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bleachification · 11 months

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a painting’s ire - dazai

+ dazai x f!reader (fantasy au)

+ this is chapter FOUR of: all that glitters is not gold (pls read the prologue and previous chapters first or you will be very lost!!)

+ author’s note: i tried to keep it gender neutral but some of the dialogue/titles required pronouns so im sorry :((

(special thanks to my beta reader wayna @ladyofpandemonium <3)

“Are you ready, Your Highness?”

You recognize the voice calling out from behind your shut doors. Chief Minister Kunikida awaits you on the other side.

A bit puzzled, you hesitate. The pause is all your maid needs to cut in and exclaim: “We still need a minute, sir!”

We do? You think to yourself. The girl has truly outdone herself. Staring back at you in the mirror is a version of yourself that has not come to surface for far too long. Your hair is glossy and silken to the touch, and the makeup she applied seems to be made for you—made to grace your features and bring them to light. The clothes she has chosen for you after much deliberation fit you like a glove, and only add to your striking appearance. The fabric pools off of you in some spots, and clings to your skin in others—the color itself is, as explained by the maid, a deliberate choice. It is custom for the guest of honor to wear white at any imperial event.

With a final puff of powder to your nose, she backs away, satisfied.

“Thank you…” you pause, a slight sense of guilt surfacing, “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name.”

The maid gives you a strange smile, almost like she is amused. But at what?

A short knock at the door stops you from asking. With a huff, you make your way to it and open it with a little more attitude than required. Kunikida doesn’t react—doesn’t even blink—like the statue that he is.

“Chief Minister, I am surprised to see you here.”

“As am I,” he replies dryly.

You raise a brow.

“It was not originally I who was meant to escort you. That honour belonged to General Yukichi Fukuzawa,” he mutters almost regretfully.

You stick your head into the hallway and scan both sides, backing up with a frown when you see that it is empty, “Then where is he?”

“For reasons unknown to me or anyone sane, I would wager, His Majesty came marching into the office not too long ago and demanded that I take General Fukuzawa’s spot. He declared that General Fukuzawa was forbidden to be your escort to the welcome banquet. I tried to persuade His Majesty otherwise, I really did, but…” Kunikida grimaces, as if reliving an unpleasant memory.

“But what?”

Kunikida sighs, “He threatened to increase my overtime to threefold.”

You feign a cough to cover your laugh, “Ah. A slave to the corporation, I see.”

“I do make money,” Kunikida points out. You don’t doubt it. Every ounce of his demeanour exudes wealth—from his custom-tailored clothing, platinum-rimmed glasses, and impeccable grooming, down to the very air he carries himself with. No one would mistake him as anything but nobility.

“But do you…” you point at his dark circles, “sleep?”

He looks away, bored and irritated at the same time, “Not since overtime was implemented.”

You blink. “Right. Anyway—”

A clattering sound behind you makes both of you turn to the source of the commotion. Your maid is bent over, scrambling to pick up the basket of cosmetics that has just tumbled to the floor. She freezes as she catches your eyes on her.

“Uh… oops?”

Kunikida pops up behind you, neck craning to see. At the sight of your maid, he narrows his eyes. “Yosano?”

“Damn it, Kunikida,” she hisses. Yosano shoves the rest of the pots and assortment of objects back into the basket in her arms before straightening and shooting the Chief Minister a glare that could kill.

You look at her. Then, you look at Kunikida. Then, back at Yosano.

“What am I missing?”

“Yosano, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Kunikida asks. You have never seen him so exasperated—or showing so much emotion.

The strange woman huffs and rolls her eyes, “I swear, must you ruin all of the fun? I was merely helping–”

Kunikida turns a concerning shade of pink, “You are parading around our guest of honor’s room like that of a court jester! Show some decorum–”

“Me?!”

You hear a snap somewhere in your mind. Stepping between the two bickering adults, you smile, though not so warmly. “Pardon my intrusion, but will someone explain the situation? Now.”

There is no room for a please. You are much too irritated for it.

Kunikida pauses his berating and turns to you with a flat expression–as always. Yosano, on the other hand, only crosses her arms and gives you an innocent smile. You are unsure of what to think of such an eccentric girl. She must be someone important if she has the nerve and ability to cross words with Kunikida.

“Your Highness, meet Yosano. Also known as Dr. Yosano Akiko, the royal physician,” Kunikida introduces with a wave of his hand.

You stare at Dr. Yosano. Cropped hair, clothes of a servant, and an air of capriciousness make up the person before you—none that are traits usually attached to a traditional doctor. All the ones you used to see back in the Northern Empire were fickle old men who seemed more concerned with filling their pockets than their patients’ wellbeing.

