Chapter Text
The second break came exactly when the studio felt like it was about to implode.
One of the children had managed to smear chocolate across Iketeru’s pristine costume, sending the costume department into a state of high-alert panic.
Meanwhile, Utano was in the corner of the green room, aggressively typing a text message that looked like it was three thousand words long, her aura so dark that even the director was avoiding her.
You slipped away quietly during the commotion, taking the long route through the prop storage hallway to ensure no bear-costumed idiots were trailing behind you.
When you pushed open the heavy metal door leading to the back alley, the cool afternoon air hit your face like a splash of cold water. Sure enough, Uramichi was already there. He was leaning against the railing, his pastel blue studio vest unzipped halfway, a cigarette tucked between his lips.
He didn’t look up when the door clicked shut, but he held out his hand. You walked over, sliding your fingers into his palm. He squeezed your hand immediately, his grip tight and grounding, before pulling you just a little closer to his side—out of the direct line of sight of the security camera above the door.
"You took your time," he muttered around the cigarette, finally flicking his lighter.
"I had to dodge Usahara twice," you said, leaning your shoulder against his arm. "He was lurking by the vending machines looking like a disgraced detective."
Uramichi exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his eyes following it as it drifted up toward the gray sky. "I should have launched him into the lighting grid when I had the chance. My mistake."
"You're so dramatic."
"I am a realist," he corrected flatly, taking another slow drag. "A realist who is currently surviving on four hours of sleep and a single, lukewarm canned coffee. If my personal life becomes a topic of discussion in that break room, my remaining mental fortitude will officially dissolve."
You looked at him, noticing the faint purple shadows under his eyes. Despite his grumbling, the hand holding yours was warm, his thumb mindfully tracing back and forth over the back of your knuckles. He always did that when he was trying to calm himself down—a quiet, repetitive motion that he probably didn't even realize he was doing.
"Are you really that worried about them finding out?" you asked softly, your tone shifting from playful to genuine.
Uramichi stopped moving his thumb. He stared out into the alley for a long moment, the silence stretching between you until the distant hum of traffic filled the space. He took one last pull of his cigarette before stubbing it out against the metal railing, dropping the filter into a small portable pocket ashtray.
When he finally looked down at you, the sharp, defensive edge in his eyes softened into that raw, vulnerable expression he only ever showed you.
"I don't care what they think about me," he said, his voice dropping into a register so low it was barely audible over the wind. "They already know I'm a miserable wreck. But they're loud. And intrusive. And if they find out about you, they'll make it weird. Usahara will make dumb jokes, Utano will turn it into a tragedy, and the directors will probably try to find a way to market it."
He stepped closer, his shadow completely blocking you from the rest of the alley. His free hand lifted, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly gentle, completely contrasting the rigid posture he kept up on stage.
"I just..." Uramichi swallowed, his jaw tightening slightly as he forced the words out. "I like that this is quiet. I like that when I'm with you, I don't have to be 'Uramichi-oniisan' or the guy who let his gymnastics career slip through his fingers. I'm just... me. And I don't want them ruining that."
Your heart gave a soft, heavy thud against your ribs. You reached up, placing your free hand over his wrist, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse beneath his skin.
"They won't ruin it," you promised him, tilting your head up to look directly into his eyes. "We're smarter than Usahara. And we're faster than the cameras."
The tiniest, most genuine ghost of a smile finally appeared on Uramichi's lips. It was gone in an instant, but it was there.
"Yeah," he murmured, his hand sliding down from your ear to cup the side of your neck, his thumb resting right against your jawline. "We are. But just in case..."
He leaned down, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Because the alley was technically a public space, he didn't press his lips to yours, but he rested his forehead against yours for three long, quiet seconds, letting both of your breaths mingle in the cold air. It was a private anchor in the middle of a chaotic day.
"If he asks you anything else," Uramichi whispered, his breath warm against your skin, "tell him I've been practicing my suplexes on heavy objects. That usually keeps him quiet for a few days."
