Sweet Temptations - 4. Chapter 4 - Shiro

It’s the quarter-finals, and it’s pastry week. The tent looks suddenly sparse with only five competitors left. Five little colourful spots, vastly outweighed by the camera techs, production team members, and other staff on the show.

And yet the atmosphere is still light – serious but not stressed – and the bakers laugh and joke with each other as they get started on their savoury pies. These are for picnics and all to be eaten cold, and the only stipulation they have been given is that they must be family sized and use hot water crust pastry. It’s a good test of skill, and Shiro is looking forward to the tasting already.

“Thinking with your stomach again, Shiro?” Coran asks as he plops into the seat beside him.

“Always.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true.” Coran’s moustache twitches with mirth.

“Don’t… we made it through the last two weeks without incident, didn’t we?”

“And what about all the things the camera didn’t see?”

Shiro knows that he has no ability to school his expression at all, and that all his emotions flow across his face when Coran speaks. He tries to cover his hot blush by sipping his tea.

The truth is, things have been going great between him and Keith. Their interactions are still limited to the weekends on which they shoot the competition, but Keith somehow finds the time to see him before each round – except the technical which might seem suspicious – and he hangs about afterwards as well. True to form, they have not actually eaten a meal together yet, but have shared scraps of things left over from the bakes and things filched from the catering tent. After the week when Pidge was sent home, they shared a slice of passion fruit and orange cake before Keith helped him box everything up for delivery to the orphanage. Keith had looked deeply impressed when Shiro had told him where the food was headed, and Shiro had blushed for an hour or so.

Shiro’s a cook, he loves praise, but for some reason praise from Keith makes him want to spend his entire time trying to tease out another elusive little smile from Keith’s lips. When he’s with Keith, he feels more himself, than at any point during the filming of any of the previous seasons.

“You’re blushing again.”

“Am not.”

He is, because he’s thinking of the way Keith had asked to walk with him out to the line of taxis which deliver them back to their hotel in town, and how they had bumped shoulders all the way down the driveway. Keith had suggested they share a cab, and Shiro had vibrated the whole way there, all his attention fixated on the scant half inch of space between their hands on the centre seat. He had wanted to close that distance more than anything, but Shiro can’t deny that the dance is fun too.

From the wicked smile Keith shot him before stepping into the hotel elevator, he feels the same way.

“Go do your job,” Coran prompts. “The producers need shots of you circumnavigating the entire tent.”

Shiro might be sinking very fast into being in love with Keith, but he’s still a professional with a job to do – at least for now. There were more emails and potential contracts from the new network during the week, and Shiro isn’t impressed with the offer he’s been made. It’s not the money – it never has been, no one gets into the food business to get rich – but the various social intrusions he’s uncomfortable with. However the new network tries to frame it, there are things they want to do which don’t feel ethical to Shiro.

He circles around to where Kolivan is chatting with Keith, as Keith works on his hot water crust pastry. He presses it into the deeply fluted sides of his antique tin with slim, nimble fingers. Shiro would forgo all his favourite foods to find out what Keiths fingers feel like against his skin. He becomes aware that Kolivan is speaking to him, and that there are cameras rolling.

“Sorry?”

Kolivan smiles dangerously.

“So Shiro, what, in your opinion, constitutes a good stuffing?”

Shiro’s eyes go wide, his face turns the approximate colour of Keith’s t-shirt, and Keith becomes a statue.

Behind them, Lotor snorts tea out of his nose, and the camera tech has to call cut on the shot. Shiro hurries away before Kolivan can repeat his joke.

*

“Five minutes left, bakers!” Coran calls from the front of the marquee. He turns to the camera and point to his chest, where there is a deliberate and distinctive hand print in white flour directly over his breast pocket.

It is Romelle who looks up from her pie and snorts in the most unladylike manner anyone has ever heard.

By the time the chime goes for the end of the round, everyone is fighting back fits of infectious giggles. It’s wonderful.

*

They are ten minutes into the last challenge of the quarter-final, three varieties of petit-four and twelve of each variety per competitor. Shiro isn’t even pretending to walk about the tent at the moment, simply standing with one hip leaning against the far end of Keith’s bench whilst the young man begins to roll out his pastry dough. He is remarkably quick in getting the shortcrust together – and this isn’t the first time he’s made it for them, though this version is enriched with egg yolk to encase his bite-size fruit tartlets – but today Keith appears to be having problems.

