Utsukushii Koto: Volume 2 - Part 8

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He woke up to a thudding sensation. His face hurt. He saw red carpet and people’s feet.

“Are you okay?!”

Someone’s voice.

“Sorry, but… could I ask for a hand after all?”

It was Matsuoka’s voice. But even that quickly faded. His body felt like it was floating. As he stared at his own legs swaying like konnyaku jelly, a faint smell of cigarettes reached him.

“Are you sure we don’t need to call an ambulance?”

Someone else’s worried voice.

“He’s probably just drunk, but… if it looks like he needs to go to the hospital, I’ll call the front desk.”

Matsuoka again. That rising sensation—was he ascending to the heavens? The thought melted into drowsiness. Overwhelming sleepiness dragged him under.

There was a loud thunk as a door closed. Curled up like a cat on the dark green carpet, he shivered slightly. His jacket was peeled away. When his tie was slipped off, the relief around his collar was immediate. As his clothes were removed, one layer at a time, he realized for the first time that he was soaked.

Lifted up in just his underwear, he was laid somewhere higher. Something warm was draped over him, and the comfort of it brought a sense of relief. Something cold touched his cheek—water, he realized—and he brought it close with both hands. He brought it to his mouth. The moisture slipped down his throat, clearing the fog in his head just a little. When he tried to drink a second mouthful, his fingers trembled and some spilled.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Footsteps scrambled toward him, and a towel wiped his mouth. Hiromatsu grabbed that hand.

“…What?”

His vision swam. A blurry face that looked like Matsuoka’s came into view. It had to be Matsuoka.

“…You said… you wouldn’t come…”

It was a bitter accusation.

“…You said…”

His hand was shaken off.

“I wasn’t planning to. I was on my way home and happened to see you passed out outside a convenience store. The clerk was at a loss, so I brought you back to the hotel. That’s all.”

Matsuoka turned his back on him. Hiromatsu cried out, “Don’t go.” His own voice rang in his skull, nauseatingly loud. He pressed both hands against his ears.

“D-don’t go… please… I’ll be fine after I sleep… and then I’ll talk. So just… don’t go. Don’t go. Let me sleep a little, and then…”

Sleep dragged him down. Nausea, and a faint, stinging pain in his chest. A dark veil fell over his eyes, everything became blurry, and Hiromatsu slipped under, as though falling into a void.

:-::-:

A small rustling sound and a burst of bright light woke Hiromatsu. He cracked his eyes open. A silhouette stood against the backlight. The figure stood for a while, gazing out the window, then let out a sigh and slumped against the wall across from the bed, legs stretched out with an ashtray piled high with cigarette butts pulled close.

His shirt was wrinkled, his tie loosened. Matsuoka sat there, red-eyed and dazed, smoking a cigarette. At times, he buried his fingers into his hair, clawing through it roughly before dropping his head. The thin threads of smoke drifted lazily up to the ceiling between his fingers.

When Hiromatsu shifted his weight, the bed creaked beneath him. At the sound, Matsuoka’s bowed head slowly lifted. His gaze met Hiromatsu’s. Hiromatsu sat up. The simple act of moving sent a wave of nausea churning through his gut. A brutal hangover.

Sitting on the bed, he realized for the first time that he was down to just his boxers. He vaguely remembered drinking at his usual izakaya, then catching a train… stopping at a convenience store, maybe. Everything after that was blank. Rain—it had been raining, he was sure.

He had no idea why Matsuoka was in the room. After the second round of drinks, Matsuoka had said he wouldn’t come to the hotel. He wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t talk to him—that’s what had driven Hiromatsu to drink himself into oblivion. But now, waking up, he was here. He couldn’t make sense of it. And yet somehow, despite it all, the one thing he’d wanted—to be with Matsuoka, to talk to him—had come true. Like magic. Though it felt like a sick joke.

“Ah… um, you can take the chair if you want.”

He gestured toward the room’s chair. “My legs are tired,” Matsuoka muttered, pulling one knee up to his chest.

“So when you said you’d sleep for a bit, you meant all night?”

