Chapter Text
🥐
“160 degrees for caramel, 45 to temper chocolate, down to 26,” Oscar is repeating his thoughts like a mantra, speaking under his breath and hoping it sticks. “Heat back up to 29 degrees, 30 for ganache.”
Berkshire isn’t too far a drive from London, an hour and change, and Oscar’s glad that the gravel isn’t too rough on the road beneath him. He’s already gritting his teeth at the thought of how much he’d need to shell out to fix any damage on the Mercedes he’s driving (Borrowed from Logan, obviously), it’s almost enough to distract himself from the whirlpool of recipes and temperatures and timings he’s tried to memorise since ever since he got the phone call from a producer at the BBC telling him:
Congratulations, you’ve made it through the final stage of auditions and we’d love to invite you to be a contestant on the newest season of The Great British Bake Off!
Truth be told, he’s absolutely bricking it.
He’d said as much on the phone to his sister when she’d rang just after he’d escaped the clutches of the M25– calling from the train on her way home from uni back in Melbourne.
“You’re gonna do great, stop stressing out.” She’d said. “Just don’t be boring or freeze up on camera, or say something stupid in front of Mary Berry.”
It hadn’t done much to quell his nerves, but it had been a comfort to know Hattie was there to fight in his corner the same way she always had. Unforgivingly sibling-like and loving, all the while keeping him planted firmly in his place.
He’s staying in a hotel about 20 minutes away from the filming location, along with all the other contestants, but there’s an invite sitting in his emails to some sort of mixer-come happy hour-come orientation type event in the hotel ballroom for the evening, ahead of the first day in the tent in the morning. He’s sort of bricking it for that, too.
It’s a grand, old-timey sort of hotel that they’ve been put up in for the course of filming. The kind of place with chamomile diffusers at reception and expensive throw pillows on even more expensive sofas in the foyer, marble staircases and dark parquet flooring. It’s the sort of place that probably hosts weddings in the summer, Oscar thinks. It’s clearly been made up for the occasion— kitschy bunting and GBBO branding decorating the place, especially so when a producer spots him whilst he’s checking in and arms him with an orientation pack to carry up to his room. He’s hauling his suitcase to wait for the lift, eyes feeling as wide as a Mary Berry branded cake stand when he feels the presence of another person beside him.
“Can you manage, mate?” A voice sounds, and Oscar swivels to find a man about his age next to him, tall and brazen, handsome like he’s just stepped straight out of one of those Netflix originals that his mum is always going on about.
“Oh,” Oscar starts. “Um, actually, would you mind—“ He trails, nodding towards the button next to the lift, hands too full to reach out himself.
“No problem, mate.” The man says, grinning kindly. “Are you a contestant? They really laid it on thick with all the freebies, huh?” He reaches out to press the button.
Oscar nods. “Yeah, I’m just glad I managed to even find the place.”
The man laughs. “It certainly is out in the sticks, this place.” He says, waving Oscar through when the lift doors open. “I’m George.”
“Thanks,” Oscar says. “Oscar. Are you a contestant as well?” He asks.
“Sure am.” George beams. “Which floor?”
“Oh,” Oscar fumbles, flipping his room key over in his hand— Third Floor - Room 81. “Three, please.”
George nods, nudging the button with his knuckle. “No worries, you ready to get stuck in?” He asks, rubbing his palms together.
Oscar huffs out a breath. “Yeah, bit terrified though.”
George nods, clicking the Number 2 button before cocking his chin out, smiling warmly. “So is everyone, I think.” The lift shudders quietly as the doors shut. “You going to the party-thing, later? Size up the competition?”
Oscar grins. “Not sure I’m too good at sizing anything up without a measuring scale.” George chuckles. “But yeah, I’ll be there.”
The lift doors open with a ding, a robotic-sounding voice calling out ‘Second Floor’.
“At least you’re on the right show, then.” George says, inching out of the lift. “See you in a jiffy, Oscar.” He smiles, and Oscar lifts his fingers in something resembling a wave as George disappears behind the closing doors and down the corridor.
