Author's Note: I'm back! Those of you who follow me on Tumblr know I've been ill for the past week, but I'm finally on my feet again and ready to get back to work.

I have no idea what happened with this one-shot. It just had a mind of its own. It's supposed to be based on Gordon Ramsay's Hell's Kitchen, but I wrote the last third of it while heavily medicated, which is probably why it turned out the way it did, so I apologize in advance, hahaha. I hope you enjoy it anyway and leave a review! It's rated T for Arthur and Lovino's sailor mouths. Stay wonderful!

Stuffed pork tenderloin, creamy mushroom risotto, and three Michelin star rated UK restaurants— these are a few of Arthur's favorite things.

It's unfortunate then that the dimwits in front of him aren't capable of spelling "Michelin star" let alone of ever acquiring one.

It's week five of the production of "The Inferno," a cooking show in which the infamous Arthur Kirkland trains a group of sous chefs in the art of making fine British cuisine. And well, the group this season leaves much to be desired in terms of talent.

After weeding out the worst of the worst, they're now down to just six final contestants who are in the running for winning half a quarter of a million pounds and the right to cook in one of Arthur's UK-based restaurants. These six sorry fools are Alfred F. Jones, an American who can't tell the difference between cilantro and parsley. Then there's Alfred's half-brother, Matthew, who was born and raised in Canada—he seems to have a bit more potential, but he's so quiet that it's impossible to imagine him ever being to expedite in any kitchen.

There's also Francis Bonnefoy, a Frenchman. He's incredibly self-centered and egotistical—rich with flamboyant flair but lacking any real taste beneath the glamorous surface, in Arthur's opinion. He's also a complete prat.

Then they have the Italian brothers—Feliciano and Lovino are actually quite good. They can make fantastic pasta from scratch, and yet, Lovino's constant temper tantrums and Feliciano's emotional meltdowns are problematic at every dinner service. The two can't seem to get along for even two hours.

And lastly, there's Ludwig—the stone-faced sous chef whose Sauerbraten is to die for, but he's a perfectionist who can't work well with the rest of the team during service. Francis made a few attempts to sabotage his caramelized onion gravy last week by dumping pepper into it. Ludwig responded quite loudly and violently, to the point where security got involved. Since that incident, Francis learned to keep his distance.

And so, this is the lot he has to work with, and honestly, he has a hunch as to who stands a good chance at being crowned the winner.

"We're letting in the customers and rolling the cameras," one of the producers says, doing a last-minute check to ensure that everyone is where they should be and that the cameramen are ready to go.

And with that, the doors to the restaurant come bursting open, and celebrities and their well-to-do families sashay their way in, coming from every part of the British Isles to discover for themselves if these six chefs-in-training have any chance of making it into the real culinary world.

The contestants get split up into two teams: Alfred, Francis, and Lovino on the blue team and Matthew, Ludwig, and Feliciano on the red team. Arthur hopes separating the Italians will give him a better idea of their individual capabilities and hopefully prevent any more fights from breaking out.

"Well, I needn't remind you all that our past three dinner services have been complete fucking disasters, now do I? Get it together. And Alfred? If you give me one more overcooked beef Wellington tonight, you can take off your jacket and fuck off out of this competition, do I make myself clear?" Arthur huffs, crossing his arms as he takes his place at the head of the kitchen.

"Yes, chef," Alfred grumbles with forced politeness.

"And Francis—stop being French."

Francis smirks with that condescending glint in his eyes that Arthur loathes with a passion. "I will try just for you, mon ami."

"I'm not your bloody ami. Prepare the garnishes the way I instructed you to and not to your own liking."

"But if I could just make a small suggestion—?"

"Let me give you a suggestion—don't tell me how to run my restaurant, frog," Arthur growls, already losing his cool even though the cameras have barely started rolling and the first orders of the evening haven't even been placed yet. How did he get stuck with these idiots? Is it so difficult to follow simple instructions?

Before he has the opportunity to scold the teams some more, tickets for the appetizers start coming in, meaning it's time to get to work.

"Right—red team, I need two scallops and a lobster tail."

"Yes, chef!" the team shouts in unison, grabbing their pans and ingredients.

"Blue team—tuna tartare and two steamed mussels."

…

Arthur scowls at the blue team and crosses his arms over his chest. "Blue team, am I understood?"

"Yes, chef," Alfred, Lovino, and Francis finally mutter under their breaths, not sounding enthusiastic or happy to be here in the least.

