Chapter Text
“Well fuck me!”
“I sure don’t like the sound of that. What the hell’s goin’ on, ‘Samu?”
It’s not the first time Osamu’s ignored his brother through a call and certainly not the last ─ the difference being that he’s not doing it out of pettiness for once. No, if Osamu doesn’t answer Atsumu right away, it’s because he’s in a predicament. A serious one.
“Please tell me yer just a horndog and that poetic interlude has nothin’ to do with yer old shitbox.”
Atsumu chirps just when Osamu gives the side of his car a well-deserved-absolutely-fruitless aggressive kick from his boot. The tire is flat. Of course, it’s not like bullying that giant chunk of metal is going to do anything, but Osamu had to act on his frustration and no one is there to tell him to tone it down for once.
“Shit ‘Samu, you better be joking. If yer late, I’m gonna kill you.”
Osamu is seized by a familiar and visceral need to tell his twin to shut the fuck up but he has more pressing matters at hand ─ namely, finding a way to get to the train station in time.
“You shouldav’ got rid of it when I told ya! What good does it do to keep that stupid truck if it can’t go anywhere?”
“Shut up, ‘Tsumu! How do you propose I replace it if I can’t even find the money to fill the tank a week out of two?”
“That’s why I got you that interview, scrub! Need me to send ya some money?”
“’Tsumu!”
It’s awful. The situation couldn’t get worse. Osamu doesn’t like to be in Atsumu’s debt. It’s already humiliating and disappointing enough that he has to be the twin who struggles, only then to hear his brother offer some more help. Because for all the bite there was in their previous jabs, Atsumu sounds genuine and concerned when he offers to transfer some money. Which is something Osamu can’t stand.
He drops the tote bag full of boxes he was holding onto the hood of the truck, absentmindedly bringing the wire connecting his headphones and phone to his lips so he can chew on it. At least, Atsumu has gone silent. For now.
Osamu doesn’t have time for this.
“Why are you just leavin’ anyway? Don’t tell me you were at Kita’s─”
“’Tsumu. Bitchin’ ain’t helpin’!”
Of course he was at Kita’s. As if Osamu is going to spit on both occasions to practice his culinary skills and the money coming from a long shift.
“I’m trying to help ya here. You get that in yer thick stupid head? Yer not gonna start shit from the ground up if you literally have nothing to begin with. It’s easy money, you just have to behave for once when I tell you to do something. One interview, yer sure to get that job but yer gonna waste it away in the back kitchen of our─”
Click.
The call disconnects when Osamu angrily thumbs at his phone screen, yanking his headphones off with his other hand. Fuck Atsumu. Fuck him for finding solutions, fuck him for being right and fuck him for being a little bitch. Osamu is trying, it’s not his fault if they didn’t have the same kind of dreams.
God, Osamu is seconds away from kicking his truck again. Although, this time, he can’t tell whether the paint job or his foot would be the one to yield. Neither of those options would be productive, though. He rounds the vehicle instead, desperate to both shake himself out of it and find a solution. In his little outburst, Osamu doesn’t notice the tarp bunched up on the ground.
He should have – because their mom has been telling him to take care of the junk piled up in the corner of their entrance for a week now. The neighbors have even been complaining about the unruly heap. Old geezers… Osamu thinks they just want to find any pretext to annoy her because they’ve never liked the idea of a single mother living in their precious neighborhood.
It's ironic that Osamu would trip on the tarp covering the childhood bike his dad had taught him to ride before he disappeared from their lives. Especially when the first thing their nasty neighbors had asked their mom was: “you have to be married, surely, Miya-san, right?”
Well, she was until she had to ask for a divorce because the man who gave the twins their names didn’t leave only a bike to rust behind.
The moment Osamu’s face hits the fence, he wants to scream but that shout is aborted when his eyes track back to the fallen tarp; what it failed to protect from the rain but also just revealed. Osamu’s old bike is as shitty looking as his truck but, at least, both tires seem perfectly functional. There’s dirt stuck in the rubber grooves and the paint is chipped in more places than one, but it’s in better shape than what Osamu could have hoped for.
He yanks himself off of the fence, massaging his sore cheek before he goes back to retrieve his tote bag. Osamu was supposed to drop off the bento it’s carrying by one of his mother's friend’s on the way to the train station but there’s no time anymore. It’ll be his reward for when he’s done with this stupid interview.
Because Osamu is going. Atsumu can suck it up, Osamu won’t ruin this opportunity. No matter how little interest he has in the actual job description or Atsumu’s professional world, Osamu needs the money. Having to ride a skewed bike that oozes childhood trauma in its wake is the perfect reminder of that. He’s done with dreaming. Osamu will make it real.
And if he has to suffer through a summer so that he can spend the rest of his life bringing joy to people, so be it. Osamu wants to be the more accomplished and happier twin. He wants to prove to himself that it doesn’t matter, all the shit that was thrown at them since they were kids. It doesn’t matter if old geezers can’t keep up with the times or if his father is no longer there to hold the wheel for him. It doesn’t matter that they couldn’t always make ends meet. Osamu has a dream to fulfill and so he will.
Osamu doesn’t regret abandoning that pile of junk at the train station for the scavengers to tear apart but he does regret not eating his twin in the womb. Atsumu keeps calling him for all of the two and a half hours that the train ride takes, transporting him to Tokyo. He’s always been too persistent and it doesn’t help that being a personal assistant means that Atsumu’s phone is perpetually glued to his hand.
Not that he should use his professional number to harass Osamu; but if there’s one situation where Atsumu will go out of his way to exhibit unprofessional behavior, it’s definitely to make Osamu’s life miserable. Osamu has been declining all calls and swiping up on all the new message notifications coming his way — ruining his Genshin Impact break. It gets to the point where Osamu prefers to shut his phone down temporarily rather than risk throwing it across the train car. He certainly can’t afford to replace the outdated smartphone he’s been trying to keep alive since he was nineteen. It’s been six years, it has to hold on for a few more months.
