Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The seconds drag at an agonizing pace as Kuroo milks the pause for dramatic effect, yet again. Osamu feels like he's gonna see his own head under the cloche when Kuroo finally moves his hand, like in those cheesy horror movies. Except this is real life, and he'll be out two million yen and the chance to take Suna on a date, which sounds like a fate worse than death.

Kuroo's wrist twitches. His hand flourishes. He raises the cloche above his head and Osamu sees —

"Chef Shirofuku, you've been Chopped. Judges?"

Relief like he's never experienced floods Osamu's system. If this is the kind of rush that people feel when they do drugs, then sign him up because this shit is potent. He can't make heads or tails of the feedback the judges are giving Shirofuku as she bids farewell. Any sound that isn't the pounding of blood against his ear drums might as well be happening all the way in Hokkaido.

All Osamu knows is that he has one final shot to take this. And he is sure as hell gonna make the absolute most of it. He's no longer here to just avoid a fine or whatever public defamation Atsumu would've caused.

Osamu is here to win.

Kuroo gestures vaguely to Osamu and Tendou. "Ok you two, congrats on making it to the final round. Do me a favor and head off to the side with your producers while we get the final basket set up. Shouldn't be too long now." He nods before diving back into the fray.

Well, he certainly doesn't have to tell Osamu twice. He heads off to the side of the set, immediately sidling up to Suna.

"Congrats." Suna grins, knocking their shoulders together and not pulling away after. "Knew you had it in you."

Osamu lets himself stand as close as he wants to — as close as Suna has been this whole day. Knowing that Suna likes him back makes him bolder.

"It's only cause I had ya wishin' me luck."

A small voice beside him makes a retching sound. "Ok, seriously, you two are way grosser than before the break. What happened during lunch?"

Kenma is looking at them the way Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu when he drinks milk straight from the carton then puts it back in the fridge. Minus the whole somehow stupidly in love with you even though you do things that make me want to set you on fire thing that the two of them have going on.

"Nothing you can prove." Suna says.

Kenma's face scrunches like he's just bit directly into a lemon. Osamu watches his mouth continue to contort, as though he might say something, but, with a heavy sigh, Kenma must decide that it's too much effort and just walks away instead.

Osamu looks at Kenma as he leaves, then at Suna. Suna's eyes, which are already crinkling around the edges, glimmer even brighter when he turns to find Osamu already staring at him. They manage to contain their laughter for all of eight seconds before it sputters out of them. Throaty and stilted and even funnier since they know they're not supposed to make any noise right now.

Much faster than last time, Kuroo calls Tendou and Osamu back to their stations. The crew needs some more B-roll of the two of them, so different directors take turns guiding them around the set like puppets until they finally get the shot. At long last, the final baskets are brought out.

"Chefs, welcome to the dessert round. You will have thirty minutes to incorporate the following ingredients into a tasty treat to cap off your meal. Please, open your baskets."

Osamu inhales, deeply. No matter what's inside this basket he is going to cook like his life depends on it. He is getting that date with Suna, goddammit.

"You must use, passion fruit."

Damn. That's a great ingredient. Super versatile. He'll be able to do a lot with that.

"Plantains."

The peel on these is pretty dark, which means they'll be sweet once he cooks them. Osamu prefers his plantains savory, but sweet ones definitely have more potential in a dessert.

"Citrus moonshine."

This isn't the wildcard? Moonshine feels like the kind of thing viewers would vote for. Drunk people make great TV. So does a kitchen fire, which could be in their future, since anything with this high of an alcohol content is super flammable.

"And, your Viewer's Choice Ingredient, ghost peppers."

Well that explains that.

Ghost peppers aren't even good spicy. They're genetically modified to hold a world record for being the spiciest thing in existence. Use a little too much and it's easy to completely wreck someone's palette for the next few hours.

"Time starts now."

In some ways, this basket's ingredients are the least challenging they've had all day. There's not anything that needs to be Dealt With like the acorn squash, kholodets, or goat head from earlier. It gives Osamu a little more breathing room. Which is good, because this round was always going to be the hardest for him.

The combination of Osamu not having much of a sweet tooth, plus him not having any dessert on the menu at the restaurant, equals his current reality, where he hasn't cooked dessert with any sort of technique in mind since culinary school. The fanciest he gets these days is popping frozen cookie dough in the oven and sprinkling flaky salt on top when they're done. If he knew he was going to be competing on Chopped more than forty eight hours before he showed up today, maybe he could've brushed up a bit.

But finesse and preparation have never been his style.

Osamu trusts himself. He knows what tastes good together. And if he wants to make food for other people that tastes good, then that's the question he needs to answer.

What desserts does he enjoy eating?

He likes ice cream, but he's watched enough of this show to know that the ice cream machine is notoriously evil, so he's not touching that thing with a ten foot pole. He had a really good pavlova at a friend's restaurant recently and hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since. It's hard to beat a good olive oil cake though. Not too sweet, plus, it's super versatile, so that could —

"Satori, what will you be making today?" Ushijima asks, his stern voice impossible to miss from opposite the station next to Osamu.

"Oh, this basket's speaking to me loud and clear." Tendou pantomimes bringing his ear down to the basket. To better hear what it's saying, naturally. When he opens his mouth again, it's to release a shrill, "And it's saying soufléeeeee."

Osamu realizes several things at the exact same time.

One: He can't make anything even remotely soufflé adjacent.

