Work Text:
i. week one
Tommy’s not the type to be nervous, but come on. It’s a room full of amateur cooks who know absolute jackshit about each other and vultures with cameras. It’s a perfect recipe for disaster. Nothing could compare to the tension in this room right now, and it’s because everyone, cocky as shit or not, knows that the moment the automated pantry door opens is the moment all hell breaks loose.
He catches one of the vultures behind the set staring at him, not even bothering to hide the glint of the camera lens pointed at him.
Why do they have cameras? He has half a mind to yell, but it’s stopped by the fact that the only sensible adults in this room that would listen were the celebrity chefs, and considers that maybe they hated these bitches too, and maybe yelling at the judges isn’t one of his better ideas. But still. Why the fuck would you ever let these fucking vultures possess a goddamn camera.
Instead, he dredges up the very finite source of his patience and pointedly stares back with a silent fuck you until the crew member points the damn camera away from him.
Somebody at the front calls for five more minutes of delay, because the procedural drag hasn’t gone on for long enough. Also, building up that competitive atmosphere for all the starry-eyed chefs in here or something, something bullshit, before the production crew fiddles again with last-minute wardrobe changes or something, something more bullshit. Half of the people in the room take deeper breaths to hold for the drama later, and the other half audibly groan in impatience.
He eyes the stranger beside him with an obnoxious mustard yellow sweater. He’s part of the latter half, obviously irritated at the sudden delay in schedule. He huffs and continues squinting up at the bright ceiling lights like he’s willingly inviting the light bulbs to burn his retinas.
Even with this calm, cool, collected thing he has going on by attempting to prove something to the filler lights, he’s kind of holding on to the countertop like it’s a lifeline with white knuckles and all that staring will likely make him blind, and maybe Tommy is a little concerned.
“Dude,” Tommy immediately says, after giving it a second’s worth of thought. There’s no harm in interacting with your fellow cooks, is there? “Are you alright?”
The stranger looks at him, and blinks. “You don’t look that much better, buddy,” he says, his tone a little too light to be anywhere near welcoming as he retracts his fingers from the edge of the black granite countertop. It’s not exactly mocking, but it feels more like fuck off than a proper thank you for checking on me, man. “Poor knife. Suffering to death under your hands.”
Tommy stares at him until he can feel his eyes narrowing, and forces his grip to loosen on the knife he was not supposed to touch until the actual challenge. “Alright then, prick,” he says, deliberately setting down the knife on the chopping board, as gently as he can in a gesture of reluctant peace. “I know that you know about us sharing stations. Or being benchmates long after this first session because of unspoken rules and because the production crew has a shitty, shitty policy about this entire thing, and I am currently trying to make peace with the fact that I am permanently stuck with you by— hold on, wait for it— conversing with you.”
“Huh,” the asshole says after a while, raising his eyebrow like he wasn’t assessing Tommy long before he even talked to him. Like he’s some kind of spy planted by the vultures to cause drama, not a fellow competitor just wanting to cook in peace. He’s not even a tiny bit thrown off by Tommy’s speech, but he’s considerably less prickly and more of a confused jackass. Tommy counts it as a small win on his part. “That sounds counterproductive. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to angrily clutching that knife?”
Tommy almost sighs, all dramatic and heavy, because he’s apparently the bigger man for this partnership, and because he too can be a dick, “Could you at least be less of an asshole to make this whole bullshit bearable for the both of us? Thanks for cooperating, man.”
“Well, when you put it like that.” The stranger shrugs. He tries to make his shrug look nonchalant, which is bullshit because it’s an apology. It’s kind of genuine. Reluctantly genuine. Tommy grudgingly accepts it. “I’ll try.”
“Well, good,” Tommy says, blinking. It’s better than he expected from a literal stranger, and it means something from a fellow competitor in this unfamiliar kitchen with all the other celebrity TV bullshit and the vultures who are waiting for some fights to spark for their views and audience retention rates. “Thanks.”
