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ladyhayaakawa · 4 months ago

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Chronology of us (as it is, as it was, as it will be)

haijme iwaizumi x f!reader, kuroo tetsurou x f!reader

For you, life is synonymous with the azure blue of the Johsai, and love rings with the cadences of Hajime's voice. But life is cruel, and power vicious, and you wonder if this devotion will lead to your demise.

tags/warnings - period typical misogyny, childhood friends to lovers?, strangers to lovers??, hurt/comfort, little to no historical accuracy, manipulation, abuse of power/authority, aged up characters, objectification of women, depictions of violence, depressed reader, self-image issues, pining, blatant mischaracterisation, brief depiction of a very creepy old man, body image issues, bad writing, frequent pov changes

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||The king is cake, cunning and deep,

With promises to keep, secrets to sweep.

After all's said and done, he'll find,

Sweet dreams leave him far, far behind.||

One of your earliest memories involve Hajime, a funeral, that devil he calls his friend, and a frog.

Woken up hours before sunrise, you remember how the wardrobe camphor clung to the mantilla lace, folded thrice to fit your crown, and the grasp the Iwaizumi nurse had on partly-blindfolded you, on your hand unoccupied by flowers. You were tired, infantile annoyance in your steps at being pulled out of bed at odd hours, but it had to be done. His grandma, the dowager duchess, had suddenly “moved to heaven”, or so you were told—why she had done so in the late of the night you didn’t know—and your white roses and solemn eyes, at the behest of the the nurse, were to signify your sadness at her departure moreso than reverence for the late matriarch.

Toru, from the other side of the nurse, asked if the hag would be back anytime soon.

(Ever since he had been found hiding in her brassiere drawer, the old lady harboured an uncanny grudge towards the Oikawa child. You knew better than to believe Toru’s story of that being her secret stash of magic potions, and when she tried to turn him into a frog, he had escaped by the skin of his teeth.)

Hajime was dressed in the same teal-white as his father, drowning in the size of the ceremonial cape (not unlike you, you note), both males tasked with officiating the ceremony while the guests filed into the pews. He met your eyes for a moment before you knelt in front of his father, the tissue in your new shoes crunching to fill out the space beyond your toes, and you remember looking away because Toru kept fidgeting as the nanny led him to the coffin, gloves and flowers long since discarded.

(He later confessed to having dropped a frog with the flowers the nanny had hastily gathered at the altar. You thought it was funny. Hajime did not.)

────────────────────────────────────────────────

“Child, you know the Duchy will agree to end the betrothal, do you not?”

You feel betrayed. The Iwaizumis are the only family you have ever known, your only other relative being a father popping up in scenes few and far between. You thought they thought of you as a daughter, hell, at least family, someone not to be discarded like this, like rotten fruit, at a greedy behest.

Silly girl. They pity you no more.

Despite your anger, a part of you seeks to understand. Whether they want it or not, they will have little choice in the matter if the king made up his mind. Besides, why will they choose not to? They know their heir deserves better than you. He deserves someone deserving to be the lady of the house, a position beyond being his wife and companion. The thought burns. You had leeched on them long enough.

( A heartbreak weighs nothing. The scales tip; a betrayal weighs heavier)

You think of the first time you tasted tea in the lessons with Hajime’s grandma, how you scalded your tongue on her words and the heat she did not warn you about. It hurt then, and it hurts now, but there’s no grandma to begrudgingly hand you honey salves and candies. You consider getting on your knees.

would she have forsaken you too? (without a doubt).

“Please, Your Highness. Please don’t do this. I-I can’t do this. This is—”

Cruel.

(Washijō prides himself on his collections. He prides himself even more on his cruelty.)

You notice the king push his chair back, sighing as if weary of dealing with a child, as if weighing your petulance against his restraints. You pray silently.

“And here I was, thinking the duke held no affections for you. Was I wrong?”