You let out a genuine laugh, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you leaned into him. "Understood, captain."
Before he could reply, the heavy metal door of the studio creaked open, and Kumatani’s voice echoed into the alleyway. "Uramichi-san? The director needs you for the safety briefing. Iketeru-san tried to do a flip in his stained costume and knocked over a prop tree."
Instantly, the softness vanished. Uramichi’s posture went rigid, his hand dropping from your neck as he took a perfectly measured step back, his face instantly locking into his standard, deadpan mask of professional endurance.
"On my way, Kumatani," Uramichi called back, his voice smooth and entirely empty of emotion.
He didn't look back at you as he walked toward the door, but right before he stepped inside, his hand dropped to his side, his fingers flexing in a quick, two-tap gesture against his thigh—his own secret way of telling you see you tonight.
You took a deep breath, fixing your own clothes before following him back into the neon-bright madness of the studio, feeling completely ready to handle whatever ridiculous things Monday had left to throw at you.
The script was simple, mind-numbing, and required a level of enthusiastic physical coordination that was slowly killing everyone involved.
"Alright, people! From the top of the choreography!" the assistant director bellowed through a megaphone, his voice hoarse from hours of repeating the same instructions.
"Remember, we need maximum energy for the product reveal! Iketeru-san, please look at the actual jelly container this time, not the ceiling tiles! And Uramichi-san... can we get a smile that looks less like a hostage negotiation tape?"
Standing near the secondary camera monitor, you held a clipboard tightly against your chest, using a paper script to fan yourself against the suffocating heat. Your eyes immediately drifted to the center of the stage.
Uramichi was standing on a painted foam platform shaped like a giant, smiling strawberry. He was wearing his fitted athletic shorts and a customized, bright green Giga-Giga tank top that showed off the sharp, defined musculature of his shoulders and arms—a detail the marketing team had explicitly requested to "appeal to the stay-at-home mothers watching at home."
His skin was glistening with a light layer of sweat that the makeup crew kept frantically trying to powder down between takes.
When the director issued the critique, Uramichi’s posture didn’t slump. Instead, his spine went entirely straight, his shoulders dropping into a rigidly controlled stance. Slowly, the corners of his mouth pulled upward, stretching into a wide, perfectly symmetrical, blindingly white television smile.
It was a terrifying feat of facial discipline. His eyes, completely devoid of light, remained fixed on the lens of Camera B like a pair of dead, obsidian marbles.
"Of course, Director!" Uramichi called out, his voice a flawless, resonant baritone that echoed cheerily across the soundstage. "I'll make sure the children at home can feel the pure, unadulterated joy of processed gelatin! After all, when you’re trapped in a never-ending cycle of monotonous labor just to afford basic sustenance, a little bit of artificial sugar is the only thing keeping the crushing weight of reality from collapsing your lungs! Right, kids?!"
A heavy, uncomfortable silence rippled through the production assistants standing near the tech booth.
"Cut, cut, cut!" the director groaned, rubbing his temples. "Uramichi-san, please leave the existential dread out of the product description. Just say the line about the vitamin C."
"Understood!" Uramichi bounced on the balls of his feet, his plastic smile never wavering for a fraction of a second. "I'll bury my true consciousness deeper into the abyss! Let's do it again!"
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted iron, forcing yourself to look down at your clipboard to hide the desperate amusement threatening to break through your face. From the corner of his eye, Uramichi caught your micro-expression. The deadness in his eyes shifted, a brief, intensely focused spark connecting with you across the crowded room before he looked back at the camera.
"Hey. Pst. Newbie."
You mentally braced yourself, turning your head to find Usahara sliding up beside you. He had discarded his full bunny suit head for the break, letting it dangle behind his neck like an oversized, decapitated plushie. His matching furry jumpsuit was unzipped to his waist, revealing a sweat-stained undershirt. He looked like a man who had survived a minor natural disaster.
"Usahara-san," you said, keeping your tone strictly professional. "Shouldn't you be in position for the background routine? And, I’ve been here for months already. Stop calling me that."