She curtsies, mischief gleaming in her eyes, “Nice to formally greet you, Your Highness.”

“I am not sure I can say the same, Dr. Yosano,” you muse.

She only laughs, “That is alright. But—oh, lord, look at the time. Come on, then! Hurry off!”

Before you understand what is happening, you and Kunikida are pushed outside by the surprisingly strong doctor. She slams the bedroom door in your face. Your bedroom door.

“She is…”

“Bizarre? Abnormal? Stark raving mad?” Kunikida suggests.

You nod subconsciously, “Different. I was going to say different.”

As you walk down the palace hallways, you can’t help but notice the echoing clacks of your heels against the tiled floor. And in this open silence, with nothing but your own steps to fill it, you find yourself drawn to the oil paintings lining the walls. Four steel frames, curved into various antique shapes, house portraits of familiar faces. The paintings are hung high above your head and the eyes of their subjects gaze upon you from above, looking down at you with regal disdain.

The first is of an older woman with sharp features and an elegant disposition. Her long black hair falls far past her shoulders and is adorned with a diamond crown. It is the only brightly-colored part of the artwork.

The second painting is of a man whose features are harsh with age and brittled with temperament. His commanding stare pierces through you, and you have to suppress a shiver at the emptiness behind it. If there is ever a person to fear, it would be him.

Third is perhaps the most heartbreaking. It is of a young, dark-haired girl that is not even five years of age. The painter captures her mid-laugh as she is held up in the air by the arms of another, holding tightly onto the rabbit plush in her arms. A beautiful child who succumbed to plague before even coming of age. The sight of her makes your throat knot, but it is the fourth painting that stops you in your tracks.

“Your Highness?”

You faintly register Kunikida next to you wondering why on earth you’ve frozen to the floor, but his voice does nothing to dissuade you.

The final painting is of a young child as well, but he is visibly older than the girl. You would wager he is somewhere around fifteen years old. He is sitting on a stool, hands folded in his lap, back ramrod straight. The expression on his face is not one that a child should ever make—he looks as if the weight of the world has just fallen onto his shoulders. Dazai’s vacant eyes stare back at you.

“Your Highness!”

Kunikida’s voice tears you from your thoughts and you blink, the fog clearing from your mind.

“Sorry, I–I was…”

The Chief Minister only spares you a wary glance before looking away, “We should get going. His Majesty is waiting.”

You take a deep breath before falling into step next to him, “Why do you address Dazai as ‘His Majesty’, but me with the lower title? Am I not wed to your king?”

Kunikida quickens his pace, “His Majesty’s coronation is not until tomorrow evening. For all formal purposes, ‘Highness’ is the correct title. As for why we address him differently, that is because of the blood oath undertaken by the royal lineage. From the moment of the late king’s passing, His Majesty Dazai was king, with or without coronation.”

“The blood oath?”

He pauses. “Ah… my tongue seems to be looser than my mind. Forgive me, I have spoken too freely.”

You frown, unsatisfied by the bait he has just dangled before you, “You cannot just move on from that as if you said nothing.”

Kunikida does not budge, “If you inquire to learn more, you can only seek to ask His Majesty. Although, in truth, I would advise against it. Some things are meant to be kept secret.”

How curious. “Even from the person he married?”

Kunikida’s expression turns serious—more so than usual, “Especially then.”

You open your mouth to reply, but you are halted by another person’s arrival. Kunikida immediately dips into a bow as Dazai strides over from a hallway to the left, stopping just in front of a large entryway barred by two arching steel doors. Two knights dressed in formal garb stand on each end, unmoving. They bow as well.

“Sire.”

Dazai nods in greeting to Kunikida before turning his eyes to you. The king stands before you in a perfectly tailored suit, one with red accents and a black base. A thick, matching fur coat is slung over his shoulders. It makes him seem even taller than usual and only adds to his authority.

“You look…”

You wait as he takes you in. His eyes never leave yours as he breathes out: “You look like you belong on the throne.”

“It is mine after all. Though not acquired through my own merit,” you note with a hint of bitterness.

“That does not make you any less worthy.”

You square your shoulders and step forward, ready to face the masses, “I am well aware.”

Dazai holds out his arm for you to take. You peer down and hesitate for a slight moment before relenting and resting your hand in the crook of his arm. His muscles tense under your touch. You pretend not to notice.

“Are you ready?”

“Of course…” your grip tightens imperceptibly, “I understand my duty.”

“As do I.”

