Chapter Text
A true nightmare in Nakahara Chuuya’s life starts when he sees that he’s been teamed up with Dazai Osamu.
He notices him right away, an arrogant yet suspiciously calm guy who looks down at everyone else. Not because of his height, as he is obviously tall and built like a swimmer, but rather because of this overconfident look in his eye. As if he knows right away that he’s better than them all. A better cook, a better chef, much more resilient and proficient in everything they will do in this place. Chuuya has met people like him before, his seniors in France, and all of them eyed him from head to toe with the same arrogance. Maybe, just maybe, he is wrong, but it’s the very first impression he gets of Dazai. A thick-skinned aristocrat with a perfect posture, long pale palms, disheveled dark hair, and piercing eyes. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I wouldn’t want to be his rival,” Ranpo, an easy-going and friendly guy standing next to him, whispers as Chuuya is eyeing Dazai carefully until their gazes meet. “Seems frightening enough.”
Nothing changes in his look, the same cold confidence with a bit of evaluation like he is grading all the other contestants and giving them ranks in his head. What did he even cook to end up here? A mille-feuille? He looks like all pastry guys do, silent and observant, yet double-edged. Chuuya looks away first, concentrating on what the judges have to say. It is the first day, so the task shouldn’t be very difficult. The weakest links usually drop out first and they do it on the easiest contests.
Fukuzawa, the chief judge, eyes all of them for a minute or so, and Chuuya already feels some of the people standing next to them start to tremble. Weaklings. Chuuya is already a chef himself, he was taught by the most brilliant cooking minds in France and then worked in the best Parisian restaurant for several years. Paul Verlaine himself told that Chuuya was the most promising student he’d ever had. One weak point he might have is that he’s not used to working in a team. If he is in a team, he prefers to be its leader and just do all the work himself without any interference.
So when Fukuzawa announces that their first challenge involves teamwork, Chuuya closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. He should have predicted this. Teamwork usually brings to light the strongest and weakest points of every contestant. After they work in teams, they’ll see who is a better butcher and who is a better poissonier, who is a top pastry chef and who works the best with sauces and soups. It may be a bit of a challenge, but he got this. He just hopes that he will end up with the shyest people here, the ones who are too afraid to speak their minds and stand up for themselves. Even if he’s not a leader, they will most certainly listen to him and do as he says. After all, he’s made a name for himself. There isn’t a single person in this place who wouldn’t have heard about his achievements. Even Fukuzawa was surprised when he came to the preliminary audition.
People were whispering when they first saw Chuuya at the cooking camp. The kitchen, which is inside the most spacious building of their camp, is equipped with everything they may need for comfortable cooking. The storage and the fridges, swollen with all groceries one can imagine in enormous amounts, the stoves, ovens, other minor kitchen devices… everything is at their disposal without any limits. Their only task here is to survive. The kitchen is basically the hotbed of everything they will have to do, and they will spend their time here, in this airy and brightly lit hall with separated workplaces for each possible team or contestant, every single weekday for almost six months.
The teams are made up at random, through the toss-up, which already disappoints the people who hoped to stick together with their friends they managed to make the previous night in their dorms. Chuuya hasn’t talked to anyone much except for Ranpo, who ended up being his roommate. He’s quite nice and easy to read, there are no hidden intentions in his actions and words. Chuuya thinks that he’s okay. He can work with that.
Chuuya ends up in a red team. As he’s tying the apron strings behind his back and tightening the ponytail on his head, he eyes other contestants who are yet to pull their colored cards from the mysterious wooden box. Quite soon he’s not alone in his team anymore: Margaret Mitchell, Mushitaro Oguri, and Tetchou Suehiro all pull red cards. Chuuya shakes hands with all of them and smiles politely, but his gaze slides back to the judges as soon as he sees Dazai approaching them. He sighs and dips his hand into the box, slowly pulling a card. As he takes his red apron from Yosano, another judge, and nods politely at her, Chuuya already knows that he sets himself up for a catastrophe. He heard about the dishes others were cooking for the audition, so he’s already pretty aware of the skills of everyone else on his team. Dazai is the only one who’s still a closed book to him. And as for now, they haven’t got a single pastry chef on their team. What if they need to make desserts?
