Utsukushii Koto: Volume 1 - Part 5

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The downtown district on a weekday night was as lively as ever, but tonight, more than usual, the air of the city, the pace of people’s footsteps, felt oddly unsettled. Maybe it was because mid-December had arrived, and the end of the year was drawing near.

It took about ten minutes to walk from the office to the izakaya. Even though Matsuoka had kept both hands buried in his coat pockets the entire way, by the time he arrived, his fingertips were numb with cold. Pushing aside the indigo-hued noren at just past eight in the evening, he stepped into the shop, greeted by a cheerful “Welcome!” Matsuoka responded with a friendly “Good evening” while sweeping his gaze around the narrow interior. Though the place was reasonably crowded, the man he’d been hoping to see was, once again, nowhere to be found.

He let out a sigh that spilled out along with his disappointment. Just because the person he’d come to see wasn’t here didn’t mean he could simply turn on his heel and walk out. Shedding his coat, he sat down at an empty seat at the counter. He ordered a few small dishes and quietly sipped his beer.

Lately, he’d been coming by almost every day, and yet not once had he seen Hiromatsu. It was easy enough to imagine that after transferring workplaces, Hiromatsu had drifted away from his usual places. Still, Matsuoka couldn’t think of any other place that might offer him a point of contact. If it had been before the transfer, he might’ve found an opening through their shared acquaintance Fukuda, who worked in the same department—but the research institute was a world away from sales. There was no overlap.

So in the end, the only strategy Matsuoka could come up with was to wait here, day after day, and hope for a chance to speak to him.

Every time the sliding door opened, Matsuoka reflexively turned to look. It had become a conditioned response at this point.

“Waiting for someone?”

The elderly proprietress, who appeared to be in her sixties, smiled gently as she set down a plate of deep-fried kibinago.

“Not really…”

He gave a half-hearted reply and sighed again. The fried fish he brought to his lips was crisp and delicious. He heard the clatter of the door opening again but didn’t bother to look this time. He was already tired of the repeated disappointment.

The last message from Hiromatsu had come on that rainy night: If I’m a nuisance, please just say so directly. It had been about two weeks since then, and he hadn’t reached out since. Matsuoka, too, had left the message unanswered.

If he never contacted Hiromatsu again, then Yoko Eto and Motofumi Hiromatsu would simply fade away from each other’s lives. And that was why now, he wanted to reconnect not as her, but as his real self—Yosuke Matsuoka. But he couldn’t. The thought that if he were still Yoko Eto, a single email would be enough to bring them together made his frustration burn all the more. At that fact, and at himself for thinking it.

“I’ll have the ark shell miso soup, grilled rice balls, and the utsubo tataki, please.”

A man’s voice rang out nearby. Matsuoka nearly dropped his beer glass, startled. Just two seats away, with a pair of customers between them, was Hiromatsu. That spot had been empty just moments ago.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?”

The owner greeted him, and Hiromatsu leaned on the counter with his elbows, smiling faintly. It was the kind of smile that carried the weariness of someone trying to keep up appearances.

“I got transferred not long ago,” Hiromatsu explained. “My new workplace is a bit far, so I haven’t really had a chance to come by. But I had some business at headquarters today and thought I’d stop in. I’ve missed your fish.”

“Salarymen have it rough, huh,” the owner muttered with a sigh.

“I think it’s rough anywhere, really... Could I get some atsukan, too?”

Drinking alone, he poured the warm sake for himself, using the small dishes as a chaser. The person Matsuoka had been hoping for was finally right there beside him, yet he couldn’t say a word. The frustration of it made his chest tighten. If only they’d been seated side by side, he could have casually said, “We work at the same company, don’t we?” The two men separating them now felt like a ridiculous barrier.

“My, it’s been a while,” the proprietress returned, setting the miso soup and rice balls before Hiromatsu.

“You haven’t been in much lately. The last time you came, you brought a stunning woman with you. I figured she must be cooking for you these days,” she chuckled, exchanging glances with the owner.

Hiromatsu gave a sheepish smile.

