The long and luxurious life of one Matsunaga Hisahide was, to the outside observer, one that he had to have enjoyed. Look and see how little there had been to worry about, how much had been delightful! A successful career as a notorious artist with as many critics as he had fans, just as he liked it! A small, alternative cafe as a side-business where he could show off his skill with tea preparation whenever he wished! A beautiful flat decorated to his tastes, plenty of money, a sex life that would shock and surprise anyone who dared to ask him (or any of his frankly delighted flings) about it!
The truth was, however, that for all the treasures he possessed Hisahide was far from satisfied with his life. There was always something he didn't have but dearly wanted, a goal that laid just out of reach, or...
“Nobunaga again? That bastard!”
Someone who got under his skin.
The part of his artist's career that Hisahide enjoyed most was all about the mocking of others. Ah, not the average person on the street, of course not, he wouldn't go that low! Never! Where was the challenge? No, it was those in positions in power he liked to capture in beautifully exaggerated figures and release to the world, and it was so, so satisfying when they reacted poorly. None could touch him, of course, because it was his right to do so (or too troublesome to fight against, even if some did try and sue, which was always fun), and while this caused a lot of controversy it didn't matter because that was what Hisahide thrived on. There were plenty of appreciators who would pay plenty to get their hands on the originals too, so it usually earned him a good sum on the side! Just an extra bonus on top of the glee of knocking someone down a peg but still welcome. It made him feel powerful, in control. Like he was something special.
But then Oda Nobunaga had come into the picture. He was local, too, quickly rising up through the political ranks in the area where Hisahide lived, and he hadn't seemed like he'd be anything troublesome at first. Even, perhaps, a bit too easy to mock, but nonetheless Hisahide had painted an absolutely beautiful work of satire mocking the fool and released it to the world, as usual.
Nobunaga had praised it, bought the original and had his secretary hang it in his office.
Yes, occasionally one of Hisahide's targets might 'enjoy' his art, but not in the same way this absolute horror of a man had. Usually they'd publicly laugh but express discomfort or irritation behind the scenes, something Hisahide had more than a few ways of finding out about, and so long as he knew they were affected in the way he wanted them to be? That was fine. But this? None had proudly displayed it in their main place of work, inviting everyone who came in to view it! There was something so, so audacious about doing something like that! It was infuriating! Unacceptable! So Hisahide had made another, stronger effort, and that had been even more beautiful. A detailed, genius work of art, yes, the artistic equivalent of walking up to someone in a busy street and loudly insulting every aspect of their personality. It was sublime!
“How dare he mock me this way!” Hisahide paced up and down, hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the bemused expression of his visiting neighbour. “Enjoying my masterpiece! That's not what he's supposed to do!”
“I'm not sure I understand,” said the neighbour, sounding as careful and polite as ever. “He paid you a lot, and the art has had plenty of success online... I thought you'd be happy after the amount of times Mister Oda's predecessor tried to press lawsuits against you?”
“Nobunaga should have done the same, Mitsuhide! That would have made me truly happy, not this insult to the power of my art!”
“If he's bought it twice then surely he's been moved by it? It sounds more like a compliment than an insult.”
“Ha! I'm sure that's what he'd say, but it's nonsense! I know his game, and there's nothing complimentary about it.”
“Mister Hisahide... please calm down, this isn't doing you any good.”
From anyone else that might have come off as patronising or rude, but considering it was coming from Mitsuhide the concern was definitely genuine. Hisahide stopped pacing and eyed his neighbour anyway, feeling vaguely annoyed at the attempts at being reasonable; such a pretty but naïve creature, this one, always assuming the best of people when they really didn't deserve it. Wasn't it fortunate that he had someone far more aware around to show great magnanimous spirit by looking out for him?
“You have crumbs on your face,” said Hisahide, suddenly nonchalant. “Seems you made quite a mess.”
As predicted there was an immediate embarrassed fluster and hurried attempt at cleaning up; his neighbour's reactions were so easy to anticipate that even someone less perceptive could have seen it coming. How sweet! How endearing! How fun. It was rather calming to watch Mitsuhide fuss over crumbs that did not in fact exist, falling into a harmless trap for the entertainment of his host. It did not at all dull the sheer depth of Hisahide's loathing towards Oda Nobunaga, of course, but being reminded of his own cleverness did bring back some level of lucidity.
This 'battle' was far from over. Far from it! Nobunaga was fielding a sly strategy, yes, an underhanded attempt at getting under Hisahide's skin, and had successfully shrugged off the beautiful satire that had been sent his way with his shows of appreciation. Probably thought it made him look good to everyone, increased his political presence, got him more clout. That nobody else was capable of understanding the travesty that was going on yet didn't matter because Hisahide was absolutely certain he'd win in the end.
Time to channel his anger and expose the truth of Nobunaga before the world!
