Unrequited Love: Chapter 4

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Slowly, Yoshimoto opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was an unfamiliar ceiling lamp. The chill on his neck prompted him to pull the blanket up. Where am I? he thought, his head feeling unusually heavy.

The blanket carried Mikasa’s faint scent, and Yoshimoto’s lower body began to warm as memories of the previous night flooded back. He felt his face heat up and hurriedly pulled the blanket over it. Something… big happened… a lot of things happened, he thought. But his memories were hazy—he couldn’t recall everything clearly.

Peeking under the blanket, he saw he was wearing a sweatshirt, much too large to fit him properly. It had to be Mikasa’s. Slipping his hand under the hem, he touched his bare skin. Despite the sweat he’d worked up and the climaxes he’d experienced, there were no physical traces left behind. He lay down again and noticed the futon lacked a sheet. It must have been removed after being soiled, but there wasn’t a replacement.

Mikasa must have cleaned him up, dressed him in the sweatshirt, and removed the sheet after Yoshimoto had passed out. It all felt so surreal, like the intense events of the night before had been nothing but a dream. He almost convinced himself he had simply come to Mikasa’s apartment and fallen asleep. But the dull ache in his hips and the persistent soreness in his body betrayed the truth.

Even though he had prepared himself, accommodating Mikasa had been far more taxing than expected. Yoshimoto winced at the pain when he moved. He knew this was normal—his research had told him as much. The first time was always harder for the receptive partner, and the discomfort would lessen with experience. Experience… The thought made him blush all over again.

Looking around, he realized Mikasa wasn’t in the room. Straining his ears, he heard faint sounds coming from the kitchen on the other side of the sliding doors. Footsteps approached, and the door slid open to reveal Mikasa, dressed in slacks and a button-up shirt.

Yoshimoto blinked in surprise. The last time he’d seen Mikasa in a suit was at their coming-of-age ceremony. His short hair was neatly combed, and though his tie was casually draped around his shoulders, he looked polished. He’s not heading to a construction site today, Yoshimoto thought. Even though Mikasa was someone he saw all the time, he looked unexpectedly handsome in this moment.

Mikasa picked up the watch from the table, strapped it onto his wrist, and turned toward Yoshimoto. When he realized Yoshimoto was awake, Mikasa flinched, his shoulders jerking slightly, and he took two steps back. Avoiding Yoshimoto’s gaze, he lowered his head and stared at the floor.

Yoshimoto watched the sheepish man with excitement, unable to suppress a growing smirk. He couldn’t wait to hear what Mikasa would say first.

“I’m sorry about last night. It was my fault.”

As it should be.

“I just couldn’t hold back anymore.”

Well, with me tempting you, what choice did you have?

“I don’t regret what happened.”

Good. Regretting it would’ve been a problem for me.

“I like you.”

If you like me that much, maybe I’ll think about it.

That’s how Yoshimoto imagined it would play out. It was obvious Mikasa would apologize quickly, and the script had already played out in Yoshimoto’s mind. But Mikasa stayed silent, saying nothing at all. His unexpected silence left Yoshimoto unsure of how to respond.

As the moments dragged on, Yoshimoto reevaluated. Mikasa wasn’t the type to overthink things, so Yoshimoto had assumed he’d easily apologize for taking advantage of his drunk friend. But it seemed Mikasa was feeling more guilt than expected. Yoshimoto could understand, at least to a degree, and decided to throw Mikasa a lifeline.

He’d give him an opening. Let’s see what Mikasa does with it.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Uh… over there," Mikasa stammered, pointing toward the head of the futon. Yoshimoto’s clothes were neatly folded, resting just above his head. With a sigh, Yoshimoto pushed himself halfway up, only to feel a sharp ache shoot through his hips. Lying down had masked the pain, but moving made it undeniable.

Reaching for the sweatshirt he wore, Yoshimoto noticed Mikasa abruptly turn his back. Considering everything they’d done the night before, Yoshimoto found it strange that Mikasa would suddenly act bashful over something as trivial as changing clothes. Was he shy? Embarrassed? Yoshimoto couldn’t tell.

Looking down at his skin, he saw faint bruises—marks left behind. Two near his collarbone and one close to his thigh. After he finished dressing, Mikasa remained with his back turned, unmoving and silent. The lack of interaction made the atmosphere awkward, and Yoshimoto felt the discomfort creeping in.

"…I’m hungry," Yoshimoto said casually, trying to break the ice.

"I-I’ve got some bread. Want some?" Mikasa replied, darting into the kitchen. Yoshimoto, still seated, waited like a dog for its owner to bring food. Mikasa returned with a pack of pizza bread and a carton of milk, setting them down on the tatami in front of Yoshimoto.