Cakes, muffins, bread puddings, lava cake — hell, Osamu doesn't even want to touch the ramekins he'd bake any of them in. Tendou has the upper hand in this round, so it's in Osamu's best interest to make it as hard as possible for the judges to make a direct comparison between their two dishes.

Two: He is definitely making a pavlova.

Because,

Three: Soufflés need a ton of egg whites.

And,

Four: The pantry here is barely stocked.

Osamu drops everything he's holding and takes off like a mad man towards the pantry. He grabs a bunch of things, but the big one is eggs. There's four different half cartons of eggs. Osamu takes three of them.

He thinks about taking the last carton of eggs too, but decides to leave them. It's like how when Atsumu wanted to slash all the tires on Osamu's ex's car, Kiyoomi told him to just slash three of them. He said it's because if three tires get fucked up, that's just an unfortunate coincidence and his ex is on the hook for replacing them, but if all four get got at the same time, then clearly something suspicious happened and insurance will step in to pay for it.

Pavlova is about 90% egg whites.

Soufflé, coincidentally, is also about 90% egg whites.

If there's no eggs for Tendou when he goes to grab them, then clearly someone forgot to restock the fridge and some PA will have to go track down eggs for him. But if there's just one carton left, then he just has to suck it up and deal with it.

Osamu cracks eggs like his life depends on it. His hands slick with sweat as he meticulously separates the yolks from the whites. He needs this meringue base finished as quickly as possible so he can start baking. Usually, a pavlova is baked low and slow for several hours, so if he's gonna pull this off, he'll need to give them as much time in the oven as possible.

Eighteen egg whites is a lot of egg whites. Especially when his next step involves whipping them into stiff peaks. He'll be lucky if just securing the stand mixer with the whisk attachment in place doesn't send egg whites sloshing out the side of the bowl and all over his station.

Osamu glances at what used to be Shirofuku's station.

Fuck it. It's not like she needs it anymore.

He takes the stand mixer from under her station and plugs it in next to the one he already has set up on his station. With the egg whites spit more evenly split between the two mixers, he clicks both of them on. Watching as the meringue starts shaping up.

"Quite a lot of egg whites there, chef," Suna lilts in front of him. "And two stand mixers. Someone's got his hands full."

"What can I say, I've got my eye on the prize."

The seriousness in his tone catches Suna off guard. His cheeks are pink and for the first time today he doesn't have a snarky retort. Osamu isn't brave enough to chance a wink with all these cameras facing him, but he wishes he was. If only to see what it looks like when Suna gets really flustered.

"So, uhm." Suna clears his throat. "What are you making?"

"Right now I'm workin' on makin' a meringue for my pavlova. Once that's in the oven I'll start dealin' with the rest of it."

"A pavlova? Think you can pull that off in thirty minutes?"

"For a prize this sweet, I've gotta give it my all. Don't ya think?"

Suna scoffs, brushing him off as though he has the upper hand, but Osamu isn't fooled by the cracks in his unaffected facade.

Oh, this is fun. Osamu wishes he could devote his full attention to teasing Suna, but if he doesn't get this meringue in the oven like right now, no way in hell will it finish cooking in time.

He takes out two sheet trays. With the first, he uses a spatula to swirl large dollops into a birds nest adjacent shape. It's the more traditional presentation, but it creates thicker layers which, naturally, will take longer to cook. He only gets one shot at this, so he has to put any sort of Plan B in motion now.

For the second sheet tray, he spreads the meringue flat into a thin layer across the bottom of the tray. This will definitely have time to bake through, so worse comes to worse he can break off chunks of it and have that act as the base of his dish.

He triple checks to make sure the oven is on and hot then closes the door. He won't be able to open it for the rest of the round, since doing that lets all the heat out.

Osamu glances over to check the time. He still has twenty four minutes left.

Damn. That's way longer than he though was left. He's doing great on time management this round.

Next to him, Tendou loudly proclaims, "Well, I should probably taste the rest of my ingredients," seconds before waterfalling at least two shots of moonshine directly into his mouth. He swallows it down with a satisfied gulp, completely unphased by the intensity, even though Osamu can feel the alcohol singeing his nose hairs from two stations over.

Osamu immediately looks for Suna — because what the actual fuck was that? When he finds him over on the crew side, Suna's already staring back at him. The two of them wearing matching bewildered expressions.

Something deep within him knows they'll be able to talk about it later, which is the only reason his brain is able to stop staring at Suna and start deciding what to do with the rest of the basket ingredients.

The classic approach for a pavlova would be macerated fruit on top. That feels like as good a spot as any to use the passion fruit. Though, it might make more sense to do it as a compote. He'd be able to add some of the moonshine in there and let most of the alcohol cook off if he does it that way.

He can serve the plantains on top too, since they're technically a fruit. Plus, once the sugar caramelizes on the outside, it'll give a good textural contrast to the compote.

Huh.

Caramel…

Osamu looks back at the time. It'd be tight, but he does technically have enough time to make a caramel. And if he infuses some of the ghost pepper into it the sweetness of the caramel will cut the heat of the pepper and actually make it edible. Maybe some orange too. The citrus notes will help it mesh with the tropical flavors of the passion fruit and keep the ghost pepper from getting to intense.

It's a risk, but if he can pull it off it has the potential to seriously wow the judges.

He darts back to the pantry. Grabbing all the sugar and butter and cream and oranges he'll need, then immediately sets to work on his caramel.

Keeping track of everything has Osamu's whole body thrumming with focus. His sense of smell and sound heightening to pick up on anything burning while he has his back turned, chopping up plantains.

