Utsukushii Koto: Volume 1 - Part 7

The content warning is in the footnotes⁰.

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On the night he revealed the truth, aside from the one phone call Matsuoka had made, there had been no contact from Hiromatsu.

The next day came and went with not even a single message. Matsuoka considered calling again, but remembering how shaken Hiromatsu had been when they last spoke, he feared reaching out might only further disturb him—and so, he endured.

Two days passed. Then three. And as time dragged on, anxiety crept in. After all, the only reason Matsuoka had finally summoned the courage to speak the truth was because Hiromatsu had said, “Even if you're an old woman or a child, I’d still love you.” But now, Hiromatsu’s behavior was nothing like what he’d imagined.

On the fourth day, unable to take it any longer, Matsuoka sent an email. It was innocuous—“It was cold this morning, wasn’t it?”—but even that received no reply.

On the fifth day, around eight in the evening, he called. Ten rings, and no answer. He waited another thirty minutes and tried again, only to be redirected straight to voicemail. It felt like Hiromatsu had seen who was calling and deliberately ignored him. The thought was both hurtful and infuriating. He sent another message: “Are you not picking up on purpose?” He thought surely that would provoke a response—but there was nothing.

On the sixth day, Matsuoka intentionally scheduled his final sales visit near the Koishikawa Research Center. After calling the office to report he’d go straight home after work, he made his way straight there. It was past six, the reception desk was empty, and snow had begun to fall gently outside the entrance as he waited. When a man who looked like an employee exited the building, Matsuoka asked, “Is Hiromatsu-san from General Affairs still inside?” and the man casually replied, “Yeah, he’s still there.” Knowing for certain he would see him, the cold no longer bothered Matsuoka.

A little after 7 PM, Matsuoka heard someone approaching. The man wore a shabby coat and had a strange cowlick in the back of his hair—there was no doubt it was Hiromatsu.

“Good evening,” Matsuoka called.

Hiromatsu stopped in his tracks, and once he realized who it was, his expression twisted into something unmistakably troubled. That face alone hurt—but Matsuoka pretended not to notice and stepped closer.

“I tried emailing, but you haven’t replied. You wouldn’t pick up my calls either.”

Hiromatsu looked down and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“I just want to know what you’re thinking. I wanted some kind of reaction, anything.”

He apologized again. And again. But never followed it with anything concrete.

“I think we need to talk this out properly. Do you have some time now?”

Hiromatsu glanced at his watch and murmured faintly, “The bus…”

“You’re saying you can’t talk to me because you have a bus to catch?”

“No, that’s not it. It’s just, this area doesn’t have good public transport, and taxis almost never come around…”

“Then I’ll take the bus too. I’ll ride it partway.”

Matsuoka snapped, his words cold and clipped. Hiromatsu winced.

“But…”

“I’ll take the bus to somewhere near your place. Isn’t that more convenient for you?”

Matsuoka’s tone was relentless, leaving Hiromatsu no room to object. They walked in silence to the nearest bus stop, where—by chance—a bus had just arrived. Given what Hiromatsu had said about the schedule, it seemed to be the last of the day, and unsurprisingly, it was packed. They stood close at first, but as the crowd shifted, they were separated.

Hiromatsu spent the ride staring out the window. Not once did he look back. After about thirty minutes, they got off. From where they stood, Matsuoka could already see Hiromatsu’s apartment complex.

“Shall we go to a café or something?” Hiromatsu finally asked, in a voice as uncertain as a question.

“I’m hungry, so I’d like to get something to eat.”

“Then there’s a family restaurant nearby. We can go there.”

He didn’t need directions. He already knew the place—he’d been there with Hiromatsu, back when he was still Yoko Eto.

As they made their way to the restaurant, they had started walking side by side, but before long, Matsuoka found himself ahead. Even when he slowed down, Hiromatsu didn’t catch up. Thinking back to the times they used to walk hand-in-hand, the distance between them now felt impossibly vast.

They entered the restaurant, and Matsuoka ordered the ginger pork set while Hiromatsu chose grilled fish. Even seated across from one another, Hiromatsu refused to meet his gaze. He kept his head down or turned slightly to the side.

"Is it still hard for you to accept that Yoko Eto is me?"

At last, Hiromatsu looked at him. His lips were pressed into a shallow line.

"It’s not a matter of accepting or not accepting. It’s a fact, and I understand that."

In these six days, it seemed he’d come to terms with it—at least on some level. And yet, the way he said “It’s a fact, so there’s no helping it” rubbed Matsuoka the wrong way.

"I'm not the type to complain after the fact, but when I sent you emails, I did hope for some kind of response."

"I'm sorry," Hiromatsu apologized.

"And the phone, too. Instead of just avoiding it like that, it would've been better if you'd said clearly, ‘I don’t want to hear your voice right now.’"

"I'm sorry..." he repeated again, in the same lifeless tone. Matsuoka didn’t feel the slightest sincerity behind the words. It sounded like an apology by reflex.

"Do you hate me now?"

He asked directly. At that, Hiromatsu’s head gave the slightest shake.

"It’s not about like or hate—it’s not that simple."

"But isn’t it? Isn’t it just one or the other?"

Hiromatsu lifted his head.

"I don’t understand you."

“What do you mean, you don’t understand?”

“I don’t understand why you dressed like a woman, or why you kept lying to me. Or why, in that last message, you said you loved me…”

Their food arrived, cutting off the conversation for a moment. With Hiromatsu already eating, Matsuoka couldn’t keep talking, so he picked up his chopsticks as well. Just a little while ago he’d been starving, but now the words Hiromatsu had spoken had taken away his appetite.

“…The way you use chopsticks…”

Hiromatsu muttered. Matsuoka looked up.

"The way you hold your chopsticks, the way you eat—it's just like Yoko-san."