Mikasa sat down with his back to Yoshimoto, rummaging noisily through his work bag. Yoshimoto picked up the bread reluctantly, only to find the sound of the crinkling plastic wrapper so depressing that he tossed it aside. I’m not expecting romance or fancy gestures, but this situation… it just feels wrong.

He drank the milk instead, his thirst outweighing his appetite. Watching Mikasa’s wordless back started to irritate him. Shouldn’t you say something first? Yoshimoto thought, his frustration growing.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, Yoshimoto sighed heavily and broke the silence. "About last night… sorry."

He hadn’t wanted to apologize first, but he figured he’d give Mikasa a push—otherwise, this stalemate could drag on indefinitely.

"…Why?" Mikasa asked softly, still with his back to Yoshimoto.

"For showing up drunk in the middle of the night."

"Th-that’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it," Mikasa mumbled.

Let’s steer the conversation back to last night, Yoshimoto thought. He pressed on, trying to force Mikasa to engage.

"Look at me," Yoshimoto said.

Mikasa flinched, his broad back visibly trembling. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned to face Yoshimoto. His head remained bowed, and he awkwardly wiped at his forehead with the same rough hands that had touched Yoshimoto so intimately the night before.

"…About last night…" Mikasa began in a hoarse, hesitant voice.

"Last night…" Yoshimoto echoed, his mind flashing back to the hours they’d spent entwined. Mikasa’s rough hands roaming his skin, the primal sound of his breathing, and the way it had ended—with Yoshimoto initiating a kiss and wrapping his legs around Mikasa. His body remembered the sensations vividly, making him flush red with embarrassment. Damn it, he thought. This is humiliating.

Stealing a glance at Mikasa through his lashes, Yoshimoto saw that he was still staring at the floor. Good, Yoshimoto thought. Let him feel awkward.

I was drunk, Yoshimoto reminded himself, sticking to the narrative he’d decided on. It gave him a convenient excuse—he could pretend to have forgotten the details. It wasn’t like he wanted Mikasa to think he’d fully participated, completely aware of what he was doing. It was easier to leave the burden of memory—and all the awkwardness—squarely on Mikasa’s shoulders. As long as he remembers, that’s all that matters. Let him be the one to deal with the guilt.

"About that…" Yoshimoto began, his voice even. "I don’t really remember much from last night. Must’ve had too much to drink, and my memory’s a blur. I barely even recall coming here. Did I cause you any trouble?"

He lied to escape the embarrassment. Mikasa jerked his head up, disbelief etched on his face.

"You… you really don’t remember?"

Even though the heater was barely on, Mikasa’s forehead was drenched with sweat.

"I told you, I don’t remember. Stop badgering me," Yoshimoto snapped. Mikasa dropped his gaze again and began nervously rubbing his neck.

"Last night, you showed up here drunk… had some water, and then you fell asleep right away," Mikasa said in a barely audible voice.

"Huh?" Yoshimoto shot back, unable to believe what he’d heard.

"You looked uncomfortable sleeping in your clothes, so… I changed you into the sweatshirt," Mikasa added, his tone small and hesitant.

Yoshimoto’s clenched fists began to tremble with anger. Just fell asleep? The nerve. He remembered every kiss, every touch. Mikasa had been all over him, insatiable. And the futon—he’d removed the sheet because it was soiled. That’s why it was bare now.

"Don’t drink so much next time," Mikasa muttered, his lips moving to form what Yoshimoto recognized as a blatant lie, his eyes still refusing to meet Yoshimoto’s.

Yoshimoto’s anger burned like a wildfire, only to be doused in an instant by a strange wave of sadness. Mikasa was pretending it never happened. Why? Because acknowledging it was inconvenient for him? Yoshimoto’s chest tightened, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

Taking a deep breath, Yoshimoto forced himself to regain composure. He repeated the calming process until his tense face softened.

"…I’m leaving," Yoshimoto finally said.

Mikasa’s head shot up. "Oh, right. I guess… yeah, I have to head out for work soon anyway," he said, his tone an unsettling mix of relief and cheer.

That tone hit Yoshimoto like a hammer. It cemented his growing despair. Pain radiated from his hips as he stood, but he willed himself to straighten up, pretending he wasn’t hurting. He slipped into his coat and turned toward the door.

"Thanks for letting me crash," he muttered to Mikasa, who had followed him to the hallway.

Outside, the cold air stung his skin as the door closed behind him. The staircase loomed before him like a gauntlet. Each step sent waves of pain through his body, his legs trembling with the effort to move. The snow, untouched and glistening in the bright sunlight, reflected so harshly it made his eyes water. He blamed the snow for the tears threatening to spill and squeezed his eyes shut.

Yoshimoto didn’t let himself cry until he was home. The moment he stepped inside, the dam broke. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, like a child who’d been scolded too harshly. The pent-up emotions poured out, unchecked.