There was a sharpness to the words that prickled.

“Uh, well… sorry. What do you mean?”

Matsuoka scowled, his brows drawing together in irritation.

“I remember drinking at the izakaya, and going to the convenience store… Did I say something?”

With a sigh of exasperation, Matsuoka murmured, “Forget it,” and dropped his head again.

Did I do something while drunk that pissed him off? Watching Matsuoka slump in disappointment made Hiromatsu’s heart falter. But this—this might be his one chance to talk. Matsuoka was here, after all. He couldn’t hesitate. He’d wanted Matsuoka to come because he’d wanted to talk. And now, even with a pounding hangover clouding his thoughts, he couldn’t let the moment slip away.

“I’ve been helping out with the family business since I moved back home.”

He decided to start with his current life.

“It keeps me pretty busy, but since it’s all family, the work’s not stressful. Back when I was working in the city, I used to get scolded a lot. Not that it wasn’t deserved…”

Matsuoka remained bowed, offering no response.

“My brother has three kids. The oldest really clings to me—he’s a second-grader. Kind of reminds me of you, actually. I don’t get paid for helping out, but they said they might start giving me something starting next month. Probably about what a student makes at a part-time job here, but in the countryside, that’s enough to live on.”

The sunlight had shifted—the angle through the window changed.

“I’ve got a lot of friends back home. In May, one of my best friends got married. We drank until morning that night. Honestly, I hardly ever think about life in the city anymore. But I always wondered what you were up to, Matsuoka-san.”

“…So what?”

The silence finally spoke.

“Because I was on your mind, what? You wanted to see me? Is that it?”

The follow-up came quickly, but Hiromatsu couldn’t answer. Yes, I wanted to see you. Yes, I wanted to talk. But he had nothing more to give. Unable to say anything, he sat in silence as Matsuoka ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Just give me a break already…”

Matsuoka groaned, his voice low and raw.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” Matsuoka’s voice trembled, on the verge of breaking. “Don’t come back into my life just because you’re feeling nostalgic, or because you’re thinking of me, or because you miss me a little. If it’s only sentimentality, please—I’m begging you, don’t.”

Hiromatsu had no reply. The pain in Matsuoka’s voice was real. All too real.

“You always stop there, Hiromatsu-san. You say you care, you say you’re curious, you’re ‘thinking about me’… but that’s as far as it goes.”

And he was right.

“I hoped… I hoped that maybe this time it would be different. But in the end, it’s just like before. I’ll always just be that friend you ‘think about’ sometimes. We’ll just end up repeating the same cycle again.”

“Please think about me for once…”, Matsuoka whispered, the words dissolving into the air like smoke. And Hiromatsu realized—he had thought about Matsuoka, constantly. But only from the selfish standpoint of wondering whether Matsuoka still cared for him. He had never truly examined what Matsuoka’s “I don’t want to be friends” had meant. What it cost him to say that.

He remembered how Matsuoka wouldn’t speak to him when they’d met again, how his coldness had stung. He thought he’d been resented or dismissed. But maybe Matsuoka had only been trying not to get hurt. Trying not to expect anything.

Silence filled the room. Matsuoka lit another cigarette.

“You know,” he said, voice low and calm, “I think, at the end of the day, you just can’t be with a man.”

The cigarette burned quickly to ash. He tapped it into the tray.

“You said it yourself—that there’s no future between us. And I believed you. That’s why I gave up.”

Then he laughed, bitterly.

“So… did you get a girlfriend back home? If you did, just go ahead and marry her. That way you’ll forget all about me. I’ll just be that annoying guy who wouldn’t let go.”

Hiromatsu didn’t answer. Would he forget? If he married someone, would Matsuoka’s presence just… disappear? Or would it remain, a quiet ache, like a trace of something once pure, a faint aftertaste of longing?

He recalled his sister-in-law’s words: “If someone’s on your mind, you should’ve just married them.”
Marriage, that supposedly life-altering choice, could be made based on something as vague as “thinking about someone.” His brother had even suggested meeting the woman who ran the new salon. If Matsuoka had been a woman, everything would’ve been simpler. No one would’ve questioned it. But just because he was a man, Hiromatsu had hesitated—even though Matsuoka had loved him more than anyone ever had, even though he had never stopped thinking about Matsuoka.

