Unrequited Love: Chapter 6

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The bus tilted sharply to the left as it rounded a curve. Isosaki, walking down the aisle, instinctively grabbed the handle of a nearby seat. One of the cans of beer he was carrying in his right hand slipped, tumbling noisily down the aisle toward the back of the bus.

“Come on, Isosaki! What are you doing?”

Terao, who was seated in the last row, retrieved the runaway can and pursed her lips in irritation. Even though Isosaki apologized with a quick “Sorry,” her sour expression didn’t change. The bus continued navigating the winding road, causing Isosaki to sway left and right as he finally reached the back row.

Terao snatched the remaining beer cans from his hands, shoving the dropped one back at him in exchange.

“Put this back in the cooler to chill again. If I open it now, it’ll foam everywhere.”

There wasn’t a hint of gratitude or acknowledgment for his effort, nor even a speck of concern for the person delivering the beers. Isosaki couldn’t quite fathom why he’d been roped into playing delivery boy in the first place. Terao was the same age as him—24—and a fellow junior employee. Furthermore, the beers in the cooler at the front of the bus were supposed to be self-serve.

As he made his way back toward the front, can in hand, another voice called out.

“Hey, Isosaki-kun! Bring us some snacks, too, would you?”

Turning around, he saw Wada waving her hand lazily from the back row. He clenched his fists to stop himself from blurting out, “Could you maybe ask for everything at once?” Wada was two years older than him, undeniably beautiful, but her heavy makeup and flashy style made her seem more like a hostess at a high-end club than an office worker. With her exaggerated hairstyle and gaudy outfit, she was far from Isosaki’s type—he preferred baby-faced simplicity.

“Isosaki-kun,” another voice called, this time from Yoshimoto, their assistant manager.

Flanked by the insufferable duo of Terao and Wada, the assistant manager sat in the last row, legs crossed with deliberate elegance. He casually switched which leg was on top, flaunting his long limbs. The unnecessary performance made Isosaki’s skin crawl.

At just 28, Yoshimoto was already an assistant manager. Known as a rising star in the department, he was slim, stylish, and had a knack for wearing clothes that drew admiration from the female employees. Though Isosaki himself lacked the fashion sense to judge, he’d overheard enough conversations to know that Yoshimoto’s taste was considered “impeccable.” His small head, symmetrical features, and undeniable charisma naturally drew attention.

He wasn’t particularly expressive, but when he did smile, the women in the office would swoon over how “adorable” it was. Isosaki, however, knew better. That “adorable” quality was nothing but a facade. To make matters worse, Yoshimoto had organized this camping trip and was using Isosaki, his direct subordinate, as little more than an extra pair of hands—a glorified servant.

With a suspiciously pleasant smile on his otherwise cool face, Yoshimoto clasped his fingers together in front of him.

“Work hard for everyone’s sake, Isosaki. Think of this as a perfect opportunity to show just how much you can contribute.”

On the surface, it sounded like a simple pep talk. But Isosaki could detect the subtle hints of sarcasm laced throughout the statement, irritating him to no end. What Yoshimoto was really saying, Isosaki thought, was something like: You’re useless at work, so at least try to be helpful during company outings.

Though Isosaki was self-aware enough not to deny his own shortcomings, being exploited for them felt infuriatingly unfair. And it stung even more knowing this was his precious three-day weekend in July. There was no point lamenting it now, though.

As the bus exited the mountainous terrain and the ride smoothed out, Isosaki quickly delivered the requested snacks and returned to his seat near the front row, conveniently located across the aisle from the cooler. The seating arrangement, unsurprisingly, had been devised by their assistant manager.

“Must be tough being everyone’s errand boy,” came a quiet remark from Mikasa, who was seated beside him.

It was the first kind word Isosaki had heard all day, after a morning of loading luggage onto the bus, distributing drinks and snacks, conducting headcounts at rest stops, and being generally run ragged. His hardened, jaded heart nearly softened.

“It’s fine. I’m just the lackey around here,” he replied.