This dismal attitude is certainly not going to allow for a strong performance, but Arthur honestly couldn't care less. If they want to waste their time and brood for the entire service, so be it. They're bound to muck something up, and then he'll have a good reason to kick them out and declare victory for the red team.

Arthur watches his sous chefs with a critical eye, making note of their every move so he can find something to criticize…What in the hell is Alfred doing to those mussels?

"Oi, fat ass!"

"Huh?" Alfred asks, flushing red with anger and barely stomaching the insult. One would think that given the number of burgers he consumes, he'd have a thicker hide.

"Where did you get the idea to sauté the mussels that way?"

The young man must be in quite an unsavory mood this evening because he looks over his shoulder at Arthur and snarls, "I pulled it out of my ass, chef."

Cheeky. He should throw him out of the kitchen for that comment, but honestly, it's rather amusing to see Alfred get so worked up.

"Well, put it back in there because it's horrendous," Arthur replies, tongue just as sharp. He could do this for hours.

"Yes, chef. Sticking it faaaar up there," Alfred continues, sautéing the mussels with more vigor now. "Francis, you ready on the garnish?"

"Oui, mon ami."

"All right. I'll be ready to plate in two minutes."

Arthur steps back to scrutinize the red team next, and it's a good thing he turns around when he does because he sees Feliciano bring him up a plate of scallops, and they're raw.

Fucking raw.

Are they trying to kill someone?

"Hey, all of you! What's the meaning of this?" he demands, slamming the plate of scallops down in front of them. "Just touch them—they're rubber! Feliciano, what are you doing?"

The Italian nearly jumps out of his shoes and drops down to his knees to apologize. "Oh, chef, I'm so sorry, sir. It won't happen again. You make me so nervous and—!"

"You had better be nervous after trying to serve me this kind of shit!" Arthur scolds him, waving a scallop in front of his face.

"I understand, sir. I'm so sorry, sir. It won't happen again, sir. I thought they were ready, and I asked Ludwig to check for me but he was busy with the lobster and—!"

"Just go back to your station and do it again."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Ludwig, did you hear that? He didn't throw me out. He's not as mean as people say he is."

Arthur narrows his eyes at the brief exchange between Ludwig and Feliciano and frowns. "Very well, I've changed my mind. Get out, Feliciano."

Feliciano gawks at him in disbelief and falls to his knees again. "Oh, sir, I'm so sorry, sir. Please don't kick me out. I won't do anything wrong again, sir."

"I said, get out!"

It's a bit pitiful, really…Feliciano has shown some seriously impressive cooking capabilities, but he always cracks under pressure. And well, Arthur certainly can't have a sous chef like that in his kitchen. He can kiss his chance of winning this competition goodbye.

Feliciano wipes at his eyes with the back of his arm, breaking down into tears. Then, he mournfully makes a walk of shame out of the kitchen, leaving the red team down to just two men—Ludwig and Matthew, who both seem stunned by the loss of their teammate.

"Back to work. Matthew, make the scallops," Arthur commands, and Matthew immediately jumps into action, not questioning him for even the slightest second. Good lad. Now that's the kind of worker he needs.

His brother, on the other hand, is a tornado of trouble.

He returns to the blue kitchen to find that Alfred has now plated the mussels, Lovino has prepared the tuna, and Francis has…added the garnish. Except, this isn't the garnish Arthur asked for.

"Frog! What did I say about—?"

"But the chopped cilantro looks so much better this way!"

"You are to do things precisely the way I tell you to do them," Arthur hisses before picking up the plates and tossing all of them into the garbage bin one by one, which means Alfred and Lovino are going to have to cook the appetizers all over again.

He can hear Alfred and Lovino screaming internally, and it's a wonderful sound.

"Tell me something. Do you think you're a better chef than I am?" Arthur asks, locking eyes with Francis and challenging him.

"Oh, mon ami, I know I am a better chef than you," Francis hums, content with himself.

…

"Get out."

Francis shoots him one last irritating smile, bows his head in mock reverence, and swivels around on his heel to leave. "Yes, chef. What a pleasure this was."

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out," Arthur huffs.

"Merci beaucoup for the concern. You always think about me," Francis teases in a sing-song tone, practically prancing his way out of the kitchen with glee. Good riddance.

And so, he's down to four contestants.

"Fucking bastard. Fucking making me start this bullshit all over," Lovino mutters angrily to himself from behind his station, continuing to speak in colorful Italian swear words as he works on delicately seasoning more tuna.