What was the problem, really? Was it because two men couldn’t have children? But plenty of couples didn’t. Was it about appearances? He had never cared about that before.

No. It wasn’t that.

Romantic love was supposed to be about wanting the other person. And yes, Hiromatsu had wanted to see Matsuoka. To talk to him. But he hadn’t wanted to sleep with him. That part had always stopped him. Even though something like that had happened once, he couldn’t picture it now.

If I could sleep with him, would that change something? If I could go through with it, would I be able to love him?

Hiromatsu rose and stepped in front of Matsuoka, who was sitting slumped on the floor. Maybe the things he couldn’t handle before—his aversion, his hesitation—maybe they’d fade if he got used to them. Maybe he could learn to accept them. He crouched down, steeling himself, and reached out to touch Matsuoka’s chin. His fingertips brushed against rough stubble.

“…What the hell are you doing?”

“If I could… would that be enough?”

Matsuoka tilted his head, confused. “What are you saying?”

“I mean… if I could sleep with you—would that be enough?”

Matsuoka’s face went pale in an instant. Then, slowly, it hardened into something sharp and angry.

“…You’re disgusting.”

His voice was low and venomous. He jerked his chin away, shoved himself to his feet, and started for the door. Only then did Hiromatsu realize just how awful his words had been. If he walks out now, it’ll be over. Completely over. That much, he understood.

So he lunged forward and grabbed him from behind.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!”

“Let go!”

Matsuoka thrashed wildly, but Hiromatsu clung to him desperately. In the struggle, they lost their balance and tumbled to the floor. Still clinging to his waist, Hiromatsu kept apologizing over and over, desperation in every word.

“As you said, Matsuoka-san, I haven’t been able to settle my feelings. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to see you. When you act cold, it hurts. No one else ever gets under my skin like this. So…”

Matsuoka sat curled into himself, shoulders rounded.

“So what if you try just because you feel something?” he burst out. “Then what? If it feels wrong, you’ll decide it was a mistake, that you don’t want me after all, and throw me away again!”

His hunched back trembled with barely suppressed emotion.

“I won’t do that,” Hiromatsu said quietly.

“Liar.” Matsuoka turned to face him.

“You always do this. You make me think there’s a chance, even though I’m trying to give up. You make me hope, just a little. Then you say it’s no good. You say it’s because I’m a man. I’m not a masochist. Being rejected three times by the same person—I refuse to go through that.”

His face was flushed with emotion, the tip of his nose and his cheeks red. His eyes were glassy, the corners glistening. Hiromatsu had never seen his face like this—so raw, so tangled, so openly distraught. He wondered how it had come to this. And then he realized: he was the one who’d brought Matsuoka to this point.

He thought, poor guy, like it was someone else’s problem. And yet… he also felt an aching tenderness. Not pity—something deeper. A sudden, overpowering thought struck him: he’s so beautiful.

Hiromatsu reached out and touched Matsuoka’s cheek. The softness, the warmth beneath his fingertips lasted only a moment before it was slapped away.

Even so, he didn’t stop. He reached again. Brushed along his cheek. Touched the tip of his nose. Ran his fingers gently along his jaw. Then he gripped Matsuoka’s tense, rigid shoulders and drew him in. He held him close.

Not roughly. The back beneath his fingers was slender, but stiff with tension. The fabric of his suit, his hair—everything carried the smell of cigarette smoke. There was nothing feminine about what he held in his arms. And yet… this was Matsuoka, he thought. And it was okay.

:-::-:

With barely a word spoken between them, eleven o’clock—and check-out time—was drawing near. Hiromatsu hurried to gather his things and left the hotel. Matsuoka, utterly exhausted, came with him.

Hiromatsu invited him to a nearby open-air café. He would have preferred somewhere calmer, somewhere quieter, but if they went all the way to the station, Matsuoka might just go straight home, and that terrified him. They chose a table under the shade of a tree. Hiromatsu ordered orange juice; Matsuoka chose iced tea.