“Hey,” Dazai approaches them with a bright smile and shakes their hands one by one. As he stretches his hand to him, Chuuya squeezes it quickly and without much enthusiasm, and looks away again.
After all other teams are made, Fukuzawa speaks once more.
“We have already picked the team leaders from the ones who impressed us the most during the audition. The red team’s chef is,’’ Chuuya closes his eyes, ready to hear his name. It’s obvious that he was the best. There’s no other option. “Dazai Osamu.”
Everything stops. Chuuya opens his eyes and freezes in place, confused. Everyone else applauds, patting Dazai on the back as he smiles and nods, mouthing “Thank you” to the judges. Chuuya doesn’t say a word until Fukuzawa finishes announcing three other leaders: their competitors today are Edgar Allan Poe, Kunikida Doppo, and Nathaniel Hawthorne.
“Your task for this contest will be,” everyone holds their breath. “To prepare a complete menu of four national dishes: a starter, the first course, the main course, and a dessert. We will leave you now so that each team picks a country for itself. You’ll have two hours in total, and the countdown starts… now. We wish you good luck.”
As soon as the judges go into their negotiation room, the animated talk starts. All teams are crowding near their workplaces, whispering and arguing about which country to choose. The answer is simple in Chuuya’s head. He turns to face other team members and speaks calmly.
“We’ll take France.”
Everyone else nods to agree, probably too nervous to think about other options. Dazai, however, frowns at him.
“What is your reasoning?”
It is exactly the moment Chuuya realizes this won't play out well.
“And what is yours?” He smirks. “You haven’t even given other options yet.”
“Well, that’s because you thought you could decide for the entire team,” Dazai sighs. “But sure, I can understand why you’re rooting for France. However, I would like to hear other suggestions as well.”
“We don’t have time for other suggestions,” Chuuya cuts him off. “The blue team is already in storage, picking the products. I don’t know what countries they’ve chosen, but France is our best option. I can make French dishes with my eyes closed.”
“France is predictable,” Dazai scoffs. “What are you going to cook? Filet mignon?”
Verlaine once said that there was no other cook in the world who could make filet mignon as good as Chuuya. So he takes it as a personal offense.
“And what do you suggest? Linguine Carbonara?” He distracts himself for a moment to tighten the strings of his apron. The thing is definitely too long for his height. Then he eyes other team members once more. “Margaret, you will work on our starter, I suggest olive oil toasts with baked camembert and make sure that the bread is crusty enough. Tetchou will assist you and bake the cheese while you’re working on the dough. Oguri and Dazai will make dessert, it must be classic but not boring, something like Pears Belle Helene. And I will make the first and main dishes. I’m thinking about cream mushroom soup with béchamel and,” his gaze is focused on Dazai now, “a filet mignon.”
Dazai mouths something like “Are you fucking serious” to himself, shaking his head. The others in the meantime agree, nodding enthusiastically at everything Chuuya says. He knows he can be convincing, making people want to follow him. He had been trained for that for years.
“Why are you giving orders?” Dazai frowns at him. “I’m the leader here.”
Chuuya frowns at him back as he’s already headed to the storage, his step firm and confident.
“Then be the leader!”
As predicted, it goes on like a nightmare. While Chuuya is preparing everything for his soup and cutting the meat at the same time, he also has to control what everyone else is doing. Margaret seems to be the most confident among them, and even she has to remake the dough several times because her hands are trembling terribly. Oguri is constantly peeping at the clock counting the minutes away, and Chuuya has to keep him in the present moment, reminding him to look after his chocolate sauce. Chuuya doesn’t have to look at the clock as he has a perfect sense of time. It’s almost like it’s ticking inside his stomach. Dazai, in his turn, tries to take advantage of his silence every time Chuuya is too concentrated to talk, so he commands everyone with absolutely irrelevant things.