When their eyes met, Mikasa gave him a gentle smile. With a sturdy build that hinted at athleticism, and a tall frame even while seated, Mikasa exuded a grounded presence. His short, nearly buzz-cut hairstyle might not have been trendy, but it suited his unpretentious demeanor perfectly. Mikasa worked for Iwata Construction, a subcontractor for Yonrise Corporation, where Isosaki was employed. Though the camping trip primarily involved Yonrise employees, a few individuals from partner companies had also joined.

“Satoshi works you pretty hard, doesn’t he?” Mikasa remarked, almost offhandedly.

Satoshi? Isozaki blinked, unsure who he meant. His confusion must have been obvious because Mikasa chuckled wryly.

“Guess you wouldn’t recognize his first name. Yoshimoto—Satoshi Yoshimoto. We went to high school together.”

The revelation that the assistant manager and Mikasa were old classmates caught Isosaki off guard. While they were roughly the same age, their vibes were completely different. If Yoshimoto’s aura could be described as a murky mix of polished charm and inner cynicism—gray, like a city rat—then Mikasa’s was warm and inviting, a bright orange.

“So, you’re close with the assistant manager?” Isosaki ventured.

Mikasa paused briefly before answering with a noncommittal “You could say that” and a faint smile.

The hesitation reminded Isosaki of a heated argument he’d once witnessed between Mikasa and Yoshimoto at work. It had occurred during a project involving a custom home designed by a Yonrise architect but built by Iwata Construction. Delays in the start of construction had pushed back the completion date, and when Yoshimoto learned of it, he had unleashed his fury on Mikasa, who had come to deliver the report.

Yoshimoto’s outburst had been so intense that even a female coworker who usually fawned over him whispered, “He’s terrifying,” with tears in her eyes. It was the only time Isosaki had ever seen Yoshimoto disregard the gazes of onlookers and hurl such harsh insults. Watching Mikasa endure the onslaught without retaliating, only apologizing repeatedly, had made Isosaki want to step in and defend him.

Yoshimoto’s lack of mercy extended even to his friends. The way he treated Isosaki now—taunting and overworking him—was another example of his unyielding nature. The memory of Yoshimoto’s earlier snide comments reignited Isosaki’s frustration. Yoshimoto had two faces: to most of the office, he was a charming, competent leader, but with Isosaki, he became downright devilish.

Two years earlier, Isosaki had been thrilled to secure a position at Yonrise Corporation, a prestigious company known for handling everything from private homes to apartment complexes. But his joy was short-lived. Barely settled into his new role, he had been sent to a regional office, where harsh realities quickly replaced his optimism.

That spring, Isosaki finally received the transfer order he’d been waiting for, allowing him to return to the main office. From the leisurely days of selling apartments at a small branch office, he was thrust into the fast-paced environment of the second sales division at headquarters. Suddenly tasked with mediating between construction companies and designers to ensure costs stayed within budget, he had no idea where to even start. While his peers handled their assignments smoothly, Isosaki, unfamiliar with the company systems, found himself relegated to tasks like making tea and photocopying.

Getting dispatched to a regional branch right after joining the company had been unfortunate enough, but being assigned to work under Yoshimoto as his assistant manager upon returning felt like a cruel twist of fate. Initially, Isosaki had thought Yoshimoto seemed personable and impressive. That impression quickly soured when Yoshimoto realized his subordinate wasn’t particularly capable. The “nice guy” mask dropped, revealing a merciless taskmaster.

Yoshimoto had a favorite ballpoint pen—a stylish one he always carried. Occasionally, that pen became a projectile, striking Isosaki squarely on the head. While the physical pain was manageable, the sharp remarks Yoshimoto delivered cut much deeper.

“Did you get paid just for making tea at the branch? Must’ve been a nice work if you could get it.”

“Just because you’re in sales doesn’t mean you didn’t have time to study. Or are you like a student who only works when there’s homework or a test?”

“You’re not in grade school. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself. Or is your brain hibernating for the winter?”