The other raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Tommy squares his shoulders, and holds out one of his hands. “Now that we’ve sorted that out, I’m TommyInnit,” he slowly introduces himself, like he’s speaking a simple greeting to a child, because two assholes can play at that game.
He leaves it out long enough that he kind of squints in suspicion as the stranger looks at him like he’s a particularly interesting enigma. Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
“I mean. Thank you for offering me a knife, but I don’t feel like being stabbed today,” the man carefully enunciates, parroting Tommy’s tone with a slight curl to his mouth. He uses his finger to push the flat side of the blade away, and suddenly, Tommy feels a hell lot more justified about the unintentional knife pointing. “I’m Wilbur. Wilbur Soot.”
He’s an asshole, but hey. He hopes Wilbur sticks around.
ii. week three
Pressure tests fucking suck.
He’s seen it happen a dozen times on the telly, but when it happens to you in real life, it leaves you reeling. He loses his second mystery box challenge because Bad’s advantage from his previous win is to choose which ingredient should be the star of the selection, and leaves them with eggs, out of all the other prime breakfast ingredients there is, to work with for this challenge.
His poached egg on the Eggs Benedict is perfect, but he fucking forgets to season it. Forget the liquid gold. It’s bland and unseasoned, and when he lands a spot in the pressure test, he can’t say that it wasn’t deserved.
Tommy aces that one and lives to cook another day. Which is a relief.
It’s not a problem with his confidence, as Sam gently breaks to him after the pressure test’s judging because he’s one of the youngest cooks there and he’s got heart, or something along those lines. Tommy’s confident enough in his cooking. His flavors are fantastic and he knows it. Unfortunately for him, there’s also eighteen other chefs who feel the same thing and actually know their shit, so there’s that.
Presentation has never been one of his strong points, and Tommy quickly accepts that. Adapt, survive, conquer. He just needs to figure it out and fix the damn problem, which is why he’s wondering how long he has to crouch by the stairs at one in the fucking morning with a stiff neck and several days’ worth of back pain.
For God’s sake. The asshole who’s been tinkering in the damn kitchen since eleven p.m. still isn’t finished, and he just wanted to practice his plating.
Much joy. Tommy thinks, almost falling asleep right then and there. This is what he’s willing to do and go through for a trophy, everybody’s grudging approval and a huge amount of money.
A pair of fuzzy slippers from underneath plaid pajamas appear into view, and Tommy can’t find it in himself to lift his head, much less raise his middle finger.
“Oh— what the hell,” someone silently curses, before cautiously prodding his shoulder. “Uh… hey, man. What’re you doing by the stairs?”
“Waiting for you to finish since two fucking a.m.,” Tommy mutters under his breath, and opts to sit down on the carpeted floor. Suddenly, the wallpaper feels like a very comfortable headrest. “Asshole.”
When the silence stretches out for too long, the guy coughs. There is next to no sympathy for Tommy in this entire goddamn kitchen. “...it’s been only seventeen minutes past one?”
Out of spite, Tommy lifts his head and squints in the bad lighting. He tries to figure out why the MasterChef house has bad interior lighting, and who the hell this is. Someone with a T.
“Listen, big man,” Tommy interrupts, eyeing the plate the other held in his hands. On it is a slice of cake with many layers of sour cream and something, along with a healthy smattering of berries on top. Why was he by the stairs again? “I just really wanted to do something in the kitchen, but I’m too sleepy to even tell who you are and why. Are you done?”
Inconsiderate Asshole blinks at him and frowns. “You sure you don’t want to go to sleep, Tommy?” He asks skeptically, poking Tommy’s shoulder again. Why can he not get that Tommy simply just doesn’t want to move. “If you can’t remember who I am or why you’re down here, I think you could use it right now.”