Although Osamu wonders if he’ll be able to replace it in a few months when he steps out of the train station and is immediately swallowed by the frenzy that’s Tokyo. He was already sure that it wasn’t going to be the right place for him, but being swept off his feet by a mindless crowd and regurgitated into the busy, noisy street does nothing to comfort him. At least, the main office of the company he’s interviewing for isn’t far from the train station — although Osamu has no choice but to turn his phone on again to find his way through the foreign streets.
It’s loud, so loud that his headphones do nothing to shut the city sounds off when he plugs them in, in hopes of hearing the GPS indications. Osamu feels like a lost kid — a hand clenched on the handle of his tote bag, the other gripping the strap of his fanny pack that crosses his chest — as he makes his way around a neighborhood of Tokyo he’s never seen in his life. Smoking a cigarette to keep his nerves in check is absolutely out of the question — even if he walks upon a smoking area, Osamu doesn’t have time for it. He just has to suck it up.
Osamu can’t help but wonder how Atsumu could get accustomed to all of this. But then again, Astumu wasn’t the one who’d get lost searching for a konbini when they moved to Osaka with their mother. Osamu’s head is in the clouds the moment he’s not set on trying a new recipe or surveying someone’s expression after he’s just made them taste his last culinary experience. In fact, it’s a good thing the agency Atsumu works for is like any other building around Tokyo: tall, imposing and displaying its name in bold letters on the front, because otherwise, Osamu would have missed it with his nose up in the air and lost in his wandering thoughts.
“Destination reached,” the disembodied voice in his ears announces as Osamu reads the name of the agency — a bunch of meaningless letters he can’t bother to remember the moment he’s done deciphering them. Atsumu always used to call it the gold mine when he first got hired there, although lately, he’s been calling it a bunch of lousy names that are all related to Omi. Omi’s headquarters, Omi’s homebase, Omi’s whatever-the-hell Atsumu wants to call that fake ass dream factory.
“You sign up pretty people to put them on billboards so you can sell useless shit to idiots who have no use for it,” Osamu had once pointed out.
“I don’t sign ‘em up. I take care of the pretty people. And yer always going on about this as if you know better but it’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“What’s complicated about capitalism and mass consumption, ‘Tsumu? Please, humor me.”
“Yer personality fucking sucks. Hope you never hafta run a business by yourself, ‘cause it’s definitely gonna flop.”
That’s the problem; Osamu intends to run a business one day. But before he can even prove his brother wrong by running one or try to understand whatever nonsense Atsumu always passionately goes on about his job, Osamu needs to suck it up and find some funds.
That’s why he breathes in slowly, trying to cool his head before heading into the skyscraper in front of him. He longs for a cigarette but Osamu’s too short on schedule. It’s fine. He’s got this. He can do this even while in a bad mood and craving nicotine.
Atsumu did it, of course Osamu can do it too. It doesn’t matter if their personalities differ and it actually makes sense for Atsumu to be there, when Osamu couldn’t be anywhere else less fitting of him. He’s not good at analyzing people’s needs other than what’s hunger related. He’s not patient. He’s not a fussy pushover.
“Excuse me, sir, do you have an appointment?” a female voice shakes Osamu out of his own thoughts and he realizes he’s no longer standing on the pavement but reeling in the middle of a giant, fancy lobby.
There’s a string of security checkpoints on his right with a dog sleeping at the feet of a mean looking, buff dude wearing a suit who’s eyeing him suspiciously. Osamu can’t exactly blame him. Atsumu told him to wear something clean and proper so he went for the only pair of fitted jeans he owns; black ones that Atsumu forced Osamu into for their aunt Yuuri’s funeral. They’re coupled with the less baggy sweater Osamu owns — the color of brown that doesn’t know whether it might be a type of gray instead.
“It’s called taupe,” Atsumu said this morning.
“That’s not even a color. Ya just made that shit up to piss me off.”
“Yer—Nevermind. Wear a shirt under it and let the collar peek out.”
“Why not wear only the shirt then?”
“Because all of your shirts are short-sleeved and you’re neither preparing for a trip to Hawaii nor trying to bring back the worst of 2008 fashion, ‘Samu. Just do what the fuck I’m telling ya and get a move on.”
“Sir? I’m sorry to have to insist. Are you here for business?” the woman at the front desk calls for him again.
She is wearing a nice blouse tucked in a pencil skirt, complemented by a blazer jacket; a professional outfit befitting of her position. Osamu’s bunched up short sleeves bother him under the long sleeves of his sweater. He’s never going to make it, he decides, knuckles turning white over the handle of his fanny pack.
“Hi. Yeah, I—yes,” Osamu tries again, more firmly as he walks over to the desk. “I’m Miya Osamu. I have an appointment with human resources at...” he trails off as he pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the hour.
1.53 PM
“2 o’clock,” he grits out, refraining from sucking his own teeth in embarrassment.
The woman — a young lady probably around the same age as Osamu, in terms of years only — gives him a sympathetic nod before turning back toward her monitor.
“I’ll try to be as quick as possible,” she says after a few seconds, clearly trying to make it sound like she’s not taking pity on him. “But I need to clear up something. I have a Miya both appointed for the Raijin as well as the Black Jackals division at 2. It’s probably a mistake on our part but—”
Osamu almost heaves a sigh, but he succeeds in swallowing it back at the last millisecond. He can’t fuck up his interview before he even makes it in front of the recruiter, after all. Judging it unwise to tell her that he got here thanks to a favor, Osamu tries to offer his most polite smile as he answers:
“No problem at all. Raijin division please.”
“And you’re sure you’re meeting up with human resources and not management?”
Fucking ‘Tsumu and his fucking busy schedule. Osamu doesn’t even want to know if he found a way to have a meeting here at the same time as Osamu so he could spy on him, and he certainly doesn’t have the time to find out.
1.54 PM
“Human resources, ma’am.”
She smiles back.
