Unrequited Love: Chapter 5

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The cold woke Yoshimoto. Shivering, he switched on the heater. Bright sunlight filtered through the curtains, prompting him to draw them open. Beyond the glass, a blanket of white snow stretched as far as the eye could see.

His breath fogged the glass, and his fingertips froze as if clutching ice when they touched the window frame. The road in front of the apartment was covered in snow, making it impossible to distinguish between the sidewalk and the street.

A few people passed by, scattered here and there. Yoshimoto stared outside absentmindedly but eventually retreated under his sheets, unable to endure the cold. He turned on the TV, which buzzed with news of record snowfall. Trains and buses had halted, and snow removal operations were reportedly struggling.

It had nothing to do with him. It was a Saturday, and he had no plans to go out. When a man with a hairstyle resembling Mikasa’s appeared on the screen, Yoshimoto instinctively switched off the television. Huddled under his still-warm blanket, he pulled the sheets over his head. The wound in his heart remained raw, aching at the slightest touch.

It would take more time for the pain to heal. Being a student while Mikasa was already a working adult meant their paths rarely crossed. If he refrained from reaching out, they wouldn’t meet. In time, the memories would fade.

Just then, the intercom buzzed. He ignored it, shutting his eyes. But the relentless ringing tested his patience. Annoyed, Yoshimoto climbed out of bed.

Throwing on a hoodie over his sweatpants, he opened the door, radiating displeasure. The icy air rushed in, making him shiver.

"Oh, good morning," a familiar voice greeted him.

Yoshimoto froze. Mikasa stood there, rubbing his red-tipped nose with gloved hands. His expression was nervous as he gave a small bow.

"Did I wake you? Sorry about that."

It had only been two days since Mikasa introduced his girlfriend. Yoshimoto’s emotional wounds were still raw, festering. And now, the cause of it all stood before him, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Crazy snow, huh? Sucks to get this on a rare day off. The trains are delayed, too..."

Arms crossed, Yoshimoto lowered his face. He didn’t want Mikasa to see his unwashed, sleep-ruffled face. More than that, he didn’t want to look at Mikasa’s face.

Mikasa’s sneakers were soaked, the fabric visibly darkened from the snow. They looked freezing, but Yoshimoto had no intention of inviting him inside.

"What do you want so early on a weekend?" Yoshimoto asked curtly.

"You woke me up. I hope you have a good reason."

"It’s not really about wanting something..."

A gust of wind swept in, making Yoshimoto sneeze. Mikasa stepped inside uninvited, shutting the door behind him. The confined space and Mikasa's proximity made Yoshimoto uneasy.

"If you’ve got no reason, go home."

"I do. I do have a reason, but..."

"Then spit it out already."

"Well, it’s just..." Mikasa trailed off, his hesitance grating on Yoshimoto’s nerves.

"If you’ve got something to say, say it now. If not, get out!"

Mikasa fell silent. The narrow entryway seemed stifling with the tension hanging in the air.

"My calls wouldn’t go through," Mikasa said quietly.

Yoshimoto tilted his head, still staring at Mikasa’s wet shoes.

"Did you change your number? I tried calling several times, but it wouldn’t connect. I thought I could find your number in my call history from the last time you called me, but I couldn’t tell which one it was. When I asked Kadowaki for your number, he must have sent the wrong one—it went to a stranger. I emailed him again, asking for the correct one, but he’s been busy and hasn’t replied. So I figured it’d be faster to come here directly. I know where your apartment is, after all. But then there’s this snow. With the trains and buses down, I walked here. Took me about three hours, I think."

Mikasa said this nonchalantly, leaving Yoshimoto speechless. His mouth hung open in shock as he involuntarily lifted his gaze to meet Mikasa’s.

"Are you stupid?" Yoshimoto spat.

Mikasa glanced up at Yoshimoto, stealing a brief, cautious look at his face.