The doors open before you and, as you step over the threshold, you can’t help but become aware of the stark coolness of metal against your bare skin.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

The world explodes into symphony, and a thousand shining arrows spill from the glass ceiling as rays of starlight, raining down upon the hundreds of people awaiting you beneath the entrance stairway. A velvet carpet as red as freshly drawn blood guides your path towards the dais at the back of the ballroom. It is a large crystal platform that holds two seats. They are of equal size, design, and color. The two thrones are crafted from molten gold and precision-cut diamond, cushioned with the highest-quality silk, and embellished with the kingdom’s crest that sits at the very spot where a crown would be if someone were to occupy the seat.

The orchestra does not pause its performance when the Master of Ceremonies begins his booming introduction—only lowers its volume so as not to cause distractions.

“Here enters His Royal Highness, Dazai Osamu, The Sun of the Kingdom, Lord of Lesser Divinity, and the future King of Yokohama.”

Dazai steps forward into the light and the crowd erupts in cheers, completely suppressing the music playing in the background.

You take a deep breath before doing the same.

“Here enters our guest of honour: Her Royal Highness, Y/N L/N, the future Queen of Yokohama.”

The claps that follow are not silent by any means, but they do not quite produce the same enthusiasm and reverence that Dazai commanded. There is a line of wariness that they draw, and you will need to perform well—not only tonight but furthermore—in order to cross it.

Hundreds of eyes are upon you. Some curious, others skeptical. The select few that bear patronage will be the ones to look out for.

The reception is lavish, to say the least. There are rows and rows of tables on the right side of the banquet hall. Each one is loaded with delicacies and champagne towers. Waiters line the other side of the room, all holding a tray filled with wine flutes and passed hors d'oeuvres. In the middle are Dazai's guests: attendees from all walks of nobility—dukes, marchionesses, military leaders, and politicians, among others—reveling in the spirit of the party.

Chandeliers sparkle above and whispers float through the air as you make your way to your seats at the forefront of it all. Hand in arm, Dazai keeps in step with you and the two of you sit yourselves in your respective seats. You are again looking down at everything. It is a feeling that you are unaccustomed to, yet comfortable with.

Dazai holds a palm up and the room falls silent.

“To our dear guests gathered here today, I would like to express my gratitude. Tonight is a celebration of change—of a new light. Tonight, our nation shall welcome a new monarch. Tonight… we shall bear witness to an epoch of peace.”

The crowd dips into a bow, like a receding wave on a crystal beach. As they draw themselves up, you can feel stares upon you once again.

You tilt your chin up and level your gaze. If they are searching for something to scrutinize, they will be sorely disappointed.

You hear Dazai let out a sharp breath once the music resumes and the spotlight is off of you two for the moment . You don’t realize how tightly you have been gripping the arms of your throne until you peer down and see how your knuckles have turned white. You consciously release your iron grip.

“How are you holding up?” Dazai asks.

You keep your gaze on the dinner service—which is now in full swing—as you answer him, “What makes you believe I wouldn’t be?”

Dazai pauses, then lets out another breath, this time in the form of a sigh.

“It is a simple yes or no question, Y/N.”

You are led to the head of the tables and seated. Waiters trickle out from the sides and set down plates of food and glasses full of decade-aged wine in front of you and Dazai. You look over to him and say, “It is never simple with you, Your Majesty.”

“I am merely making sure you are comfortable,” he replies.

“Why? Do you love me?”

Dazai makes a strangled noise, “What?!”

“It is a simple yes or no question, Your Majesty.”

Another strangled noise.

“Would you like some water?” You beckon a waiter over, but Dazai puts his hand up and motions him away.

Dazai covers his face with a palm and mumbles, “Why would you ask that?”

“Why would I not? You act as though you do.” You shift in your seat so that your body is tilted towards him, “So, do you?”

“Do I love you?”

You nod and he looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. For a second, you think he might not answer you, but when he does, it catches you off guard.

“I do not love you.” He says it so quietly, you almost don’t process it.

“You… don’t?”

“Y/N, I cannot even trust you. Even now, you hide a blade beneath your clothes, awaiting a moment of weakness. I have learned not to be weak in front of you.”

Liquid ice flows through your veins. You have never felt so unprepared—so stripped of your own courage.

How… how? How did he—?!

A sudden sharp violin note startles you from your stupor and you quickly calm your swirling panic. Laughter ebbs and flows, a contrast to the tension crackling in the air around you.

You inhale sharply and ball your hands into fist, tightening until you can feel the bite of your own nails against your skin.

“Whatever might you mean, Your Majesty?” You commend yourself for your stable tone.