“Please turn in your ID so I can give you this badge in exchange,” she says — Osamu immediately complies. “You’ll have to keep it on yourself at all times while you remain on the premises. Once you go through the security checkpoint on your right, elevators will be located on your left. This badge gives you access to the eleventh floor where the—”
The front lady suddenly stutters, her eyes going round as she eyes Osamu’s ID. So much for pretending he’s landed here out of the blue. The twins got their ID pictures taken back in highschool right before dying their hair. Osamu vouches to redo his own the moment he steps out of this building, no matter the outcome of the interview.
1.55 PM
“Apologies, Miya-san. Eleventh floor is where you’ll find human resources quarters. Have a pleasant stay—”
“Thank you so much,” Osamu cuts in, too relieved that the interaction is finally over to let her say her piece.
It’s rude, and he regrets it the moment he turns on his heel, but he’s got five minutes left to make it on time and the bouncer at the security checkpoint looks like he’d love to make him lose half of them by conducting a thorough search. The dog gets up the moment Osamu makes it in front of the security agent.
“Visitor?” the security worker asks the moment Osamu brandishes the badge that displays the word pretty clearly.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s in the bags?” the agent asks immediately.
Osamu figures out the man isn’t waiting for an extensive list so he simply yanks the fanny pack open as he pulls it over his head, before Osamu mimics the gesture with his tote bag.
The dog seems suddenly interested. Osamu’s guts stir unpleasantly. He likes dogs. He doesn’t like being mauled to death over a misunderstanding.
“Bento as well,” Osamu is asked and he can’t help the double take.
The agent is tapping his hand holding the metal detector over his thick biceps at Osamu’s lack of action, and the gesture is persuasive enough for Osamu to open the lunch box without so much as a grumble.
“Onigiri?”
“And karaage. Want some?” Osamu tries not to sound too cheeky but the man is making him more and more nervous.
He gets a pair of squinting eyes scrutinizing him in return and decides to shut his mouth entirely.
1.56 PM
“Leave your phone in receptacle 8 and proceed,” the security agent answers eventually and firmly enough for Osamu to mentally go over the list of things he’s put up his ass over the course of the last six months.
Don’t look at the dog, drugs weren’t on the list.
Thank god, the hound doesn’t move any closer and Osamu is free to retrieve his phone from his fanny pack so that he can turn it off once again before dropping it in a plastic plate next to the seven other hostages of the day.
This place means business; and it makes sense too. They basically make money from their employees’ image. It would be bad for business to have any random guy snapping a picture of a famous model.
Osamu is just figuring this out when his eyes catch the string of notifications on his lock screen. They’re all from Atsumu. Osamu’s palms turn sweaty.
1.57 PM
He clears his throat and decides to be stupid, tapping on the screen to open their conversation.
[12:54 PM]
[Tsumu] Not asking you to stop cooking.
[Tsumu] Just make one little brat happy for two months and you’ll get to spend the rest of your days making people happy with your food like you’ve always wanted.
[Tsumu] Don’t fuck this up.
[Tsumu] You went too far already for that.
[1:47 PM]
[Tsumu] You got this, scrub.
[Tsumu] /not affectionate, my fucking autocorrect just wanted to be weirdly cute, I hate this shit.
1.58 PM
“Sir.”
“Sorry,” Osamu clears his throat again, finding it hard to swallow the lump that lodges itself there. “Should I leave the rest of my stuff here?”
There’s no answer, the security agent just steps to the side. Osamu drops his phone in the receptacle and ignores the dog as its head turns to follow the tote bag hanging by Osamu’s hip.
He probably has one minute left by the time he reaches the right floor. By then, Osamu feels perfectly silly to have kept his bags. However, Osamu doesn’t really have time to wonder if there’s any way to discard them discreetly as a door in the corridor that just revealed itself suddenly bursts open and three people pour out of the room.
The conversation sounds intense and mainly revolves around one of the three persons’ sexual adventures during a photoshoot that should remain a secret. Osamu observes as they pass by him without so much as a glance in his direction, voices anything but low.
They’re all men, and they’re all very hot. Models.
Osamu wonders if he’d have to handle any of them in the future and hopes not when one crudely announces he should have negotiated more money if he’s gonna have to suck dicks when working for a brand Osamu didn’t hear the name of.
This place is as much of a nightmare as had Osamu imagined it would be, despite Atsumu’s best efforts to make it sound like anything but that. He wonders if his brother is too blind or if he got lucky with the department he ended up working for. What’s for certain is that Osamu seems to have both an extremely good perception and have run out of luck.
“Miya-san?”
For the nth time today, someone creeps up on Osamu’s train of thoughts and brings him back to a brutal reality. Maybe he’s too caught up in his own head.
“Yes, sir,” Osamu answers as fast as he can, shifting toward the man who just called him.
Osamu has to hide his surprise when he finds himself facing another young person about his age. This guy is wearing a shirt with (long) rolled up sleeves, a tie and dark pants. He looks like a salaryman with the weirdest pair of eyebrows Osamu’s ever seen — and he’s quite versed in the department himself. At least, his and Atsumu’s brows are thick but regular. This dude’s eyebrows are shaped like two bushy dots that give him an amiable yet sly air.
“Komori Motoya, HR assistant. Welcome at MSBY&EJP partners Agency and thank you for your time,” he says with a boyish tone that contrasts with the formal way he introduces himself with. “If you could please follow me, you’ll be meeting the head of recruitment in a minute.”
Osamu wonders if he’ll meet yet another person his age who shouldn’t have already accomplished three times what Osamu has done career-wise, or if he’s going to have to face some kind of austere-looking boomer like he first expected when setting foot on this floor.
He follows this Komori dude along the corridor hoping for the second option; at least Osamu will only have to worry about his outfit instead of starting to feed on an inferiority complex.
“You okay there?” Komori asks eventually as they seem to reach the end of their journey and stop by a table near a door.
There are a few water bottles stacked there, a coffee machine and a few snacks. Komori looks at his — expensive — watch then at Osamu.