No, no, I-he- he does. He asked me to wait. He said-

“Your debut blessing was that brooch-rhodonite, if I remember correctly? One of my late mother’s, she had an awful lot of those-“

Yes. Hajime hadn’t liked it on me, yet I insisted. It was customary. It was supposed to be a blessing. It-

“It has been so long since your debut, child. If he has not wed you till now, you know Iwaizumi is just trying to be kind-“

The princess is a young thing, pretty as expected of her bloodline, and all that her family name doles in with it. She’s prim and reads and sews and takes lessons in dances and—

(As have you. It is you, in the fundamentals, who is not enough.)

The king looks at you with mock goodwill, as if he hasn’t orchestrated this. His image sickens you, and you realise why Maman refuses to let anyone take his name in her house.

“But his kindness will run out. You should fear the day he discards you, no lineage to fall back on, no wealth of your own. What are you holding onto, child?”

What a fool of a man, Washijō muses, the sweetness of seeing the girl crumple unfurling under his tongue. The Iwaizumi heir is a fine diplomat, if his recent endeavors are any indication, a pawn on his board finely draped in the guise of a knight (fit to stand on the rows of a king). But a woman like this-

(The Aoba qualities without the blood ties; if not a lady of the house, then to warm the bed perhaps?)

Maybe his preferences lay elsewhere. His eyes trail down. Probably in more buxom specimens.

“Is it honour, perhaps?”

(The Aoba Johsai peerage, a quasi-independent body with a political influence comparable to the king, is represented by five sycamores woven into one. The monolithic tree stands in the northwestern regions overlooking the sea, thriving off a subterranean stream flowing down the mountains.

A miracle, it is called. The cornerstone of the blue bloods of Miyagi.)

“A standing in society?”

(When news reached the house that the king had fallen, along with his crimson allies, Aori realized three fundamental truths. One, as Lady Iwaizumi, she was to hold her post, come what may. Two, the safe house was a good one hour away on horseback, a quart more if they were to travel by underground. Three, she was a mother of two, despite her womb having carried one; her children had to survive the night, lest the hour of tyranny brought Seijoh to their knees.

And so she dressed them in peasant clothes, braided her daughter’s hair, and whispered blessings into their ears.

Maman? Won’t you come along?

—The new king had sent the military to their doors the next morning. It had handed them two chests, one holding a dead Luzon dove, the other a fresh violet—

She saw her daughter, beyond the disguise, a deeply unnerved magnification of her; one day slated to step into her shoes, and she turned to open her coffer.

A quarternary knot. A part of the miracle they carry.

“This”, she handed her the wrought pile of sapphires and pearls. “ Iwaizumi women are given this as soon as their marriage is announced. Your grandmother passed this onto her son for me, but I hand it to you. Keep Hajime safe for me, dear?”

She is family, no less.

This is us. This is what will be left of us. If–

She kissed them farewell. Too big for her hands.

Spare them. They’re so young. Please.)

“Maybe there’s a better settlement we can reach?”

There was a time when Washijō could just watch. Watch, with his fingers splayed on the glass, as his brothers played and fought, caged in by this frailty and reticence. Watch as his brother’s head was weighed down with the crown and a match he had once sought for himself. Now, he realises as he feels the chill of metal warm under his touch, he is barred by nothing (but the limits of his seemingly limitless mangled power.)

A pawn to a knight. A pawn to a queen.

You see the king reach out, fingers unguarded with gloves, slowly tracing over the veins on your wrist. His callouses catch on your skin in their ascent, and to your horror, he doesn’t stop.

Your sudden motion to stand throws both the king and the tea off of you. Vomit crawls up your throat at the act and his insinuation, and you wish the ground would swallow you.

“I will let you know my decision as soon as possible, Your Highness. Please lend me time. I will take your leave.”

You turn to leave without waiting for a reply, panic setting your veins alight. The door is too far, and it’s difficult to trudge the path under the weight of the eyes on your back. Just a minute more. You wrap your hands around the latch and push.

The door won’t open.

You push the latch, pull again for good measure, but it wouldn’t budge. Your demeanour splinters and falls apart, veins chilling in abject alarm.

I die here. At the hands of this tyrant. Like this, if not worse.

