Chapter Text
The conversation had gone something like this.
Osamu was dead tired. Just coming off of a thirteen hour shift with a stage who didn't know a dice from a mince, a supplier who couldn’t be counted on to deliver fresh salmon, and a dish washer that was backed up all night, then exploded on him when he tried to unclog it.
So he’s pissed off, plotting a report to the Better Business Bureau, and smells like wet sewage when Atsumu tells him he’s gonna be a contestant on Chopped.
"But, Tsumu, I never applied for Chopped," Osamu reminds him. In case he's somehow forgotten the numerous arguments they’ve gotten into where Osamu has tried to beat it into his stupid twin's head that he does not want to be on a competition cooking show.
"Ya don't need to apply. I took care of the application for ya."
The twitch in Osamu's left eye is back.
"Ya what?"
"Yeah! Omi helped me fill out all the paperwork."
His future-brother-in-law is a traitorous bastard who’s getting his free onigiri privileges revoked for a month.
"'n then some producer liked our application, so he asked us to film a test reel of ya cookin', so Omi helped me find an onigiri Miya uniform 'n brea-sneak into the restaurant to film that."
Scratch that, Kiyoomi’s off the friends and family discount for life.
"Next thing ya know, boom — yer on Chopped!" Atsumu punctuates this point with finger guns. "Yer welcome."
"Tsumu, I don't wanna be on Chopped. Ya know I don't wanna be on Chopped. I'm not doin' it."
"Ya have to!"
"Well, I ain't, so call that producer back up and tell —"
"No, Samu, ya literally have to. I signed a bunch of contracts pretendin' to be ya. If ya don't show there's a huge fine and a bunch of other stuff that happens."
"I'll be sure they send the bill to ya when I don't show."
Atsumu sighs heavily. "Samu, Samu, Samu. It's like ya don't know me at all."
It's in this moment that Osamu remembers that Atsumu is the evil twin.
"If ya don't wanna go, then I'm gonna show up and pretend to be ya. I wonder just how much damage I can do to the Onigiri Miya name before gettin' eliminated?"
So that's how Osamu finds himself pulling up to a random soundstage in the middle of nowhere at six o'clock in the morning to compete on Chopped.
There's a solid thirty seconds where he considers driving his car directly into the soundstage to have to avoid having to compete at all. It's only through reminding himself that if he doesn't have the money to pay the no-show fine, he sure as hell doesn't have the money to pay for a new car and for a new wall for the soundstage that the building remains in tact.
When he finally coaxes himself out of his car and into the heart of the soundstage, it's chaos. Huge pieces of light and sound equipment are being driven through walkways on golf carts. People hurriedly flit between all the buildings with scowls that tell the story of days that've just barely started but are already behind schedule. The low hum of walkie talkie static fills the air.
Osamu has never felt more out of place in his life.
Atsumu and Kiyoomi made an Onigiri Miya email address when they applied to this (which, in hindsight, is probably long overdue since all of the business emails currently go to Osamu's personal one, but he is not about to tell either of them that any part of this was a good idea), so Osamu has access to all of the information about the day that the producer sent him. Or, really, sent to Atsumu while he was pretending to be Osamu.
According to the email, he's looking for the building marked Lot Ten and his producer, someone he's pretty sure is named Sunarin based on the email, is supposed to be waiting outside. Atsumu didn't know what the guy looked like. Just said that he had a "sneaky voice" when they talked on the phone, whatever that means. It makes trying to find him quite the challenge, but the producer knows what Osamu looks like, so he's hoping —
"Miya Osamu?" Someone calls from behind him. He turns around.
And finds himself face to face with the hottest man he's ever laid eyes on.
"I'm Suna Rintarou. Good to finally meet you in person."
Fuck.
This guy is Suna Rintarou? AKA [email protected]? AKA the producer that Osamu is gonna have to spend his whole day with?
Fuck.
He's a little taller than Osamu. Clad in baggy black jeans that sit low on his waist and a long sleeved black shirt that leaves no part of his toned chest and stomach to the imagination. Not that Osamu is complaining.
His hair is wispy, falling in piecey sections like a halo around his head. It's definitely dark, but the early morning sun brings out strands of the brown that almost seem amber in the light. The lower half of his face is obscured by a mask, also black, until he takes if off, folds it in half, then puts it in his back pocket.
Osamu's knees honest-to-god buckle underneath him.
The piercing green eyes were already doing a number on him, but now that he can see his whole face, the only thing his brain is capable of is thinking the word fuck on a continuous loop. Mainly how much he wants to fuck —
Calm. The. Fuck. Down.
That's the only kind of fuck Osamu should be thinking about right now.
Focus. He needs to focus.
"Good to meet you, too. Finally. Since we've been, ya know … talkin' … you and me."
"Right …"
Everything about this is Atsumu's fault. Not only did he apply for this show and create this whole mess in the first place, but he also stole all of the ability to lie genes in the womb.
Osamu hates lying. Mostly because he's incredibly bad at it, and he hates doing things that he's bad at. Why is the first part of today gonna involve so much lying? Can't they just start cooking already? That's something he's very good at and, therefore, loves doing. The sooner he can get into a kitchen and not have to talk to anyone else, the better.