Hearing Yoko again stung. He had already told him—Yoko never existed. And still, Hiromatsu kept looking for traces of her in his movements.

Feeling as though he was being watched for anything but himself, Matsuoka lost his remaining appetite and left most of his food untouched. When Hiromatsu finished, he asked, “Are you done?” Matsuoka nodded. Without waiting, Hiromatsu stood up and said, “Shall we go?”

“We haven’t finished talking.”

“I don’t think this is the right place to talk,” he replied quietly. True enough—it wasn’t the kind of place where two men could comfortably discuss love or cross-dressing. Matsuoka stood as well and followed him out. On the walk to Hiromatsu’s apartment, they exchanged no words.

The apartment looked the same as always, and yet, with Hiromatsu’s timid attitude, it somehow felt different. Matsuoka sat down at the kotatsu, but the awkwardness made it impossible to settle in.

He wanted a drink, maybe some tea, but Hiromatsu didn’t offer anything. When he’d been Yoko, he would’ve fussed—“Would you like tea? Coffee?”—nagging about it until Matsuoka caved. That memory only made the silence sting more.

Hiromatsu took off his coat and sat across from him, but didn’t slide his legs under the kotatsu.

“In the restaurant, I said I couldn’t understand you, and that still sums it up.”

“You mean the cross-dressing?”

Hiromatsu gave a hesitant nod.

“As for that, I can sort of wrap my head around it. There are people with those hobbies, after all. But what I don’t get is your attitude…”

“What about it?”

Hiromatsu’s hands clenched again in his lap.

“I thought you were a woman. So I approached you like one, with everything I had. But you… you must’ve seen this ending from the start. So why didn’t you just reject me when I said I liked you?”

Matsuoka thought it was unfair for Hiromatsu to say this now, considering it was Hiromatsu who insisted he didn’t mind, even when Yoko hinted that she liked someone else.

“You tried to push me away at first, sure. But then you came back. You were kind to me again. I thought it meant our feelings had connected. I was so happy. But…”

"I know I was wrong. But I just… couldn’t bring myself to say it."

"Did you really think I wouldn’t be shocked to find out you were a man? I’ve never had someone I liked feel the same way before. I was over the moon. I was seriously thinking about marrying you, about getting a house, how many kids we might have… Don’t you realize how ridiculous that makes me?"

His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the anger behind Hiromatsu’s words.

"If you knew it would come to this, why did you kiss me? You looked at me like you really loved me. You clung to me. You said you loved me, remember?"

Matsuoka bit down on his lip.

"I did say it."

"Was it just a joke to you? Were you having fun, leading me on?"

"Of course not!"

"But you said it yourself—you’re not transgender or gay. So how could you have romantic feelings for me? If that’s true, then those words of love were all lies, weren’t they?"

All the unanswered texts, the silence on the phone… it finally sank in that it had all been Hiromatsu’s anger, manifesting. His anger at being deceived, at Matsuoka being a man.

"I know what kind of person you are, Hiromatsu-san. You think I’d toy with your feelings?"

"But you—"

"My feelings," Matsuoka cut in, voice raised, "Everything I wrote in that email before I confessed—it was all true. I never lied. Yeah, I wore women’s clothes, but I never wanted to be a woman. And I’m never going to do it again. I’ve never been attracted to men. That’s why… you’re special."

They both fell silent, staring down at their laps.

"You say you're not into men, but somehow I’m the exception? That’s just too convenient to believe."

It didn’t even sound like a question. More like Hiromatsu was talking to himself.

"Before I told you I was a man, you said in your email that even if I were an old woman or a child, you’d still love me. That’s why I decided to tell you the truth."

Hiromatsu buried his head in his hands. Matsuoka knew it might sound like emotional blackmail, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.

"I really did mean that when I wrote it. I believed it then. But…"

Matsuoka felt a tremor in his chest, afraid of what would follow. The silence stretched on. Hiromatsu never raised his head, and Matsuoka was forced to confront just how naïve his hopes had been. How distant the reality was.

"Let’s start over. From scratch."

That was all he could say.

"Yoko Eto never existed. Let’s begin from there."

Still, no response.

"…Say something."

After a pause, all Hiromatsu offered was a listless, "Whatever." They sat in silence, facing each other. But it became harder and harder for Matsuoka to speak into that void, that wall of non-response.

"I’m going home," he said, standing.

Hiromatsu looked up. He was watching, but said nothing.

"I’ll call or message again," Matsuoka added. He wanted to say, You don’t have to reply right away, but the words caught in his throat. He was afraid—afraid that if he gave Hiromatsu permission not to reply, he truly wouldn’t.

"See you."

He stepped out and shut the door behind him, and the sound of it closing nearly made him cry.

Back when he was Yoko, Hiromatsu never let him walk to the station alone. Even if Matsuoka insisted he was fine, Hiromatsu always came along. Sometimes he’d even escort him all the way back to the apartment building.

The change in his attitude was shocking. But Matsuoka forced himself to accept it. Surely, this was the worst of it. From here on, things could only get better. Yoko and he were the same person. Just different on the outside. If they kept seeing each other, Hiromatsu would come to realize that. Matsuoka had to believe that.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Matsuoka sent two messages a day—one in the morning, and one at night. Hiromatsu replied to only one of them, and even that felt more like a response made out of obligation than genuine engagement. He tried calling sometimes too, but Hiromatsu would fall into silence, and the conversation wouldn’t last. Matsuoka convinced himself it was just because Hiromatsu was a poor conversationalist, reciting the thought like a mantra. When Hiromatsu’s already terse replies seemed even colder than usual, Matsuoka would feel his mood darken—but even then, he never thought of stopping the messages. He knew all too well that if he stopped, their connection would vanish entirely.

