Chapter Text
Megumi has interviewed politicians that could lie through their teeth without blinking, celebrities trained to smile through scandals, and athletes who treated every question like a trap waiting to snap shut around their ankles.
Itadori Yuuji somehow manages to be worse than all of them combined.
“You can’t print that.” He says.
Megumi doesn’t even glance up from his laptop. “I absolutely can.”
Across from him, Yuuji groans loudly enough to earn a glance from two nearby customers in the café before dropping his forehead directly onto the table with a dull thud.
“That was off the record,” he mumbles into the wood.
“You never said that.”
“I thought we had a mutual understanding.”
“We do.” Megumi takes another sip of his coffee calmly. “The understanding is that you talk too much.”
“That’s evil.”
“That’s journalism.”
Yuuji lifts his head just enough to glare at him through messy pink hair. There’s a faint bruise blooming along his cheekbone from his last match, already beginning to fade into yellow beneath the café lighting. His hood lies abandoned beside him despite the fact that several people have already recognized him since they sat down.
Megumi’s still not sure how Yuuji survives being this famous.
“You make me sound horrible in your articles,” Yuuji accuses.
Megumi finally looks up from the screen. “No,” he says flatly. “You do that yourself. I just write it down.”
“That hurts my feelings.”
“You compared your last opponent to a wet paper towel on live television.”
“Because he folded under pressure!”
“You are proving my point.”
Yuuji huffs dramatically before stealing Megumi’s untouched pastry from the plate between them.
“Hey,” Megumi says immediately.
“You looked busy.”
“That doesn’t mean you can take my food.”
“It absolutely does.”
Megumi watches him take a victorious bite before sighing through his nose. Somewhere in the background, soft music drifts through the café speakers while keyboards clack quietly beneath low conversations. It’s familiar now—this place, these interviews, Yuuji sitting across from him like he belongs there.
That realization settles strangely in Megumi’s chest.
Most interviews end after an hour.
Some linger for a day or two in headlines before disappearing entirely.
Yuuji, unfortunately, keeps staying.
“You’re staring,” Yuuji says suddenly.
Megumi blinks once. “You have powdered sugar on your face.”
“Oh.”
Yuuji wipes at his cheek without success.
“…Other side.”
“Oh.”
Megumi exhales softly and reaches across the table before he can stop himself, brushing the sugar away with his thumb.
The movement stills between them almost instantly.
Yuuji freezes.
Megumi does too.
For a second, neither of them says anything.
Then—
A camera shutter clicks somewhere nearby.
Both of them turn at the same time.
And just like that, the moment shatters.
“Oh,” Yuuji says weakly.
Megumi already feels a headache forming.
Somewhere deep down, he has the distinct feeling this is going to become a problem.
Three weeks prior
Dawn was arguably the worst possible time for Megumi to be awake, yet for some sadistic reason, he forced himself through it every single day.
To be fair, his mornings were annoyingly time-consuming. Walking his dogs alone took at least thirty minutes, and that was before showering, getting dressed, fixing his hair into something presentable, and mentally preparing himself for the disaster that was the rest of the day.
He still dreaded it every night.
To make things even worse, he’d promised to get lunch with Gojo today. Unfortunately, Gojo had apparently decided that meant reminding him about it every single day for the past two months, as if Megumi was somehow going to forget the human equivalent of a migraine.
Great.
By the time he finished brushing his teeth and dragging a hand through his still-damp hair, most of his routine was done. Half-awake, he shuffled toward his closet before his phone buzzed loudly from the nightstand.
Megumi paused mid-step, already exhausted.
He changed direction, grabbing the phone and swiping open the screen.
[Nobara] Meg
[Nobara] gojo says to unblock him
[Nobara] and that he’s coming at 12?
[Nobara] good luck
Megumi stared at the messages for a long second before letting out a slow breath through his nose.
Without replying, he locked the phone and placed it face-down on the table again.
What an amazing way to start the morning.
Meanwhile, Yuuji had completely slept through his alarm, and Nanami was very much not happy about it.
