Chapter Text
There’s an air of anticipation in the tent that feels a little more tense than the past two weeks—bread week.
Oscar always thought he’d dread bread week, if he managed to get this far. But he’s feeling quietly confident. They’ve got quite a variety of bakers in the tent. Charles, whose specialty is fine decoration and extravagant presentations. Alex, whose flavours stand miles above with impressively experimental combinations that always seem to meld together like it should be a question why no one had thought of it first. Daniel, who is so bright and loud and colourful that it transpires into all of his bakes. And Lando, who is almost so impressively chaotic about his baking that it manages to surprise most of the tent how everything still manages to turn out perfectly every time.
Then there’s Oscar, whose engineering brain goes into overdrive with ratios and measurements, techniques and fine details. He’s particular about his baking, always has been, even back to when he’d make lamingtons with his grandma as a kid and used to frown when she didn’t level off the flour precisely after scooping it out with a measuring cup. He’s precise, but has trained himself into being able to decipher and adapt when something happens that’s out of his control.
Bread week, as it turns out, is a great outlet for that kind of mindset.
Oscar’s finishing up on kneading his dough when Lando wanders up to his bench, hands tucked inside the pocket of his apron. “Hey.” He grins.
Oscar smiles. “Hi.” He says. “You okay?”
Lando nods. “Killing time.”
Oscar chuckles, a little breathless from the strain of hand kneading his dough for the last ten minutes. “You must be ahead of schedule.”
Lando shrugs. “My dough is already in the proofing drawer.” He says. “You don’t use the machine?” He asks, nodding towards the stand mixer that sits untouched on Oscar’s bench.
“Nah,” Oscar shrugs. “I like doing it by hand.”
“I can tell.” Lando says, and when Oscar turns towards him, confused, he finds Lando’s eyes transfixed directly down at Oscar’s arms—where his biceps are flexing against the sleeves of his t-shirt at what is admittedly a half-decent workout of kneading his dough against the countertop.
Oscar raises an eyebrow, and Lando must snap out of his gaze when Oscar stills, because his eyes suddenly flick back up towards Oscar’s face. Lando’s cheeks flush bright red, and Oscar can’t quite help the way his lips turn up into a smile.
“Um,” Lando coughs, looking flustered. “I should, uh, you know.” He stammers. “Bread. I mean, check on my bread. My dough.” He rambles on, and Oscar really can’t help but smile now. “In the drawer.”
“Right.” Oscar says, watching as Lando slowly backs up, gesturing vaguely towards his own bench. He bumps into Alex on his way, scurrying from the back of the tent with an armful of ingredients. It flusters him even more, catching a bag of Saffron that he hurriedly returns back to Alex’s stack of spices.
“Yeah, uh, good luck?” Lando says, once Alex has disappeared back to the other side of the tent, unphased by the way Lando’s cheeks have burned up to the same shade of pink peppercorns hidden somewhere in his spice collection.
Oscar nods. “You too.” He smiles, and only chuckles when Lando scurries off to his own bench, ducking back down to, presumably, check on his proofing drawer out of Oscar’s view.
Maybe bread week won’t be so bad.
🥐
The technical challenge ends up going much better than Oscar had expected. He somehow ends up first—again, after his ciabatta had somehow turned out perfectly. He’d been skeptical when Paul’s steely advice of “Be patient.” had rung out through the tent, much to the dismay of most of the bakers trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean.
Patience is a virtue, it turns out, because Oscar had been the last one to turn his dough out, and ended up reaping the benefits. Four identical, airy ciabatta loaves, lined up like soldiers behind his photo on the judging table.
The producers ask Oscar to hang back for some extra commentary once everyone else has finished with their interviews, which means he ends up being the last one back to the hotel. Lando is downbeat, when Oscar finds him lingering in the gardens outside of the entrance to the lobby. His showstopper bake had gone well, but he’d placed 8th in the technical.
“Hey.” Oscar says, gently, as he scuffles through the gravel to where Lando is perched on a bench just off the path up to the hotel doors.
Lando smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Hi.”