“Oguri knows how to melt chocolate without your help, leave him alone and peel your goddamn pears,” Chuuya cuts him off without looking up as he bends over the stove, counting the seconds down before adding two tablespoons of flour into the melted butter for his béchamel sauce. It was the recipe Verlaine taught him himself. There is a thin line between a brief moment and a second that goes by in a blink of an eye, most often being left unnoticed. But it is there. And Chuuya knows how to catch it.
When Dazai has nothing else to do, he approaches Chuuya and stands next to him, hands behind his back. Chuuya has never been irritated by someone else’s presence in the kitchen before. He’s used to working in the messiest circumstances one can imagine. And yet, even Dazai’s breathing pisses him off right now.
“Don’t you have to constantly stir the sauce to prevent the milk from curdling?” He asks, curious. Chuuya ignores him. “And what about your filet mignon? You were supposed to heat the grapeseed oil like ten minutes ago.”
Chuuya sighs, squeezing the knife firmer in his hand.
“Do not. Distract me.”
“Okay, okay,” Dazai raises both of his hands, giving up. “Just thought you might need a piece of advice.”
“Not from you,” Chuuya whispers more to himself, and Dazai goes back to his pears. He really couldn’t have been more annoying. Doing the bare minimum himself but trying to boss over everyone else, what a self-esteem.
Margaret asks Dazai’s advice rather out of politeness but then she comes to Chuuya anyway, giving him a small slice of bread to try.
“Bake for another three minutes, it’s too gummy,” he instructs, not looking away from his soup, constantly stirring it and adding chopped onions to it. Margaret nods and sits down on her heels near the oven again. Then comes Tetchou, hovering above his camembert with a bottle of dry vin blanc and a small bowl of thyme. Chuuya glances at him for a second and frowns. “It must be already in the oven.”
“But Dazai said…”
“I don’t care what Dazai said,” Chuuya shakes his head. “Bake it already, for god’s sake, and hurry up.”
“Margaret hasn’t taken the bread out of the oven yet,” he frowns.
“Then talk about it with Margaret,” Chuuya cuts him off again in a cold voice and Tetchou obeys with a sigh. “God, why are you all so sluggish?”
When he’s finally ready to serve his soup, there are ten minutes left on the clock. He goes to the storage to pick a plate and when he comes back in less than a minute he sees Dazai hovering above the stove, adding something to his pot and stirring it with a spoon.
“What are you doing?” Chuuya closes the distance between them in five fierce steps, taking the spoon from his hand. Dazai lets go easily and looks at him with the same unshaken cool in his eyes.
“It wasn’t salty enough.”
Chuuya takes a deep breath and counts to ten in his head.
“I added the exact amount of salt I always do. It was just fine. And now it’s probably oversalted.”
“It was tasteless,” Dazai objects. “And your béchamel is like clay. I added some more milk to it.”
Chuuya thinks he can lose his mind at any given moment.
“You did what now?” He asks, hoping that he misheard him. In the meantime, they have three minutes left to finish serving their dishes, and the only thing that keeps him from shouting is the fact that the judges are already back in the kitchen, ready to announce the end of the contest.
“It tastes much better now,” Dazai takes another spoon and dips it into the pot, stretching it for Chuuya to try. Chuuya squeezes the counter with his free hand, fighting the urge to push his hand away. “Have a taste if you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t want. To taste. The shit you’ve made out of my soup,” Chuuya answers in a low voice, breathing out in between the words. “Now go away. And don’t ever come near my dishes again.”
Dazai sighs and drops the spoon on the counter, the soup splashing all over its surface. Then he returns to his dessert, helping Oguri with decorating. Chuuya breathes out and bends over the stove, thinking how bad it can possibly be. He doesn’t want to try and face this humiliation. He knows that pride doesn’t do good to any chef, but he just can’t force himself to. So he serves his soup almost with his eyes closed, finishing at the exact moment Fukuzawa counts the last second down.