The silence continues on for an uncomfortable amount of time.
Suna spends it staring at him intensely. Like if he looks hard enough, he'll be able to examine Osamu at a cellular level.
Osamu spends it getting more and more convinced with each passing second that he's somehow gonna have to pay that stupid fine.
"You changed your hair."
"Huh?"
"It was blond in your tape."
Godammit Atsumu.
He couldn't've worn a fucking hat! The damn scrub broke into his kitchen and didn't have the common sense to cook with something keeping his hair from getting in the food? He's probably gonna find broken off bleached hairs in the crevices between appliances for weeks. That settles it — he's making Atsumu deep clean every inch of the restaurant when he's back home.
"Oh. That. I … uhm — found out that I'm allergic to toner. Yeah, it looked real brassy once I had to stop usin' it, so I decided to just go back to my natural color."
"Uh huh."
As if Suna being annoyingly hot wasn't bad enough, he's also apparently annoyingly discerning. He can totally tell that Osamu is hiding something. If he doesn't have him completely figured out already, he definitely will before the end of the day.
"Well, I'm sure you wanna see where you're going to be cooking today."
Suna turns and starts walking without making sure that Osamu is following him. He races to catch up.
It's gonna be a long fucking day.
The kitchen is on the second floor of the main building. As soon as he crosses the threshold, it's like stepping into a memory.
Every summer back when they were growing up, Osamu and Atsumu would go down to stay with their grandma for a month. She thought that TV was bad for kids, so refused to let them watch anything that wasn't educational. Atsumu somehow convinced her that cooking shows were educational, since they needed to learn how to cook for themselves one way or another, so they spent most of their evenings with her watching Chopped.
He and Atsumu would make a game of saying what they'd make if they were on the show and had to cook the same basket. Which inevitably lead to them fighting over whose idea the judges would like better. Eventually, their grandma said they needed to start putting their money where their mouth was and get in the kitchen to see whose ideas were actually better.
That was how Osamu first started cooking on his own.
If he wasn't so pissed at Atsumu for forcing him to compete against his will, he might actually feel like being here is some full circle moment in his career.
"This station will be yours," Suna says, taking him to the one furthest from the judges and closest to the pantry. "Everything here is just for you to use. We'll have a pot of water at a roiling boil for you before the first basket is announced, so you won't need to worry about losing time on that. I'll also have the oven preheated to one eighty, but let me know if you'd prefer a different temperature and I can have it set to that instead."
"One eighty is fine."
"Figured."
What's that supposed to mean?
"Do you have your knives with you?" Suna asks, eyes drifting to the backpack Osamu's wearing.
"Yeah."
"Good. You can leave them here."
Suna taps his hand twice on steel prep table of Osamu's station. He unzips his bag before taking his knife roll out and setting it where Suna told him to. Suna starts walking towards the pantry, but Osamu's feet refuse to move. Eyes still glued to his knife roll.
He … it's stupid, really.
It's just that those knives are the most expensive things Osamu has ever bought for himself. They aren't the restaurant's, they're his. He uses them every single day — they're like extensions of his own hands. He definitely babies his knives, making sure they're sharpened regularly and cleaned thoroughly after each service and refusing to share them with anyone else.
He's pretty sure that nothing bad will happen if he leaves them here.
But what if they somehow get lost? Or someone steals them? Or some heavy piece of filming equipment falls on his station and smashes them beyond repair? Or —
"You good?"
Osamu startles at the sound of Suna's voice. He appears to have doubled back and is now standing next to him at his station. Right next to him. The sudden interruption and the newfound proximity make Osamu dizzy as he tries to find his words again.
"Yeah. Sorry, I … yeah, it's nothin'."
Suna contemplates Osamu's words before speaking again, his eyes shifting between Osamu and his knives.
"You're the last one to do your walk through, you know. None of the other contestants will be in here until it's time to start filming. Plus, this place is insured like you wouldn't believe. Anything does happen to them, you'll get a brand new set on production's dime." He brings his face even closer to Osamu's. Then, in an almost conspiratorial whisper, he adds, "I'll even tell insurance rep it was a set from Yoshimi Echizen."
Yoshimi Echizen?! The Yoshimi Echizen?
It's a miracle Osamu doesn't combust on the spot.
Those knives are way nicer than his. Osamu has dreamed of owning one since he knew what they were, but they're several thousand yen more than he'll probably ever be able to justify, even as a splurge. Not to mention, the waiting list to get a single knife is like a year long — let alone a full set.
Suna would really replace his knives with something that much nicer if something happened to them?
"Oh, wow. That's, uhm, really generous. Thanks. That won't be necessary though, I'm sure everything'll be fine."
Osamu takes a step away from his station. Leaving his knife roll behind with a sense of finality. Suna tilts his head to one side then nods, continuing the tour.
"These are the shared appliances. Ice cream maker, deep fryer, flash freezer, microwave." He points at all of them in turn and talks Osamu through the basics of how they work. Everything seems pretty standard issue, so he catches on quickly.