They became nothing more than occasional emails and even rarer phone calls. Around mid-March, two weeks into that tenuous rhythm, there was a day Hiromatsu didn’t message at all. It made Matsuoka worry—this was someone who had messaged him daily, without fail. But he restrained himself. Calling just because of one missed message felt like overstepping.

A message did come the next evening. Matsuoka felt relief—until the next day came and went with no new message. Then one again. Slowly, the interval between messages stretched from every other day to every third. It began to feel inevitable, as though he were being slowly phased out.

Panicked, Matsuoka started crafting messages that required a response. Sure enough, Hiromatsu always replied—but when he didn’t, the silence began again.

Unable to bear it, Matsuoka invited Hiromatsu out to eat. Let’s grab dinner—it’s been a while. Ever since he'd shown up at Hiromatsu’s workplace back in late February, they hadn’t seen each other even once.

Every time he asked, Hiromatsu declined: I’ll be working late, or I’m busy. But on the fifth invitation, he finally relented: I’ll come.

Matsuoka was simple that way—just getting to see Hiromatsu again made him happy. He chose a familiar place, a casual izakaya near headquarters where they used to go often. He figured Hiromatsu would feel comfortable there.

They arranged to meet at seven in front of the station. Small cherry trees were blooming gently in the planters nearby, their blossoms delicate and soft. Many of the people passing by wore ill-fitting suits—new employees, no doubt. Matsuoka arrived fifteen minutes early. Hiromatsu, on the other hand, was fifteen minutes late.

“Sorry,” he said, meeting Matsuoka’s eyes. “The bus was late…”

He didn’t sound out of breath. His hair wasn’t out of place. The walk from the bus stop was a decent stretch. Matsuoka realized he hadn’t run, even knowing he was late—but it wasn’t worth scolding. Not tonight.

There were details that stuck out, things that bothered him, but more than anything, Matsuoka was happy just to see Hiromatsu’s face again. Even so, it was clear he wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He looked like someone dragged along by guilt or obligation. But Matsuoka didn’t let it crush him.

“Shall we?” he said lightly.

Matsuoka didn’t mind that Hirosue walked behind him. He convinced himself that walking side by side with another man might seem strange. Besides, once they reached the restaurant, they'd have to face each other, so the loneliness of walking alone was only temporary.

At the restaurant, they were shown to a table, not the counter, thanks to Matsuoka’s reservation. When Matsuoka realized it was the same table where he and Hiromatsu had sat when they first came here while Matsuoka was dressed as Yoko, he inwardly regretted it. The restaurant was nearly full, so asking to change seats would have been unreasonable.

The awkwardness was tangible. Matsuoka sat in the same seat as before, and watched as Hiromatsu’s expression darkened even further. He nearly wilted under the weight of that silence, but forced himself to smile and stay upbeat.

“What are you in the mood for? The fish here was really good, right? Get whatever you like.”

Hiromatsu barely glanced at the menu before murmuring, “I’m not really in the mood for fish today.”

“Ah, okay, then maybe something else. The stewed offal’s good, or the rolled omelette? I’ll get the salad—I want the baby sardine one. And for drinks?”

Hiromatsu muttered, “I’ll have a beer.” After placing their orders, the drinks and small appetizers arrived first. They exchanged a glance—just that, no clinking of glasses—and each took a sip.

Hiromatsu set his beer down without so much as a glance toward Matsuoka, let alone a word. He kept his face slightly turned away, giving no indication he intended to start any sort of conversation.

“Things must be busy at the research institute too, what with the fiscal year-end and all?” Matsuoka tried a neutral topic.

“Yes. I only transferred there last year, so I can't really say how tough it is,” Hiromatsu replied.

“I see. But it’s rough, right? All the year-end stuff comes back to bite you at once. I’ve been scraping through my monthly quotas okay, but when I look at the others, I can tell it’s tough. Employers are harsher than ever these days.”

Hiromatsu gave a nod that seemed more like a courtesy than agreement.

“In sales, even when we land a deal and feel good about it, there’s rarely that deep sense of accomplishment. I mean, we’re just selling what’s already made. I get that it’s important work, but still.”

He sneaked a glance upward, hoping to catch some kind of engagement. “In that sense, I imagine the research side must feel more rewarding, like you're actually creating something.”

“I’m just an admin assistant,” Hiromatsu replied flatly, brushing off the compliment with ease.

“Maybe, but watching the researchers do their thing—doesn’t it ever get to you?”

“Not really,” he muttered, and took another drink.

“I started in sales, so all I know is how to sell things. But lately I’ve been thinking, maybe I’d have liked doing research more.”

It was nine parts Matsuoka talking, one part Hiromatsu. No matter what topic he brought up, the responses were sparse and uninspired. Matsuoka could tell Hiromatsu wasn’t trying to engage at all, but so long as they sat face to face, he couldn’t bear to let the silence win.

“So, has the research department brought in any new people this April?”

“Probably…”

“Mostly grad students from universities and stuff?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve never heard?”

Hiromatsu sighed heavily—so heavy it practically said enough already without using words.

“I don’t talk about academic backgrounds with people at the institute. …Mind if I eat something?”

“Ah, yeah, go ahead.”

There was something off about the way he said it, though. Matsuoka hadn’t been talking about credentials; he was just making conversation.

He took a bite of the motsu stew that had gone a bit cold while they talked. It tasted exactly as it always had, but somehow he couldn’t find it delicious this time.

“Ah, sorry—we’re full up right now,” said the shop owner somewhere nearby. Matsuoka looked up and instantly regretted it. Standing there was none other than Fukuda, Hiromatsu’s former supervisor and Matsuoka’s peer.

Oh god, he thought, looking away.

“Yo, Matsuoka?” Fukuda spotted him instantly. There was no ignoring it now.