“She broke up with me.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, casting her eyes downward.

"Please don’t worry about it. She was so beautiful and kind… far too good for someone like me."

Hiromatsu smiled with a quiet sense of resignation, and the proprietress gently consoled him with, “I’m sure you’ll find someone new soon.” Listening to the exchange, Matsuoka muttered internally, I didn’t dump you, though… But even if he hadn’t, what he did was functionally the same.

Still unable to bring himself to speak, the shop gradually filled up until it was at capacity, the atmosphere lively and loud. Even the sound of people’s voices became hard to make out.

"Come to think of it, Christmas is just around the corner," the proprietress said, striking up a conversation with the customer beside Hiromatsu.

“My twin grandkids were born on December twenty-fourth, so we figured birthdays and Christmas could be rolled into one. But now they say they want presents for both their birthday and Christmas. And since they're twins, that means double the gifts. It's a lot, let me tell you,” she sighed wistfully.

Then Hiromatsu joined in from beside her.

"My birthday’s on the twenty-fourth too."

The proprietress turned to him, blinking in surprise. “Oh my, what a coincidence.”

“When I was a kid, I hated having my birthday lumped in with Christmas. I mean, normally you'd get two cakes—one for each, right? But mine got combined into one. That sort of thing feels like a huge deal when you’re little.”

“Exactly,” she laughed. “My grandkids say the same thing.”

The conversation picked up with Hiromatsu, his neighbor, and the proprietress all joining in. Matsuoka kept waiting for a chance to insert himself, but it never came. Then, just like that, Hiromatsu said, “Check, please,” and stood up, making his way to the register.

After settling the bill, he smiled and thanked the proprietress—"The food was delicious"—before heading out of the shop. Matsuoka hurried to pay as well and rushed outside, but by the time he made it out, Hiromatsu's back had already become a distant figure.

He was stunned by how fast Hiromatsu walked. Back when they’d gone out together, he hadn’t struck Matsuoka as particularly quick on his feet. But now, he scurried forward like an ant, and Matsuoka only managed to catch up with him halfway to the station.

Even once he did catch up, it was hard to find the right moment to speak. Saying something from behind like, “We work at the same company, right? I saw you in the shop earlier,” felt off. And while he wavered on the timing, they arrived at the subway. Hiromatsu passed through the turnstile and descended to the platform.

He finally stopped at the train doors. Matsuoka, panting behind him, gathered his courage and called out, “Um—” But just then, the loud screech of an express train passing drowned him out with its blaring chime. After the noise faded, he tried again, a little recklessly this time. “Excuse me!”

“Yes?”

The man turned around, clearly startled. One look at his face, and Matsuoka realized how unnaturally loud his voice had been—almost like he was picking a fight.

“Can I help you?”

It was just a polite reply to being addressed, and yet Matsuoka froze. His mouth clammed up. Panic flushed through him like a current, and sweat burst across his forehead. He was in sales, someone who was supposed to be good at small talk, and yet… nothing. His mind was a perfect, terrifying blank.

“Do you… need something from me?”

Hiromatsu’s voice was calm but uncertain. Faced with the question, Matsuoka managed to force something out, straining to gather the words.

“We… we work at the same company, don’t we?”

Hiromatsu studied Matsuoka’s face for a moment, then slowly tilted his head.

“Are you with the Koishikawa Research Institute?”

“Ah—no, I’m with the head office.”

“I see…” Hiromatsu nodded politely, though it was clear from his expression that he had no idea why someone from the head office would be talking to him.

“I’m in Sales. A while back, you helped me with some copies—I don’t know if you remember… I happened to spot you at the izakaya tonight and thought, oh, that’s the guy from back then.”

From a distance came the low, rhythmic rumble of a train drawing near. The sound grew louder, and after the lead cars rushed past, the brakes finally screeched and the train came to a full stop in front of them.

“I’m sorry,” Hiromatsu said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “But I don’t… remember your face. There’s someone I know who has a similar face, but… that person’s a woman.”

The words hit with quiet precision. Matsuoka smiled through the punch, his practiced business smile sliding into place.