The pantry is surprisingly sparse. You'd think for a show giving out two million yen in prize money every episode, they'd maybe find a way to stock more than a single container of each spice. Maybe that's how they can afford the prizes. Maybe it's another part of the game.
Osamu tucks that observation away for later. Just in case.
"The medic stays stationed in the far corner during filming, but hopefully you won't need them. You're not allergic to anything, right?"
Osamu shrugs. "Just bugs."
"You're what?"
Suna spins around to face him, a look of panic sprawled across his face. His eyes are sharp and narrowed, the pupils a mere pin prick as they boar into him. Osamu shrinks away at the intensity.
"Nothin'. It was just a joke. Like, I'm allergic to seein' bugs in the kitchen. Since that'd be real gross 'n all."
Why is Suna being so weird about this? Yeah, it wasn't exactly Osamu's best work comedic timing wise, but he didn't think it was so bad it'd make Suna freak like he saw a ghost.
"Right." Suna clears his throat and shakes his head slightly to clear off the weirdness. It makes his hair fall in front of his eyes. Osamu has to shove both of his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid like trying to tuck the errant stands behind his ear.
"Why don't we head on over to wardrobe?"
The wardrobe room is small, which makes sense, seeing as how the only thing in it is the same chef coat in a bunch of different sizes. Suna pulls one off the rack and hands it to him, along with an apron.
Osamu takes one look at the chef coat and goes, "It looks kinda small, don't ya think?"
"Humor me."
With a heavy sigh at his own lack of a backbone, Osamu retreats into the changing room. There's a full length mirror next to a small basket, where he assumes he can store the shirt he wore here for the day.
The chef coat … technically fits. As in, he can get all the buttons fastened after spending several minutes struggling with the last few. He has a little more breathing room (literally) around his stomach, but that's pretty much null and void the second he ties the apron around his waist. Meanwhile, the fabric across his chest is pulled taught, the buttons on that part of the chef coat fighting for their life. He tries to roll the sleeves up, but they won't go higher than mid-forearm.
Surely this can't be what Suna wants.
He pulls back the curtain and gestures to his chest. "See, I told ya it'd be too tight."
Suna studies the problem intently. He takes another step closer, eyes never leaving Osamu's chest. Then he reaches out to the top right button of the chef coat and undoes it.
Is their air conditioner broken? It's suddenly way too hot in this stupid, stuffy room.
Suna takes the newly freed corner of fabric and folds it down, making a small triangle in the center of his chest. He smooths his hand across the fabric. Helping it to lay flat. Osamu prays he can't feel how fast his heart is beating under his touch.
"There," he says, tapping the fabric triangle with a note of finality. "That's better."
"Ya don't think it's a little …" The first word Osamu's brain supplies is slutty, but he settles on a more diplomatic, "restrictive?"
"Can you move?"
Osamu begins gingerly raising and lowering his arms. Testing the full range of motion via pantomime, from grabbing something off a tall shelf to maneuvering pans on the back set of burners. Either the fabric is more structurally sound that he was giving it credit for or the buttons are sewn on with industrial strength thread, because everything seems to stay in place.
"Guess so." Osamu shrugs.
"Let this be a lesson in knowing that I'm always right." His tone is flat and bored, but Osamu thinks that might be his version of teasing.
"Sorry for gettin' concerned when ya handed me a shirt the size of a hand towel."
"Why're you complaining? You look good."
He says it like it's nothing. Obvious, even. Osamu knows he doesn't mean anything by it, but all his stupid lizard brain knows is that the hottest man he's ever seen (who is still standing very close to him, for some reason) just told him that he looks good. It's taking all the restraint he has to not actively preen under the throwaway compliment.
The wardrobe room is connected to another, slightly larger, room with a sign that reads Hair & Makeup, which is where Suna leads them next.
"Hey, Yachi," he greets, closing the door behind them.
Apparently-Yachi is finishing up putting makeup on a man who Osamu assumes is another contestant. His hair is firetruck red and sticking out in all directions like broom that's several years past its prime. His eyes are closed and his head is lulled back like he's taking a nap, without a care in the world.
There's another man standing just behind him in a similar outfit to Suna, so he must be Firetruck Hair's producer, but Osamu would've guessed bodyguard with how buff and intimidating the guy looks.
"Hey, Suna. I'm almost finished."
"Aww, bummer," Firetruck Hair croons. "I've been having so much fun. You sure I can't just hang out with you all day?"
"Tendou, if you stay here all day you will not be able to compete on the show as scheduled."
"Relax, Ushiwaka." Firetruck Hair (or, Tendou, he supposes) opens his eyes for the first time and looks over to his producer. "I've still got my eye on the prize."
Osamu hears Suna snort next to him. He raises a brow, hoping to catch Suna's eye.
Other people's workplace gossip is a top three gossip variety. Especially when Osamu's never gonna see any of these people again after today, so any snooping will have literally no consequences on his real life. And Suna seems like the type to treat gossip like an Olympic level sport and, therefore, would be willing to spill other people's business without much convincing. Truly, a perfect match.
His suspicions are confirmed when Suna gives Osamu a look that says I'll tell you later.
