Utsukushii Koto: Side story chapter 1

Previous TOC Next

He wasn’t the type to wake up easily in the mornings. And yet, on this particular day, Matsuoka opened his eyes before the alarm clock even went off. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and carefully trimmed his goatee. As he ran the blade over his skin, his fingertips moved with more precision than usual, careful not to leave even the smallest nick.

Breakfast was simple—just a couple slices of store-bought bread and coffee. After finishing, he opened the closet. In his line of work, a suit wasn’t just a uniform; it was armor. He owned more than the average office worker, and not just because of the job—he genuinely loved clothes. Even his casual wear collection was excessive. Now, standing before a row of suits, he crossed his arms.

He had a visit to Ishibashi Bussan scheduled for the afternoon. The contact there was older and had a discerning eye. If he dressed too perfectly, it might come off as snobbish. A slightly frumpy, just-a-bit-off look would probably strike the right balance.

On the other hand, if the client couldn’t tell the difference between off-the-rack and custom-tailored, then going all-in wouldn’t hurt.

Today, he wanted to wear one of his best suits. But... it was Ishibashi Bussan. He sighed and considered compromising with something understated in a dull tone—something of quality, but muted. Still, he didn’t like darker colors. He preferred something brighter, something with a touch of flair.

He wanted to look good—good enough that even someone who didn’t know brands or price tags would instinctively think, He looks sharp.

Tonight, he had dinner plans with Hiromatsu. It was Hiromatsu who had reached out to him.

After that strange confession at the railroad crossing—"I might like you"—they had resumed emailing and calling each other. But this would be their first time sitting down for a meal, face-to-face, since then.

They’d eaten together several times when he was dressed as Yoko Eto. But as Yosuke Matsuoka, this was only their third time. He didn’t want to mess it up.

It was just dinner, but still, what did failure even mean in this context? What counted as success? The only thing he knew for sure was that he wanted Hiromatsu to enjoy himself. He wanted him to think, That was nice. I’d eat with him again.

As he wavered between this suit and that one, time slipped away. In the end, Matsuoka decided to ignore the Ishibashi Bussan appointment entirely and went with his favorite suit and the tie that paired best with it.

He usually wore a practical watch for work. But today, he wanted something a little playful, a little nicer. He opened the drawer of his side table to retrieve one—too forcefully—and ended up pulling the whole drawer out, spilling everything onto the floor.

“Ah, come on…” he muttered, crouching to pick them up.

As he scooped up his beloved watches, one among them didn’t belong. A well-worn brown leather strap, gold-rimmed face, scratches etched across the dial…

Hiromatsu’s watch.

He’d brought it home after the camping trip and never returned it. I should give this back, he thought. But what do I say now? The last thing he wanted was to be caught in a clumsy excuse and have Hiromatsu think he’d stolen it.

The watch in his palm felt heavy with implication. Wait—I'll say I found it in the car. I cleaned it recently. That’d make sense. It won’t sound forced.

He slipped Hiromatsu’s watch into his pocket, then fastened his favorite one to his wrist. One glance at the dial made his chest tighten. If he didn’t leave right now, he was going to be late.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

He ran so fast people on the street turned to stare, and finally reached the front of the station. A glance at his watch told him he’d made it five minutes before their meeting time—Hiromatsu wasn’t there yet. The moment he stopped, sweat surged from his forehead and underarms. The meeting with Ishibashi Bussan had dragged longer than expected, and he’d spent the whole way worrying he might not make it in time.

He had already spent the entire day working. I really didn’t want to see him like this, all sweaty and gross, Matsuoka thought, glancing down in embarrassment—just as someone spoke up.

“Um…”

He looked up. Standing in front of him was Hiromatsu, dressed in a dull navy suit and a cream-colored cotton coat. His hair was heavy and overgrown, like it belonged to the middle of winter.

Straightening his posture in a flurry, Matsuoka quickly offered, “It’s been a while.” Then he caught himself—we just talked on the phone yesterday,—and added, “Since we last met in person.”