Turning to stir the sugar. If it's moving, it's not burning. Turning back to his station. Slicing thin strips of the ghost pepper. Setting those off to the side. Getting rid of all the pith and seeds. Turning to stir the sugar. Checking the progress on the plantains. Turning back to his station. Taking the peels off of the oranges. Slicing them into —

Osamu gasps around the sudden, sharp pain in his left hand. His whole body goes clammy. Dread sinking deep in his stomach as he looks down.

He's … bleeding.

He applies pressure to his left hand with his right. Cursing at both the ache and the timing of it. Osamu hasn't cut himself like this since he was a teenager. Of all the times for it to happen, it had to be now?

"Medic station. Now."

Suna.

He's right at Osamu's side. An arm around his shoulders while he starts marching him to the medic station in the far corner.

"Keiji, clear his station." His voice is clipped, direct. Leaving no room for argument as he calls over his shoulder. Akaashi nods, heading over to Osamu's station. A PA armed with nitrile gloves, cleaning supplies, and a trash can on his heels.

They're gonna throw all of his dish away. They can't do that. He's so close. He still has to win.

"But —"

"Not all of it." Suna reassures, his voice much softer than it was when he was talking to Akaashi. "Just what you were working on when you cut yourself. If there's blood on it, they have to throw it away, but you're still allowed to use everything that wasn't on your cutting board."

Osamu clings to everything Suna tells him. The easy timbre of his voice and the reassurance in his words letting him not put up so much of a fight.

Once they make it to the medic station, Suna's hand around his shoulder starts rubbing large circles in the center of his back. The motion reminds him that his lungs are three dimensional. Each breath he takes presses into Suna's hand. Helps him calm down. Center himself.

A tall man with wavy brown hair and an easy smile who must be the medic starts cleaning his hand off. Running it under cold water and examining the cut. Now that it's not actively bleeding it's less scary, but it still stings like a bitch.

The medic swipes an alcohol swab over it and Osamu winces. Suna tenses beside him, then asks, "Is it bad?"

It's quiet for another couple seconds as the medic continues studying his hand. When he glances up at Osamu he merely says, "Hurts, right?"

"Obviously," Osamu grimaces. He looks helplessly over at the clock, seconds ticking down and there's nothing he can do but watch as Tendou keeps cooking.

The medic chuckles under his breath. "If you can feel it, that means your nerve endings still work fine, so I don't have to send you to the hospital."

Osamu rolls his eyes. Like hell would this warrant a trip to the hospital. They're just being over-dramatic because they're worried about Osamu suing them or whatever.

"It in't a big deal. Just let me get back to cookin'."

The hand rubbing circles on Osamu's back stills as Suna turns on him. "You aren't going anywhere until you've been cleared by Sachirou."

The ferocity sets him on edge. Why is Suna being such a hardass about this?

"Just throw a band aid on it. I'm fine."

"That'd be a lot more convincing if you weren't actively bleeding."

Osamu looks down at his hand again. So, maybe, he'd bled through the first thing of gauze Sachirou had wrapped around it, but so what? He can cook without his left hand for the rest of the round if he has to.

"Suna, it doesn't matter, will ya just —"

"Of course it matters." His voice is uncharacteristically stern, betraying a frustration that's just well disguised fear. "You're hurt. You might be alright with not taking care of yourself, but I'm not."

There's a tense silence that feels like it goes on forever. Sachirou pointedly avoiding looking at either of them while he works. Meanwhile, Suna and Osamu can't look anywhere but each other.

Osamu's always been reckless. A little too easy to goad for his own good. Suna's been teasing him all day — pushing him to be honest about the thing going on between them and what he wants outside of this. It's been light and fun, so the seriousness in Suna's worry pins him like a bug in a microscope slide. Suna studying every line on his face, in case one of them means he's hurt more than he's letting on.

But growing up in the Miya household, his mom instilled in him and Atsumu the sage wisdom of If you're gonna be stupid, you better be tough. Maybe for other households it would've been harsher than strictly necessary, but it worked for them.

Over the years, it's given him a lax view of bodily harm, but also an informed one. He's very in tune with the amount of pain that is past his limits and requires a trip to the emergency room and the amount that he can chalk up to sometimes shit happens.

It's so natural to him that he forgets other people don't think like that. They see a little bit of blood and assume the worst. Their thoughts racing with worries and worst case scenarios that simply don't cross Osamu's mind because he knows they aren't coming.

He doesn't have much time before he'll be sent back. And when he does, he'll have too much lost time to make up for to give it any more thought.

But, still, leaving Suna like this feels wrong somehow. He wants to do … something before he goes.

"Hey." Osamu keeps his voice soft, leading by example. "I'm real good at keepin' my promises, remember? If there was somethin' to be worried about I'd tell ya, but I ain't lying when I say that I'm alright."

Suna exhales. The playful spark Osamu's come to expect is back when he looks at him. Like he's coming back to himself.

"Right."

"Right," Osamu echoes.

"Right…" Sachirou says, elongating the word in a way that screams suspicion. Osamu opens his mouth to explain himself, but (blessedly) Sachirou keeps talking before he can get a word out. "I'll give it another look after the round, but the bleeding seems to have subsided."

"Thanks," Osamu says, flexing his hand to test his mobility. It still hurts, and the gauze, band aid, plus finger condom combo limit how much he can bend it, but it's workable.

"Just doing my job." Sachirou smiles brightly. "You're all good. Get back out there."