He grunts something unintelligible which sounds rather like how an alien would swear, and drops his pastry back onto the bench with a scowl before taking up his scraper. He really can’t afford to roll it out again after this, or the gluten will be overworked and the pastry tough.

Yesterday, it had taken him the longest time to recover from the myriad of mental images Kolivan’s stuffing question had flooded him with, blushing every time he even thought about looking at Keith. His wonderful picnic pie had been rather overshadowed by the knowing looks Coran kept giving him from just off camera as he tasted it. Shiro had wanted to hide away forever.

And after the camera techs had gone and the bakers were being shepherded out for the interviews, Keith had caught him alone, tilted his head to one side and grinned smugly as he’d asked.

‘So Takashi, do you like a good stuffing?’

And Shiro had practically swallowed his own tongue.

Now though, the stressed looking boy in front of him bears only a passing resemblance to that cocky and suave creature who looked as though he’d wanted to eat Shiro alive. Keith glares at his pastry, and then narrowly avoids swearing as the dough rips once more when he tries to lift the sheet in order to turn it ninety degrees once more. The whole ‘rotate your pastry so it’s square’ is such a myth, and now because Ulaz patiently explained it to the camera, the entire nation will know the reason for the turning is to avoid stretching the gluten strands too far in any one direction. But that won’t matter to Keith at all if his pastry keeps tearing in his hands. Keith sighs heavily, rubbing sticky pastry bits from his fingers.

“You OK, Keith?” Shiro keeps his voice soft and low, hoping not the attract the attention of the cameras.

“It just… keeps sticking. Ergh!”

“Let me see.” Shiro can tell Keith wants to give into his tendency to doubt every single one of his skills, and Shiro would rather derail that negative train of thought as quickly as possible. Instead, he reaches out and takes both of Keith’s hands in his own.

Keith’s fingers are long and slender, his skin soft – tacky with pastry dough – but there are little callouses on the underside of his knuckles and the base of his fingers which speak of skill and the ability to carry his own weight. His hands are small in Shiro’s though, and Shiro’s fingertips brush against the thin skin of Keith’s wrists, cradling the boy’s palms against his own. And Keith is warm – firebrand hot everywhere they touch – and Shiro knows that’s his problem right now.

“Yes, your hands are very warm. And pastry likes cold hands.”

“Cold hands, warm heart,” Ulaz intones softly from his bench. “That’s just what my grandmama always sa-”

But Shiro doesn’t hear the rest of what is said, because Keith is looking directly at him, and Shiro has already fallen deep into those nebula studded eyes. The boy is like a gateway to another universe, one in which Shiro isn’t only defined by the highlights of his baking career, his accident, and the nicknames his prematurely grey hair gives him. Shiro wants to let Keith pull him through and live in the other reality.

Keith smiles softly, one corner of his lips quirking upward, and Shiro finds himself echoing the gesture, everything in the corners of his vision going out of focus as he focuses only upon Keith. He licks his lips, hyper aware of the way Keith eyes flicker to follow the movement of his tongue, and Shiro feels the blush begin to spread across his cheeks.

A cough distracts him for a moment, but he doesn’t move. Keith is far too pretty to ever want to move away from him. But then Keith starts to turn pink too, lower lip caught by his teeth, the flesh blanching under the pressure. The sight makes lust pool deep in Shiro’s belly, because it is suddenly very easy to imagine Keith doing that whilst they touch in other places, instead of just their hands.

Their hands…

Oh gods! He is still standing in the tent holding Keith’s hands for absolutely no reason. And – a super quick flick up confirms – everyone and all the cameras are watching as the two of them stand six inches apart, blushing softly and smiling at each other. Neither of them has said anything in long enough for it to be super awkward for anyone observing, and of course, the whole country may as well be watching. Shiro wonders if there’s anyway all of this footage might just end up on the cutting room floor.

“The clock is ticking people!” Kolivan says in an unnecessarily loud voice, and Shiro and Keith break apart as though electrocuted.

Keith looks down at his sticky hands as though unsure what he’s supposed to do with them.

“I guess I’d better make more pastry…?”