“No, really, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Don’t give it another thought.”

“I see… well, then…”

As Hiromatsu stepped onto the train, the doors began to close. Through the window, their eyes met. Hiromatsu gave a faint nod in acknowledgment.

Matsuoka watched the train pull away and grow distant, an emptiness opening inside his chest. If the one standing here had been Yoko Eto, he wouldn’t have gotten on that train, no matter how much you told him to.

Crossing over to the opposite platform, the one bound for his own direction, he sat on a bench and watched four trains come and go as he turned the situation over and over in his mind.

Hiromatsu had noticed the resemblance between him and Yoko Eto. But it clearly never even crossed his mind that they might be the same person.

Matsuoka clutched at his head. He had no idea how to get close to Hiromatsu now. The man had said he rarely came to that bar anymore. How was Matsuoka supposed to engineer another “coincidence”? Stake out the research institute? That place was way too far to visit regularly. Maybe he could try waiting on Hiromatsu’s route home? But they lived on completely different lines. Then what—start hanging around the convenience store near Hiromatsu’s apartment, hoping to run into him?

Even if he became a familiar face again, how long would it take to close the distance? To reach the same closeness he’d once had as Yoko Eto?

If he were Yoko Eto now, just one message—“I want to see you”—and that man would come running. Smiling, with that look that said he was genuinely happy to see him. Without hesitation. Without effort.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

No matter where he walked, Christmas songs echoed from somewhere. The whole city was on edge, buoyant and restless, as if swept up in the season’s festivity. Yosuke Matsuoka stepped onto the subway that connected directly to the department store basement, dressed in women’s clothing for the first time in a while. The white coat, trimmed in fur, had an elegant silhouette that accentuated his figure so well it made even him pause in admiration. While waiting on the platform, two men had already tried speaking to him.

It wasn’t quite rush hour, but the train was crowded enough. Aside from his handbag, he carried a paper shopping bag containing the gift he’d just bought. After a long and agonizing search, he’d settled on gloves—simple black leather, thin yet incredibly warm. Ties and clothing were too reliant on individual taste, but gloves—especially black ones—seemed like something safe, something likely to be used.

Staring out at the dull subway tunnel, Matsuoka let out what had to be the tenth sigh that day. Ever since that day at the station—when he’d called out to Motofumi Hiromatsu and failed to make any impression—he hadn’t seen his face again. Maybe their return times didn’t align, or maybe he’d just been unlucky, but even lying in wait near the man’s apartment had turned up nothing. And with his own work schedule to contend with, he couldn’t always be there at the same time. The repeated missed chances had frayed his nerves to the limit.

And now, at last, it was Christmas Eve. All he wanted was to give him the present. That was the only reason he’d dressed as a woman tonight. He just wanted to make the man happy—what happened afterward, he wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

He got off at Hiromatsu’s station and exited through the ticket gate. It was already seven in the evening, but when he checked apartment 306 on the third floor, the lights were still off. Convinced Hiromatsu hadn’t come home yet, he returned to the station and waited near the gate where passengers exited. He could’ve gone back to the apartment, but if Hiromatsu asked how he knew where he lived, there’d be no good answer. It would be safer to stage a coincidence at the station. The plan was to say, “Someone gave me this, but it turned out to be men’s gloves, so…” Giving away a gift he’d received himself might seem rude, but he didn’t want to claim he’d bought it—didn’t want to make it seem like he was expecting something in return.

Even as he told himself he needed to let go of Yoko Eto completely, when push came to shove, he was still ready to use her. He knew it was contradictory, but he couldn’t stop.

A small cheer rose from beside him. People were looking up at the sky. Snow. The chill in the air that morning had hinted at it, but he hadn’t truly believed it would fall. It was only for a moment that the romance of a literal white Christmas distracted him. As the hours wore on and the trickle of pedestrians began to slow, unease crept in. He kept telling himself Hiromatsu had to pass through here eventually—but more than two hours had passed, and there was still no sign of him. And yet, Matsuoka knew he hadn’t been home earlier. If Hiromatsu had returned, he must have taken the train.