Osamu doesn't need to be told twice. He sprints back to his station. Taking stock of everything he's still allowed to use.

His main santoku knife and the cutting board he was using are both gone. So are the oranges he was prepping. Nothing's been taken off the stove though. And his pavlova is still safely inside the oven. His caramel and his plantains, by some miracle, aren't burnt. Upon closer inspection, that miracle's name is Akaashi Keiji, since it looks like he turned all of the burners down to their lowest setting when he was over here.

Osamu plans to repay him by heeding his advice and making absolutely sure that neither he nor Suna is ever loud enough that Akaashi can hear them through the walls of their apartment and gets woken up in the middle of the night.

His mind starts to drift. Imagining all the sounds Suna might make. All the ways Osamu might find to keep him quiet.

Focus.

There's twelve and a half minutes left on the clock.

Fuck.

He brings the heat on his caramel back up to medium-high. Same for the plantains. He's not anxious to tempt fate and try to incorporate the oranges with his caramel again. The flavors might not be as dynamic, but he's just hoping it makes it on the plate.

Osamu takes the ghost peppers he'd prepped earlier and adds them to the pan with his caramel. He hadn't gotten a chance to start on his passion fruit and moonshine compote before he cut himself, so he gets a third pan going for that. Scooping out the flesh of the passion fruit and letting it melt with some sugar.

With that, everything he's working on is now on the stove. Osamu stares down at everything, willing it to cook faster with his mind.

He doesn't want to look up at the clock because he knows he won't like the answer, but he needs to know how much time he has left even more.

Seven minutes.

Fuck.

Osamu adds a healthy pour of the moonshine to his compote and prays that it won't burn in the time it takes him to go and grab plates from the kitchenware rack. He thinks about going for a more elongated plate, but decides that no matter which pavlova ends up being viable, neither will look right on that shape. It's a shame to not be able to use any of the fun kitchenware they have while he's here, but it just doesn't fit his dish. Such is life.

He turns around just in time to see a bright red hellfire erupt on the stove.

Godmothereverlovingfuckingdammit.

He was gone for like twenty seconds! How the fuck could anything on his station possibly have made a fire this big in that amount of time? He barely used any moonshine, but you'd think he was serving his dish with a side of Molotov cocktail.

This is all Atsumu and Kiyoomi's fault. He hopes their wedding venue floods and they lose the deposit. And just for good measure, Osamu decides he's gonna sign the witness line of their marriage license wrong so they won't even be legally married and he can get them arrested for tax fraud when they file jointly.

Osamu sprints back to his station, but upon closer inspection, it actually isn't his station that's on fire.

It's Tendou's.

Oh thank fuck.

The relieved sigh he lets out is so loud, astronauts can probably hear it all the way from space. It carries over the sound of the fire extinguisher as a PA wearing a thick set of gloves takes the pan off the stove and sets it on the ground on their side of set for another PA to let the white smoke rip and smother the flames.

Osamu occupies himself with checking his own pans, which have all managed to survive his absence unscathed. The whole kitchen smells crazy though. Burnt, overly sweet alcohol mixed with the sharp, chemical-y odor of the fire extinguisher foam.

He's tempted to try to piece together how that possibly happened now, but he can't waste any more time rubber necking. Surely Suna had better eyes on the whole situation and can tell him later. Right now, Osamu needs to make sure he gets everything on his plate.

The compote is coming together well. A good balance of all the passion fruit and the citrus of the moonshine without either being overpowering. The caramel needs a little more time, so Osamu turns the heat up just a bit, hoping one last push will get him where he needs to be. By then it's about time for the plantains to come off the stove too. He dumps them onto a wire rack to cool, hoping to avoid having to put them onto the pavlova piping hot and fucking up the texture.

Same thing goes for the pavlova, it needs a second to cool before he wants to start plating with it. Osamu says a small prayer and opens the oven for the first time this round to pull out both trays of his pavlova. The texture of both looks the same as it did at his friend's place, so that's comforting.

Osamu looks up at the clock again and decides that waiting for them to cool completely is a luxury he doesn't have right now. He picks the ugliest of the birds nests and cuts into it. Meringue sticks to his knife, the center of the birds nest running and dripping into the new space. Osamu's face falls.

He knew it was a long shot that those would cook through, but it's still disappointing that they aren't usable. He wipes off his knife then shifts his focus to the thin layer of pavlova covering the other sheet tray. He holds his breath as he slices, straight down the middle. His knife comes out clean.

Holy shit.

This might actually work.

"Two minute warning, chefs." Comes Kuroo's emphatic voice from beside the Chopping Block. "Two minute warning. Make sure that you get everything on your plates."

Fuck.

Osamu hasn't even started plating yet, and he got knocked for presentation last round. It's gonna be a race to the finish, but he'll be damned if he gets the same feedback twice in a row.

He slices the whole tray of pavlova into as even of squares as he can. Hoping to layer them almost like a cake, with the compote acting as a quasi-frosting to keep it all from toppling over.

When it's time to actually start assembling his dish, Osamu takes extra cake to ensure that all of his pavlova is centered on the plate, that no errant drops of compote drip onto the plate. He uses tweezers to place each of the plantains on top of the pavlova towers. It would be faster if he just used a spoon, but any little imperfection might cost him the prize at this point.

Osamu will not leave today with any regrets. All that matters is this dish, this moment. Everything else is already forgotten.

Just as he starts drizzling caramel on top of his first plate he hears Kuroo start counting down.

"Make sure you get everything on your plates in these final seconds chefs. You have ten, nine, eight."