Three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment, each one more insistent than the last, until Yuuji jolted upright like he’d been physically thrown out of sleep. For a split second, he didn’t remember where he was—only that his entire body felt heavy, like he’d gone ten rounds in the ring and lost all of them.
A thin line of drool clung to the corner of his mouth. His hair stuck up in every direction, more resembling a bird’s nest than anything remotely human.
“I’m awake!” he blurted out immediately, voice cracking slightly as he tried to sound more functional than he actually was.
There was a pause.
Then—
“I’m coming in,” Nanami said from behind the door, voice calm in the way that always meant the opposite.
Yuuji’s eyes snapped open fully.
“Wait—”
Too late.
The door opened with controlled force, Nanami stepping in already fully dressed, expression unreadable in the way that somehow made everything worse.
Yuuji, in a desperate attempt to preserve whatever dignity he had left, yanked the blanket up to his neck like a shield.
Nanami stared at him for a long moment.
“As expected,” he said flatly, sighing through his nose. “Your interviewer will be ready in thirty minutes.”
That sentence hit harder than any punch Yuuji had ever taken in the ring.
Right. The interview.
A professional boxer’s media obligations—press, sponsors, interviews—were supposed to be part of the job. Yuuji had been told that. Repeatedly. By Nanami. By his grandfather. By his manager. By literally everyone.
And yet nothing ever prepared him for it.
“Fine,” he mumbled, already pouting. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
Nanami didn’t respond. That silence alone said enough.
Somehow, Yuuji managed to shower, get dressed, and pretend he was a functioning human being in under fifteen minutes. He pulled on jeans, a plain shirt, and a jacket that looked expensive enough to be sponsor-provided but comfortable enough that he might actually survive the day in it.
When he stepped outside, Nanami was already waiting by the car.
Yuuji stretched his arms slightly as he approached, trying to look more awake than he felt. “Was I on time?”
“No,” Nanami said immediately. “You are two minutes and thirty-four seconds late.”
Yuuji blinked. “You counted?”
“I had time.”
“…That’s kind of scary.”
Nanami ignored him.
The drive to the company building was short, but it didn’t feel like it. Yuuji spent most of it staring out the window, rolling his shoulders out of habit. Even off-duty, his body never really stopped remembering training—guard up, core tight, breathe steady.
Still, his stomach twisted in a way no sparring session ever caused.
Interviews were worse than fights.
At least in a fight, he understood the rules.
The building appeared sooner than he wanted it to. Tall, glass-heavy, overly polished in that way corporate sports agencies always were—meant to impress sponsors and intimidate athletes into behaving.
Right outside, a café sat neatly beside the entrance, warm lighting spilling through the windows. It looked peaceful in a way Yuuji immediately trusted.
Nanami, however, did not slow down.
“Inside,” he said simply.
Yuuji sighed and followed.
The elevator ride up was quiet.
Too quiet.
Each floor that passed made Yuuji more aware of his own breathing. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, like they were used to wrapping around gloves even when there were none.
He hated interviews.
Not because he couldn’t speak.
Because he couldn’t stop speaking.
Every time, it started fine. Then he relaxed. Then he got honest. Then suddenly headlines were born out of things he didn’t even realize were important enough to remember.
In the last week alone he’d accidentally mentioned his training routine, and the headlines had suddenly become things along the lines of “secret weight loss hack gets leaked,” and Nanami always looked like he aged five years after every article.
The elevator dinged and the two doors slid open.
The office was already set up like a stage—cameras positioned carefully, bright lights angled for clarity, microphones tested and adjusted.
A woman stood near the center of it all, smiling warmly.
“Welcome, Itadori,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s an honor to interview the real Yuuji Itadori.”
Yuuji forced a smile that he hoped didn’t look as tense as it felt.
“Thanks,” he said. Then, after a small pause, “Should we start now?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Really, ready was a strong word, but Nanami was watching, so Yuuji sat down.
“Okay,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Let’s do it.”
Behind the cameras, someone raised a hand.