His room is nice, quaint in a grandiose and old-fashioned sort of way, with large windows leading out onto a balcony and stark white ironed sheets, an armchair in the corner that looks comfortingly similar to one his grandma has back home. He sets out his bags near the bed and peaks out through the curtains onto the vast gardens down towards the gravel driveway. He texts Logan to let him know that he (and his car) have made it in one piece, before a glance at the time tells him that he’s got about an hour and a half before he needs to head back downstairs. He takes a breath and wonders how many times he’ll be able to walk himself through the steps of tempering chocolate in the shower.
🥐
The party is pretty much as expected. Soft lights and some easy-listening music playing through a speaker under the chatter, themed cocktails and tables full of charcuterie and miniature versions of Victoria Sponge and Tart au Citron.
Everything is in full swing about an hour after Oscar has shuffled his way down into the ballroom space attached to the hotel foyer, hands stuffed into his pockets and simmering with hope that he’s not so nervous that he sweats through the button-up shirt he’d packed for the weekend. He’s met a good half of the other contestants by now, and has taken a particular liking to Alex after being introduced by George, his gentle humour and full-bodied laughs helping to keep his nerves at bay.
A couple of Battenburg cocktails in and Oscar’s starting to feel a little more loosened up, a little less nervous, a little more eager to laugh along with the jokes that Charles and Doriane are making through thick accents– even though all of the French he learned back in school has been long washed out of his brain after years of maths exams and engineering seminars. There’s a surprise visit from Mary and Paul that has everyone bubbling with restrained excitement, and a quick very ‘BBC Approved’ welcome video that brings out a hum of anticipation out of all of the contestants.
Oscar’s at the bar after politely excusing himself from his conversation with Lewis, ready to swap his empty glass for a Pineapple Upside Down mocktail, when George slides up beside him.
“Alright, Oscar?” George asks, sliding his own empty glass across the bar and politely waving off the bartender when they offer a refill alongside Oscar’s.
Oscar smiles. “Yeah, good.” He says. “Hard to scope out the competition when everyone is so nice, though.”
George laughs. “Have you met everyone?”
Oscar furrows his brow, bringing his glass up for a sip. “Not quite, I think I got caught up with Charles arguing the existence of Monegasque patisserie.”
George frowns in confusion, but doesn’t ask for any further elaboration. Oscar’s not even sure he’d know where to start, if he had. “You’ve not met Daniel yet, right?” George asks.
Oscar shakes his head. “Don’t think so, no.”
“Come on,” George starts, already leading them away from the bar. “He’s been giddy at the idea of another Aussie in the tent.”
George walks them over to the table he’d previously been occupying, where Alex is laughing along with two other contestants– one of whom Oscar assumes is Daniel.
“Lads,” George says, pulling their attention towards them. “This is Oscar. Oscar, this is Daniel and Lando.”
“Mate!” Daniel beams, reaching out a hand to clap him on the shoulder as he waxes about how excited he is to have a fellow countryman in the tent, and Oscar catches eyes with Lando as he watches on with amusement at Oscar’s wide eyes, a little shaken by Daniel’s brazen excitement. Oscar flushes slightly– whether it’s Lando’s gaze or the almond liquor in the cocktails, he’s not quite sure.
Daniel is a bit of a whirlwind, Oscar learns, when he’s left at the table with Lando once Daniel has disappeared off to catch up with Yuki trying to collect the last of the miniature Bakewell Tarts being cleared away by the staff.
“He’s going to get a lot of airtime, I think.” Lando says, watching on as Daniel constructs a makeshift plate out of serviettes.
Oscar grins. “I think you’re right about that.”
There’s a beat where Oscar looks over at Lando, properly for the first time, all tanned skin and dark curls, frizzy as the night has gone on, flush deep rosy on his jokes, and Oscar feels a familiar swell in his stomach and thinks oh, oh no. He’s gone and found himself as a contestant alongside someone he can already imagine Logan will be teasing him about, someone he’d be pushing Oscar towards in a bar– voice focused and insisting, ‘Go on, he’s exactly your type, mate.’