“Yeah.” Shiro forces himself to speak normally and without gasping. It’s hard work. “Good plan, Keith.” It takes all his self-control to walk away and head towards the table where the presenters refreshments are situated. He gulps water from a bottle like a dying man.

“Thirsty?” Coran asks offhandedly.

Shiro very nearly chokes, and Coran has to go change his wet shirt.

*

It’s late.

Shiro knows full well that he should not be up at an hour extremely close to being tomorrow, sitting at the hotel bar with a thick, chilled tumbler, swirling two fingers of single match scotch around. Tomorrow they start two whole days of filming the semi-finals, and it’s going to be hard work. Mostly it’ll be hard for the bakers, but after the way he and Sanda had snapped at each other the previous week over who should go, Shiro knows that making sure the right three people get into the final isn’t going to be a piece of cake. And it’s not just that he has his favourite – he does and refuses to pretend otherwise – but he won’t let Sanda sabotage a young man’s hopes just because he gets on her nerves for no good reason. Sanda has wanted Keith off the show every week from the bread episode onwards, and each time he openly excels, her comments become more and more barbed.

At least that’s not something Shiro will have to worry about after this season finishes.

When the production company said they were signing over the show to another network, the four of them – Sanda, Coran, Kolivan and himself – had agreed instantly that if they followed the season to its new home, they would only do so together and only if all their requirements were met. For Kolivan, he wanted to ensure the show would continue its drive toward diversity of contestants and bringing good representation of other culture’s foods into the show. Coran is very vocal about the educational aspects of the show, especially the little side films which are cut into the main segments between rounds. Sanda said she wanted to ensure that the quality of the baking remained high so that the food did not become about style and visuals over the substance of flavour and texture. And Shiro’s main concern has always been doing good in the larger picture; nurturing new talent, bringing people on who demonstrate a love of baking, and sharing their skills with the world at large. Since the initial meeting, the new network have done their utmost to divide and conquer each presenter and judge individually.

And this week they have succeeded.

Sanda has signed on with the new network, and Shiro knows he’s not going to do the same. The terms offered to him aren’t right, and the new network is far more interested in exposition than education, and ethics doesn’t seem to be a word they’ve heard of. Whatever else happens, this will be the last season Shiro works on.

But it’s not just that. He’ll get to see Keith again tomorrow, which means it’s been a whole week since Shiro saw him, and he misses the boy’s sly little smiles like Lotor misses coffee – viscerally. Shiro takes another sip of his whiskey and thinks that he and Keith really need to have a conversation about this dance they are doing.

“Well, hey there Hotshot.”

Shiro swallows too soon and the alcohol burns its way down his throat. He coughs and splutters in the most undignified manner.

Keith is leaning against the bar next to him, elbows resting on the marble surface, long fingers poking out from his fingerless gloves, each line of his body accentuated by his tight black jeans and cropped red and white leather jacket. There is a deep red bandana looped around his throat like he’s just tugged it down from his face, and his hair is gently ruffled, bangs falling around his eyes.

Shiro stares.

“Earth to Shiro? Or are we only receiving signals from outer space today?”

Shiro swallows audibly.

“Keith…”

“Good evening. Or should I say morning? Fuck it’s late. What are you still doing up?”

“I…” Shiro can’t tear his eyes away from Keith, and the words he wants to say – you’re beautiful, I’m so glad to see you, I missed you so much this week that it aches inside – stick in his throat as Keith takes the cold glass from his hands and sips. When he lowers it, the whiskey looks good on his lip.

“Thanks.”

“Hey…” Shiro takes his drink back, and absolutely doesn’t miss the way Keith’s hand lingers, fingers stroking his own. The nano sensors under the polymer exoskin are pretty good, and it feels like tiny sparks running through his brain in the very best way. “Hold up, what are you doing here so late?”

“I only just got in. Had a job run late at the garage and I couldn’t get away.”

“They wouldn’t let you leave early?” Shiro frowns, ready to attack anyone who would cause Keith additional stress when he is trying so hard to be successful at something he loves.

“Oh, no… we had a long term customer come in, and I always do his cars. I was just waiting on a part is all. It’s fine, Shiro.”

Shiro narrows his eyes.