The man sauntered over with casual entitlement. “Didn’t know you knew this place.”

He glanced at Hiromatsu and gave a lazy nod. Hiromatsu returned it with a small bow.

“Been a while.”

“Yeah, same to you.”

Then Fukuda turned back to Matsuoka. “Hey, listen.”

“My girl really wanted to try this place—she saw it online or something. Said it’s a hidden gem with amazing food. Think we could share the table?”

Matsuoka hesitated. He’d wanted tonight to be just the two of them. But before he could speak, Hiromatsu chimed in.

“I don’t mind.”

“Oh yeah? Thanks, man. I’ll go grab her.”

Fukuda returned with a woman Matsuoka didn’t recognize—not Okabayashi. Must be a new girlfriend. She was absurdly pretty, the kind of cute you only saw on pop idols.

“Sorry for barging in.”

The girl smiled brightly at Matsuoka and Hiromatsu as she sat down beside them. She was charming and personable, and her easy smile only made the situation more awkward. The addition of another person made Hiromatsu even less talkative, while Fukuda and his girlfriend, seemingly still in the early stages of their relationship, laughed easily over the most trivial of things.

“So hey,” Fukuda said, turning to them during a lull when the girl was focused on her food. “I’ve been meaning to ask—what exactly is the relationship between you and Hiromatsu-san? I mean, you’re not in the same department anymore.”

There was no way Matsuoka could say we used to meet when I was in women’s clothing, so he made something up on the spot.

“I swing by Koishikawa now and then for sales calls. That’s how we got to know each other.”

“Koishikawa’s like, what, forty minutes from HQ, right?”

Fukuda turned toward Hiromatsu now.

“If you’re able to come all the way out here after work, does that mean you finish up pretty early?”

Hiromatsu, perhaps out of politeness, didn’t ignore the question. “Compared to when I was in General Affairs, yes, maybe a little earlier.”

Fukuda grinned like he’d been waiting for that answer. “Man, lucky you. Must be nice over at the institute—shorter hours, less hectic. I’d totally switch if I could.”

Fukuda could say things he didn’t believe with absolute ease. Even though he was the one who’d manipulated things to get Hiromatsu transferred to Koishikawa, he had the nerve to speak like that.

“Well then, Sales has its perks too, right? Like being able to slack off whenever you want.”

Fukuda’s girlfriend perked up. “Is that true? Sales is like that?”

“Totally,” Fukuda said, full of it. “It’s basically free time all day.”

Matsuoka bit back the urge to correct him and forced a grin instead.

“Maybe you should come join Sales. Year-end’s rough, but other than that it’s easy.”

Fukuda looked vaguely pleased. “I dunno… I am a General Affairs section chief, after all.”

“You’d do fine in Sales,” Matsuoka said lightly, buttering him up. If by some stroke of fate Fukuda actually transferred to Sales, he’d be gasping under the weight of monthly quotas in no time. Serves him right.

While Fukuda rambled, Matsuoka’s gaze drifted across the table and noticed Hiromatsu’s beer glass was empty.

“Hiromatsu-san, want another drink?”

When the other man quietly replied “Beer,” Matsuoka flagged a server to order. Only after did he notice how red Hiromatsu’s face was. Maybe it was time to slow down, but it was only the third drink, and Matsuoka chose not to say anything.

“So,” Fukuda went on, as if to drive the knife in, “didn’t you used to have a girlfriend, Hiromatsu-san? Tall, pale, really elegant-looking.”

The moment Fukuda brought up her, Matsuoka’s stomach dropped. But Hiromatsu replied with unexpected sharpness.

“No.”

“She was all anyone talked about after your farewell party. People were wondering how you met her and everything.”

“She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

Fukuda tilted his head. “Oh, really? Guess that makes sense. She was almost too pretty. Like, kind of unreal next to you.”

It was an uncalled-for comment, but Hiromatsu didn’t even flinch.

“Well, even if she wasn’t your girlfriend, you knew her, right?”

“Yes. But I got turned down. So I’d rather not talk about it.”

Matsuoka didn’t miss the way Fukuda smiled smugly at that.

“Guess you aimed a little too high, huh?”

“Maybe I did,” Hiromatsu replied evenly.

The table might’ve looked lively from the outside, but the truth was only Fukuda was talking. Hiromatsu only responded when spoken to, and Matsuoka was barely keeping up with nods and polite smiles.

“Another round for me. I’ll take some Kikuzui this time.”

When Matsuoka glanced at Hiromatsu’s hand, the beer he had just ordered was already empty. His ears were flushed red. Matsuoka watched as Hiromatsu tried twice to pick up a piece of pickled vegetable with his chopsticks—and missed both times.

“You sure you should be drinking that much?”

He asked quietly, but there was no sign Hiromatsu had heard him—no answer, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Then the chilled sake that had just been placed in front of him was gone in one gulp, before Matsuoka could stop him.

“Um, I’ll have another of the same,” Hiromatsu said, calling to a passing server.

“I really think you should stop. Tomorrow’s not a day off. If you get a hangover, it’s going to be rough.”

Hiromatsu lifted his head.

“If I’m miserable with a hangover tomorrow, what does that matter to you, Matsuoka-san?”

The coldness in his voice left Matsuoka speechless. Fukuda, who’d overheard the exchange, stepped in with a quick “Hey, come on now.”

“That’s no way to speak. Matsuoka’s just worried about you.”

Hiromatsu offered a stiff, empty-sounding “Right” in response, then tossed back the next glass of sake like it was water. The alcohol was clearly taking its toll. His hands slipped, and the empty glass clattered to the floor.

“Ah—”

Luckily, it didn’t break. As Hiromatsu leaned back to retrieve it, his balance gave way and he swayed heavily, collapsing against Fukuda.