From morning to night, the variety of jabs never ceased, and they lingered like body blows, gradually wearing him down. As a subordinate, Isosaki couldn’t argue back. Some colleagues even joked, “Yoshimoto sure pays you a lot of attention!”—a sentiment that made him laugh dryly. If only they could open their eyes and see how much he was actually being bullied.

The resilience and patience he had cultivated during his university years on the canoeing team were fraying. His alcohol consumption was steadily increasing as he sought an outlet for his frustration and anger. On some nights, he even wondered if, should he develop alcoholism, he could claim it as a workplace injury caused by stress.

While Isosaki brooded under a cloud of dark thoughts, the man sitting next to him—Mikasa—kept glancing toward the back of the bus, craning his neck as if searching for something. When he finally turned to face forward, he slumped his shoulders in disappointment.

“Just curious... Is Satoshi popular at work?”

Mikasa’s gaze had indeed been directed toward the back seats, where Wada and Terao were locked in a fierce competition to win Yoshimoto’s attention. There were also a couple of other, less aggressive contenders in this unwelcome “race.” While it was true Yoshimoto was extremely popular among the women in the office, admitting that outright didn’t sit well with Isosaki.

“Well, he’s... moderately popular, I guess,” he replied vaguely.

He was reminded of a conversation he’d overheard outside the break room, where a group of female employees had been gossiping.

“Don’t you think the assistant manager is just so dreamy?”

The voices had been dripping with admiration, practically radiating hearts and sparkles.

“He’s tall, good-looking, great at his job, and he’s so kind on top of it!”

“Lately, Wada and Terao have been going all out to win him over. It’s honestly hilarious how he doesn’t even give them the time of day.”

Their collective laughter had filled the corridor, and Isosaki had thought to himself, Women can be terrifying.

"But doesn’t the assistant manager already have a girlfriend?"

"Apparently, yes. I heard she’s someone he’s been dating since university and is currently studying abroad."

Hoping the subject would change, Isosaki waited to enter the break room. But as soon as he did, the four women lounging inside surrounded him, wearing overly sweet, probing expressions. "Do you know anything about the assistant manager’s girlfriend?" they asked, their curiosity barely disguised. How would I know? he thought but replied honestly, "The assistant manager doesn’t talk about his private life." At that, their faces dropped in disappointment, and they dispersed just as quickly as they had gathered.

Though Isosaki had no real interest in Yoshimoto’s girlfriend, he secretly hoped she might turn out to be unattractive—overweight, clumsy, with a terrible personality. Anything to dull the shine of a "perfect" couple.

"I guess he is popular, huh? With a face like that," Mikasa muttered, looking down.

Is he jealous of his handsome classmate? Isosaki wondered, feeling a surge of unexpected camaraderie. Mikasa’s buzz-cut wasn’t fashionable, but his strong jawline and gentle eyes made him attractive in a rugged way. Not a pretty boy like Yoshimoto, but a solid, reliable-looking man. Still, there was no denying that Yoshimoto’s refined appearance made him more appealing to women.

Since they were old classmates, Mikasa might know some embarrassing stories about Yoshimoto, stories Yoshimoto wouldn’t want shared. Isosaki’s eyes widened at the thought. If he could get a hold of some juicy information, he might finally get some payback for all the torment he’d endured.

"What was the assistant manager like in school?" Isosaki asked, his eagerness catching Mikasa off guard.

"You mean back in high school?"

Not wanting to reveal his true intentions, Isosaki feigned casual curiosity.

"The assistant manager seems so serious and perfectionistic now. Was he always the studious type?"

Mikasa folded his arms and let out a contemplative hum.

"He was smart, but he wasn’t exactly a model student. He hung out and had fun like everyone else. I wasn’t the brightest, so he used to tutor me a lot. But man, he had no patience—he’d scold me for not catching on quickly. He was way harder on me than anyone else."

Mikasa’s rueful smile struck a chord with Isosaki, who saw his own struggles reflected in Mikasa’s expression.