“Usually I’d offer a coffee, but I guess security held you back. Mito-san can be overzealous. Tell me what you wanna drink and I’ll bring it right away but you should head in first.”
Something happens then. Something so weird, Osamu realizes belatedly what he’s doing: he smiles — awkwardly but genuinely — at the assistant. It might be the first time today and definitely since Osamu arrived in Tokyo.
“Uh… thanks. Black coffee would be nice I guess,” Osamu mutters.
“Gotcha,” Komori says, beaming, before looking Osamu up and down. “You should drop your things here. No one would really…”
“Steal cheap stuff ‘cause everyone’s too loaded to want my worn out tote bag?” Osamu can’t help himself and interrupts Komori.
Then he realizes he got carried away and regrets it. This guy might be friendly but he’s still the human resources assistant. Literally one of the people Osamy should try to appeal to the most. Osamu is hopeless.
That is… until Komori barks a laugh.
“I was gonna say that no one would really hang around this area at this time of day, but… eh, I guess it’s true with them being gifted designer bags every two weeks that they would probably turn a blind eye to that otherwise very stylish purse of yours.”
“Man,” Osamu can’t help but half-scoff, half giggle.
It feels like his nerves won’t get the best of him anymore and he’s grateful but Komori doesn’t give him time to say anything else. He just grabs the tote bag and fanny pack then nudges Osamu towards the next door, who doesn’t really care anymore about his belongings. He lets Komori drop them haphazardly on the table, the bento and Osamu's pack of gum slipping out of their respective bags.
It's whatever. Osamu is probably five minutes late by now, something that checks out when Komori opens the door and Osamu’s eyes settle on the angry red numbers displayed on the opposite wall above a long table. Seated there are two people; a middle aged man and woman, a third seat remaining empty.
And here come the boomers.
“I apologize for the late…”
“I had to rescue him from our security. Sorry for the delay, ma’am.”
Osamu is bad at this and probably ruins Komori’s best efforts, but he can’t pretend not to be shocked that a stranger would lie on his behalf so casually.
“Thank you, Komori-kun,” the woman answers, piercing blue eyes glued to Osamu. They’re so clear that he can only assume she’s wearing contacts.
His bunched up sleeves have never felt more uncomfortable.
“I’ll come right up with the drinks,” Komori goes on, bowing slightly. “Good luck,” he mouths encouragements at Osamu before turning on his heel.
It all happens too fast and, before Osamu knows it, he’s left alone to stand awkwardly in front of the two recruiters.
The clock on the wall subtly clicks as the number on the far right moves.
2.06 PM
There’s no window for a room so high up in a big city building, and the air is suffocating despite the high-end AC that’s obviously running.
“Miya-san. Welcome and thank you for joining us today.”
“Thank you for having me,” Osamu rushes to answer, so eager that he speaks over the woman when she introduces both herself and her colleague.
Osamu wants to die, and he won’t even be able to tell Atsumu who he embarrassed himself in front of since he didn’t pick up on their names. Even if they were to repeat it, he wouldn’t be able to hear them with the unpleasant buzzing filling his ears as his heartbeat thrums too fast from sheer embarrassment.
“As I believe you’ve been informed, we’re looking for someone to pick up the position of a personal assistant for one of our talents. We had to part with the person occupying the position previously due to them breaking some of our fundamental policy rules. It wasn’t too troublesome at first, but summer is a very busy time of year and one agent alone can’t afford to spend their time filling in all those tasks,” the man starts explaining.
Osamu stays rooted in his place, somehow taken aback by the sudden flow of information; especially after having been addressed both so curtly and informally over the past hour.
“I gather you understand that although revising the contract isn’t off the table, this is a short-term contract of two months. Of those two months, one will be probationary employment. We believe in fully remunerating whomever gets the position, although the contract will be severed immediately if our requirements cannot be met.”
“I understand,” Osamu mutters, hating that his voice sounds so weak.
“Past the probationary period, you will be expected to observe a number of rules that, were they to be broken, would lead to the immediate termination of your time here. We take our clients’ safety and integrity very seriously and I hope you can understand that we protect our talents with all our might.”
What a bunch of big words just to say they don’t want to risk losing the goose that lays the golden egg. Osamu doesn’t roll his eyes but he wants to.
Atsumu has covered all of this before over a painstakingly annoying phone call. Violation of privacy, sworn secrecy, respect of intimacy… It’s all too funny to Osamu when he knows that some personal assistants have had to pick up their protégés high as a kite; naked and half passed out in their own vomit from questionable places where other rich kids probably taped them with their fancy iPhones. The cloud is full of compromising material for this agency, just like any other, but Osamu would be fired and probably sued if someone assumed that he was planning to take pictures of the talent he’s responsible for picking up afterwards.
“I understand,” he repeats.
It’s hard to sound excited, but at least this time his voice is steady. It becomes even harder when Osamu has to tune out the speech the woman gives him about the many forbidden things he’s not to do if he were to handle a talent here.
Restricted use of his personal phone. Weekly review of the contents of the work phone he’d be lended. Full availability for any time of day and night with one day off a week — depending on the schedule. Strict control and documentation of the expenses made on behalf of the company for the talent. Even stricter control of expenses related to Osamu’s own needs; work related needs, obviously. The forty-two confidentiality clauses to sign along his contract…
Osamu is bored out of his mind by the time the door opens and Komori slips inside the room with a dangerously full tray. He balances it effortlessly nonetheless and moves over to the table facing Osamu with all the discretion in the world.
Osamu can see him place a cup of black coffee — the only paper cup of the bunch — at the end of the table but he doesn’t move to retrieve it. Osamu has fucked up enough to know that he’d probably be sent home immediately if he dared move out of his spot to down the drink. It might even be a test…
“... Have you ever had to handle this level of confidentiality in the workplace?”
It’s a question, which Osamu realizes due to the pregnant pause that follows his lack of answer, more than anything else.