Three.
Two.
One.
Go.
At first, it’s fine.
It’s always fine at first.
“So, Itadori,” the interviewer begins, voice smooth and practiced, “you’ve had an impressive streak recently. How are you feeling heading into your next phase as a professional boxer?”
Yuuji straightens a little in his seat.
“Oh—good,” he says. “Really good. I’ve been training a lot, so I think I’m ready.”
“Training a lot?” she echoes. “Can you describe what that looks like for you?”
“Mostly getting hit,” Yuuji says, then pauses. “I mean—not just getting hit. I hit back too. Obviously.” An awkward silence falls, filling the room to the brim whilst being broken a couple times by a few crew members behind the cameras snorting and giggling quietly. Not loud enough to be picked up by the microphones, but just loud enough to be picked up by his ears.
Yuuji rubs the back of his neck. “It’s like… mornings, sparring, conditioning, more sparring, then I try not to fall asleep standing up.”
“That sounds intense.” She says, shifting in her seat to lean in.
“It is,” he agrees quickly, grateful to be on solid ground again.
For a few minutes, it stays like that—clean questions, clean answers. The kind of interview Nanami can probably tolerate without developing a migraine.
Then the tone shifts.
“You’re very popular with fans,” the interviewer says. “What do you think it is about you that draws people in?”
Yuuji blinks.
That’s… harder.
“I don’t really know,” he admits after a moment. “Todo said it’s because I’m a lady magnet, so I guessI’m taking that as a compliment. Also he said I’m really stupid and girls like stupid people, but that can be a compliment in a way,” He defends.
The room quiets slightly.
The interviewer tilts her head. “That’s an… interesting way to put it.”
Yuuji shrugs. “I guess the more fans there are, the more people there are to support me and keep my career going.”
“I think you have more than enough, Itadori.” She giggles.
“…I don’t think I’m good at that part,” he admits. “The talking part.”
A beat.
Then, worse—he laughs a little, almost sheepish.
“I usually mess it up.”
Nanami closes his eyes briefly.
The interviewer leans forward a fraction. “Mess it up how?”
Yuuji opens his mouth.
That’s where it goes wrong.
“I mean—like last time I accidentally told someone about my training schedule and it ended up as a headline like I was leaking secrets or something,” he says, rambling now. “And then there was that one time I mentioned—uh—never mind that one actually.”
Too late, the cameras are still rolling, and the interviewer is definitely writing something down mentally.
Yuuji finally catches up to himself. “…That probably sounded bad, didn’t it?”
“No,” she says smoothly. “It sounded honest.” That somehow makes it worse because honesty is always what gets printed.
They steer it back after that. Kind of.
“Looking forward,” the interviewer says carefully, “what are your goals for this season?”
“Win,” Yuuji answers immediately, grateful for the simplicity. “And not get knocked out.”
A pause.
“…Preferably.” That gets a real laugh out of someone off-camera.
The interview wraps up a few minutes later with polite thank-yous and practiced smiles. Yuuji stands, bows slightly out of habit, and tries not to think about everything he might’ve just accidentally said into existence.
“Thank you for your time,” the interviewer says.
“Yeah,” Yuuji replies. “Thank you.”
He walks out with Nanami without looking back, and the second they’re out of the room, the air feels heavier. Nanami doesn’t speak at first, and that’s usually worse.
“…Did I do bad?” Yuuji asks cautiously.
Nanami exhales through his nose. “Define ‘bad.’” Yuuji winces.
“…So yes.”
Nanami doesn’t answer that.
Instead, he adjusts his tie and starts walking.
“Café outside the building,” he says. “You’re meeting me there later. Don’t talk to anyone else on the way.”
“I wasn’t planning to—”
“Don’t.”
Yuuji sighs, but follows anyway.
Outside, the city feels louder than it did before the interview. Too bright. Too fast. Like it’s already reacting to something he hasn’t fully understood yet.
He glances briefly toward the café Nanami mentioned.
Warm lights. Quiet corners. People talking softly over cups of coffee.