"I wanted to talk to you as soon as I could," Mikasa said earnestly, his expression carrying a gravity that filled Yoshimoto with a sense of unease. Mikasa took a deep breath and suddenly knelt down in the narrow entryway, his hands flat against the floor, bowing deeply like a samurai in an old period drama.

"I'm sorry! I need to apologize to you. I lied to you," Mikasa declared.

Though the heater kept the room warm, Yoshimoto felt a chill run down his spine as if his back were traced with ice. The sight of Mikasa bowing like that made him dread whatever was coming next. Mikasa raised his head, his expression taut with sincerity.

"You stayed at my place last week, remember? There's something I need to tell you about that night. Please, just listen before you get angry."

It felt as though his chest was being crushed by coils of barbed wire. The humiliation from sleeping with Mikasa still stung, and Yoshimoto wanted nothing more than to leave it behind. Why was Mikasa intent on dragging it back to the surface?

"That night... I—well, we—" Mikasa began.

Before he could finish, Yoshimoto grabbed his collar and pulled him close, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"If you say one more word, I’ll kill you," he growled.

Yoshimoto's lips quivered as he glared at Mikasa, whose wide eyes blinked rapidly in shock. Then, as if struck by realization, Mikasa's expression shifted.

"Wait... do you already know?" he asked, his voice almost incredulous.

The blood drained from Yoshimoto's face. His entire body turned cold as Mikasa’s strong hand clamped over his wrist, holding it with alarming force.

"You know, don’t you? Did Kadowaki tell you? But Kadowaki said he didn’t mention anything to you..."

"Get out!" Yoshimoto shouted, struggling to shake free from Mikasa’s grip.

But Mikasa didn’t let go. "After you stayed over, didn’t you feel strange? Like, especially around your... lower back?"

The rawness of the question made Yoshimoto want to cry.

"Don’t say it! Of course, I wasn’t fine! Not after... so many times..." Yoshimoto trailed off.

Mikasa froze, his movements halting. Realization dawned on him as Yoshimoto’s words sunk in. Yoshimoto realized, too, that he’d said something he never should have.

"You remember," Mikasa said, his voice quiet but charged with certainty. "You remember everything, don’t you? So why didn’t you get angry? Why didn’t you yell at me like you always do? Why didn’t you call me out for doing something so awful to a drunk friend?"

Yoshimoto’s clenched teeth chattered audibly. He wanted to shout denials, hurl insults, but the words stuck in his throat. Mikasa’s steady gaze bore into him, pinning him in place. Yoshimoto wished desperately to vanish, to dissolve into nothing.

"Did you... were you trying to seduce me?" Mikasa asked.

Yoshimoto swung his arm to punch Mikasa, but the blow stopped short, intercepted by Mikasa’s grip.

"Do you like me?" Mikasa asked.

"No way in hell!" Yoshimoto shouted. "Get out of my house! Stop spouting nonsense this early in the morning and leave!"

It was no use pretending anymore. There was no salvaging this. Yoshimoto pressed against Mikasa’s shoulders, trying to shove him out the door, but Mikasa’s strength overpowered him. The struggle was childish and futile, ending abruptly when Mikasa pulled Yoshimoto into an embrace.

The hug was tight, almost suffocating. Even through his sweatshirt, Yoshimoto could feel Mikasa’s heat and the frantic thudding of a heart—he couldn’t even tell whose it was anymore. He felt as though he might be swallowed whole, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. The pressure, the heat—it was terrifying.

In Yoshimoto’s ear, Mikasa whispered something low and guttural, "I want you."

The meaning of the words barely registered in Yoshimoto’s dazed mind, lost in a whirl of emotion too overwhelming to process.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Yoshimoto was dragged to the bed, his clothes torn off before he could resist. Watching the rough hands tearing at him, he trembled slightly. Cold kisses landed on his exposed skin, sending shivers down his spine with each touch—whether from cold or a jolt of excitement, he couldn’t tell. Thick fingers probed between his legs, their clumsy, unyielding movements sparking unwanted sensations. To his shame, he felt himself harden.

“Stop… I said stop…” he muttered, his voice faltering.