The first team to present their menu is blue. Edgar comes forward to present the dishes they picked out from the traditional English and Scottish cuisine one by one: the Yorkshire Pudding, the Scotch Broth, the Lancashire Hot Pot, and the Raspberry Trifle. Overall, they get praised, except for the moment when Yosano notices that the meat in their Hot Pot is a bit overcooked.
The yellow team presents a classic Italian menu: white bean crostini with anchovy and lemon salsa, Ribollita, four cheese Ravioli, and a caramel Panna Cotta. Thank god they didn’t go for something predictable like Pasta Carbonara, Chuuya says to himself, and right after that Fukuzawa gives the same remark out loud. They get criticized by Sakaguchi Ango, the third jury member, for such a common mistake as making their Panna Cotta too jelly. But after all, they get their pass, and Ranpo, who’s in the yellow apron as well, flashes Chuuya a triumphant smile.
There’s only one team left before them, and Chuuya starts getting nervous. Normally, he wouldn’t have even batted an eye, but given the fact that one particular moron has ruined his cream soup and put the fate of the entire team at stake, he just can’t calm down. The green team, led by Nathaniel Hawthorne, has prepared a menu of Norwegian food: crispbread with brown cheese, a fiskesuppe, a smoked salmon steak, and waffles.
“Your starter turned out quite well,” Fukuzawa sighs, hiding his hands behind his back. “But I can’t say the exact same thing about your other dishes. Norwegian cuisine is among the hardest to work with, especially for people with little to no experience,” everyone’s faces darken, and Chuuya is listening to everything Fukuzawa has to say with his arms crossed on his chest, trying to keep his cool. “I can’t let you go up to the balcony yet, so you will be waiting here.”
The balcony is hovering above them like an unapproachable temple, its rails glistening in the bright light. It is a raised platform above the main kitchen, which looks like the one you may see in a theatre, except there are no seats. It’s the place everyone who managed to impress the judges ends up. Once you’re on the balcony, you’re safe for the day. You have nothing to worry about, as the shameful black apron goes to someone else. Chuuya didn’t look up there until now. As he does, he catches several glances at himself. The blue and yellow teams, already relaxed and enjoying their winning positions, are all whispering between themselves, looking down at the remaining contestants like ancient kings at the gladiator tournament.
Finally, it’s their turn to present. Chuuya wants to speak on behalf of the entire team, but Dazai goes ahead once again, taking a step forward. Chuuya doesn’t look at him as he speaks, firm and confident, describing the dishes one by one.
“So, France?” Yosano, who is the first to get a taste, takes a bite of the olive oil bread with camembert. She’s chewing quietly for almost ten seconds, her gaze unreadable. Chuuya has no idea how one can ruin a goddamn bread with baked cheese, and even if such people exist they don’t belong in this kitchen. Finally, Yosano swallows and glimpses at them with a soft smile. “Can’t find any faults. The bread is crusty enough, and the cheese is baked just perfectly. It’s soft but not too gummy. Good job.”
Margaret and Tetchou exchange happy looks, and Dazai just nods, whispering a short “Thank you.” Next, to Chuuya’s surprise, comes the dessert. Sakaguchi Ango, the greatest pastry chef in Japan, takes a small bite of their Pears Belle Helene, eyeing all of them with his usual unbothered look. He’s probably the judge feared the most. It’s due to his threatening appearance; the look in his eyes is always the same, dry and critical to everything and everyone he passes by. Chuuya glances at Dazai, noticing that his face hasn’t changed even a bit. Oguri looks calm too, but Chuuya can feel his nervousness grow stronger with every breath Ango lets out, putting the dessert spoon away.
“Well,” he finally says. “French pastry is hard to ruin.”
Chuuya closes his eyes and holds his breath. If Dazai couldn’t even deal with the goddamn chocolate-coated pears, he swears to god he would do everything he can to grant this moron the darkest apron in the world.