You don’t dare to turn as the chair is pushed back, and the king rises from his seat. The door is unlocked, yet held fast from the other side. You push with all you have. It doesn’t budge.

You don’t turn in fear of how close you might see him.

“I have overlooked your transgressions till now, child. You must know that I don’t enjoy being slighted.”

He sounds too close. The phantom grit of his skin burns you, yet you turn, hands pressed onto the door.

“This—” he gestures to you and the tea, “—was just my generosity.”

There’s nothing you can do, poor girl.

He knocks on the table twice, and you hear the hinges creak from behind you.

────────────────────────────────────────────────

You felt the brief prick of the needle on your skin before seeing the red on your reflection. The seamstress, youngest in the group of four, immediately fell to her knees, apologising profusely for her slip. It had been hours they had been at work, and you nodded understandably. When they had been called in, the straps of the dress wouldn’t stay up, and the waist sagged despite being tailored to you just a month earlier.

I must’ve lost a little weight.

You tried to blink away the hair falling into your eyes, afraid to move from the position they had put you in, lest you ended up interfering in the alterations. Gloves had been buttoned (and sewn for good measure), the sash thickened (and stitched), shoulders tied at the back with extra ribbons- you felt like a ragdoll, so, so horribly out of place.

The matron modiste, noticing your discomfort, reached out to push the strands away, and you smiled gratefully. You saw the hurry evident in the needle flashing in and out of the teal silk, and guilt seeped in. You should’ve noticed this before you left for the capital; what if there were no seamstresses available? Were you to show up to the King’s banquet like this?

You could only hope Hajime hadn’t been waiting for too long.

A good hour later, in the confines of the carriage, he sat across you, uncharacteristically soft in the dark, and you thought you could paint him in the pales of the palettes you owned. Older than the boy you had come to love, yet young, younger than the man that would brave to marry (you, you sincerely hoped you). Breath slightly fogging, yet warmer than the cold seeping in through the wood, you felt his eyes dart over you, trailing over the jewels matching his, down to the conspicuous lack of a ring.

“You look so-” pretty? beautiful? “-stiff. Is the dress too uncomfortable?”

You looked away.

Amid the slow roll of the gravel under you, you heard the capital live through its people; cheers of celebration, promises of good food, warm, gamboge—the street by the square, if you remembered correctly. You quickly learnt that you couldn’t turn enough to see beyond the seat across you. It was getting cold, almost unbearably so, and you moved to seat your palms under you, a futile gamble to warm them, wincing when the stitches dug into the softs of your elbow.

Hajime found himself barely swimming in his thoughts these days. There was much to do, affairs of the duchy to put into order, royal commands to carry out, papers, papers, a love to keep at bay until he could bear to breathe. Promises weathered but remembered; he would have to eventually settle into his position, the life dictated for him, be undeniably grounded to a legacy he thought he could shed, if only for a while (only because the promise of land was never far), and get married to you. You, who he had been taught to love, grown up loving, he hardly deserved you, yet he still choked under the gentle waves pushing him to you-the shore you were to his existence, he wanted to touch and push away all the same. You were shivering, and he dreamt of pulling you closer than the binds of unwed decorum.

But he could warm your hands. And sail in hopes of actually setting sail one day. Just a little while longer. Just a bit.

(He looked up to your father, a soul belonging to the sea, a merchant by nature, and his tales of lands beyond the horizon. He promised himself to see those one day— the pearl sands under a moon, the green clouds and walls so intricate they couldn’t be drawn. He would see, just see, and then return to shore. To you.)

You saw him shift and pull at his cloak, making quick work of unfastening two of the brooches and draping half his cloak over you. The warmth was immediate, your numb fingers curling into the fur, and pulling him minutely closer.

“The gloves are stitched?”

“The whole dress, really. They will have to cut me out of it once we return. Could you,” you huffed, “could you help me turn a little?”

He laughed quietly, shifting you with tightly corded strength to see out the window, but you found your vision still limited to him; the intermittent light and dark of the life on the streets reflected in his eyes, face bathed in the scintillations, white turned golden, teal to sepia.