"The background routine is a scam," Usahara grumbled, wiping his brow with the back of his furry sleeve. "Kumatani is over there in his costume completely unbothered because he has no nerve endings, but I'm losing water weight by the second. Listen, forget the jelly pops. Have you noticed how weird Uramichi-kun is being today?"
You felt a familiar, cold spike of adrenaline hit your stomach. You had only been officially dating Uramichi for exactly two weeks, and every time someone even breathed his name near you, you felt like your face was about to burst into flames.
"He seems standard to me," you said, forcing your voice to remain completely flat.
"Miserable, but functional."
"No way. You're not looking close enough," Usahara insisted, leaning down so his face was entirely too close to your clipboard. He pointed a large, fuzzy paw toward the stage. "Look at his water bottle. Usually, if anyone so much as breathes near his personal thermos, he glares at them until their ancestors feel it. But twenty minutes ago, during the lighting change, you picked it up to clear the frame, and he didn't even twitch. In fact, I think he tracked you with his eyes until you put it down."
Your grip tightened on the edges of the clipboard, the cardboard backing creaking under the pressure. Did Uramichi really look? Were we that obvious?
"I'm an assistant, Usahara-san. Moving props and personal items out of the camera's line of sight is literally my job description. I'm sure Uramichi-san was just making sure I didn't drop it."
"Hmm..." Usahara narrowed his eyes, his single, hyper-fixated brain cell working overtime as he stared at the back of Uramichi’s head. "I don't know. My trash-gremlin senses are tingling. He's got this aura around him lately. Like he’s got a secret stash of alcohol hidden somewhere on set, or... or he’s secretly plotting to sue the network. I'm telling you, I'm going to crack his code."
Before you had to invent a reason to run away, a sudden crash echoed from the opposite side of the stage.
Iketeru had tried to lean against a prop cardboard cutout of a smiling sun, completely forgetting that it was held up by a single, flimsy wooden kickstand. The entire structure had folded under his weight, sending him sprawling into a pile of oversized plastic fruit. He remained on the floor, flat on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling lights with a perfectly serene, handsome expression.
"Ah," Iketeru said softly into his lapel microphone. "The sky is full of big, bright stars today."
"Those are five-hundred-watt tungsten bulbs, Iketeru-san!" the director shrieked, throwing his script into the air. "Reset the fruit! Reset the sun! Wardrobe, get out there and fix his shirt! We are losing the light!"
The set dissolved into immediate, high-stress chaos. Stylists scrambled onto the floor, production assistants began hauling heavy plastic watermelons back into position, and the director began screaming into his headset.
"Hey," a low, gravelly voice murmured right behind your right shoulder.
You jumped slightly, nearly dropping your clipboard. You turned your head just an inch, keeping your gaze fixed on the schedule so it looked like you were consulting the workflow. Uramichi had stepped off the foam platform, using the cover of the frantic wardrobe crew to slide into the narrow space between the camera cranes where you were standing.
"Your friend is getting warm," Uramichi muttered, his voice stripped of all television cheer, replaced by that quiet, intimate gravel that always made your pulse jump. He didn't look at you; his eyes were fixed on the chaotic scene across the floor, his arms crossed tightly over his green tank top. "If he keeps staring at the back of my neck while we're rolling, I'm going to use his bunny ears to choke him."
"He thinks you're hiding something," you whispered back, flipping a page on your clipboard to maintain the illusion of work, though your fingers were trembling slightly.
"He noticed that I moved your water bottle and you didn't threaten my life for it."
Uramichi’s jaw tightened. A sudden, tense rigidity took over his shoulders, and his eyes flitted nervously toward Usahara across the stage before looking straight ahead again. For a guy who could comfortably command a crowd of fifty screaming children, he looked remarkably panicked by the simple fact that a coworker had noticed him not being a jerk to you.