He will not let himself rush. He can't afford to get sloppy.

"Seven, six."

He just needs to breathe.

"Five, four, three."

Breathe.

"Two, and one. Hands up, chefs. Step away from your stations."

Osamu is vaguely aware of the sound of clapping coming from where the judges are sitting. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm, shoulders sagging as they complete the motion.

Before Osamu even gets a chance to look for him, Suna's there on the other side of his station. Examining his dish with a dedication and awe normally only found in people staring at paintings in museums. Osamu is pretty sure his own expression would look eerily similar as he watches Suna study his dish.

The judges take their samples of his extras. Osamu knows they won't let their opinions slip before the final critique, but he still can't help the way he searches their faces as they eat his food.

Their presence is replace in short order by Kuroo, clapping his hands together before speaking. "Home stretch of this stuff, I promise. We just need a few more shots before we let you hear what the judges have to say."

Kenma takes a turn talking them through the motions. Telling them where to stand and making sure they get all the angles they need of him and Tendou walking back and forth.

Now that the adrenaline of the round has worn off, Osamu absently wonders if Sachirou has an ibuprofen he can steal later. His hand doesn't hurt, but it also doesn't not hurt. He knows Atsumu and Kiyoomi would get him, but he isn't sure it won't send Suna into another panic, so he keeps that thought to himself right now.

With confirmation from Kenma that it's time for the judging to begin, Osamu steadies himself on his mark. Clasping his hands behind his back so he can't fidget.

He was so distracted earlier, he doesn't even know what Tendou made. Other than his one comment at the start of the round about making soufflé and the giant fire he started, Osamu has no idea what else he spent the past thirty minutes doing. All things considered, it's still Tendou's round to lose.

Osamu knows that his dish is good, but will it be better than his? Will it be enough to win?

"Chefs, you had quite the eventful round."

You can say that again.

"Despite the challenges you faced, your task remains. You had thirty minutes to create a dessert with passion fruit, plantains, citrus moonshine, and, your Viewer's Choice Ingredient, ghost peppers." Kuroo turns towards Tendou. "Chef Tendou, please tell us what you've made."

Finally Osamu doesn't have to go first.

He studies Tendou's plate in front of each judge and really does have to admit that his presentation has been on point all day. It looks styled for a magazine shoot.

"Judges, this is a dark chocolate and ghost pepper soufflé with macerated fruit and a citrus moonshine whipped cream on top."

Osamu holds his breath as the judges take their first bites of Tendou's dish.

"I mean, it's hard to go wrong with a soufflé," Ukai says. "The texture's a little bit heavier than you'd expect from a soufflé, but it's undeniably delicious. The fruit on top adds a nice depth to the sweetness."

Damn.

Snagging all the eggs was never going to completely ruin Tendou's dish, but Osamu would be lying if he said he hadn't hoped it'd fuck with the texture of Tendou's soufflé a little more than it did.

Nekomata nods several times. "You've shown good control over the flavors in this. The chocolate keeps the ghost pepper from being overpowering. Same with the moonshine in the whipped cream. It may have been a safe choice, but it's an incredibly solid preparation."

Yeah, that's about what Osamu expected. He's not surprised Tendou made a great dish. It doesn't seem like the judges were overly blown away with it though. It'll be close, but that might be all Osamu needs to snatch the win out from under him.

"Chef Tendou, it looked like you had a pan that got away from you towards the end of the round."

Tendou stares blankly ahead, as though he has no idea what Kuroo could possibly be talking about.

"… the one that caught on fire?" Kuroo prompts.

"Oh! That. Eh, don't worry about it."

The whole room stares silently at Tendou. Waiting for him to continue. Is he seriously not gonna address the fact that he almost burnt the whole building down? There's a lot of furtive glancing between the judges and Kuroo, all of them deciding if they're just gonna let him drop it, or if they're gonna ask him about again, and if they are who's gonna do it.

Apparently Tendou is capable of reading the room, because he sighs heavily and keeps talking when he realizes no one else is going to. "It was gonna be a reduction with the moonshine, but I decided it didn't suit my dish, so I stopped paying attention to it. Probably should've turned the burner off when I decided to nix it though." He shrugs. "Whoops."

Osamu's face cracks before he can stop himself from reacting. It's not like anyone's looking at him though. They're all too busy wondering how Tendou hasn't seriously injured himself or anyone else in the kitchen before.

"Well … that's … certainty a first." Kuroo says. "Thank you, chef."

A team of PAs appears and swaps out Tendou's plates for Osamu's. While they do, Osamu assumes Kuroo is mentally rewriting the show's accident insurance policy with the way he's looking off into the middle distance.

Once they get the all clear to continue, Kuroo reels in the thousand yard stare and shifts his focus to Osamu. "Chef Miya, please tell us about your dish."

Osamu takes a deep breath.

"Juges, today I've prepared for ya a pavlova. 's got a passion fruit and citrus moonshine compote between the layers of the pavlova itself, then I went ahead 'n topped it with sweet plantains and a ghost pepper caramel."

The judges start to dig into his dish. The waiting is only a few seconds long, but each one of them is agony.

Before the judges can say anything though, Kuroo asks, "Chef Miya, first of all, how's your hand doing?"

"I'm fine, they patched me up real good durin' the round. I think I's just movin' a little faster than I shoulda."

"Well, we're glad you're ok, chef."