“You okay?” Oscar asks, sitting down next to him on the bench.
Lando shrugs. “Just didn’t do a good enough job, I guess.”
Oscar frowns. He’s never really seen Lando like this before, a far cry from the laughs and mischievous jabs he’s usually met with. He decides he doesn’t really like it this way. He much prefers the sound of Lando’s laugh coming from the workstation behind his.
“Your showstopper was really good.” Oscar says. Lando hums, kicking at a piece of gravel with his toe, not meeting Oscar’s eye. “It was a hard technical challenge.”
“I guess.” Lando mumbles, shrugging slightly before his eyes flick up towards Oscar. “Sorry.”
Oscar frowns. “Why are you sorry?”
“You won,” Lando grins. “I don’t want to ruin your mood just because I had a shitty day.”
Oscar’s heart splinters a little.
“You don’t need to apologise.” Oscar says, gently, nudging at Lando’s outstretched foot with his toe. “You didn’t have a shitty day, either. Ciabatta is overrated anyway.” He jokes, and it feels a little lighter when Lando huffs out a laugh. “Besides, you could never ruin my mood.” He mumbles.
Lando smiles, and it looks a little more genuine this time. “Thanks, Osc.”
Oscar grins. “No problem.”
It’s quiet for a while, as they look out across the lawn, the sun setting low behind the trees in the distance. It’s nice, Oscar thinks. He doesn’t often get to spend much time amongst any greenery in London, unless it’s on Primrose Hill with Logan and a bottle of cheap wine from the off license. It’s a welcome change of pace. The company doesn’t hurt, either.
“Hey,” Oscar starts, before he quite realises what he’s doing. “Do you wanna watch another episode from last season? We could order some food, again?” Lando jerks his head up, like he’s a little surprised that Oscar’s asking. “Or we could watch something else.” Oscar tacks on, a little panicked. “If you don’t want to think about bread anymore.”
Lando laughs, quiet and gentle as it echoes in Oscar’s ears. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Oscar smiles, and wills his heart to stop doing backflips every time Lando smiles at him. “Cool, yeah. About an hour?” He asks, and Lando nods. “Okay, I’m gonna,” He trails, nodding up towards the hotel.
“See you in a bit.” Lando smiles, and Oscar grins, pushing himself off the bench and towards the entrance.
He calls Hattie instead of Logan, this time.
🥐
Oscar spends the first hour of the showstopper challenge trying to stifle his yawns away from the camera. He’d gone to sleep far too late considering their 8am call time. If the way Lando had hidden a second coffee underneath his bench before the cameras started rolling is anything to go by, he’s feeling the same way.
Lando had stayed in his room until well past midnight, long after the corny Netflix movie they’d settled on had finished. They hadn’t realised how late it had gotten until Oscar’s mum had sent a text through, telling him she was planning on making his focaccia recipe for lunch, that he’d finally glanced at the time.
Lando’s spirits had been lifted fairly easily after they’d gotten through their room service, and he had told Oscar about the time he and his siblings had racked up the mini bar bill on holiday as kids, stealing chocolate from the fridge in secret. They’d talked for hours, sharing stories and giggling like kids telling secrets. Oscar can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard.
It’s a far cry from how he feels now— over halfway through the showstopper challenge when he stares down at his swirling caramel and cinnamon brioche, unsure how he’s going to manage to move the thing onto its baking tray.
“Fuck.” He grumbles, attempting to lift it from the countertop and giving up when it threatens to fold over itself—ruining his work of plaiting the dough into a spiral. There’s not really time for him to reassemble the intricate shape if it does collapse in on itself. There’s definitely not time for him to be having a minor internal meltdown over the mound of dough. It should probably have been in the oven a while ago, if he’s honest with himself.
Oscar sighs, frowning down at his bench like he can move the damn thing by sheer force of will. He really should have moved it onto the tray first. He stares down at the dough for nearly a solid minute before he runs out of ideas and decides he’s going to have to ask someone for help. He glances around, wondering if he can rope an unsuspecting producer into helping before a camera moves in front of his bench, or, worse, Paul Hollywood catches wind of his struggle.