The amount of disrespect he's getting from this brigade is astonishing.

"Oi, get out as well! Takes a bastard to know one, doesn't it?" Arthur asks sarcastically, gesturing aggressively toward the door. He's done giving out free passes for insubordination.

"Hey, you can't leave me without a team!" Alfred suddenly whines, coming to Lovino's defense.

Arthur draws his brows down into a straight line, unamused. "Ahh, well, in that case, you can leave as well. I'd hate for you to have to be lonely."

Infuriated, Alfred chucks his pan down on the floor, making a dreadful amount of noise, and says, "Yes, chef. I wouldn't want you to be lonely either—you know what you can do with the mussels."

"Lovely. Thank you."

It is with great happiness that Arthur watches the two of them storm out. He's been wanting to kick them out for ages but couldn't because the producers wanted to keep them around to stir up more drama for the viewers. Well, the viewers be damned—he's going to take this competition into his own hands now. He knows whom he wants to win, and there's no point in putting up false airs or pretenses about it anymore.

They've been at this for far longer than Arthur cared to be here, and given what a train-wreck this season was, the sooner it's over, the better.

He's going to announce the winner right here and now.

"Congratulations, Matt—!"

"CUT!" the director hollers, bringing everything to a standstill.

Food stops being served, Ludwig and Matthew turn off their stoves, and the VIP clients in the dining room fall silent.

"Arthur, I think we need to have a little talk," the director mutters, coming up to Arthur and putting an arm around his shoulders before guiding him away from the kitchen and the contestants. "I know you get really heated in there at times—which is great, don't get me wrong—but you need to invite Alfred, Francis, Lovino, and Feliciano back."

Arthur glowers. "And why would I do that?"

"Because if you're going to kick them out of the competition, you need to do it during the elimination round at the end of the dinner service. You know that."

"But we could all see how incompetent—!"

"It doesn't make for good TV if you just toss everyone out, Arthur. We've been through this before. We have a certain number of episodes that we need to shoot, and besides, we've already chosen a winner based on who we think will get us the best ratings."

"And you didn't think to inform me of this?" Arthur fumes.

"No, because we knew how you would react."

"Whom did you select, then?"

The director inhales loudly, braces himself for Arthur's reaction, and says, "Francis, of course."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He's a mastermind in the kitchen."

"He can't follow a single word of instruction!" Arthur shouts, ready to start pulling his hair out. His least favorite contestant out of all of the seasons they've filmed thus far is set to win? And then work in his restaurant? Over his dead body. Up until this point, he's always had the final say. "Anyone but Francis. I'll take the kraut. Anyone else."

"We're sorry, Arthur, but now do you see what we need you to do?"

"This wasn't in my contract."

"It was actually—if you had read the fine print."

This is maddening. Why did he agree to host this show in the first place again?

Because you thought it would be good exposure for the restaurant, he reminds himself glumly, and the thought of Francis stepping even a centimeter inside of his kitchen makes him feel horribly sick to his stomach.

"So, here's how it's going to go," the director casually continues, pacing around the cameras. "Finish the dinner service, and then you're going to eliminate Ludwig."

"Why Ludwig?" Arthur dares to ask.

"Because he lacks any real personality or charm."

That's not fair. Ludwig is by far a stronger chef than Alfred, so why should the American get to stay?

"But—!"

"And then, we're going to eliminate both of the Italian brothers in the next episode—we'll sabotage their stoves so they get into an argument and you can have a reason to get rid of them. Then, in the elimination after that, Alfred's going to be let go. We'll put Matthew and Francis in the final. Francis was voted the most liked contestant in our online polls, so he'll win it all. Then, for next season, we'll bring him back so he can co-host with you on the—"

Absolutely not. He refuses to co-host anything with that fool!

"—next season. All right? Good. Let's get filming again."

He doesn't get paid enough for this.

He would give anything to wipe that grin off of Francis's face. He knows he's going to win, doesn't he? Maybe someone from the crew tipped him off. At any rate, as Arthur watches him and Matthew prepare their final dishes of the competition, he is filled with an immense sense of loathing for the Frenchman. He doesn't deserve a single quid let alone a quarter of a million pounds. He could at least pretend to be a little humble. Why anyone would ever vote for him as being the best contestant is beyond Arthur.