They had spoken often over the phone. About work, the news, some celebrity gossip—safe, unthreatening topics. He still hadn’t found the courage to approach anything close to the heart of the matter.

“Where should we go?” Hiromatsu asked.

“I’m good with anywhere,” Matsuoka replied.

Hiromatsu tilted his head, a troubled look on his face. Even though it was he who had initiated this meeting, it seemed he hadn’t thought ahead to choosing a place.

“Is somewhere nearby okay?”

“Sure.”

Even if he was taken to some dingy izakaya or a generic nationwide family restaurant, it didn’t matter.

Hiromatsu started walking slowly, and Matsuoka, unsure what to do, took a small leap of courage and stepped up to walk beside him.

They were just walking side by side—and yet his throat felt parched. Not from the earlier run. He was nervous. So nervous it was suffocating.

He wanted to say something—anything—to break the awkward silence, but couldn’t think of a single safe line.

“You were really in a rush, huh,” Hiromatsu murmured.

Matsuoka turned to look at him.

“I saw someone running past while I was walking, and when I realized it was you, I tried to call out, but…”

He hadn’t noticed at all. To think Hiromatsu had seen him running like a madman trying to make it on time—his whole back suddenly felt damp with embarrassment.

“Oh, uh…”

Matsuoka lifted his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“My watch is set a little fast. I forgot about that and thought I was running late…”

“I see.”

There didn’t seem to be any deeper meaning in Hiromatsu’s reply. It looked like he’d taken the hasty excuse at face value, which made Matsuoka’s simple heart breathe easier. Now, he thought. Now’s the time to return it.

Right, that reminds me—your watch. You mentioned you’d lost it a while back, right? I was cleaning my car and found this wedged between the seats…

He ran the lines in his head like a script, and slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket. The familiar shape of the watch was definitely there.

“What’s wrong?” Hiromatsu asked, stopping in his tracks.

Matsuoka hadn’t realized he’d unconsciously stopped walking. He hurried to catch up.

“It’s nothing.”

He let go of the watch and withdrew his hand from the pocket.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

In the end, Matsuoka brought the watch back home with him—the one he’d meant to return. There had been plenty of chances to bring it up, but he hadn’t managed to say a word.

He slumped down into the sofa, his body sinking into the cushions. A faint trace of grilled meat clung to him, a reminder of the dinner still hovering around the edges of his half-drunken haze.

Hiromatsu had taken him to a yakiniku place. Oil had splattered onto his favorite suit, and the scent of grilled meat had soaked into his necktie. Both were headed to the cleaners, no question about it.

He found himself wondering—why yakiniku, of all places? They usually just ended up at izakaya. Then it occurred to him that maybe, to Hiromatsu, meat belonged in the category of something “special.” Maybe he’d been trying to be considerate. That would explain why, even when Matsuoka offered to split the bill, Hiromatsu wouldn’t let him pay. It had been a treat.

To be honest, Matsuoka had been hoping—just a little—that tonight would be the night Hiromatsu would say something. But the moment he’d heard “yakiniku,” he’d felt a twinge of doubt, and sure enough, the night ended without a single romantic note.

Don’t rush him, Matsuoka reminded himself. You can’t push for an answer. He’s finally turned to look your way. The last thing you want is to scare him off with some clumsy move.

Still, the roundaboutness of it all was maddening. I can wait, he told himself, but how long am I supposed to wait?

There was a thud—the sound of something falling. He looked down. The watch. It had slipped to the floor. He bent over quickly and picked it up.

The watch he’d meant to return. Hiromatsu’s watch. Purely practical, old, scratched, and completely uncool. Just like the man himself—never quite how Matsuoka wanted him to be. And yet he couldn’t help loving him. That was just how it was.

 

Matsuoka tightened his grip around the watch in his right hand. He replayed their time together in his mind—the smell of sizzling meat, the charred vegetables, the fingers wrapped around a beer glass. The emotions that surfaced with each memory were muddled, an indistinct mix of joy and anxiety, longing and doubt. Nothing solid.

But if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was this: even if his favorite suit had been soaked with grease, he’d still been floating on air all night, too elated to sit still.

Previous TOC Next