He's also starting to think that Suna might have a personal space problem, but that's it's own thing. They're standing really close together again. Shoulders nearly touching every time Suna readjusts to check something on his phone or fire off another text.
Not that Osamu minds or anything. Suna smells good. All earthy and cedar-y. And his skin is really clear. Pretty and opalescent. It's probably really soft. He kinda wants to reach out and —
The sound of a chair scooting reminds Osamu that there are other people here besides Suna.
Tendou is standing to admire Yachi's hard work in the mirror. Babbling his thanks to her as Ushiwaka (which, surely that can't be his real name) tries to lure his charge into whichever room he's needed in next.
On his way out, Tendou stops in front of Osamu. Osamu isn't short, but Tendou makes him feel like he is. Towering over him as he says, "See you out there."
His vibe is so kooky that Osamu can't tell if he was trying to be menacing or encouraging. The door to the room closes behind Tendou and Ushiwaka before Osamu has a chance to decide for sure.
He's gonna just assume it was encouragement. Mostly, for his own sake. His nerves can't handle much else right now.
Suna looks at Yachi. "You ever seen Wakatoshi blush before?"
"No! It was weird, right?!"
The two of them continue to gossip about their co-workers. Osamu's content to listen while Yachi works. Every now and then Suna will interrupt the conversation to provide Osamu with some bit of context he's missing about the people they're talking about or explain what the film lingo the two of them speak like a second language means in regular words.
It's … considerate.
The gossip is a welcome distraction from all the poking and prodding Yachi has to do on his face. He does his best not to flinch every time she applies something, but all the brush bristles and sponges are also ticklish, which doesn't help anything.
After what has to be like fifteen minutes of him squirming, Suna puts a hand on Osamu's shoulder, the bows his head slightly to whisper in his ear. "Relax. You're going great. She's almost done."
"'s not gonna look cakey or weird is it?"
Osamu's not used to the way that having things on his face feels. He only started wearing sunscreen last year because Kiyoomi kept sending him research articles on the importance of wearing a daily SPF and Osamu got tired of pretending like he'd read them.
"What? You don't trust Yachi to do her job? That's rude, Osamu."
"Ignore him," she interjects. "I'm not doing anything crazy. Just enough to make sure it looks like you have a pulse under all those lights."
"Right."
Within a few minutes, she's spraying some kind of finishing spray on him and giving him the go ahead to stand. "All done. Your sides should be ready for you to pick up in the hallway with the confessional rooms."
"Sides?" Osamu tilts his head. "I thought I had to cook all the sides for my dish."
"Not those kind of sides."
Suna offers no further explanation, just holds the door open for Osamu while also staring down at his phone, texting someone. He quickly thanks Yachi before heading out the door, falling in step behind Suna, who has now put away his phone and decided to walk with purpose down the soundstage's labyrinthine hallways.
Halfway through their third or fourth hallway, someone hands Suna a stack of papers. Suna accepts them with a small nod. The second they turn the next corner, he immediately drops them into the trash. Even though the recycling bin is right next to it.
"Ya could at least recycle 'em." Osamu grumbles.
"Wow, he's a chef, he's hot, and he cares about the environment? You're the total package."
It's not even like Osamu cares that much about the environment. The recycling was just literally right next to —
Wait.
Did Suna just call him hot? And the total package?
There's no way. He had to have been just teasing. Or fucking with him. Surely it was just another one of his sardonic jokes. It's gotta be. He doesn't actually mean that.
Right?
"Earth to Osamu."
Oh, yeah. They're in the middle of something.
Suna is staring at him skeptically from inside a room marked Confessional Booth 4. It's more of a glorified broom closet. There's enough room for a chair in front of a grey backdrop, thick soundproofing pads covering each of the walls, a single camera mounted to a tripod, a concerning amount of chords, and not much else. Osamu does his best to brush off any lingering awkwardness and steps into the room, taking a seat in the room's one chair.
This room definitely seems bigger on TV. One wrong move, or, hell, even a particularly aggressive sneeze, would cause a domino affect that could send everything imploding in on itself. Suna flits around absently. Plugging things in and flipping switches like he's gearing up to fly a spaceship, but the novelty's long since worn off.
It's weird that this is his job. Sending emails and texts. Knowing what wires do things. Talking to people. Showing them around. Filming them.
Osamu swallows around the thought.
Being on camera isn't exactly his thing. A large part of the reason why he doesn't want to be on a competition cooking TV show is the TV part. Knowing there are cameras capturing his every move — and people waiting to scrutinize every second of it — makes him jumpy.
"You're a little ... different than I expected based on your tape and phone interview, so we're gonna have to pivot some of your intro package on the fly."
"Bad different?"
"Not bad. Just different."
Osamu tries to seek out any hidden dejection in Suna's words, but there either isn't any or he's very good at hiding it. Even if there was some thinly veiled disappointment, Osamu couldn't exactly blame him for it.
After all, he thought he was casting Atsumu. The guy's every reality TV producer who's looking for a cocky asshole to eliminate in the first round's wet dream. He's loud and brash and will always say exactly what's on his mind — camera's rolling and regular human politeness be damned. The thought of other people being better than him has never once crossed Atsumu's mind, because the thing that Atsumu is the best at is being competitive.