You felt sick from how much you’re in love (its all you had ever known).

“We will be returning as soon as the formalities are over, is that alright?” he hummed, too close to speak needlessly loud. He eyed the nick on the column of your neck, barely visible under the powder; “I’ve called for a doctor at the townhouse, he’ll be there as soon as we go back.”

He was being tender, you recognized, perhaps stepping onto the role of being yours, bits you recognize from the murals of affection between the older Iwaizumis. These were the crumbs you had survived on till now, the ones sating your wait for him, the paint for your illusions of a life with him beyond the altar. He asked me to wait. So I will.

You thought you could wait. You would have to.

“Do you want to go for a walk, maybe if the doctor, or if, perhaps, after?,” you asked, “I think I saw them selling the sweets you brought home last time…”

You glanced up at him, and found him quickly looking away, frowning out the window.

“Not unless the doctor approves, no. It’s going to get colder here on out.”-her hands are so cold, do we stop somewhere for something warm? should we see the doctor now?- ”And I got a box of those sweets back at the townhouse.” He cleared his throat. “Several, actually. I know you liked them. “

(There was a brief moment where the vendor well and truly regretted calling out to the man in white and teal. His limerick of cakes and the king probably didn’t sit well with him, oh god he was losing his head today wasn’t he, the angry man in Aoba colours, he was getting too close—

“May I get two of these?” He pointed to the left. “ Also these.”

Once the surprise and relief washed over, his sense of business honed in on his catch. Loaded, definitely, someone who’s got a good taste for the finer things in life, like the sweets sold in this cart. It was easy to goad the man into handing over more coins than he had initially bargained for, thanks to his genius.

The king is cake, indeed.)

“I haven’t been to the capital in so long—“ last you were here you hadn’t even grown into your first corset- “don’t want to stay cooped up like at home.”

“You won’t be cooped up. We will be visiting your father tomorr-“

“I promise I won’t overexert myself, Hajime-“

“You know I’m having a hard time trusting those words. You’ve been looking so ill, you had me worried for- “

“Just for a little while, please? “

He sighed, shifting to lessen the pull on his shoulder, when had he linked his fingers with yours? He choked on the familiarity in you, your eyes painted with undertones of innocence, the quiet shades of his childhood. Maybe he could keep your hands warm in the winds outside too. Like before, his mind supplied. Just for a little while.

Your forehead a breath away; could he kiss you?

“Hajime?”

(You looked up to see him moving away. )

The two of you stood in front of the hall, his arm still around your waist from when he helped you down the carriage steps. There is a certain circumference provided to the two of you from the rest of the guests, a berth only their stares breached, and you quietly moved his arm into a bend for yours to slip into. His proximity was not unwelcome, but rather inappropriate in their eyes. He looked at you, worry still marring his features, and you nodded to assure him.

The moment before the doors opened for the two of you, you press your fingers into his skin in a slow caress. He was nervous, you noted, and you hoped you didn’t look as nervous as him.

We’ll be fine. We were, we are, and we will be.

The air shifted in the silence following the voice announcing you two, and you knew you would remember how it went wrong. You registered the horror first, embarrassment flooding in at a delay. The wine left a lengthy red laceration at your side, your hem beyond the reach of the shards owing to Hajime pulling you away. The world paced down beneath your feet as you both froze.

You turned to look at Hajime, too humiliated to think of actions beyond your instinct; you turned to him for the momentary succour of not being alone in this disgrace. You took in the sight of him, eyes intent on setting the gild aflame, fists clenched, all of him reverting to the rigidity of taut emotions, disappointment thinly veiled. You watched him close off what little warmth you had glimpsed, the cold burning your eyes the longer you took it in. You take a step after him, too late, and the stumble was hardly unnoticed; you had heard the initial crescendo of the gasps before your thoughts were reduced to noise.

(Lord Iwaizumi, and Lady Iwaizumi, the steward announced you as.)

You were no Lady Iwaizumi. (would you ever be?)