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Keith’s elbow knocks against his as he sits down, and Shiro can’t help but fixate on the tiny distance between their bodies. “You can be my guard dog some other time.”

Keith winks. Shiro’s mouth is like the desert and all his blood heads south.

“Seriously though, can’t sleep?”

Shiro takes a swig of his drink, and decides he needs to give and good as he gets in this eternal cat and mouse game they’re playing.

“Why, you offering to help with that, too?”

This time, he gets to watch Keith blush, a plummy kind of pink-lilac colour staining his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Keith turns on his barstool, and Shiro feels physically hot as Keith rakes him with his beautiful galaxy eyes. Shiro is not above putting his best foot forward, so he turns too, spreading his knees just a little, arching his spine and flexing the arm which rests on the bar still. He knows he looks good, even if all anyone wants to talk about is his hair and his arm and the accident.

“Fuck…” Keith says with feeling. “Takashi...”

Shiro abandons his glass, letting his hands rest on the bar between them. Keith’s fingers find his instantly, stroking the crease of his palm as though trying to divine his future.

And just as Shiro is getting fully lost in Keith’s soft, private smile, the barman calls for last orders, and turns the backlights off behind the bar, and Keith jolts away from his touch as though burnt.

“So Shiro-”

Shiro hates to, but he cuts Keith off with a small shake of his head.

“I can’t.”

“Oh.” Keith looks and sounds completely crestfallen, and Shiro snatches up his hand again, squeezing tight.

“I want to. Fuck. I mean- I really want to know what you were going to say, and I really want to spend more time with you, and… and do a bunch of other things. But I can’t. Not whilst you’re still a competitor.”

“Oh. I mean- yeah.” Keith bites his lower lip, the motion both sweetly sad and also deeply arousing, and Shiro only realises the noise he’s made when Keith’s eyes flash up to his, wide with shock and joy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yes… Keith.”

Keith makes a noise which is akin to a purr.

“You’re going to do great this week,” Shiro assures him with another squeeze of Keith’s fingers. He needs to get his head back into his role as a judge of a national baking competition, because otherwise he’s going to do something stupid. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

“You don’t want me to tank it?” There is a note of challenge in Keith’s tone which makes Shiro shiver bodily.

“No. I want you to prove how good you are to everyone else. I know it already.”

“You do, do you?”

“Keith…”

Keith squeezes his fingers in return before slipping free of Shiro’s grasp and stepping back.

“Save your praise for the tent, or leaving here is going to be… even more difficult.”

If Shiro didn’t know any better, he would say that the young man before him is doing everything he can to avoid saying or thinking the word ‘hard’.

“See you tomorrow, Shiro.”

Shiro waits until Keith is on his feet again, then drains his drink.

“You’re going to do great things, Keith.”

The boy smirks.

“Only if you’re watching.”

Shiro takes this as an instruction, and follows Keith with his eyes, forcing himself to stay in his seat. It’s only when he sees the boy scoop up a black motorbike helmet with a red star splashed across the skull and a flame tinted visor, that he realises Keith must ride here.

The image of Keith in leather astride a motorbike does not allow him to sleep.

*

The showstopper challenge for the semi-final is one Shiro has been looking forward to. A themed gateau, and when Shiro listened to Keith explaining his idea, he had actually needed a moment compose himself from the excitement. Sanda thinks it will be a mess, that the boy has given himself far too much to do in four hours, but Shiro has faith in Keith and his abilities.

And he’s right to.

Because what Keith brings to the judging table with a flourish, is not just a gateau, but a mirror glazed entremet, accentuated with a spun sugar planet complete with rings which appear to float in in front of him, describing their orbital paths around the cake. The mirror glaze is set to a perfect high shine, which would be stunning all by itself, but Keith has somehow blended the deepest indigo, purples and softest pink as if they are watercolours, and flecked the cake with speckles of gold and white like the stars. Shiro is sure he can make out several constellations across the surface.

“Great patisserie should be something you eat with your eyes,” Kolivan intones, staring at the gateau.

“Shapely,” Coran adds with a smirk. “Inviting. Something which says ‘devour me’ in anyone’s language.”

“In a word… that.” Kolivan takes a step closer to the table, fork in hand. “I want it.”

“Wait your turn,” Keith retorts with a smile. “Judges first.”