“And you didn’t. Congratulations, I quite enjoyed your dessert,” Ango finishes, making them all sigh in relief.
Except for Chuuya. He hides his hands behind his back and focuses all his attention on Fukuzawa, watching as he takes the spoon to his hand and dips it into the soup, just stirring it for some time to get a better look at its texture. When he finally tastes it, there’s no single thought left in Chuuya’s head. Everything is just white noise.
“Who cooked this soup?” Fukuzawa asks, his voice completely calm.
“I did,” Chuuya swallows before speaking. He feels Dazai glaring at him but he doesn’t look back.
“There’s no need to dance around this, probably everyone here knows that you’re the best when it comes to French cuisine,” Fukuzawa shrugs and puts the spoon away, now taking the plate with the filet mignon on it and giving it a closer look. He puts it back and takes a knife, cutting the meat in half. It looks medium, exactly as Chuuya planned it to. At least he didn’t mess up this part. “But I actually thought that you would surprise us all today and pick something more challenging, just to demonstrate the flipside of your talent.”
Fukuzawa pauses to get a taste of the meat, chewing it slowly and looking at the plate with an unimpressed look in his eye. Chuuya thinks that it’s over for him now. He picked the thing he was the most confident in and didn’t even manage to cook the easiest dishes right? Verlaine would probably spit on his apron for that. He looks down and squeezes his eyes shut, barely able to stand the humiliation.
Surprisingly, Fukuzawa moves his gaze to Dazai.
“As a leader, were you satisfied with Chuuya’s decision?”
Just wonderful. Now, this prick gets a perfect chance to whine about Chuuya not even letting anyone say a word after he picked a country for the whole team. About him spoiling their entire menu because of his boundless arrogance. Come on, Dazai, fire off. Spit it out.
“Yes,” Dazai replies in a confident tone, making Chuuya look at him wide-eyed. “I completely trusted Chuuya with this one. He knew what to do and I’m sure he didn’t let us down.”
He swallows and looks back at Chuuya, their gazes meet for a moment, and in his eyes, Chuuya can read something that feels like an apology. Disgusting. Disgusting and humiliating.
“Very well,” Fukuzawa nods and claps his hands. “At least I’m not worried about you two being on the same team anymore,” this makes Chuuya frown. Were there any grounds for such worry? Who is he, Dazai, anyway? If he’s some sort of a recognized cook, then it’s strange that Chuuya has never heard anything about him before. “As for your menu, I’m more than satisfied. It’s classic, and it’s well-prepared. Nothing special, but it’s just good enough for me to let you pass. Go to the balcony, please.”
They take their red aprons off and put on the usual white ones, going upstairs. Chuuya doesn’t look at Dazai even though their shoulders brush a couple of times. Margaret, Tetchou and Oguri hug and Chuuya lets Ranpo pat himself on the back as soon as he finds him on the balcony, in its bright triumphant lights.
“You did great,” Ranpo looks at him with a wide smile.
Chuuya forces himself to smile back.
The green team loses, and, as their leader, Nathaniel chooses to put on a black apron himself. Now he’s going to take part in the traditional black aprons contest which is held at the end of every week. As a result of this contest, the weakest contestant has to leave the kitchen. There will be a total of five black aprons by the end of the week, and heaven forbid Chuuya from ending up among them.
The same evening in the dorms, Chuuya sits on his bed, reading a book on the best Eastern European recipes. Nobody knows what contest comes tomorrow, so he needs to be prepared for everything that the future may hold for him. He’s in his sleepwear, his hair put back in a tight ponytail. He holds a pencil in his hand, making occasional annotations in the book and putting neon stickers on the most important pages. Everyone else is enjoying their free time in the big shared room, laughing loudly and probably playing some useless card games or simply watching TV. Chuuya hasn’t had dinner yet, nor he is hungry enough to go downstairs and cook something for himself in the shared kitchen. Another purpose of his reading is to forget the humiliation he went through earlier today. The very first day, and Fukuzawa is already disappointed in him. Well, that’s a start, Nakahara.