"Um..." Isosaki lowered his voice and shielded his mouth with his hand.

"Not to sound rude, but... was the assistant manager always, uh, like this, even with friends?"

"Like this?" Mikasa tilted his head, confused.

Isosaki hesitated. Mikasa was still Yoshimoto’s friend, and saying too much could risk his complaints reaching Yoshimoto’s ears. Still, his need to vent outweighed his caution. Surely, someone else who had faced Yoshimoto’s sternness would understand.

"The truth is... I’m being bullied by the assistant manager," Isosaki confessed, lowering his head in what he realized sounded pitifully dramatic.

"‘Bullied’? What do you mean?" Mikasa leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued.

"I’m not great at my job, and the assistant manager has it out for me because of that. He criticizes everything I do with snide remarks. This camping trip? It was supposed to be optional, but he guilt-tripped me into coming with a single, ‘You’ll help out, of course.’ And now I’ve been saddled with all the annoying tasks—shopping, renting equipment, collecting money—while he hasn’t lifted a finger to help!"

Suddenly, Mikasa clasped Isosaki’s hands firmly in his own. Startled, Isosaki looked up to find Mikasa gazing at him with an almost overwhelming sympathy. The intensity of Mikasa’s earnest concern caught him completely off guard.

"That’s awful!" Mikasa exclaimed, squeezing Isosaki’s hands as if to convey his shared frustration and solidarity.

"I understand how you feel," Mikasa said earnestly.

A small bloom of hope opened in Isosaki's chest.

"He's said some pretty nasty things to me too—like that I'm stupid or that my legs are short. He doesn't hold back, does he?"

"Exactly! He’s completely merciless!" Isosaki nodded emphatically, relieved to find a kindred spirit.

"I know I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, so maybe I deserve some of it, but Yoshimoto really lacks a sense of empathy. I think he genuinely believes people like me can't get hurt. If he treated everyone equally, it wouldn’t sting so much. But no, he’s kind to everyone else, and that just makes it harder to bear."

The shared grievance brought the two men closer, their moment of connection oddly intense. They were seated in the front row of the bus, which spared them the curious glances their animated conversation might have drawn from others.

"Sure, Yoshimoto’s handsome. He’s got a great face, tall, long legs, and apparently not a single cavity to his name. But he’s so full of himself sometimes, it borders on narcissism."

Narcissism. It was a word Isosaki hadn’t thought to associate with Yoshimoto, but it fit so perfectly that it instantly redefined his impression of his boss. A narcissistic poser. Even the phrase conjured an image thick with conceit.

"He’s always checking himself out in the mirror, muttering about whether his belly is sticking out or his butt is sagging. For a guy, he’s ridiculously fussy about his looks. And who’s he trying to impress anyway?"

While Yoshimoto never openly called himself handsome, his awareness of his good looks radiated inescapably.

"He’s a neat freak too—practically borderline obsessive. Even a little dust in the room makes him go on a cleaning rampage like his life depends on it. And don’t get me started on his baths—he’ll soak for an hour straight. It’s like he’s trying to dissolve himself."

Mikasa’s list of grievances spilled out effortlessly, as if he’d been bottling them up for years. Despite the domestic nature of the details, Isosaki couldn’t help but feel that Mikasa’s complaints painted a vivid and amusing picture of the man they both endured.

"I’ve resigned myself to his narcissism and cleanliness. I just wish he could be a bit kinder to me, you know?"

Feeling a newfound solidarity with Mikasa, Isosaki reached into the cooler across from him and pulled out a can of beer.

"Here, have this."

"Thanks," Mikasa replied, smiling warmly as he accepted the beer. He cracked it open and drank deeply, his throat working visibly as he gulped it down.

"Yoshimoto probably doesn’t fear anything in this world, does he?" Isosaki mused.

Setting down the empty can, Mikasa wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand and chuckled.

"Ghosts and bugs. He can’t handle either. If a horror movie comes on TV, he’ll switch channels immediately. And don’t even get me started on cockroaches or spiders—he wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole."