“Keith… that looks amazing.” Shiro says with a long exhale. He can hardly believe he’s looking at a cake produced by an amateur baker.

“Well I suppose we’d better see what’s inside,” Sanda sighs, as though resigned to disaster.

The entremet cuts like a dream under Shiro’s knife, and he removes a perfect wedge slice displaying four pristine layers, encased in a thin even coating of faintly pink buttercream beneath the galaxy mirror shine. He switches for his fork, combing the tines across each textured layer before taking a bite.

There is a thin layer of zingy lemon sponge, a thick, beautifully smooth raspberry bavarois, then a vibrantly yellow layer of lemon gel – like a palette cleanser within the dessert – and then a textural delight of sweet white chocolate and creamy macadamia blondie to balance out the sharpness of the fruits. It is the best thing Shiro has put in his mouth in some years.

He stops, lays down his fork, and looks straight across the table at Keith.

“You’re amazing.” There is no time now to be coy and play it safe. The boy needs to know how talented he is. “You’re an incredible baker Keith. This is stunning.”

Keith blushes, pink and lavender purple like his galaxy glaze.

“Thank you?”

“I mean it. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Sanda has stopped to glare at him, and on his other side, Kolivan elbows Shiro in the ribs muttering.

“Cool it, Shiro. Breathe.”

But Shiro doesn’t care about the cameras, or the attention, or anything else much beside the shape of Keith trying to accept his praise whilst blushing furiously. He uses his fork to cut another bite from the cake slice, scooping up each perfect layer before holding it out across the table for Keith.

“You should try it, then you’ll believe me.”

Someone at the back of the tent mutters ‘oh no’, but Keith’s eyes fix on his as he leans forward, mouth open, a hint of his pink tongue flickering out as he accepts the fork Shiro is offering to him. For Shiro, nothing exists outside of the moment where Keith’s lips press together and an expression of bliss passes across his features. Shiro wants Keith to look at him like that.

“Oh my fucking god, Shiro. Get a hold of your verbal filter!” Kolivan hisses.

“Cut!” One of the production assistants looks pissed. “You know better than to swear by now.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Never mind. Let’s do a bit to camera whilst Keith takes his cake back to his bench.”

As much as he wants to keep his eyes on Keith, Shiro knows how to reframe his position, focus on the lens – make up for whatever the heck he just said – and speak to the viewer.

“Honestly, that cake really is as delicious on the inside as it is stunning on the outside. A masterpiece.”

“The space theme isn’t too tacky?”

Shiro knows better than to answer directly, after all, the questions are always cut from the segment, and he needs his statements need to be fully encapsulated.

“People always seem to think that a themed dessert is also a novelty dessert, and that they are childish and simple. Keith’s entremet is exactly the opposite of that. A dessert for adults.”

“And where would you serve such a thing? A wedding perhaps?”

Shiro allows himself to glance at the cake – back on Keith’s bench – before focusing on the camera and the question.

“Yes. Yes- sorry.” He pauses, and starts again. “Though it could be eaten in any number of luxurious settings, I really do think Keith’s bake would make a wonderful alternative wedding cake to the traditional tiered design. If I wanted a wedding cake… if I wanted to get married, I’d have Keith-”

There is a clatter as Coran drops the fork he was holding, and Shiro’s brain catches up with his mouth.

“-I mean I’d have Keith's cake! The cake. I’d want a cake like that at my wedding!”

Shiro can feel the way the camera pans and zooms over his shoulder, and he turns in time to see Romelle rolling her eyes.

“The cake?” she murmurs. “Riiiight.”

Coran and Kolivan are both staring, wide eyed, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Keith is nowhere to be seen, and just as Shiro is getting worried, Hunk bends over by Keith’s bench, looking concerned.

“Hey buddy. You OK? You want a paper bag to calm your breathing?”

Great. Shiro’s just made the boy he definitely knows that he’s probably falling in love with, hyperventilate in the kitchen. He hides behind his prosthetic hand, gripping his temples in despair. Beside him, Sanda exhales loudly and with distinct aggravation.

“Absolutely no professionalism at all. I can’t believe I have to put up with this nonsense.”

Keith appears from behind his bench, and what Shiro can see of his face from hiding behind his hair, he is crimson like Lotor’s beetroot red velvet cake. Shiro makes a noise of pain, wondering how Keith will ever forgive him for such an overstep of boundaries.