But his protest was cut off as his groin was squeezed, his genitals, including his balls, were kneaded. Pain and pleasure collided in a way that overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t hold back. His release came abruptly, leaving him mortified. He covered his face with both hands, unable to bear the thought of anyone seeing his expression in that moment. He wanted to disappear.

Mikasa pried Yoshimoto’s legs apart, exposing his overly sensitive spot right after climax. Then, as if deliberately amplifying his humiliation, Mikasa pulled Yoshimoto’s hands away from his face and met his gaze—right before plunging into him.

"Ahhh... Ah... Ouch..."

Without preparation or easing, he was entered, and a dull pain surged through him.

“It hurts! Stop it! I don’t want this!” Yoshimoto pleaded, his voice trembling.

But Mikasa ignored him, panting heavily like an animal as he moved his hips. The force made Yoshimoto’s body sway unsteadily with each thrust. Mikasa drove into him with an almost violent intensity, then abruptly stopped, his hips trembling. The warm sensation inside made it clear—he had finished.

Even as the discomfort lingered, Yoshimoto’s body betrayed him once again, hardening from the mere sensation of Mikasa’s hands exploring him while they remained connected. Embarrassingly sweet sounds escaped his lips, prompting Mikasa to stir to life again. His movements resumed, pounding into Yoshimoto with renewed vigor.

The release left inside him seemed to act as a kind of lubricant, dulling the pain of Mikasa's movements. With the discomfort lessened, an unnerving pleasure began to well up from within, spreading like an electric current. It was terrifying, yet it felt undeniably good. The part of him where Mikasa was buried reacted on its own, tightening and writhing with sensation. His body and mind were a chaotic mess, utterly disordered.

After Mikasa reached his second climax, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he slowly lifted Yoshimoto, their bodies still connected, and sat him on his lap, straddling him. In the light, the vivid sight of their joined bodies was unbearable, humiliating enough to make Yoshimoto feel as though he might lose his mind.

Mikasa leaned forward, pressing his face into Yoshimoto’s small chest. His teeth grazed the sensitive peaks before his tongue flicked against them, taking his time to toy with both, as if savoring every reaction.

“You love me, don’t you?” Mikasa’s voice was low, his words almost a whisper.

Yoshimoto rested his head against Mikasa’s shoulder, his mind disconnected from his body. He stared blankly at the patterns on the wall, feeling the warmth of Mikasa’s body against the icy void in his chest. When Mikasa shifted his hips, Yoshimoto snapped back to reality, startled by the movement.

“I’ll ask again. You love me, right? Enough to let me do this? What do you even like about me?” Mikasa pressed.

Yoshimoto couldn’t answer. He didn’t know why, of all people, it had to be Mikasa. He looked down, unable to meet Mikasa’s gaze, and said nothing.

“Look at me,” Mikasa demanded.

When Yoshimoto refused, Mikasa grabbed his face with both hands and forced him to look up. Mikasa’s expression was uncharacteristically serious, his eyes boring into Yoshimoto’s.

“I’ll be honest. This might hurt to hear, but I never thought of you that way. Not once,” Mikasa said plainly. “I never even considered it.”

A sharp pain tore through Yoshimoto’s chest. It wasn’t just a scratch—it was a deep wound. Hearing the words spoken aloud, raw and direct, hurt far more than the vague assumptions he had tormented himself with. The humiliation was unbearable. Furious and desperate, Yoshimoto yanked at Mikasa’s hair.

“Ow,” Mikasa winced, but he didn’t push Yoshimoto away.

Yoshimoto tried to lift himself off Mikasa’s lap, only for Mikasa to seize his waist and force him back down with brutal insistence. The motion sent a sharp jolt through Yoshimoto’s body, making him cry out involuntarily.

“Does it hurt, knowing I didn’t feel anything for you?” Mikasa asked, his voice tinged with mocking curiosity. “Does it make you angry?”