“I don’t need it. Just maybe sugar. Or caffeine,” Tommy frowns, swatting the hand away from his shoulder, and squints again at the guy. “...uh.”
“It’s Tubbo,” Tubbo mildly supplies, balancing his plate on one hand to offer Tommy the other. “If you just walked into the massive kitchen that could accommodate about, I don’t know, say, five or so cooks? You would’ve known that I finished thirty minutes ago.”
“Oh, fuck off, big T,” Tommy scowls, and if his grasp on Tubbo’s outstretched hand shows any indication of what he feels, Tubbo doesn’t react to it. Free help is still help, and he’ll take whatever he can from the same asshole who made him wait. “It’s been a long day, alright? Please shut the fuck up.”
Tubbo opts to mostly ignore him at the same time he follows Tommy inside the kitchen, and when he pushes the plate into his hand with a look that almost rivaled Callahan’s very convincing stares, Tommy grudgingly accepts half of his medovik cake slice. It’s good. Not too sweet with the sour cream layers, but it’s soft and fantastic. Not that he has to tell Tubbo about that.
It’s a long night. But it’s only after a couple of botched attempts with Tubbo’s blank-faced commentary in the background and a careful revision on the subject of playing around with different textures that Tommy loses it and lobs a couple of microgreens at Tubbo.
Who catches a micro carrot in one hand, and starts hysterically laughing. At the very least, Tommy’s sleepy enough to tolerate the worst attempt at a poker face he’s ever seen at one in the morning.
iii. week seven
With the way Tubbo’s sitting beside him in the empty living room and peacefully reading one of those crappy romance novels he bought from the flight to L’Manberg, there could’ve been nothing going wrong in his world.
In Tubbo’s world, Tommy imagines that it is head empty, no thoughts Thursday today because he has immunity with his team winning the team challenge. In Tommy’s world, he is dreading the fact that he has to participate in the pressure test again tomorrow and has only started to frantically comb over his cookbook recipes right now.
There’s a lot of rules in the MasterChef kitchen. God knows how many people they’ve hired as standards-and-practices officials to keep everybody in check. But the one unspoken rule in this household is that all of them are allowed to be protective over their cookbook. It’s as precious as gold, because none of them are allowed to use phones to look for recipes and personal cookbooks are everyone’s only saving grace for new techniques and recipes.
The sentiment is all weird, but everybody in this household weirdly understands. Maybe it’s why he feels defensive about it when he notices Ranboo staring at him.
“What the hell,” Ranboo says, eyes on Tommy’s cookbook. There is no animosity; only dread in his eyes. He looks more like he’s at a loss for words than actually vexed by him. “That’s my cookbook.”
A beat passes by. And then it clicks together for the other.
“What the fuck, man,” Tommy whisper-yells with equal shock, the kind of tone that you’d hear from old ladies gasping in shock after they found out that you can hear them gossiping behind your back. His eyes zero in on the hardbound cover in Ranboo’s hands. “What are you doing with my cookbook?”
When the silence serves to intensify the horrified staring contest, Tubbo coughs.
“...Have both of you considered that maybe you accidentally both got the same cookbook?” Tubbo pointedly suggests, not looking up from his romance novel. Or whatever he’s reading now, because the romance novel is sitting on the coffee table and it’s a magazine in his hands.
Honestly. It should mean nothing from him, content and carefree, because his fucking team won the damn team challenge. Let them be as petty as they like.
“Maybe,” Ranboo first concedes as he purposely puts down his book, offering Tommy the olive branch first, which is a damn relief. He is tired of being the paragon of peace around here.
Tommy shrugs. “Maybe,” he echoes, a little more grudgingly. But an idea comes to mind, and when he blurts it out, both teens beside him start listening. It turns to plotting, eventually.
But in the end, they settle on a bet. The stake is on whoever places higher in tomorrow’s challenge. It decides the fate of whoever keeps the cookbook or has to get a new one.