The pain in his hips made the humiliation all the more unbearable. Mikasa had held him, taken him—but not because it was Satoshi Yoshimoto. It was because he was a man. A man’s body, that’s what Mikasa had craved. Anyone would’ve sufficed.

Yoshimoto had believed that giving himself to Mikasa would spark something deeper. He thought Mikasa would surely fall for him. He’d convinced himself there was no way Mikasa wouldn’t respond to his advances, especially when Yoshimoto had given so much of himself.

If only Mikasa had shown any sign of remorse—if he had apologized for what happened, even once—Yoshimoto might have been able to salvage his dignity. But Mikasa had taken Yoshimoto’s lie, his feigned amnesia, and used it as an escape, declaring that "nothing happened." No guilt. No accountability. Not even a shred of sincerity.

It was the cruelest cut of all.

Treated with such insincerity. Mikasa didn’t even see Yoshimoto as worthy of genuine care. In the end, he was nothing more than a release for Mikasa’s lust, a disposable plaything. After all the humiliation Yoshimoto endured—letting Mikasa have sex with him, offering himself, forgiving him, enduring the pain—it meant nothing. I love him so much. I love him this much…

Mikasa would have taken anyone—any man would have sufficed. And yet, Yoshimoto had reveled in the act, blissfully unaware of this truth. He’d leaned into it, kissed him willingly, let him touch and taste places he hadn’t let anyone else. All the while believing that connecting physically would make Mikasa love him back. What a delusion.

A sickening churn in the pit of his stomach erupted into violent nausea. Yoshimoto ran to the bathroom and vomited. No matter how much he retched, the sickness wouldn’t subside. It clung to him, relentless.

If only I could shred myself into tiny pieces and flush them down the toilet, Yoshimoto thought numbly, drowning in waves of self-loathing. It was a fleeting, helpless fantasy, born out of a storm of disgust with himself.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Five days after that disastrous night with Mikasa, the topic came up unexpectedly when Kadowaki brought it up. Sitting by the window in the university cafeteria, Yoshimoto had been staring blankly outside when Kadowaki joined him.

The encounter with Mikasa had been on a Friday, and Yoshimoto had skipped class on Monday and Tuesday. He’d spent Friday night crying and throwing up, overwhelmed by humiliation and regret. The pain in his lower back had eased after two days, but even as the physical traces of their night together faded, the emotional weight persisted. He didn’t want to see anyone, so he’d holed up at home.

By Monday evening, Kadowaki sent him a concerned text: “You weren’t at class today. What’s wrong?” Yoshimoto couldn’t tell him the truth. “I caught a cold and have a fever,” he lied. Kadowaki replied, “Want me to bring something over?” But Yoshimoto declined, saying he wanted to rest alone.

“You had a cold, right? Are you okay now?” Kadowaki asked as he leaned forward, his concern apparent. Yoshimoto had decided to return to school not because he felt better but because he realized that keeping busy would distract him from obsessing over Mikasa.

“I’m fine now. No fever or anything,” Yoshimoto lied with a smile. Kadowaki gave a small, relieved smile in return.

“Good to hear. I actually wanted to ask you something,” Kadowaki continued. His tone had shifted, and it was more serious than usual. Yoshimoto looked up, sensing something was off.

“Did you stay over at Mikasa’s apartment recently?”

Yoshimoto gulped audibly. Why was Kadowaki asking that? What had Mikasa said? Avoiding eye contact, Yoshimoto turned to the window, pretending to focus on some distant passerby. After a moment, he responded, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah, I stayed over. It was a mess that night—missed the last train, got drunk, and even lost my house key…”

Crashing at a friend’s place after a drunken mishap wasn’t unusual. Everyone did it. There was nothing odd about it.

“I see,” Kadowaki replied simply, leaving it at that. Relieved that the conversation seemed to end there, Yoshimoto simultaneously felt a creeping unease. If Kadowaki knew, it meant Mikasa had mentioned it. But what exactly had Mikasa said, and how much? Surely Mikasa wouldn’t have told Kadowaki about their sexual encounter. No matter how clueless Mikasa might be, he wouldn’t go around bragging about using a longtime friend as a stand-in for his sexual urges… would he?

But then again, this was Mikasa. Yoshimoto couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility. If Mikasa had told him, what would Kadowaki think? Shame and anger made Yoshimoto’s hands tremble.

If Mikasa were here right now, Yoshimoto would want to kill him. He wanted to obliterate the shameless man who might have shared such a private matter so carelessly. But then again, maybe Mikasa had some decency left and had only mentioned the overnight stay in passing. Still, if it were just a casual comment, why would Kadowaki specifically ask about it?

Sleeping with Mikasa had become nothing but a source of regret for Yoshimoto. All it left him with was crushing humiliation and disappointment.

“It just keeps snowing, doesn’t it?” Kadowaki muttered, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Yoshimoto replied absentmindedly.

“You say you’re better, but you still look a bit pale,” Kadowaki observed.