He fights the urge to call Verlaine and vent about everything he’s feeling right now because it’s just unbearable. But he can’t bring himself to. Although Verlaine has always treated him as his younger brother, being ready to listen to anything he had to say, Chuuya is not his student anymore. He’s a grown man with impressive experience behind his shoulders. He won’t call him and cry like a child. And if he calls first, Chuuya will say that he feels great and there’s nothing to worry about. Because it’s what a mature person would do.
Ranpo storms into the room, distracting him from his thoughts.
“Dude, why are you hiding in here?” He frowns. “You should come downstairs, we’re picking two losers who will make dinner today. It’ll be cheating if you don’t participate.”
“Are there any volunteers?” Chuuya asks, closing his book and putting it away.
“Not really,” Ranpo shrugs. “Everyone is too overwhelmed after the first contest.”
“Okay, then,” Chuuya sighs and gets up, not having it in himself to make excuses. What’s the probability of him being chosen among all of them anyway? “Let’s go.”
Downstairs, it’s crowded. Everyone is seated either on the sofas or on the floor, drinking beer and soda and talking, so no one really notices them as they come in. Chuuya is instantly uncomfortable, hiding both of his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. He never liked parties, preferring to spend his rare free time studying, sleeping, or listening to music all by himself without any distractions. Probably for this same reason he hasn’t got many friends. Verlaine was his teacher, not a friend. And some other people he met in France were mostly his colleagues, and his ex-boyfriend is a quite famous local culinary critic in Paris. Chuuya knows how to communicate and make people like him but he just doesn’t need company most of the time.
“Okay, then,” Tachihara, who’s probably the loudest among all of them, gets on one of the sofas, holding a box in his hands. Chuuya gets unpleasant flashbacks to today’s contest and frowns. “I will take out the two names now, so give me a good drumroll!” Everyone starts to cheer out loud, drumming the floor with their hands and feet. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”
Chuuya leans against the wall near the entrance so that he can get out of there first when Tachihara doesn’t say his name. Suddenly, he feels someone’s piercing gaze focused on him. He’s scanning the room just to find Dazai sitting in the armchair in the farthest corner of it, a pile of books placed on his lap. He looks right at Chuuya for a minute or so, and Chuuya takes his dare, not breaking eye contact. The lights in the room are dim, but he still manages to tell apart every glint of emotion on Dazai’s face. Still, it’s hard to understand whether he’s being hostile or he just looks at everyone like this.
They both shudder when they hear Tachihara shouting Dazai’s name.
Everyone starts to applaud and cheer for him, and Dazai gets up from his armchair, placing the books on the coffee table. With a calm smile, he walks to the center of the room, letting Tachihara pat his head before he dips his hand into the box for the second name card.
“And the second victim is,” Chuuya already makes a step back into the hall, confident enough that he’s going to skip today’s dinner. There’s no way he will eat anything cooked by this moron ever in his life. Tachihara pulls out the card and holds a dramatic silence before reading the second name. “Nakahara Chuuya!”
Of-fucking-course.
Everyone turns to look at him, practically pinning him to his place with their gazes. There’s a moment of awkwardness before they start shouting again, encouraging him to step forward. Ranpo suddenly appears next to him, squeezing his shoulder with a cheerful smile. Okay, sure. Chuuya is not some sort of a coward. He can manage this. A dinner for twenty people made hand in hand with a prick he can’t stand? A goddamn piece of cake.
He approaches them with a calm look on his face, standing next to Dazai, who doesn’t even let out his usual smirk. Tachihara jumps down to the floor and puts the box with names away.
“Everyone else can go on enjoying themselves!” He announces with a wide smile, and someone instantly turns on some sort of second-rate club music.
In the very heart of this crowded mess, people dancing, talking, screaming and laughing, Chuuya and Dazai slowly exchange glances, still standing shoulder to shoulder.
“I guess we’re bound together for the night,” Dazai tries to shout over the loud beats.
And the real teamwork is only yet to begin.