Unrequited Love: Chapter 2

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A low rumbling sound brought Yoshimoto back to the present. He found himself seated in a subway car, not particularly crowded, heading home.

In about ten minutes, he reached the station closest to his apartment. Passing through the automated ticket gate, he cut through the park as a shortcut. Despite the biting cold, a few couples huddled together on the benches.

He stopped at a convenience store to buy cigarettes, lighting one as he walked the thirty meters to his apartment. The frustration bubbling inside him quickened his steps, and he reached his door sooner than usual.

The moment he entered, Yoshimoto shed his clothes, tossing them over the back of the sofa. The apartment, still cold from being unheated, was no warmer than the outdoors, and his skin immediately prickled with goosebumps.

Crossing the living room naked, he entered the bathroom and stared at his upper body in the mirror.

He had a small face. While not particularly rugged, his sharp jawline was elegant, his nose well-shaped. He liked his almond-shaped eyes and thin lips. Sometimes, while flipping through magazines, he thought he looked better than some of the models. It wasn’t just vanity—he had been scouted multiple times to model, and he had no shortage of girls confessing their love to him.

As he carefully washed his face and body, he began filling the bathtub. His legs, long and well-proportioned, were a source of quiet pride. He often struggled to find pants with the right length, a problem he secretly enjoyed.

He sank his clean body into the warm water, feeling the rising temperature seep into his skin. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind.

But no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the face of someone he didn’t want to think about kept floating into his thoughts, making his stomach churn with irritation. Like a sulky child, Yoshimoto slapped the water with a splash, his annoyance refusing to dissipate.

“There’s no way Mikasa, a truly gay man, will make it work marrying a woman,” he said bitterly. “And when there’s a perfectly good man right beside him, where the hell are his eyes looking?”

He splashed water onto his face noisily, then, seized by an inexplicable unease, hurriedly climbed out of the tub. Wiping the steam-fogged bathroom mirror with his hand, he stared at his reflection. Even with his face damp, it was undeniably attractive—a fact that brought a brief sense of relief. But the ridiculousness of his actions struck him suddenly, and he pressed his forehead against the cold mirror, sighing deeply.

Even after starting work, Mikasa hadn’t changed. He kept falling for people as easily as a child collecting pebbles off the street. Whether it was a convenience store clerk or a construction worker, Mikasa would throw himself headlong into hopeless crushes, only to be rejected every time. Yoshimoto had first heard from Kadowaki about Mikasa getting close to a woman around three months ago.

It had been late November, Yoshimoto had been sitting with Kadowaki in the university cafeteria, across from each other by the window. They were discussing plans for the year-end trip they took together every year when Kadowaki muttered, “This time, Mikasa might not make it.”

Yoshimoto, who wouldn’t have minded going with just Kadowaki—Mikasa was always loud and exhausting on trips—still felt compelled to ask, “Is he too busy with work?”

“No, no,” Kadowaki replied with a laugh. “I saw Mikasa walking with a girl the other day, and they seemed to be getting along well. He later told me she’s a coworker from the office. Apparently, he’d caused her some trouble and treated her to dinner as an apology. When I said she was cute, Mikasa kind of smiled and said, ‘Yeah, she’s a bit scatterbrained, but she’s a good person.’ He didn’t seem against the idea.”

Feigning disinterest, Yoshimoto made no response, idly poking at his bowl of oyakodon with his chopsticks.

“If that idiot says she’s scatterbrained, she must be completely out of it,” Yoshimoto muttered, venom dripping from his words. Kadowaki frowned slightly, as if unsure how to respond.

“I don’t think Mikasa meant it in a bad way. And honestly, someone like her might suit Mikasa. Anyway, I kind of hope it works out for him,” Kadowaki said with a faint smile.

“It’s pointless to hope for anything with that guy,” Yoshimoto said, setting his chopsticks down on the tray with a dramatic shrug. “I don’t think he can handle a proper relationship with a woman.”

“Well…” Kadowaki trailed off, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “I’ve known Mikasa since we were kids, and I don’t think he’s been gay from the start. When we were in elementary school, he used to get excited about which girls in class were cute, just like I did. I feel like liking guys was more of a phase for him. If he finds the right girl, I think he’ll settle down.”

“That’s a whole lot of ‘ifs.’ Talking about possibilities like that is just a waste of time,” Yoshimoto retorted. Kadowaki gave a sheepish laugh and dropped the topic. Still, even after their conversation moved on, Yoshimoto couldn’t stop thinking about “Mikasa and the scatterbrained office girl.”

Even after returning to his apartment after class, the thought lingered. Mikasa’s many crushes and rejections had always been background noise, yet this time it stuck in Yoshimoto’s chest, an itch he couldn’t scratch. Why was that?

