i don't wanna check into the tokyo love hotel, i just want your love all to myself;
mark can't keep his eyes off yuta and he knows that at least half of the bar shares the same feeling with him – if not the entire bar. mark gets it, he completely gets it. it's impossible to tear one's gaze away from yuta when he's at the stage. yuta glows under the spotlights, both because of the lights reflecting on his sweaty skin and also because he was born to be up there, singing. he owns the stage. he outshines any other artist that performed before him and will outshine the ones who will sing after him.
that's the nakamoto yuta effect. mark's been caught by his spell for months and won't make a move to rid himself of it.
so he just sit there, at the bar, and admires yuta, waiting – reluctantly – for his performance to end. two more minutes for mark to drown himself in selfmade fantasies that are completely out of reach, bittersweet scenarios that are actually more bitter than sweet.
this is an unrequited love, after all. there's no room for sweetness in craving for being reciprocated.