Fuck.
“Miya-san?”
“I haven’t,” Osamu admits. “But there’s nothing like growing up with a twin brother to learn how to keep things to oneself the hard way.”
He doesn’t know why he brings that up now, when he was more than happy to hide his connection in front of the desk lady… Maybe because the two persons in front of him are more likely to know how Osamu’s resume ended up on their desk, despite their best efforts to never mention his brother’s name. Another dumb move, then. Or at least unprofessional, to want to provoke them, but Osamu can’t get his head in the game today.
“Atsumu-kun is an exemplary asset to this company. If he’s acquired his discretion from the same place as you, we can only hope for the best from your capabilities.”
Osamu wants to burst into laughter upon hearing someone call Atsumu discreet, but he does his best to stay composed. At least, it makes him smile and the recruiters are free to interpret it as a good-natured grin instead of the literal internal melt-down Osamu is trying to keep at bay.
“I knew I’d seen this face before,” Komori mutters, beaming again.
“Your background is very different from your brother’s, though, isn’t it, Miya-san?” the woman asks, loud enough to discourage Komori from commenting further.
Osamu regains his composure. They’re getting to the tough part.
“We’ve been informed of your career goals from a very passionate point of view. Would you care to enlighten us further?”
Osamu’s lips part slightly as he blinks a couple of times. A very passionate point of view? Did Atsumu run his mouth? And if he did… God! Osamu loathes the furious heat that creeps up his neck and undoubtedly dusts his nose and cheeks pink.
“I’ve studied to become a chef,” Osamu eventually blurts out, averting his gaze for the first time.
He doesn’t want to deceive anyone today by saying he’s been preparing to become a personal assistant. He’s not his brother. However, Osamu believes that the discipline he’s acquired in a restaurant kitchen can help. And Osamu knows that he could just make some effort to redirect these skills so as to cater to someone’s needs outside of the culinary field. At least for a couple of months.
“You’re not aiming to settle here, then,” the recruiter points out — it doesn’t sound like a trick question, but Osamu can’t help feeling cornered.
“I’m aiming to work at full capacity and give my all for the time I’ll be allowed to work here. If I’ve learned anything through my experiences, it’s tenacity, and I’ll treat any job with which I am trusted with that same amount of dedication.”
Osamu hears himself speak and can’t believe his own ears. He’s not lying. In fact, he’s stating the blatant truth; but he thought he had given up after the repeated and unpleasant encounters he’s suffered through today.
“Tenacity, you say. Are you ready to leave your bed in the middle of the night and drive all the way to your assigned talent to pick them up?” the woman asks with a conceited smile.
Osamu’s old truck flashes in his mind.
“I am,” he half-lies, knowing he’s going to have to beg his mom to trade her sedan for his truck for the summer if he gets anywhere near this job’s contract.
“And you’d fly to the other side of the world on short notice to hold a sunshade above your assigned talent in between takes for a commercial in the middle of the desert?” the man continues, crossing his hands in front of his face.
“Assuming there’s a world shortage of sunscreen… I would,” Osamu answers flatly.
It’s not even an attempt at humor. What kind of stupid, belittling question is that even?
Komori plunges into his mug but Osamu can see his round eyes. So what… there’s a limit to the bullshit Osamu can take. He hates to compromise; even more so when the environment is all but trying to work in his favor. Still… He can’t bring shame to Atsumu.
Passionate point of view, huh?
“My driver’s license and passport are both valid and if the talent needs me to fetch their favorite kind of sushi in the middle of the night while we’re staying somewhere in South America, I’ll bring them the best sushi there is,” Osamu speaks up again, looking at the tops of his less worn-out sneakers.
There’s another pregnant pause and, this time, Osamu isn’t sure he’ll be able to recover from it. He didn’t do his best, didn’t give it his all, if he’s honest. That poor attempt at saving face is probably not convincing and he’s ready to hear them say “We’ll call you back,” anytime now. That’s why when Osamu looks up at the recruiters and he sees the woman open her mouth, he doesn’t feel particularly helpless. He's ready. But not for what happens instead.
The door opens behind him a second time without any warning, making everyone look in that direction. Osamu has to crane his neck to get a look at the newcomer and, well… it sure is a sight.
The person standing in the doorway is yet another young man and, if Osamu had to judge just from his looks, he's definitely on the model side of the agency.
He's… Well. He's beautiful, there's really no other way to put it. His face is partially covered by split, unruly bangs cut just above a sharp jaw that Osamu can't decide whether he finds delicate or manly. It sure is an appealing mix of both. If Osamu focuses on this part of the guy's face more than his green eyes, it's because of what the man is actually holding in front of his mouth with his black nail polish-covered fingers. Worse. What he stuffs his mouth with.
It’s the onigiri Osamu has made and left in the bento outside of the room. The very onigiri he had planned to stuff his own mouth with after this interview, probably in an effort to choke on it and die in a ditch out of disgrace, depending on the outcome of this interview.
This rude, gorgeous, dude just made that scenario impossible. Not only that, but Osamu will go hungry and he's already in the worst mood possible. He was ready to not get the job, but not ready to make sordid headlines for the rampage Osamu is inevitably going to cause once he's let loose in the streets of Tokyo.
Rude-yet-hot-dude doesn't seem to see the problem. In fact, he strides toward Osamu without hesitation and stops a few steps away from him, only to lean in and get a good look at Osamu's face.
Osamu goes rigid, holding his breath without even realizing it at first. It's not like he has much time to react anyway. There's something about those sage green eyes that makes him tick. There's a speck of gold in them and it's even more noticeable thanks to the black eyeliner wings adorning his eyes.
Everything about this guy is sharp, and yet, there's a nonchalant air about him that makes it hard for Osamu to want to punch him despite the onigiri theft. It feels like he wouldn't care. The man certainly doesn't care about personal boundaries or private property, but before Osamu can point that out, the model swallows another bite and gives Osamu just enough room to breathe again.