It looks… safe. Maybe too safe.
Yuuji pushes the thought away and heads in that direction anyway. The two find a small corner to sit down in, Yuuji tugging his hood over his face to avoid being recognized. God knows how that’ll turn out.
Yuuji takes a small breath, bracing himself for whatever the man across from him is about to say. Nanami sits with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the crease between his brows deeper than usual. That alone is enough to make Yuuji sweat.
“Itadori,” Nanami sighs at last.
“Nanamin,” Yuuji answers weakly, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face.
Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales a long, exhausted breath that can only mean disappointment. “Have you genuinely not noticed the problem between you and reporters?”
Yuuji blinks. “...No?” The word comes out more uncertain than he intended. Honestly, he has noticed. He’s just spent the last few years pretending it wasn’t an issue, hoping it would somehow fix itself if he ignored it long enough.
“Itadori,” Nanami says, voice flattening. “I don’t care whether you’re joking right now or not. This career comes with responsibilities, including dealing with the press. Your grandfather warned you about the difficulties of entering the real world, didn’t he? You need to start taking this seriously.” His gaze hardens slightly. “It’s been years. I can’t keep letting this slide.”
Yuuji’s shoulders slump. He glances down at his lap, lips pulling into a small frown. “Yes, Nanami.”
“Good.” Nanami uncrosses his arms, though he still looks unimpressed. “Then explain to me why you keep avoiding journalists and reporters. Tell me why that was one of the only interviews you’ve had in months, tell me why they go horribly every time and why I have to clean up after you almost daily.”
“Because Todo said I talk too much,” Yuuji blurts out immediately. “And he’s right! I do talk too much. Every time someone interviews me, I end up saying things I shouldn’t. Those reporters are terrifying—they always know how to pull information out of me somehow.” He throws his hands up helplessly. “What am I supposed to do if I accidentally leak something about somebody’s personal life? Or if people get too invested in the people around me because of something I said? If I ignore reporters completely, then nothing can go wrong.”
“Itadori,” Nanami says patiently, though there’s a dangerous twitch near his eyebrow, “that is not how this works.”
“Yes it is!” Yuuji protests, frowning harder.
“No,” Nanami replies firmly. “What you’re doing now is damaging your reputation. We need articles about your achievements, your matches, your medals—not stories about you sprinting away from reporters after fights or staring blankly into space in the middle of interviews.”
Yuuji sinks lower into his seat.
A long silence settles between them.
“Fine,” he mumbles eventually, sounding more like a sulking child than a grown adult.
Nanami nods once, satisfied enough with that response. “There’s a café right outside the company building. A lot of journalists gather there during breaks.” He lifts a hand and gestures toward the window. “Let’s go find a reporter you can actually manage to talk to. Someone willing to work with you instead of chasing after you.”
Yuuji groans dramatically, dragging his hands down his face before springing to his feet anyway. “Okay, Nanamin!”
“There will be consequences if you run away this time.”
“I won’t!” Yuuji insists.
Nanami gives him a look.
“…Probably.”
Nanami sighs again.
Still, as Yuuji heads for the door, there’s a small flicker of determination in his chest.
There’s got to be someone out there he can handle.
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh as he watches Megumi continue typing away at his keyboard, completely absorbed in editing yet another article for the press.
“Megumi,” Gojo drawls from across the office, spinning lazily in his chair. “Are you seriously going to sit there forever? Why are you even editing this stuff? Don’t you have people for that?”
Megumi barely glances up from the screen. “Not reliable people,” he corrects flatly, eyes scanning another paragraph. “The only reason I’ve gotten this far is because I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not letting some random editor ruin my work because they don’t understand the tone I want.”
Around the office, a few employees exchange knowing looks.
Unfortunately for them, Megumi isn’t wrong.
As one of the most well-known reporters in the industry, there are more than enough qualified people begging for the chance to work under him. But all it takes is one poorly phrased sentence, one misplaced headline, one mistake—and suddenly his credibility takes the hit too.
Megumi refuses to let that happen.