Dazai looks at you with a strange expression and replies, “Let’s not play this game, Y/N. Let’s not run circles around each other, pretending to be oblivious in order to preserve some form of dignity. Forget dignity. You want me dead and for good reason.”

You tilt your head slightly, and bring your face closer—until you are mere inches away from him.

There is fire in your eyes and venom in your words as you spit out: “Death is more mercy than you could ever deserve. The only thing preventing me from drawing my weapon is simply the fact that you are more useful alive at the moment, though that sentiment could change in an instant. Do not, for a second, think that I am on your side. You burned that bridge well over a decade ago. You have no right to love me.”

Dazai’s expression shutters and he leans away. The picture-perfect king is back, and any presence of unnecessary emotions has been wiped clean from his person.

“What I feel for you is another thing entirely. I do apologize if I misled you,” he says.

A sense of… something washes over you. Relief? No—something more. It is not unpleasant. If anything, his confession makes what you plan to do much easier.

“I’m glad,” you reply dryly.

Dazai doesn’t answer.

“I am curious though, you say you don’t love me–”

“I did say that, yes,” he interrupts flatly. Dazai’s knife scrapes against the porcelain as he aggressively cuts into his steak. You take a bit of your own meal, the succulent meat tasting of cardboard. You blame it on the anxiety rolling in your stomach.

“Then why do you make it seem as though you do? Your interest and actions toward me are not how one treats a stranger. Even a blind man could see that.” You are unsure why you keep prodding. Curiosity has always been a vice of yours.

He blinks in confusion and swallows the last of his dinner before asking, “Y/N, what makes you believe I see you as a stranger?”

You take a sip of wine. It is a bit sour for your taste so you set the glass back down.

“What makes you assume I am not one?”

At that, Dazai drops the fork he is holding and it clatters against the wooden tabletop. He replies in a soft tone, “From birth into the springs of youth, I had been by your side. Despite our distance, our history still exists. You and I are not strangers. I can never treat you as such.”

He is right. There is a history between you two—one that is too bloody and too steeped in misery to allow you to be strangers. But it will also never allow you to be anything more than a king and queen—bound only by the ties of duty.

“I can accept that,” you say.

Dazai whips his head towards you and echoes, “You can?”

The dishes in front of you are cleared away and replaced with small plates with decadent desserts. You take a bite out of one that looks like a chiffon cake with some sort of lavender cream and candied flowers on top. Delicious.

“As strangers, the hatred I harbour for you would make no sense. So yes, I can most certainly accept that,” you reply matter-of-factly.

“You—”

Dazai is cut off by the resounding voice of the Master of Ceremonies. He has just announced the end of dinner service and the beginning of the dance, and subsequently, socialization.

You stand, ready to make your rounds with the guests, when you feel a warm hand enclosing around your wrist. His grip is not tight enough to hurt, but has enough pressure that it stops you from moving. As if burned, you yank your hand back. The movement startles Dazai and he quickly lets go, a look of regret crossing over his features.

“Sorry! I’m sorry… I just wanted you to wait a moment,” he explains.

Your jaw tenses, nausea rolling in your stomach as you grit out, “Why?”

“We need to talk. Please, it is important,” he pleads. He looks up at you with a kind of urgency in his eyes that unsettles you.

“Here? Now?” The timing could not be more off. You faintly register the sounds of music and lively chatter in the background. Many pairs are waltzing underneath the crystal dome, swaying to the orchestra's melody.

“No. I have other matters to attend to and you have your own obligations. Tomorrow night. Will you have dinner with me? We can speak then,” Dazai suggests.

Every emotional part of you screams at you to refuse—the lingering memory of his touch still makes you itch—but logic overtakes it and rears its head. If what he needs to say is really that important… there is a chance it will be useful to you in the future.

“I shall see you then.”

Dazai nods and then leaves with Kunikida, who had just appeared with a stack of paperwork and even darker circles under his eyes than when you saw him last. You heard them muttering something about an investigation before disappearing down a side corridor.

You let out a breath of relief, glad to finally gain some distance. You could barely contain the spite welling up inside you the longer you conversed with him. Just the act of being near him causes the world to tint red.

Not-so-quiet whispers surround you as you make your way to a group of nobles who eagerly await your presence. You keep your guard up, unsure whether to expect excitement or snide remarks.