One of the adults—Puffy, probably—working on lunch duty for all of them in the house kitchen shoots the three of them a confused, but vaguely well-meaning look. Beside her, Wilbur—also on lunch duty—gently elbows her and whispers something in her ear, which is probably something fake and is also absurd, because forget what he says. All of Tommy’s ideas are fantastic.
(When Tommy gets sent up with full compliments from both Phil and Callahan for his personalized temaki sushi roll, he sends Ranboo a big, wide smile from the balcony and waves, just because he can.
“Suck it, bitchboy,” Tommy loudly whispers. Wilbur snorts, Tubbo fucking loses it, and Puffy reluctantly hands Wilbur a clump of pocket money.
Ranboo doesn’t look at him after that, but he can still hear the silent fuck you in the way he pointedly stares at the knife holder beside his bench. A few people away from him, he can hear Tubbo’s laughs getting louder.)
iv. week eleven
“Horse divorce,” Tommy says into the camera in front of his face, even though the ninety minutes they have is running out and Technoblade at the other end of their workbench is almost about to break down in stress. Fucking producers and their fuzz weirdly about your desserts when there’s a camera and a question, darlings bullshit. “Am I right, guys?”
Techno barely gives any reaction to an admittedly overused pun aside from a hand to his face, but it’s hilarious enough that Dream still snickers from the station in front of them. All the others chime in with quiet groans or loud sighs. Particularly from Phil in front of him who sighs, deep and resigned like he’s heard it from a hundred other chefs who probably went through the exact same struggle.
It’s not Tommy’s fault that he’s a little frazzled and off his game. It’s a tough challenge for the final nine—five fucking types of hors d’oeuvres that Tommy can barely name, and if both of them didn’t practice the same recipes and techniques a thousand times over in the MasterChef house’s kitchen last night to perfection, they would’ve been having a full-blown breakdown.
There’s the halibut ceviche resting on the counter. The tapioca mixture is also resting for a few more minutes for the paõ de quijo, their tuile wafers are doing alright in the oven, and Tommy just finished dipping the cheeses into flour for the saganaki bites, but shit. The tomato tapenade hasn’t been made yet, and it falls down to Techno to finish it.
But as it stands, they’re doing alright. There’s thirty something minutes left, and the switch time is getting shorter every time. They’re still pulling ahead.
“Tommy,” Techno calls out, waving away the damn camera as Phil takes a tiny spoonful from the halibut ceviche. “You gotta get the tuiles out of the oven, man.”
“On it,” Tommy distractedly says and opens the oven door, but only after Phil gives him a thumbs-up about the salad and he wants to yell hallelujah to God, because he knew he was right about the add more salt and lime approach and it makes him want to yell ha! at the brunette beside him.
Techno only directs a glare at them both that Tommy imagines is mostly directed at him, paired with a long-suffering get out that makes Phil laugh before letting it go.
Then Sam calls for a switch that sends Tommy running and his forehead almost colliding with Techno’s arm with the oven still open.
“You know the drill, mate. The team with the worst dish goes into an elimination test today,” Phil muses as he hangs out with Techno at the counter. The good thing here is that nothing can get in the way of Techno’s razor-sharp focus even with Phil’s added commentary, which says a lot about how lucky Tommy was for Niki to pair him up with one of the strongest cooks here. Strategically, it makes sense that he’ll probably fuck up Techno’s routine; but legally, he’s obligated to work well with Techno and it’s working out well enough for the both of them. “Are you guys going to be that team?”
Techno snorts, and starts rolling the one of the tuile wafers around the tip of a rolled-up paper. “‘Course we wouldn’t be. Don’t tell me you were expecting us to be bad enough to get bottom, Phil.”
The judge innocently shrugs. Instinctively, Tommy flips them both off after Techno’s very fucking subtle jab, knowing that it doesn’t mean anything, really. “Well, then. Who do you think is going home today?”