All of this happens in maybe three seconds, yet Osamu is hyper aware about… pretty much everything there is to perceive about this guy and the extreme vicinity that he’s in. That’s why there’s no way for Osamu to miss the cheeky attitude when he finally drawls: “Spicy tuna temaki isn’t gonna be so easy to find in the middle of Brasília, but you sound like you love a good challenge.”
“I’ll make it myself if I have to,” Osamu, squinting, runs his mouth before he can think about it.
The dude’s lips curl at the corners, like he’s pleased by that answer. Osamu doesn’t want to look back at the recruiters, because he’s certain their reaction is going to be the opposite of pleased.
“Sure you will. I gather you’re my new assistant?”
There’s only a short second of stunned silence after the model asks this, still just as cocky, before the female recruiter scoffs: “Is he?” at the same time as Osamu blurts out: “I am?”
“Depends,” the guy answers the people behind them, but he’s looking at Osamu again in no time, holding what’s left of the onigiri between their faces. “Did you make this?”
Osamu frowns but refuses to look away. If anything, he crosses his arms over his chest, nose up in the air. So he is the talent Osamu allegedly would have to take care of if he makes it out of here with a job. Well, he’s pretty and has an attitude, so what? Osamu’s eaten tougher meat back during his training at culinary school and has dealt with way worse people — none of which were as pleasing on the eyes, either. He can’t help sounding defiant when he answers: “Of course, I did.”
The cocky smirk turns to a full grin before the guy stuffs his face again. Osamu is pretty certain that the model isn’t done chewing, least of all swallowing when he turns toward the recruiting panel and announces: “It’s shettled den.”
He then walks toward the table so that he can recline against it, clearly at home. Osamu would never dare sit on the edge of Kita’s desk while visiting his office, but this guy acts like he owns the place. He sure must be making enough money for the company to overlook that kind of improper behavior.
“I guess if…” the recruiter trails off, not too pleased with the outcome of this conversation, but also clearly not going against it.
Osamu tenses up. So it’s officially going to be a summer of him dealing with an entitled, rich boy, huh?
Entitled enough to finish Osamu's onigiri without an ounce of guilt or shame. The model is sucking on his thumb the moment he’s done, the popping sound when he draws his finger back loud enough for Osamu to hear it. At this point, Osamu can’t even deny the violent case of laser-focus he’s had on the model’s lips while he was finishing the snack.
“I’m Suna Rintarou, by the way,” he finally says, which prompts Osamu to look around the room as he feels his cheeks heating up all over again. “And now that I’ve tried your food, you should be aware that I might have some unreasonable requests for snacks at any time of the day and night. Think you’re up for it?”
Osamu can’t believe his ears. It can’t be that easy, can it? He was seriously on his way to fucking up this whole interview but that—Suna is acting like Osamu is already hired. Komori seems quite amused by the situation, but says nothing and avoids making eye-contact with Osamu when Osamu tries grasping onto any shred of logic left by giving him a helpless look.
Osamu doesn’t know what to make of all this. This turn of events is a lot to take in with the terrifying lack of sleep, patience and nicotine that Osamu is suffering from — but it seems like he’s just landed a job and that Atsumu won’t have to worry for another summer. His shoulders eventually relax.
Still… pushing his luck or not, Osamu can’t really stop himself from going for one last provocation: “I mean… If you agree to eat the food that was made specifically for you and not for others, sure. Bring it on.”
“Sweet,” Suna snorts. “Send the usual details over Line. I don’t check my emails,” he adds for the people sitting at the table, (more specifically Komori), before Suna gets up again and crosses the room toward the door. “I like my coffee black in the morning, full of cream and sugary filth in the afternoon. My agent will send you the details on how and when to pick me up. Looking forward to working with you…”
He trails off just as his hand rests on the door handle. Suna’s gaze hasn’t left Osamu since he got up from the table, and Osamu returns the courtesy. There’s just something about this guy. And sure, that kind of obnoxious behavior fills up space but… He’s nothing like Atsumu. There’s something quiet and way more mysterious under that little act, Osamu can tell.
“Miya Osamu,” he provides when he realizes he’s about to space out again and that Suna is waiting for a name.
“Oh, another Miya? Now that you say it, I can almost see it.”
And whatever the fuck that means, Osamu can’t know for sure. Suna closes the door so there’s no way to ask. The only thing left for him to do is shift around awkwardly to face the three pairs of eyes set on him.
“So…” he clears his throat after what seems like an eternity.
Komori can’t hold it in anymore and tragically lets out a poorly contained scoff, one that makes his cheeks go puffy before he sputters some spit down on the table in front of him.
“Sorry.”
“Not as much as I am, Komori-kun,” the male recruiter says while his colleague rubs her temples with both hands frenetically. “Not as much as I am."
Well. Off to a fantastic start, it seems.
Osamu isn't sure what just happened. He might have gone mad or been swallowed into a parallel dimension. The only thing is… his grumbling stomach and the irritability he feels from the lack of nicotine make it all too real.
That and the cut on his finger left by the paper page of the bound manual that was given to him by Komori at the end of the interview. Fifty-eight printed pages of instructions, details, and requirements to meet regarding the agency; along with twenty-four others that are exclusively about Suna Rintarou's personal needs, schedule, and details about what Osamu is and is not allowed to do around him. There are general instructions, a chapter about etiquette, as well as several phone numbers and addresses that might come in handy for him.
Maybe Osamu isn't the one who's gone mad, it's this agency.
"Please memorize as much as you can by tomorrow. Everything in this manual is vital to your new position," the recruiter told him before Osamu was pushed out of the room holding it.
As if Osamu is going to memorize 82 pages of complete bullshit for tomorrow. They should be grateful he'll read it at all.
Osamu is standing by the table outside of the room — the table on which his tote bag lies, his unsealed bento next to it. Osamu is gloomily observing it while sucking on the stinging cut around his knuckle when Komori reappears in the corridor.