────────────────────────────────────────────────

|| —In the event of the Aoba Johsai leadership and associated governing bodies not fulfilling these obligations within the periods laid down above, the King and the Royal Court reserve the right to take all military or other measures of coercion which they may consider appropriate.||

Hajime thinks back to the first time he made you tea (it was just water, really).

He stares down at the now empty cup he is cradling, the detritus at the bottom rapidly cooling into acerb under his stare. The rest of the liquid seeped into the papers around in his idleness, and he thinks back to when tea came in cups too big for his hands and had sweets to accompany them.

(Tea is to be had after 3 clockwise swirls, with the spoon at 6 o’clock, and with absolutely no dunking. Your two pupils, albeit forced, listened as you schooled them on lessons you had learnt the day before.

No pinkies up. Napkins on the left.)

Coming to, he hurriedly pulls out his handkerchief to dab at them, his actions futile in impeding the rapidly disintegrating words. There, he thinks. He’s gone ahead and ruined it. Reports of unrest on the southern border, conflicts in the northwestern waters, hell, did they have copies of these anywhere? He wonders briefly if he is even suited to the role he has been bestowed- an advisor by name, a plenipotentiary armed as a knight, an ambassador to the king in regional conflicts-an unlikely favour, not without its own implications. Shoes too big for him. But why? Of all the Aoba families, the Iwaizumi’s were stout royalists, if only in the public eye. But the king knows. He knows the hooks and strings he has woven through their flesh to keep them in check; he knows of the festering humiliation of them being toothless mutts of his. To arm their heir with a sword and keep him near, surely—

“Son,” the king called him. “I hear of your victories in the east from the mouths of common people before I hear from your messenger. The pride of Aoba, they call you, did you know? They say you fight with words better than any sword they have ever seen.”

Kneeling down despite his wounds, Hajime felt pride prickle through him at the acknowledgement. The king was proud of him. His efforts were being acknowledged. It felt needlessly good, and he momentarily forgot how he had resolved to portray nothing more than quiet anger. Despite the convoluted ways the king had risen to power, this has been the longest they had been without any direct conflict with the lands neighboring them. Word of a king so ruthless he murdered his own kin for a taste of power did well to ward off their advances, and for a brief second, Hajime wondered if it all was for the best. There was peace, and it was glorious. A strong king at the helm, and they could finally prosper. Shame flooded him the next for even harbouring such thoughts- the same man with Aoba blood crusting under his fingertips, a death he escaped at the price of indignity.

“ You've proved yourself worthy, Hajime.”

(He made you tea when you wouldn’t stop crying when they were in hiding. You kept clinging to the little ball of fabric and cried day and night. The teacups were of clay, but it made you stop and smile.)

He grew up hearing the whispers about the four remaining blue families, rumors of betraying the fifth, how the family not conceding to the whims had been plundered. All that remained of them was a tomb built at the Oikawa’s discretion, disguised as a commoner's grave.

Betrayed by their kinsmen, they said.

|| —The fortifications, military establishments, and harbours of the region and surrounding territories shall be destroyed under the supervision of the Royal Court convened under the rule of His Highness, King Washijō Taiji, at the expense of Aoba Johsai within a period to be determined by the Royal Court.—||

The door opens, and his manservant bows in.

“Sir, the princess is here to see you.”

#taramea plates #haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #haikyu x reader #haikyuu regency au #chronology of us:main tag

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ladyhayaakawa · 4 months ago

Text

Chronology of us (as it is, as it was, as it will be)

haijme iwaizumi x f!reader, kuroo tetsurou x f!reader

For you, life is synonymous with the azure blue of the Johsai, and love rings with the cadences of Hajime’s voice. But life is cruel, and power vicious, and you wonder if this devotion will lead to your demise.

tags/warnings — period typical misogyny, childhood friends to lovers?, strangers to lovers??, hurt/comfort, manipulation, abuse of power/authority, aged up characters, objectification of women, depictions of violence, depressed reader, self-image issues, pining, blatant mischaracterisation, minors dni

₊ ⊹ Series masterlist | ₊ ⊹ Next chapter | ₊ ⊹ ficsforgaza

There are ghosts living in these marble veins.