Yoshimoto pressed a hand to his mouth. “Do I? I feel fine.”

He might’ve looked slightly gaunt—he hadn’t been eating properly these past few days. Appetite had been the last thing on his mind.

“About tomorrow,” Kadowaki began, his tone shifting again. “Mikasa—”

Hearing that name, Yoshimoto’s body flinched involuntarily.

"Got a message about meeting up for drinks," Kadowaki said. "Remember how Mikasa mentioned wanting to introduce his girlfriend? Looks like tomorrow works for him. But if you’re still not feeling great, we can push it to another time…”

Controlling his emotions completely was proving impossible. The mention of Mikasa’s name made Yoshimoto’s heart jolt, and he dug his nails into his palm to keep himself steady.

“I don’t have any plans, so I’m fine,” he replied, forcing a smile to look as natural as possible. Kadowaki gave a thoughtful pause before pulling out his phone.

“…Alright, I’ll message Mikasa and let him know you can make it. It’ll probably be the usual, starting at seven.”

The timing didn’t matter. Yoshimoto had no intention of going anyway. Even if they postponed it, he’d just skip out when the time came. Whether he was there or not, Kadowaki could keep things running smoothly.

There was no way he’d face Mikasa or meet that girlfriend of his. Not in a million years. He’d rather die than show up. Even so, Yoshimoto forced himself to say something empty and cheerful: “Ah, I’m looking forward to it.”

◇:-:◆:-:◇

On the same day they had agreed to meet, Yoshimoto decided against sending a last-minute message like, "I can't make it to the gathering due to unforeseen circumstances." Doing so would only prompt them to reschedule the introduction and create another obligation. That was something Yoshimoto wanted to avoid at all costs. Instead, he resolved to send his cancellation message right before the meeting was supposed to begin.

After his fourth class ended, Yoshimoto returned to his apartment, only to realize his phone was missing. His heart sank. He was certain it had been with him that morning, but now it was nowhere to be found. Without his phone, there was no way to contact Kadowaki.

The most likely places he might have left it were the cafeteria or the classroom. He rushed back to the university and searched the classroom, but the phone was nowhere to be found. Nor had it been turned in to the lost-and-found office. Yoshimoto tried calling his number from a public phone on campus, but all he got was his voicemail. No one had answered it, and the time for the meeting was drawing closer.

He didn’t know Kadowaki’s phone number by heart since he always dialed it from his contact list. He considered going to Kadowaki's house to explain in person but realized how strange that would seem. Besides, there was a good chance Kadowaki wasn’t even home at this hour.

...Maybe he could just skip it entirely without saying anything. What would they think of him? Then it hit him: I can just say I wasn’t feeling well and stayed home to rest. I’ll tell them I couldn’t contact anyone because I lost my phone... That should work.

Yoshimoto left the university and headed toward the subway station, intending to return home. However, before he could reach the station, someone called out to him.

"Yoshimoto, isn’t it?" It was Sakai, a fellow student from Kadowaki’s department, known for skipping lectures and borrowing Kadowaki’s notes. He was an easygoing guy with a knack for getting along with everyone.

"You’ve got that meetup tonight, don’t you? Lucky guy. I’m stuck heading to work," Sakai said casually, stretching his shoulders.

How does he know about the gathering? Yoshimoto wondered.

As if in response to Yoshimoto's confusion, Sakai added, "Oh, right. You left your phone in the classroom, didn’t you?"

"What?" Yoshimoto blurted.

"I found it. I was gonna take it to the office, but then Kadowaki recognized it and said it was yours. He mentioned you guys had a meeting tonight, so I handed it over to him."

Sakai waved and walked off, hurrying toward his part-time job.

So Kadowaki had Yoshimoto's phone. That complicated things. If he went to retrieve it, he’d inevitably have to attend the gathering.

Maybe he could still skip the meetup and claim he wasn’t feeling well. But then he remembered Sakai. If Sakai mentioned seeing him that evening to Kadowaki, the lie would be exposed instantly. Every escape route was blocked. It was the worst-case scenario.

...After much internal debate, Yoshimoto reluctantly made his way to the usual izakaya, his feet dragging with every step. The familiar restaurant sign, illuminated by its bright lights, had never looked so ominous.

He arrived about fifteen minutes late—a rare occurrence for Yoshimoto, who usually prided himself on punctuality. Being late was a hallmark of Mikasa, who always strolled in with an easy "Sorry, sorry" and a laugh, a casual attitude that never failed to irritate Yoshimoto.

Even opening the restaurant door required effort. A staff member guided him to the back. "Your party is already waiting," they said, and even though he had expected it, Yoshimoto's heart sank further.

The sliding door to the private room opened. Forcing himself to smile, Yoshimoto mustered the energy to step inside.