Techno smiles at the camera. Callahan sends them one of his silent stares over his shoulder as he stops by Dream and Sapnap’s station that spell out mildly interested but as I’m watching, do not fuck shit up.
It’s an oddly specific emotion that Tommy is not sure how Callahan can express through sheer staring, but he pulls it off well. And then it reminds him of the tapioca mixture resting on there for more than thirty minutes, and wishes for the thirtieth time that he could at the very least prod one of the trays from the side.
Tommy loudly coughs, preventing Techno and Phil’s bit from happening. “Check the fucking cheese bread, man. We need to get it in the oven.”
Prime bless him, because Techno doesn’t break his stride. He takes his hand off the food processor he was guarding for Tommy, stirs the cheese and egg into the tapioca mixture for the paõ de quijos, and starts mixing.
Like a bitch, Dream starts matching him, sealing the puff pastries of their pork wellington to bake in the oven. It’s a silent challenge between the two natural rivals who are multi-tasking like the arrogant asses they both are, and it’s enough to keep the camera going at them.
“Feelin’ like it’s Dream,” Techno eventually says, and goes back to putting the tapioca mixture into the oven with enough time to cook. “Most likely.”
The green bastard in question turns to stare at him, indignant, ready to say something in defiance when Sapnap hisses at him about I told you I was going to handle the tenderloin because you’ll fuck it up, dumbass and then Callahan dips a spoon into their tomato tapenade for the saganaki bites, and sends them a look of his approval.
“I’m expecting bacon tomorrow for breakfast,” Dream lets Techno know, beaming in the face of Callahan’s approval. This is the exact reason why Tommy kind of wants him edged out of the competition: his time management is on point, and has no qualms about distractions because it doesn’t work on him as much as it does to others. “Just so you know my breakfast of choice when we win.”
Phil smiles, and Callahan nudges him as they both walk off to the podium. It’s a no brainer that everybody by this point is kind of like family in the kitchen, and the judges are their kind of exasperated wine uncles. Or dads, if he wants to be specific on how Wilbur and Phil get along.
“If you win,” Techno says, and doesn’t elaborate any further.
Dream raises an eyebrow. The three judges upfront, admit it or not, are listening in to tonight’s free show. Nobody takes this whole on-screen competition between them seriously, except for the rivals themselves. Both are strong cooks and as much as people wish for it, none of them were probably going home anytime soon.
“Get fucked,” Dream cheerfully replies in return, off-camera, because it’s currently pointed at Sam checking in with Puffy and Foolish. Or maybe there’s another camera hiding in the shadows somewhere, pointed at him. Who knows. His microphone can definitely pick it up. “It’s your loss tonight.”
Techno doesn’t look up, but he slides the baking tray into the oven and starts to insert the filling inside the rolled-up tuile cornets with the kind of mild irritation you’d feel about finding an inconvenient mosquito flying around. “You wish.”
(They pull in first later, and join Niki at the balcony. Tommy can’t stop the smug smile on his face and thinks of get fucked, bastard.
When he looks at Techno, with his hands clasped in front of him and serenely smiling down at the duo, he can fucking tell that he’s thinking the exact same thing. They bump fists after that.
Technoblade, being the arrogant bastard he is, makes sure that everyone in the room, with a camera or not, sees that fist bump in its full glory. Tommy likes to think that they definitely get along well enough.)
v. week thirteen
“Are you nervous?” Phil asks him, when they’re sitting down in one of the two living rooms. It’s somewhere around ten in the evening, and everybody’s off in bed. Or outside, and blissfully star-gazing.
Down to the final fucking six, and Tommy’s going to have to fight for the fifth spot. Fight Dream for the fifth spot.
“No,” Tommy says, like a liar. He reaches for the second batch of meringue cookies that Phil brought him, fresh from the kitchen. It’s delicious — light, airy and crisp on the inside, but he does a double take and looks up at the judge. “Why are you even here?”