"Tell him that if he touches it, I'll ensure his retirement fund is canceled," Uramichi muttered, his voice a little strained. He cleared his throat softly, his arms shifting. For a brief second, his hand dropped to his side, his fingers awkwardly brushing against yours under the shadow of your clipboard.
It wasn't a smooth, confident hold—it was a clumsy, hesitant tap. His fingers hovered near your knuckles for a split second, twitching slightly as if he wanted to hold your hand but remembered they were on a live television set, before he quickly pulled his hand back into his pockets. A faint, dark pink color crept up the back of his neck.
"The second break is in ten minutes," Uramichi muttered rapidly, staring intently at a piece of tape on the floor. "The wardrobe sub-room in the basement is empty. The AC actually works down there. If... if you want to sit down. You've been on your feet all day."
"Is that an order, Oniisan?" you teased, though your own face was burning.
Uramichi choked slightly on his own breath, a tiny flash of flustered irritation crossing his features before he forced his face back into a neutral mask. "It's a strong recommendation for employee health. Don't be late. Or, you know... come whenever you want. I don't care."
He scrambled away just as Kumatani walked past, carrying a heavy box of replacement cables. With a seamless, terrifying transition, Uramichi clapped his hands together, his face instantly illuminating with that switch-on, commercial-ready grin.
"Alright, Iketeru-kun! Let's get up off the floor before the plastic grapes become your permanent roommates! Physical health is the only true wealth we have left!"
The basement wardrobe storage was a labyrinth of rolling clothing racks, heavy industrial garment bags, and the sharp, chemical scent of dry-cleaning fluid. Because it was used primarily for off-season storage—mostly mascot costumes from defunct segments and heavy winter gear—no one ever came down here during an active production shoot.
It was completely silent, the distant, frantic thumping of the studio upstairs reduced to a low, rhythmic vibration through the concrete ceiling.
And, true to Uramichi’s word, the industrial AC unit in the corner was blasting a glorious, ice-cold stream of air into the room.
You pushed open the heavy wooden door, slipping into the narrow aisle between a row of vintage, oversized vegetable costumes and a rack of heavy woolen coats. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single fluorescent bulb at the far end of the row.
Uramichi was already there.
He was sitting on the edge of a heavy, metal storage trunk, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands.
When the door clicked shut, he flinched, snapping his head up so fast a stray strand of hair fell right across his forehead. He looked incredibly wide-eyed for a second, before realizing it was just you.
"Ah," he said, his voice dropping into its usual tired cadence. He cleared his throat and stood up awkwardly, his hands immediately finding his pockets, then dropping out of them, then crossing over his chest. "You... you actually came."
"Of course I did," you smiled softly, holding your clipboard like a shield as you took a few steps toward him. The two-week mark of dating meant the initial shock of "Oh my god, Uramichi-oniisan likes me" hadn't faded yet. Every step closer felt a little dizzying.
"It's freezing down here. It's amazing."
"Yeah," Uramichi muttered, looking at your shoes, then at a hanging carrot costume to your left. "The corporate budget doesn't touch the basement, so they forgot to restrict the power output down here. It's... efficient."
An incredibly quiet, heavy silence fell over the narrow aisle. Upstairs, Uramichi was a cynical professional. Outside of work, during your grand total of three official dates, he was a quiet, polite guy who bought you tea and apologized every time he sighed too loudly. But trapped together in the middle of a workday, the overlap of "coworker" and "significant other" was a completely unchartered territory.
You stood about two feet away from him, your fingers nervously tapping against the back of your clipboard. Uramichi stared at your clipboard, his jaw working as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite find the script.
"Are you... still dying up there?" you asked, breaking the ice.
"Viscerally," Uramichi said, his shoulders slumping significantly as he finally relaxed a little bit of his posture. He leaned his upper back against the clothing rack behind him, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "A middle-aged man in a suit spent five minutes staring at my deltoids while talking about target demographics. I felt like a prize-winning heifer at a country fair. If I have to jump through that plastic jelly hoop one more time, I'm going to suffer a genuine medical emergency."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound muffled by the heavy fabrics surrounding you. "Well, to be fair... the deltoids are looking very demographic-friendly today."