“I hear we’re benchmates.” Lando’s voice pulls him back down to earth before his mind has the chance to wander much further.
“Huh?” Oscar blurts out.
Lando laughs. “In the tent, mate.”
“Oh.” Oscar says. Right, he thinks, benchmates. For the show he’s spent months preparing for, before his brain decided to get all muddled at the first sight of a pretty boy within touching distance. “How’d you know?”
“It was in the orientation package?” Lando says, eyebrow raised as a smile spreads across his cheeks. “Haven’t you done your homework?” He teases.
Oscar thinks of the envelope sitting unopened in his hotel room, forgotten after he’d spent twenty minutes on facetime with Logan, showing off the fancy drinks he’d found in his mini fridge. “Is it bad if I say no?”
Lando grins. “I don’t think so.” He says. “I skipped through most of it when I realised there wouldn’t be any hints about the technical challenges in there.”
Oscar finds himself laughing, flush spreading down to his shoulders when he sees the way Lando lights up at the sound. “There goes my strategy, then.”
“Don’t worry,” Lando tips his chin down, speaking lowly even though no one else is close enough to hear them. “I won’t tell if you copy me.” He smiles. “As long as you let me share the badge if you get star baker.”
🥐
A little over 35 hours later, Oscar is standing behind his own bench in the famed Bake Off tent, filled with cameras and studio lights, and his fellow contestants. The tent already smells like sugar and cinnamon, and Oscar breathes in shakily to savour it, tapping his fingers steadily against his bench to remind himself that he’s here, it’s really happening. A pointed “Ready, set, bake” proclaimed from Mel and Sue sets them off on their first challenge in the tent.
He’s in the middle of folding the pistachios through his raspberry buttercream, ready to start decorating his Swiss Roll when he hears a hushed “Shit!” coming from the bench behind him. Oscar cranes his neck around behind him to see Lando shaking out his arm in a panic, his own bake abandoned on his bench.
“Are you alright?” Oscar asks, leaving his buttercream behind to step towards Lando’s bench, concern blooming in his stomach.
Lando huffs out a quick breath. “Yeah, I’m just not used to the way these ovens, you know,” He makes a sliding motion with his hands, glaring down at his oven with valor. “Burned myself on the door when I took my cake out.” Lando says, turning his arm over to reveal a red mark blooming against his skin.
“You should ask for a medic.” Oscar says, quietly, drawing his own hand back before it reaches to cradle Lando’s of its own accord. He spots a camera panning towards them at the commotion when he cranes his neck to look to get the attention of a producer. Tries to ignore it.
“I’ll be fine,” Lando shakes his head, already reaching to pull his cake towards the wire cooling rack waiting on his bench. “Really, it’s okay, Osc.”
Oscar frowns, eyes flicking down to where Lando’s hands are already busying themselves with his cake, burn nearly long forgotten, and back up to his face, where he’s already smiling back at Oscar. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll get some ice when we’re finished.” Lando reassures him. “Now stop cheating and keep your eyes on your own bench.” He grins.
Oscar chuckles. “I’m gonna hold you to that ice pack.” He says.
“You’ll be the first to know.” Lando says, smiling up through his eyelashes where he’s peeling the parchment from his sponge. The flutter in Oscar’s stomach returns.
He turns around to focus on his buttercream.
🥐
If Oscar was nervous for his first round in the Bake Off tent, it’s nothing compared to his first technical challenge. They’ve only been going for 20 minutes and Oscar has already decided that he never wants to see a Cherry Cake again in his life. This competition may be the thing that finally cures his sweet tooth.
He ends up in 6th place, and considers himself a job well-done.
He’s on his way back into the hotel after filming his interviews when he hears a voice calling after him.