Osamu isn't like that.
His confidence is much more measured. He knows what he's good at and what he isn't, but doesn't see a point in wasting people's time telling them how good at it he is, when he could just shut up and prove it instead. Coming up with snarky things to say to purposefully throw off the competition mid-round doesn't interest him the way it would Atsumu. All he wants to do today is cook.
"But the edit we had in mind for you doesn't make sense anymore, so I'm scrapping it." Suna continues talking, not looking up from the various chords that he's fiddling with. "Instead of the snarky showboat, I see you being more of the charming country boy."
"Me? Charmin'?"
"You've charmed me."
There is too much sincerity behind those words. Self preservation is telling Osamu this has to be another joke, but then Suna decides to go and wink at him with his pretty green eyes and fuck why'd he have to get stuck with the hot producer today?
"I don't really …"
Osamu doesn't even know what he doesn't really. His brain is mush and his tongue feels too big for his mouth and his stomach can't decide if it wants to accept the butterflies Suna winking at him has introduced into the ecosystem or perform some sort of complicated exorcism ritual on them.
"It'll be fine. It's just you and me, so pretend like you're talking just to me."
Just to you and not the millions of people that will inevitably watch this when it airs, Osamu's brain helpfully supplies.
Suna presses a button and a little red light turns on. It clicks in Osamu's mind that holy shit, any of this could be on TV. He can barely form a single coherent sentence around Suna. Now that's about to be irrefutably documented and eventually broadcast to every TV in Japan. Atsumu's probably gonna splice the clips up and play it at every family function from now until he finally gets dementia and forgets it exists.
Then again, if Atsumu gets dementia, then Osamu probably will too. So, really, he just has to hold out for the day, several decades from now, when his memory starts to go and he can finally forget about this whole mess. But stupid fucking Kiyoomi's mind is absolutely gonna remain in tact well into old age. So that bastard is gonna get the satisfaction of showing him and Atsumu the clips for the first time again and again in the nursing home, the little —
"Will you relax. It's not even rolling yet."
"The red dot's on."
Suna looks down lazily at the red light in question. "That's just the low battery light."
"It's right next to the label that says recordin'."
"Whose job is the cameras?"
They stay locked in tense staring contest before Osamu finally caves. The cameras are Suna's job so there isn't much Osamu can say to that. Even if he knows Suna's lying.
Suna procures a small clipboard with a pen attached that's propped against of the legs of the camera's tripod then takes up a position just to the side of the camera.
"Alright, let's start with you telling me your name, age, and where you're from."
"Do I look into the lens or —"
"No, look right at me."
Osamu was afraid he was going to say that. He sighs, but does what Suna asks. Shifting slightly in his chair to more easily face him.
"I'm Miya Osamu, I'm twenty eight, and I live in Osaka."
"Have you always lived in Osaka?"
"No."
Suna stares blankly at him. It takes a few seconds for it to click in Osamu's brain that he's supposed to keep talking.
"I grew up out in Amagasaki."
Suna checks something off the list on his clipboard. Osamu tries to lean forward to see what it says, but Suna snatches it back before he can.
"And what do you do?"
"What do I … do?" He repeats.
"Like, are you a sous chef, an executive chef, do you own your own place?"
"That one."
Suna tilts his head to one side. "You know we're gonna cut all my parts out, right? You've gotta speak in full sentences."
Duh. That makes sense.
"Right." Osamu wipes the palms of his hands along the sides of his pants. "I own my own restaurant in Osaka. Onigiri Miya."
Suna checks something else off on his list.
"And how would you describe your cooking style?"
What kind of question is that? Osamu doesn't have one specific style. He's mostly flying by the seat of his pants and trusting his instincts to tell him what will taste good and his two years of culinary school to not have it kill anybody.
"I … uhm … cook?"
He hopes that wherever Atsumu is right now, he's having a horrible day.
"Sorry, vague question. That's my bad." Suna brushes off Osamu's awkwardness with a wave of his hand. "Basically, we just want to give viewers an idea of what you're like in the kitchen before they see you compete. Are you more rustic with your technique? Are you super ingredient focused? Is there a particular region whose flavors inspire you? Stuff like that."
Just hearing Suna say what he's looking for reminds Osamu of all of the pretentious people he had to deal with in culinary school. The ones whose only career aspirations were to start working in Michelin kitchens as quickly as possible so they could brag about how many Stars the restaurant they're with has.
Osamu doesn't give a shit about any of that.
"My only goal when I'm cookin' is to make food that other people enjoy eatin'. Sometimes all that polish or tryin' to to fit into a specific mold, just cause ya feel like yer supposed to, gets in the way of makin' things that actually taste good. As long as people're smilin' while they're eatin' my food, I don't care what they call it."
The words roll off his tongue easily, but they seem to stir something in Suna. Osamu thinks his words might've caught him off guard. Just a little.
"See. There's that country boy charm. Knew you had it in you."
His cheeks flash hot. Osamu tries to calm the blushing by looking away, but the only other place to look is directly into the lens of the camera. It's unfortunately an even worse option than staring directly at Suna, since it reminds him that this is all being filmed.