The cicadas shrilled like a downpour. Matsuoka, looking utterly drained, sipped at the straw of his iced tea. What now? Hiromatsu didn’t know. He had no strategy—just the desire to keep Matsuoka from walking away.

And then, out of nowhere, Matsuoka broke the silence.

“…What do you even want, Hiromatsu-san?”

Hiromatsu clenched his fingers together atop the table.

There were still things about Matsuoka that he couldn’t accept, and yet, he felt certain now that he held romantic feelings for him. More than he had when he’d once wrestled with the same uncertainty. But even now, he couldn’t be sure. Saying, “I think I like you, so please be with me,” would only make it all repeat again. He knew too well how cruel it was to raise someone’s hopes when he couldn’t promise anything in return. And still…

“…Sometimes, when I come to the city… I’d like to see you.”

“No.”

Matsuoka’s refusal was immediate, without the slightest hesitation.

“How long are you going to keep doing this? I don’t want to hope for anything from you anymore.”

He was right. Hiromatsu had no counterargument.

“B-but… it hurts not seeing you.”

That was all he could manage to say. His frustration at being inarticulate, unable to play this out smoothly, gnawed at him. Matsuoka said nothing. The sun climbed higher, shadows thickened, and condensation on the iced tea glass across from him dried completely. Only then did Matsuoka speak.

“Three months.”

Hiromatsu looked up.

“From now, for the next three months—if you come to the city during that time, I’ll meet you. But if nothing has changed by then, I want this to end.”

He paused, then bowed his head slightly. “Please—end it for good this time.”

He’d said before that he didn’t even want to meet. Just getting this three-month grace period was already a concession.

“In the meantime, I won’t reach out. Work’s been busy, so I won’t be able to meet on weekdays. And even on weekends, if I’ve got plans, I’ll say no. I’m not going to prioritize you anymore.”

His voice was firm.

“…And don’t touch me. No trying to ‘test it out’ by sleeping together. That’s non-negotiable.”

Hiromatsu could only nod and say, “Okay.” Honestly, he had wanted to touch him. It felt like his fingertips were finally starting to recognize Matsuoka as Matsuoka. Maybe now he could reach him. But when the person himself says no, there’s nothing he could do. He wouldn’t force it.

Matsuoka let out a long sigh, rested his elbows on the table, and pressed his hand against his cheek. Even though he’d granted Hiromatsu a second chance, he might already be regretting it.

There was no time to waste. Three months—that was all he had. If he wanted to understand his own feelings, the only way was to truly get to know Matsuoka.

“…Has anything changed since I went back?” Hiromatsu asked, trying to shift the mood.

“Not really,” Matsuoka replied, eyes down.

“Work stuff?”

“It’s busy. Most of the senior staff quit. The new hires they send in are all useless. One of them pissed off a long-time client and ruined a major deal. It’s a mess.”

Then, suddenly, he looked up.

“Fukuda quit.”

Hiromatsu’s head snapped up. “What? Why? Did he get sick?”

Matsuoka gave a crooked smile.

“That would’ve been easier to explain. No, he got fired—for embezzling company funds.”

Hiromatsu was stunned. Fukuda had always been blunt, often quick to blame others, but he hadn’t thought him someone capable of that level of recklessness.

“This year, a lot of people left the company,” Matsuoka continued. “They cleaned up the finances properly for once, and that’s how they found out. Turns out he’d been doing it for about three years. Nasty stuff.”

Only four months had passed since Hiromatsu had quit, and already so much had changed.

Their conversation lapsed into silence. As Hiromatsu fumbled for something to say, Matsuoka drained the last of his lukewarm iced tea. A waitress came around to their outdoor table, cleared Matsuoka’s glass, and asked, “Would you like to order anything else?” Hiromatsu swallowed nervously.

Matsuoka ordered the same drink again. Hiromatsu had been tense the whole time, half-sure that once the first glass was empty, Matsuoka would stand up and leave. So when he asked for another, Hiromatsu exhaled in relief. At least until the next one was finished, Matsuoka would still be here.