To Yoshimoto, Mikasa was like a romantic simulation game—one that taught him what not to do in love. Mikasa’s repeated failures demonstrated how to avoid being hated, how not to pursue someone. The more Mikasa got hurt by rejection, the more Yoshimoto found comfort. He wasn’t the only one suffering from unrequited love; someone else had it even worse.

In this sense, Yoshimoto and Mikasa were kindred spirits, bound by their shared fate of “unfulfilled love.”

Yoshimoto had tried several times to shift his attention to women, desperate to avoid ending up in the endless loop of bad endings that Mikasa seemed trapped in. He’d even dated a few girls, gone to bed with them, and had sex—but never once had he felt anything remotely pleasurable. He liked cute girls; kissing them was fine, even touching them wasn’t a problem. But he felt absolutely nothing. It was like being told to get aroused by a dog or a cat—sometimes, if he wasn’t feeling well, he even felt disgusted.

Sharing a bed with a woman and failing to perform wounded Yoshimoto’s pride as a man. So he resorted to imagining the body of a man while holding a woman. That made it possible to go through the motions, but relying on imagination didn’t lend itself to endurance, and Yoshimoto’s sex was always perfunctory and detached. Women weren’t stupid; some grew bored of Yoshimoto and broke up with him before he could end things himself.

Among the women he dated was one who was not only beautiful but smart and kind—a girl so flawless there was nothing to complain about. Even so, when he braced himself and held her soft body, he found himself wishing for something firmer, with more muscle tone. It wasn’t the act of embracing someone he longed for; he wanted to be embraced by strong arms, his subconscious desires revealing themselves in moments like these.

Yoshimoto had come to accept that he would always be gay, that he would have to live his life as a man who loved men. But Mikasa, on the other hand, was trying to find an easier way—falling for a woman to escape his reality. If Mikasa succeeded, Yoshimoto would be the only one left feeling miserable. If Mikasa weren’t gay, if Yoshimoto hadn’t known they shared the same orientation, perhaps he wouldn’t feel this suffocating sense of abandonment.

For years, Yoshimoto had comforted himself by mocking Mikasa, using him as a kind of miserable scapegoat. If Mikasa ceased to be that figure, Yoshimoto didn’t know how he’d face the loneliness, the emptiness, the gnawing insecurity within himself.

Once the thought started, it spiraled endlessly, offering no way out. Just the possibility that “Mikasa might be seeing someone” was enough to wound Yoshimoto deeply. That night, he didn’t sleep a wink.

In the following weeks, the three of them—Yoshimoto, Kadowaki, and Mikasa—went out drinking a few times. But Mikasa never mentioned the woman from his office. Knowing Mikasa’s inability to keep quiet when he was in love, Yoshimoto concluded that the office worker Kadowaki had seen was just a colleague and not someone special. By the time the new year rolled around, Yoshimoto had all but forgotten about the supposed woman in Mikasa’s life.

Then, he saw Mikasa at an amusement park. And Mikasa wasn’t alone.

That day, Yoshimoto had been dragged to the park by a girl from his university. There was no way a man in his twenties could genuinely enjoy an amusement park, but the girl who’d asked him out was cute, someone well-known in their seminar for her looks. She’d asked him out in front of others, and the envious looks from the guys around them had stroked Yoshimoto’s ego, so he’d agreed. Predictably, the date was far from enjoyable.

The girl was cheerful and talkative, but her high-pitched tone became grating as the day wore on. Yoshimoto excused himself under the pretense of buying drinks, leaving her on a bench, and wandered off to clear his head.

He quickly found a drink stand, but the thought of returning to her was unbearable. He detoured to a nearby smoking area in the park’s open space, lighting a cigarette.

Across the path, a couple sat on a bench eating ice cream, despite the biting cold. Yoshimoto shook his head in disbelief—who eats something so cold in this weather?—but his eyes lingered on the man. Tall, with a solid but not overly bulky build, he fit Yoshimoto’s type perfectly. As Yoshimoto idly noted the man’s figure, his gaze moved to his face—and he froze. His breath caught, and he coughed violently on the cigarette smoke he’d just inhaled.

The man was Mikasa.

The man in the couple, the one happily licking an ice cream cone like a child, was Mikasa. The woman beside him had a quiet, unassuming presence. She seemed subdued, almost plain. In some ways, her tone and vibe matched Mikasa, who with his athletic, unpolished look was far from the image of sophistication. If ten people saw them, all ten would assume they were a couple.

