Parasol Crimson
Summary: He was really strange. Yashiro Isana, happy-go-lucky high-schooler, turned out to be the Silver King with amnesia. The frog turned out to be a prince; a nobody became a somebody; a kindly boy was really a king. And Kuroh was his vassal. Genfic. - Kuroh's study on Yashiro - Oneshot
A/N: A fanfic I planned on writing right when I finished K. ...But I finished it a year ago and this fanfic is only being written now; OTL.
Disclaimer: K belongs to its respective owners.
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In a black and white world I searched for color, and found you with your crimson parasol.
Yashiro Isana. Where to begin with him? He was kind-hearted, he was easygoing, he was charismatic. A friend to all, enemy of none. He was constantly going around with that stupid-friendly smile on his face. Being optimistic, and sometimes mature, even in the worst of times. Staring death straight in the face, he can still muster a smile, and not a fake smile, not one of those superficial smiles, Yashiro Isana's smile came from the heart.
Perhaps smiling through everything was a habit. Perhaps it was a learned habit that originated from his past. Perhaps it came from the age of World War II, where there was so much pain yet not enough room to hold it all. There was no room left for tears or sorrowful frowns. All a person can do is smile to keep their sanity, to keep themself together, to keep them from shattering and falling apart– wait, that was Adolf K. Weismann. World War II was his time, not the time of Yashiro Isana.
No. Yashiro Isana's time was here, now. Though Weismann and Yashiro were indeed the same person, they were not the same people. The only one Kuroh remembers is Yashiro Isana. Shiro.
But it hadn't always been like that. On their first meeting, Yashiro had been the wanted criminal for the death of Totsuka Totara. He was a troublemaker, it had been Kuroh's job to put an end to him. But Yashiro had been sure that he wasn't the killer. He had been absolutely positive of it. And Kuroh, being Kuroh, had agreed to let him prove it.
So many times Yashiro came up empty-handed, yet Kuroh continued to hold himself back. Why was that, exactly? Why had Yashiro been allowed so many chances?
Kuroh honestly couldn't answer that in-full, but there was one tiny thought that bubbled into his heart: 'it's because you actually like Yashiro.' There was a sense of tranquility (sometimes intermingled with irritation) when Yashiro was around. There was a relaxed feeling, a carefree feeling, a feeling that made Kuroh want to unwind and take things easy. A feeling that made him want to stretch out, loosen his tie, meander, linger, loosen up and watch the sun rise against a perfect sky or the moon slowly wander out.
Yashiro was like that. He was sourness and sweetness, playful yet mature, annoying yet endearing, a trickster yet sincere. He was truly a paradox– the most interesting humans were. After years of staring at a black-and-white world where every one was just dyed one color– enemy or ally– this boy was different. He was a murderer with a pure, childish smile. At least, that's what Kuroh had made him out to be. But then he learned that when that free and easy personality was washed away, Yashiro was deep. He was thoughtful, he was caring, he had the capability to be serious.
He was a nice mixture, fragile yet strong, like Master Ichigen. Those were the best people. Those paradoxical people were the colors of the world– the blues, the reds, the silvers that colored the black-and-white world, the endless cycle of hatred and violence, and made life worth living.
But the color was now gone. Yashiro had again surprised Kuroh– he sacrificed himself to get rid of the Colorless King. Kuroh was back to black-and-white.
Regardless, Kuroh had pledged himself to that king. That same strange high-schooler that bore a massive title on his shoulders. The frog that turned out to be the prince, the nobody that became a somebody, the kindly boy was really a king.
And someday, if God allowed a miracle, Kuroh might at least be able to bend down on his knee and pledge his loyalty yet again to that same Silver King. Only, his king would be alive. He'd be keeping that crimson parasol, the memento of days once filled with color, by his side.
Until you break out of your deathly sleep, I will be waiting. A knight, a vassal, a loyal black dog– I will be waiting for you, clasping your crimson parasol.