The formality in Kuroo's tone makes Osamu squirm in his spot. He knows they have to ask about the cut, but it's still embarrassing. Both the fact that he managed to cut his finger on national TV and also the fact that they're treating it like he almost chopped his whole hand off to give the show some tension.

"Chef Miya, I've got to say I'm impressed. Making a pavlova or a caramel in thirty minutes is a huge ask, especially in this kitchen. But pulling off both in the same round, especially as well as you did, is some incredibly high level cooking."

Kurosu's words make Osamu feel like his whole body is twinkling. A dizzying pride and satisfaction and relief coursing through him.

"Yeah, if I had to fault you for anything, I'd say the plantains feel a little out of place compared to everything else, but they taste so damn good it's hard to mind."

Osamu can't think. Everything's too buzzy. He croaks out a thank you to the judges, but it's breathy and awkward. He's too excited to care.

"Chefs, you've both produced some outstanding dishes today, but only one of you will win the two million yen grand prize and walk away a Chopped Champion. The other will be Chopped, and go home empty handed."

Osamu swallows around his suddenly too dry throat.

So Kuroo's back to the dramatic monologues. Great.

They film several more shots of them exiting the kitchen before giving them the all clear to go to the green room. Osamu walks quickly — anxious to get this part over so that he can get to the confessional with Suna faster — but Tendou keeps pace at his side.

"Is your hand ok?"

Tendou reaches out towards Osamu's hand, like he wants to see how bad the cut is for himself. Osamu snatches his hand back before he can.

"It's fine."

"Ooo, frosty."

Osamu huffs, the force of his annoyance rolling his eyes so far back in his skull he's pretty sure he sees his own brain for a second.

Tendou shrugs. "Believe me or don't, I don't care. But I think we both know it's no fun to win on a technicality."

Huh.

They've barely spoken to each other all day, and when they have it's been antagonistic and pissed Osamu off to no end. But, still, there's something familiar in the way his words feel like they're pulling double duty. Both snarky and cutting, but betraying a deeper level of sportsmanship and care than he wants to let on.

It kind of reminds him of Atsumu.

Maybe they got off on the wrong foot because of the context they met in. Maybe if they'd met outside of here they've might've been able to become friends.

Osamu still wants to beat him though.

Ushijima takes them through the motions of the shots of Osamu and Tendou waiting in the green room. The two of them bicker, but there's less sting to the bite this time.

It wraps up fairly quick, Tendou apparently just as excited about the prospect of his time alone with Ushijima as Osamu is for his time with Suna. The pit stop at the medic station is Suna's idea, but Osamu doesn't think it's a bad one. Sachirou does in fact have ibuprofen, so Osamu takes that and a fresh bandage.

Osamu's almost nostalgic walking down the hallway towards their confessional booth for the last time. Or, second to last time, probably. No matter what the result is, he's more than likely gonna have to come back here one more time to talk to the camera about his thoughts on the whole thing.

At this point, there's nothing else Osamu can do though. His future is entirely in someone else's hands. Well, three someones, to be exact. All the years Osamu spent watching Nekomata, Ukai, and Kurosu on various cooking shows, he never could've guessed that it's somehow their choice if Osamu gets to go on a date with the hottest man he's ever seen.

It's only when Suna starts getting all the equipment set up in their confessional booth that Osamu realizes he hasn't said anything in a long time. They've been though this routine enough for Osamu to have a sense of what normal looks like, and this isn't it.

There's a gracefulness about the way that Suna moves. Lived in and easy, but each of this movements is deliberate. So the fact that he's on his third attempt at plugging in the same chord is a point of interest. A thing that is a break from the pattern and therefore worthy of note.

Is he having second thoughts about their deal? Does he not actually want Osamu to take him out and is trying to figure out how to break the news now? Was he just saying what he thought he had to to put Osamu in the right headspace to win? Has the whole thing really just been all in Osamu's head and Suna doesn't actually —

"Sorry for getting weird when you cut your hand earlier. I just … it was probably a lot so, yeah. I'm sorry."

Suddenly all the hesitation and second guessing make a lot more sense. Suna doesn't seem like the type to get embarrassed very easily, or to show much emotion ever, really. As much as the show of vulnerability puts Suna on edge, it bolsters Osamu's nerves. Reminds him that this is uncharted territory for both of them. Not just him.

"Hey," Osamu smiles, barely there, but no less real. "Don't mention it. All water under the bridge now."

Suna's shoulders relax away from his ears. His gaze turning more focused, direct. Osamu thinks about stopping there, but can't help himself.

"Besides, you're cute when ya worry."

Suna's face falls. "I am not."

"Sure y'are. Ya can't keep your hands to yourself and ya get all pouty."

Osamu reaches out, hands deciding they'd like to illustrate his point without any permission from his mind to do that whatsoever. He's pretty sure he wants to rub his thumb over Suna's bottom lip, but he never gets that far. Suna snatches Osamu's wrist and yanks it off to one side, never letting go. It knocks Osamu off balance. Bringing him so close to Suna's face that he can feel Suna's breath across his cheeks as he gathers air to speak again.

"You can tell me all about it later." His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper, the low tone sending a shiver down Osamu's spine. "Ok?"

Suna blinks heavily at him. Osamu swallows hard, then nods because he doesn't trust himself to not say something truly stupid like please can we figure out a way to lock this door and test just how soundproof it really is?

Suna squeezes his wrist once then drops it. He gives Osamu a second to collect himself, then hits the button that turns the little red Recording light on.

It doesn't help at all, but the thought is nice.