Yoshimoto glared at Mikasa, seeing him clearly for what he was: cruel, calculating, and enjoying every moment of his dominance. He realized Mikasa was savoring his suffering, relishing the torment he inflicted.

The smirk on Mikasa’s face deepened as he continued, taunting Yoshimoto with his words, all while their bodies remained shamefully, inextricably connected.

"You've got a sharp tongue," Mikasa began, his tone soft but with a hint of teasing. "Cold, sarcastic, always smirking at people like you’re above them. It's like I can hear you calling everyone stupid just from the look on your face."

His hands, in stark contrast to his words, gently cupped Yoshimoto’s cheeks. The tenderness left Yoshimoto momentarily frozen, and in that hesitation, Mikasa leaned in for a kiss—deep, fervent, almost desperate, as though trying to draw out all of Yoshimoto’s resistance.

"But that night," Mikasa continued, his gaze boring into Yoshimoto’s, "you were like someone else. Seductive, sweet, kind. I thought I was dreaming."

He pulled Yoshimoto into a tight embrace, his voice low and resonant as he admitted, "I couldn’t forget. I never thought about you like that before, not even once… but now, I can’t stop."

His arms wrapped securely around Yoshimoto’s trembling frame, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes across Yoshimoto’s back. "I like the gentle version of you," he murmured, his breath warm against Yoshimoto’s ear. "You love me, don’t you? You love me enough to let me do this, right?"

Even if it was the truth, Yoshimoto couldn’t bring himself to confirm it. He pressed his lips together, refusing to give Mikasa the satisfaction.

"Say it," Mikasa pressed. "Admit you love me. Say that’s why you let me sleep with you. Be honest with me, be kind to me, and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll love only you."

The arrogance in Mikasa’s demand was infuriating, and Yoshimoto’s eyes narrowed with disdain, glistening with unshed tears. Yet, behind Mikasa’s boldness, his gaze wavered, revealing a quiet vulnerability.

"I just need something certain," Mikasa said, his voice softening. "A word, a gesture—anything to show me this isn’t one-sided. I can’t gamble on something unclear."

The silence between them was heavy. Yoshimoto knew he needed to say something, anything, to break it. But the thought of admitting his feelings felt like swallowing broken glass. His pride flared, a stubborn shard of self-preservation even in this raw, vulnerable moment.

Mikasa sighed, a sound that cut through Yoshimoto like a cold wind. He pushed Yoshimoto back onto the bed, their bodies separating. The sudden emptiness was jarring, and Yoshimoto winced as Mikasa carelessly withdrew from him, leaving him exposed and cold.

"I get it," Mikasa said, his tone resigned. "Forget it."

Yoshimoto could only watch as Mikasa began gathering his clothes, his broad back turned, the warmth of his presence fading with every passing second. Paralyzed by his own inaction, Yoshimoto’s voice remained trapped in his throat, even as his mind screamed at him to stop Mikasa from leaving.

Mikasa paused at the doorway, his hand on the frame, and spoke without turning around. "In the end, you’re always like this. Never saying anything unless someone else forces it out of you."

His words were a knife twisting in Yoshimoto’s chest. He wanted to shout, to command Mikasa to stop, but his throat felt tight, his body unwilling to comply. Just as Mikasa’s hand began to push open the door, Yoshimoto’s voice broke free.

"If you walk out that door, I’ll… I’ll punch you!" he blurted, the words clumsy and strained.

Mikasa turned, his expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

"Get back here!" Yoshimoto barked, his voice trembling. "You think I can just get up and follow you? You’re going to make me walk after all this?"

For a long moment, Mikasa stood there, unmoving. Then, slowly, he stepped back into the room and walked toward Yoshimoto. He stopped just in front of him, waiting. His silence demanded something Yoshimoto wasn’t ready to give.

The pressure of the moment broke Yoshimoto’s composure. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks unchecked. The humiliation of crying in front of Mikasa was almost unbearable, and he bowed his head, hiding his face from view.