"Sorry for being late," he said lightly, taking the seat next to Kadowaki. Across from him sat Mikasa and the woman Yoshimoto had been dreading to meet.

"We were just wondering what could’ve made you late—it’s so unlike you," Kadowaki remarked.

"I lost my phone and spent ages looking for it. On my way here, I ran into Sakai, and he said he handed it over to you," Yoshimoto explained.

"Oh yeah, it was in the classroom," Kadowaki replied, pulling the phone from his bag and handing it over. Yoshimoto’s phone was dead—the battery had run out, explaining why no one had answered when he’d called from the public phone.

"Sorry for being late over something so stupid. So, have the introductions already been made?" Yoshimoto asked, glancing at Mikasa. Mikasa, however, avoided looking at him, staring down at the table as he introduced the woman next to him.

"This is Reina Ito. We work at the same company," Mikasa mumbled.

The woman offered a small bow and a soft "Nice to meet you." Yoshimoto recognized her instantly. It was the woman he had seen with Mikasa at the amusement park. Thin, with a plain hairstyle and frumpy clothing—her impression hadn’t changed at all.

"And this is Yoshimoto," Mikasa continued awkwardly. "We’ve been friends since high school—"

"Nice to meet you," Yoshimoto interjected, smiling at the woman, cutting Mikasa off mid-sentence.

Kadowaki waved over a server and ordered a drink for Yoshimoto. Soon, a glass of beer was placed in front of him.

"Alright, now that we’re all here, let’s toast," Kadowaki said, taking charge. The glasses clinked together, and Yoshimoto’s eyes met Mikasa’s.

It had been six days since the night they had slept together—the first time they’d seen each other since. As soon as their eyes met, Mikasa looked away, his movements awkward and abrupt.

Of course, he’s uncomfortable, Yoshimoto thought bitterly. He’s the one who announced he was marrying a woman, only to jump on a drunken man. And now that man is sitting right in front of him.

Since Mikasa was the first to look away, Yoshimoto made up his mind to hold his gaze steadfastly if their eyes met again. He wouldn’t allow himself to appear unsettled. Acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary was his only way of preserving his pride.

The gathering unfolded in a relatively pleasant atmosphere. Mikasa’s girlfriend, though plain, spoke clearly and with a sense of maturity that exceeded Mikasa’s. She wasn’t overbearing but seemed reasonably considerate. She was, in a word, ordinary. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with her, nor anything particularly remarkable.

Still, Yoshimoto couldn’t shake the feeling that she kept glancing his way. It irritated him. When he deliberately caught her gaze, expecting her to look away, she smiled instead, then leaned toward Mikasa and whispered something in his ear. Mikasa looked at Yoshimoto, their eyes met, and again Mikasa quickly turned away. He then whispered something back to the woman.

Yoshimoto’s mind buzzed with frustration. What are they saying about me? He couldn’t ask directly, but the not-knowing gnawed at him.

When their eyes met again, Yoshimoto forced himself to speak, keeping his tone casual but probing. "You’ve been looking at me a lot. Is something on your mind?"

The woman flushed slightly. "I’m sorry. Mikasa-kun told me you’re really handsome, and I couldn’t help but think he was right. You have this aura, like a celebrity."

Just like Mikasa—so ridiculously straightforward. Yoshimoto had never been so indifferent to a compliment. Being told he had a "celebrity aura" left him entirely unmoved.

The woman reached for her beer, finding only a sip left. Mikasa noticed immediately and ordered her another drink. He was attentive to her needs—far more attentive than Yoshimoto would have liked. Meanwhile, Mikasa didn’t seem to notice that Yoshimoto’s beer, untouched since the initial toast, remained practically full.

Don’t think about it. It doesn’t matter if Mikasa notices or not. It doesn’t matter that the beer hasn’t been touched. It’s all meaningless anyway.

“Should we switch to sake?”

Kadowaki, ever perceptive, added sake to Yoshimoto’s tab. The very act of opening his mouth felt repulsive, but staying silent would come off as rude. Pouring alcohol into his stomach loosened his tongue just enough to speak, though the words emerged sluggishly. Flashing the same smile he wore when being told he looked “like a celebrity,” Yoshimoto addressed the woman across from him.

“You know,” he began, “I think I’ve seen you before. About three months ago, wasn’t it? You were on a date with Mikasa at the amusement park in Fuchigura, right?”

Mikasa’s downturned face shot up, his expression one of surprise. For the first time that night, their eyes truly met. Yoshimoto offered him a cold, distant smile before turning back to the woman.

“I was there too, with my girlfriend,” he continued lightly. “I didn’t say anything at the time, but I remember thinking Mikasa had brought a cute girl along.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman replied softly.

Yoshimoto didn’t want to hear her voice. He didn’t even want to acknowledge her presence. Yet, a masochistic impulse seeped into his being, pushing him to keep up the conversation. He refused to let any trace of displeasure or sadness show. Instead, he forced himself to act amused, even entertained.