Matsuoka pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it, drawing the ashtray closer.

“Smoking again,” Hiromatsu remarked.

Matsuoka glanced up from under his lashes. “Yeah.”

“Were you always this much of a smoker?”

“It’s gotten worse… Stress, mostly.”

Watching the way Matsuoka smoked made Hiromatsu want to try one too.

“Could I have one?”

Matsuoka blinked in surprise. “You smoke?”

“I did a little, back when I first started working.”

Matsuoka flipped open the case, clicked his tongue. “Damn. I’m out.”

“Then… can I just have a puff of yours?”

Matsuoka stared at the cigarette between his fingers for a moment, as though puzzled by the request. Ash dropped onto the table.

“Oh—if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

“It’s whatever,” he muttered, and held it out.

Hiromatsu took it, brought it to his lips, and took a drag. Before he could even register the taste, he was coughing—violently, doubling over as he hacked and wheezed.

When he finally straightened up, breath rasping, Matsuoka was laughing.

“…You didn’t have to laugh,” Hiromatsu grumbled.

But Matsuoka’s shoulders kept shaking with residual amusement. “Sorry. It just felt kind of fresh. Reminded me of when I had my first cigarette in high school.”

“You were underage,” Hiromatsu scolded.

“Everyone sneaks a taste around that age, right?” Matsuoka replied coolly.

“I didn’t until I was an adult.”

“You’re so uptight,” Matsuoka chuckled again.

Hiromatsu felt oddly frustrated to be laughed at like that—but the smile on Matsuoka’s face was too rare and too lovely for him to really be mad. When he handed the cigarette back, Matsuoka teased, “Done already?”

He took the cigarette back and, slowly, brought it to his lips. The movement was casual, but there was something about the way his lips closed around the filter that struck Hiromatsu as strangely sensual. He quickly looked away.

“You don’t need to force yourself to do things that don’t suit you,” Matsuoka muttered.

“Seeing you smoking like some disillusioned rebel just doesn’t fit.”

He smoked the rest of the cigarette down to the stub, then pulled a portable ashtray from his pocket and tapped it in. Hiromatsu found it strange—there was a proper ashtray right there. Why use his own?

The shrill of cicadas rose louder. “So hot…” Matsuoka mumbled, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Hiromatsu reached into his pocket. He felt the texture of a handkerchief. When he pulled it out, it was badly folded and full of wrinkles. Not the cleanest-looking thing, but it had been washed.

“Here.”

He offered it to Matsuoka.

“What is it?” Matsuoka tilted his head slightly.

“It’s wrinkled, but it’s clean. I haven’t used it yet.”

Matsuoka stared at the crumpled cloth in silence. Embarrassed by the sorry state of it, Hiromatsu made to pull it back, but Matsuoka reached out and said, “Let me borrow it.”

He unfolded it and refolded it into a neat square before wiping his forehead, then placed it beside him on the table. His eyes flicked to the clock. The motion made Hiromatsu tense. Was he going to say he had to go?

But instead, Matsuoka looked at him and opened his mouth slightly.

“…I’m kind of hungry. Mind if I get something to eat?”

:-::-:

In the end, they lingered at the café until around four in the afternoon. Even after finishing their meal and as the sunlight began to tilt westward, Matsuoka didn’t say he was leaving. They took turns sharing pieces of their recent lives—just small talk, no heavy subjects.

As the time for the shinkansen approached, Hiromatsu found himself wanting to stay longer. But he was also worried about missing his train. He’d been glancing at the clock often enough that Matsuoka must have noticed, because he finally asked, “When’s your train?”

“Five… I think.”

“Then you’d better get going.”

At that, Hiromatsu reluctantly rose to his feet. He’d said lunch would be on him, but Matsuoka insisted on paying his own share down to the cent.

“Oh yeah, where did you move to?” he asked once they stepped out of the café. Matsuoka blinked in surprise.

“How do you know I moved?”

“I went by your place once. Someone else was living there.”

