Chapter Text
the first thing you learned about together with maman was that everyone here was just a little bit dead inside.
the second thing you learned was that no one embodied that more than uramichi omota.
you’d heard about him before you even met him. tobio usahara had wasted no time pulling you aside during your first day on set, speaking in a hushed but theatrical voice.
“so, newbie,” he began, arms crossed. “have you met uramichi yet?”
you shook your head.
“oh, you’ll know him when you see him. tall guy. dark hair. dead eyes. radiates a deep, soul-crushing exhaustion.”
utano, who had been listening nearby, sighed. “usahara, stop scaring her.”
“i’m preparing her.”
you weren’t sure who to believe, but the mystery didn’t last long. because ten minutes later, uramichi omota walked onto set, and yeah—he did, in fact, look exactly like usahara had described.
his posture was good, his expression neutral, and his smile… well. it wasn’t quite forced, but it wasn’t natural either. it was the kind of smile you put on when someone points a camera at you before you’ve had your morning coffee.
he looked at you for exactly three seconds before speaking.
“new hire?”
“yeah,” you said. “[name].”
he nodded. “uramichi.”
then, with nothing more to add, he turned away, muttering something about stretching before rehearsal.
usahara grinned. “told you.”
—
the first week was brutal.
early morning call times, long hours, rehearsing the same segments over and over because a five-year-old kept getting distracted by his own shoelaces.
and uramichi was everywhere. practicing his gymnastics routine, leading warm-ups, stepping in when one of the younger hosts forgot their lines. he was good at his job—really good—but there was something about him that felt… off. like he was running on autopilot, like he was just waiting for something to go wrong.
you didn’t talk much at first. he was polite enough, but distant.
but then, one day, the coffee machine in the break room broke.
"you’ve gotta be kidding me," uramichi muttered, pressing the buttons with increasing frustration.
you stood beside him, staring at the machine in quiet horror.
"this is a tragedy," you said.
uramichi huffed out something that almost sounded like a laugh. "yeah."
and just like that, something shifted.
you started talking more. little things—complaints about work, sarcastic remarks about the overly cheerful scripts, observations about which of the kids was most likely to grow up into a menace to society.
uramichi never said much, but he listened. really listened. and sometimes, when he thought something was particularly funny, you’d catch the corners of his mouth twitching, like he was trying not to let himself laugh.
it became a routine.
you’d show up, exhausted. he’d show up, somehow more exhausted. you’d exchange looks when something ridiculous happened on set. he’d mutter something under his breath that only you could hear. and somehow, in between all of that, the job felt a little less heavy.
maybe that was just how it was with uramichi. you didn’t get grand gestures or big conversations. just small moments, shared in the in-between spaces.
but those small moments were starting to add up.