“But you promised me lunch,” Gojo whines, slumping bonelessly across his desk like a giant overgrown cat.
“Yes,” Megumi replies dryly. “After I finish this. I’m almost done. You can survive another five minutes.”
Gojo pouts.
Then he starts fidgeting.
Megumi tries to ignore it at first. Really, he does.
But Gojo never sits still for long.
He spins in his chair. Taps his fingers against the desk. Opens random drawers. Closes them again. Starts rifling through paperwork he absolutely should not be touching. Picks up a pen and clicks it repeatedly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Megumi’s eye twitches.
Click.
“Fine,” Megumi snaps, slamming his laptop shut with enough force to make several coworkers flinch. He’ll probably need to check the screen later. “Let’s go.”
Gojo lights up instantly. “Attaboy!”
Before Megumi can reconsider his decision, Gojo grabs his wrist and drags him out of the office at alarming speed.
“Wait—why aren’t we taking the elevator—”
Too late.
Gojo barrels straight for the stairwell.
Megumi stumbles after him in horror as Gojo practically skips down the stairs two at a time, somehow managing to turn descending twelve flights into a recreational activity. Meanwhile, Megumi is fighting for his life trying not to miss a step and crack his skull open.
By the time they finally reach the lobby, Megumi feels vaguely like he’s died and come back wrong.
He drops to his knees immediately, one hand clutching at his chest while the other remains trapped in Gojo’s inescapable grip.
“F-fuck you,” Megumi wheezes between breaths.
Gojo only snickers, entirely unbothered. “C’mon, it builds character.” Then he points across the street. “Let’s go there.”
Megumi follows his gaze and, despite everything, relaxes slightly.
It’s one of his favorite cafés—quiet, decent coffee, good food, and close enough to the office that he can pretend this interruption isn’t completely derailing his schedule.
The walk across the street is thankfully short.
Once inside, the two settle into a quieter corner near the back of the café, away from most of the noise.
Gojo leans across the table immediately, chin resting in his palm. “So,” he hums, “how’s your little report going?”
Megumi rolls his eyes. “Boring. There’s no one interesting lately.” He taps his fingers lightly against the menu. “I want a real story. Something honest. Something that actually comes from the heart instead of another carefully polished celebrity statement.”
Gojo snorts. “You’ve been chasing that kind of article for way too long, don’t you think? If I were you, I’d just take the easy route. You’d still get millions of reads either way.”
“I want my work to actually mean something,” Megumi says flatly.
“And it already does.” Gojo shrugs lazily. “That’s the annoying thing about talented people. Someone like you could phone it in completely and people would still call it incredible.”
Megumi grimaces. “That sounds insulting.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“It’s a lazy compliment.”
Gojo grins. “Still counts.”
For a brief moment—barely even a second—Megumi almost smiles. Then Gojo ruins it. He has to.
“There!” he suddenly shouts, loudly enough for half the café to hear as he points dramatically toward someone tucked away in the corner of the room.
The entire café falls quiet.
Heads turn one after another before every eye lands on the hooded stranger sitting in the back corner booth, their face almost entirely hidden beneath dark fabric, only a few dusty pink strands of hair poke out from the top.
Megumi watches the exact moment panic sets in.
The stranger’s posture stiffens immediately, shoulders locking up so hard it almost looks painful. Beside him sits another man with a similarly broad build, rubbing at his temples like he already knows what disaster is about to unfold.
The hooded stranger sinks lower into his seat, desperately tugging the hood farther down his face in a completely useless attempt at hiding himself, and the fabric stretches awkwardly in the process.
Before Megumi can process what’s happening, Gojo is already getting to his feet and grabbing him by the arm.
“Gojo—”
Too late.
Megumi gets dragged halfway across the café under the increasingly curious stares of everyone inside.
“There,” Gojo announces proudly. “Megumi, your problem has officially been solved thanks to the one and only Gojo Satoru.” He beams.