"Quit callin' me charmin' cause I ain't," he bites.
Suna snorts. It's soft, but under his breath, Osamu can make out Suna muttering Quit callin' me charmin' cause I ain't in the worst imitation of Kansai-ben that Osamu has ever heard.
Yeah. Osamu has a bit of an accent.
Yeah. It gets a little more pronounced when he's nervous or tired or frustrated.
All of which he is right now.
So, really, it's not his fault when the next words out of his mouth are, "I'on't talk like that!"
"Yes yew dew," Suna taunts. His Kansai-ben is somehow getting worse by the second.
"Seriously. Why're ya teasin' me?"
He shrugs. "Just trying to channel my inner Omi."
His inner what now?
"Granted, I'm not exactly sure who Omi is," Suna continues, completely oblivious to the fact that his words have just taken several years off of Osamu's life. "But, you talked to him a lot during your video submission. I figured teasing you like he was might make you feel more at ease since you two seemed … close."
Goddammit Atsumu!
He hates his brother. He hates his brother in law. He hates himself for not investing in better locks to the restaurant. He hates that a massive typhoon didn't come and destroy the servers with Atsumu's application on it before anyone had a chance to look at it and cast him on this show. He hates his grandma for being swindled into letting him and Atsumu watch Chopped together in the first place.
"So. Who's your Omi?"
Add another thing to the list, he hates the fact that Suna is steeling himself for disappointment as he waits for Osamu to respond.
"Omi—Kiyoomi is my brother in law. Or, soon to be brother in law, I guess. The weddin's at the end of the year. Whatever. Point is …"
Oh, fuck, now he's gotta lie more. Great. Awesome. Perfect. Just what he needs right now.
"Kiyoomi was the only one who was free to film this thing for me, so I asked him to help. He 'n my brother've been together since high school so he knows how to get under my skin."
There. That's not horrible. It's more two truths and a lie than just lying all together. Kiyoomi and Atsumu have been together since high school and Kiyoomi does know exactly how to piss Osamu off after all that time. Osamu just never asked him for help filming that tape.
He prays that Suna doesn't ask any sort of follow up questions about the audition tape, because Osamu hasn't actually seen it. He also didn't think to ask Atsumu about it, clearly. Hell, he doesn't even know what Atsumu cooked for the damn thing.
"I see."
Suna chews at the corner of his mouth, gaze unfocused as he stares somewhere into the middle distance. There are definitely more important things going on right now, but Osamu's first thought is how pretty Suna looks when he's concentrating.
"Can I say something?"
Osamu blinks. "…Sure?"
"I'm not an idiot. I can tell that there's obviously something going on with you. You're not the same person you were in your audition."
You don't know the half of it.
"I don't know if you're worried about how this is all gonna come together in the final cut of the episode or if you felt like you had to be something you're not to get cast, but bottom line is, you're here now. Forget everything I said about angles and edits. Just be you. Whoever that actually is. Because, me personally, I like the version of you I've seen today way more than anything I saw during your audition. And I think that today will be less painful for both of us if you don't feel like you have you hide who you are from me."
The muscles around Osamu's ribcage loosen their tight grip around his middle. His shoulders drop away from his ears. Tension, so insidious he hadn't even noticed it, all begins to fall away at the offer. Osamu hates lying, and Suna is telling him he doesn't have to.
He doesn't have to be Atsumu or some fake ultra-charming version of himself, meant to wow people at home who he'll never meet.
He can just be himself. Himself is good enough for Suna.
"I'd like that."
They go on that way for a while. Suna asking him questions and teasing out Osamu's answers until he finally checks off the last item on his clipboard.
"Ok, it's time. You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
Suna leads him back through the hallways until they find one that's already full of people. The first thing Osamu's eyes catch on are the three other people also wearing the same chef coat that he is. Other producers and crew members mill about, but each chef has someone right by their side.
At the front of their line is the only pair that Osamu's seen so far, Tendou and Ushijima. Tendou appears to be animatedly rambling while Ushijima nods along with a soft smile on his face. Based on overhearing Suna and Yachi discuss the situation, this might as well be a marriage proposal. Osamu isn't sure if he'd personally go that far, but the two of them actually know the guy, so he'll trust their word on the situation.
Next in line is a producer who looks a little like Suna. Tall, dark hair, handsome, but with a little more if anything goes wrong today, I'm flinging myself off of a bridge, versus Suna's if anything goes wrong today, I'm flinging you off of a bridge.
Osamu still thinks Suna's hotter, which he guesses means that he likes his men a little crazy.
Less-Hot-Suna's contestant is a pretty girl with auburn-ish hair. She seems sweet on the outside, but Osamu sees the thick callous at the base of her right index finger. Right where a chef's knife rubs against when chopping. It's the kind of badge of honor that only comes with time and repetition in the kitchen. She could be some serious competition.
The last pair is a producer with shoulder length split dyed hair (or just really grown out roots) standing silently beside his contestant. The quiet doesn't seem to phase the contestant, his huge eyes dart around the room, latching onto each detail before moving to the next thing. It gives him an air of perceptiveness that sets Osamu on edge.