Clinging to that certainty, Matsuoka suddenly froze. What if someone was celebrating Hiromatsu’s birthday with him? Even if it wasn’t a lover, it could be a friend. If so, he might not return until late—or perhaps he’d used some other means of transportation altogether.

With legs aching from standing, he finally hurried toward Hiromatsu’s apartment. The lights were on. He’d come home without using the train, and the realization drained the fight out of Matsuoka’s body.

There was no way to make it look like a coincidence anymore, and he was completely at a loss. If he knocked and showed his face, Hiromatsu would get his hopes up. And even if he didn’t, the mere fact that Yoko had come would probably send Hiromatsu over the moon.

He couldn’t just hang the gift bag on the doorknob and leave. Without a name, it would only cause confusion, even suspicion. Still undecided, he found himself standing in front of the door. There was an intercom, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it. He crept closer. The sound of a television filtered faintly from inside.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Time ticked by, mocking him. Finally, after much internal struggle, he took out his notebook. On a blank page, he wrote:

“This is a present — Yoko Eto.”

And that was when he heard it.

“Yoko-san?”

Hearing his name, Matsuoka turned around, startled. Standing there in a black tracksuit was Hiromatsu, a plastic convenience store bag swaying in his right hand. He had heard footsteps, but assumed the man was still inside, so he hadn't paid them any attention.

"I knew it was you, Yoko-san."

The surprise on Hiromatsu’s face melted into a smile, and just seeing it made Matsuoka’s chest thud violently.

"You knew where I lived?"

He couldn’t very well admit to having followed him before. Hastily flipping past the page on which he'd written “This is a present”, he searched for an excuse.

“I have an acquaintance who lives nearby. I happened to see you once while visiting them.”

Hiromatsu read the note and murmured, “I see.” Matsuoka held out the gift he’d been carrying.

"This is…?"

He showed him the memo that read “A present.”

“But… why?” Hiromatsu asked, prompting Matsuoka to add “For your birthday.” The man stared at the message, then looked up.

“Thank you,” he said. But though he gave his thanks, he made no move to accept the gift.

“I must have mentioned my birthday to you, huh. I really am happy. But just the thought is more than enough.”

Matsuoka bit his lip lightly and pushed the present toward him again.

“I really appreciate it, but I don’t want anything physical. Nothing material.”

When Hiromatsu still didn’t take it, Matsuoka simply hung the gift bag from the doorknob and brushed past him. But as he reached the stairs to leave, he was grabbed by the arm—so hard it hurt.

“What are you thinking?” Hiromatsu demanded, his expression desperate.

“You didn’t reply to any of my messages. I thought you were done with me, that I’d been rejected. I tried to forget you. Told myself I had to. So why now? Why are you here with a present, giving me hope again? Every time you sway like this, my emotions are yanked around like I’m on a rollercoaster. I can’t take it anymore.”

Matsuoka tried to resist the pull, but the other’s strength was far greater.

“I love you,” Hiromatsu said.

Held tight in the man’s arms, Matsuoka’s mind went blank.

“You know that, don’t you?”

He accused with words, and yet embraced him at the same time. His back began to ache. Someone’s footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and Hiromatsu seemed to snap out of it, straightening up. Still holding tightly to Matsuoka’s wrist, he picked up the bag he’d dropped at the door and fished his key from his tracksuit pocket.

A young man was climbing the stairs. He cast a glance in their direction but passed by without stopping. The moment made Matsuoka nervous. If they ended up alone in the apartment, something dangerous might happen—he had that fear.

The door opened. Matsuoka pulled to break free, but Hiromatsu drew him in with even more force. His heels wobbled, unstable on the landing, and he nearly stumbled. Still held in a firm embrace, he was pulled into the apartment.

Sensing an imminent kiss, Matsuoka turned his face away. Hiromatsu didn’t force it. Instead, he stood there, seeming at a total loss. He'd dragged Matsuoka in on impulse, but now wore the expression of a man who had no idea what to do next.