Uramichi blinked. His entire face went completely blank for a solid three seconds before a massive, dark crimson blush erupted across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He looked away instantly, his hand flying up to cover the lower half of his face as he let out a strained, embarrassed groan.
"Don't say things like that while I'm wearing this ridiculous neon green tank top," he muttered into his palm, his voice completely muffled. "I have zero dignity left today. Please don't target what little remains of my sanity."
You giggled, your own heart fluttering wildly at how easily flustered he was. Shifting your clipboard to one hand, you took a step closer, hesitant, before gently reaching out to touch his arm. Your fingers brushed against his forearm, feeling the cool, solid muscle.
Uramichi stiffened slightly at the touch, his eyes darting back to yours. He looked down at your hand on his arm, his expression a mixture of intense vulnerability and sheer panic. Slowly, carefully, as if he were trying not to scare away a stray animal, he lifted his large hand from his side.
He didn't grab your waist or pull you in like a romance novel protagonist. Instead, his fingers clumsily tangled with yours, his large, warm hand engulfing your smaller one in a slightly awkward, uncertain grip. His palm was a little sweaty from the stage lights, and his thumb twitched against the back of your hand, testing the waters.
"Is... is this okay?" Uramichi muttered softly, his eyes scanning your face with a genuine, quiet anxiety. "I don't... I don't want to make you uncomfortable at work. Or anywhere."
"Uramichi," you smiled, your heart melting into a puddle. You squeezed his hand back, tilting your head up to look at him. "We've been dating for two weeks. Holding my hand is completely allowed."
"Right," he mumbled, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. A tiny, incredibly rare ghost of a real smile finally touched the corners of his mouth. "Two weeks. Right. I'm... still getting used to the fact that someone actually wants to hold my hand without a camera rolling."
He leaned forward just an inch, his forehead gently coming to rest against yours. It was a clumsy angle—his nose bumped yours slightly first, causing him to let out a tiny, embarrassed "ah, sorry"—before he adjusted, his eyes closing as he just breathed in your scent, letting the cool basement air and your steady presence wash over him.
His grip on your hand tightened, a quiet, reassuring pressure that completely wiped away the stress of the twelve-hour shoot.
"We have... five minutes," you whispered into the quiet room, your face so close you could see the tiny freckle near his temple.
"Three," he corrected softly, his voice dropping into that low, comforting register that was meant only for you. He didn't kiss you—he seemed entirely too shy to try in a room full of old mascot costumes—but he just held your hand tightly against his chest, letting his heartbeat steady against your knuckles. "This is going to make the rest of the afternoon intolerable. I have to go back up there and sing a song about a dancing frog while my mind is completely stuck down here."
"Think of it as a mental exercise," you whispered back, your face burning with a happy, nervous energy. "It builds character."
"My character is already fully constructed, and it's a structural disaster," he grumbled, though his thumb continued to stroke the back of your hand in a gentle, rhythmic loop.
After another minute of just standing there, awkwardly but happily entangled between a giant carrot and a vintage winter coat, Uramichi slowly let go of your hand. He rubbed the back of his neck, his professional television posture slowly creeping back into his spine, though his eyes remained incredibly soft.
"Go back first," he said, clearing his throat and checking his reflection in the polished metal of a nearby clothing rack to ensure his hair was still in its approved, aerodynamic shape. "Give it two minutes. If Usahara asks, you were... checking the fabric integrity of the winter stock."
"Yes, captain," you smiled, picking up your clipboard and smoothing down your shirt.
As you pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped back into the concrete hallway, the distant sound of the director screaming about a ruined prop carrot drifted down the stairs.
The chaotic, exhausting world of Together with Maman was waiting for you but as you glanced back one last time to see Uramichi standing in the shadows, looking a little flustered but completely grounded, you knew the rest of the twelve-hour day was going to be a breeze.