Wax

­­Fifty Nine

A/N: The patience of a saint, I crown thee, Beans!!! ;v; Thank you for waiting. This chapter is about 6k words long and does feature two perspective shifts (Vanilla, Leroy) because I decided to shift a scene forward into this chapter instead of writing it into the next. I've been taking longer to write my skeletons because they now span four-five chapters at a go instead of just one due to my wannnderinggg imagination. Thus! I apologize ;-; 

You may also have noticed the new book cover and hehe, that is because I'm in the midst of preparing the manuscript of publishing Wax's first book (third book of the Taste series since Vanilla was split into two). I'm hoping to make it before Christmas comes around so that I could do a giveaway that's in time for the festive season <3 

Again, thank you for waiting. Enjoy the fire and ice. 

____________________ 

[Vanilla]

To crave chicken at a time like this was to commit a crime.

Leroy and I had slept in our respective, separate rooms on separate floors the night before and I'd woken up after eight perfect hours of sleep to a colder, roomier bed with just Leo by my side. We'd spent about an hour at Shin's family home before heading back to the hotel for some proper rest. Needless to say, the state of my back had seen little improvement and I'd experienced quite enough embarrassment when little Kanna noticed me wincing in pain while we were heading upstairs to her room for a tour. Her very next instinct had been to support my elbow like I was an old man crossing the street with groceries and a bad back.

Not far. Not far from the truth at all.

And thus, eight hours of sleep on a spacious comfy bed was very much welcome and though the very cause of my grievances had so kindly offered his self-proclaimed, professional hands up for service (a back massage), I had no other choice but to refuse.

"Why not?" He looked like a lion who'd been refused his favorite toy. If lions had favorite toys. "I won't do anything. Promise."

"That... it's not..." I attempted to piece words together for an explanation. In all truth and honesty, it wasn't Leroy I was worried about, per se. As a human being myself—albeit warped with a body temperature that resembled some cold-blooded creature—I wouldn't necessarily rule out all possibilities of e-excitement under the fingers of a criminal I fancied. Having his hands on my bare back was bound to... incite traces of heat.

He laughed, so I assumed he understood perfectly well what I meant and therefore retreated to his room on the floor below without another complaint, but not before kissing me goodnight.

This phase of ours was awful. Terrifying.

A heart so hopelessly charmed felt like it could only belong to species of the past; teenaged years of youth, vigor and passion I'd otherwise happily dismissed over the years. At the very least, I was wholly aware of the rosy tint my glasses seemed to adopt in his presence, except taking them off did nothing to the shade of the world and by god, pink was not the color I wished to view everything else in.

The spell was similar to the feeling of nostalgia. Partly because Leroy had been a constant throughout my childhood and teenaged years alike and while the taste of nostalgia would no doubt vary across individuals, what else could it taste like to me but spice and warmth—crisp, fried exterior peppered in cayenne, golden brown with a touch of red, chicken so disarmingly tender on the inside bursting with flavor. Just like his mother used to make them.