Everyone seems to be occupied, and he doesn’t want to draw too much attention—that would definitely end up on camera. He’s getting a little antsy, until he glances backwards, and sees Lando.
Lando’s stirring away at something on his stovetop, completely oblivious to Oscar’s minor crisis. He looks a hell of a lot calmer than Oscar feels. He pulls his pot off of the heat, looking satisfied as he wipes his hands off on his apron, and then he looks up at Oscar.
Oscar should probably be distracted by how easily it calms him once Lando smiles at him, but something on his face must give him away, because Lando’s smile soon turns into a concerned frown. “You okay?” Lando asks.
Oscar huffs, shaking his head, a little too panicked and overwhelmed to read anything into how easily intuitive Lando is to the downshift in his mood.
“Can you help me?” He pleads. Lando rounds his bench without question. “I can’t move it by myself.” Oscar says, nodding down at his dough on the countertop.
“Oh, yeah, okay.” Lando says, already stepping in closer to help.
Oscar thinks that in any other situation, he’d have to steady his breathing at the way that Lando’s hands gently brush against his own as they manage to lift the loaf onto the tray carefully, or the way Lando is pressed up against his side. But for now, he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to stare at the thing long enough to try moving it by himself that he ends up having to serve up a pile of raw brioche and salted caramel sauce.
Lando opens up the oven door once Oscar manages to lift up the tray, pulling it shut once the loaf is safely on the rack inside. “Thank you.” Oscar sighs.
Lando chuckles. “Good teamwork.”
Oscar grins. “Yeah.” He says, and falters slightly when his brain is telling him to do something catastrophic like hug Lando, and kicks his instincts into gear and holds both his hands up for a high-five instead, and tries to ignore the way that the camera seems to have followed them, anyway.
🥐
“Did you know this place has a pool?” Daniel asks, bounding his way up towards the hotel entrance, after they’ve wrapped up in the tent for the weekend.
“Really?” Lando asks.
Daniel beams. “Bring your trunks next week, Landito.” He says, giving Lando a slap on his shoulder before he’s splitting off up towards the doors just as quickly as he’d appeared.
Lando shakes his head. “He’s a bit mental, isn’t he?”
Oscar chuckles. “Just a little.” He says. “You off for a roast dinner tonight, then?”
Lando smiles, falling in place next to Oscar when they make it inside the lobby, waiting for the lift. “Not tonight. It’s my mate Max’s birthday tomorrow, so we’re going to this Italian place in Soho.”
Oscar smiles, stepping into the lift after Lando once the doors open. “That sounds nice.”
Lando nods, bouncing on his heels. He’s particularly more upbeat than yesterday, after getting good feedback on his showstopper—the compliments from Paul and Mary clearly washing away some of the clouds of his self doubt. Oscar might be happier to see him smile again than he was about the handshake he’d received from Paul. He’s not really sure what to do with that.
“-with, like, freeze dried raspberries.” Lando’s saying, when Oscar zones back in. “Best tiramisu I’ve ever had, I swear. And I’ve been to Italy.”
Oscar only caught half of it, but he smiles at Lando’s rambling about Italian desserts anyway. “It sounds good.” He says.
Lando’s beaming, and then his smile goes a little soft when he says: “I could take you, maybe, once we’re done filming?” A little apprehensive, like he’s testing new waters, unsure of whether Oscar will want to see him outside of the Bake Off tent or somewhere that’s not Oscar’s hotel room with his laptop set up between them on an expensive mattress that’s not his own. Oscar wants to jump out of his skin pushing down the urge to tell him that he’d go for tiramisu with him tomorrow, and the next day, if given the chance.
“Yeah,” Oscar says, instead, digging his nails into his palm so his brain can focus on something other than the butterflies swirling into a whirlpool in his stomach. “That’d be nice.”
Lando’s smile only grows wider, and he starts when the lift chimes, the doors opening up to the second floor. “See you next week?” He asks, lingering before he steps out into the corridor.
“That’s the plan.” Oscar smiles.
“Better be.” Lando nods. “See you then, star baker.”