“Oscar!” Lando’s voice calls from down the gravel driveway. Oscar slows his pace to wait for him to catch up. “Good job today.”
“Thanks.” Oscar flushes. “You too.”
Lando’s nose scrunches up. “I’m actually kind of shocked I wasn’t last.”
Oscar frowns. “What? Weren’t you, what, eighth?”
“Yeah.” Lando shrugs. “Burnt my almonds though, didn’t I.” He sighs, a forlorn look on his face that threatens to twist up Oscar’s insides.
Oscar suddenly remembers being in high school, dreaming of moving across the world for university, spending his twenties in London. He’s not quite sure which part of those fantasies involved talking to cute guys with curly hair about burnt almonds, though.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Oscar says, falling into step with Lando as they walk into the hotel lobby. “You did great.”
Lando tucks his chin to his shoulder, the starting of a smile breaking through onto his face. “Thanks.” Oscar grins back, the same kind of smile he knows made Hattie erupt in glee when she managed to find photos of a ‘polite cat’ meme she’d pasted next to his face to send him. He should call her—surely she’ll be eager to hear about how his first day in the tent went.
“Hey,” Oscar starts, after Lando has pushed the button to call the lift. “Did you get that burn looked at?”
Lando gapes. “Oh,” He starts, twisting his elbow to tug at his sleeve, revealing a small red mark singed onto his skin. It doesn’t look quite as angry as it had when he was flustered over getting his cake out of the oven. “Yeah,” He says. “They gave me some cream to put on it. It’s not that bad, though.”
Oscar smiles. “Good.”
The door to the lift chimes, and Oscar follows Lando in when they slide open.
“I didn’t think you’d remember.” Lando says, a beat late enough for Oscar to raise an eyebrow.
“Of course.” Oscar says. “What kind of benchmate would I be if I didn’t?”
Lando huffs out a laugh. The doors slide open when they reach the second floor. “See you in the morning?” Lando says, turning back to beam a smile before he steps out into the corridor.
Oscar nods. “See you in the morning.”
Lando’s smile grows. “Night, Osc.” He says, and the doors close behind him before Oscar can see him walk away, and before Lando can see the way his cheeks flush red at the nickname.
Oscar groans, pinching his thumb and willing the butterflies to settle.
Osc.
He needs to call Hattie. She’ll have to wait to hear about his cherry cake until tomorrow, though.
🥐
The showstopper challenge goes down without too much of a hitch. His miniature coffee cakes turn out well (Not as good as the third attempt he’d had at home, though), and there’s a moment when Sue asks about his go-to order he’d pair with his coffee cakes (Hot chocolate– he hates coffee) that makes Lando laugh so loudly from his own bench that Oscar’s almost certain it will make it into the TV broadcast.
He even feels quite emotional when George is awarded Star Baker for the first week, and consequently when they find out that Franco won’t be back for a second week in the tent. Oscar’s not really an emotional guy, but he’s already struck up some good friendships with the other contestants, and it’s sobering when he realises that they are going to dwindle down week by week.
Oscar’s shutting the boot of his car when he hears voices approaching from across the car park.
“Hey, Osc.” Lando’s voice calls, and Oscar turns to see him strolling across the gravel with George.
George whistles. “Nice car, mate.”
Oscar flushes. “It, uh, it’s actually my flatmate’s.” He says.
George chuckles. “They’ve got taste, then.”
Oscar grins, and mentally tucks the compliment somewhere in the back of his mind. Logan is already smug enough without it.
George offers them both a polite goodbye before he’s sauntering across the car park towards his own soft-top Mercedes that’s almost so fitting it’s uncanny. Oscar chuckles.
“Good weekend?” Lando asks, not long after George has clambered not-so-gracefully through the driver's side.
Oscar nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I think so.”
Lando smiles. “Same time next week, benchmate?”
Oscar chuckles. “That’s the plan.”
“Hope so.” Lando says, grinning still as he shuffles across the gravel to his own car. Oscar watches him go, and recites the temperature for caramel on the drive home.