The woman directed her responses to Mikasa, who answered with a cautious warmth. Slowly, Mikasa’s stiff demeanor softened, lulled by the convivial atmosphere. No doubt, he was relieved. Yoshimoto hadn’t brought up anything incriminating; he had played along, pretending nothing had happened.

Even though Yoshimoto’s words came smoothly, every sentence felt like a dagger to his chest. On the surface, he appeared composed, but watching Mikasa interact with the woman left him suffocated. If it had been socially acceptable, he might have screamed, “I’ve had enough!” and fled. If Kadowaki weren’t there, he might have actually done it.

At first, Yoshimoto managed to hold himself together, but as time wore on, the effort of maintaining a cheerful façade wore him down. Yoshimoto reached for a cigarette, keeping it in his mouth even as he smiled to match the atmosphere of the room. And then, his thoughts betrayed him, wandering into places they shouldn’t go. He couldn’t stop thinking, no matter how much he wanted to.

Why am I sitting across from Mikasa’s girlfriend?

Why do I have to endure being in the presence of the person Mikasa truly cared about?

A stabbing pain radiated from his chest, spreading through his body like a slow-acting poison. It was misery. Everything about the woman—her face, her figure, even the curve of her chest—it all cut him deeply.

He couldn’t bear to admit the jealousy eating at him. It felt like when he was a child, watching another kid flaunt a toy he desperately wanted but couldn’t have. He’d wanted it more than anyone, but no matter how much he yearned for it, it remained out of reach. The feelings now mirrored that childhood frustration.

While Yoshimoto grew quieter, the conversation between the others flowed seamlessly. They talked about trivial things, like how the woman’s cat had gone missing. Yoshimoto occasionally chimed in with a polite “Really?” or “That’s too bad,” but he barely registered what they were saying. He didn’t want to remember any of it.

Mikasa, for his part, hadn’t spoken a single word to Yoshimoto since introducing the woman. That in itself wasn’t unusual—Mikasa rarely addressed him directly, even in friendly settings. But tonight, the complete silence felt unnatural.

Mikasa is avoiding me, Yoshimoto realized. He’s pretending last week didn’t happen.

And yet, Yoshimoto couldn’t stop himself from focusing on Mikasa, reliving that night with a mixture of regret and shame. The room hummed with an odd undercurrent of tension, invisible but palpable.

Yoshimoto’s mind drifted back to the toy he couldn’t have as a child. Why hadn’t he gotten it? His mother had refused, saying it was too expensive for a child. And now? Why hadn’t Mikasa fallen for him? A man who liked men should have been drawn to someone like Yoshimoto—above average in looks and physique. What more could he have needed?

For a long time, Yoshimoto had been Mikasa’s friend. Considering Mikasa’s preference for men, it wouldn’t have been surprising if either Yoshimoto or Kadowaki had been the object of his affection. But that never happened. What sort of boundary existed in Mikasa’s mind between a friend and a romantic partner? Yoshimoto had disliked Mikasa for as long as he could remember—his large frame, his insensitivity, his dim-wittedness. Mikasa embodied everything Yoshimoto hated most. There had even been a time when he wouldn’t have bothered speaking to Mikasa if it weren’t for Kadowaki. So how had it come to this?

Mikasa had taken only his body. He used it, left it, and reduced everything to zero. That was proof enough that it was only the body he wanted. There wasn’t even an apology for the miserable reality left behind. If Mikasa had really cared, wouldn’t he have wanted more? Wouldn’t he have craved Yoshimoto’s heart too?

Sitting at this table under the pretense of meeting Mikasa’s girlfriend, Yoshimoto wondered if he even qualified as a friend in Mikasa’s eyes. Perhaps Mikasa had hated him all along. Maybe Yoshimoto’s harsh words, delivered so often and without restraint, had bred resentment in Mikasa. Had the act been some form of retaliation? A spiteful game?

To Mikasa, Yoshimoto might not have mattered at all. Maybe he was even a nuisance. The thought darkened Yoshimoto’s mind like a storm cloud. Am I worthless because Mikasa didn’t want me? he wondered bitterly. No. He reminded himself sharply: I’m smarter than Mikasa. I’m better-looking. Just because some low-level guy didn’t choose me, doesn’t mean I’m not worth anything. There were others, countless others, who would want him just as he was.

But then Yoshimoto saw it. Mikasa’s girlfriend, tipsy and red-eyed, leaned her head lightly on his shoulder. Mikasa, noticing, gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Their tender intimacy, seemingly deliberate, shattered whatever resolve Yoshimoto had left.

“What’s wrong?” Kadowaki’s voice stopped him as he abruptly stood.

“Just…going to the restroom.”