Diaphanous remnants of a distant past embedded in the Calacatta, souls lost in these endless corridors, worries of life long decayed into pity for the living. Or sympathy. Or something, something even remotely generous and rueful enough to push the hands of the clock as far back as they would go. For you.

Slow down, please.

Just a bit more.

You trip over the hem of your skirt, unsightly in the way you fall, feet bound by fear. And the minutes are pushed back further. Angels, you think. There must be angels in these walls. Someone must be watching over you.

(King’s summons. Present yourself at the palace at a quart to noon. His Majesty has urgent matters at hand he would like to discuss.)

Please. One more second.

The maidservant makes no move to help you, instead halting their steps and keeping their back to you, sparing some resemblance of privacy for you to compose yourself, a guest of undignified blood. You see how their gold sleeves catch the midday sun, and you think of a blade far more merciful than the one you’re being led towards, geta steps singing muted death knells. You are but a prey shepherded to be bled dry under the guise of tea. Fear washes away the little composure you had, and the silken creases are forgotten as you rise.

It is past a quart to noon, and the doors open.

“Your highness, the lady is here.”

You bow, and you bow deep. You do not meet his eyes. A king revered for his cunning, a man feared for the hands he’s played on his family to rise through the ranks. King Washijo was of a frail build, imposing yet in the way he commanded the space to bend to his will, and you iron down the urge to run.

“It is an honour to be here, Your Highness. My father sends his greetings.”

The box is put aside. Fine China from his travels. The king is known for his collections. He collects everything he deems collectable; gems, jewels, souls, people.

(he uproots and he steals, he presses and plunders and burns until the vestiges of mortal nature are breathed out. He collects until the worldliness in his eyes has nothing to gorge on, lives laid to waste. He seeks the essence of owning, of hands laden with puppet strings, of owning in the truest sense).

Please.

“Is the tea to your liking?”

You feel the heat from the liquid seep through the ceramic. The heat doesn’t help the nausea on your tongue. You hear the amusement in his words, and it burns. Your fear, to your belated realization, it pleases him.

You take a sip.

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One of the ribbons is done wrong.

You feel the silver findings of the corset dig into your spine, and it’s hard to stand straight. Yet all your squirming hardly reflects the state of wretchedness you feel. You try to hide it, all the eyes watching you in your misery, guised under a drink and small talk and musings of the weather being too hot, but it’s there, the eyes watching you drown under the weight of your pained heart. Tears tampered down, and sobs swallowed, but your mask falters eventually, and you find yourself pushing past the tapestries and slipping into a side room. The door closes and you whimper.

It is dark, and the dark presses down on you, and for a second you contemplate tearing off the back of the damned fabric. You act on it faster than you can steep on the consequences, and cool air kisses down your back. Your headpiece is next.

There’s a cough, and a slight shuffle. Your fingers fly to muffle your scream. And to save your dignity too, but it slips.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, my lady. I apologise. I will leave first.”

You pin yourself against the door, veins alight from panic, and the slow press of shame on your back. Your dress is torn. You tore it. And now this stranger seemingly knows your hiding place, and you need to leave. Its too dark, and you still can’t breathe.

“Please, I apologise for intruding. I’ll leave.”

“But Your Ladyship–”, he begins, stepping out of the nook. There’s barely any light other than the sole gas bulb above your heads, but his eyes are averted. He heard you. He must think you a maniac. “–I think it’s better I leave. Your dress…I heard-”

I need to hide. I need to be alone. This hurts. Please.

The door handle is cold against your palm, and you turn to leave.

“My Lady, please. It would not fare well for either of us. You are notably-“ he clears his throat again. You mentally note to get him ginger candy if you see him again.

“-dishevelled.”

He steps into the light sphere cast on the floor, hands pulling out of his dress coat. There are stray jewels he carefully treads around. You eye him warily as he hands his coat to you.

“Do you require assistance? I can call someone–“

I’m dying inside, please. I do not care.

