Henry was stuck. It was Week 6, "Pastry Week", and he was at a loss for how to complete his Signature Bake. The theme was "Choux Pastry". Twelve identical choux buns in any size, filled with his choice of creams, custards, or jams, and decorated with craquelin or ganache. A simple enough challenge, but one he kept fighting himself on. Should he do a chocolate craquelin to top his cardamom choux buns filled with an coffee and cardamom diplomat cream? Or should instead try an espresso white chocolate ganache and topped with torched meringue? He was torn, which was unusual for him. He was so used to being sure of himself, always knowing what came next, being able to predict his weaknesses. But ever since struggling through "Dessert Week" and tasting the existential dread of leaving the tent, he had lost his self-confidence. He chuckled to himself: he never had this problem when he was back home, playing the organ at church. It was a safe, predictable, and boring life, one he begrudged. And even though he was taking steps to escape, he felt still trapped.
In times like this, when he was at uni, he would corral his classmates to help inspire creativity in his baking. But here he felt alone, isolated both in age and ideas. Not that he was immature, just inexperienced. He lay flat on his hotel bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, waiting for an idea to drop. At that moment, a shower of kernels came flying down on his face as he heard a thud coming through the wall next door. He sat up, startled and partially blinded, and looked around to assess the damage. He was unharmed, save for some debris studded in his hair and oversized sweatshirt. If it wasn't from his room, and he was at the end of the hallway, then it must be from his neighbor's room. Surely he needs me to check up on him, Henry told himself as he hastily slipped on his loafers and tried to hide his smile.
He practiced his knock in the eight steps he took from his bed to David's door. Be concerned, but try not to seem too concerned; just play it cool, he told himself. He gave a soft but brisk two-tap rap on the door and followed with "Hey David, it's Henry. Everything ok?" Yes, he wanted to know everything about David, ever since the first day in the tent. Every week, David asked Henry to tie his apron for him, and every week Henry would tug a little harder at the knot. The thought of gripping that lean physique the way his apron did, it was enough to make him sweat. And as his mind drifted to that moment, the door swung open, and he gazed on a shirtless David, with custard all over his gym shorts.
David had been practicing his choux filling on his hot plate, and he too was feeling the creativity wane from his bakes. Cinnamon rolls one week, then cinnamon spice meringues...he felt like his well was running dry. And as supportive as his boyfriend acted, he couldn't help but notice the distance. This competition was creating tension that neither was willing to address, and that made focusing on his work impossible. So it was no surprise that in his absentmindedness he knocked his saucepan to the ground. And here in front of him was the person he least wanted to see him struggling, the wunderkind Henry, with that patronizing mix of concern and pity painted on his face, so many other tall men before. Indeed, Henry was a good 6 inches taller than his measly 5'8", and even at 36, he still felt this insecurity bleeding out. But in this case, this one instance, he was willing to allow this boy to help him out. "Come in. As you can see, it's a total disaster."
Henry crossed the threshold and felt his breath quicken. He was in his room, seeing for the first time the work of art that was David now completely decomposed. He felt almost wrong for being here, alone, with him in his bedroom while he was half-clad. He tried to keep eye contact with David as he explained how he heard the accident take place, and only glanced when David motioned to his custard-covered shirt and then his bare six pack. Henry quickly busied himself, unplugging the hot plate, picking up the saucepan, and bringing it over to the sink to rinse off the remaining custard. A few moments of silence passed as the two of them worked to right the scene and avoid the tension.
Much to Henry's surprise, David started in, "Do you ever just...feel like you've lost it? Like, I know what I'm capable of and I feel like now I'm second guessing myself all the time. This is the third custard I've tried tonight, bloody unbelievable. The sad part is I'll probably just use the recipe I practiced at home. No point in taking a risk on a signature."
"No, actually I know exactly what you mean,'' replied Henry. "I've been stuck trying to figure out a way to do something different without ruining the entire bake and I'm...well, sort of embarrassing, but I feel out of my depth."
This caught David's attention. "What do you mean? You're the token youngest-contestant-this-year and so far you've lived up to the hype. The judges love you, Noel and Sandy love you, and frankly I think Alice is in love with you and your ties."
"Alice is...great. She's fine and nice and...great. But you--you don't like my ties? Or me? You don't, I can tell. I'm not even wearing a tie right now and you still don't like me."
David could see frustration shoot across Henry's face. Did this 20-year-old actually care what he thought? "It's not that. You just seem so confident and level-headed, and part of me thought you were just saying you were struggling to make me feel better. Because obviously my life is a mess." He motioned to his shirt and shorts, "Exhibit A."