Slipping on his shoes, Yoshimoto walked slowly and deliberately toward the restroom. As soon as he turned the corner and felt confident no one could see him, his measured pace broke into a near-run. He burst into a stall and vomited.

He hadn’t drunk enough to feel this ill. He usually complained about not getting drunk, not bad hangovers.

The nausea wouldn’t stop. Acid burned his throat, and tears spilled uncontrollably. He didn’t even know why he was crying, but the flood wouldn’t cease. Hot tears drenched the floor as stifled sobs wracked his body. He clamped his hand over his mouth, desperate to muffle the sound. He couldn’t bear to see those two again. He couldn’t bear to see Mikasa ignoring him. He couldn’t bear the misery.

No matter how he tried to justify it, the facts were plain. He had been a momentary whim, used and discarded.

I should never have fallen for him. Never. Not for an idiot like Mikasa. I shouldn’t have tried to seduce him. I shouldn’t have slept with him.

A knock on the bathroom door startled him. Yoshimoto quickly looked up. The face in the mirror was a mess—eyes swollen, nose red, a pitiful wreck of emotions scribbled across his features like graffiti. Panicked, he hastily wiped his face. No one can ever know I cried.

Composing himself as best he could, Yoshimoto left the stall. He didn’t return to the table immediately, instead standing in a quiet corner of the corridor until he felt composed enough to face the others.

Time passed, and the heat of shame that had clung to his eyes and nose began to dissipate. He mustered his courage and walked back to the table, only to find Kadowaki sitting alone. Mikasa and his girlfriend were gone.

"She seemed pretty drunk, so Mikasa decided to take her home. He said to tell you goodbye," Kadowaki said.

The tension Yoshimoto had been holding onto deflated in an instant.

"You’ve been quiet this whole time. I thought you didn’t look well. Are you okay?" Kadowaki asked, his concern genuine.

"I'm fine, really. Just drank a little too much," Yoshimoto replied with a forced smile.

Kadowaki, now nursing a glass of shochu on the rocks, gestured toward the table. "If you’ve got time, stick around a bit longer and chat."

"Sure," Yoshimoto agreed, moving to the seat opposite Kadowaki where Mikasa had been sitting earlier. He picked up the glass of beer he’d barely touched.

"I didn’t know you’d seen Mikasa’s girlfriend before," Kadowaki said.

"It was just a coincidence," Yoshimoto replied tersely, avoiding the topic of the woman now that she was finally gone.

"She seemed gentle, a kind girl," Kadowaki murmured.

Despite the sour feeling lingering in his throat and stomach from throwing up earlier, Yoshimoto took a swig of his beer. "She was boring. Neither good nor bad—just dull."

Kadowaki shot him a sharp look of disapproval, silencing Yoshimoto. Though Kadowaki had invited him to talk, the silence that followed was heavy. Grateful for the pause in conversation, Yoshimoto reached for any alcohol left on the table, trying to dull the sharp edge of his thoughts. When that didn’t work, he waved over a server and ordered cold sake.

"Didn’t Mikasa seem off today?" Kadowaki asked suddenly.

Just hearing Mikasa’s name pricked Yoshimoto like a thorn. His trembling fingers nudged a chopstick holder, sending it spinning on the table.

"No, he seemed normal to me," Yoshimoto replied.

"He barely spoke to you. You must’ve noticed."

"That’s not unusual. He doesn’t like how I always criticize him," Yoshimoto deflected.

The server returned with the sake, placing it on the table. As Yoshimoto reached for the glass, Kadowaki snatched it away first. Surprised, Yoshimoto looked up to see Kadowaki glaring at him.

"Don’t lie to me," Kadowaki said, his voice low and sharp, his gaze unlike anything Yoshimoto had seen before.

"I’m not lying to you," Yoshimoto murmured weakly.

“Then answer this: you remember what happened when you stayed over at Mikasa’s apartment, don’t you?”

The question hit like a hammer. Whatever hazy inebriation Yoshimoto had been clinging to evaporated in an instant, leaving him raw and exposed. He couldn’t speak. His silence was as good as an admission.

"You’ve never blacked out from drinking before. But the one time you stay at Mikasa’s, suddenly you conveniently forget everything? I don’t buy it."

Yoshimoto’s hands shook violently.

"Mikasa told me you barely resisted because you were drunk. But the truth is, you didn’t try to resist at all, did you? You invited it."

Kadowaki’s words stripped away Yoshimoto’s carefully hidden shame, exposing it like a raw nerve. He couldn’t take it anymore.

"I’m leaving," Yoshimoto said abruptly, yanking on his shoes and storming out of the bar. He felt Kadowaki’s hand grab his arm, but he shook it off, fleeing into the night.

Though he thought he wasn’t drunk, his legs betrayed him, tripping over themselves as he tried to run. Still, he pushed forward until Kadowaki caught up to him a block away, pulling him into a narrow alley. Pressed against the cold wall, Yoshimoto froze.