“Geez, Hiromatsu-san, what’re you doing getting this drunk?”

Fukuda scowled, his irritation no longer hidden.

“S-sorry…”

Even as he apologized, Hiromatsu’s body continued to sway like he was on a boat. It was painful to watch. Matsuoka stood up and came around the table to Hiromatsu’s side.

“Hiromatsu-san, can you come with me?”

Hiromatsu glanced at him briefly but made no move. He kept listing sideways, once again leaning into Fukuda, who grumbled, “You’re heavy.”

Matsuoka took hold of the staggering man and half-pulled him toward the aisle.

“He’s really drunk. We’ll be heading out.”

Fukuda looked relieved and waved lazily. “Yeah, alright. See you.”

Matsuoka guided Hiromatsu to a bench near the register and sat him down. After settling the bill for them both, he wrapped an arm around Hiromatsu’s shoulders—despite the man clearly bristling at his touch—and steered him out of the restaurant.

“I can… walk by myself…”

Even as he insisted, Hiromatsu swayed like he was dancing. Matsuoka ignored the slurred protest and kept a firm grip as they slowly made their way forward.

Hiromatsu’s drunken weight dragged heavily against him. Matsuoka prayed they would hit a major road soon, where he might catch a cab. But just as the thought crossed his mind, the man he was supporting suddenly let out a guttural, queasy noise.

He was pale and clamped a hand over his mouth. Alarmed, Matsuoka rushed him toward a roadside patch of shrubs, where Hiromatsu bent forward and vomited.

Over and over, he retched violently, and Matsuoka stayed by his side, gently rubbing his back until he finally slumped forward, nothing left to come up.

He led the exhausted man to the steps of a five-story building and sat him down before going in search of a vending machine. He returned with a bottle of water.

“Here. Rinse your mouth.”

Hiromatsu took it, stumbled back to the bushes, and did as told—then simply crouched down again, unmoving. Matsuoka gathered him up once more and dragged him back to the steps where they’d be out of the way.

“Still feeling sick?”

He sat beside him and asked softly. A quiet “a little…” came in reply. If they took a cab now, the movement would probably make Hiromatsu throw up again. Matsuoka decided to let him rest until he was steadier.

Hiromatsu slowly stretched out on the stairs, seemingly indifferent to getting his clothes dirty. Matsuoka couldn’t help but wonder whether he had a spare suit for work the next day.

“…You’re someone who can lie without blinking, aren’t you.”

The words came quietly, almost a murmur. Matsuoka turned his head.

 

 

 

"You lied to Fukuda, didn’t you? Told him you’d come to Koishikawa on business and that’s how we got to know each other.”

Matsuoka bit down hard on his lower lip, stunned by the sudden accusation.

“I had no choice. What was I supposed to say? That I got to know you while cross-dressing?”

“A lie is still a lie, whether it’s small or big.”

The way Hiromatsu clung to that detail grated on Matsuoka’s nerves.

“So what, you think I should’ve told the truth? That I was cross-dressing and deserved to be ridiculed by him and despised for it?!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then don’t tell me not to lie!”

Matsuoka’s shout rang out through the night. Hiromatsu clutched his head in both hands and said nothing. A heavy silence fell between them. Matsuoka clamped his lips together and kept his eyes fixed on the steady flow of headlights cutting through the darkness along the main road.

“…I didn’t want to go to work today.”

Hiromatsu, who’d been so quiet it seemed he might’ve fallen asleep sitting there, suddenly spoke.

“Knowing I had to meet you tonight, the whole day felt heavy.”

Something twisted sharply deep in Matsuoka’s chest.

“I kept wondering why I had to meet you at all when I didn’t want to see your face, didn’t want to talk to you. I wanted to stop replying to your messages, but you kept sending them…”

Matsuoka had sensed from the start that Hiromatsu wasn’t enthusiastic about seeing him. But hearing it said outright still stung.

“Then… what, do you hate me?”

Hiromatsu didn’t answer.

“If you hate me, then say so. Just say it clearly.”

The silence, the refusal to answer—it felt to Matsuoka like avoidance, like cowardice, and it frustrated him.

“Say it! Just say it already!”

Hiromatsu flinched and shook his head as if annoyed, then slowly stood. He was still swaying slightly, but perhaps having thrown up had sobered him a little—he was at least walking on his own now.

“I’m going home.”

He staggered toward the curb, raised a hand, and tried to flag down a cab.

“You’re just gonna walk off after saying all that?” Matsuoka snapped.

“Please leave me alone.”

A taxi, blinking its turn signal, slowed to a stop in front of him. Hiromatsu slipped inside as though fleeing. Matsuoka didn’t hesitate—he got in after him and dropped into the seat beside him.

“Your place is in the opposite direction,” Hiromatsu said wearily.

“We’re not finished talking.”

Their bickering prompted the driver to glance back with an exasperated scowl. “Are we going or not?”

“Yes,” Matsuoka answered firmly, and the cab pulled away from the curb.

“To Sambashi Station, on the Hikaridai Line,” he added, giving the name of Hiromatsu’s nearest station.

Hiromatsu sighed and looked out the window, visibly defeated. In less than five minutes, he was asleep. As the taxi curved along a bend, he slumped sideways, head landing on Matsuoka’s shoulder. From there, he slid further down, until he was sound asleep with his head in Matsuoka’s lap.

His unguarded sleeping face, the warm weight on his thigh—it all stirred a strange mix of fondness and frustration inside Matsuoka.

By the time they reached the apartment, Hiromatsu still hadn’t stirred. Matsuoka paid the fare and shook him gently until his eyes opened halfway. Dazed, he fumbled for his wallet.

“The fare’s already paid, would you please get out?” the driver said tersely.

Hiromatsu climbed out with sluggish movements and tried to hand Matsuoka the money anyway, but Matsuoka shook his head.