Isosaki mentally jotted down ghosts and bugs in his mental notebook. He glanced toward the back of the bus, where laughter rang out. Yoshimoto was surrounded by Terao and Wada, clearly enjoying himself.

"Hey, Isosaki!" Wada called out, waving as if summoning a bar server. "The assistant manager wants another beer!"

In a burst of performative enthusiasm, Isosaki replied, "Coming right up!" imitating a cheerful izakaya staff member. His exaggerated tone drew a smattering of laughs from the passengers.

Grabbing another beer from the cooler, Isosaki made his way to the back. But before he could hand it to Yoshimoto, Terao swooped in like a crow snatching prey and took it from his hands.

"Here you go!" she said with a bright smile, presenting the beer to Yoshimoto as if it were her own offering. Wada, visibly irritated by Terao’s quick move, clenched her jaw so tightly that fine cracks seemed to form on her heavy makeup.

Isosaki sighed inwardly. And the games continue.

“That’s something I asked for the assistant manager,” Wada snapped, glaring daggers at Terao.

“Well, Isosaki is the one who brought it all the way here,” Terao retorted, her tone icy as she kept her nose in the air.

Wada bit her lip in frustration, her face betraying her displeasure. But she quickly shifted gears, leaning coquettishly toward the assistant manager. “Section Chief, is there anything else you’d like?” she asked, her voice syrupy sweet.

Her boldness, coupled with an unnecessary amount of physical contact, elicited a venomous glare from Terao that could have incinerated her rival on the spot.

“It’s hot, and being that close to the assistant manager must be making him uncomfortable,” Terao said, her voice dripping with forced concern.

“The assistant manager hasn’t said anything about being hot,” Wada shot back, her sharp tone matching her narrowed eyes.

The two women were now locked in a silent battle of wills, their invisible sparks flying so aggressively it was intimidating to watch. Meanwhile, the assistant manager sat between them, sipping his chilled beer with a look that said, This has nothing to do with me.

If only he’d pick one or turn them both down outright, Isosaki thought, quietly lamenting the drama unfolding before his eyes.

The assistant manager glanced at Isosaki, his composed expression giving little away. “How’s Mikasa doing?”

“Mikasa-san? Who’s that?” Terao chimed in immediately, curious.

The assistant manager responded with a diplomatic smile—what Isosaki had mentally cataloged as his “Type 1 Public Relations Smile.”

“He’s the representative from Iwada Construction. He’s visited us a few times. Since this trip is also meant to build rapport, we invited a few people from our partner companies to join.”

“You should at least remember the names of people we work with,” Wada jabbed at Terao, who frowned and furrowed her brow in irritation.

“Mikasa-san has come by our office several times,” Wada added, her tone pointed. “Short hair, kind of rugged-looking…”

“Yes, that’s him,” the assistant manager said with a nod before turning his gaze back to Isosaki.

Realizing he hadn’t answered yet, Isosaki quickly chimed in, “Mikasa-san’s just enjoying himself—having some beer and relaxing.”

The assistant manager made no comment, his expression neutral.

Maybe he actually cares about his old classmate, Isosaki thought, surprised.

“Mikasa-san seems like a nice guy,” Isosaki added casually.

The assistant manager smiled, and for once, it seemed genuine. “Does he?” he said, his tone unusually soft.

He looked… happy. So he’s capable of being human after all, Isosaki thought wryly.

“Section Chief, we’re doing fireworks tonight, right?” Terao interjected, steering the conversation elsewhere.

“That’s the plan. We bought plenty, so look forward to it,” the assistant manager replied.

Terao and Wada squealed in unison, their voices high-pitched and giddy.

Though the assistant manager had said we bought plenty, Isosaki knew full well that he was the one who had been tasked with actually purchasing the fireworks. He remembered lugging the massive bundle out of the store, the cashier—a middle-aged man—eyeing him skeptically and asking, “You sure you can carry all that?”