Yoshimoto was so stunned that, for once, he couldn’t even mentally criticize Mikasa with his usual derision. No sarcastic thoughts like “At least dress better for a date” or “That $10 haircut is embarrassing.” He just stood there, motionless, cigarette forgotten in his hand, staring at Mikasa.

When the two finished their ice cream, they got up from the bench and walked away side by side. Watching them, Yoshimoto felt as if he were watching a movie. Mikasa and the woman were in their own little world, a space Yoshimoto couldn’t enter, leaving him as nothing more than an observer, a spectator.

By the time Yoshimoto returned to the girl he’d left on the bench, it had taken far longer than necessary to buy a drink. He apologized to her and made it through the rest of their date, fulfilling the "duty" until dinner. At the station, they said their goodbyes. The girl gave off the impression that she wouldn’t mind coming back to his place if he invited her, but Yoshimoto brushed it aside with a breezy, “See you Monday,” pretending not to notice her signals.

The moment he was alone, his entire body felt heavy with exhaustion, and he let out a long sigh. Keeping up a cheerful facade to match the girl’s energy had drained him. All of it—his forced smiles, his effort to seem fun—was driven by the desire to avoid hearing the dreaded comment, “Yoshimoto, you’re kind of boring, aren’t you?”

After showering, Yoshimoto turned on the TV, but nothing registered. It was a variety show, but it wasn’t remotely funny. He couldn’t laugh. He couldn’t avoid facing the truth: he was in shock. Mikasa was dating a woman. The thing he had dreaded most had come true. He had been left behind.

That was part of it, yes. But there was something else, too.

The image of Mikasa from earlier that day came back to him—the way he smiled like a child, despite his large, sturdy frame. Yoshimoto realized he hadn’t seen Mikasa smile like that in ages. Mikasa usually looked troubled, as if constantly unsure of himself. Probably because I’m always criticizing him, Yoshimoto thought. Every little thing he does bothers me, from the way he holds his bowl to the way he puts down his chopsticks… but still, still…

After about thirty minutes of hesitation, Yoshimoto finally sat on the sofa, hands trembling as he slid down the waistband of his sweatpants. Pushing both his pants and underwear down to his knees, he gripped himself firmly, craving stimulation. Closing his eyes, he imagined someone else touching him—thick fingers, moving gently at first, then rougher, more intense. The person in his mind was someone he’d never imagined this way before.

Sliding a hand under his shirt, he pinched his own nipples, rolling and teasing them until they were sensitive. He pictured himself and the man in his mind kissing, holding each other naked. Their hands moved over each other, touching, stroking, until…

The release came forcefully, staining his hand. One leg rested on the sofa, his lower half exposed in a messy, unflattering position. Yoshimoto stared blankly at his soiled hand.

“…This is the worst…”

Cleaning himself up, he adjusted his clothes and headed to the kitchen for some water. But even as he stood at the sink, fragments of his earlier fantasy replayed in his mind—him kissing Mikasa, touching each other. His body responded again, betraying him, and he found himself leaning weakly against the sink cabinet.

The sensation was enough to make his knees give way, and Yoshimoto slid to the floor, his face burning with shame. Why is this happening? he thought, gritting his teeth in frustration. His anger bubbled over, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Muttering curses, Yoshimoto reached down again, unable to resist.

As he indulged himself once more, a faint memory surfaced of when he’d first discovered masturbation. For a brief moment, he felt like that inexperienced boy again.

He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t stop. Yoshimoto had always denied everything about Mikasa. He hated his stupidity, his lack of taste, his shamelessness.

When he heard Mikasa was with a woman, he thought his unease came from the fear of being left behind. But was that really all? Hadn’t his reaction been too extreme? Since when… since when had he started thinking about Mikasa this way?

“It’s just my imagination. Today, Mikasa looked like a decent guy from a distance, that’s all…”

Saying it aloud only made it sound like an excuse, even to himself. His flimsy resistance crumbled entirely that night.

In his dream, Yoshimoto was being held by Mikasa for the first time. Despite it being Mikasa, he offered no resistance. He eagerly brought his lips to Mikasa’s, delighted at being touched in the most vulnerable places, his shameful pleasure blatantly on display. As Mikasa moved inside him, Yoshimoto kept muttering like a fool, “I love you, I love you,” over and over. Each time he said it, Mikasa’s face lit up with happiness, and Yoshimoto wanted to see that expression again and again.

The memory of the dream lingered as he stood under the shower, lost in thought, until he realized his body had gone cold. He got back into the bath to warm himself. By the time he stepped out, the last remnants of alcohol in his system had evaporated. That left him feeling oddly unsatisfied, so he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. Sitting on the sofa, he drained it in one gulp. One bottle wasn’t enough, so he grabbed some sake from the fridge.