“I don’t care about the money. I want to talk to you, Hiromatsu-san.”

Standing on the roadside, Matsuoka stared at him with unwavering resolve. Hiromatsu averted his eyes and, saying nothing, began walking toward the apartment. Matsuoka followed. The pace of Hiromatsu’s steps as he climbed the stairs was noticeably slower than usual, a clear remnant of his lingering intoxication.

When they entered the apartment, Hiromatsu went straight to the kitchen and bent over the sink, gulping down water straight from the faucet. He let out a long breath, then moved deeper into the room. Stripping off his suit jacket, he sank down against the wall, his back slouched, as though he barely had the strength to hold himself upright.

Matsuoka stood in front of him, looking down. It was painfully clear now—Hiromatsu genuinely didn't want him there. If he hated him, that was fine. It couldn’t be helped. But if he did, then Matsuoka needed to know why. Without a reason, he couldn’t make peace with it.

“Tell me why.”

Hiromatsu’s head dropped lower.

“Tell me why I’m not good enough!”

Frustrated by the stubborn silence, Matsuoka lowered himself to his knees to meet Hiromatsu at eye level and grabbed his shoulders. Hiromatsu, still avoiding eye contact, muttered in a tone that reeked of weary exasperation:

“You’re a man.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut—brutal, unfiltered, and final. Matsuoka’s blood surged to his head. He slammed a fist against the tatami floor with a loud thud. Everything he'd been holding down boiled over in an instant.

“Yeah, I’m a man. That’s why—that’s why before I told you the truth, I asked you over and over. I asked if it would matter if I was a child, or old, or anything else. You said it wouldn’t. You said you’d love me regardless. That’s why I told you. Because I believed you!”

Hiromatsu finally lifted his face. His eyes, dull and clouded, locked onto Matsuoka’s.

“But you lied to me.”

The way he said it, like it was a verdict, made Matsuoka clench his fists in bitter frustration.

“I’ve apologized a hundred times for lying. But you lied too. You said you could love me no matter what—and the second you found out I was a guy, your whole attitude changed.”

Hiromatsu clutched his head with both hands, fingers raking roughly through his hair as he slowly shook his head.

“I didn’t mean to lie. Back then, I truly believed I could love you, no matter what you’d done, no matter who you were. But… I never imagined you were a man.”

Matsuoka placed a hand on his chest and crawled forward, as if trying to close the emotional distance between them.

“I’m both Yoko Eto and Yosuke Matsuoka. My feelings for you, Hiromatsu-san, are real. They’ve never changed.”

For a moment, Hiromatsu met his gaze—but then he looked away.

“No.”

“They haven’t! Yoko Eto was just a disguise—this is who I really am!”

But Hiromatsu only shook his head, more firmly this time.

“You say she was fake. But to me, she’s the one who felt real. She was beautiful, like a doll. She smiled so gently. She couldn’t speak, but… in my heart, she was the one who existed.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor again.

“I said I’d love her no matter what. That even knowing the truth, it wouldn’t change how I felt. But… in the end, I can’t love you the way I loved her.”

Matsuoka clenched his molars so tightly it hurt. If Hiromatsu couldn’t love him, he wanted to ask—no, demand—Did you at least try? Did you even try to love me? The bitterness simmered, close to boiling over.

“It doesn’t matter if you say you’re the same on the inside. I can’t,” Hiromatsu said, his voice steady but low. “It’s not because I was drawn to her appearance. And it’s not just that I can’t love you because you’re a man. That’s not an excuse—it’s the truth. I didn’t mean to lie. I just… didn’t think my feelings would change.”

Liar, Matsuoka wanted to scream. He wanted to hurl it in his face. You said you loved me. That’s why I told you. That’s why I believed I could say it.

He knew how fickle people’s hearts could be. He knew they changed, cooled, drifted. But even so, he’d believed—he’d truly believed—that this man would be different.

“So you’re saying it’s because I’m a man.”

Hiromatsu looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Matsuoka thought. If it was that simple—because I’m a man—then how could he ever make someone turn around when, no matter how many messages he sent, how many times they talked, how many meals they shared, the other person never gave anything back?

From what he’d experienced in past relationships, this was the kind of pattern where it was better to just give up. A relationship that didn’t start from zero, but had shifted from plus to minus—trying to bring it back to plus was a steep uphill battle.

His head understood it might be hopeless. But he didn’t want to give up. He couldn’t. One reason was because, aside from appearance, he hadn’t changed at all from Yoko Eto. If Hiromatsu could see who he was inside, then maybe—just maybe—he could love him again like before. He couldn’t let go of that hope. Until Hiromatsu realized he was the same as Yoko Eto, Matsuoka wanted—no, needed—a place by his side, even if it meant being a little forceful, using any means necessary.

With that resolve, he reached forward and grabbed the front of Hiromatsu’s shirt with both hands as the man sat there, head hung low. Hiromatsu looked up.

“Sleep with me.”

The eyes that had been watching him went wide.

“Have sex with me. Even if you think it’s no good because I’m a man, once you actually do it, maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“...It probably will be no good.”

“Don’t say that before you’ve even tried. You can treat it like a joke if that makes it easier. Just do it with me. Otherwise, I won’t be able to accept this.”

He pulled the retreating man toward him and kissed him.

Hiromatsu’s lips—ones Matsuoka had kissed over and over as Yoko Eto, to the point he thought he knew them—now felt like they belonged to someone entirely different.

Even as Hiromatsu’s whole body stiffened, rejecting his presence, Matsuoka kissed him forcefully. The lack of any response made him impatient. Frustrated, he found himself doing what he used to do as Yoko—tangling his fingers through that slightly wavy hair.