"Alright. Our department will be done reviewing the contract in an hour. Sorry for the wait. There's a nice cafeteria on the second floor if you want to hang around there with a warm cup of coffee."
He's not changed in attitude since Osamu met him an hour ago — which is as insane as the rest of this fiasco of a situation — but at least it makes Osamu feel a bit better.
"Thanks," he mutters, trying to smile back as graciously as he can.
"No problem. You look like you need it," Komori chuckles.
"Ah? Not thanking ya for that. What the hell, man," Osamu pouts, but when their eyes meet, he can't help and chuckle too. "But seriously. I—thanks for everything, I guess."
"Oh. You make it sound like you're in my debt for the rest of your days, and you know what? Even if that's not true, I'm going to pretend it is to give myself a nice ego boost," Komori says excitedly.
Osamu isn't done smiling, it seems. What an odd character. But a nice one.
Despite the new ally, Osamu does feel fatigued now that everything seems to be calming down.
"Tell you what… Point me to the smoking area and I will be forever in yer debt."
Komori looks sly when he answers: "There's one on the floor just below. I figure they knew the whole HR department would turn mental if we didn't have a bit of stress relief on hand."
"Oh yeah? Y'all should use it more often, then," Osamu says with the same bite Komori had earlier.
It prompts him to laugh again, even more heartily, and he doesn't part with Osamu without a clasp on the shoulder.
"I like you! Little Rintarou-kun doesn't know what's coming for him, mmh?"
Osamu wouldn't know how to answer that and doesn't need to. Komori waves over his shoulder as he moves toward the end of the corridor only to disappear in yet another office.
Osamu grabs his belongings from the table and tucks his new bible against his chest. If he's got an hour to kill, he might as well start reading this nonsense — albeit not before he's had a well deserved cigarette.
Thankfully, his badge allows him to travel to the floor below without any problems and Osamu follows the trail of smoking signs on autopilot. Smoking inside of a building is never nice, but he figures it won't be worse than having a cigarette in the back alley of a restaurant between a dumpster and a pile of rusty crates.
Now… Fate is funny sometimes. And it's particularly weird that Komori just told Osamu that Suna doesn't know what's coming for him when Osamu stumbles upon said model the moment he turns the corner.
The smoking area is a room made of see-through walls and bay windows overlooking Tokyo. Osamu almost crashes into the glass door when he falters at the sight of Suna. The model is turning his back to him, looking over the city as he leans against the railing on the opposite side of the room. He hasn't noticed Osamu yet. In fact, Suna looks like he's the loneliest soul in the world.
It strikes something in Osamu when Suna looks slightly to the side to tap his cigarette over the ashtray on his left. His bangs fall over his face and, for the split second before Suna sees Osamu, Osamu captures the pure moment of solitude. The melancholia seeps from the picturesque figure of Suna for a faint instant, but it dissipates as soon as Suna realizes he’s no longer alone. The hollow gaze vanishes, replaced with a lazy smirk playing at the corner of his lips as Suna turns around to lean back against the railing and face Osamu instead of Tokyo.
Osamu has one second to decide whether this whole situation is not such a bad thing. From what he understands, he’s going to be spending the next two months glued to this guy — regardless of how annoying that could be, how gorgeous he is, how unfamiliar, surreal even, it is… So they might as well try and get along. And Osamu is not passing on the opportunity to smoke a cigarette.
“You made it,” Suna notes as Osamu steps into the room, already unzipping the fanny pack strapped to his chest to reach for his pack.
“You made them do it, not me,” he tells the model, pretty unapologetic about his own behavior.
Suna chuckles and takes his own pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He’s extending it toward Osamu when he says: “For the onigiri.”
Osamu freezes, eyes tracking from where the cigarette is poking out toward him to Suna’s eyes. He isn’t wearing contacts. The green of his irises is duller when his back is turned from the daylight, but not any less pretty. It reminds Osamu of a forest in the dead of winter. Waiting for better days to sparkle again.
“I’ll take it,” Osamu says, then moves toward the giant bay window to recline against the railing as well.
The moment Osamu tucks the cylinder between his lips, he’s able to forget about Suna and the nonsense that’s been today, even just for a few seconds of reprieve. He lights it without looking at the model, resolute to savor these few seconds of bliss and, damn, did he need it, Osamu realizes after inhaling the first lungful of smoke.
The moment is short-lived. Not that Suna isn’t of good companionship in the silence, but Osamu relaxes so much that he lets the training manual slip from his grasp and fall to the ground. It bursts the bubble and Osamu makes the moment even more brutal with a poetic: “Oh fuck me!”
He just can’t win today, can he?
Osamu decides to drag on his cigarette a second time before diving for it, but then Suna suddenly decides to go for it as well and it stuns Osamu so much that he forgets to even try to retrieve the manual. He probably looks stupid as hell when Suna hands him the manual because he snickers at Osamu.
“What? You haven’t signed the papers yet, right? Enjoy it while it lasts ‘cause I’ll be contractually obligated to be a spoiled, entitled brat soon enough.”
Osamu blinks slowly, only recovering when Suna pushes the manual into his free hand with insistence. He grabs it, mutters a “thanks” and realizes his face has grown hot. Suna’s seen right through Osamu and his nice opinion of him. Maybe the guy isn’t so bad. He’s sure perceptive and witty — which is cool. There’s something about quick and spirited people that Osamu has always found attractive.
It’s not what he should focus on at this instant, though. Osamu flips the manual open at random, almost expecting to land on the subsection pointing out that it’s quite unprofessional to associate the term ‘attractive’ to his talent’s name, even in thoughts. The bright side in all this is that with Osamu’s lack of a smart comeback and general slow processing of the situation, there’s no risk of Suna finding him attractive. It would suck if Osamu was unemployed, sitting on his couch swiping left and right on Grindr, but works out pretty well in this situation.
Osamu busies himself by looking down at the page in front of him, dragging on his cigarette like a madman.