"Please come in. It’s a mess, but..."

Matsuoka had no idea how to respond to that kind of invitation under these circumstances.

“I won’t do anything.”

Perhaps sensing Matsuoka’s unease, Hiromatsu added the reassurance. His grip, like handcuffs, loosened. From here, it was all Matsuoka’s decision. If he wanted to leave, he could walk right out that door. If he wanted to stay, he could.

From deeper inside the apartment, the sound of a television blared. The slightly too-loud background noise undercut the tension in the air, making everything feel strangely anticlimactic.

Matsuoka stepped back outside for a moment. The present still hung on the doorknob. He took it, turned back around, and offered it once more. Hiromatsu didn’t smile—not even out of politeness—but with a face that looked on the verge of tears, he finally accepted it.

In the narrow entryway, Matsuoka bent down to take off his shoes. He stepped into the apartment. It was a simple eight-mat room, a futon laid out in the corner and a kotatsu in the center. It wasn’t what anyone would call stylish. The signs of someone actually living there were scattered plainly all around.

Matsuoka sat down in front of the kotatsu. As he slid his legs beneath the table, the cold that had seeped into his feet began to slowly dissipate with the spreading warmth. Hiromatsu lingered near the entryway for a while before finally stepping inside, almost sheepishly, despite it being his own apartment.

“Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, and hurriedly grabbed the mandarin peels left atop the table to toss them into the trash.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the room. As Matsuoka let his gaze roam somewhat blatantly around the space, Hiromatsu lowered his head in visible discomfort.

“Would you like some coffee or something?”

Without waiting for a reply, Hiromatsu scurried off to the small kitchen area and set a kettle on the stove. It would be a while before the water boiled, but he didn’t budge a single step from the gas burner, standing guard as though it might suddenly erupt.

“It’s just instant coffee, sorry.”

The drink he offered offhandedly had the same faint, neglected aroma as the kind served in the break room at work every afternoon. It was neither fragrant nor flavorful, but it warmed Matsuoka’s chilled body nonetheless.

“Are you… hungry at all?”

Though he’d prepared a cup for himself as well, Hiromatsu hadn’t taken a single sip. Matsuoka answered honestly, jotting down “A little,” and as soon as he passed the memo over, the man began to panic.

“I have some rice balls from the convenience store, if that’s okay?”

From the well-worn plastic bag that had been dropped and dragged along the ground, he produced rice balls, a small salad, simmered vegetables, and some boiled greens. Matsuoka was hungry, but it was clear this had been Hiromatsu’s own dinner, and he hesitated to touch it.

“Isn’t this your meal?”

When he passed the note, Hiromatsu quickly shook his head.

“It’s fine. I’m not that hungry.”

But even as he said it, a loud grumble echoed from his stomach. His face turned scarlet.

“Ah… I’ve just got an upset stomach, that’s all…”

It was such an unconvincing excuse that Matsuoka couldn’t help but suppress a sigh. Unable to take away a hungry man’s dinner, he instead wrote: “I’ll go buy something.”

The change in Hiromatsu’s expression was immediate.

“There’s no need for that! I really don’t need anything. Please, eat this.”

He clearly didn’t want Matsuoka to go out, yet made no move to go himself either. And when Matsuoka thought about it, he realized—it wasn’t that Hiromatsu didn’t want to leave the apartment, it was that he didn’t want to leave Matsuoka alone.

“Then let’s share it between us.”

He offered a compromise, but Hiromatsu continued to insist it wasn’t necessary. Ignoring him, Matsuoka divided the food cleanly in half and began eating. Eventually, after some hesitation, Hiromatsu followed suit.

After they finished, Hiromatsu busied himself clearing the table. On TV, bright Christmas illuminations lit up the screen.

“Please take a look at the present.”

Hiromatsu sat back down across from him, read the memo, and reached for the gift bag. Carefully, almost reverently, he peeled away the tape one piece at a time. When the gloves appeared from within, a natural smile broke across his lips. He traced his fingers over the leather, as if savoring its texture, then slipped them on and flexed his long fingers.