He meets your reluctant gaze, and you see what you think looks like pity in the hazy depths of amber. Hair flattened by the heat of the room, his eyes hide behind layers of melancholy; amber dulled by murky desolation and pain.

You see yourself reflected in his eyes, a reflection aged a few years.

“My Lady?”

You take the coat. It smells of grass.

“Thank you, Lord Kuroo.”

Surprise splays across his face for a moment, and you realise he is younger than he looks. Maybe misery does that, you think, maybe its the abrasive weathering of life sanding out edges into quiet kindness. He bends down slowly, knees quietly protesting as he salvages the remnants of your hairpins. You can’t see any of the famed limp in his gait- maybe today is a so-called good day, one that you now blame yourself for ruining. He holds out the broken pins, and you push them into your newfound pockets. The pain is welcome on your skin.

The gas lamp flickers, and he leaves with a soft click.

One of the Nekomas, the lady earlier had pointed out. The only one left.

For you, life is synonymous with the azure white emblem of a certain family–selfishly betrothed upon birth to a son aged a few weeks, your father tried to forge his way into the noble ranks, leaving you at their door as soon as you could walk. You had no mother, no one to shape you into a lady of society, so you leeched off pity and suckled for kindness at whatever teat sympathised, wondering when it would dry out. They clothed you, bathed and fed the same love as the heir, loved you as their own. And yet, you knew it would come to this.

This, you feared, was the extent of their pity (your lifeline had dried out).

Reigning in your sobs, you sink down to the floor, palms pressed into your eyes. This is hardly the place to fall apart, and you know not what other might say about your messed up appearance, what rumours this will birth. The capital society is far more ruthless than the duchy, and yet you could not care less. You faintly hear what you presume to be Kuroo’s voice telling someone the room is occupied, and with a deep breath, you stand up to leave. There, by the door, Kuroo stood guard, in a quiet bid to dissuade anyone from further intruding on your sorrow. Refusing to meet his eyes, you nod gratefully and slow down to quieten your steps.

You can only pray you don’t have stray gazes on your back from the ballroom, and the path outside is empty. Can you even take the carriage home alone when you two came here together? Should you even be worried about that?

“Y/N? Y/N, wait. Please Y/N!?”

You turn to see Iwaizumi walking to you, eyes hidden in the shadow of the ballroom behind him. There, in that moment, you see him as you had all these years, and more. Ethereal, untouchable, golden; far too out of reach for the likes of you. The sole lead in all daydreams painted in the moments you stole and hid away between the layers of lace on you, flannels weighed down with the reek of hope- silly girl, you think. So, so silly. You did this to yourself. He would never marry you.

(rooms upon rooms of watercolour portraits of the life you thought you two would have; brushes wasted away under the slow crush of your love.)

Now it’s all about to end.

“Y/N, I-where were you? Why—”, he eyes your hair, trailing down to the garment around you “—what happened? I-“

“I tripped. A kind man helped. ” I’m not hurt, I’m not hurt. Please don’t leave me.

His eyes scour over you, but he questions it no further. You see his hand reach out for you, and you hate yourself for revelling in the warmth seeping through his gloves. You know what comes next- apologies, guilt, and pain, pain galore. You could recite what lay under the deerhide on his skin- a raised gash on the forefinger, the slight crook of the thumb- you know how they feel from the rare times he deigned himself to be your escort and had forgone the gloves. He maintains it very well, this act, the facade of being devoted.

His warmth seeps through to your flesh, across the barriers and emotional distance between you two, and you want to keep holding on. There is comfort in the way his palm envelopes yours, fleeting and bitter. You greedily swallow the last bit of warmth you will ever receive from him, before moving away. Not now. Please. You signal a footman.

“Please call for a carriage. I’m not feeling very well. I–” turning to Iwaizumi, “–we can continue this discussion at a later time.”

“I will drop you off–”. “There is no need.”

Iwaizumi states at his palm for a second before clearing his throat.

“Will you be going back home?”

Home. The syllable sours your mouth. “I need to visit my father.”