“I'm sorry about the mess.” Mitsuhide's cheeks were a full pink by now, the result of both his blush and the vigorous rubbing of untouched skin. “Should I leave now? I wouldn't wish to be a bother, especially while you're upset.”
“You can be a bother sometimes, but not now,” replied Hisahide, waving a hand dismissively before poking out his tongue. “I am starting to feel inspired so you should leave anyway... unless you feel like taking me up on my old offer? It's always open!”
“No, thank you.” The pink had blossomed into red; Mitsuhide hurriedly gathered his things and stood. “I still don't think I'd be comfortable sitting for a portrait... I'll return to my flat now. Good luck with your artwork, Mister Hisahide.”
That same disappointing answer, hm? No matter. It was probably for the best that Hisahide focused on the actual task at hand, anyway. He watched his neighbour leave, waited for the final flash of beautiful hair to vanish behind the door, sat in rare silence for a few minutes and then practically sprang across the room, eager to get this latest masterpiece started. What he had in mind was not the kind of thing he'd usually do for the public eye, not at all, but for this particular cause he was more than prepared to do it... even if it meant picturing and piecing together something he'd rather not.
The next month turned into a blur of pencils and paint. Occasionally he'd allow Mitsuhide in so the overly-worried fool could 'make sure he was okay' before shooing him back out and throwing himself back into his work; it made him feel good again, eased his distress, to think that this time he'd finally corner his enemy and knock Nobunaga off his feet. This abominable man would pay for ever making Hisahide feel like a failure.
Looking at the final result weeks in even made him feel like he might explode with excitement! The lines, the colour, the incredibly important details, yes, a work of remarkable beauty despite the subject matter! He photographed it and released it to the world, chest swollen with pride, and after a weekend of reading scandalised responses and plenty of amused articles marched next door to demand Mitsuhide come and have tea with him in celebration.
“Your work is, it's... well, I don't think Mister Oda would put it in his office.” Mitsuhide had examined the painting only fairly briefly and hadn't looked the artist in the eye since, instead staring down at the surface of his drink. “His hand didn't really hide anything...”
“Ah, but that's the point,” declared Hisahide, triumphant and animated, his free arm waving in the air. “There's so little to hide and it's obvious! Even if I had shifted it an inch nothing would be uncovered!”
“Him being, ah... small, though, I don't see how it matters... it's not an insult, really, is it?”
“I know that, Mitsuhide, but someone like him wouldn't! And besides, you're a poet, you should recognise so obvious a metaphor!”
“I'm sorry...” The obviously mortified neighbour chewed his lip. “But it seems very... well, you usually like to take a more intellectual approach, so...”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Oh, it's just. You're very intelligent, it's... you're...”
“Bigger? You're not wrong!”
Hisahide cackled, jumping up and so pleased with himself that he practically danced around the room. He didn't even take a moment to admire the mortified fluster in Mitsuhide's cheeks because, in the heat of the moment, with the sheer explosion of joy in his chest, he didn't need to get satisfaction from anything but his horrendous insult. It was intense enough that, when his phone rang, Hisahide didn't even notice.
It took a while for Mitsuhide to bring him back down to earth; talking didn't work, so the fretting neighbour (whose entire face was now so deep a shade of red it was a wonder he hadn't already fled the room) had to stand and come over, holding the mobile in his hands and waving it in front of Hisahide's face.
Annoying. But, well, as usual Mitsuhide was trying to be helpful. Maybe it would be nice to indulge him this time?
Five minutes later Hisahide cheerfully thanked the person on the other side of the phone, confirmed that it was, indeed, an excellent price, ended the call and proceeded to throw the offending item across the room at full force. Were it not for Mitsuhide's excellent reflexes and a borderline heroic dive it probably would have hit the wall and shattered.
“Ah, Mister Hisahide, your news was...” Mitsuhide took in the powder keg now glaring at the ceiling, realised what was was about to come and took a few steps back. “Was it not very good?”
“He bought it for his wife.” There was a long, tense pause in which Hisahide slowly turned his head to look over; the blush Mitsuhide had wore mere minutes ago was nothing compared to the angry red now seeping into his companion's features, a 'lovely' backdrop to lips curling in the most intensely hateful snarl imaginable. “And they plan to hang it in their bedroom.”
“Oh.... I suppose Mister Oda loved this one too?”
No answer. No response. Just a stone-silent man stood in the middle of the room with fire in his eyes, more a picture of rage than ever before. It was the calm before the storm, a moment of quiet before the eruption. Mitsuhide recognised an unwelcome environment when he saw it, bowed with a humble apology and ran from the room just as Hisahide finally exploded.
“NOBUNAGAAAAAA!”
No freedom yet. That demonic bastard would continue to bubble under Hisahide's skin for a long time yet, a source of distress that he just couldn't banish.