Even today, he’d been the one hauling the ice-filled, ridiculously heavy cooler box. None of the people squealing about fireworks knew how much sweat had gone into making their evening happen. The reality stung, leaving Isosaki feeling hollow.

The thought made his resentment toward the assistant manager burn brighter. I have to get back at him somehow, Isosaki thought.

“Fireworks are fun, but why stop there?” he said casually. “Why don’t we do a test of courage tonight?”

The assistant manager’s expression, which had been calmly neutral until then, instantly stiffened.

“Eek, so scary!” Terao exclaimed, latching onto the assistant manager’s arm. Normally, he might reassure her with a gentle word, but this time, he remained stock-still, his entire body tense.

“Control yourself a little, will you? Can’t you see you’re bothering the assistant manager?” Wada said, swatting Terao’s hand off the assistant manager’s arm like one might shoo away a fly.

So ghosts really are his weakness, Isosaki thought, carefully stifling his grin.

“Don’t touch me with your embarrassingly chipped nails,” Wada hissed, glaring at Terao.

This snapped the assistant manager out of his daze. He turned to Isosaki and shook his head.

“No test of courage. We’re not prepared for something like that.”

Isosaki straightened his back, pointed at himself with pride, and declared, “I’ll take care of the preparations! It won’t be anything fancy, but leave it to me!”

Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and walked back to his seat. He ignored the “Hey!” that rang out behind him and sat down triumphantly, making a small fist pump of victory. Next to him, Mikasa was dozing, oblivious to the mischief brewing.

I’ll find a way to pair Terao or Wada with the assistant manager for the test of courage. Scare him stiff and make him regret his arrogance. Isosaki was already savoring the mental image of a terrified assistant manager when his revelry was cut short. A sharp slap landed on the back of his head.

He turned to see the assistant manager looming over him from the aisle, his expression a mask of irritation so intense it nearly made Isosaki flinch.

“If you try to pull off that test of courage,” the assistant manager hissed in a low voice, “I’ll kill you.”

“I-it’s just… for fun… a little entertainment,” Isosaki stammered, shrinking into his seat.

“I despise things that are unrealistic, unhealthy, and utterly unproductive,” the assistant manager snapped.

Next to him, Mikasa let out a small groan, stretching as he woke up. He rubbed his eyes and looked up, his gaze meeting the assistant manager’s.

“Oh, hey, Satoshi,” Mikasa greeted with a lazy smile.

The assistant manager leaned in and swatted Mikasa on the head with a loud smack.

“Stop sleeping like a lazy pig in broad daylight!”

The sheer unfairness of it stunned Isosaki. He was just sleeping, and he gets hit for that?

Mikasa rubbed the back of his head, looking up at the assistant manager with a sulky expression.

“There’s nothing else to do,” he mumbled, fiddling with his fingers in a way that seemed almost childlike.

Despite being labeled as a mere business contact, their dynamic hinted at something closer, more personal. Mikasa twisted in his seat, peering toward the back of the bus. Then, almost shyly, he muttered, “I kinda want to sit next to you.”

The assistant manager’s cheek twitched.

“I’ve got some things I’d like to talk about,” Mikasa added, his tone disarmingly casual.

The assistant manager’s face stiffened into an unnervingly forced smile. “If your underdeveloped brain were capable of understanding your place, maybe I’d let you sit next to me. But it’s not.”

Watching Mikasa get berated so bluntly felt like a mirror to Isosaki’s own workplace suffering.

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that—” Mikasa began.

“Shut up,” the assistant manager snapped. “If you sit next to me, you’ll just babble every unnecessary thought that comes into your head. Think about my professional reputation for once!”

With a final scoff, he stormed back to his seat at the back. Mikasa clicked his tongue in irritation, slipping off his shoes and resting his heels on the edge of his seat.

“He’s the one who invited me, and then he acts like this. What a jerk.”

“No kidding. That was over the line,” Isosaki agreed sincerely.

“Right? You get it,” Mikasa said, a grin tugging at his lips.

They exchanged a look of camaraderie before sighing deeply in unison, as if commiserating with each other’s shared frustration.

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