Chapter Text
Did Rising F1 Star Itadori Yuuji Crash His Car On Purpose?
On Monday morning, a civilian commuting to work called emergency services to report a crashed vehicle on the side of the road. Investigators would soon reveal that the ruined vehicle belonged to rising F1 star Itadori Yuuji, who was in critical condition when he was pulled from the wreckage. He has since stabilized, though he is in the hospital until further notice.
F1 Daily managed to book an exclusive interview with Itadori. When asked for details about the crash, Itadori stated: “The races didn’t kill me fast enough.” He declined to answer if he crashed the car on purpose, and investigators could not conclude whether or not this was an accident or a suicide attempt. F1 Daily will continue to report on the story as Itadori recovers.
*&
Nobara hadn’t seen Megumi in four years.
She was surprised that his phone number was still the same, but it made sense. Megumi was a creature of habit. He didn’t step out into the unknown if he could help it. He didn’t do well with change of any kind. Nobara would bet he still lived in the same apartment he’d moved into when he was 18.
Megumi answered his phone after three rings, and he only left Nobara wondering if she had the right number for a split second. “Fushiguro Megumi speaking.”
“Megumi,” she said with relief. “It’s Nobara.”
“Oh,” Megumi muttered—maybe surprised, maybe disappointed, maybe both. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
“No need to be so formal,” Nobara said, trying on the same teasing voice she used on him in high school. It didn’t fit her anymore, not really. It broke some of the awkward tension, but she couldn’t match her usual, playful aura — not when she had the news hanging over her shoulders, like a cloudy sky that kept offering thunder and lightning, but no rain. It was anticipation of the worst degree. Suspense. Unknown.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Nobara said. “In person, if you have time. Are you in Tokyo? Wanna grab a drink tonight?”
“I have a client meeting. But I could meet you tomorrow morning,” Megumi said.
Stepping into their coffee shop of choice felt like stepping into the past. It would always go this way: Megumi would show up at the cafe first, 10 to 15 minutes early, and Nobara would show up second, right on time. Yuuji would run in 3 to 5 minutes late, with beads of sweat in his hairline and a playful apology on his tongue. He would slide into the booth right next to Megumi and plant a kiss on his cheek.
But there would be no Yuuji. It was just Nobara and Megumi, perfectly across from each other at the booth, sharing small talk about their lives as they waited for their coffee orders.
When Megumi’s black coffee and Nobara’s cappuccino hit the table, Nobara finally addressed the elephant in the room.
“Do you keep up with F1 news at all?”
Megumi kept a surprisingly steady expression as he pulled his coffee away from his lips and placed the mug back on the plate in front of him. “You know I don’t.”
“Do you keep up with Yuuji at all?”
“No.”
“At all?”
“Why would I?”
“Okay. So you don’t know,” Nobara assumed. Megumi frowned, “Know what?”
Nobara pulled up the article on her phone, even though she had all but memorized the words. She just couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. It felt so surreal, and yet too real.
She saw the same feeling overtake Megumi’s expression as he read the article. His eyes darted rapidly across the words, until they stopped short, staring at one particular spot on her screen. Nobara would bet anything that he had gotten caught up in the exact same spot she did.
“The races didn’t kill me fast enough.”
“Why would they interview him in the hospital?”
“Do you really want to focus on morally corrupt journalism right now?”
“I would hardly call this journalism,” Megumi muttered. He gave Nobara’s phone back, though he didn’t hand it to her. He practically dropped it on the table, a little toss that she would have reprimanded him for back in high school. But she didn’t blame him for the emotion. She could have punched her computer screen, she was so upset—because she, too, was pissed that one of her colleagues had dared invade Yuuji’s space when he was on the cusp of death, but she had even stronger feelings about the implication that Yuuji had done this to himself on purpose. The thought made her sick to her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. She doubted she would handle her cappuccino well.
“Megumi.”
“What do you want me to say? Male suicide rates are increasing across the globe. Life sucks. He’s been through a lot. Itadori—” Megumi stopped suddenly. Tears had sprung to his eyes, and his voice cracked over Yuuji’s name. He slouched, an air of defeat washing over his tense shoulders. He dropped his chin into his hand, and his fingers touched his trembling lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he whispered, “Fuck.”
“Should we go see him?”
“I don’t know,” Megumi muttered. “What would we do?”
“Talk to him?”
“And what would that do?”
“I don’t know,” Nobara huffed. “Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he just really needs someone to talk to.”
“I’m sure the hospital is gonna put him in therapy.”
“They’re not even sure he did this on purpose.”
“Neither are we.”
“But we can do something. We have to do something.”
“Why? What would we do?”
“Megumi. Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not worried about him,” Nobara challenged, and she leaned closer so it would be even harder for him to lie.
He didn’t even look at her.
“He’s our best friend,” Nobara said. “We might have all drifted apart, but he’s still Yuuji. Our Yuuji. And he’s hurt, whether or not he did this on purpose. Does no part of you wanna at least see him again?”
Megumi tapped his fingers against the table. “He did this to himself. I told him—”
“Megumi, shut the fuck up. This is not an ‘I told you so’ situation. He’s hurt, and he’s alone.”
“He could have a partner.”
“He’s famously single. That’s why he’s so popular. Hot, young, available, good with cars.”
Not that good, apparently. Unless he was.
“He probably has new friends.”
“When did you get so fucking heartless?” Nobara snapped. Whoever was sitting in front of her was not the Megumi she knew. The Megumi she knew was a sweet teenager—angsty, sure, and he played the part of a cold-hearted guy who never smiled, but, beneath the surface, he cared, and he cared a lot.
“It was his choice,” Megumi said coldly. “I couldn’t do anything for him then, and I can’t now.”
Nobara shook her head. She reached into her purse, grabbed ¥4,000, a post-it note, and a pen. She scribbled down the name of the hospital Yuuji was in, right in the center of Tokyo — close to Megumi’s apartment, if he was still a creature of habit. She was starting to doubt that, now.
Wordlessly, Nobara stood up and gathered her things, though she left the money on the table to cover her drink. She slapped the post-it note against Megumi’s chest — a way to hurt him without hitting him in the face, as much as she wanted to.
“That’s Yuuji’s hospital,” Nobara said. “Do with that what you will.”