Once Suna starts asking him questions, it takes him a few tries to get his answers out steadily enough that Suna deems them acceptable enough to mark off his checklist. There's plenty to talk about, with all the near-disasters that went down in the round. Several more rounds of questions later, Suna finally checks off the last thing on his list.

"And, that's that." He sets the clipboard back down against the tripod. "You ready to see if you won?"

Osamu wipes his hands on his pant legs. He obviously wants to know who won, but he's nervous. His brain is working overtime trying to compartmentalize the whole possibly-not-getting-to-take-Suna-on-a-date thing, but even the pressure of winning just as a career accomplishment makes him feel small.

Two million yen is a lot of money. It would let him take on more staff and repair all of the equipment that's currently being held together with duct tape and a prayer. He could finally have a functional dishwasher. And a second rice cooker. Not to mention the increase in foot traffic of people visiting the shop after hearing about it on TV.

He's filled with so much want that his muscles ache. That he's practically sick with it. That he —

"Earth to Osamu."

Osamu blinks several times in quick succession. He sees Suna waving a hand in front of him. His face flushes.

"Sorry. Just kinda nervous, I guess."

"Oh." Suna tilts his head to one side, appraising him. "Do you need a second? I can text Akaashi and tell him —"

"Can I have another good luck kiss?"

Osamu's eyes bulge. Why the fuck did he say that?

"I mean, the last one seemed to be real lucky, since I'm still here, so maybe … we — if you wanna I mean."

And now he's still talking. Why is he still talking? That has literally not once in the history of his whole stupid life helped him.

His distress seems who amuse Suna, who hums slightly. "Mmm, I don't think you need any more luck." He leans in closer. "But I'll kiss you just because I want to."

And then he does.

It's unhurried and sweet, completely different from their first. Osamu melts into it. Savoring each new hitch in Suna's breath as he kisses him again and again.

The passing thought that he now knows what two different kinds of kisses feel like makes him excited to find more. Of all the ways they still get to discover that they fit together.

A loud banging scares the shit out of Osamu.

"Knock, knock. HR." Comes Akaashi's voice though the door, seconds before he opens it.

"Ha ha. Very funny." Suna deadpans.

"I thought so." Akaashi smirks. "But, seriously, you were supposed to be back five minutes ago. Kuroo wanted to send Ushijima to find you guys."

"Not my fault so much happened that round. Never got to see a kitchen fire before."

The two of them spend the walk back reminiscing about all of the other chaos that has happened during the competition in the years they've been working here. Apparently Osamu needs to go back and rewatch this show because people appear to constantly be putting the show's insurance policy through the ringer.

The back hallway is unnervingly quiet when Osamu gets there, taking his place in front of Tendou in line. The two of them nod once, but don't say anything. Last round was the closest their critiques have been the whole day. The appetizer round went in Osamu's favor, but the entree round went in Tendou's.

At this point, it's really anyone's game.

Kuroo calls them back to set.

Osamu takes a step forward. Then another. He makes it to his mark without his heart beating out of his chest, so that's cool. Then he sees the cloche sitting on the Chopping Block and he really might pass out. Or away. Probably both.

"Chefs, you've both prepared some outstanding dishes today. But, in the end, only one of you will has what it takes to win. So," He reaches out to the handle of the cloche and wraps his fingers around it. "Whose dish is on the Chopping Block?"

The room is dead silent, but Osamu's mind supplies its own danger music with the way his ear drums thrum with the deafening sound of his own heart beat.

Kuroo's hand moves. The silver of the cloche flashes across his vision. There's a plate under it.

No way.

"Chef Tendou, you've been Chopped. Judges?"

Osamu can't breathe. He keeps sucking in air, but he can't seem to have enough.

He did it.

He won.

"Chef Tendou," Nekomata says. "Your goat head sandwich was one of the best things we ate all day. But the judges had some concerns about the use of the basket ingredients in the appetizer round and the texture of your soufflé in the dessert round. So for those reasons, we had to Chop you."

Where's Suna? Osamu needs to find Suna.

He looks over in the crew area. Suna's lips are slightly parted, wonder and excitement in his eyes. He's so beautiful like this.

"Well, it was an honor cooking for you all today." Tendou bows his head. "Farewell, my paradise."

The judges all watch as Tendou leaves, but Osamu can't tear his eyes form Suna. In his mind, they're the only two people in the whole universe right now.

"And that means that you, Chef Miya, are today's Chopped Champion!"

Osamu's head snaps back to Kuroo at the sound of his voice.

"I honestly can't believe it," Osamu breathes. More to himself than anyone else. "Thank ya — thank ya so much. Truly, it's more've an honor than ya know."

The other congratulations are all a blur. He shakes the hands of each of the judges. Of Kuroo. Kenma, Akaashi, and Ushijima all wish him the best before going off to their various duties. Even Sachirou wishes him well as he's packing up the first aide supplies at his station for the day.

Then, it's just him and Suna.

(Maybe the other people are still in the room, but Osamu simply couldn't give less of a fuck about any of them.)

"Hey."

"Hey," Osamu echoes.

"Congrats."

"Thanks."

They don't address it beyond that as they head back to their confessional room one last time. Osamu's grateful for the silence.

The final confessional is the shortest one of the day. Just a few quick sentences about how he's feeling about winning and then the camera's turning back off again.

Suna flips to the last page of his checklist. "You'll get this in an email too, but they like for us to go over the prize money stuff in person too."