“…I see,” Matsuoka murmured, voice small. Then he told him the location of his new apartment—it was a little east of Tokyo Station.

“I’m catching the Shinkansen from there,” Hiromatsu said. “Let’s go together, at least part of the way.”

At his prompting, Matsuoka started walking. They boarded a JR line that didn’t require a transfer. The train wasn’t very crowded, so they found seats easily. Matsuoka settled into the seat beside him, just slightly apart.

He slipped his fingers into his chest pocket and fumbled around, then let out a quiet click of the tongue.

“Looking for a cigarette?”

“I forgot I was out. Not like I could smoke on the train anyway.”

Matsuoka exhaled slowly.

“The one I shared with you at the café… that was my last.”

“The one I choked on,” Hiromatsu said sheepishly.

Matsuoka gave a short, amused laugh. That cough attack really had caught him off guard—he’d forgotten how to handle it. If he’d taken just another drag or two…

Then the thought struck him.

That last cigarette… Matsuoka had carefully put it into his portable ashtray. Not the café’s tray, like the others. Just that one. Because Hiromatsu had smoked from it—his lips had touched it.

No, it could have just been habit. But until then, Matsuoka had used the café’s ashtray without a second thought. Only that one cigarette, the one they’d shared…

A flush of heat surged up Hiromatsu’s neck, flooding his face. He could feel it reach his ears. Embarrassed, he raised his hand and covered his face.

The idea of Matsuoka holding onto the cigarette because of the indirect kiss made his heart flutter in a way he wasn’t expecting. He hadn’t confirmed anything, but somehow he was sure of it. And it made Matsuoka, sitting beside him in silence, seem unbearably… adorable. The word didn’t quite fit, but it was all he had.

“You okay? You don’t look so good.”

The question made him jerk upright. He shook his head quickly.

“You’re all red. Maybe you’ve got a fever. You were out in the rain yesterday…”

Matsuoka leaned in to look at him from below, his face suddenly too close. The proximity made Hiromatsu tense, and his cheeks flushed hotter. “I-I’m fine,” he said, pulling back hastily.

Matsuoka’s expression stiffened, and he quietly shifted away. That reaction—that distance—stabbed at Hiromatsu. Had he hurt him? Just now, by recoiling like that?

“It’s not that I don’t want you near me…”

But Matsuoka only shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t mind.”

…Did he really mean that?

Before, Hiromatsu might’ve taken the words at face value. It would’ve been easier—for both of them. But now he wanted to know what Matsuoka really felt. Precisely because he knew how gentle and considerate Matsuoka was.

In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to say, It wasn’t because I disliked it—it’s because I was too aware of you. If he said that, it would only raise Matsuoka’s hopes again. But wasn’t it better than letting him continue with the wrong impression, with the hurt that came from it? He wrestled with it, going in circles, and in the end said nothing.

He vaguely remembered standing outside the convenience store last night, drenched in rain. If Matsuoka hadn’t found him, he really might have gotten sick. But now that he thought about it, Matsuoka’s new apartment was in the completely opposite direction from his old place. There would’ve been no reason to pass by that street—unless he’d been coming to the hotel.

Matsuoka had said he’d just happened to see him and brought him along. But… maybe he had come to see him. Even after saying he didn’t want to, even after telling him to leave him alone—Matsuoka was always a little sloppy with those boundaries. If Hiromatsu said he wanted to see him, he would come.

He glanced sideways. Matsuoka was staring absently at one of the ads hanging in the train car, his mouth slightly open, face unreadable. A wave of longing swept over Hiromatsu—he wanted to kiss him. The thought startled him. His chest buzzed, and even though he wanted to look, he couldn’t bring himself to keep watching.

 

This really feels like falling in love, he thought. Had Matsuoka always been like this? Had he been sending signs this whole time, not just through words but gestures, glances, presence? And how many of those had he failed to notice?

Thoughts swirling, unable to calm his heart or mind, they arrived at Tokyo Station. Matsuoka was supposed to transfer to another line. Hiromatsu could reach the shinkansen terminal by walking inside the station.