It was in college that Yoshimoto had developed a taste for alcohol, quickly discovering he could drink endlessly without getting visibly drunk. His face never flushed, and he never blacked out. Some people cried, others sang, and some became argumentative when they drank. Yoshimoto, on the other hand, just became relaxed and happy. Drinking had become his go-to for dealing with frustration. His fridge was always stocked with a variety of beers and sake, to the point where friends would comment in amazement, “There’s nothing in here but alcohol.”

At first, sitting on the floor with a sake bottle in one hand and drinking from a cup felt like the image of a washed-up old man from a bygone era. But he got used to it. No one was watching, after all. Unless he brought a mirror, he wouldn’t have to see himself.

Mikasa said he was getting married. A gay man, seriously intending to marry a woman. Even hearing it directly from Mikasa, Yoshimoto still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t reconcile it with what he knew about himself as a fellow gay man. No matter how beautiful or charming a woman might be, he couldn’t imagine the part of him that was instinctively drawn to men simply disappearing.

The very idea seemed impossible.

Mikasa might be dim-witted, but he’s oddly earnest and stubborn. Once he decides on something, he won’t budge, no matter what. Even if marrying a woman is just a momentary lapse in judgment, he might end up using marriage and the woman as shackles, forcing himself into a normal, unremarkable life.

…That thought was unbearable. Absolutely unbearable. Just imagining Mikasa touching a woman made Yoshimoto feel sick. It wasn’t just nausea—it was sadness creeping in, to the point that tears threatened to fall. He hated himself for feeling this way.

Even after realizing he might have feelings for Mikasa, Yoshimoto told himself over and over that it was just his imagination. He tried to dismiss it, to deceive himself. Every time Kadowaki invited him out for drinks with Mikasa, Yoshimoto denied his feelings, even as he found himself following Mikasa with his gaze, making sure no one noticed.

Mikasa’s buzz-cut hairstyle, unchanged from his student days because it was too much trouble to change, had once struck Yoshimoto as laughably old-fashioned. His height, his body strengthened by manual labor—those had always been things Yoshimoto mocked as “uncool.” But now, he found himself unable to laugh.

As Yoshimoto became more aware of his feelings for Mikasa, he also grew frustrated with himself for falling for him. This frustration often came out as harsh words directed at Mikasa. He hated himself for loving Mikasa, yet his heart couldn’t stop leaning in that direction. Between his pride and his true feelings, his inner turmoil raged. His body, however, was far more honest; the dreams and unrestrained fantasies told him what he was too proud to admit.

Maybe he should just come clean. Admit he liked Mikasa. Unlike Yuguchi or other “normal” men Yoshimoto had crushed on before, Mikasa was gay. That meant Yoshimoto could easily become a viable romantic option.

But confessing to Mikasa felt even harder than confessing to a straight man. He’d spent years ridiculing and looking down on Mikasa, openly mocking him. If he now admitted, “I like you,” it would feel like groveling. Wouldn’t that inflate Mikasa’s ego, giving him the upper hand? The idea of being bossed around by someone like Mikasa was intolerable.

Yoshimoto didn’t want to let Mikasa end up with a woman. But he didn’t want to confess, either. He wasn’t about to leave things as they were, though. Instead of yelling at Mikasa every time they met, Yoshimoto resolved to be gentler with him. If he made Mikasa aware of his presence, made him feel special, Mikasa would eventually fall for him. And when that happened, Mikasa would be the one to confess.

It was a long-term plan. But with Mikasa’s talk of marriage, Yoshimoto couldn’t afford to take his time. He needed to stop the wedding, no matter what. How could he keep Mikasa from going through with it? He briefly considered exposing Mikasa’s sexuality to the woman, but Mikasa was already out at work. It was highly likely she already knew.

The solution, then, was to push Mikasa into a situation where he would decide he didn’t want to get married.

A sudden idea struck Yoshimoto. Mikasa was hopelessly prone to falling in love. What if Yoshimoto introduced him to a man—someone Mikasa could never have, someone so ideal that it would remind him of who he truly was? Mikasa would surely lose himself in a new crush, rediscover his feelings for men, and call off the wedding. That would buy Yoshimoto some time.

From his years of observing Mikasa, Yoshimoto knew the kind of man Mikasa fell for: someone with an athletic build, a responsible demeanor, and a serious attitude. Yoshimoto began racking his brain, searching his circle of friends for someone who fit the bill—someone Mikasa might fall for at first sight.

It wasn’t until Yoshimoto found a candidate that he finally felt a sense of relief, allowing him to sleep soundly for the first time in days.

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