Mikasa crouched down in front of him, studying him for a moment. Then, with a gentleness Yoshimoto didn’t expect, he reached out and cupped his tear-streaked cheek. His hand was warm, steadying in a way Yoshimoto hadn’t realized he needed.

"I've never seen you cry before," Mikasa murmured, his deep voice filled with a strange tenderness as his thick fingers gently wiped away Yoshimoto's tears.

"Say you love me," he whispered softly, coaxing, almost pleading. "I want to hear it from you."

Yoshimoto’s defenses, fragile and frayed, crumbled further under the gentleness of Mikasa’s touch. The warmth of his breath against Yoshimoto’s ear and the soothing cadence of his voice dissolved the last vestiges of resistance. Without thinking, Yoshimoto clung to Mikasa’s neck, burying his face against him as though trying to hide from the world.

"I hate you," Yoshimoto choked out, his voice trembling with emotion. "I hate you so much."

The words spilled out again and again, a desperate mantra. Yet, even as he repeated them, his arms tightened around Mikasa’s neck, holding him as though afraid to let go. Mikasa, in turn, lightly patted Yoshimoto’s trembling back, his movements calm and steady, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Yoshimoto.

"You know," Mikasa said with a faint smile, "everything you say and everything you do are complete opposites."

He didn’t try to push Yoshimoto away. Instead, he held him closer, letting Yoshimoto's conflicting emotions wash over them both. When Yoshimoto’s tears began to subside, Mikasa dipped his head to press soft, teasing bites against his flushed earlobe, the faint sting making Yoshimoto shiver.

Mikasa’s gaze locked onto Yoshimoto’s tear-streaked face, his expression darkening with a mix of desire and tenderness. Drawn in by the raw vulnerability, he allowed himself to be drawn further, undressing again under the weight of Yoshimoto’s silent plea and the storm of emotions that lay between them.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Yoshimoto woke up first. The room was pitch black, rendering everything invisible. On the narrow bed, careful not to disturb the man sleeping heavily beside him, he gingerly sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. It was seven in the evening. He had thought it was much later and was surprised by the time.

His lower body felt weak, and his whole body was heavy with fatigue. Pressing a damp hand against his sweat-covered forehead, Yoshimoto sighed. He wanted to take a shower, but even the thought of walking felt exhausting. The soft sound of breathing drew his attention, and he turned to look. The same man who had been so relentless, driving Yoshimoto to the point of tears, begging with cries of "I'm breaking," and "I'm dying," now lay fast asleep. His face was half-buried in the pillow, his expression unexpectedly boyish in slumber. The faint stubble on his chin contrasted starkly, a rough masculine trait juxtaposed against his childlike sleep.

Yoshimoto’s chest felt full, swelling with an emotion he didn’t entirely understand. Gently, he stroked the rough jawline over and over, pressing light kisses to it. Mikasa didn’t stir. Emboldened by his deep sleep, Yoshimoto leaned down and kissed his lips—a hesitant, trembling kiss, as if about to fall into an endless abyss.

In the end, what truly scared Yoshimoto was showing Mikasa his genuine feelings. He was afraid of being honest, afraid of being hurt deeply in return. He had always thought that if he kept silent, his feelings wouldn’t take form or leave a mark, and therefore, he wouldn’t be wounded. But feelings aren’t so eloquent that they can be understood without words.

What would happen now? Would Mikasa go through with his plans to marry that woman, leaving Yoshimoto as nothing more than a casual outlet for sex whenever the mood struck? Or would Mikasa honor his words—"I'll love only you"—and stay by his side? Even after the passionate way Mikasa had loved him earlier, Yoshimoto couldn’t bring himself to feel confident about the man’s future behavior.

He pressed closer to Mikasa’s warm chest, burying his nose against the firm muscles. The scent of him was comforting yet heart-wrenching. Tears welled up again, spilling silently as Yoshimoto sniffled softly.

“I love you…” he whispered.

Pulling Mikasa's large frame closer, Yoshimoto shut his eyes. He didn’t notice the subtle tremble of Mikasa’s eyelids at his whispered confession.

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