“They’re really warm. Thank you. Are you sure I can accept something this nice? They feel too good to use.”

“Please don’t say that. I want you to use them every day.”

Hiromatsu gave a quiet laugh and gently placed the gloves back into their box. With the unveiling over, silence returned to the room.

“Would you like a mandarin? They were sent from my parents back home…”

He didn’t wait for an answer before retrieving a few from a cardboard box in the corner and placing them on the table.

Truthfully, that small dinner had done little to fill him. He reached for a mandarin, intending to patch the remaining hunger. The Christmas cheer on the television still hadn’t let up. As he peeled the fruit, Matsuoka wondered when he should go home.

It wasn’t that he wanted to leave—but at the same time, he felt like he couldn’t stay too long either. After finishing half of his third mandarin, he noticed a gaze on him. Suddenly, something he’d been eating so casually became impossible to swallow.

Sensing movement across from him, Matsuoka instinctively tensed. Hiromatsu shifted to sit beside him, kneeling formally with his knees together. Matsuoka had expected him to say something, but Hiromatsu remained silent, head bowed, unable to speak for some time.

“It feels like there's a luxurious cat here that doesn’t belong in a room like mine.”

The words he finally managed to get out were vague, elusive.

“I still think it’s a mistake for you to be here.”

Despite having dragged him into the room so forcefully, Hiromatsu now sounded uncharacteristically timid. He lifted his head slowly and glanced at the clock on the wall.

“The last train leaves in thirty minutes,” he said, making Matsuoka wonder if this was his way of asking him to leave. He stood up, but then Hiromatsu, in a voice tinged with desperation, asked, “Are you really going? Do you have to leave?”

Being stopped caught Matsuoka off guard. He almost wanted to ask in return—wasn’t that what the train schedule was for, to encourage him to leave?

“If you really want to leave, I won’t stop you…”

His pitiful expression said he didn’t want him to go. Unable to read Hiromatsu’s true intentions, Matsuoka sat back down.

Hiromatsu lowered both hands to the floor and began to crawl toward him, inching closer with hesitation. Matsuoka didn’t flinch or retreat—because he saw the almost tearful look on Hiromatsu’s face. Their first kiss was clumsy—their noses bumped, but Matsuoka didn’t laugh.

 

They shared one soft, barely-there kiss. It was so childlike, it made Matsuoka’s ears burn. Then it came again. Twice, three times. On the fourth kiss, Hiromatsu reached for his hair—and Matsuoka, startled, jerked backward. The man’s face clouded at once with hurt.

He moved to the memo pad on the kotatsu and quickly scrawled, “I don’t like people touching my hair.” But before he could even show it, he felt a presence at his back—and then arms wrapped around him, pulling him close in an embrace.

A gasp almost escaped. The heat pressing against his back, the strength of the arms crossing at his stomach, made it impossible to move. He was trapped between Hiromatsu’s legs, utterly enveloped.

A damp kiss touched the side of his neck. It was more like a bite than a kiss, and it didn’t hurt as much as it sent a jolt straight through his chest. The hands crossed at his belly started to slide upward, rising slowly toward his ribs. Panicked, Matsuoka scribbled “No.” But then the hands changed course, slipping down along his hips to his thighs, fingertips teasing the line of his leg.

Matsuoka caught the wandering hand and held it tight.

Once he had gestured “No,” Hiromatsu never touched him that way again. But he hadn’t said no to kissing—so they kissed again, and again.

Their gazes met like lovers’. He wasn’t even that handsome, but as Matsuoka stared into those eyes, he found himself thinking Hiromatsu looked incredibly attractive. It made him dizzy to realize how much he was getting swept away by his own delusion.

“It’s past midnight,” the man murmured. “The last train’s gone.”

Even if it was, he could still go home by taxi if he wanted to. Whether the last train had left or not didn’t matter. But when Hiromatsu said it like that, it felt like the option had vanished.

“Stay with me until morning.”

The arms around him squeezed tighter.

“I won’t do anything. Just… until morning.”