When the confetti rains down from the ceiling and Francis walks out into the celebratory crowd waiting to congratulate him for his staged victory, Arthur glares at him in disdain and turns toward Matthew in an attempt to quell some of his rage.

He makes sure the film crew can't hear him when he leans over toward the young Canadian and says, "You're hired, lad. Welcome to the brigade."

Matthew jolts in surprise and is left momentarily speechless, lips fumbling over a lack of sound until finally, he regains his timid voice. "R-Really?"

"Yes, really."

"T-Thank you so much, sir! That's such a generous offer."

Arthur internally praises himself for doing the righteous thing. He can be compassionate at times. "You can start in two weeks, if you'd like."

"I'd love to take the offer, but…" Matthew nibbles on his bottom lip and whispers, "I've agreed to become Francis's business partner. He's opening his own restaurant because he said he doesn't want to work in yours...I'm sorry…"

Opening up his own restaurant? That's not how this is supposed to work.

"But Alfred's looking for a job. He's a really good cook when he applies himself, and maybe you could give him a chance to prove that, especially since he made it so far into the competition?" Matthew suggests sheepishly, rocking back and forth nervously.

"Oh, hon, hon, hon!"

The sound of that laugh makes the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stand up. He spins around and sees Francis has now joined their conversation. He's proudly flaunting a glass of champagne in one hand. "It's true—Mathieu is going to be my protégé. Isn't he adorable? I got to him before you did because I saw what an excellent opportunity I had before me."

"Matthew, you can do better than work for this frog, surely," Arthur says rather harshly.

"Don't be so jealous, mon ami."

"I'm not jealous!"

Francis takes a happy sip of champagne and hums, "Do not worry, Arthur. I can offer you a job at my restaurant once you've realized how dated and tired your own establishment is."

"How dare you—!"

"I'll even give you a discount. I hear times have been financially tough for you as of late."

"Where did you hear that? It's not the least bit true!"

"I have my sources," Francis says with an exaggerated wink, and that's the straw that breaks the camel's back.

In a flash, Arthur hands are around the man's neck, and the previously joyful crowd gasps and beings to point and stare.

But unbeknownst to Francis and Arthur, the cameras are still rolling, and the director announces gleefully, "This is magnificent! Our ratings will be through the roof! Just wait until these two are co-hosts next season—I can already see the potential! They're perfect for one another."

Matthew stands awkwardly in the middle of the chaos, suddenly invisible to everyone despite being the runner-up of the show.

Maybe Alfred was right when he said last week that this whole thing is overrated. He should just go back home and launch his own pâtisserie. Things would be quieter that way. Reality TV just isn't his domain. He didn't expect things to get this heated and violent, and the drama is rather exhausting if you ask him.

As though sensing he is needed, Alfred weaves his way out of the perplexed crowd and over to him amid the fighting to check in on him. Matthew wonders if he feels a little guilty now for dragging them into this in the first place.

"Hey, wanna go out for pancakes, bro?"

Matthew spares the quarreling chefs one last glance and nods at Alfred. Honestly, those two are no better than children, are they? It's sad what television can do to people, and Arthur was right anyway—he can do better than Francis.

He's the real chef around here, clearly. While they're battling it out, he can go and work on earning a Michelin star for himself. They're going to be sorry for casting him aside like this.

"Yeah, let's go. These hosers are cramping my style."

"Facts, bro. These people have nothing on your Nutella waffles. Can you make some when we get home?"

"If you're nice to me."

"I'm nice to you like ninety-nine and a half percent of the time. It's a good thing we're not like these wild Europeans, huh?"

Matthews allows himself a laugh as he follows Alfred to the exit. "Yeah, I think I'll stick to cooking on the other side of the Atlantic from now on."

"Good, because I'm tired of being judged for deep-frying Oreos. These guys don't know what they're missing out on."

"At least their arteries aren't as clogged as yours are," Matthew teases.

"Hey! My arteries fine, which means I can have all of the Oreos I want."

"I'm not sure that's how it works."

"Dying from delicious food doesn't sound so bad though," Alfred reasons, pulling out his phone to search for the nearest restaurant that serves pancakes in the middle of the afternoon.

"True, there are worse things to die from in this world."

"If I die young, bury me with a jar of Nutella and like five boxes of cookies, okay?"

"Only if you bury me with some poutine."

"Dude, I've gotchu. I will personally help you write that into your will. Now, let's go stuff our faces."

Food makes everything better. It'll be refreshing to not have to be the one preparing it for once.

"Right behind you, Al."