Hiromatsu twitched. The previously passive kiss finally began to respond with some intention. Still with his eyes closed, he wrapped his arms around Matsuoka and began to gently rub his back. That natural reaction thrilled him, and Matsuoka clung to him hungrily.

In the middle of their deep, tongue-tangling kiss, he felt Hiromatsu tug Matsuoka’s shirt out from his slacks. Before, he would’ve blocked his right hand from going any further—but today, there was no reason to stop it.

Fingers touched bare skin as the shirt was pushed up, brushing over the small nipples of his chest. When they were lightly pinched, his back shuddered.

Even as he lay Matsuoka down onto the tatami, Hiromatsu kept his eyes closed. With his eyes still shut, he pushed the shirt up, burying his face in the now-exposed chest.

“Small…”

Murmuring the word, Hiromatsu nevertheless took it into his mouth. The wet sensation sent shivers racing up Matsuoka’s spine, and before that sensation had even faded, he was sucked on with force. A tingling itch flared in his groin, and Matsuoka rubbed his thighs together. While fervently sucking on one nipple, Hiromatsu brought his right hand to the other, pinching the now taut and pointed tip that had hardened from the stimulation.

“Small, but Yoko-san’s are cute.”

Matsuoka, who had been entranced by the pleasure of being touched, snapped back to reality at the name “Yoko.”

“No…”

He pushed at Hiromatsu’s head.

“I’m not Yoko…”

Unbelievably, Hiromatsu’s left hand clamped down over Matsuoka’s mouth—almost as if he didn’t want to hear that voice.

When Matsuoka went silent, the hand left his mouth and resumed its caresses. After lingering on both nipples with almost maddening persistence, licking as if to melt them, Hiromatsu undid the button on Matsuoka’s slacks and pulled the zipper down. As he helped slightly by lifting his hips, the slacks were pushed down to his knees—but the underwear was left untouched.

It was Matsuoka’s first time having sex with a man. Still, because it was someone he loved, his body responded strongly—his erection clearly outlined through the fabric of his underwear. Wanting to be touched directly, he reached up and pulled the man on top of him closer, but was met with a forceful rejection. Confused by the response, Matsuoka was suddenly flipped over on the tatami.

A body pressed down on him from behind. His chest was roughly groped with both hands, and biting kisses rained down along the nape of his neck. Against his body, he could feel Hiromatsu’s groin—hard with arousal.

He heard the clinking of a belt being undone. Then, still lying face down, his underwear was yanked down, exposing his hips. Before he could even register the shame of it, something hot was suddenly and forcefully pressed against him there—and Matsuoka froze in alarm.

“Ah, wait a second…”

Without any foreplay or preparation, the tip suddenly forced its way in. Matsuoka screamed.

“Stop, it hurts… Hiromatsu-san. It hurts.”

His mouth was covered again. The violent member was thrust even deeper inside, and his lower body seized up. Even though he said no, he was being handled so roughly it was beyond belief. Added to that, there was a kind of pain he had never experienced before, and his body began trembling in fine spasms.

He had prepared himself for the possibility that there would be penetration. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. But between men, there was no natural lubrication—it required proper preparation. There should’ve been foreplay, something to ease him in. Even then, he’d braced himself for it to hurt. But this—being entered so violently and one-sidedly—he never imagined it.

“I-it really hurts…”

Even though he pleaded desperately through the muffled voice behind the hand over his mouth, Hiromatsu didn’t listen. The violent intrusion made tears rise up in his eyes.

“Yoko-san, you’re tight.”

To be filled to the root while in pain, and to be called Yoko on top of that—Matsuoka felt like he was going to lose his mind.

“No—I’m not Yoko—”

Again, his mouth was covered by a hand.

“Why are you resisting me? Didn’t you offer yourself to me? Just relax…”

He was told to relax while being painfully penetrated, as if that were possible. Every time he tried to speak, he was silenced, so Matsuoka shook his head side to side. He felt it pulling out slowly, and just when he thought the pain might finally stop, it was slammed back in with force.

“Hii!”

The scraping pain sent a shiver up his spine. Even as Matsuoka cried from the pain, Hiromatsu showed no mercy, continuing his rhythm without pause. Though he came inside him, Matsuoka’s own member had gone limp midway from the pain and stayed that way. Hiromatsu didn’t touch him at all—too consumed with his own climax, with no concern whatsoever for the pain he inflicted.

That dry place made a squelching noise. Something dripped down from his scrotum, and when he brought his hand to it, sticky red fluid stretched in threads between his fingers.

“St—stop it. I’m bleeding. Please… I’m begging you…”

Even as he pleaded, no one listened. His hips were simply shaken back and forth in a mechanical rhythm. It was only after a while—after an indeterminate length of time—that the man finally stopped moving.

Still lying atop Matsuoka from behind, Hiromatsu suddenly went motionless.

“…Get off me…”

Even as he tried to voice the violence still buried inside him, the man didn’t respond. When he realized Hiromatsu had fallen asleep, Matsuoka tried to slip away, but any movement made his hips sting sharply, and he groaned again and again.

When he finally managed to crawl out from under the man, his whole body went slack, and he collapsed face-down on the spot.

His hips were numb—he couldn’t feel much. And yet every small movement sent fresh waves of pain through him. The word worst flickered and faded in his mind. No matter that it had been sex he himself initiated, he never imagined Hiromatsu would treat him so coldly.

The act might have looked like sex, but there was no love in it. Even knowing he was Yosuke Matsuoka, Hiromatsu had only sought out Yoko Eto. He knew full well he was sleeping with a man. That’s probably why he hadn’t touched Matsuoka’s genitals, and why he’d fixated so insistently on taking him from behind.