Megumi stares at him flatly, irritation twitching at the corners of his mouth. What problem? That’s what’s clouding his mind before he finally gets a better look at the stranger. Dusty pink hair, the infamous scar just beside his mouth, broad shoulders hidden beneath an oversized hoodie. The recognition hits almost immediately.
Is that Itadori Yuuji?
The Itadori Yuuji?
Megumi’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks him over again. He honestly hadn’t expected someone that famous to look so… normal. Panicked, sweaty, and halfway folded into a café booth, yes, but still normal.
Apparently, a whole lot of other people in the café reach the same conclusion at the exact same time, because suddenly—
“Oh my god, is that Itadori Yuuji?”
“Wait, wait—”
“No way!”
A group of what look like middle school girls rush forward almost instantly, phones already out and cameras flashing violently enough to blind somebody, and Yuuji visibly recoils. Beside him, the other man pinches the bridge of his nose with the exhausted expression of someone moments away from committing a crime.
“Gojo,” he grumbles darkly, a vein nearly popping in his forehead.
Megumi blinks. Do they know each other?
“Nanamin!” Gojo says cheerfully, reaching over to grab the man’s wrist like this entire situation isn’t rapidly spiraling out of control. “Let’s leave before we get trampled by little girls.” He beams, way too relaxed for the statement he just uttered. Judging by the rapidly growing crowd, that threat is becoming increasingly realistic.
Nanamin? Megumi stares. Does Gojo know Nanami Kento? Before he can process that thought any further, another wave of people starts crowding around them.
“Oh my god, it’s really him!”
“Itadori!”
“Can I get a picture?!”
“Oh my god, I’m going to die!”
Megumi grimaces.
Actually, maybe this is a big deal.
To be fair, Yuuji was one of the best professional boxers in Japan right now, with enough international attention to rival some of the biggest names in the world. He supposes people losing their minds over him makes sense.
Still feels excessive though.
“Let’s go,” Gojo says brightly, somehow sounding completely relaxed despite the fact that they’re seconds away from being swallowed whole by screaming teenagers.
Yuuji looks moments away from passing out, and Megumi reacts before thinking too hard about it.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing Yuuji by the arm and pulling him upward. The second his hand closes around Yuuji’s sleeve, Megumi realizes two things immediately.
One: there is an absurd amount of muscle underneath that slightly oversized hoodie.
Two: that is unfortunately noticeable.
Heat flashes briefly across Megumi’s face.
Pathetic. He’s no better than the fan girls.
Still, he keeps pulling Yuuji toward the exit as the crowd swells larger around them.
“What’s the plan?” Megumi asks over the noise.
Nanami sighs deeply, dragging a hand down his face in complete exhaustion. “There should be a car waiting out back.”
The four of them force their way through the crowd together while cameras flash from every direction.
Most of the attention is aimed at Yuuji, obviously, but Megumi catches a few people pointing toward him too.
“Wait, isn’t that Fushiguro Megumi?”
“No way, why is he here?”
“Take a picture!”
Megumi resists the urge to walk directly into traffic.
Being a recognizable reporter is deeply humiliating.
Unfortunately, according to his editor, Megumi having “the face of a celebrity and the writing talent of a veteran journalist” was apparently excellent for readership.
Megumi personally thought it was a curse.
By the time they finally stumble into the alley behind the café, the noise from the crowd is almost overwhelming.
Two massive men in suits immediately step forward, blocking off the stream of fans beginning to spill around the corner.
Bodyguards.
Megumi eyes them briefly. Honestly, the idea of Itadori Yuuji needing protection feels ridiculous. The man could probably knock out half the city by himself. Then again, judging from the screaming outside, maybe the danger isn’t physical violence, more likely being teenage girls.
A large and bulky car waits nearby, and without hesitation, Nanami and Gojo slide into the front seats while the bodyguards take the middle row.
Yuuji opens the back door and gestures toward Megumi with surprising politeness.
“After you,” he jokes weakly, holding the door open.
“Thanks,” Megumi replies, voice flat as ever while climbing inside.