"Why did you seduce Mikasa?"

"I... I don’t know."

Yoshimoto muttered in a small voice, head bowed, searching for an excuse. Kadowaki wasn’t having it. He grabbed Yoshimoto by the shoulders and shook him roughly.

"Don’t try to dodge the question! You like Mikasa, don’t you? After all the harsh things you’ve said to him, you couldn’t admit you liked him. Then, when he suddenly announced he was getting married, you panicked. So, you pretended to be drunk, seduced him, let him sleep with you, and then acted like you didn’t remember anything so you could pin all the blame on him, didn’t you?"

Yoshimoto couldn’t deny it. He had promised not to lie. Seeing Yoshimoto’s silence, Kadowaki’s expression turned pained.

"Why would you do something so stupid? If you liked him, you should have just told him. Mikasa isn’t the type to disregard someone’s feelings. Even if he didn’t feel the same, you could’ve accepted it and moved on."

Hearing "accepted it and moved on" drained the last of Yoshimoto’s strength. His back slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold ground, utterly defeated.

"The day after you stayed at Mikasa’s apartment, he called me," Kadowaki began. "He told me he’d slept with you, that you’d been drunk and didn’t remember anything. He was scared you’d get mad at him, so he lied. He said he regretted it and didn’t know what to do, so he came to me for advice."

The word "regret" sliced through Yoshimoto’s already shattered pride.

"At first, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I’d always thought you and Mikasa didn’t get along. But the more I listened, the more I realized that it wasn’t just Mikasa making a move—that you might have initiated it. And if you did, it started to make sense: that maybe you liked him and were trying to get him to notice you."

Still staring at the ground, Yoshimoto bit his lip.

"When I figured that out, I was pissed," Kadowaki said bluntly. "So, when Mikasa said, ‘I should probably apologize to Yoshimoto,’ I told him, ‘If Yoshimoto doesn’t remember, then just act like nothing happened.’ You lied to Mikasa first, so he lied back. Fair’s fair."

Yoshimoto felt too broken to stand. His body and soul were a mess. Kadowaki’s hand touched his shoulder. When Yoshimoto looked up, Kadowaki had crouched down to meet his gaze.

"You did the worst thing you could to a friend who’s decided to get married," Kadowaki said harshly.

The weight of Kadowaki’s accusations left Yoshimoto unable to formulate a defense.

"Or was it all just a game to mess with Mikasa?"

"No!" Yoshimoto shouted.

If it had been a game, he wouldn’t have done something so humiliating. He wouldn’t have endured the pain. He wouldn’t be feeling so miserably now.

"You’re a smart guy," Kadowaki continued, "but you’re telling me you liked Mikasa enough to do something that reckless?"

Yoshimoto shook his head vehemently, but his actions betrayed him.

"If that’s the case," Kadowaki said softly, "then seeing Mikasa and his girlfriend tonight must’ve been tough."

Kadowaki’s kind words caused something inside Yoshimoto to break. Tears flooded his eyes, spilling uncontrollably. He sobbed openly, loudly, unable to stop. No matter how much he cried, the pain kept pouring out.

Kadowaki, like an older brother soothing a child, gently patted Yoshimoto’s head. But instead of comfort, the gesture only magnified Yoshimoto’s heartbreak, reminding him of his failure and rejection.

For a long time, Yoshimoto cried in the alley. Kadowaki sat beside him, silent, keeping him company. Only when his tears subsided did Yoshimoto notice how icy his fingers had become, stung by the cold he hadn’t felt in the throes of his anguish.

"...It's cold," Yoshimoto muttered.

Next to him, Kadowaki replied, "It is."

The world, which had felt devoid of sound, slowly filled with noise again. Cars roared past the road visible through the gap in the alley. Yoshimoto stood up slowly.

"...I'm going home."

Kadowaki asked, "Are you okay?" but Yoshimoto couldn’t answer.

"It’s too cold to stay here."

Kadowaki nodded, "Yeah, you’re right."

Yoshimoto couldn’t bear to look at Kadowaki’s face—so honest, so steady. Keeping his gaze on the ground, he spoke.

"...If Mikasa invites you to go drinking, don’t invite me for a while."

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips.

"I just... I can’t see his face right now. Give me some time. I think I’ll be okay after a while."

"Got it," Kadowaki said simply.

Yoshimoto clenched his frozen hands tightly.

"...Do you think less of me?"

A sigh, more exasperated than anything else, reached Yoshimoto’s ears.

"Idiot," Kadowaki said.

When Yoshimoto looked up, Kadowaki was smiling.

"We’re friends, aren’t we? Seriously, Mikasa, you—everyone around me is so much trouble. It’s exhausting."

The teasing warmth in Kadowaki’s voice made Yoshimoto's chest tighten, not with pain but with a glimmer of relief.

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