Phil shrugs, and takes a seat across him. Tommy eyes the newest batch with different colors and flavors, and concludes that maybe Phil just made him a big batch just for comfort, in the same way he made a two-dozen cupcake batch to share with Tubbo, got Wilbur a mushroom-themed guitar and took Techno out for a drive and a trip to the nearest cat cafe after their eliminations.
That’s not exactly reassuring. It’s more like a distraction before he goes catatonic, but hey. These cookies are fucking fantastic, and they’re doing a good job at distracting him so far. Tommy goes back to munching on meringue again before he swallows and: “Do you think I’m going home tomorrow?”
Phil looks at him, comfy inside the house with his sweaters and signature armbands. It’s a far cry from the formal suits and stuffy jackets the judges would wear on the podium. It makes him seem like he’s just at home, and that makes Tommy feel like he’s at home too.
God, Tommy thinks. I hate sob stories.
“Kid,” Phil says gently. He sets down his cup of hot chocolate on the coffee table. “Which one are you talking about?”
”Oh— fuck you, Phil,” Tommy shoots half-heartedly, slumping down against the backrest of the couch. Home. “That’s a rather unfair question.”
When Phil smiles at him, there’s an underlying seriousness in the fondness that comes with it. Phil’s got his own fair share of personal favorites in this entire thing and Tommy knows he’s kind of one of them, but he’s never really questioned just how much Phil supports the hellish lot of them.
Then, “You’ve done your very best,” Phil tells him, hands clasped together. In an apology or a way to hide his own nervousness, probably. “And I’m sorry for asking. It’s unfair to make you answer that when you’ve made it this far.”
Tommy slightly frowns. Phil doesn’t answer the question, so he prods for it. ”Do you think that my best is enough, Phil?”
“More than enough, mate,” the other assures, without hesitation. “Made it to the final six, haven’t you?”
Tommy rolls his eyes in jest and gives him a small shrug. “I just want to get out of here with everybody’s respect, y’know?” he tries to joke, not managing to land the mark. “All of you lot. Guess that’s too much to ask myself for.”
Phil shakes his head, and picks up his cup of coffee. They stay in a comfortable silence long after that, long after Tommy sweeps the rest of the remaining meringue cookies into a container and prepares for bed. It’s all a delay towards the inevitable, but Tommy appreciates Phil taking the time to watch out for him.
The other holds out his hand to gesture him to stop, and then slides something metallic across the coffee table to Tommy before he stands up.
The edge of his phone glints in the lowlight. He slowly blinks up at the chef, who innocently puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.
“Don’t tell anyone, and don’t research recipes,” Phil says, when Tommy turns it over in his hands. Thirteen weeks without it, and the blond almost breaks and jumps the celebrity chef with a hug in relief. The only thing that stops him is the awareness of how this breaks rules, and awareness of the time that Phil gives him. “But we have a group chat now and they wanted you to know that whether you win or not, we’re all proud of you. You have all of our approval. Give us a call when you’re ready, yeah?”
Tommy swallows, and brushes a finger against the very first message that pops up on the screen, which is appropriately from Wilbur.
He’s not proud of how his voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, but he thinks of home when his phone screen lights up with the vengeance of all the fucking messages he’s got. Thirteen weeks’ worth of unanswered calls and spammed messages. Messages that tell him he’s not alone in this.
He looks at Phil and whispers with all the gratitude he wants to express: “Yeah.”
+1. week fourteen
“...oh, fuck off,” Tommy drags his hands down his face when he sees what the other people are gathered around for in the kitchen’s island. The presentation is a gorgeous piece of work with the flourish that came from Foolish’s distinct plating style, and finds that he can’t even keep the mock-anger on his face for very long when he gawks at it. “Come on.”
From somewhere in the back, Sam sighs. “I told you this was a bad idea.”
