets a chuckle from the crowd. “But you have made it, and baked your hearts out, all the way to the final. I am so proud of you all, and you should be proud of yourselves.”

Keith smiles, and each of them takes a deep breath. Keith knows it’s not him, but his heart bangs about against his ribs like crazy regardless.

“The winner, of this year’s competition is-” There is a pause, the bit where Keith knows the camera will cut to and from his face, Romelle’s, Hunk’s, and their hands clasped to each other tightly. “HUNK!”

The crowd explodes, Hunk falls to his knees, dragging Romelle and Keith with him, and the pair of them wrap their arms around the big guy just before all the others come crashing down over them with celebratory affection. Hunk is hyperventilating with joy in his ear, and Keith finds his face, meets his soft brown eyes and grins.

“Yes Hunk, you won!”

It takes a little while for everyone to sort themselves out enough to allow the finalists to stand up again, and then it’s fresh round of hugs and cheers and Hunk crying all over again as they are presented with bouquets of flowers bigger than Keith’s torso. Hunk clasps his bouquet in one hand, the beautiful cut glass cake trophy of the competition in the other, and sobs his way through his thanks and joy and disbelief at having won. Keith smiles, but he doesn’t miss the way a tall, handsome man sidles up to him.

“The right man won,” Keith says, and feels not the slightest hint of disappointment that it wasn’t him.

“Yeah, the right person definitely won.” Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder, then cups the back of his neck, and Keith turns to look up at Shiro’s bright eyed smile. “And I quit.”

And all of a sudden, Keith’s world is tilting on its axis as Shiro’s other hand curves around his hip, and he grasps the other man by both jacket lapels as he is dipped. Their mouths slot together, and Keith moans into the kiss, all the other good things he’s ever tasted forgotten under the sweet, warm, perfect pressure of Shiro kissing him. Somewhere, someone – probably Lance – whoops and hollers, people clap and gasp, and Keith knows there are at least three cameras point at him right now. He resists the urge to give them all the finger – but only because there are small children present.

When Shiro sets him back on his feet, he doesn’t step back or let go and neither does Keith.

“I quit,” Shiro repeats.

“I heard.”

“Fuck, you taste amazing.”

Keith grins, and hauls Shiro lips down to his once more.

“Heck yeah I do.”

Their second kiss is disrupted by Hunk and Romelle – who have abandoned their trophies and flowers – crashing into them with hugs and shrieks of delight.

“YES!”

“FINALLY!”

And-

“Yes Keith, get in there!” Which might have been Kinkade or Griffin or possibly both.

This time Keith does give them the finger, but he’s laughing too, and Shiro is holding his face and kissing him and Keith’s bouquet is somewhere under his feet and he absolutely does not care. They do not break apart until they’re both short of breath and panting for air.

“So,” Keith manages between huffs, “you liked the cake then?”

“You brat.”

Keith growls, and yanks Shiro’s hips flush to his own.

“Say that again, big guy. I’m stronger than I look.”

Shiro flushes, eyes wide. It sets Keith’s heart alight in his chest.

“Care to come for a ride, pretty boy?”

Shiro nods enthusiastically, but when Keith tugs his hand, he frowns, still blushing

“Now?”

“On the bike,” Keith explains, loving the way Shiro actually manages to look even more embarrassed by this explanation. “How do you think I got here?”

They make it to Keith’s bike eventually, pausing to allow each other to indulge in as many kisses as is feasible. Keith jerks his thumb at the shiny red Honda in the parking lot.

“On you get, big guy. And maybe later I'll give you a ride on something even better.”

Neither of them look back.