Matsuoka exhaled slowly. Maybe not until morning, but at least for a little longer—until Hiromatsu’s heart was satisfied—he wanted to stay.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Matsuoka woke around six in the morning—still that dim, early hour of dawn—and found himself nestled in Hiromatsu’s arms. The blanket draped over him was heavy and smelled of Hiromatsu. Despite sleeping on the tatami floor, he hadn't felt cold. That was probably because Hiromatsu had held him close the entire time. Even when Matsuoka shifted, the man showed no signs of waking.

Rising halfway, Matsuoka reached out and touched Hiromatsu’s cheek. The roughness of his stubble sent a slow heat blooming through his groin. Something about the man made him feel unbearably tender, and he leaned in to kiss his cheek. If he says he won’t do anything, he really won’t. A man over thirty, holding the woman he likes all night without laying a hand on her. That sincerity made Matsuoka ache with affection.

After kissing him one more time, he stood and picked up his handbag. He left a small note by the futon—I’m going home—and quietly headed to the door. But behind him, a flurry of motion broke the stillness. Hiromatsu, eyes still drowsy, chased after him in a panic.

“Yoko-san!”

His hair was a tousled mess, his eyelids heavy and swollen.

“A-Are you… leaving?”

Matsuoka nodded. When Hiromatsu drooped his shoulders in disappointment, he gently took his right hand and wrote on his palm:

The trains are already running.

“But…”

You have work too, don’t you?

“I do, but…”

Even though they both knew they had work, Hiromatsu still couldn’t bring himself to let him go.

“When can I see you again?” he asked. “When will you meet me next?”

Matsuoka couldn’t give him an answer right away.

“Can I still send you emails? Can I call you?”

He nodded. Then, slipping forward without a word, Matsuoka wound his arms around Hiromatsu’s neck and embraced him—offering a kiss so natural, so tender, it might’ve been exchanged between true lovers.

Hiromatsu looked like he couldn’t believe it. Stunned, lips parted in wonder, his expression bloomed with such pure joy that Matsuoka could see it clearly—could feel his own chest swell and tremble in response.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Less than three minutes after Matsuoka left Hiromatsu’s apartment, his phone chimed with a new message.

It was the best birthday ever. That’s all it said.

As he read it, another one came in.

Since you left, I’ve been trying to get ready for work, but I can’t do anything at all.

And then: All I do is think about you. We just said goodbye, but already all I can think about is when I’ll see you again.

Three messages in rapid succession, and then a brief pause.

By the time Matsuoka reached the station, he had unconsciously walked into the men’s restroom. A middle-aged man already inside shot him a startled look. Only then did he remember—he was still in full female attire. Flustered, he darted out and rushed into the women’s. After relieving himself, he went to wash his hands, and when he looked up at the mirror, the reflection staring back at him made his stomach twist.

His foundation had started to separate, leaving an oily film across his skin, and the lipstick had completely worn off. What stared back at him was a face dangerously close to his own bare one. When he touched the bottom of his chin, he could feel the faint grit of stubble. No matter how light his body hair was, it wasn’t nonexistent. They’d kissed so many times. Had Hiromatsu really not noticed anything?

He quickly touched up his makeup and stepped back out. But even with his makeup retouched, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might still notice the stubble along his jawline. He kept his head down as he walked.

On the platform, surrounded by students in school uniforms, a fourth message came in from Hiromatsu.

I was so happy to spend time with you. But how about you? Did you only stay with me because I begged you to?

Matsuoka started typing That’s not true... when the next message arrived.

I love you.

And again, with barely time to breathe:

I’m so completely in love with you, I can’t stand it.

Matsuoka could picture exactly what kind of face he must be making as he typed those words. It wasn’t hard to imagine at all.

I love you too.

That’s what he wrote. That’s what he sent. He made a conscious decision, just for now, not to think about the consequences—neither what had happened nor what might lie ahead. He just wanted to tell the truth: that he loved him too.

What he didn’t realize at the time was that in that moment, when it came to love, he’d already become the weaker one.

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