”No, no, no,” Tommy starts to say, when his eyes land on the cake in the middle of everything. There is a huge bowl of fancy raspberry sorbet, a full plate of Phil’s prized meringue cookies and a perfect replication of the lemon meringue cake he lost to earlier. “You misunderstand. Lemon everything is my favorite. Just—“ he breaks off and sends the judges one pained look. “Why?”
From the front of the people’s cluster, Dream coughs. He can’t believe he lost the final fifth spot to this asshole right here. “It’s your birthday and your favorite flavor,” he reasons. “Also, I kind of owe it to you. Sorry about earlier, Tommy.”
”Fucking asshole,” he only says, and hugs him for good measure. He notices the crooked birthday banner hanging on the wall, a couple of balloons in the corners, and sighs. Fourteen weeks in this kitchen, and they’ve all grown used to the exaggerated personalities that everybody puts on for the audience. Especially to Tommy’s personality. Heavens help him if that part of his charm wears off.
The part that he kind of hates the most and likes the best is when he gets passed around like a stuffed bear. There’s the scent of smoke on him from Sapnap coming in from the outside grill to pat him on the back, the smell of pastries from the mini cupcakes that both Niki and Puffy made for him and the smell of heaven when Callahan cuts a perfect slice from his lemon cake to hand it to him.
It’s a great way to end the weekend. Sapnap sprints back outside to take care of his overcooked steak, and by the side, Phil and Callahan corner Sam, who holds up his hands in surrender and mildly agrees that maybe it’s not a bad idea, after all.
He’s not legally allowed any kind of alcoholic substance, but Puffy shoots him a wink as everybody bites into her red wine-flavored cupcakes. It’s delicious and innovative, Sam calmly dictates, like they’re still in the kitchen set instead of being by themselves. You win this round, Puffy.
He gets caught up in all of it, sheds a couple of unseen tears during a video call. Wilbur proudly calls him a little sneaky bastard, Ranboo shows him the new cookbook he’s got, Tubbo yells the birthday song with enough enthusiasm to shake up the whole room, and Techno gives him a thumbs-up after trading barbs with Dream in the background.
It’s when Philza Minecraft hugs him that he lingers on for a little too long, and thinks, I don’t want to give this up.
“Y’know Phil,” Tommy conspiratorially whispers in a hushed voice, when everybody else has since dispersed from the kitchen to give them their moment. “If you hug me for longer, you’re going to get attached and when I leave, you are going to miss me and cry about it.”
”You little bastard,” Phil says with fondness, when they both move away. “Not my first rodeo here. I’m not going to fucking cry over you.”
“Maybe not,” the teen grins, because Phil doesn’t deny that he’s going to miss Tommy and it means a fucking lot to hear that from one of the best celebrity chefs he’s ever had the luck to meet. “But Kristin always tells me otherwise. She called me after yesterday’s exit interview. You better keep crying over me. It’s good for the views.”
Maybe he doesn’t win this one, but as far as he’s concerned, he’s managed to win the greatest prize of them all.
Man, Tommy thinks. Fucking emotions and shit.
(Tommy’s not the type of person to be wildly sentimental, but when he thinks about all those little moments he collected from the entire reality TV show gig, it warms his heart, so maybe he is kind of sentimental. He thinks of filler lights and mustard yellow sweaters, of honey cake and challenges, cookbooks and micro greens, of meringue cookies and fucking cake when the production team’s chosen cab picks him up hours later, ready to go to the airport.
There is another lemon cake, especially prepared for him, sitting in a box in his hands. It’s not as fancy as the other one, but there is chocolate ganache on it, and he knows that it’s just as good. There’s also a bag of more meringue cookies sitting in his travel bag because he certainly needs more of it in his life, and a hell lot more numbers in his contacts than before he came down here.
So when he steps off the cab, and prepares for his flight home with the box of cake in his hands, he thinks of friends and of home. He thinks, what a fucking birthday.)