He launches into a well rehearsed speech about when Osamu can expect to see the prize money in his account and what the taxes are on it and what he isn't allowed to spend it on (he can't use the money to purchase anything illegal — shocker) and what the name of the finance person he should reach out to with any further questions is.

"Anything I missed?"

"Yeah," Osamu nods. "There's still one prize ya haven't told me how I cash in."

"Step one, take me somewhere that isn't here so I don't get fired."

"My place?"

"Oh? How forward."

Osamu sputters, realizing the implications only after he's already said it. "Sorry, I —"

"I didn't say it was a bad thing."

Osamu exhales. He can't help the way that Suna makes him nervous, but he isn't sure he'd do anything about it even if he could. If today has reminded him of anything it's how much he likes a challenge.

"Let me make ya dinner."

"Haven't you cooked enough today?"

"Please, this was a light day compared to the restaurant. Besides, you didn't get to try any of it. I'm a Chopped Champion after all. I've got somethin' to prove."

Saying the title out loud for the first time makes him stand a little latter. Reminds him of just how many kinds of victories he's won today.

Suna leads them out of the soundstage and back to the parking lot, where Osamu points out his car to him.

Today has gone better than he could've possibly dreamed. Winning is its own elation, but meeting Suna is a stroke of luck Osamu still can't believe is real.

There's still one thing that's nagging at him though.

"Wait." Osamu pauses, less confident in his ability to keep talking now that he's started. "I … ya know how I mentioned earlier that I've got a brother?"

Suna nods. "Yeah."

"Well, we're actually twins. Identical twins. And he always really wanted me to be on Chopped, even though I never did, so he applied without my knowin' 'n then tricked me into comin' today. So it was him ya talked to before all this, not me. I know it's probably against a bunch a rules, but … I-yeah-I just felt like I needed to tell ya."

It's quiet for a long time. Osamu spends every second of it becoming more convinced that he's irrevocably fucked this up. Then,

"Osamu, I knew that already."

"Ya what?! How?"

Osamu thought he'd done a really good job at flying under the radar today. Suna was a little weird at the beginning of the day, but he hasn't brought it up at all since — and Osamu has seen him gossip about every last person employed by this show today, so the fact that he didn't poke or pry about it once but still figured it out is insane.

"Ok, the identical twin thing is surprising, sure, but it kinda makes sense based on my suspicions."

"What suspicions?"

"I first thought something was up when you signed a few of your emails as Atsumu — that's your brother's name, I assume. I thought about saying something then, but Keiji convinced me it was just autocorrect. You look so much alike that when you got here and weren't blond I didn't push it. Then when I was showing you around I realized I actually liked you, so I guess that's when I knew you two had to be different people. I'm sure your brother's great and all, but I did want to throw something at him while watching his tape."

Being so thoroughly bested should leave him feeling sour, but Osamu can't remember a time he's ever been happier to be so, utterly transparent.

"Nah, ya had it right the first time. Tsumu's the worst."

Osamu opens the passenger door for Suna (because his Momma raised him with manners, thank you very much) then goes to sit on the driver's side. The second he sits down, he gets all call from Atsumu.

"Hang on, I gotta take this." He hits accept on the call. "What do ya want, ya scrub? I'm busy."

"No way in hell you're still filmin' right now. And if ya were, they wouldn't let ya have you're phone out."

"What do ya know?" He taunts.

"It was in the onboardin' paperwork — which I read before signin', thank ya very much."

Through the phone, Osamu hears Kiyoomi's muffled voice say, "You didn't read shit. I read through all of it."

"Yeah, well through the property a marital transubstantiation —"

"What the fuck are you talking about about?"

"Try again."

"Whatever. Ya know what I mean. Point is, I know you're all done for the day, so come on. Did ya win?

"I ain't tellin' ya shit."

"Oh, come on! We're basically the same person. It doesn't count if ya tell me. It's like the twin transfiguration —"

"Nope."

"Still not that."

"Quit bein' an ass! Just tell me if ya won or not."

"I already told ya, I'm not tellin' ya, so quit botherin' —"

"Hey, is this Atsumu?"

Suna leans in close, pulling the phone just far enough away from Osamu's ear that he can hear Atsumu, but either of them could carry on the conversation without it being on speaker.

"Yeah. Who're ya?"

"Suna Rintarou."

There's a loud coughing noise from Atsumu's side of the call.

"Wow, pleasure to meet you. Since, ya know, this is the first time we've ever spoken before."

"Wow," Suna imitates, voice pitching up several octaves. "You and Osamu both suck at lying."

Damn. And Atsumu is the good liar between the two of them.

"Anyways, I'm blocking your number on both of our phones until at least tomorrow morning. I don't want to be interrupted."

"Huh? What the hell does that —"

"Bye."

Suna hangs up the call, then starts clicking around on both phones.

"Better block Kiyoomi too. He won't call, but Tsumu'll steal his phone and try to," Osamu says.

"Already done."

Suna tilts the phones towards him, showing Kiyoomi's number as also being blocked on both of them.

God, he's so smart, it's so hot.

"Now," Suna settles deeper into the passenger seat, looks over at Osamu. "I believe you were about to take me to your place."

Osamu says, "Sure," but that's only the beginning of the thought.

Because what he really wants to say is Sure, I'll take you wherever you want me to, for as long as you'll let me.

Cutting himself off early isn't lying. He's not keeping this from Suna, per se.

Osamu has just always been more honest with his actions than his words have ever let him be.

Maybe one day that'll be different.

But, for now, he just turns the key in the ignition and starts driving towards home.