On all fours, Matsuoka searched for his underwear. As he did, he felt something leaking from between his legs. He hurriedly grabbed some tissues nearby and pressed them to himself. Semen mixed with blood flowed out from his numb waist. Even when it seemed to have stopped, a slow trickle would slide down his thigh, and each time he had to wipe it away—it was humiliating.

Eventually, the bleeding stopped. Matsuoka adjusted his clothes. He just wanted to go home and shower. When he checked the time, it was past 3 a.m.

He stepped toward the man lying there naked and face-down. Looking at that peaceful, content face made Matsuoka want to hit him. He raised his right hand high—but in the end, couldn’t do it. His hand dropped limply into his lap. At some point, tears had begun to fall, landing one by one on the sleeping man’s cheek. Gently, he cradled Hiromatsu’s tousled head in his arms and curled in on himself.

 

After staying like that for a while, Matsuoka retrieved a blanket from the closet and draped it over the man. He set the alarm clock for seven in the morning. Then he left a note on the kotatsu table that read, “The key is in the mailbox,” and stepped outside the apartment, locking the door behind him.

Though it was already April, the nights were still cold. With only a light coat on, his body trembled, and every step he took sent pain reverberating through his hips. Whether he stood or sat, it hurt—so much that he no longer knew what to do with himself. It was a late time at night, and even on the main road, few taxis were running. It took nearly twenty minutes before he managed to hail one. As soon as he got in, he lay down across the back seat—and from there until they arrived at his apartment, he fell asleep as though unconscious.

Once back in his own place, he collapsed onto the bed as he was. His body felt unbearably heavy. He was so sleepy, and yet, with so many thoughts swirling through his head, he couldn’t fall asleep. Even so, he got up at seven as planned and took a shower. Though the dirt washed away, the dull ache in his lower body lingered.

As always, he arrived at work by 8:15 a.m. Taking advantage of his job as a field salesman, he lay down on a park bench between appointments. In the afternoon, his body began to feel strangely hot, and it felt like he was running a fever. But he kept working anyway—because staying still would only make his mind wander into thoughts he didn’t want to have.

By 6 p.m., when the workday ended, he was completely exhausted—he couldn’t even manage a polite smile anymore. The moment he got home, he collapsed into bed and slept until the intercom at the front door rang. At first, he ignored the chime. It was probably just a solicitor. And if it were someone he actually knew, they’d call his phone if it was important.

Then came the sound of a new message arriving. When he saw that it was from Hiromatsu, he bolted upright in a panic.

“Where are you right now? I’m standing in front of your apartment. There’s something I must apologize to you for—could I please see you?”

Even though the sudden movement made his waist throb, he hardly noticed. But once he reached the entrance, he hesitated. His emotions surged forward. Despite everything—despite how disastrous it had been—he still wanted to see Hiromatsu’s face. That realization made him stop and assess everything from a distance. Everything that had happened. Everything that might come.

After thinking for about ten minutes, he opened the door. Leaning against the concrete railing across the corridor, Hiromatsu flinched in surprise, his whole body trembling.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.”

The man bowed deeply.

“Could you come inside? …I don’t want to talk out here.”

At Matsuoka’s words, Hiromatsu stepped into the entryway. He didn’t take off his shoes, and Matsuoka had no intention of inviting him fully inside.

“To be honest, I don’t remember everything about what happened last night all that clearly. But I do understand that saying ‘I was drunk’ doesn’t excuse what I did to you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Matsuoka let out a small breath and crossed his arms.

“I was the one who initiated it. We’re both adults and it was consensual, so I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“But…”

“You’re worried about what happens next?”

The man’s head moved in an awkward, hesitant nod.

“I’m not planning on being involved with you anymore. After what happened yesterday, I understand very well how you see me.”

Still looking down, Hiromatsu said nothing.

“Let’s just leave it at that.”

When Matsuoka lifted his gaze, he caught the flicker of relief spreading across Hiromatsu’s face in response to his words. That reaction didn’t escape him. Proof of it came when Hiromatsu responded, without a moment’s hesitation, “I understand.”

“To be honest, I feel like I’m over it too. It’s not like I feel satisfied now that we’ve slept together or anything.”

Hiromatsu didn’t reply, and Matsuoka thought his gaze held a certain coldness now.

“You can go.”

Prompted, Hiromatsu opened the front door. He stepped out, then paused as if something had just occurred to him, and turned back.

“Oh—by the way, is your body okay?”

The question caught Matsuoka off guard.

“The tatami… it was, um, stained.”

He had wiped down the visible areas before he left. Still, there were spots that hadn’t come clean.

“It’s nothing.”

“I see,” Hiromatsu murmured, offering a polite bow as if to a stranger, and then closed the door.

After the echo of the door and his footsteps had faded, Matsuoka crouched down right where he stood. He had wiped up the soiled floor so that Hiromatsu wouldn’t be burdened by guilt. Even if there was a bloodstain, it probably wasn’t all that big. He understood that—he knew that was why Hiromatsu had only inquired about his body as an afterthought. But knowing that didn’t make it any less empty.

He asked himself what it was that had drawn him to such an insensitive, indecisive man. But once he had fallen for someone, there was nothing he could do.

When the other person had no interest, when there was no warmth at all—not even the smallest opening left—and worse, when he was treated as a nuisance, there was no way to keep going.

If he said he still loved him, it would only make Hiromatsu uncomfortable. That was obvious. So he pretended to be over it, to end things. He acted like his feelings had faded too—so that Hiromatsu would feel just a little more at ease.

He had done everything—so much—to be considerate. And yet, the man he loved hadn’t spared a single thought for his feelings. All that remained were painful words and painful actions.

He dragged himself slowly back to the far end of the room. Even after being rejected so thoroughly, the fact that he still loved him made Matsuoka feel unbearably pathetic.

Footnotes

0. Content warning: NSFW, r*pe.

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