“Is something amiss–”

“No. I just–” I can’t do this.

He looks at you in concern, and you will yourself not to cry.

“I’ll see you tomorrow noon, Y/N. Take care.”

Later, in the darkness of the carriage, you know you will take this moment, fold it like one of the bookmarks he once taught you to fold, and hide it under what’s left of your heart.

(the house is on fire, and you run to save the paintings)

────────────────────────────────────────────────

“Is the tea to your liking?”

You stare at your still-full cup, resentment wisping up from deep in you. Your ring finger is bare, it’s been too long, it’s your fault, too much compliance, too weak—

“You seem to know why I called you here today.”

You meet his eyes, and you find you can’t read much beyond the blatant apathy. He’s shown his hand, and you know you’ve lost already, much more than all that at stake. His insouciance hardly irks you, markedly different from the fatherly image from the night of the ball. You know he has woven the strings into the perfect web for all those he has set his eyes on, and you have no choice but to dance to his will.

(But Hajime Iwaizumi is all you have, all you had, he is more than all the rooms of impressionist daydreams; you cannot lose him)

“Your Majesty, I-“

You find that you cannot speak.

(Words begging not to leave you. Words refusing to form)

“You will be suitably compensated. Honour, gold, I will personally see to it…you’ll be comfortable for the rest of your life.”

(he collects, and he hungers for the teal and white emblem and their reverence. he presses and plunders until they are left in their finest form. bare bones of immortality in the pages of history. no longer a name but associated with royalty. no longer a family but the family of a king and his daughter)

You can’t help but feel a little like something illicit being buried, out of no fault of your own. A third person in your own betrothal, a mistress to your betrothed. Why? Why you? What is so awfully wrong with you?

You concentrate on keeping the tears at bay, staring at the patterns on your skirt and wondering if you had been happy at the time these very threads was woven into tangibility. You quell a sob when he brings up strategies for quelling the rumours to be brought up surrounding your broken engagement, and he quietens.

Why?

You know why. He is acutely aware of the influence of the Aoba Johsai families, and his loosening foothold in the region. To have one of them under his wing, as family even, was a winning gambit.

(the Johsais were prominent supporters of the branches of the family he massacred for his collections, his family, and he keeps a heart, a bone and two nails as relics of his struggle. this, he thinks, is the price for the apotheosis of a king. he hungers their support. he will collect it like its his due.)

“You’ve been in the Iwaizumi house for long, haven’t you, child?”

Nod. Your whole life, in fact. Took your first waltz lessons there, had your debut, learnt to knot the ends of the threads in a sampler- moulded into the wife that the Iwaizumi heir would need. But needing hardly equals wanting, and here you are. Teeth sinking into loose sand and you try to stay afloat and tethered. You won’t-you can’t do this.

“You know what Iwaizumi has done for the kingdom, don’t you? How he’s saved our nation from certain ruin?”

Yes. Yes, he has. You also remember the weeks that would go by without any news from across the border, and how his mother would go without food or sleep, his father sleeping by the window to be the first to see his son return.

“As the king,” he pauses, “-as the father of the nation, as a father myself, I believe he must be rewarded suitably. And I see no better accolade for him than being welcomed into royalty. Don’t you think so?”

Bite down the words. You have nothing.

There is quiet resignation blooming in you, but you tamper it down. You have far too much of him all over you to get out of this unscathed. You cannot rid yourself of him, all of that is him, so purely, so painfully him, and expect to live on.

There is a brief pause where he observes you. A daughter of the lower ranks, a bid to climb the ladder, there is nothing more to you. No parentage to hold onto, the pity has run dry, and you are losing all that you have ever known.

Yet, you sink your teeth in and hold. Because that is all you can do.

Your voice shakes, but you tear the words off of your tongue.

“I will not break off the betrothal, Your Highness.”

I cannot. Please.

#haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #hq x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu regency au #haikyuu royalty au #kuroo tetsurou #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi hajime #hq angst #haikyu x reader #ficsforgaza #chronology of us:main tag #taramea plates

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