But he didn’t want to part yet. These feelings, just beginning to take shape within him, might disappear again if they put too much distance between them.

“Well, I go that way,” Matsuoka said.

As he turned to leave, Hiromatsu reached out. “Wait.”

His train wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes.

“You haven’t given me your phone number or email yet.”

“Oh—right,” Matsuoka murmured.

“I’ll email it to you later.”

“No, tell me now.”

With a sigh that said you’re hopeless, Matsuoka took out his phone.

“Does yours have infrared? That’d be faster.”

“Ah, um… sorry, I don’t really know how to use it.”

“Give me your phone.”

Matsuoka opened Hiromatsu’s phone and started fiddling with it. Even though it was his own phone, Hiromatsu just sat there, watching silently.

“I think it’s registered now,” Matsuoka said, handing it back.

“Try sending me something to test it.”

“Isn’t that Matsuoka-kun?”

A familiar voice interrupted them, and both turned their heads. Not far away stood Hayama—and beside her, the same man they had seen at the wedding, her husband.

Hayama left her husband and jogged over.

“You’re here too, Hiromatsu-san? What a coincidence!”

She sounded delighted. Matsuoka gave a quick glance toward the man still standing behind her.

“That’s your husband, right?”

“Yeah, we’re leaving for our honeymoon. It’s a late-night flight.”

“Where’s your luggage?”

“We sent it ahead already,” Hayama explained.

“Where are you going again? I think you mentioned it before.”

“England—ten days,” she said brightly.

“Nice. A friend of mine went once and said the Lake District was amazing.”

“Sounds like it is. I’m really looking forward to it.” Then her eyes shifted back to Hiromatsu and lingered.

“Hiromatsu-san, thank you for coming all that way for the wedding yesterday,” Hayama said.

Unlike the smooth-talking Matsuoka, all Hiromatsu could manage was a simple, “It was a lovely ceremony.”

“So… you’ve two made up then, haven’t you? I’m glad.”

“Made up?”

Before he could ask further, Matsuoka cut in, “Hayama, aren’t you running out of time?” He steered the conversation sharply.

“Ah, yeah.”

“If you keep talking to handsome guys like us, your husband might get jealous.”

“Oh, stop,” Hayama laughed and gave him a light smack on the shoulder.

“I’ll get in touch once we’re back. See you.”

She returned to her husband, gave one last wave over her shoulder, and then disappeared into the crowd.

“What did she mean, made up?” Hiromatsu asked.

Matsuoka didn’t answer.

“I’m going now,” he said instead.

“You still haven’t answered me.”

Hiromatsu reached out and grabbed his arm. Matsuoka flinched violently.

“I told you not to touch me!”

Startled by the volume of his voice, Hiromatsu let go immediately. A few passersby glanced their way. Matsuoka pressed a hand to his forehead.

“After you went back home, Hayama asked me if we were still in touch. I couldn’t tell her I got dumped, so I said we’d had a fight. She looked disappointed, said we’d seemed so close, kept asking questions. So I told her it was something petty, and we just never got the chance to make up.”

Matsuoka exhaled sharply, like he was trying to force something down.

“I never thought you’d come to the wedding. Let alone that we’d end up seated next to each other. It was just a cover story, but Hayama must’ve gone out of her way to arrange it.”

Hiromatsu had wondered why he’d been invited in the first place. Knowing that filled in the blanks.

“I know you hate lies…”

His voice was small, his head lowered, shoulders trembling. Those tightly clenched fists, the way his head bowed—it made Matsuoka look like a scolded child. Others probably saw him as tall, good-looking, even cool. But to Hiromatsu, all he could think was adorable.

Matsuoka slowly raised his face.

“…Aren’t you going to miss your train?”

The departure time was approaching. He knew that. But he still didn’t want to leave. He wanted to keep talking. He considered delaying his return by a day. But the ticket was already bought. If he didn’t catch this shinkansen, he wouldn’t make the last local train. And on Monday, he had to help with the family business…

“Wait here,” Hiromatsu said, and ran to the ticket counter. He returned with a platform admission ticket and held it out to Matsuoka.