Yuuji ducks in after him a second later, the car shifting slightly beneath his weight as he settles into the seat beside him, and the space suddenly feels much smaller than it did before.
With an awkward little click, Yuuji pulls his seatbelt across his chest and fastens it, and a wave of silence settles over the backseat.
Then Yuuji glances over nervously. “…Sorry about all that.”
Megumi shrugs slightly. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says before glancing toward the front seat, eyebrow twitching. “It was Gojo’s. I’ll make sure he receives a proper disciplinary action once we’re away from all of those…” He pauses briefly, looking out the tinted windows at the lingering crowd still gathered outside the café. “…people.”
“Hey!” Gojo snaps back, turning back to look at the two past the body guards as Nanami starts to drive. “You wanted an authentic story to write about, and I graciously delivered the one boxer alive with severe foot-in-mouth syndrome.”
“Ouch,” Yuuji says, clutching dramatically at his chest.
“Don’t act offended,” Nanami mutters from the passenger seat. “He’s right. I’ve spent years dealing with the consequences of whatever comes out of your mouth.”
Yuuji throws his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay, sorry.” Despite the apology, he’s letting out a small chuckle of amusement by the end of it anyway, and the sound is loud enough to fill the cramped car easily.
Megumi notices everything about it before he can stop himself. Too genuine to sound rehearsed, too carefree for someone who apparently spends half his life surrounded by cameras and expectations. Most public figures Megumi interviewed sounded polished down to the syllable. Every laugh calculated. Every smile perfected. Yuuji just sounded real.
Before Megumi can think too deeply about that, Yuuji turns toward him suddenly.
“You’re that famous reporter, right?” he asks.
Megumi resists the urge to sigh. Unfortunately, yes.
“I’m a journalist, too,” he corrects automatically.
“Right, right, that.” Yuuji nods quickly before leaning back slightly into the seat. “Would you… maybe wanna interview me sometime?”
The car goes quiet for half a second.
Even Gojo shuts up with whatever horrible kpop song he was humming.
Megumi blinks once.
Honestly, that might be the most surprising thing that’s happened all day, and considering Gojo caused a near-riot in a café thirty minutes ago, that’s saying something. Nanami twists around slightly in his seat, looking equally suspicious.
“You’re volunteering?” he asks slowly, like he’s trying to determine whether Yuuji has hit his head recently.
Yuuji shrugs. “I mean… yeah?”
“That is deeply concerning,” Nanami replies immediately, earning a snicker from Gojo.
Megumi studies Yuuji quietly for a moment instead of answering right away. He’s seen Yuuji’s interviews before. Every single one eventually turned into the same disaster, awkward headlines, accidental oversharing, reporters twisting harmless comments into controversy.
But sitting here now, watching Yuuji nervously rub the back of his neck while trying not to look too serious about the offer, Megumi starts understanding the actual problem.
Yuuji wasn’t difficult to interview because he was careless, he was difficult to interview because he answered honestly, and honesty was dangerous around the wrong people.
Megumi hums softly, leaning back against the seat.
“You sure you want to do that?”
Yuuji shrugs. “Yeah. From what I’ve heard about the all-mighty Fushiguro, I think I’ll finally be able to get Nanami off my back.”
A pause. “…Why not.”
Yuuji visibly brightens.
“Who knew the day would come where you willingly offer yourself up for an interview,” Nanami says dryly, keeping his eyes off of the road as they pass fans waving on the streets, phones flashing.
Yuuji grins sheepishly. “I guess I’m just unpredictable.”
“No,” Nanami says flatly. “You’re a public relations nightmare.”
Despite himself, Megumi feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward ever so slightly. Maybe this would make a good story after all. Or maybe—Megumi glances briefly toward Yuuji again as the boxer continues arguing with Nanami from the backseat.—this was going to become something much harder to write about.
The car disappears into traffic soon after, carrying all four of them farther into the city while the chaos from the café slowly fades behind them.
Unfortunately for Megumi, he has a feeling that being in this car with Yuuji is going to make his job a lot harder than it has to be.