There are four of them. To your left is a couple who looks around your age, polite smiles gracing their faces. The man is blonde, and the girl shoulder-to-shoulder with him has shining white locks; both of them are elegant in their own right. On your right, in stark contrast, is an older, middle-aged, pot-bellied man with more hair on his chin than head, and sweat stains pooling underneath his arms. An incredibly expensive-looking platinum watch is fastened onto his plump wrist. His features are scrunched and prominent, reminding you of swine. An even older woman, who you assume to be his mother, hunches behind him, a large feathered hat hiding half of her face. The side you can make out almost makes you do a double take. Ancient is too feeble a word to describe her. The woman is decrepit. You’re shocked she doesn't crumble into ash at the slightest movement.

“Greetings to Your Royal Highness. May I just say how lovely you look in our kingdom’s ceremonial dress! The color truly is perfect for someone of your sta—Oh my… please, allow me to apologize for such a blunder. My dear mother had gotten me this suit as a gift, and it seems she has forgotten the imperial customs due to her condition. As her eldest son, I could not bear to break her heart by refusing. Surely such a kind individual as yourself can understand and forgive?”

For a moment you are at a complete loss. Who is this man, why is he spitting into your face the moment you meet him, and what on earth is he blubbering on about?

Then it clicks. His entire outfit is ivory white. From the tie straining against his neck to the polished loafers donning his feet. Head to toe, this stranger is clad in the colors designated to the guest of honor. The very same colors you have been made to wear.

You merely smile and turn to the couple beside him, both of whom are shooting the man strained looks. The moment your eyes fall on them, they dip into a bow and curtsy.

“Your Highness. I am—”

“I am Duke Sumida, and this is my mother, the lady of House West—we are of one of the four noble families in Yokohama. We are so delighted to make your acquaintance!” the middle-aged man interrupts. His mother, lady of House West and most definitely not a walking corpse, makes some sort of croaking noise next to her son.

You take a step back, an absurdly fake grin plastered onto your face as you take in the two who are so eager to gain your attention.

“Duke Sumida, I ask that you show some decorum. I will greet you in just a moment, after I do the same to the lovely people next to you,” you chastise.

The duke turns slightly purple.

“I apologize, Your Highness. However, I am of a duchy while they are mere baron and baroness. Surely, you can discern the priority.”

Oh, how you wish to put your hands around his wide neck and squeeze. The baron and baroness wear expressions that reveal they’d like to do the same.

“While I can—”

The man interrupts again. “It is fascinating how times are changing—seeing as how our esteemed guest of honor is none other than the child of a barbarian. How utterly modern. Back during the previous king’s reign, such a step could seem almost… radical. Of course, I mean no disrespect.”

You must stay calm, cool, and collected.

“When there is such an inadequate aristocracy, radicalization seems to be the only viable option, no?” You grit out, hoping the smile plastered on your face doesn’t look as psychotic as you feel.

“Because you are new to the kingdom’s etiquette, I shall let this slip slide. I wouldn’t suggest using such charged language, lest you want to curry misunderstanding. Of course, I am merely looking out for your reputation. We would not want anything to sully it further,” he snorts.

Calm. Cool. Collected.

You grip your clothes tighter, mentally forcing your hands to still.

“I am touched by your concern, but it is unnecessary. For someone of your age, I am sure change is a startling thing to witness, but what is change but a cure to a rotten system? When such archaic norms fall to obsolescence, as they always have and will, there must be a radical thinker capable enough to rebuild it from the ground up. Better, bigger, and stronger,” you argue.

At that, he drops all pretense of propriety, “Ha! And it shall be you? What a foolish—”

“Who is foolish?” A deep voice rumbles.

You recognize that tone immediately.

“General Fukuzawa!”

“Fukuzawa,” you grin.

The silver-haired soldier regards the duke coolly before turning his attention wholly on you, “Your Highness.”

“If we are to be friends, you can at least call me by my name,” you offer.

The older man gives you a bemused smile and dips forward so that you are at eye level.

“How could I possibly?” he replies.

“Quite easily. Repeat after me—”

“Ahem,” The duke tries to clear his throat but it only ends up sounding like a wet garble.

You hear a crack in your ears.

Before you can even comprehend the consequences of what you are about to do, you pluck a wine glass from a passing waiter, walk up to the duke, and tilt the glass so that the crimson liquid spills onto his head and drips down onto his suit, staining it an angry plum shade—much like the current colour of its owner’s face.

No one moves. No one even dares to draw breath.

The stunned silence is only broken by the duke’s shriek and a soft chuckle that sounds an awful lot like your new friend.

“You…!”

“And for the record? Better a barbarian than a sniveling moron who, alongside his senile mother, does not know his place. Do not forget, you may claim a seat at the table, but I take the throne.”

tags: @zjarrmiii @aiizenn @emyyy007 @letsliveagaintoday

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