“What’s this?”

“Come with me to the platform.”

“There’s not even fifteen minutes left.”

“Even so.”

Matsuoka didn’t refuse. They passed through the shinkansen gates and stepped onto the platform. Ten minutes remained. Long lines were forming at each boarding point.

He’d brought Matsuoka here because he didn’t want to part yet. And yet, standing side by side, he couldn’t say a word. Could he tell him he liked him? Or was that still an illusion? If he voiced feelings he couldn’t be certain of, he’d only hurt him again. So he hesitated. Couldn’t say he liked him. Couldn’t say he wanted to stay.

He wished the train wouldn’t come, but it did. It pulled into the platform, sleek and white. People began boarding. Hiromatsu let others go ahead, turning to face Matsuoka.

“You didn’t throw it away because I smoked from it, did you?”

Matsuoka blinked, confused.

“That last cigarette, at the café.”

Suddenly, Matsuoka’s face crumpled. His mouth trembled, his cheek distorted with emotion, on the verge of tears. It was a face that couldn’t lie.

The boarding chime rang out. Hiromatsu looked around. No one else remained on the platform. He had to get on—but he couldn’t leave Matsuoka here.

Without thinking, he grabbed Matsuoka’s arm and pulled him onto the train. The doors closed behind them.

“Ah—”

The shinkansen began to move, slowly at first, then faster.

“Wh-what are you doing?! I don’t even have a ticket!”

Even as Matsuoka protested, Hiromatsu couldn’t explain the impulse that had driven him to pull him onto the train.

“I… I just couldn’t leave you.”

“What does that even mean…” Matsuoka sighed, still pressing a hand to his forehead.

“And… my shoe…”

Looking down, Hiromatsu saw that Matsuoka’s right foot was clad only in a sock.

“Weren’t you wearing both just now?”

“Of course I was. It came off when you dragged me onto the train!”

The station was already fading into the distance, Matsuoka’s abandoned shoe left behind. No ticket, and one socked foot. As he stared at that flimsy-looking sock, Hiromatsu suddenly remembered—vividly—something from long ago.

“When we first met…”

He spoke before thinking.

“You weren’t wearing shoes. I couldn’t stop wondering about you, why you were like that… and I turned around, and gave you mine. You walked around in those shoes that didn’t fit you, and it was so cute…”

That was the moment he’d fallen in love with Yoko Eto. And now, a force even stronger than back then was rising in him, pushing him forward.

Hiromatsu slipped off his own shoe, crouched down, and gently fit it onto Matsuoka’s right foot. His foot was smaller, by two sizes at least—his heel didn’t quite reach the back.

“…Yesterday, I was planning to go home.”

Matsuoka’s voice came from above.

“When I saw you at the convenience store, I thought about ignoring you. You tell me to come see you and then you’re not even there—I thought it was the worst. But when I got to the station, I couldn’t make myself get on the train. Even though it was raining, you were under the awning, and I figured the clerk would deal with you… so I just stood there across the street for a while, watching you.”

He hadn’t been able to leave him behind. So instead, he took that troublesome, drunk man and stayed with him all night at the hotel.

“Are you getting off at the next station?” Hiromatsu asked.

Matsuoka nodded.

“…Don’t get off.”

At Hiromatsu’s plea, Matsuoka looked taken aback.

“Even if you say that, it’s not like I bought a ticket.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“What are you so desperate about? I told you—I’d see you if you came to the city.”

“Come with me. Just to the next station.”

When he took Matsuoka’s arm, he could feel the tremor running through it.

“B-but… I’ve got work tomorrow.”

I want to be near you. I want to touch you. It felt like falling in love. And if not love—what else could this be?

Hiromatsu reached out and touched the faint stubble along Matsuoka’s jaw. That rough texture—because it was Matsuoka. Whatever it was that had once made him recoil from it, he couldn’t remember now.

Something was bubbling up inside him. Even the air seemed to shift in color. He couldn’t look away from those eyes. Every point of contact felt hot. Sound dropped away. And in that moment—exaggerated or not—the person before him became his entire world.

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