“... failing to comply with this clause will result in the immediate termination of your contract and might…”
There’s no comfort or salvation in the first sentence at the top of the page that Osamu reads. He doesn’t even know what clause was previously mentioned, but a strange sense of foreboding has him convinced it won’t be the only time he reads this sentence while going over this small-sized novel.He releases a sigh with the next exhale of smoke. Osamu has no idea what he’s about to sign up for, but he's pretty certain even the kitchen of a Michelin star restaurant wouldn’t have as many rules and restrictions as this job does.
Two months. Osamu has to endure it for two months. He might as well gear up.
“Hey,” he calls for Suna, as if it’s not totally awkward that Osamu never really followed suit with their conversation.
“Mmh?”
Suna sounds caught off guard and, when Osamu looks up, he can see that Suna was staring blankly at the open pages Osamu is holding loosely in front of him. At least, it’s not that awkward — despite the way Suna seems to like poking fun at people, he’s probably not the type to embarrass anyone when it would be more mean than entertaining.
“What did my predecessor do?” Osamu asks, flipping the page again so he can read the title to the next clause: “Defamed a family member?”
“Good luck getting in touch with my parents. Even I can’t,” Suna snorts, back at it with the quick banter.
Osamu shouldn’t scoff or grin, especially if there’s even an ounce of truth behind the joke, but he can’t help it. The bastard is funny. Thank fuck, he does not have to justify himself because Suna gets slightly more serious when answering.
“But… Ah. Really, how do I go about with this… You could say he tried to sell pictures of me," is what Suna settles for, looking around the room as if he's searching for the best way to explain it.
"Pictures of you," Osamu repeats, his nose scrunching up as annoyance settles in.
His mind conjures up a few words like paparazzi or candids and he imagines Suna, in a comfortable place, being photographed without him knowing it. That kind of thing sucks, for sure.
"Yeah. You didn't go over that thousand-page stupid novel entirely but… wait," Suna says and, just like that, Osamu's breath is stolen again.
The model is leaning into him, going for the manual in Osamu's hands, his bangs barely brushing Osamu's nose, but it's enough for him to freeze.
“Here,” Suna adds after bending a good chunk of pages to point at the title of a new section.
Osamu’s eyes linger on the nail polish he noticed earlier. It’s not sleek. In fact, it’s chipped in places. But then Suna taps his index repeatedly over the page and Osamu snaps out of his little observation to read the words pointed out: ‘II. 2. d. Respect for privacy — instances of nudity’.
The crease that appears between Osamu’s brows might leave permanent damage. Suna seems to anticipate his next question, because when Osamu looks to the side — oh, fuck he’s close — he says: “Yup. There’s a reason you’re contractually not allowed to prepare a bath for me.”
“You gotta be kiddin’...” Osamu starts, leaning away from him. His chest feels tight all of a sudden and the warmth that spreads there is not comfortable — if anything, it’s the suffocating kind of heat that’s slowly rising as Osamu’s fist clenches around the manual. “That’s… That’s fucking low! What the fuck?”
Suna, out of all reactions, shrugs it off with nonchalance, bringing his almost consumed cigarette to his lips while observing Osamu with interest. Osamu feels like the stick of nicotine he’s holding himself might not be enough to help him calm down.
“I’ve seen worse,” Suna then says, probably thinking it’ll make it better.
But all it does is take Osamu aback.
“Say what?”
The manual is dropped on the railing along the bay window without a second thought. Osamu can’t believe his ears.
“You shouldn’t have to!” he forces through gritted teeth, starting to pace around, not knowing what to do with himself.
“Maybe,” Suna admits with a noncommittal mutter.
Osamu can’t decently kick something. There’s nothing to kick anyway. He couldn’t kick something in front of the guy he’s supposed to take care of.
“You know… We have a gym on the twentieth floor if you need to take a lap. Or a dozen.”
Suna’s voice anchors Osamu back into the present. In fact, it stuns him enough for Osamu to startle and stop in his tracks.
“Uh? I don’t go to the gym,” he hears himself blurt out lamely.
There it goes again, Suna’s impish grin tilting the corner of his mouth. And here Osamu thought he was done wanting to punch something.
“Right,” Suna scoffs, shameless when he looks Osamu up and down.
“Oi! The fuck d’ya think you’re doin’?” Osamu calls him out, feeling terribly naked in his fitted jeans all of a sudden.
It’s not like he’s ripped or buff. Osamu is fit because the midnight snacks and fast food he consumes are erratically all burned away by his multiple, overlapping schedules and his nerves; not to mention how he hauls bags of rice on the daily as well as runs laps in the countryside whenever he needs to empty his head — which is often.
“Sorry, sorry,” Suna says, batting his hand in the air nonchalantly as he turns away, smirking nonetheless. “I’m not contractually obligated to be a decent person.”
“You are a fucking brat.”
“Yeah,” Suna agrees, facing him again as he crushes the butt of his cigarette before grabbing the manual Osamu left nearby. “And guess what,” he continues as he walks over to Osamu.
Osamu tenses over, squinting at the gorgeous, insufferable man. The manual is pushed against his chest. Osamu only sees those green eyes and the challenge in them.
“You either get used to it and go sign their papers, or you’re free to walk out,” Suna says, and although there’s no malice in his words, he’s clearly too cocky for Osamu’s liking. “If you do, though, remember the gym is on the twentieth floor. Would be a shame to have come all this way for nothing.”
And with that, Suna removes his hand from where it’s pressing the manual, burning a hole through Osamu’s chest despite the layers of paper. It’s sudden and Osamu tries to catch the damn thing before it can drop to the ground again. It’s almost a miss, and in the time it takes for him to properly retrieve the manual and turn around — worse, to think of a good comeback, — Suna is already closing the door behind him and walking away, leaving Osamu helpless. In complete silence, the growing buzzing in Osamu's ears aside.
Well… fuck.
“Fuck!”
Osamu certainly wouldn’t say he came for nothing. But what exactly is he signing up for? It’s a goddamn mystery.