“I am a Cordon Bleu chef, dammit. Is this what my career has really come to?” Sanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t expect me to babysit you next season, Shirogane.”

Shiro bristles. Even after four years the woman can’t pronounce his name correctly.

Thankfully, the camera techs decide they’ve got everything they want, and Shiro, Coran, Kolivan, and Sanda retire to their private tent, where they will do a recorded conversation about who should stay and who should go. Coran has got his features back under control by the time they sit down, so he starts.

“So, who is in the danger zone this week?”

“Keith,” Sanda says instantly.

Shiro gapes at her.

“On what grounds?”

“An entremet is not a cake.”

Before Shiro can leap down her throat, Kolivan coughs pointedly into his fist.

“He had a sponge layer, icing, glazing. Even in the broadest of terms, his dessert is a gateau, which is what the challenge asked for. Specifics were not given on the exact layers and construction.”

“Well, they should have been,” Sanda huffs.

“It is not the purpose of the competition to constrain the bakers,” Coran reminds her.

Shiro doubts any of this conversation is going to make in into the episode.

“I want him gone.” Sanda glares at Shiro. “The boy is a distraction. He should have been gotten rid of in those first few weeks.”

“For what, precisely?” Shiro snaps back. “He has progressed consistently, been adventurous with his flavours, excelled with new technical skills, shown bravery with unfamiliar recipes despite his age-”

“This is exactly my problem!” Sanda interrupts. “You obviously favour him. The viewers will be able to tell. It’ll be bad for the show.”

To Shiro’s surprise, there is a Kolivan shaped echo when he speaks.

“As though you care about what’s good for the show.”

Sanda’s steely glare flicks between them, and her mouth settles into a thin, hard line.

“The three of you are fools for waiting so long to sign your contracts. Honestly, it like you have no forward-thinking vision at all.”

Shiro exchanges a meaningful glance with his friends, and slumps back in his chair to let Coran take the lead. For all that people think Coran is exuberant and an over enthusiastic mess, there is a man with a core of steel hiding under the colourfully camp exterior.

“We’re not waiting to sign the contracts, Sanda. We’re not signing them. We were waiting, and negotiating, and then you went ahead and dumped the rest of us.”

“What? No I didn’t-”

“Yes, you did.” Kolivan folds his arms, tossing the length of his braid over his shoulder. “We agreed Sanda, right at the beginning, about the things which mattered to us, which we wanted this show to embody. And you abandoned that.”

“You were all too idealistic! The network would never have gone for it.”

“You don’t know that!”

“If you wait, they will find other people to replace you.” Sands says it like it’s an ultimatum, but the words don’t land with any force.

After the last technical bake, Shiro had snuck away into the extensive gardens with Coran and Kolivan, and they’d commiserated and consoled each other, and then decided – once and for all – not to sign on with the new network for the ‘updated and improved’ version of the show. The network’s idea of the new show didn’t have the nurturing of keen and excited talent at its heart, and Shiro has no interest in being mean to people, or being anywhere where he needs to spend any time or breathing space with Sanda.

He says so.

“You ignorant little upstart! And you two, siding with him!” Sanda rolls her eyes and makes a gesture of irritation which nearly threatens to topple the secondary camera set up on a tripod to her left. The fact this entire conversation is getting recorded does not escape Shiro. He groans.

“You are really going to throw your careers away on this? You fools!”

“Some things are worth more than money, Sanda.”

“That boy certainly isn’t.”

Shiro stands with a scraping of his chair which makes everyone wince.

“You don’t get to say one single word about Keith. He’s not leaving, and you’re outvoted.”

“Shi-”

“No. This conversation is over.”

It takes all of Shiro’s self-control not to shout, not to go completely feral in defence of the young man he’s pretty certain he’s in love with, and turn to walk out of the little tent.

*

Romelle wins star baker, Lotor is sent home amid tears and hugs, Keith looks softly proud and like he’s trying not to cry when Lotor holds him by the shoulders and beams with pride.

Shiro watches from the side lines, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, with an expression just a little bit smug. And he does not miss it each time Keith looks over with his dark eyes and hot smile. And if he preens just a little bit, well, at least the cameras aren’t rolling any more.