"Nice of you to finally show up." Split Dye Guy mutters to Suna. "I thought Kuroo was gonna send me on a man hunt to track you down."
"You literally have my location. It wouldn't have been much of a hunt." Suna retorts.
"Besides," Less-Hot-Suna starts, "it's not like Kuroo would've made you do shit. You'd sigh heavily, then he'd apologize for making your life harder and just go find Suna himself. I've never seen a guy so whipped for someone he isn't even dating."
"It's not like that," Split Dye Guy mumbles without much conviction.
"If I had to pick someone on the crew to find me if I went missing, I'd pick Wakatoshi." Suna muses, answering a question no one asked. "He's the only one who'd be able to fight off an intruder."
"Why's he get to call you Wakatoshi, but not me?" Tendou asks loudly, inserting himself into the conversation without closing any distance. Osamu isn't sure how he heard them from the front of the line, especially since these three are all kinda quiet. The guy's senses must be on another level.
"Rintarou and I have worked together for years. I met you in person this morning."
Osamu can't fault the logic, but Tendou is apparently going to try to. His whole body deflates as he sulks. Ushijima's eyes flutter in a series of rapid blinks. He shifts his weight between his feet.
"But, I suppose, I cannot stop you from calling me that too."
Suna and the other two producers all share a knowing look. Based on all the gossip he's absorbed today, Osamu can't blame them. This seems to be an important development.
"Okie dokie, Wakatoshi!" Tendou lilts. "Since we're on a first name basis now, that means you have to call me Satori."
"Tendou, I am not sure that would be …" Ushijima trails off, swallowing hard. He looks mildly panicked about the pleading eyes Tendou's throwing his way. "Sure, Satori. That's fine."
Suna leans over and whispers in Osamu's ear. "Mind you, he didn't stop calling Keiji Akaashi until Keiji'd worked here for like a year."
"Which one's Akaashi?" Osamu whispers back.
"The one who's almost as hot as me."
His head snaps towards Suna, who's already staring at him with a knowing grin plastered across his face. Is Suna psychic? Or had Osamu somehow accidentally called Akaashi Less-Hot-Suna out loud?
"I can hear you, you know." Akaashi deadpans. "Also, bold of you to call me the less hot version of you when I'm the one with a boyfriend."
Does that mean Suna doesn't have a boyfriend? That's … well, that's just something that's good to know.
"Why couldn't he've been talking about me?" Split Dye Guy asks.
Suna says, "Because I said Keiji's full, government name." at the same time that Akaashi responds, "Because you're cute not hot."
Split Dye Guy tsks his tongue. "Rudeass."
"It's not rude, just a fact. I could never do what you do."
"Who made you the authority on what's cute versus what's hot?"
The two of them bicker back and forth with the practiced ease of old friends, who have no problem going for the jugular. In the midst of their arguing, Osamu watches Suna catch something out of the corner of his eye, then claim his full focus as a devilish look flashes across his face.
"Kuroo," Suna calls. "Come settle something for us, will you?"
At the far end of the hallway, host of Chopped, Kuroo Tetsurou excuses himself from a conversation to come over to where they're standing. Osamu isn't sure how Suna saw him, since he was about twenty meters away and behind several other people.
Seeing him this close up is strange, since Osamu's only ever seen him on TV before. Kuroo only took over hosting the show about three years ago after the old guy retired, so Osamu hasn't seen many of his episodes before, but people who post clips of things on the internet seem to think he does a good job. He smiles brightly at the three producers, and by proxy Osamu, who's sticking close to Suna's side.
"Ah, three of my four favorite producers. What can I settle for you this morning?"
"Is Kenma cute or hot?" Suna asks without any preamble.
It's weird to see some who is, in Osamu's mind, a celebrity get honestly and truly embarrassed. Kuroo's face turns tomato red. A throaty, garbled sound escapes him. Almost like he's choking.
"You don't have to answer that, you know." Kenma says.
Kuroo sputters. "But it'd be … rude — to you, if I didn't."
"But I'm telling you that you don't have to, so isn't it ruder to not do what I say?"
Damn, this guy's got it bad. He's staring at Kenma like he hung the moon, when really the guy just called him an idiot with some extra steps.
Back on the other side of the hallway, a voice calls, "Kuroo! We still have a few more things to go over."
"Sorry, duty calls." Kuroo takes off back in the direction he came.
Osamu turns to Kenma once Kuroo's out of earshot. "Yeah, that guy definitely likes you."
"Told you." Comes Suna and Akaashi's reply, in perfect unison.
Kenma's addition to the committing murder when things get hard triad seems to be if anything goes wrong today, I'm flinging all of us off of a bridge, since that's the look he's sending to all three of them right now.
Osamu blinks and the conversation has already shifted. Suna, Kenma, and Akaashi have clearly been working together for a while. They trade life updates, bitch about work, gossip about other shows filming on the same lot, all with a layer of references and inside jokes that go beyond the basic film set vocabulary Suna and Yachi were using.
Suna does his best to fold Osamu into the conversation when he can. Every time he does, Akaashi and Kenma appear to have some silent conversation with their eyes that Osamu can't hope to decipher.
"Hello, hello!"
Everyone turns at the sound of Kuroo's voice. He looks much more composed than he did the last time he was over here.
"It's a pleasure to meet all of you. I'm Kuroo Tetsurou. We're gonna get started here in just a few minutes. Anyone have any last questions before we do?"
All the contestants and producers look between each other, but none of them say anything. Everyone seems focused and ready to go.
"Great! We already got the episode intro while you guys were in hair and makeup, so we're just gonna start with getting you out there. Our order is gonna be Tendou, then Shirofuku, then Fukunaga, then Miya."
Finally, Osamu has names for everyone. None of their names ring any bells for him, so he has no idea what they're like in the kitchen. But if he hasn't heard of any of his fellow contestants, hopefully they haven't heard of him either.
"You'll hear me call your name, then you just walk straight to the station your producer showed you during your walkthrough earlier. Whenever you're walking today, please walk between the prep tables and the ovens. Don't try to go around the front of the prep tables where the crew area is. We don't want anyone tripping over any of the wires or cameras on that side, and want to make sure our crew has room to do their jobs safely.
"Speaking of our crew, your producer will be in the crew area directly across from you while you're cooking. They might ask you questions or talk to you while you're cooking — definitely do answer them, but don't feel like you need to look up from your work or make eye contact with the camera when you do."
At last, a small stroke of luck.
Just the thought of Suna talking to him while he's cooking has his blood running hot at the domesticity. If he had to actually look at Suna the whole time he was talking, Osamu would have to be wheeled off kicking and screaming to the medic station for clear and obvious signs of having a stoke.
"Well, I think that just about covers it." Kuroo says resolutely. "I'll leave you all with the same thing that I tell all contestants before we start."
Beside him, Kenma sighs heavily.
"It's easy to get tripped up out there, or let your nerves get the better of you. But, we're all like the blood in our veins. Just keep flowing, keep breathing, let the oxygen move through you, so your brain can do its job."
Kuroo delivers this speech with the sincerity of a monk asked for his greatest wisdom. It's a nice idea, but he can see how having to hear it before work every day would get old fast.
Despite the cheesiness, it does leave a note of finality in the hallway, as Kuroo departs to head out to set. An air of focus enveloping all of the contestants as the reality of the situation sinks in.
It's game time.
One by one, contestants are called into set. Their producers peeling off down the other side of the hallway to go to opposite side of set where all of the film crew will be spending the day.
Then it's just Osamu and Suna.
In the quiet, there's nothing for his brain to do but think of all the ways this could go wrong. Osamu is a great chef, and he knows that, but there's so much out of his control with this. At Onigiri Miya, he's in charge of everything. The menu, the space, the people, the ingredients. Here he doesn't get a say in any of that.
"Hey." Suna knocks their shoulders together. "I'm sure you won't need it, but good luck out there. Go win it all, yeah?"
Osamu almost says something stupid back like Can I have a good luck kiss?, but Suna has a firm hand pressed into the center of his back and before he knows it, he hears Kuroo say his name and he's walking out. Bright studio lights and familiar set coming into view once more as he walks past his fellow contestants.
Holy shit, this is really happening. Osamu is seriously about to compete on Chopped. He tries to stay focused, but the basket is Right There. He can't help but wonder what's inside.
Once Osamu makes it to his station, one of the directors has them hold for a second to get footage of each of them at their stations. Clips of them looking towards Kuroo that get edited in later no doubt. After a few minutes, the director has whatever shots they need and gives Kuroo the go ahead.
"There will be three rounds. Appetizer, entrée, and dessert. Each round will have it's own basket of mystery ingredients. You must incorporate each basket ingredient into your dish in some way. You will be judged on presentation, taste, and creativity. If your dish doesn't cut it, you will be Chopped."
Osamu doesn't get why they have to repeat the rules. It's not like it's a hard concept to understand. Can't people at home just figure it out? Plus, this show's been on the air for like twenty years. There probably isn't anyone in the whole country who doesn't know the rules of Chopped.
"Tonight, there will also be a special twist."
A what now?
"In each round today, three of your basket ingredients were chosen by our judges. Your fourth ingredient was voted on by viewers at home."
Godfuckingdammit Atsumu!
Not only did he rope Osamu into being on Chopped, he just had to get him on an episode with a ridiculous twist. Chopped fans notoriously love to watch the chefs suffer. It'll be a miracle if they picked something that won't bite his hand off the second he opens the basket.
"Chefs. Please open your baskets."
Osamu puts his hands on the handles of his basket, then takes a deep breath.
He can do this. No matter what's inside this basket, he's gonna make it work.
"You'll have twenty minutes to make an appetizer that includes acorn squash."
Not bad, he can work with that.
"Little neck clams."
Sweet. He's done a few different onigiri for the shop that use calms. Not little necks specifically, but a clam's a clam. They all cook up the same.
"Algae oil."
Mmm, ok. Nothing super inspiring about that, but at least it's not an active hindrance.
"And your Viewer's Choice ingredient …"
Oh, shit.
"Black ants."
What the actual fuck is he gonna do with that?
"Time starts now!"